When the Laird Returns (23 page)

“You’ll have to talk to the captain about that,” he said, surly now that she had no pistol aimed at him.

Nodding, she motioned for the others to follow. Once off the ship, Iseabal turned to Brian. “Find the captain and pay him whatever he wants for his cargo,” she said. “We’ll take those poor people back to Gilmuir with us.”

He merely nodded in return, leaving her side as if he could not wait to be gone from her.

Fergus MacRae was determined that this would be the last of it. Smith or no, he’d find another way to make a living besides placing chains on his countrymen.

Reluctantly, he made his way to his ship and his new commission, passing a littered figure carried by two men. A woman walked at their side, her face wet with tears.

Turning, Fergus glanced after them, uncertain as to what he had truly seen. The recognition had been instant, but he had to be mistaken.

He began to follow them, coming abreast of the litter once again. Staring at the woman, Fergus felt as if he were in the midst of a dream. She bore the same features as the woman
he loved, and the same shade of hair. This stranger might well have been his Leah at the time of their parting years ago.

A young man grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“Why are you following them?” he asked.

Fergus brushed him off easily, regarding the man with all the harshness of thirty years of unrequited dreams.

“Who is she?” he asked curtly. The woman had had the face of his beloved. Leah, of the subtle smiles and the gentle heart.

“Who would you be and why would you be wanting to know?”

“I know her,” Fergus said, then realized how foolish that was. Of course he didn’t know her. She was too young to be Leah. “Who is she?” he asked again, unwilling to give this man the secret of his heart.

“A Drummond,” the younger man said curtly. “Married to a MacRae of Gilmuir.”

“There are no MacRaes at Gilmuir.”

“There are now, despite Magnus Drummond’s efforts.” The other man turned and strode away in the opposite direction, leaving Fergus staring after him.

A
lisdair was carried aboard the
Fortitude
, the crew left aboard ship moving to the rail to greet him. A flag was quickly raised to alert the crew members searching the other ships in the harbor. Men began racing back, the sound of their boots on the wooden pier like the far-off rumbling of thunder.

One by one, each man fell silent, noting the captain’s condition. Iseabal walked beside Alisdair, her hand resting close enough that her fingers felt the warmth of his body. Proof that he still lived.

A funereal silence followed them as they moved across the deck. More than one man took off his cap, clutching it in his hands. Iseabal stopped, spoke to a man she recognized.

“Brian will be coming shortly,” she said, willing her voice to remain even. “We’re bringing the rest of villagers home
with us.” Speech had flown from her, those two clipped sentences the extent of her ability to communicate.

Her father had done this to Alisdair. She was ashamed of her birth, in a way she’d never before felt. Drummond’s blood flowed in her veins. His capacity for cruelty lurked in her very nature, and because of her father’s actions, she’d almost lost the man she loved.

“I’ll tell the others,” he said, his voice sounding too kind. She didn’t think she could bear kindness at the moment.

Rory stood at the doorway to Alisdair’s cabin, holding the door open wordlessly. The room was shrouded in silence and darkness, neither of which was comforting. Not once in all those times climbing the rigging had she seen the cabin boy afraid. But now he looked frightened and incredibly young.

“His wounds need to be treated,” she said as the sailors brought Alisdair into the cabin. “Will you help me?”

Rory nodded, his gaze still fixed on his captain. As the sailors began to move him to the bunk, Alisdair groaned. Entering the cabin, Iseabal stood behind the men, wishing that she could ease any pain he might be feeling.

Finally, he was placed on the bed, the white sheets a stark contrast to his bloodied face.

She nodded her thanks to the sailors, knelt beside Alisdair, and impatiently brushed her tears away. Her weeping would do Alisdair no good and could not ease the situation.

Glancing behind her, Iseabal realized that Rory had left. Just beyond the open door, however, the crewmen were gathering in silence.

Iseabal went to Alisdair’s chest, removing the Chinese jars. From the third door she retrieved the poppy juice and put all three containers on the floor in front of the bunk. An
other drawer yielded a stack of toweling, that she began to tear into squares.

Rory entered the room a few moments later bearing a ewer filled with warm water, carefully placing it on the floor next to the jars. Standing, he manfully waited for his next order.

What needed to be done? Each man’s gaze was directed either to Alisdair or to her. And she, the one they looked to with such hope in their eyes, was filled with mind-numbing fear. If she were capable of giving them a miracle, she’d say another prayer and Alisdair would sit up, rub his palms over his face, and smile with his usual morning greeting. But he remained motionless on the bunk, so still and quiet that his pose mimicked death.

“He needs to be undressed,” she said, considering her words. “So that we can check for other injuries. If you will remove his clothing, then I shall see to the wound on his head.”

