The Warrior Read online

  “We shall see, Master MacCoinnich.” Pushing past the surgeon, she paused at the door and looked back. “Heal him well, Mr. Hoyt. He has a wife to care for and bairns to sire.”

  Chapter Ten

  On the flat of his belly with his head hung over the side of the berth, Duncan dry heaved into the bucket on the floor. God help him, he’d been at this since first light. He wished to hell he’d downed enough whiskey yesterday to numb himself against this misery. A bone-deep aching filled him from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. His back burned, and his head throbbed like the beat of a clan war drum. With this hellish torture, the thought of the noose didn’t seem so bad.

  A cool, damp cloth stroked across his nape, then wiped the clamminess from his forehead. God’s beard, could the sea not have a bit of mercy for him? The ship creaked and groaned with every sickening sway of its timbers.

  “How long? Where we bound for?” He buried his face into the sweat-soaked pillow and wrapped it up around his ears. He gulped hard, took a deep breath, then risked a few more words. “Be it storming?”

  “Actually, it’s a fine, balmy day.” Tilda’s fingers combed through his wet hair and brushed it aside from his bandaged back. “There’s barely a wave,” she continued. “And we’re bound north to a safe haven. We shall be there soon.” Her fingers stroked across his pounding skull again. “Poor lad. I fear ye’re nay one for the sea.”

  “Must be punishment for my sins.” His stomach clenched for another round. He shoved the pillow aside and hovered over the bucket for another excruciating spell of retching.

  “I brewed ye some ginger root. Here. Drink.”

  Duncan didn’t dare opening his eyes, just batted it away with a weak push. “Ginger root? I canna keep down my own spit. I be dying, woman. Are ye blind?”

  “For heaven’s sake, ye are not dying.” A sharp, clean scent wafted under the end of his nose. “Breathe in deep. It’s peppermint. I’ve more of it steeping in oil. Soon as it’s ready, I’ll rub it on yer forehead and temples. Agnes used it on Auntie Moira once, and it eased her nicely.”

  Duncan pulled in as strong a breath as he could manage between gagging. He would try most nigh anything to rid himself of this wretchedness. Wounded many a time in battle. Beaten bloody once or twice, as well. Lashed with the whip. None of them compared to this torture. He swallowed hard, almost drowning in the flood of spittle the demon sea triggered. Another gut-wrenching spasm hit him, and he retched again. He hadn’t suffered this much when crossing to Skye. Gone a tad weak around the knees, but not once had his innards turned wrong side out like this.

  “Please try the ginger root.”

  “Will ye go away and leave me to die in peace if I do?” He needed calm. He needed quiet. He needed feckin’ land.

  “Ye are not dying, and I canna go away.” Tilda pressed the rim of the cup to his mouth. “Tait ordered I steer clear of his men. They consider women at sea bad luck. Come now. Take another sip.”

  Duncan forced down a second swallow of the tepid liquid, then rested his cheek on the corner of the berth. He might as well stay right here. Tilda’s damned herbal would most likely come back up any moment.

  The cool cloth returned to his brow, then daubed across the back of his neck. He closed his eyes and concentrated on pulling in deep breaths. It was nice, the coolness of that cloth. And the plump softness of his current accommodations did feel a damned sight better than the hard dirt floor of that accursed prison cell. He eased in another deep breath and released it with a heavy sigh. He should be ashamed of himself. Here he lay, greetin’ like a bairn after Tilda and her kin had risked their lives to save him. Regret took hold of him, outpacing the rolling knots in his gut.

  “Forgive me, Tilda,” he whispered without opening his eyes.

  “For yer whining like a spoiled child or for ye being an arse when ye told me ye would nay accept me as yer wife?” She wiped his face with the damp linen. Her touch was gentle, but her tone was harsh as a slap.

  “All of it.” He wanted to look at her, take hold of her hand, and make her see sense, but he feared if he moved, he’d return to retching. “I’m more than a little grateful for all ye’ve done, lass. But ye canna believe I could ever make ye happy. A life on the run. No home. No land. Ever looking behind ye for either the damned MacDonalds or the British.” He cracked open the eyelid of his good eye. “Ye are a fine woman, Tilda Mackenzie. I would never curse ye to such an existence.”

