Chapter Nine

An expanse of smooth, black stones stretched to the sea, covered in dark-yellow seaweed as it neared the water’s edge. Low tide. In the distance a white wave of gannets circled and swooped, their laughter-like calls audible from where Duncan stood. Mist hugged the low, green mountains to the north, and the swollen clouds crowding the horizon showed they were in for more rain. ’Twas not often he made this trip to the coast, and he soaked in the various shades of smell and sound—so different from his home—while he and Gavin made their goodbyes to Viscount Dundee.

The weathered boards of the dock beneath their feet creaked as they trod its length and back. Neither party could leave—not until the tide returned—but from here their respective journeys diverged. Their mounts were already stabled with the MacLeod stronghold on this side of the water and would remain there until their return journey.

“Good luck to ye, my lord. I hope this time King James comes through for ye.”

Dundee nodded gravely. “I’ve been assured. I shall see you on our return, though with that many troops, we’ll be camping on the mainland instead of in Dungarbh. Perhaps by then your chieftain will be able to muster men.”

“Perhaps,” Gavin replied. “Regardless, I look forward to our meeting again.”

A young lad pounded up the dock and pulled on Gavin’s jacket sleeve. “Yer boat’ll be ready soon, sir. Tide’s comin’ in, it is. Ye’ll be wanting to lay up your own supplies, though.”

Gavin thanked him.

“What news hereabouts, young master?” Dundee asked.

The lad puffed out his chest, his face now somber. “Word is the Williamites are patrolling the waters, harassin’ our ships.”

Williamites? On these waters? Duncan looked over to the hill where they’d left a small guard watching over Fiona and the women. He returned his gaze to Dundee—no. They were after bigger prey than their small party.

When the lad ran off, Dundee pivoted and faced them. “Not news I wished to hear, but not surprising.”

Gavin spit into the seaweed-covered rocks below. “What’s their aim, do ye think?”

Dundee looked out to sea, his jaw working. “My guess is they have word of the Irish troops’ arrival and mean to thwart me. But take care.”

Duncan braced his feet apart as a gust of wind chased up to the shore. Specks of salty water flecked his face and neck. “We’ll be careful.”

“Aye,” Gavin said. “You be careful yerself. After all, we’re only crossing to Skye.”

After giving their final goodbyes, Duncan and Gavin strode over to the row of stone cottages hugging the wee inlet and set about procuring fresh catch for their crossing.

He was having a devil of a time keeping on task. His mind wandered—over and over—to last night and those pretty lips of Fiona’s. Oh, he’d been sorely tempted to brush his lips against hers, test their softness, test their sweetness. How close he’d been too. But having an audience had kept him from acting on the impulse. Plus, he was not at all sure she would welcome his kisses.

An older man with his two sons were the first they found, sitting against a stone wall near the inlet, their hands busy either mending nets or weaving new ones. The shaggy head of a dark gray Skye Terrier lifted from behind a basket and blinked eyes mostly concealed by the fall of lighter gray hair. Its tail thumped, disturbing one of the nets.

“Can ye sell any of your catch today?” Duncan asked.

The older man shook his head. “Those Williamites are keeping us hemmed in, aren’t they? They snatched Patrick’s currach yester morn.” He nodded to one of the younger men.

Patrick, who was busy mending a net, took up the tale. “Aye. The bastards took it. We’re down to the one currach for our family, so we only stayed out for the time it took to be catching what we need to feed our own family. We’ve none to spare.”

Gavin shook his head and cursed. “It grieves me to hear this. Where were ye when they seized yer boat?”

The man pointed out to the water and gave them a general idea of his whereabouts. Unfortunately, it was the direction they were to take.

“Do ye know anyone else who might have had better luck?” Duncan asked.

“Ye can try James the younger. If anyone can, it’d be him.” He placed the net to the side and picked up another.

“I thank ye, and I hope ye have better luck soon.”

Duncan and Gavin moved off to find James the younger, worry settling into Duncan’s gut. If the Williamites were harassing even the fisher folk, their own party might need to go up the east side of the island and around, instead of the more direct route up the west side.

They found James, but he was also unable to sell despite the lure of coin. They worked their way through the rest of the small village of Glenelg, but the answer was the same.

Criosd. He hoped the others in their party fared better.

Fiona gripped the wooden side of their low-slung ship, concentrating—or trying to—on how the wood felt against her palms. Solid. Smooth. Cool. Though growing warmer by the minute under her tight grip.

She wished she could say her body was leaning out, head into the wind, hair blowing back, a big grin on her face. Especially because this ship looked like a Viking galley, complete with a wicked cool bow curving up and pointing back toward the sail. But no.

No. Her body was leaning out, yes, but only because she was going to hurl at any moment.

Not a great time to find out that she suffered from seasickness. Shit.