A plan, then. Something to keep her mind and hands occupied.

“Daniel says a sick man never dies at sea, mistress,” Rory said, his voice too young for this place and these circumstances. “Only when he reaches port.”

“I’ll have no more of Daniel’s idiocies repeated in this room.” Iseabal said curtly, pushing up her sleeves. “He’s Alisdair MacRae and he isn’t going to die.”

Kneeling at his side, Iseabal began to bathe his face carefully, cleaning it of blood. Only then did she begin on his wound. The depth of it would reveal whether or not Alisdair would gain his senses or would fall into a deep sleep, never to awake again.

Once his hair was clean, her fingers trailed gently over the edges of the wound. Although the gash was long, it did not
appear deep, as if something had grazed his scalp. Perhaps he had truly been shot.

“Will he be all right?” Rory asked.

She glanced over at him, only now realizing that Alisdair’s boots and breeches had been removed.

“The sooner he wakes completely, the better a sign it will be.” And when he awoke, hopefully, he would recognize her and his circumstances, but that was a thought she kept to herself.

Rory nodded, satisfied for the moment.

Removing the stopper from the tallest of the vials, Iseabal poured a little of the yellow liquid onto her fingers. Gently she applied it to Alisdair’s wound, hoping that the Chinese medicine had the same healing effect on him as it had had on her.

Her eyes watered from the contents of the next vial, but she coated the wound without hesitation. She worried about the poppy juice, deciding to give it to him only if he awoke in pain.

Rory came beside her, beginning to remove Alisdair’s shirt. Setting the container of poppy juice down, she began to help him.

“I’m thinking I’d be better off burning that instead of trying to clean it,” Rory said, staring down at the bloodstained shirt.

A profligate gesture, but one of which she approved.

“He’s not been stabbed, mistress,” the boy said, a conclusion she’d reached as well. “And other than this bruising about his arms, there’s not a mark on him.”

Then there was only the head wound to concern her.

She couldn’t leave him naked, Iseabal decided, standing and retrieving the nightshirt from the tansu. Her hands
wrapped around the soft fabric, warming it. There were so many memories associated with this garment. The first time he’d treated her and every night thereafter, the morning after their wedding.

As they dressed Alisdair, Iseabal’s thoughts were errant and half formed. Was there anything she’d neglected to do? What should she do now? Nothing further came to her mind. Time itself would have to do the healing. Tenderly she touched his cheek, felt the stubbly growth of beard. Her palm cradled his face, her thumb lightly stroking his bottom lip.

“All we can do now, Rory, is wait.”

Rory nodded, picked up the pitcher, and left the cabin.

She turned, glancing at the doorway, where the sailors still crowded, watching their captain. Each face was somber, eyes filled with worry. Alisdair was not only respected, he was well loved.

“How is he?” Brian asked, gripping Rory’s arm after he left the cabin.

“He has a wound to his head, but that seems to be all,” Rory said.

A smile began to dawn on Brian’s face, the expression sent as fast as a thought across the ship. Iseabal wanted to reach out one hand and capture it, to caution him that such optimism might be unwarranted. But his quick glance toward her left Iseabal no doubt that he would refute any of her words. An hour ago he had been her companion. Now he watched her almost suspiciously.

“He is still very weak,” Rory admitted.

“But you think he will survive,” Brian said, less a question than a request for reassurance.

“Yes, I think he will,” Rory said, glancing back at Iseabal.

Brian nodded in her direction, a wordless acknowledg
ment of her presence. He said something she couldn’t hear to Rory, and the boy swiftly turned to look at her, anger in his gaze. Another link in a chain her father had forged.

Iseabal stood, walked to the door, and slowly closed it, blocking out derisive looks and whispered disdain.

She watched Alisdair sleep, imprinting his face in her memory. His jaw was stubborn, his lashes long and black, his cheekbones seeming to point the way to a mouth made for a thousand expressions and a hundred types of kisses. A man of great attractiveness, made even more so by his character.

Iseabal trailed a finger around the rim of the basin, chasing a water droplet, immersed in thoughts of what might have been. If their lives had been different, he would have been her companion in youth. They might have raced together through the glens or explored the forests. She would have shown him her necklace of blue rocks, the treasure she’d found at Gilmuir. And he, as youthful laird, would have granted her the jewelry as a gift for loving the fortress as he did.

Perhaps one day their affection might have changed, become something greater, deeper.

Now, however, anything they might have begun to feel for each other was submerged beneath the truth of their lives. Alisdair was a man of principle and she was Drummond’s daughter.

