Bridget felt the boat heel sharply to port only seconds before what sounded like bullets hitting the deck overhead. She heard someone shout a command to lower sails, followed by the pounding of boots as the ship listed dangerously over once more, almost causing her to slip off the bunk. She probably would have had it not been for the wooden fiddle around the edges.
The wind howled through the rigging like a screaming banshee, and Bridget realized the original hammering on the deck must have been hail. She could hear the steady pounding of rain. The Sea Wolf was obviously in the throes of a real blow, as her cousin Shane would have called it.
Robert hadn’t mentioned anything this morning about the barometer falling, but Bridget knew that sudden squalls did occur sometimes. Storms rolling off Iceland were far more predictable, but this certainly wasn’t one of them. If she were the superstitious sort, she would think she’d conjured up the storm herself—or maybe an irritated Neptune had helped—since the tumultuous motion so closely mirrored her own troubled thoughts.
Had she done the right thing in leaving?
When Robert said yesterday he wanted someone to go to Glasgow to keep an eye on the office, Bridget had been sure the move was a golden solution for everyone involved. She was putting time and distance between herself and Alasdair, although it seemed the farther the ship sailed, the closer Alasdair seemed to be, at least in her mind. Such foolishness. She was not given to wild flights of fancy. She was only indulging in this kind of nonsense because she’d been cooped up in the cabin for several hours with nothing to do but think. Those thoughts inevitably led to remembering how very much Bridget wanted to stay locked in Alasdair’s arms or, even better, turn around and press the length of her body against his, wrap her arms around his neck and turn her face up for his kiss. A forbidden kiss, but one that was even more tempting for having tasted him before. Like Eve holding the apple, how long would she have been able to withstand that temptation and not stop at a kiss? A temptation as ancient as time itself. Succumbing to such feckless behavior was debased and disreputable, which brought Bridget full circle to why she was on this ship.
She would eventually have given in. There was no sense in denying what she felt anymore. Her comfortable marriage to Brodie couldn’t compare to all the new sensations that assailed her senses. Everything about Alasdair attracted her. Not only his masculinity, his strength, his scent, but also, his sense of duty and honor. He had done the right thing in agreeing to marry Isobel. Bridget’s traitorous body—with the strange urges and compulsions that grew stronger each time she was close to Alasdair—would eventually not have cared that she was stealing another woman’s man, that she was taking what was not hers to take. That would make her no better than the worst slattern in the streets or the adulterous, hedonistic women of the ton.
Better that she was putting time and space between herself and Alasdair.
* * * * *
Alasdair took back his benevolent thoughts of understanding the lure of the sea and instead muttered a curse as the first pellets of hail battered the crew. The ice, along with a wind that struck with the ferociousness of a highland blizzard only added to the misery of the crew scrabbling to take down sails as the boat heeled over, burying its port rail in the churning water.
Even Captain Nels seemed surprised at the sudden fierceness of the storm. Within minutes of appearing as a black line on the horizon, it had rolled over the water producing huge swells and confused seas. He’d quickly taken the helm to point the bow into the wind to avoid being swamped, but a boat as massive as the Sea Wolf didn’t come about easily, especially with sails luffing while the sailors tried to adjust them.
Alasdair knew he was too much of a landlubber to be of help with the sheets in this weather condition, so he put his weight into helping the captain maneuver the wheel, pushing his side of the wheel around while Nels pulled it over. Slowly, over what seemed like endless minutes, the Sea Wolf rounded up, her great bow lifting and slicing through a rising swell, splitting the crest and sending the water neatly sluicing to port and starboard. The boat continued to pitch like a bucking horse, but at least she was upright. The hail was replaced by a steady rain as the wind eventually slacked and the brunt of the storm passed over them to roll on.
“All hands accounted for?” Captain Nels asked when his quartermaster approached the helm a short time later.
“Aye, Captain,” the man said. “Just a bit wet.”
Soaked, sodden, and bedraggled are more fitting terms. Alasdair looked at the crew. There hadn’t been time to pull out foul-weather gear, and the whole lot of them looked like drowned rats, except these rats weren’t about to desert ship. They simply slicked back wet hair from their eyes and began preparing to re-hoist the reefed sails. Shane and Robert had both spoken often of the hardiness of their crews, and Alasdair could see what they meant.
Captain Nels looked at the pedestal-mounted compass in its brass housing and adjusted their heading. “Thank God that blow was short. We did not lose much time.”
