Chapter Eleven

Fiona blinked her wet lashes, her breath coming in desperate gasps, as she did the side stroke toward shore.

Be calm. Breathe normally. Oh God. Duncan.

When the ship had run aground, she’d been pitched overboard into the frigid waters. She tried to re-board but couldn’t find purchase along the sides. She tried to scream his name, but her voice was rough and cracked from swallowing and coughing up salty water. She heard nothing in the silence surrounding the ship, except for the innocent slush-slap of water against the wooden sides.

If there was a rope or ladder, she couldn’t find it in the dark.

And then her practical side pushed to the surface. She was soaked with cold water, the dress’s fabric heavy, and if she had any hope of making it to the shore alive, she had to start swimming. Sure, her fingertips were able to grip the side, but pulling her sodden, dead weight had proved impossible. And was quickly tiring her out. So she’d ditched her bulky earasaid and began swimming.

She had to trust Duncan’s words when he’d shouted for her to head for shore. She clung to that trust. Otherwise, she’d start panicking. And give in to the urge to paddle around that boat, screaming his name until she sank from exhaustion.

Now, as her straining arm muscles pulled another stroke, she tested the depth, letting her toes drift down. Squishy and rocky, but solid. Heart thudding in her ears, and her body now shivering violently, she struggled up the shore. Her eyes were adjusted to the dark, but it wasn’t enough to have her not creep out about elbowing her way through God-knew-what slimy substance and scratchy bits. Finally, she cleared the water and collapsed on the rocky-wet surface of the shore.

Spongy seaweed pushed against her ear. Her breath sawed in and out, and she closed her eyes, wanting a moment to rest. A low, mournful sound echoed to her left. She snapped her eyes open and turned her head. Dark shapes moved low on the ground. She stilled, watching. Then relaxed.

“Seals,” she whispered to no one. If she weren’t so drained, she was sure she’d be jumping up and down. Or at least giving a little squeal. Seals were lounging about just down the beach. She lifted her fingers in a little wave.

It was then that her name echoed in the eerie-beautiful calm of night. She pushed upright, swaying, and shouted, but her voice was cracked and weak.

Please be Duncan!

Her body jerked as the cold seeped further into her bones. Her teeth chattered.

Shit. She scanned up and down the shore. Where was everyone? Her solitude and the darkness, however, gave her options.

Quickly, she stripped. The first thing she did was check her ziplock pouch strapped to her waist. Her blood thugged—some water had seeped inside. The medicines were ruined, but her birth control pills… She snapped open the plastic container and brought it up close. Whew. The blister packs weren’t filled with water. She popped her next one and then wrung out her clothes as best she could. Then she bunched it up and scrubbed her skin. Though the cloth was still wet, the action helped remove the worst of the water off her skin and rub it warm.

Not enough.

She picked her way farther inland until she left the slippery, rocky stretch and reached the grassy surface of the island. There she found a flat rock, plopped her clothes on top, grabbed a hefty stone, and pushed and pounded on her clothes.

When they were free of as much water as her tired limbs could make them, she yanked them back on. Exhausted, she collapsed on the rock and kept her eyes glued to the boat’s silhouette, with occasional glances up and down the rocky shore.

“C’mon, Duncan.”

She hugged herself and rocked forward, trying to preserve body heat. She should move inland and make a fire. But there were two problems.

One, she really, really didn’t want to stop watching for Duncan.

Two, she had no clue how to start a fire from two friggin’ sticks.

Her teeth were chattering again by the time a dark shape appeared in the water, moving toward shore. Hope flared. And then fear. Because it might not be Duncan and, like a damn idiot, she was sitting in the open.

Frantically, she glanced around. Nearby stood a rock outcropping, which, with the dark, she hoped was enough cover.

She picked her way over and crouched. She leaned to the side, keeping an eye on the approaching figure.

Jesus. At least the adrenaline rush was warming her up.

The dark shape eased up from the water—a man—and promptly leaned down, hands on his knees.

Still, she stayed hidden.

