Chapter Ten

They were under attack!

Now Fiona’s stomach roiled for more reasons than just the motion of the ship as she and Duncan scrambled across the deck of the galley, Duncan pulling her along.

Near the mast, he lifted a plank on the deck and shoved her into the dark recesses between the rowing benches. “Stay here,” he barked.

Numb to do anything other than obey, she squatted. Muffled musket fire sounded outside, as well as the occasional boom of a cannon, rocking the ship.

He jumped into the space with her and crouched, rooting around. He pulled a sword out. “Here, take this.” He tossed it to her, and she caught it in trembling hands. “But remain here, aye? Don’t be coming out until I tell ye.”

Another explosion rocked the ship, the sound louder than any of the previous ones. The ship lurched to the side, and she fell back against the wooden bench.

Caught off guard, Duncan rolled toward her. He grabbed a bench seat, but his forward momentum swung him toward her, his face serious, his gaze holding hers.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

They were under attack!

It seemed like that was all her mind could do, repeat that phrase—and holy shit—over and over, while her heart beat louder than the exploding cannon and icy fear gripped her stomach.

She clamped down on the bench with one hand, resting against it, the sword gripped hotly in her other hand as chaos raged up above.

He must have thought she looked ready to raid the enemy ship instead of raiding the future for the biggest bottle of Tums, because he continued, “I mean it, Fiona. We’ll outrun them. We must, for they have cannon, and we do not. To be safe, though, pray for the wind to die.”

Somehow she found her voice. “Die? Don’t we need…?” She breathed fast and hiccupped. “Don’t we need the wind for the sails?”

“They do, aye.” He pointed to the benches on either side of them. “But we can row. They can’t. Never fear. If we cannot outrun them, we’re equipped to handle the swine if they dare board us. I’m betting they won’t be having the nerve.”

She nodded. “But I reserve the right to leave if the ship starts to sink.” A watery grave was not for her if she could help it.

He crouched closer to her, her knees touching his shins. He grabbed her face, his eyes searching hers for a beat. On a groan, he swooped down and pressed a quick but fierce kiss on her lips. “We’ll not be sinking.” His eyes and voice were full of conviction. With that, he leaped out, replaced the plank, and left her in complete darkness, only broken when the orange light of distant cannon fire bled through the cracks.

She touched her lips with trembling fingers, his warmth and taste still lingering there, she’d swear. And she concentrated on that sensation instead of the fear touching, clawing, her everywhere else.

“We’re sinking.” Duncan’s breath was labored as he pried up the plank and shouted down to Fiona.

Who, it turned out, eyes round in the darkness, was right by the opening, making his shout unnecessary.

The blasted Williamites had them outgunned, which was easy to do when their own ship had not a single cannon. Their party had been harried, looking after the other women, and at first Duncan had been puzzled that he’d not been vying with Malcolm in looking after Fiona’s safety. But he didn’t waste time wondering. Many were already swimming for shore.

Her face was pale but set in determined lines.

The ship lurched, nearly pitching him into the space below. He grabbed the edge of the plank to steady himself. Once balanced, he reached down, grabbed her by the waist, and hauled her up. When her feet cleared the decking, he squashed her against him, willing his heart to calm. “Are ye all right?” he choked out.

“Yes.” Her voice was a sweet sound to his ears, muffled though it was against his chest.

He stood, taking her with him until she found her footing. He didn’t think he could let her go just yet.

Smoke clogged the air, making visibility in the dark night even more difficult. The boards of the ship groaned under the strain as it slowly sliced through the murky water, the unmanned sails still full. All the while, however, it gradually listed to the side and lost momentum as the hull took on water.

“What happened?” Fiona yelled above the noise.

“Lucky shot into the aft side.” Another had landed near the main mast step, but so far the mast held. He pulled her arm and brought her around to face him. He gripped her face. “Listen. We’re not going to reach shore before we sink. But we’re close. Can ye swim?”

“Yes. You?”

“Aye.” An eerie quiet descended as they bolted, her hand gripped in his. It was entirely possible everyone had already abandoned ship.

The galley lurched again, jolting to a stop. Fiona’s hand slipped from his—No! A horrendous crack pierced the night air, along with a low groan of protesting timber. He spun around. The main mast was arcing toward the deck. Toward them. He shoved Fiona clear and dove in the opposite direction. He landed on the deck, winded, his healing shoulder now throbbing in pain.