  “We shall talk of it more once ye are stronger.” She brushed his hair back from his face, pressed a tender kiss to his temple, and rose from his side.

  Duncan opened his eye wider as she walked away, studying her as she moved about the good-sized cabin. He flinched as his frown puckered his injured brow. Had she worn such yesterday? His gaze flitted across her from her shoulders down to her boots. “Ye dressed as a man?” Although he had to admit, he had never seen any man fill out a pair of trews so nicely.

  “Skirts get in the way,” she said without turning around. “Ye’ve nay retched up the swallow of ginger, and ye sound a bit steadier. Think ye can drink another wee sip?”

  He could tell by her tone she wasn’t happy with him. She didn’t sound angry—more like sad and hurt in a broody sort of way. If drinking that infernal herbal would make her feel less unkindly toward him, he’d down the useless brown water by the bucketful even if it did come back up. “Aye. I’ll try a bit more for ye, Tilda.”

  “Dinna drink it for me,” she said in a snappish tone. “Drink it for yerself.” She fetched the cup and held it to his mouth. A frustrated pout marred her lovely lips.

  Thank God she had no access to poison. Duncan sipped until nothing remained in the cup. He pulled the pillow back beneath his head and attempted to regain her favor with his most charming smile. “Thank ye, lass. Ye are fairer than a goddess. A miracle worker for sure. Able to cure such demons in a man’s stormin’ belly.”

  “But not fair enough to take as wife, aye?”

  Duncan caught sight of Tilda’s bottom lip quivering as she turned away and busied herself back at the table. God help him. He had hurt the lass, but that hadn’t been his intent. How could he make her understand he did this for her own good?

  “Tilda,” he called out low and gentle. He had to make this right. His heart twisted at the sight of her sweet face filled with such sorrow. “Tilda,” he repeated.

  “What?”

  He held out a hand. “Come here, lass. Please.”

  “Why?”

  She wasn’t going to make this easy. Duncan wiggled his fingers and waved her toward him. “Just come here, aye?”

  Chin lifted to a defiant angle, she marched to the edge of the bunk and stood there staring down at him. Arms tucked under her full breasts, breeks outlining her fine curves, Duncan was glad they’d forbidden her to leave the cabin. The other men had no business seeing her.

  He took hold of her hand and pulled. “Will ye not sit with me?”

  She resisted, but unshed tears glistened in her eyes. “This is a small room. I can sit with ye just as well in the chair over at the table.”

  “Tilda,” he whispered. “Sit here beside me.” He patted the mattress. “Please?”

  Her bottom lip quivered again, and she blinked hard and fast, then shot her focus up to the ceiling. “Fine. I shall sit here for a wee spell.” She lowered her lovely bottom down beside him, folded her hands in her lap, and stared across the room.

  With a resigned sigh, he took hold of her arm, pulled her down beside him, and hugged her back against his chest. “Please forgive me, Tilda,” he whispered with a kiss to her temple. “Forgive me for being such an arse. Forgive my whining. But most of all, forgive me for hurting ye. I swear, love, I never meant to hurt ye.”

  His soft words broke the dam holding back Tilda’s tears. He ground his teeth and held her. Somehow, he had to make her see, then all would be right betwixt them. Surely, the Mackenzies would help convince her. He cradled her close as she roll
ed to face him, buried her face in his chest, and sobbed.

  “Why dinna ye want me?” She keened out in an angry, high-pitched voice. “I dinna expect ye to love me, but why dinna ye want me?”

  Duncan opened his mouth to answer, but she cried all the harder, hiccupping out the words. “Is it because of what happened back in the woods? Am I too tarnished for ye? Too sullied?”

  Duncan felt the greatest sort of fool and the lowest possible cur. How could she think such? He rained gentle kisses across her upturned face, damp and precious with her tears. “Nay, lass, no. Not ever.” He eased a hand under her chin and stroked his fingertips along the gentle curve of her jaw. “Ye are a pure angel. A beautiful, fearless angel. I dare anyone to claim ye anything else.”

  She didn’t speak, just looked at him with those great blue-green eyes that reminded him of the sea. “All I wish is for ye to claim me as yer wife,” she whispered. “I can fight at yer side, Duncan. I belong at yer side.”

