When Colin’s small boat struck rocks at the mouth of the bay, the impact had flung her into raging seas. She’d fought like a demon to stay afloat, but the ocean had been like a wild animal hungry to swallow her. When she went down the last time, it was with the heartbreakingly bitter knowledge that despite all her efforts, she’d failed Christina.
Perhaps the sea heard a mother’s final, despairing plea as she sank beneath the waves. The next thing Fiona knew, she opened her eyes to a dark-haired man leaning over her with a concerned expression and speaking to her in a voice as rich as good whisky.
That same voice currently murmured in her ear, promising safety and comfort. She knew better than to trust it, but she also knew that for the present she had to bide her time before she attempted escape.
“I willnae trouble ye with questions. I’m sure your head is aching. We’ll get you inside and into a hot bath to get your blood flowing again. If ye think your stomach will bear it, you can have something to eat. Right now, you’re safe and alive. That’s the main thing.”
Dear Lord above, all that sounded wonderful, even if it came from an enemy’s hand.
“What about…” She stirred enough to open her eyes. They rode beside a burn that leaped over rocks down to the sea, sparkling in the light of the sunbeams that pierced the treetops.
“I’ll send some lads down to the beach, once we’ve got ye settled.”
“Thank you.” She supposed this meant Colin would be buried here at—what did the man say this place was called? “Where are we? I know you told me, but…”
“Invertavey. The Tavey River reaches the sea just around the headland from where I found ye. My name is Diarmid Mactavish. I dinna blame ye for nae taking in much at first.”
No, she’d had other things to worry about. Most urgently, the prospect of losing the contents of her stomach in a humiliating display before a stranger. Mr. Mactavish had been kind about that, too.
Her thoughts returned to the man who had risked everything to get her out of Bancavan. Poor Colin, a Grant clansmen condemned to rest on Mactavish land for eternity.
As they approached the end of the wood, she swore that her faithful friend wouldn’t remain anonymous. Once she was safe, she’d contact Mr. Mactavish and ask him to put the old sailor’s name on the headstone. Pray God that she had a chance to do that and that a settled future awaited.
“We’re nae far from Ullapool. I’ll let the authorities there ken that you’re here, and hopefully they can find out who ye are and where you belong. I‘m sure ye must be terrified to be lost in a strange place, but there are ways we can trace your kin.”
Trace her kin? For pity’s sake, that was the last thing she wanted. She’d happily go the rest of her life, seeing neither hair nor hide of her clansmen.
But she could already tell that Mr. Mactavish was determined to help her in any way he saw fit. Fear, colder than the waves that had washed her up on that lonely beach, made her stiffen in the man’s arms.
“There’s no need to go to any trouble.” She struggled to sound calm and not panicked out of her mind. Her belly clenched painfully, as she imagined what would happen to her should her rescuer locate her family. “I’m sure that with rest and warmth, my memory will return.”
“It’s nae trouble.” He guided the horse up a rise that brought them out onto an open hillside. Even as Fiona cursed him, that remarkable, musical voice lowered to a soothing rumble. “That’s all to worry about later. Right now, we need to get ye out of this weather.”
She sucked in a relieved breath, although she knew her reprieve wouldn’t last. After her ordeal, she wasn’t up to playing mind games with anyone. She was terrified that in her weariness and distress, she might betray herself.
“Your wife won’t expect you to bring a waif home from the sea.”
Mr. Mactavish’s soft laugh was a bass rumble in her ear. “Nae need to worry about that. I’m no’ married.”
More crippling fear flooded her. No wife? What on earth could she do? Once she was under his roof, she’d be at his mercy, with no woman to protect her.
“Whisht, lassie.” He must have felt her body go rigid, because his hold became
even gentler, and that deep, steady voice turned into soft music. “There’s nae need to be frightened. You’ll be treated with every respect.”
“That’s easy to say,” she retorted, before she could wonder if antagonizing him was the best way to proceed.
“Never fear, ye willnae be the only woman in the house.” He laughed again. “I have a verra respectable housekeeper who rules the place with a rod of iron, and a gaggle of maids besides.”
“Can I go somewhere else?”
“Nowhere else that will suit so well, when you’re ill and hurt. The house is comfortable and large and fit for a lady. Invertavey is a wee village, and you’ll need care until ye regain your strength. I promise you can trust me, despite the impropriety of our situation.” He paused. “At least stay for the night, lassie. Eat. Sleep. Warm up. Tomorrow we’ll talk about what happens next.”
Mr. Mactavish was a mature man, nearing thirty, she guessed. A grown man like him usually had a wife. Then sour humor had her hiding a bleak smile. What a blithering fool she was. It didn’t matter if he was married or not. A nice wee wife was no guarantee of her safety.
Hadn’t women been everywhere at Bancavan? Yet not a one of them had raised a finger to help her, even when she’d arrived as a grief-stricken and terrified wean of fifteen. She’d caught plenty of sideways glances, full of silent sympathy. But when it came to action, everyone in the Grant keep was too cowed to stand up for themselves, let alone another person.
The only soul in ten long years who had offered her a hand out of her misery lay dead on the beach behind her. And she was too entangled in schemes and secrets to speak his name to ensure that he received a proper Christian burial.