“What are ye doing here, lass?” he shouted, fighting to be heard over the fury of the storm. “What few sailors are on deck are all lashed to their posts. The others will soon be wisely huddled below decks. ’Tis where ye should be.”
“’Tis where ye should be as weel.”
“I had to help batten down the hatches.” He frowned, looking up at the sky as the wind suddenly eased and the rain grew almost gentle. “It seems the storm needs to catch its breath.”
“Good. Now I can find Annie.”
“Annie is off rutting with her sailor.” He shook his head when she blushed so brightly even the dark could not hide it.
“That may be true, but she could be in trouble now. Once the storm started she should have returned to the cabin.” A gust of wind slapped her, forcing her to cling more tightly to the ship’s railing.
Tavig looked at Moira, trying to think of a way to convince her to go back inside, and froze. The cold familiar feeling that he was caught up in circumstances he could not control or change oozed over him. He tried to keep his frustration and fear out of his voice, but knew he was failing even as he spoke.
“Get away from that railing, lass.”
Moira frowned. There was an odd, strained note to his voice. She tensed, wondering if Master Fraser was something more dangerous than the aging lecher she had thought him to be.
“I will as soon as the wind eases some more,” she replied, trying to decide if she should scurry out of his reach.
“It willnae ease any more,” he snapped. “’Tis a cursed gale. This lull willnae last much longer, and the storm will probably come back stronger than before. Now move away from that twice-cursed railing.”
Even as she decided to do so in an effort to placate him, she suddenly noticed something that halted her. Master Fraser’s hair was no longer the dull color it had been. The gray was seeping out of his shoulder-length hair to settle at the tips in sticky clumps. She stared at him, watching closely as another of the few remaining streaks of gray slithered down his hair. Master Fraser was definitely not what he appeared to be. Curiosity overwhelmed her, and she reached out to touch his hair.
“Your age is washing away in the rain,” she murmured, her eyes widening at the curse he spat.
“I kenned that would happen. I have to get out of this rain.” He grabbed her so forcefully she fell against him.
“So this is where ye disappeared to—out whoring!”
Moira cried out in surprise and fear as her guardian, Sir Bearnard Robertson, grabbed her by the arm, roughly yanking her to her feet. “Nay, sir, I swear I just came out to look for Crooked Annie.”
“In this rogue’s arms?” he bellowed, vigorously shaking her. “Dinnae add lying to your sins, ye little slut.”
As Bearnard raised his meaty hand to strike her, Moira quickly turned to prepare for the blow. She fought to relax, to banish all tension and resistance from her body. Over the years she had learned that such limpness robbed his blows of some of their strength. She made no sound when he backhanded her across the face, sending her slamming onto the rough wooden deck. Landing on her hands and knees, Moira quickly bowed her head, all the while keeping a covert eye on her guardian. She wanted to be ready to avoid the worst of the pain if he decided to add a few kicks to his brutal reprimand.
An odd sound abruptly interrupted her concentration. She shook her head, but it was not a roar from inside her head, caused by the force of her guardian’s blow. A soft, low roar of pure fury erupted from the man calling himself George Fraser. Moira spun around, sitting on the deck to stare at hum. She gaped when he lunged at Bearnard, punching the bigger, heavier man and sending him sprawling onto the deck.
“Such a brave mon ye are, Robertson,” he spat. “It takes such courage to strike down a wee, skinny lass.”
“’Ware, sir,” Bearnard yelled, scrambling to his feet. “A man who scurries after a lass half his age has little right to speak so self-righteously of others. Ye are naught but an old lecher trying to seduce a foolish young lass.”
“Even if that charge were true, ’twould still make me a better mon than some slinking cur who beats a wee lass.”
A growl of pure rage escaped Bearnard as he charged Master Fraser. Both men fell to the deck with a crash. Moira cried out in dismay. Although she had no idea what she could do, she began moving toward the men. She had to stop the fight she had inadvertently caused.
“Dinnae be an idiot,” said a deep voice as she was caught from behind.
“Nicol!” she cried, looking over her shoulder at her cousin. “Where did ye come from?”
“I followed Father when he came looking for you. I must have had a vision that ye were about to do something verra stupid. Sweet Lord, Moira, why would ye want to tryst with that old fool?”
“I wasnae trysting with him. I came looking for Crooked Annie, and Master Fraser was trying to get me to go back to my cabin.”
“Ye should never have left it,” Nicol muttered then cursed softly. “Your savior’s belly has shifted.”
Nicol’s words made no sense, and Moira looked at the two combatants. They were on their feet again, warily circling as each sought a new opening to attack the other. She stared at Master Fraser and gasped. His soft belly was now an uneven lump protruding from his left side. His doublet was torn open, and she could see something sticking out. After staring hard for a moment she realized what it was. Mister Fraser’s soft belly was no more than rolled-up rags.
“His gray hair has washed away, too,” she said.
“Aye,” agreed Nicol. “The mon isnae what he pretends to be. Curse me, but I think I ken who he is.”
Before Moira could ask Nicol to explain, he left her side. Even as he drew near to his father, Bearnard charged Fraser, knocking the smaller man down. Fraser’s hat spun off his head to be caught by the wind and flung out to sea. His now completely black hair whipped around his face as he fought to keep Bearnard from putting his meaty hands around his throat. There was no mistaking Fraser as anything other than a young, strong man.
Nicol took a step toward his father as Bearnard froze. The looks on their faces told Moira they now recognized the man and were stunned by his presence on the ship. The expression forming on Fraser’s face told her that recognition was the very last thing he wanted. She tensed, suddenly afraid for the man who had so gallantly leapt to her defense.
“Tavig MacAlpin,” Bearnard yelled, leaping to his feet and placing his hand on his sword.
“Aye, and what business is it of yours?” Tavig snapped as he cautiously stood up to face the Robertson men.
“’Tis the business of every righteous mon twixt here and London.”
“Ye are no righteous mon, Robertson, but a brute who holds sway o’er others with his fists and an inexhaustible well of cruelty. Ye can command no respect or affection so ye instill fear in all those around you.” Tavig slowly put his hand on his sword, preparing for the attack he knew was to come. “’Tis a wonder ye have lived so long, that no one has yet cut your fat throat.”
“And ye would be a good one to do it, wouldnae ye? Ye like naught better than to creep up from behind a mon and cut his throat. Or their bellies, as ye did to your two friends. Your cousin Iver MacAlpin is offering a handsome sum for ye, and I mean to collect it.” Bearnard drew his sword, lunging at Tavig.
“Father,” yelled Nicol. “Sir Iver doesnae want the mon dead.”
“The bastard deserves killing,” snarled Sir Bearnard.
“Come and try,” taunted Tavig. “Aye, ye may yet get lucky, but