Chapter Thirteen

Thrice now in the span of a day, Duncan’s knees nearly buckled. He grabbed Fiona’s shoulders. “Holy Mother, I believe you aged me a decade with that scream.”

She was still grinning up at him. “You heard me though.”

“And seeing you screeching, seaweed for hair and mantle… Gave me a taste, it did, of what your performance at Urquhart castle must have been like.”

“Urquhart? Oh! When I haunted them as a gruagach.” She chuckled. “Did the trick, didn’t it?”

“Aye.” He smiled. This woman was remarkable. “I’ll watch these two if you’ll retrieve my féileadh.”

Like they did with the others, they worked together to truss and gag them and bring them up the bluff. And since he strangely enjoyed seeing her so gloriously fearless, they worked their way together around the shore, her draped in seaweed ready to scream, he checking each stretch. But he’d calculated correctly. No one else was on the island. But they did find where the Williamites had piled their loot from the galley on the shore. He tucked food and water into the folds of his féileadh, took a swig of whisky to heat his insides, and insisted she do the same.

By then, the dawn had fully broken. And revealed they’d not need to become wet to cross to Skye, for the tide had receded farther, and now a narrow coral causeway curved to Skye’s shoreline.

Fiona’s eyes flew wide. “A white beach! In Scotland. I mean, I’m sure there are other white beaches, but all I’ve seen are ones lined with rocks, or river stones, and loads of that brown-red seaweed.”

“Aye. I’ve heard of such. Let’s cross. We don’t know when the Charles Galley will return.”

He went first, stepping carefully to test the causeway’s stability, and crossed to the short stretch of white beach on the Isle of Skye. He reached behind him and helped Fiona step off the narrow causeway, a bit of seaweed still clinging to her shoulder.

“Thank you.” She smiled at him, though her features showed their journey’s strain. Her blonde hair had plastered dry to her wee skull, and a tendril curled down her pale neck, its tip pointing down. It took all his strength not to trail a finger down its path and continue downward to where it so enticingly pointed. He clenched his fists.

She knelt on the shore and scooped up a handful of the coarse grain. “Not what I’d call sand, but still.” She let it flow through her delicate fingers. She pushed to her feet as the sun fully illuminated the stretch of beach, which curved south and changed abruptly into the very same dark, rocky beach she spoke of.

She gripped his arm, and he barely contained a shudder as desire—hot and sharp—radiated from the point of contact. “Don’t move,” she whispered.

He yanked his knife from his belt, whipped around, and shoved her behind him.

No one. What—?

She swatted his side. “You scared them.” Inexplicably, her tone was chastising.

“ ’Twas my aim.” He looked down behind him. “Who was it? Williamites?”

Her forehead wrinkled. “No. Rabbits.” She pushed him aside and crept toward the green butte rising sharply from the sandy shore. “The whole side of this is riddled with rabbit holes! I’ve never seen a rabbit warren before.”

He followed. “Fortunate. We can lay in provisions.” He drew his sword.

She stilled. Looked back at him. “Provisions?”

“Meat.”

She rounded on him, hands on her wee hips. Aye, she had the look of a vengeful Valkyrie between him and her rabbits. “You will not harm a single hair on those adorable creatures.”

He cocked his head and peered behind her at the delicious meat poking in and out of holes. Confused, he returned his gaze to hers, but her face was set in serious lines. Strange attitude. But it seemed to mean a lot to her, so he didn’t push the issue. They should have enough food, but he’d keep the location in mind if their circumstances changed.

“As you wish, but we must find shelter for the day. We’re too exposed along the shore.”

She glanced back at the rabbits, sighed, and returned to his side. “Do we need to remain on the shore?”

“Aye. If we have any hope of finding Dunvegan Castle, for it lies along the shore.”

Her eyes flew wide. “Good God, we might have to walk almost the whole length to find it!”

“Nay. From the MacLeod’s talk, we would have reached it shortly by sea. We’ll head in the same direction as the galley.”

And so they trekked along the white sands, which were unusual, though he’d not have thought to note it. They soon gave way to smooth dark stones, treacherous with seaweed, so they angled upslope to the swath of green grass running parallel. When they approached a narrow stream with a single stepping stone, Fiona halted.

“God. I’d love to clean up. Can we stop? I feel like I have seaweed and salt everywhere.”

He surveyed the shoreline and horizon. “I’ll step behind that boulder. Yell if ye have need of me.”

Before the situation grew awkward, he gained the far side of the boulder.

The rustling of her clothes reached him. The tinkling of the water as it splashed over her body.

Holy Mother. He dug his hands into his hair and stared out into the water. How was he to withstand her? The more time he spent with her, the more he ached for her.

Seeking distraction, he pulled out his sgian-dubh and cleaned and trimmed his nails. That finished, he checked his gunpowder, knowing it was too much to hope it had remained dry.

Ruined. His pistol was worthless until they reached Dunvegan and he could restock. He still had his dirk, his sgian-dubh, his wits. And his brawn. He smiled. And Fiona’s wits and courage.

“All done,” she called.

He pushed away from the boulder and returned to her side. Indeed, she looked refreshed, though he could still see the mark of lack of sleep. She’d even washed and wrung out her clothing. “I’d like to do the same.”

She blushed. “Okay. I’ll wait on the other side of the boulder.”

“Suit yourself.”

She hesitated, then scampered around to the far side of the boulder. He relished the water hitting his flesh—the salt water had been itching his skin—and scrubbed himself clean. He also made quick work of rinsing the stink from his féileadh and his jacket and linen shirt. Satisfied he was as clean as possible, he donned his wet clothes and called out to Fiona.

