The Warrior Read online

  “Take me, love. I canna bear yer teasing any longer.”

  Aye, she spoke true. He could tell by the way she squeezed her thighs tight around his head and clenched her wet heat around his fingers. Duncan rose above her, took hold of her hips, and plunged into her. Silverware and crockery rattled and shook across the table as he pounded harder. This waist-high table served the task verra nicely.

  Tilda’s elated squeal shrilled across the room, as knives and spoons crashed to the floor.

  A roaring groan ripped from his throat, echoing close behind. He collapsed across her, kneading one of her breasts as he pressed kisses along her jawline and struggled to catch his breath. “Maybe Tait would gift us this table to take with us?”

  “If not,” she gasped. “We shall steal it.”

  *

  “Take good care of him, aye?” Duncan rubbed Rab’s great muscled neck, then patted the horse on the shoulder. Rab was not just a horse. Rab was a friend.

  “Soon as he finishes with his wee harem, rest assured I’ll fetch him to ye with the next load of cargo to Wrath. He’ll be to ye well afore winter. We plan a heavy haul to the mainland late in the fall, afore the weather turns.” Tait motioned to a nearby paddock just outside the stable. “The ladies love him. I daresay, he shall not suffer with yer leaving.”

  Three mares stood lined up at the fence, tossing their heads and whinnying at Rab.

  Rab snorted back at them and stomped a hoof, then thumped a gentle headbutt against Duncan’s shoulder.

  Duncan laughed and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Aye. On yer way then, lad. Enjoy yer season of entertaining the ladies.”

  The horse bobbed his head, headbutted Duncan’s chest one last time, then took his leave, heading toward his admirers.

  Duncan joined Tait on the path leading down to the docks, his gut tightening at the lazy swaying back and forth of the awaiting sloop’s masts. Damned, if he didn’t already feel queasy.

  “Cardoza is one o’ me best men, and he commands a fine crew.” Tait squinted skyward, scowling at the gathering clouds. “If the weather holds, ye shall be in Wrath by nightfall. The Ruby’s sleek and fast. Fair flies across the waves, she does.”

  “’Twill be good to be back in the Highlands.” Duncan scanned the activity on the dock, searching for Tilda. He finally spotted her, weaving in and out among the men, supervising their every move as they stored supplies on the boat. The sight of four men toting their favorite table from their wedding chamber triggered a chuckle. He turned to Tait and thrust out his hand. “Many thanks, Tait. For everything.”

  “Name yer first bairn after me.” Tait grabbed hold of his forearm and squeezed hard. “Son or daughter. Tait’s a fine name either way, do ye no’ agree?”

  “Aye, it is that.” Duncan gave him a curt nod, released his arm, and headed down the path. He came to a halt on the dock, waiting until the last possible moment to board that godforsaken boat.

  “Godspeed to ye!” Tait shouted down to him.

  Duncan lifted a hand and nodded. Godspeed indeed. He cast a glance at the troubling skyline. ’Twas a blustery, cloudy day. The billowing, white fluffs came close to blotting out every bit of blue across the horizon. As long the clouds didn’t shift their mood and grow angry and dark, their journey should fare well enough.

  “Duncan!” Tilda stood on the deck of the ship, waving him forward. “’Tis time. Best get this over with.”

  “God help me,” Duncan muttered under his breath, then strode up the gangplank. He joined Tilda at the railing, white-knuckling the wood as the boat eased away from the dock and headed seaward.

  They caught the wind, the sails filling with a snap. Their speed increased, and soon they skimmed across the waves as graceful as a seabird scooping up its daily catch.

  Holding tight to the railing, Duncan made his way toward the front of the ship, mesmerized by the sound of the hull slicing through the water. He had to admit, this wasn’t so bad. Pulling in a deep breath, he forced himself to relax.

  “So, the smaller ship nay bothers ye as much?” Tilda joined him, shielding her eyes as she looked out upon the sea.

  “Appears that way.” Duncan looked behind them. Tait’s Cove had already disappeared. All that remained was the faint outline of a mound of fog hovering above the waterline.

  “Sail, ho!” A seaman’s shout boomed across the deck.