Slowly, the man straightened. Looked back toward the ship. Something spurred him, because he charged up the shore, scanning the area as he went. Whoever it was, his trajectory angled him away from her hiding spot.

She relaxed but kept watch, because if it was Duncan? She’d scamper on over to that bad boy.

It looked like his body structure and height, but she couldn’t tell enough to risk exposure. Something about his silhouette didn’t look quite right.

He cupped his hands and called out in a low urgent tone. He turned away, did it again, and then faced her direction. This time the word carried clearly. “Fiona!”

Her blood nearly evaporated with relief.

She scrambled up. “Here! I’m here. I’m here.” Her voice pitched frantic and high as she staggered over the dark ground toward the darker shape.

Duncan closed the distance in several ground-eating strides. Next thing she knew, a huge, wet Highlander had her whisked up into a blessedly sweet, bone-crushing hug.

Her heart pounded so hard she was sure it was knocking against him. And she’d swear she felt his against her chest.

He was murmuring in her ear, the Gàidhlig too low and too rushed for her to understand.

And squeezing pretty hard, but she was squeezing the shit out of him too.

Yeah, she was also relieved.

And then… Oh my. She realized why his silhouette had been off.

The man was buck naked.

Pressed against her.

He’d swam naked from the galley. Picturing that, with maybe his ankle-knife clutched between his teeth, had her unable to emit another sound for quite a while.

He set her on her feet and engulfed her face in his huge hands. Which was good. Because she really, really wanted to look down. Which wouldn’t be good, because it was too dark to actually see, and she’d end up looking like some near-sighted perv getting too up close and personal. She could just discern the strong lines of his face and his eyes searching hers. His curly brown hair was plastered dark against his skull. Though several hanks couldn’t resist curling against his left temple. Then those hands of his were touching her all over. “Are ye all right, lass?”

As if reminded, her teeth began chattering. “Just freezing. You?”

Relief softened his features. “Likewise.”

Then he grabbed her shoulders, the grip nearly bruising. “We must hurry. The Williamites were closing in on the ship when I left. Have ye seen the others?”

“No.” Shit. She just wanted to collapse. Rest.

“We have no time to be searching. The Williamites will be rowing men ashore soon. Of that I have no doubt. They dare not go farther inland, so if we can be getting some distance on them, we’ll be safer.”

She wouldn’t argue with that. “Let’s go.”

He grasped her smaller hand in his much larger one, and they raced as fast as they dared in the dark.

The chill air settled into Duncan’s limbs as he and Fiona pushed inland. He didn’t tell her, but they had another problem besides the Williamites at their backs—he wasn’t entirely sure of his way. He knew they’d reached MacLeod lands at the time of their foundering, so if they followed the shore in the direction the ship was sailing, they’d eventually reach Dunvegan.

His mind raced with scenarios and options for sustenance as his feet thudded against the ground, because otherwise he was afraid he’d be spouting frantic, sappy drivel again.

Criosd. When he’d seen her emerge from behind that rock, he’d very well almost dropped to the ground, the relief in his knees had made him that weak. And when he was holding her against him, heart pounding, he’d whispered the most ridiculous endearments into her ear, the relief at finding her and holding her that acute.

Gàidhlig wasn’t her mother tongue, so he could only pray she hadn’t understood a word.

Next to him, her steps stumbled on the uneven terrain. He snatched her up and slung her over his shoulder. They could not stop. Not yet.

She uttered a protest, but he locked his arms tight around her legs, adjusted his grip on his belongings, and charged onward, ignoring the burn in his calves and shoulder.

“I can run,” she whispered fiercely from where her head rested, her breaths warming his bare back in spurts. She pushed against him, lifting her upper body away from him. “I can run.”

So brave. “I know ye can, but this is quicker. Not much longer now.”

He reached a rock-strewn path that twisted up a low bluff, and he powered upward. At the summit, he set her down and whirled around.

’Twas hard to see, with the distance and scant light, but as he feared, a dark boat-like shape angled toward shore. Sure, they were going slow, careful of the shallow rocks, but they’d be ashore soon.

