Amanda Scott (12 page)

“Did you get any sleep last night?” Hugo asked.

“Not much,” Michael admitted. He had spent most of the night with images dancing through his head of Isobel lying next to him as she had the night before, kissing him as she had on the boat. His back still gave him a good deal of pain, too.

“I suspected as much,” Hugo said. To an oarsman approaching with two satchels containing their extra clothing, he said, “Leave those. I think Sir Michael may want to use one as a pillow before long, and I may use the other one, myself.”

“Aye, sir,” the man said, setting them down and moving to take his station.

Waiting until their host and hostess had bade farewell to their other guests, and for Lachlan Lubanach’s galley to pull away from the pier, Michael stood on the nearside locker to shake hands again with Hector, then moved aside for Hugo to do the same. With farewells over and the laird and his lady turning toward the castle, he sat down again on the offside locker.

The
Raven
headed for open water beyond the mouth of the bay.

Isobel scarcely dared to breathe. She hated the darkness and the confining space, but she was more frightened now of revealing her presence. She thought she could handle Michael easily enough, since he seemed consistently willing to submit to her lead. And perhaps she could manage Sir Hugo, who accepted Michael’s authority to some degree, at least, and was after all only another flirtatious male such as those she was forever meeting at court and elsewhere. But managing Hector would be another matter, for if he should learn that she had left Lochbuie concealed in the
Raven
’s storage locker . . . The thought made her shudder.

They were on open water, because the boat rocked more and she could hear wind in the sail. She had heard them say they would head west, that they thought Waldron might be following them. She could not imagine how he could be, since neither Gowrie nor Mackenzie was likely to lend him a galley and Michael had not suggested that Waldron knew anyone else in Kintail or Glenelg. Macleod certainly would not give him one.

The men continued to talk, but to her disappointment, they did not speak again of Michael’s so-called quest or other secrets. Their comments grew briefer until only rhythmic sounds of the helmsman’s gong, and slapping, splashing oars filled her ears.

Sometime later she startled awake to thumping movement and a curse from Hugo. “Rain, Michael! It’s going to pour in a minute. Let’s have that canvas out.”

Even before Isobel had digested his words, the lid of her storage locker flew open and spatters of rain struck her cheek. She shut her eyes.

Ignoring the spattering rain, Michael stared at her in shock, then glanced at Hugo in an attempt to suppress the jolt of fury that threatened to overcome him.

The twinkle in Hugo’s eyes did not help, and clearly sensing as much, he quickly looked over his shoulder, but Michael knew the oarsmen were pulling hard, their backs to them, unaware that anything was amiss. The rain would not disturb the men or chill them. Their minds and bodies concerned themselves solely with rowing, and so it would be until the helmsman issued new orders.

“Tell Caird to put in to shore,” Michael snapped, wishing Hugo would turn that smirking look back toward him for just one little moment.

But Hugo had better sense. He took a step forward, ignoring the increasing downpour as he shouted the command to the helmsman.

Without further ado, Michael reached down and grabbed Isobel by an arm, hauling her out of the locker and onto her feet.

She straightened her shoulders, giving him look for look.

“I can explain,” she said with a calm that he was certain she had to force.

“Not one word,” he snapped. Putting his face close to hers, he added grimly, “I have much to say to you, my lass, but you may wait until we have privacy to hear it.”

Isobel stared at Michael in dismay, putting her hood up against the rain and drawing her cloak more closely about her. She wished that she could recover her dignity as easily, but that was impossible, because when a man jerked a woman unceremoniously from his storage locker, she could scarcely put her chin in the air and insist that she had belonged there.

At least Michael had stopped glowering, had shifted that heart-poundingly dangerous, ice-filled gaze away from her, but he was undeniably furious, and she had not expected fury from him. Surprise, perhaps, even dismay—and worry, too, that Hector Reaganach might blame him for what she had done.

Michael did, after all, seem to make a habit of expecting the worst.