  Duncan shielded his eyes and searched the horizon, spotting the masts and the dot of color flying at their tip. The ship was not British. “Who claims those colors?”

  Tilda squinted in the same direction. Her jaw flexed, and her mouth tightened. “MacDonald, I think.” She gathered up her skirts in one hand and waved for Duncan to follow. “Cardoza will know.”

  They hurried to the helm where the short, squat man stood with a spyglass trained on the approaching vessel.

  “D’ye know those colors?” Duncan asked as they joined the man at the railing. His fingers itched to snatch the spyglass out of the captain’s hands and have a look for himself. No matter the owner of the colors, the ship was headed toward them and approaching fast. Such was the behavior of an enemy.

  “Damned MacDonalds,” Cardoza replied in a thick accent Duncan struggled to understand. With his short, rolling gait, the man strode to the center of the platform and boomed. “Look sharp, me lads! Full sail! Make her fly!”

  “We’ve no cannon aboard this ship,” Tilda said, keeping her gaze locked on the MacDonald galleon. “But we can outrun them.”

  Duncan had other concerns. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and tendrils of lightning danced across the horizon. The wind had picked up and the clouds to the east of them had shifted, growing dangerously dark in a short amount of time. The North Sea lay in that direction, and it oft shared its maelstroms. He pointed at the roiling, bank of black clouds bearing down on them even faster than the MacDonalds. Dark curtains of rain fell, racing toward them. “Can we outrun that?”

  “God help us,” Tilda whispered so low that Duncan barely heard her above the increasing roar of the wind.

  “Get below.” Duncan took hold of her arm and pulled her toward the portal leading below deck. The ship sped along at an alarming rate, taking full advantage of the gale. The waves had already increased, making the act of remaining upright and putting one foot in front of the other a challenge. Duncan leaned into the rain and wind, curling Tilda against his side and shuffling forward. “Shelter! Now!”

  Tilda shook her head, holding tight to Duncan. “I’ll nay do it! If we split in two and founder, I’ll be trapped below decks. I’ll take my chances above.”

  Taking tight hold of her shoulders, Duncan shouted over the storm, squinting against the pelting rain sluicing across the deck. “It’s building fast and getting worse. I’ll not have ye in this. Get below!”

  As they made their way past the mainmast, Tilda grabbed hold of the ropes and looped an arm through them. She clutched his arm and pulled him close. “Here. We stay here,” she shouted over the wind.

  Duncan wrapped himself around her, sheltering her from the stinging touch of the driving rain as much as he could. Waves crashed over the deck. Holding tight to whatever they could, Captain Cardoza’s men moved about the deck, securing ropes and struggling to control the sails. Lightning cracked close by, scenting the air with an acrid, sizzling bite. Deafening thunder followed close behind, rattling Duncan clear to the bone.

  Tilda clutched him by the lapels, her face buried to his chest. Duncan held her tighter. Lord Almighty, he had been such a fool to pray for adventure. He pressed his cheek to the top of his wife’s head.

  A massive wave lifted the front of the ship, then slammed it back down like a child tossing aside a toy. Duncan stole a glance over his shoulder and his gut wrenched. A wall of water rose above them, listing the ship hard to starboard. They were about to go over. Duncan felt it as surely as the rain driving against his skin. He yanked Tilda free of the ropes and wrapped his arms around her, praying to God she knew
how to swim.

  Tilda met his gaze, terror in her eyes. “I canna swim,” she shouted.

  He held her tighter and wrapped a hand through her belt. The two of them slid across the deck as the massive wave pushed the ship over, then crashed down on it like the fist of God determined to split them asunder.

  They were in the water.

  The cold of the sea shocked him while at the same time setting fire to his eyes, nose, and mouth with its brine. One hand clutched tight to the belt at Tilda’s waist, Duncan pulled and kicked, struggling to get them to the surface. Through the blue haze of the deep, he glanced back at Tilda as he thrashed toward air. She was too still. God help him. She was not even struggling. The weight of her dress slowed him. If he didn’t rid her of it, the garment would kill them both. He yanked his dirk from his boot and sliced through the waistband of her skirts, relieved when they fell away and sank downward.