Alasdair bit back a grin. Trust a captain of Viking origin to call a vicious storm a blow. Nels somewhat reminded him of his stepfather. When Erik Henderson had arrived in Arisaig nearly twenty years ago, Alasdair’s mother had taken one look and declared Thor himself had arrived. While his stepfather didn’t carry a hammer, he did present an iron fist at times when his unruly stepsons needed to be brought to task. Most of the time though, he preferred to be at sea. It was something that Alasdair suspected was born into a man.
Captain Nels turned over the helm to his quartermaster. “I’m going to go thank the crew.”
Alasdair watched as the captain moved around the deck, stopping to talk to each man. He slapped a shoulder or two, shared laughs, and moved on.
Both Erik and Robert had spoken of the importance of making the crew feel appreciated. Even though the captain’s word aboard a vessel was law and subject to immediate dismissal—or being tossed overboard in olden days—if not obeyed, a wise captain also knew his own life depended on his crew’s ability to work together. As Alasdair had just witnessed, they’d kept the ship from being damaged and they’d kept themselves intact.
Alasdair shook his head as a comparison lodged inside his mind. If the English would treat the Scots like a captain did his crew, maybe there would be a chance for a real union and not just tolerance for a government while trouble simmered below the surface.
Glasgow was a hotspot for that kind of trouble. He wondered if he could help change it.
* * * * *
After what seemed like hours keeping one hand braced against the wall of the cabin while the other hung on to the bunk’s fiddle, Bridget was relieved when the ship began to steady herself. The excessive pitching slowed to a rocking-chair movement and the heavy rolling became more of a gentle, lulling sway. The brunt of the storm must have passed. Bridget flexed her arms to loosen tight muscles just as a knock sounded on her door. “Yes?”
A lad not old enough to shave opened the door and stuck his head around. “I brought ye some bread and broth. Me da says in case ye have a queasy stomach.”
Although Bridget was not prone to the sea malady, she realized that she was hungry. She’d slipped out of house this morning with nothing to eat. “’Tis kind of ye.” She motioned for the boy to put the tin bowl he was holding on the small table. “Who is your da?”
The boy’s face lit with pride. “He is the cook. I am learning his trade. Captain Nels says he’s had none better than my da.”
That would explain the youth’s presence then. Although passenger ships often employed cabin boys, working ships like the Sea Wolf most only took on adult, able-bodied men. Bridget sipped a spoonful of soup, finding it lightly seasoned and flavorful. It tasted like it had been strained off a vegetable and mutton stew. She smiled at the lad. “I think the captain has the right of it. This is very good.”
The boy grinned lopsidedly and shoved a lock of reddish hair away from his face. “I will tell me da ye said that.”
“What is your name?” Bridget asked when it appeared the lad was in no hurry to leave.
“Will,” he answered, leaning against the doorway.
“My name’s Bridget,” she said as she took a bite of bread that was surprisingly soft, as though it had just been baked, unlike the hardtack and salt biscuits usually kept on board a boat. She wondered how Will’s father kept the bread from getting soggy.
“Och, everyone kens who ye are,” Will said.
Bridget looked up from the bowl. “Why would the crew ken who I am?”
“The sailor who helped ye on aboard told everyone below we had a lady sailing with us.”
“I see.” Bridget knew many sailors held superstitions about women on board. She also knew women weren’t always safe travelling alone. Was that why the captain had her escorted to this cabin? So she wouldn’t cause a disruption? She was hardly the type to entice men.
“Ye are even prettier than they said,” Will blurted and then blushed and looked at the floor.
Bridget blinked and pretended not to notice the boy’s sudden shyness. She’d never been the object of anyone’s fascination and she might have been amused, except the boy looked miserable. “’Tis kind of ye to say it, but if the men are talking, does the captain wish me to stay in the cabin for the whole trip?”
Will shrugged. “I doona ken, but the captain told everyone ye are a friend of Captain Henderson and kin to Captain MacLeod.” He straightened and looked up, swallowing hard. “But if ye are afraid, I will escort ye and protect ye.”
Bridget curbed a smile. Will looked so earnest, although she doubted he was much more than eleven or twelve. “Thank ye,” she said again as she handed him her empty bowl. “I will call on ye if I feel I need to.”
Will’s face broke out into a grin again and he pushed the stubborn lock of hair away from his eyes. He squared his narrow shoulders. “’Tis me duty to protect a lady such as ye.”
“I’ll nae forget,” Bridget said and closed the door gently behind him.