Laying her head against her arm, she closed her eyes, listening to the soft sound of Alisdair’s breathing. The afternoon waned into evening, the lap of the sea as it cradled the
Fortitude
on her voyage almost lulling. But Iseabal remained awake, her fingers resting on Alisdair’s wrist, warming him with her touch and guarding him with her presence.

Loving Alisdair had made her feel invincible. Losing him would be like death.

“I don’t see why I have to stay behind,” Douglas complained, watching the MacRae ship sail away from London.

“It’s because you’re the youngest,” Daniel said matter-of-factly. “The youngest always gets the short shrift. Or,” he added, eyeing the boy, “they’re spoiled. Given too much.”

Douglas clasped both fists on his hips and stared at Daniel. “You’ll not be calling me spoiled, Daniel,” he said. “I’m a MacRae, whatever my age.”

The boy had a way to go before knowing as much as he bragged he did, Daniel thought. As to why his brothers had left him behind in his care, the older man had only an inkling. Perhaps they had wanted their youngest brother to obtain some additional experience in seafaring. Or it could be that Douglas was growing tiresome and it was either leave him with Daniel or throw him overboard in disgust.

Daniel stifled his smile, thinking that it wouldn’t be wise to let the young man know how amused he was. Douglas was just like a MacRae, part and parcel of the entire clan. Stubborn, and more than a little proud, despite his years and his lack of knowledge.

But he would learn, Daniel thought, as long as he wasn’t allowed to get the upper hand.

“It will be weeks before I see Scotland,” Douglas said in disgust.

“Not that long,” Daniel said, checking his manifest. “And you can make the journey speedier still,” he added, glancing at Douglas.

“How?”

“By being my clerk,” Daniel said, ruffling the boy’s hair.

Douglas pulled away, his chest puffing up like a banty
rooster. “I’m going to be the captain of my own ship,” he boasted. “Not a clerk.”

“They’re sometimes one and the same.” Daniel made no effort now to mask his smile. “Who do you think guarantees the contents of a ship’s hold? And whose word is taken when a cargo is given to a ship? And who is to blame for as much as a handful of tea missing?”

When Douglas didn’t answer, Daniel handed him a sheet of the manifest. “The captain, that’s who. On this voyage I’m acting in your brother’s stead, and I’ll not have any mutiny from you, Douglas.”

Douglas looked rebellious, but he took the sheet nonetheless.

“It’s better than being a cabin boy,” he muttered.

“You might not think that at the end of the day,” Daniel said, nodding in the direction of the adjacent pier. “There are over a hundred barrels to check, and that’s before the wagons arrive tomorrow.

“Harness your irritation, Douglas,” he said, hoping that the young man had the sense to take his advice. “Use your energy to begin to count the crates and casks before they’re loaded aboard ship. It’s a chore better done here than in the hold.”

Daniel watched as the youngest of the MacRae brothers stomped across the deck and down the gangplank in a display of temper.

Exactly, Daniel thought, like one of the MacRaes.

He was, perhaps, a fool, Fergus MacRae told himself. This journey to Gilmuir would, no doubt, result in a blistered stump and aching arms. Because of the distance, he had
tucked his cane into the pack slung over his shoulder and used a crutch he’d made himself of three pieces of wood bound together. He’d welded the middle of it with an iron bar, and padded the top with a bit of worn cloth. He’d not made the cushioning thick enough, he realized as the top of the crutch began gouging into his armpit.

Who was the woman he’d seen in Cormech? Was it possible that there were, after all these years, MacRaes at Gilmuir?

Best leave the wishes to others, Fergus
, he counseled himself. Life was hard enough dealing with the why of it without asking for more grief.

But wouldn’t it be a grand thing to walk back to his home and see, not the English squatting there, but the sight of his kinsmen? The loneliness had not been easy to bear, ladled on top of the loss of Leah. He’d like to find just one person still alive who had known him as a boy. Who might even say to him with a teasing wink,
What a clumsy oaf you were, Fergus.

Memories flooded his mind, of times racing in the sun with his brother or trying to rid himself of his bedeviling younger sister, of picking harebells for Leah and sliding them beneath her chin to tickle her throat. Now these recollections seemed doubly precious, since all the people he had loved the best had been lost to him. Leah, because of his pride. His brother, James, at his side at Culloden, and Leitis, vanishing as she had all those many years ago.

Resolutely, he picked up his pace, forcing himself to cover the distance he’d allotted for each day. Such was the way he’d lived his life in these past years, by choosing one goal and achieving it, ignoring all the setbacks and the
naysayers. Fixing his gaze on a spot on the horizon, he vowed to reach it before nightfall.

One thought pushed him forward. He was going home to Gilmuir.