  Fighting to get them free of the rigging and clear of the remains of the boat, Duncan swam harder, one arm curled around Tilda. Lungs burning, he pushed through to the surface, gasping in great gulps of air and spitting against the water determined to drown him. Leaning back, he pulled Tilda up across his chest, arching her back across him. He had to get her to breathe. Turning her face toward him, he squeezed her jaws open, parted her lips, and blew in hard gusts of air. The sea laughed at his efforts to remain afloat, tossing him about the waves like the rest of the debris from the shattered ship. It doused them under, but Duncan fought back, regaining the surface every time.

  Tilda remained limp in his arms, her head rolling back and forth across his shoulder as he fought to keep them above the clutches of the sea. If the waves didn’t drown them, the blowing rain would. A battered chunk of the ship skittered to the side of them, crashing into Duncan’s shoulder. The jagged edges of the planks nearly took off his head as the large hunk of debris shoved against him. Duncan groped for a handhold in the planks, latching on to the boards and pulling Tilda’s head and shoulders up to rest on the makeshift raft.

  The sea tossed them about for what seemed like forever, then the storm disappeared just as quickly as it had blown into existence. Sunshine filtered down through the clouds, shining across the field of litter floating all around them. Bobbing across the now docile waves, Duncan stretched to see if any others survived. Nothing but pieces of ship and crates and barrels from the cargo.

  He searched the horizon for the MacDonald galleon. The ship was nowhere to be found. Whether it had turned tail and run at the sight of the oncoming storm or lay at the bottom of the sea, Duncan didn’t know. He sagged back against the boards, resting his cheek atop Tilda’s shoulder. She had to live. He would not consider otherwise. Shifting, he pressed an ear to her chest. Relief flooded through him. A faint heartbeat bumped against his cheek, followed by a shallow rasping breath. She lived. Thanks be to God. She lived.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Duncan dragged the crate free of the rocks and frothing waves. He hoisted it up and plunked it down beside the rest of the cargo he’d scavenged from across the shoreline. Pausing to catch his breath, he scanned the land behind him. This stretch of rocky beach hemmed in a gentle incline that became a verdant green hillside. An abandoned structure stood at the top of the hill. The weathered bones of a once-great building destroyed either by man, neglect, or the cruelty of time. People had been here once. But wherever this was appeared deserted now.

  Shielding his eyes, he focused on the ruins, watching for movement and cocking an ear for any sounds. A weak wisp of smoke rose from deep inside the structure. “Dammit,” he muttered. The fire he’d built already needed fuel. He had feared it would burn low too quickly.

  Tilda lay inside those crumbling walls of stone. He’d placed her there and made her as comfortable as possible. Judging by the carvings and ruined statues, the place had once been an abbey or some such holy place. Most of the roof had caved in, and only some of the walls still stood. With dried grasses he’d ripped from the land nearby, he’d made her a pallet behind the altar in the midst of the sanctuary’s rubble. At least the place provided a bit of shelter while he searched for supplies that would help them survive.

  They had washed ashore as the sun sank below the horizon, and Duncan had been glad of it. Tilda still hadn’t awakened, but at least she breathed. Thankfully, he’d found the abbey’s well and praised God above for the fresh water still within it. Any other water he’d found puddled among the collapsed walls had been too brackish and foul to drink.

  With a large rock, he broke through the lid of the small keg at his feet, praying it held something edible. They couldn’t survive long on water alone. The cracked lid revealed a black grainy substance. Gunpowder. “Dammit.” Duncan kicked the barrel aside and moved on to the next one. This one was much larger. Surely, it held foodstuff. If not, he’d be hunting for gull’s eggs for their supper. He dashed the lid in two and peered inside. Hope eased the knot in his chest. He reached in the barrel and pulled out a salted chunk of fish. “Praise God!” he shouted.

  The gulls keened overhead as though scolding him to keep quiet.