It didn’t help that a dead male goat hung from the mast—for favorable winds. On launching, the MacLeods had protested it as superstitious nonsense and a waste of good meat, but they couldn’t sway the local guide they’d hired, spooked already by reports of the raiding Williamites. He’d even insisted they row in a circle, sunwise, three times before they could lay down the planks and set sail. The MacLeods had grumbled. But they’d done it so they could finally depart.

Ironic. Because she was pretty sure if she asked the MacLeods about their most treasured clan artifact—the Fairy Flag of Dunvegan—she’d be told that legend was true.

Behind her, canvas snapped in the wind, and men gave muffled commands as they worked to cross Glenelg Bay and make their way up the coast in the dark of night.

She brushed the back of her hand across her clammy forehead. She swallowed hard and fought to keep her breaths even. Earlier, she’d found this spot in the bow, and she could only hope it kept her out of view of the others. Especially Duncan.

Enough of the nearby conversation had filtered through her miserable haze to understand that it was dangerous to navigate these waters at night, but their superstitious guide knew what dangers lurked below the water’s surface. Duncan had assured her that the risk was lesser than meeting Williamite ships during the day. Of course that meant they had to wait for hours, since the sun didn’t set this far north during the summer until around ten at night.

She took another uneasy breath. “Stupid inner ears,” she muttered.

The hairs on the back of her neck stirred, and a warm presence hovered just behind her. She knew who it was before she heard his voice.

“Belly giving ye trouble?” Duncan’s voice was low and full of concern.

Ugh. She did not want him seeing her like this. She redoubled her efforts to keep everything in.

She didn’t dare open her mouth, so she just nodded.

He leaned sideways against the railing, blocking her from view of the rest of the voyagers. He held out a tin mug. “See if ye can swallow a touch of this. ’Tis ale mixed with herbs the captain keeps on board for his wife.”

Dammit, her hand shook as she took the cup from him. She nodded her thanks, because, yeah, she still wouldn’t risk opening her mouth. He faced forward but managed to inch closer with the movement. Why did he have to see her like this? When she was weak? At least he was looking out across the dark waters instead of witnessing her attempts to bring the cup to her mouth while her hands shook and the boat rocked with the uneasy sea.

She finally brought the metal rim to her lips and managed a tentative sip. When that went down and her stomach didn’t immediately say, Oh hell no, she took another. The taste was bitter but not unpleasant. There were some gentler tastes mixed within that made it easier to swallow.

Soon she was staring at the bottom of the tin cup. Hunh. Somehow she’d drained it in what seemed like only minutes. She queried her stomach. Still twitchy, but it didn’t feel as if she were in imminent danger of upchucking all her innards.

She leaned against the railing, her arm brushing his, and relished the warmth and shelter that his presence gave her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He cleared his throat. “You’re welcome. It helps if ye can keep your eyes fixed on the horizon.”

While she liked the more easy interaction between them, it somehow made her more tense. Because she still couldn’t figure out how to indulge without either of them being hurt, and she was finding it harder and harder to resist him. Resist his pull. Especially when he was being so sweet.

But resist him she had to.

Because for the first time in her life, she was nearly giddy with the excitement of having a purpose. Well, giddy aside from this seasick business, but other than that, this adventure was exactly what she’d always dreamed.

And somehow not at all.

“We’re nearly across,” Duncan said. “We’ll be heading up the eastern coastline of Skye until we reach Dunvegan. Normally, we’d be taking the western path, but even at night we dare not risk sailing where the Williamites are active. And tonight the tide is with us—otherwise we’d not be able to pass through the Kyle Sound, for its violence will not allow the wind to carry us through.”

Oh Jeez. “Is there any place I could lie down?”

He glanced down, his face soft with concern. “If ye truly wish it, though it might make your belly worse. It’s best sometimes to be out in the open air.”

A warning shout reverberated behind, startling her into an embarrassing little jump. Which did not help her stomach. Voices erupted, and clansmen swarmed the deck.

“What’s going on?”

Duncan gripped her arm, pulling her to his side, and removed his pistol from his belt. “We’re under attack.” His voice was low and hard.

Attack?

Queasiness forgotten, she whipped around to where he was focused.

Orange bloomed like spilled ink against the dark sky, followed by a distant boom. The light silhouetted the outline of a wooden sailing ship, like how she’d always pictured a pirate ship would look.

And bam—her stomach went back to flipping out, and chills broke out on her clammy skin. But not from seasickness this time. Nope. Fear. Sharp and cold.

“Pirates?”

“Not pirates.”

One of the MacLeod men ran by. “ ’Tis the Charles Galley we heard tell of, harassing the fisher folk.”

“Iosa Criosd, that ship is massive,” someone nearby cried.

“The Charles Galley?”

Duncan cursed. “Aye. The Williamites have found us.”