Page 4 of Highland Fire

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 better?”

“Nay, not verra much. I believe I shall just lie here and finish dying. I am nearly as cold as a corpse already. Ye had best dig me a grave and prepare my winding sheet.”

“I dinnae think that, even between us, we have enough cloth left for a winding sheet.”

“So I, too, am clothed in rags and mayhap indecently covered.”

“Weel—nay. At least, the parts I wouldnae mind having a wee look at are still hidden.”

Moira wondered why she did not blush, did not even feel outraged, then decided she was simply too weary to be bothered by his impudence. “Ye are verra impertinent for a mon condemned to hang.”