She sat back down on the bunk but was soon fidgeting. She stood and paced the small space of the cabin. It only took seven steps or so. After a few more minutes, the walls began to feel closer. Maybe she should have taken young Will up on his offer to escort her.
Bridget shook her head. She hated feeling cooped up. The storm had abated, so going up on deck would not prove dangerous. And she sincerely doubted she’d be in any danger from the crew either, given Captain’s Nels not-so-subtle warning. She doubted anyone would bother her.
Yet, she would take some precaution. Bridget recalled Jillian telling the twins stories of London Society. When Caitlin and Caylin started asking about whether English girls slapped boys who were too bold, Jillian had told them the best way to discourage attention was not to invite it. Bridget looked at the simple brown, woolen cape she’d worn. It had a hood. If she kept it up, she could avoid eye contact with any sailor who happened by. Having made the decision, she stood, wrapped the cape around herself, and headed out the door to the companionway.
She needed some fresh air, for goodness sake. She wouldn’t stay on deck long.
* * * * *
Sea fog began to develop after the icy storm passed over the warmer waters of the north Atlantic drift. The swirling tendrils rose upward like steam from a kettle, making the white crests of the waves look like foam atop ale. Mist blanketed the ship, obscuring the view and making it seem as though they were drifting in an endless cloud.
Alasdair finished coiling a casting line that had come loose and refastened it on a hook under the rail so it would be ready for docking. As rough as the storm had been, the ship had sustained no damage, due to the quick response of the crew. Even the deck, though damp, had no water sloshing about since the scuppers were kept clean, allowing the water to flow out.
Near him, two sailors were adjusting the sheets, trying to find enough wind to fill the sails in the now nearly dead-calm conditions.
“All I’m sayin’, Alan, is storms do nae crop up this quick.”
“And ye are blamin’ the woman for it, Douglas?”
“We have nae had a storm come up on us this quick before,” Douglas repeated.
“Aye,” a third man said as he joined them. “’Tis bad luck to have a woman on board, even if the captain agreed to it.”
Douglas nodded. “I think ye have the right of it, Shamus.”
Alasdair frowned as he listened to the sailors’ discussion. He knew sailors’ superstitions stemmed from long-ingrained beliefs that ships were regarded as female, that the crew respected the vessel and treated her as though she were maiden, mother, and perhaps mistress of their souls. As such, she would brook no competition from a mortal woman walking her decks. He also knew Abigail sailed with Shane and Shauna with Robert, although he did recall it had taken their crews some time to accept those accommodations. Captain Nels must be transporting a guest—or maybe his own mistress—although Alasdair had not seen anyone.
“Are ye saying there’s a woman aboard?” Alasdair asked.
“More like a witch,” Shamus said.
“Aye, a sea witch like the kind that churns up the water and snatches sailors off the deck and takes ’em down to Davy Jones’s locker,” Douglas muttered.
“Ye’d best be careful,” Alan said with a grin, “else a kelpie might jump onto the deck and offer ye a ride down there.”
Douglas scowled at him. “’Tis nae a laughing matter. First the storm and now this damn fog and nae wind. ’Tis a witch’s brew for sure.”
Alan shook his head. “Ye’ll be hearing the Sirens singing next.”
“Look,” Shamus interrupted. “There she is.”
Alasdair turned to follow the man’s pointing finger. With the fog drifting and billowing across the deck, it was hard to see, but it looked like a figure covered totally in brown moved forward toward the bow. For a moment, Alasdair wondered if a selkie had slipped on board and was about to shed her brown fur and become a woman. Then he chided himself. All the sailors’ talk about mythical sea creatures and the eerie stillness of the fog-enshrouded ship on still seas was making his imagination work overtime. At least he wasn’t hearing any singing.
“Maybe she’s come up on deck to inspect her spell,” Alan said, grinning again, “to see if it’s working.”
“Laugh if ye want,” Douglas replied stubbornly. “The witch may be planning on a watery end for us all.”
“Aye. She’s got hair like fire,” Shamus said. “’Tis a witch’s color.”
Alasdair stared at Shamus and then turned his attention back to the cloaked figure ahead. She had her back turned to them, so he couldn’t see her face. The hair at his nape began to bristle. Red hair. When had the woman come on board? It couldn’t be…
Before he could finish that thought, she raised her hand, pushed the hood back, turned her head, and lifted her face to the mist.
Bridget.
He stepped back and headed for the companionway to go below. He needed time to think. Conditions might be calm now, but Alasdair sensed the turmoil was just beginning.