  “Why, lass?” It was his turn to ask the questions. Why would any woman seek such a life with him? As powerful as the Mackenzie was, Tilda could have her choice of husbands.

  “There’s a comforting safeness about ye, Duncan. A nice settling together as though I’ve known ye forever.” She pressed a hand to the center of his chest and a sad smile tickled the corners of her mouth. “When I feel yer heartbeat, it matches my own.” She snuggled closer, wiggling to tuck her head under the crook of his chin. “When I am with ye, I feel a hope in the center of my soul.”

  “A hope?”

  “A hope for happiness.” She curled closer and pressed a kiss to his collarbone. “A hope for life.”

  Duncan breathed in the warm, sweet scent of her, closing his eyes as he stroked his hand through the loosened silk of her dark hair. He’d stirred once from sleep last night and watched her a long while before drifting back into the arms of a whiskey-infused slumber. She had been asleep, sitting at the table. Chair drawn close and slumped over it. Arms folded beneath her cheek, pillowing her head. The flame from an oil lamp had given her skin a golden glow. Her face, almost hidden by a cascade of her long dark hair, had been at peace, beautiful and serene as the carvings of angels in the finest cathedrals. That’s when Duncan had realized that Tilda Mackenzie, without a doubt, was the most exquisite woman he had ever met.

  She stirred in his arms, straightening on the bed, and pressing closer. Lifting her face to his, with the lightest touch, she traced her fingertips along the contours of his face. She studied him, then released a wistful sigh.

  Duncan couldn’t resist such temptation. Not with the sweetness of her lips so close. Their past kisses urged him forward, renewing the hunger only she could sate. He covered her mouth with his, a groan escaping him as she matched his fervor. Such a woman. Such a fine, wondrous woman. He smoothed a hand down her back and cupped the curve of her bottom in one hand and pulled her tighter against him. Lord, he needed this woman something fierce. Would that she wasn’t wearing those damn trews. He could remedy the bedsheet between them. Those infernal breeks—not so easy to cast aside.

  She shifted into his touch, pressing against him with a shimmy that held the promise of things to come. She broke the kiss. With a lazy, wanton smile, she teased a finger along his jawline. “Let me rid myself of these breeks,” she whispered. She rose from the bed and bent to unfasten her boots.

  The ship took a sudden listing to port, causing Tilda to shuffle to one side whilst trying to divest herself of her footwear.

  Duncan’s stomach churned anew as though determined to remind him they still rode the waves. His queasy innards overrode his man parts and belayed any previous orders given about seeking relief in Tilda’s loving embrace. Duncan sobered, scooting away to the farthest side of the berth. “Tilda, nay.”

  He inhaled hard and held his breath. His belated sense of right and wrong was firmly back in control. It was a good thing fate had intervened and kept him from making such an egregious error. Under no circumstances should he do this. Not when he had just told the lass her worth shone like that of an angel. What a calloused liar he would be if he took what only she could offer, then still insisted on casting her aside. He was many things, but a heartless womanizer was not one of them. Thankfully, his stomach chose that moment to make itself known with a loud gurgling. “We canna do this,” he said between attacks of rapid-fire hiccups.

  Tilda whirled about with the front flap of her trews partially unbuttoned. “What?”

  His stomach gurgled again, loud enough to echo through the cabin. Duncan shook his head. “I canna,” he whispered, leaving it at that.

  She had yet to understand why they could never be a true husband and wife. If he pushed her from his bed, he feared he’d hurt her feelings even more. But if she believed him too ill, that would surely be all the gentler.

  Compassion shone on her face, but Duncan could tell by the stern set of her jaw that she suspected his real motivation. Canny as a fox, Tilda missed verra little. She shoved the bucket closer to the bed. “I should nay have forced all the tea down ye.”

  The woman was angry. Damned, if she hadn’t read him true.

  “Land, ho!”

  “Praise God,” Duncan whispered, hanging over the bucket even though he knew he wasn’t about to heave. For the first time on the trip, he thanked God for the seasickness. This dear lass, who he now owed his life, deserved better. “Where are we?” he asked without looking up.

  “Tait’s cove. West side of Orkney. A tiny isle. Lucky for yerself, it was only a short sail from Aberdeen.”