She had expected to have to explain that Hector would correctly blame her for the incident, and she had thought Michael’s generally mild nature would let him accept her word about that. But now his anger swirled ominously around her, overpowering her senses and frightening her. She dared not move or speak, lest the result be something even worse.

“There,” Michael said, pointing. “That beach yonder will do, Hugo.”

Without looking at Hugo, Isobel knew he made some gesture of protest, because Michael’s expression hardened more, sending a shiver up from the base of her spine and reminding her of the look he had shot her at the cave that first day. She did not like the idea of beaching the galley, but she knew that if they did not run too far onto the sand, the oarsmen could easily pull the boat off again.

Hugo gave the command, and several of the men glanced back, clearly sensing something amiss. Although more than one mouth dropped open, no man let his gaze linger.

“You’ll want the towboat lowered,” Hugo said.

“Just put out a plank,” Michael said.

“It’s too shallow here to get close enough. You’ll get your feet wet.”

Michael did not reply. The rain had settled into a steady gray drizzle.

“Do you want me to go ashore with you?” Hugo asked.

“Nay, only the lass.”

“Sakes, sir,” Isobel exclaimed, unable to keep silent a moment longer, “do you mean to put me ashore and make me walk back to Lochbuie?”

“You’d be well served if I did,” he said curtly. “You deserve much more, but I’m not lost to my own responsibility in this business, believe me. Nonetheless, when I’m finished with you, you may wish that I’d thrown you overboard and let you swim back.”

He said the last so calmly that another splinter of ice shot up her spine, and she realized that she had badly misjudged him, that she did not know him at all.

The boat ground onto sand and shingle, and without comment, ignoring Isobel’s protest that she could easily walk, Michael lifted her and waited impatiently for them to put out the gangplank.

She felt small and defenseless in his arms as he walked down the plank with her but safe, too, which, considering that he was ready to murder her, seemed odd indeed. When the plank ended in knee-deep water, he began striding through it toward shore, and when she opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off, saying curtly, “My temper is on a tight rein, lass. I’ve had no sleep for two nights, these boots were new a fortnight ago, and I’m nigh to wringing your neck. So hold your damned tongue, or by heaven, I’ll let impulse rule my next actions.”

Isobel pressed her lips tightly together, but the temptation to tell him exactly what she thought nearly overpowered her. She had long felt pride in her ability to hold her own against anyone, even against Hector the Ferocious, most of the time. But to her surprise, she had no desire to test Michael St. Clair, at least not just now.

He carried her easily and swiftly to the shore, but he did not put her down until he had carried her a short distance into the beech wood above the high-water mark. When he did stand her on her feet, she felt no relief, only profound wariness.

That the men on the galley could no longer see them she thought both a blessing and a strong reason for her growing fear of what Michael meant to do. At least the thick canopy of leaves overhead protected them from the rain.

His hands clamped to her shoulders. “Are you mad?” he demanded. “You want no more to do with me, so what demon possessed you to hide on my boat?”

“I didn’t!”

He gave her a shake. “Of all the useless lies you might utter, that is the most foolish. How can you say you did not when I found you hiding in that locker?”

“Please, Michael, let me explain.”

“I’m listening,” he said grimly, his fingers still gripping her shoulders so hard she knew they would leave bruises.

She swallowed hard, feeling tears well into her eyes. “It wasn’t like that. I was just curious. I wasn’t trying to hide from you, or even trying to hide on your boat. I wanted to look at it, because I love boats and the
Raven
is yours, and because it is even bigger than Lachlan’s.”

He did not speak, and she wondered if it pleased him at least a little bit that she had noticed the greater size of his boat. Men always took pride in their boats.

When his eyes narrowed ominously, she added hastily, “I didn’t want Mairi to catch me there, because . . .”

“Why not?” he demanded when she hesitated. “If you were doing nothing wrong, why fear Lady Mairi?”

She nibbled her lip, recalling that Hector would say she had no business to be on Michael’s boat, and that if Hector would say it, Lachlan would say it, and by the look of him, Michael believed the same thing.