However, the vise around his chest lessened. They were out of immediate danger. It was unlikely, with such small numbers, the Williamites would risk breaching the line of the bluffs and thus face the ire of any MacLeods they encountered. They’d be slaughtered quicker than they could load their fancy muskets. But they couldn’t resist searching for straggling prey along the shoreline.

He faced Fiona, who was staring up at him, her face pale but suffused with trust. And damned if he didn’t get weak-kneed at the sight. That trust. It cut into him and made him feel…things.

Criosd, he was growing soft.

He cleared his throat. “We’re safe, but let’s push onward.”

“Okay. Um. That’s good. Good. Yes.” Her gaze seemed to be locked almost desperately on his face. She ran a hand up her neck and nodded. Looked up and away.

“Fiona. Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Yes. Um. But…” She flicked her hand at him. “You’re naked,” she finished on a squeak.

He laughed aloud at that, loose and free. Such a thing to be worried about. But she had her sensibilities, so he quickly unwrapped his clothes and donned them. Then he grabbed her hand, and they headed farther inland, this time at a brisk walk.

They didn’t make it far before they faced a bigger problem. They stood panting as they stared out over another bluff. And his heart dropped over the edge. They weren’t on the Isle of Skye. What he’d taken for its shoreline was but one of the many cursed small islands off its shore. Across a dark stretch of water, the shoreline of Skye mocked them.

The Williamites would have no trouble finding them on this speck of dirt.

Only moments it had taken to cross it. Only moments before the Williamites gained the bluff behind them. However, crossing that stretch of water at night, in full view of their pursuers, was too risky. He scrutinized the shore below. “We must hide.”

They picked their way down the bluff, the wind pushing against them, making their descent treacherous.

“Caves?” she asked.

“Too much to hope for, but perhaps a depression.”

At the bottom, Fiona pointed to a spot along the bluff. “There. And we can use the seaweed to cover ourselves.”

Clever lass.

No sand or dirt betrayed their footprints, only smooth rock and a thick layer of seaweed heaped against the bluff. Still, he made certain nothing gave away their passage as they crossed to the cleft in the bluff. In no time, they had a shallow pit cleared in the rough sand beneath the rocks.

“In ye go,” he said.

With no protest, she nestled inside. Concerned about her catching a chill, he yanked off his féileadh and covered her, and then he lay down alongside. Reaching behind him, he pulled the seaweed back up over them, using his body to shield her.

No sooner had they settled and their breaths mixed with the wind whipping and whistling across the bluff than the thunk of several pebbles hit his back. The Williamites were on the bluff above. Fiona stilled. Very faintly, words floated down, but the wind and distance kept him from discerning what they said, though it was enough to tell these Williamites were Sasannaich.

Their hearts pounded against each other as they lay, tense, waiting to learn if their hiding place was enough in the dark.

And wasn’t it just his luck to finally have Fiona stretched beneath him, but instead of being in his bed—or hell, any bed—they were tucked up in a cocoon of smelly, slimy seaweed?

When the noise above disappeared, he waited what felt like the full length of a Mass and then shifted. “Fiona, I believe we’re safe.”

His arms bunched, ready to push away, but then he stilled. Voices. This time on the beach.

“You’re the arsehole, not me. We don’t even know if there’s anyone here, Thomas.” The words were in the Sasannaich tongue, its tone nasaly, pleading.

“Well, I don’t want to miss my chance to run one of these savages through with a sword. If one of ’em swam here, I want ’im. It might be our only chance.” This one had bloodlust running through each and every word.

“And I want to return to camp and get friendly with the whisky we found. Need time to sample it and sober up before the Charles gets back.”

Duncan eased his hand down and clasped his dirk’s hilt. Fiona trembled beneath him. Again, he was struck with the ridiculous need to hold her tight and whisper sappy words in her ear. Reassuring words of comfort and safety, but sappy nonetheless. He hated that she felt fear. ’Twas possible they’d pass by and not see them. ’Twas dark after all. They’d pass, and he’d attack.

A sword’s tip swept across his back, pushing away the seaweed.

“Ho! Told ya!” came Thomas’s voice, gleeful.