Holy Mary, Mother of God! There was no doubt. The men sailing this boat were the loathsome MacDonalds, and the man leading the crew was none other than Fairhair himself. Clutching her fists to her face, she squeezed her eyes shut.
Oh my, oh my, oh my God!
These were the vilest miscreants on the seas. Would they slit her throat and cast her into the angry swells? Would they take her captive and throw her in a pit prison?
What if they discovered she was the daughter of Lord Guy O’Cahan?
“Achoo!”
Oh no!
Every muscle in Anya’s body tensed as she curled tighter into a ball, the ship rocking mercilessly. How in heaven’s name could she have allowed herself to sneeze? But it had come on so fast. And her sneeze wasn’t a polite little squeak like Finovola’s sneezes. It was an unladylike, earth-shatteringly thunderous roar.
The man bailing beside her grew oddly silent.
Not daring to breathe, Anya wrapped her fingers around the axe’s handle and prepared for battle.
Though Angus’ hearing was acute, the sneeze that came from beneath the tarpaulin was barely discernable over the howling wind. He studied the oiled cloth as he stilled his hands. Had some lad stowed aboard? If so, the wee fellow must be soaked to the bone.
Angus grabbed the tarp and pulled it away. Rather than a terrified lad, a screaming banshee sprang up, wielding a battle axe, the blade bearing straight for his face. Stumbling backward and falling onto the bench behind, he barely blocked the weapon’s strike with his pail. The axe hacked through the timbers while Angus rolled aside, taking a glancing blow to the shoulder.
With a shrieking war cry, the imp recoiled. Taking advantage of the weapon’s backswing, Angus lunged forward and seized the demon’s wrist, wrenching the axe from her grasp.
Her.
’Tis a bloody female?
Angus regained his feet while the skies opened with renewed ferocity, dousing them with a torrent so heavy, the lass’ face blurred into a surreal nightmare. No taller than the middle of his chest, she reminded him of a drenched hedgehog.
Or an angry badger with piercing emerald-green eyes.
He hovered over her with the axe in his fist while a fissure of ire shot up the back of his neck. How dare anyone stow away on his ship and then launch an attack like a hellion from Sparta? “What the blazes are ye doing on my birlinn…in the midst of a squall, ye hellacious rapscallion?”
Lips blue, teeth chattering, the lass tipped up a saucy chin. “This was supposed to be a fishing vessel, moored for the night!”
“Bloody hell,” groaned Raghnall from behind.
Angus glanced over his throbbing shoulder. Bless it, there wasn’t a dry piece of cloth on the boat, including the sealskin cloak hanging from the woman’s shoulders. Against his better judgement, he offered his hand. “Nay, ’tis no fishing boat,” he growled. What the devil was he going to do with an Irish waif in the midst of a winter storm? “Come, ye’d best move back to the tiller.”
Not budging, a ferocious spark flashed in her eyes.
“I’ll no’ hurt ye, lass. But if ye remain here in the bow, ye’ll catch your death for certain.” Angus extended his palm a bit farther just as a wave crashed over the prow, slammed her in the back and sent the shivering waif careening into his chest. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her, stopping her fall. Good God, the woman was trembling like a sapling in the wind.
“Come now,” he said a bit more gently, while swiftly rubbing his palm around her back to warm her.
Saying nothing, she went limp against him. Angus lifted the lass into his arms and headed aft, stepping over benches and ducking beneath the boom. “Bail faster, men!”
“Land ho!” shouted Gael, pointing.
Angus searched in the direction of the man’s finger but saw naught but a wave as tall as his keep bearing down upon the port side. He tightened his hold around the lass in a feeble attempt to protect her from what could only be the wrath of God.
As if a monster from the deep had come to feast, the wave picked up the hull, tilting the birlinn to the starboard side until her sail touched the sea. “All hands to port!” Angus shouted, praying their weight would be enough.
Beneath his feet, the timbers shuddered as the wee boat strained to battle the ravaging wave.
The woman in Angus’ arms screamed, pounding her fists against his chest, but he wasn’t about to let go. By boarding his boat, she’d placed herself in his care, vixen or nay.
“Prepare to swim!” Angus bellowed, using one hand to release his heavy sword belt and letting it clatter to the timbers. The ire of the tempest sent three overboard while Angus fought to maintain his footing, only to find the fury of the sea was not in their favor this night. The sturdy birlinn rolled over as if it were no more than a child’s toy.
Flung into the swells, icy water silenced the woman’s screams as together they plunged into the bitter North Sea. The undertow pulled them downward, tumbling around and around.
Kicking with all his strength, Angus had no sense of up or down. The only thing consuming his mind was God-given air. If he did not break the surface soon, both he and the lass would expire before they succumbed to the cold. But fight as he may, the woman’s sodden cloak was enough to drown them both. Angus brutally tore open the ties at her throat. With the release of the weight, the water buoyed them enough for him to gain a sense of up from down.
Knives of pain drove through his flesh as he kicked, all too aware the lass had already lost her fight. Angus dared to release one of his hands, fighting for the surface, swimming toward the faintest modicum of light. His lungs seared with the need to breathe. His throat closed. His vision blurred.
All at once, his head broke through as he gasped, sucking in a gulp of air, only to be assailed by another wave and again pushed to the deep.
Still clutching the woman in his arms, Angus kicked, refusing to give up.
Not today.
Not ever!
4
Sapped of strength, Angus ground his molars, summoning his last vestiges of fortitude as he dragged the woman ashore. “Ye’ll nay die this day!” he growled, panting and sucking in gasps of air. The pain in his shoulder had long since gone numb, as had his fingers, his toes, and every other bloody extremity of his body.
The lassie’s legs cut trenches through the sand as he hauled her away from the foaming surf and onto the smooth stones lining the shore. Her face and lips were blue, a swath of wet, dark hair wrapped around her throat. Fighting his exhaustion, Angus tugged her into his chest while his backside plummeted to the ground. “Live, damn you!” he cursed, repeatedly slamming his palm against her back.
With a violent cough, seawater spewed from the woman’s lips.
“Again,” he shouted, hitting her hard and making her sputter.
“Thank God,” he mumbled, dropping his forehead against her back.
The woman’s shivering commenced anew while an icy wind cut through the weave of Angus’ brechan. Bless it, both their teeth were chattering loud enough to wake the dead. Holding her steady, he rose to his knees and searched beyond the shore. Ballocks, they’d landed on the wee skerry of Nave. ’Twas but a half-day’s sailing from Dunyvaig. Hell, if it weren’t dark, he’d be able to see the Isle of Islay from this very spot.