  He stole a glance up at her.

  Catching his gaze, she gave him a bitter smile as she straightened her clothes and pulled on her waistcoat and jacket. “Ye nay would have fared well if we had traveled the sea longer than a few days.” She pulled open a drawer and yanked out a pair of trews and a tunic. With an irritated toss, she dumped them on the table. “Tait said ye could wear these. We’ll find ye better once ashore. Kip found a spare pair of boots that should fit ye. They’re at the foot of the bed.” She strode to the door and jerked it open.

  “Tilda.” Duncan felt worse than seasick now. He felt sick at his soul—but how could he tell her she would always have a special place in his heart without giving her the wrong idea. How could he be so cruel as to give her hope? They couldn’t be man and wife. His life was no longer his own to share.

  “What?” She jerked around and faced him, the look on her face unreadable.

  “Nothing.” What could he say? He would enlist Captain Tait’s help and relieve Tilda of his presence as soon as possible. It was the kindest thing he could do.

  Tilda gave him a curt nod and left, closing the door with a hard click behind her.

  Duncan forced himself to a sitting position and slid to the edge of the bed. With a tight hold to a rail built into the wall surrounding the bunk, he breathed in deep lungfuls of air until he gathered his bearings. And now to stand. He pulled himself to his feet, widened his stance, and balanced for a long moment before attempting a step. Land ho or not, the great ship still shifted and rolled beneath his feet.

  He caught hold of the clothes, then plopped back down on his arse and pulled on the trews. He shoved his feet into the boots, slid his head into the tunic, and with careful, pained movements, shimmied it down over the bandages wrapped around his torso.

  The sound of heavy boot steps stomping at a hurried pace in the outer passage drew closer, then silenced before the door banged open against the wall. A tall, hulking figure of a man, scowling and fierce, ducked his dark head as he stepped through the opening. After he entered the room, he fixed a piercing scowl on Duncan. “This is how ye thank my cousin for all she risked for ye?”

  “Beg pardon?” Duncan forced himself to stand without aid of the railing and failed, staggering sideways like a drunkard. He attempted to save face by plopping down in the chair at the table and thrusting out his chest. “I dinna believe I caught yer name, sir.” He didn’t tolerate bullying.
He might be weak, but he’d nay go down without a fight.

  “Captain Tait Mackenzie.” The startling color of the man’s green eyes disappeared into slits as he jabbed a finger toward the door. “Tilda’s cousin. Tait if ye change yer ways and treat her properly. Demon Mackenzie if ye play the fool and treat her ill.”

  From the captain’s demeanor, Duncan had a fair idea what had happened after Tilda had left the room, but he couldn’t be certain without more information. “I am eternally grateful to yer cousin and ye, sir. The entire Mackenzie clan, in fact. I owe my life to the lot of ye.”

  “And yet ye refuse to accept Tilda as wife even though ye made a public marriage of consent and then spent the night with her in me cabin?” Danger glittered in Tait’s glare as he took a step closer. He shook a fist in Duncan’s direction. “How dare ye ruin my cousin than cast her aside like she’s worth as little as scraps for the dogs.”

  Shite. Duncan understood the man’s intent, but the man didn’t understand his. “Did she tell ye the reason we claimed to be man and wife?” He jerked his thumb toward the bucket at the base of the bed. “And trust me, yer cousin’s virtue is still verra much intact. She’s pure as a newborn lamb. I swear it.”

  Captain Tait paced back and forth in front of the table, never once taking his scowl from Duncan. The man looked the pirate. Gold earring in one ear. Long braids, strung with beads, rattled at one side of his head, while the rest of his black hair was pulled back in a queue. Dressed all in black, the man looked as though he captained the ship for the Earl of Hell himself. A worthy adversary. And one intent on protecting his cousin. Duncan had to turn this protectiveness to his advantage.

  The captain stopped pacing and squared off in front of Duncan. “Ye will take Tilda to wife because she wishes it. Heed my words, man. I shall not see my wee Cat upset any more than she’s already been.”

  “Cat?” Duncan pushed himself up from the table and made his way to the cabinet where Tilda had stowed the whiskey. He pulled open the door, then paused, and looked back at Tait. “Why do ye call her Cat, and would ye care for a drink?”