She sighed. “I thought you would not mind if I looked at it, but I suppose I was wrong. I do know that Hector would say I should not have got aboard, and—”

“And you feared that Lachlan Lubanach or his lady would say the same.”

His voice was gentler, his usual calm apparently restoring itself, and an impulse stirred to tell him that was exactly what she had feared. But even as she opened her mouth to say the words, they froze on her tongue and honesty prevailed.

“I . . . I did think that about Lachlan,” she admitted. “He nearly always does agree with Hector, but if you must know, Mairi—last night—called you
my
Michael, and I knew she would tease me more if she saw me on your boat. I won’t deny that I also feared that Lachlan would not approve and that I knew Hector would not. I did think you would not mind, but when I heard them coming, I just wanted to hide, so I did. Then you came aboard, and I could not—”

She broke off, biting her lip, trying to think how to explain those feelings.

“You could not trust my good nature enough, or that welcome you say I would have offered you, simply to tell me you were there,” Michael said in a flat tone that made her wish she could deny his assessment. “Instead, you kept perfectly silent until we were well away from Lochbuie and I discovered you myself.”

“I didn’t think—”

“That much is true, lass. You didn’t think,” he said bluntly.

“You don’t understand.”

“That is true, too,” he agreed, but his tone turned his agreement into yet another accusation. “I don’t know what manner of game you are playing with me,” he went on. “But whatever it is, I’d advise you to take greater care. You do not know enough about the business in which you meddle, or about me, to understand the danger, but you soon will if you play me any more such tricks.”

“If you would just tell me—”

“Had you agreed to marry me, I would have told you all I could,” he said. “But your refusal rendered that step unnecessary. In any event, we are not discussing me or my secrets now. You have already made it clear that your ruination is not of primary concern to you, so we need not consider that either. What did you expect me to do when you did finally emerge from that locker?”

She hesitated, trying to gauge his temper, wondering if his calm had reasserted itself sufficiently to let her speak freely.

He gazed back at her, waiting. His stillness in so isolated a place seemed more formidable than most men’s anger, and she hesitated a moment longer.

“When did you mean to show yourself?” he asked in that oddly gentle way.

“I don’t know,” she said more abruptly than she had intended. “I did not have any idea what to do, if you must know. It is all very well for you to stand there, saying I should have told you I was there, but it did not occur to me. When you and Sir Hugo and all those oarsmen came aboard, I just froze where I was and hoped the earth would swallow me before I had to deal with the consequences.”

“Then let me put my question this way,” he said, his manner still as calm as if hers had matched it. “What do you expect me to do with you now?”

His hands remained on her shoulders but were no longer bruising her. His demeanor was respectful and calm. Taking courage in hand, she said, “I know you do not want to go all the way back to Lochbuie, sir, so perhaps you may find it more convenient just to take me north with you.”

His fingers twitched on her shoulders, but he continued to look directly into her eyes, his gaze searching hers as he said, “Just what do you expect to happen, lass, if we should arrive at Kirkwall together?”

“Surely, Sir Henry would offer me his protection.”

“Aye, sure, and why not, although ’tis the bishop’s protection you should seek rather than Henry’s, since we will all be staying at the bishop’s palace. But doubtless, as a man of the cloth, his eminence will be generous, and doubtless, too, my mother will happily offer you her protection, as well.”

“Do you think so?” she asked doubtfully.

“No, my dear, exasperating innocent, I do not think anything of the kind. My mother would eat you alive. What I
do
think is that you have lost your wits. Do you honestly think so little of me that you believe I would do more than I have already done to aid you in your own destruction? No, don’t answer that, because I don’t want to hear any more nonsense, and I have much more to say to you.

“It is my firm belief,” he went on when she bit her lip, “that someone should have taken a stronger hand with you long ago to protect you from yourself. That your father did not do so does not amaze me, because he had eight daughters and no man could prevail against so many. That your foster father did not
does
surprise me, but it is nonetheless his duty now to try to rectify that omission. How do you think he would respond to finding you at Kirkwall? He’ll soon be a guest of my brother himself, you know. Do you expect Henry to protect you from Hector?”