“Nay, Cousin Bearnard,” Moira cried as Tavig faltered and Bearnard raised his sword to strike the death blow.
As Tavig frantically scrambled out of the way of Bearnard’s sword, he saw Moira rush toward her uncle. He cursed when Bearnard swatted the girl away, hurtling her back against the railing—the very railing Tavig had warned her to get away from. Bearnard’s attention was briefly diverted, and Tavig took quick advantage of that. He charged the man, knocking Bearnard to the ground. With two swift, furious punches he knocked Bearnard out. He barely glanced at Bearnard’s son Nicol as he leapt to his feet and ran to Moira.
“Moira, get away from that railing,” he demanded, ignoring Nicol, who stood to his right, pointing a sword at him.
Still groggy from Bearnard’s blow, Moira did not question him, but as she moved to obey his hoarse command, the renewed winds worked against her. They slammed into her, pushing her hard up against the railing. She tried to reach out for Tavig’s outstretched hand, but the howling wind held her tightly in place, as securely as any chains. Moira felt as if the breath were being forced from her body. The rough wood of the railings dug into her as the gale pressed her harder and harder against them. She could see Tavig start to move toward her, determinedly fighting the winds, but she could not move or extend her hand toward him. Then she heard the ominous sound of wood cracking.
The railing Moira was pinned to gave way even as both Tavig and Nicol yelled a warning. She clung to it as the section swung out over the swirling waters. Moira looked back at the ship to see that the railing she clutched was attached by only one splintered piece of wood. Carefully inching her hands along, she tried to make her way back to the ship, to within reach of Nicol’s and Tavig’s outstretched hands. She was only a finger’s length away from safety when the section of railing gave up its last tenuous connection to the ship. She screamed as she plummeted into the gale-tossed waters.
Tavig bellowed out Moira’s name as he clung to the undamaged railing. He could barely see the white of her nightgown. She still held on to the piece of railing, but half her body was submerged beneath the cold, churning water. Tavig knew Moira could not hold on for long, nor would she be able to pull herself out of the water. Soon she would be dragged beneath the high waves. She needed help if she was to have any chance of survival.
“Get me that rope,” he ordered Nicol, pointing to a length of hemp knotted to a nearby bollard.
“What can ye do?” asked Nicol, resheathing his sword as he hurried to obey.
“Go after her.” Tavig secured the ropes about his arm and moved to the gap in the railing.
Nicol grabbed his arn. “Are ye mad? Ye will be killed.”
“Better to die trying to save some skinny red-haired lass than swinging from Iver’s rope. And mayhap I willnae die.”
As Nicol looked down into the churning waters, he cursed. “Aye, ye will.”
“I prefer to think not. All I ken is that I must go in after Moira, or she willnae survive this. ’Tis cursed hard to trust that wee voice when it demands I hurl myself in after her, though. I just hope my intuition has the good grace to tell me how or even what will happen after I jump into these dark threatening waters.”
“What are ye babbling about, MacAlpin?”
“Fate, laddie. Twice-cursed fate.”
With a prayer that his intuitions continued to be correct, he took a deep breath and jumped. For a brief moment after he hit the cold water he panicked. He sank beneath the froth-tipped waves and feared that he would never get back to the surface. Tavig struggled upward, fighting the currents battering him. When he emerged, he took several hearty breaths, more out of relief than need. He looked for Moira and swam toward the white patch of nightgown he could still see.
Tavig cursed the waters as he struggled through the tumultuous waves toward Moira and the section of the ship’s railing she clung to so desperately. He hoisted himself up onto her haphazard raft. Tying one piece of rope about his waist, he hastily lashed himself to the wood. As soon as he felt secure, he grabbed Moira by one of her slender wrists, hauling her out of the water, and she collapsed at his side. As the cold water washed over them, he secured one of her hands to the railings as well. He then took her free hand in his. When he pressed his body flat against the sodden wood he found himself nose to nose with Moira.
“Ye are mad,” she yelled, coughing as a wave swirled over them, filling her mouth with salty water. “Now we shall both drown.”
As another wave rushed over their bodies, Tavig could not help but think that she might be right.
Chapter Two
A hoarse groan grated upon Moira’s ears. It took her a moment to realize that the wretched sound was coming from her own mouth. She felt terrible. Her cheek pressed against something both damp and gritty, and she realized she was sprawled facedown on a beach. Her body ached so much that she wanted to weep. She was drenched both inside and out. Suddenly her stomach clenched. Struggling to lift up her head, she became painfully, helplessly ill. A low male voice murmuring some nonsense about how the agony she was enduring was for the best, that she would soon feel better, penetrated her misery. Moira prayed that she would stop being ill just long enough to tell the fool to go to hell and stay there, but she was not sure she could accomplish that goal. Her body was determined to rid itself of whatever ailed it, and that agony held all of her attention.
Tavig smiled wearily when he heard her cursing him. She would be all right. He continued to rub her back as she retched, hating to view her misery, but knowing that it was necessary. The moment she was done, he tugged her away from the place where she had been ill before allowing her to collapse on the sand.
“Here, rinse out your mouth,” he urged.
Moira opened her eyes to see him holding out a roughly carved cup. She propped herself up on one elbow, took the cup, and discovered that it held wine. As she rinsed out her mouth then sipped some of the mildly bitter brew, she glanced around. Slowly she began to remember what had happened and understood why she was sitting on a beach tinted a soft rose by a rising sun. She frowned as she looked at Tavig.
“Where did ye get the wine and the cup? They didnae wash up with us, did they?”
“Nay, there is a fishermon’s hut just beyond the shore.”
“So there is someone who may help us?”
“I dinnae think so. The hut looks as if no one has used it for a while. Since there are still supplies within and there is no sign of a boat of any kind, I can only think that the poor soul went out fishing and didnae return.”
Even as she handed him back the cup, Moira crossed herself. She then collapsed back onto the sand. Tavig’s clothes were dirty and ragged, and she wondered why he even bothered to wear what was left of a once fine linen shirt. The tatters that remained of the garment did very little to cover the broad expanse of his smooth, dark chest.
The sad state of his attire started her wondering about her own. A cool morning breeze flowed across the shore. It was touching far more of her skin than it should be if her nightgown and cloak were still whole. Moira knew she ought to at least peek down at herself to be sure that she was decently covered but she was not inclined to move. Every inch of her body felt battered and drained of all strength.
“What happened to your beard?” she asked, thinking that his lean features were too attractive for her peace of mind.
“I scraped it off. Couldnae abide the thing,” he replied, sitting more comfortably at her side.
“And your wife who died of a fever?”
“A lie, I fear. Do ye feel any