  Searching through the remaining crates and barrels, Duncan felt some better after finding several articles that would make their stay on this unknown island a bit easier to bear. Tins of biscuits that looked to be dry enough. Dried beef. One crate even held several bottles of wine; the tangle of barrels roped around it had saved it from the sea. An odd-looking crate, long as a coffin, held bolts of cloth. He’d saved that as well. Tilda had nary on but her chemise, bodice, stockings, and one shoe. The cloth, once it dried, would at least provide her with a bit a covering. He toted his finds up the hillside to the ruins. Tomorrow, if she was well enough for him to leave her a bit longer, he’d swim out to the reef. A battered section of the ship had caught in the rocks. More supplies might still be waiting. He needed to retrieve what he could before the sea claimed the rest.

  And then when Tilda was even stronger, they’d pack up and search the area. With ruins such as these, surely the island wasn’t deserted.

  A sense of urgency pushed him to return to her. What if she awoke all alone? What if she didn’t awaken at all? He shoved that thought aside. Nay, Tilda would live. His fierce, braw love would live. Duncan pushed underneath the collapsed roof, then paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. He threaded his way around fallen stones and crumbled columns, following the path he’d cleared to the back of the great sanctuary. The echoing sound of a weak cough hurried him forward.

  “Duncan?”

  “Here, lass.” He dipped a bit of water out of the well bucket into a split wooden cup he’d found. He knelt beside her, then slid his arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her against him. “Drink, lass. A wee bit of fresh water to rid ye of the salt.”

  She took a sip, then coughed and wheezed, jerking away to vomit up what seemed like gallons of water. Finished with her retching, she sagged back into Duncan’s arms and rested her head against his chest. With pitiful clawing motions, she clutched his arm tighter around her. “Where are we?” she whispered without opening her eyes. A trembling shiver rippled across her.

  He settled more comfortably beside her and cradled her back against his chest. “I have no idea.” He pressed the cup back to her mouth and held it while she attempted another sip. He breathed easier when this mouthful stayed down. “Some island north of Scotland.” He looked around, squinting to make out the carvings in the stone at the nearby altar. “Duress, it says.” He frowned. He’d never heard of Duress.

  “Duress,” Tilda repeated with a weak squinting of her eyes. “Never heard tell of it.”

  “Aye.” Duncan motioned toward the long stone altar. “’Tis what the altar says though.”

  “Have ye seen anyone else?”

  It pained him to tell her he had seen none of the crew nor Captain Cardoza, but he wouldn’t lie to her. “Near as I can tell, we be the only two.” He gave her another sip, struggling to think of something to say, so she wo
uldn’t dwell on the direness of their situation. “I’m glad to have ye with me. Ye took quite the dousing.”

  “What will become of us, Duncan?” she whispered, curling into his chest and hugging him tight. Another shudder trembled across her, and Duncan feared a dreaded fever could be on the rise.

  “We will survive.” He would consider nothing less. He braced himself for her reaction. Sobbing. Keening. Hysterics. Fear tainted the air of their shelter. His as well as hers. But Tilda remained silent, occasionally pulling in deep breaths and easing them out. What a woman she was. Fearless. Courageous. His heart and soul ached with the need for her to make it through this.

  “I might find us some gull’s eggs for supper,” she whispered. “After I’ve rested a wee bit longer, aye?”

  “I found us food. Washed ashore. Even wine.” He forced a light-hearted tone. “We shall have a fine feast.”

  “Could ye build a bigger fire?” Her shivering grew worse. “I’m wicked cold. The sea and these stones have chilled me to the bone.”

  “Aye, love.” Duncan eased her down and tucked his damp jacket closer about her.

  He stripped his tunic off over his head and wrapped it around her curled form as well. After he built her a fire, he’d get one of the bolts of cloth and pile the fabric around her. Some of them didn’t appear soaked all the way through, surely inside the bolt he could find a dry bit. “Where do ye hurt, love?” Blood stained the stocking on her left foot, and Duncan feared it badly broken by the odd angle at which her leg lay. Thank God above for the wine. Whiskey would have been better for numbing her pain and cleansing whatever wounds she had, but he’d not be ungrateful. He’d have to tend to that foot soon, and he sorely dreaded it.

  “Sore and bruised a bit. My foot hurts some, but nothing to fret over.” Tilda clutched herself into a tighter, shivering ball on top of the pile of dried grasses he’d gathered for a makeshift pallet. She closed her eyes. “Bitter cold, I am though. Please, just get me warm.”