The mast smacked into the deck between them, bounced once, and settled with a few more thumps. The voluminous sailcloth fluttered down and shrouded him.

“Duncan!” Fiona’s frantic, high-pitched shout cut across the mayhem.

“Swim for shore!” He scrambled under the cloth. Where was the end?

“Oh, thank God. And, hell no, buster, I’m not leaving you trapped.”

He felt a surge of pride at her bravery, but it was tempered by panic that not only had she not obeyed but that his fingers were still scrabbling against the oppressive cloth.

“I’ll free myself. Go!”

The ship pitched sharply, skidding him across the deck. Fiona shrieked, which ended abruptly. He smacked into the mast, tangling himself further in the sailcloth’s oppressive web.

If it was daytime, he could make better sense of his surroundings and how to fight free of the tangle. And Fiona! He no longer heard her, only the panicked beat of his heart and the scritching of his fingers on the dark cloth encasing him.

He dragged in a deep breath. Be calm, fool. Or you will be of no help to Fiona.

That cleared his thoughts, the solution obvious. He reached into his boot and extracted his sgian-dubh. He sliced upward, ripping the cloth wide. The jagged end of the broken mast scratching at the star-studded sky greeted him. Free.

He pushed up through the sailcloth, clinging wetly, and shouted, “Fiona!”

No answer.

Duncan shoved his sgian-dubh back into his boot and skidded on his back across the ship’s decking to the railing closest to the water, the fabric of his féileadh snagging and bunching up by his shoulders.

“Fiona!”

His boots hit the wooden sides, jolting his body. He reached down, gripped the rail, and peered as best he could into the gloom. The water was as dark as the night stretching overhead, its new moon and stars providing feeble illumination.

A darker line showed in the distance. The shore, he guessed.

The good news—the ship had grounded. The bad news—no sound reached his ears but the slap of water against the hull.

No Fiona.

No shipmates.

Which also meant no Williamites.

Shouting her name intermittently, he pulled himself hand over fist along the railing. The bow, when he reached it, was pointed in the direction of the darker line in the distance. Further confirmation it was the shore—where Fiona would be now if she’d heeded his instructions. What if she hadn’t? Couldn’t?

What if she was struggling for air right now?

Panic seared up his chest in a surge so powerful, he bent forward.

No!

She said she could swim.

But…

He stripped off his féileadh and secured it and his sporran to the ship’s rail. The weight of the yards of cloth could be his undoing. He slipped off his jacket, shirt, and boots and plunged into the water. The shock of cold nearly made him gasp, but he clamped his jaw shut. He kicked to the surface, swam toward the mid-section where last he’d seen her, and dove down.

Och, he couldn’t see for shite in the dark waters. He spread his arms wide and swam to the bottom. Fiona, where are you? Using his sense of touch, he searched the rock and silt until, lungs burning, he kicked off to the surface. Splashing free into blessed air, he dragged in a lungful. And another.

“Fiona!” he shouted again as soon as he could put some volume into it.

Not wishing to take any chances, he repeated the process around the whole ship, despite the implausibility of her ending up on the other side. He just couldn’t dismiss the sound of the abrupt ending of her shriek from his mind.

Nothing.

And no one.

Their decision to douse all lights had gained them some time from the pursuers.

Duncan’s cods were about shriveled to the size of a pebble by the time he reached his starting point. In his panic, he’d not checked whether she’d passed out on the ship itself.

Cursing his stupidity, he found a knotted rope and climbed hand over hand up its length, his cold-stiff, water-slicked palms making each heave upward a challenge. Palms and biceps burning, he hoisted himself up over the railing and sprawled onto the deck, gulping in air.

Holy Mother. His recent wound had taken more out of him than he realized. He massaged it, working his fingers into the sore muscles. Enough.

He levered up onto his hands and knees and crawled all along the length of the tilted galley, calling her name. If she’d passed out, she’d have slid to the railing. But no luck.

Shivering, he made his way back to his belongings and cut free a length of tanbarked sailcloth—its oil-treated surface would provide some waterproofing. He tossed inside his weapons, boots, clothing, and sporran and used his belt to cinch it tight and provide a handle.

Then he heard it. Voices in the distance, carried across the now still waters.

The enemy. “Mo Chreach.”

Grabbing his packaged belongings, he gripped the boarding rope and launched himself over the side, landing against the ship with a slight thud. Then, as quietly as possible, he lowered himself into the frigid waters and swam for shore.