Her eyes perused him, and her cheeks reddened further. “Ready?”

“Aye.” They fell into step and strode along the grass. “Look for any kind of shelter. I’ll watch the horizon.”

“Okay.”

They trudged up a steep hill. While the brisk wind whipping past was going a long way to drying their clothes, he noted Fiona’s shivering. On the downward side, she pulled him to a stop.

“Will this work?” She pointed to a spoon-shaped depression in the hillside, the handle pointing toward shore. He stepped to the bowl’s edge. It was deep enough that, laying down, they wouldn’t be seen from shore. Green grass dotted with small white flowers lined the bottom.

It would give them the sun but also block the wind. Perfect.

Fiona was tired, he knew, though she’d not uttered a word of protest. Truly her fortitude in the face of adversity was admirable. They could sleep here and await the night. He jumped in, set down his burden, and assisted her into their wee, round shelter.

Fiona lowered herself to the ground, arranging her skirts around her. She peered up. “This is perfect. Someone could walk right by and not see us.”

“Agreed.” He hesitated. Normally, he’d remove his féileadh to make a bed for himself. But they’d need to warm up and conserve their body heat. And there was her modesty to protect. Last night, it had been dark. And his jacket and shirt had kept him separated from her as they hid in the seaweed from the Sasannaich. But now, in the light of the day, it felt too…intimate.

He’d settle for a compromise then. He undid the clasp at his shoulder and unwrapped the upper half. He glanced over, taking in her dark and curious eyes.

He would not speculate about her curiosity—that way led to madness and a harder fight for self-command over his impulses.

“We must make ourselves warm and dry. If I promise to keep my hands to myself, are ye willing to lie under this with me?” He held up a corner of his féileadh.

Her eyebrows rose. “You’re taking it all off?”

She did not sound hopeful, he chided himself. ’Tis your randy imagination at work.

“Nay. Only this part.” He lifted the unwrapped fabric.

She nodded and lay flat on her back. “Wow. The ground’s surprisingly soft.”

He removed his jacket and spread it out to dry on a patch of grass in their shelter. Placed his dirk and sword within reach. Careful to keep an inch of space between them, he stretched out beside her. As soon as he settled, she turned and draped her arm over his chest. He caught his breath. He still had his shirt on, aye, but all the same, the simple gesture had his cock stirring.

He looked out of the corner of his eye, not daring to turn his head to her.

She blinked up at him, her eyes innocent. “As you said, we need to get warm. This is for the best.”

He swallowed hard, draped his féileadh around them, and laid his head back, closing his eyes. Holy Mother, he doubted he’d catch a wink of sleep with her spread over half his body, but he’d do his level best—he must be alert for what lay ahead. In his hands, he held her safety and well-being. Never could he forget his promise to Iain.

She wiggled closer and smiled up at him, her lids already drooping. She patted his chest. “All will work out fine. The others got away too, I’m sure of it.”

“How can ye be so hopeful?” He’d not allowed himself to worry about their fate—worry for Fiona had eclipsed all.

“Because we have to. We can’t do anything about it right now, and we’ll find out tomorrow that they got off the galley safely. Obviously the captain outran them and aimed us at the shallows. They didn’t leave a sinking ship. They had time to get off.”

Before he knew what he was about, he smoothed back a drying strand of hair from her cheek. “Are ye always so hope-driven?” ’Twas obvious now, though, that they’d made straight for the main shore, knowing that tidal island for what it was.

“It’s the way I’m built, I guess.” Her mouth stretched wide in the largest yawn he’d ever witnessed from man or beast.

He thought he even heard her jaw pop.

She clapped a hand to her mouth. “Goodness. I can’t believe I yawned right in your face.”

He chuckled. “You’re tired. We must rest.”

She snuggled her cheek against his chest and shifted closer. He suppressed a groan. She was draped, provocatively and innocently, across him. If she moved a scant inch farther onto his body, she’d find sure proof of what her nearness was doing to him.

He lay there with both arms straight on the ground.

Soon her soft snores filled their small ground shelter. He watched the top of her head and the gentle slope of her nose as it rose and fell with the movement of his chest.

He lifted the hand by her back. Dropped it. Angled his head back and closed his eyes tight, jaw clenched.

Torture. Torture of the worst kind.

He returned his gaze to her head. Slowly, slowly, he raised his hand and—so lightly he barely felt it himself—rested his arm across her back, his hand cupping her shoulder.

Jesus, his heart pounded, but he dared not do more. Already he took more liberties than ’twas right.

Body heat. ’Twas purely to conserve body heat. Nothing else.

She stirred and murmured, and he tensed. But she said nothing else, and her breathing grew regular.

He relaxed. Having her so close to him, inside his protective embrace—Criosd. He’d give anything to remain like this, holding her, forever. But ’twas foolish to wish so.

Nothing wrong with imagining, though. Reality would return soon enough.

Still, he marveled at the strength of this woman. Physical and mental. A great wife for a warrior. Again, he squeezed his eyes tight. Now he was indulging too much in his imaginings.

Yet the thought wouldn’t let him go.

This felt…right.

This felt wonderful.

And as the day lengthened, Duncan wondered if he’d allowed his experience with Margery to cloud his judgment. He wasn’t necessarily fated to fall for cold and deceitful women.

Stupidly, a seed of hope sprouted in his chest. Hope that he could have something with Fiona. And hold her again like this. Without a pretense.