An hour later, Roderick yawned where he stood before the crackling hearth in the great hall. ‘It’s late, Uncle, and I’m done with your words flogging me like a worn whip. You present a weak argument. I’m not marrying the lass.’
‘Think wisely on this.’
Roderick turned. He felt as frustrated as his uncle looked. ‘There’s nothing to think about. I wasn’t looking to get married and certainly not to a complete stranger. There’s no point to this worthless union. It serves no purpose or benefit to anyone.’
Angus limped to Roderick’s side and laid a firm hand on his arm. ‘There’s a great deal of purpose in honouring yer father’s dying wish.’
Roderick shrugged out of his hold. ‘I think not!’
‘Then think of the lass,’ pleaded Angus. ‘’Tis a humiliating thing ye’d be doing to her, and a grave insult to the MacDonald Laird.’
‘So you’ve repeatedly said. But ’tis an insult to me that you and my father should scheme behind my back. ’Tis also a different Scotland we now inhabit and I’m doing us all a favour by setting the lass free. Speak of it no more.’
Roderick had taken only two long strides when he stopped and turned back to his uncle. He had something more to get off his chest. ‘’Twould be heartening to have you as my ally, Uncle. Instead, you side with a dead man. Tell me, what pact did you make with my father before he died?’
Roderick held his uncle’s gaze. Angus opened his mouth to speak, only to clamp it shut. Roderick had his answer. There was more to this sham of a marriage than the old man was willing to admit.
It was clear what was written in those weary, grey eyes. The men were bound by a blood oath. Roderick respected that. At the same time, he’d always trusted his uncle. On all matters.
Except this one.
‘You’re right, Angus. ’Tis best I don’t know the answer to that question. I’ll not have it interfere with my future plans. I leave with the lass in the morning. Goodnight.’
Before exiting the great hall, Roderick took a lit torch from its sconce on the wall and used it to light his way through the dark, cold passages of the castle. The hour approached midnight and all was quiet, save for the abating storm outside and the wind whistling through cracks and crevices in the walls and windows. He made his way to the upper floors and along corridors leading to the sleeping quarters.
He lingered outside the master bedchamber. No light glowed beneath the door and silence stretched behind it, suggesting Annabel slept. Peacefully? Or did she lay awake in the dark, her mind as unsettled as his?
Just as he’d done with the dining chair, Roderick traced with his fingers the intricate patterns carved into the solid oak. He resented her occupying this particular bedchamber and sleeping in the four-poster bed where his mother had lain. A bed meant only for the MacLeod Laird and his wife.
Annabel was neither a MacLeod nor his wife. She had no right stepping foot in this room. One night, that’s all. Hardened resolve would see her gone from Finvreck.
Roderick continued along another passageway to his bedchamber and there, at its door, he had second thoughts about enjoying the comforts his father had insisted be available to him should he return. Thinking it childish, if not foolish, to cut off his nose to spite his face, Roderick stepped inside.
A well-banked hearth welcomed and warmed him bone-deep. The metal bath had been removed from his room and a tray of food fit for a small gathering awaited him on the dresser. Beside the tray sat a bottle of fine red from Finvreck’s cellars.
Was it Angus or Morag who rallied the servants, seeing to it that they followed the late laird’s instructions? To Roderick’s way of thinking, his return was no cause for celebration. His departure would be, and that couldn’t happen soon enough.
He set the torch in a wall sconce outside his room, closed the door behind him, and begrudgingly accepted his father’s hospitality. Exhaustion, and need of a decent night’s sleep, gave him excuse enough to stay put.
* * *
The sun had yet to rise, leaving darkness to blanket the Highlands for several hours yet.
Annabel sat on a stool while her maid fussed with a linen cap on Annabel’s head.
‘Yer hair has a mind of its own, mistress. I manage to conceal one curl and another wants to spring out!’
‘Keep yer voice down,’ whispered Annabel. ‘And hurry. If I dinnae leave the castle before the servants rouse, I risk being seen.’
Jessie stepped back with an exasperated sigh. She threw her arms up in the air and let her hands fall on her wide hips. She eyed her handiwork and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid that will have to do. There’s nae help for it. I cannae do any better,’ she whispered back.
Annabel stood. She gave her appearance the once-over in front of the full-length mirror. No one had yet to suspect her a woman beneath these men’s clothes. They were baggy enough to hide her curves, making her look like a tall, lanky youth. She’d fooled folk before. She’d do it again, as long as her hair stayed hidden.
‘The slouch hat, Jessie, where is it?’
The maid dug deep into a chest of drawers. ‘Here.’
Annabel pulled it hard onto her head so that the low, round brim hid her face. She reached for the collar on her jacket, turning it up over the neck cloth.
‘There.’ Annabel picked up from the dresser a small sack containing a knife and provisions she’d spirited away from the kitchen pantry. She pulled the long drawstring tight and looped it around her head and shoulders so that it rested at her side.
‘Please dinnae go. ’Tis a dangerous thing ye do. What if ye get caught?’ Jessie’s sharp whisper had no effect on her mistress.
‘I willnae get caught,’ Annabel whispered back.
‘Ye’ll be sent to prison and hanged.’ The maid wrung her hands together. ‘I cannae bear the thought of those guards leering at ye, or worse. I’ve heard what they do to women.’
Annabel took hold of Jessie’s hands and squeezed. The devoted maid was but three days older than Annabel’s twenty years, but she protected Annabel like a vixen protects her cub.
‘Jessie, I’ve managed this countless times before on our own clan lands and I’ve spent the past month familiarising myself with the MacLeod coastline. I willnae get caught.’
Jessie looked unconvinced. ‘What about the English troops?’
‘Havenae I always dodged them? I hold a man’s life in my hands and I made him a promise. If I dinnae go to him now, then his future is bleaker than Scotland’s. I ken what I’m doing. Trust me.’
‘Trusting ye is nae the problem. ’Tis believing ye willnae get caught. Why do ye need to be the one to see him on his way?’
‘Because this one is … personal.’
‘Who is he?’
‘The less ye ken, the better. Besides, I’m the only one in these parts willing to stick my neck out and identify him as our own. A MacDonald! The ship’s captain disnae risk taking on board any traitors, or worse, an English spy.’
Jessie slipped one hand free from Annabel’s grasp and made the sign of the cross. ‘Pray the good Lord be with ye every step of the way.’
‘Aye. He will be. ’Tis my calling.’
‘Pah! Sedition! ’Tis a choice, not a calling.’
Annabel narrowed her eyes. Jessie had admonished her with the harsh truth. ‘’Tis the only thing I’m good at, and the one thing I’m good for.’
Annabel would have turned for the door had Jessie not held her firm. The maid pinned her with a penetrating stare that had the power to strip flesh from bones. Self-doubt, curse it, reared its ugly head.
‘’Tis a faltering smile ye wear, mistress.’
Annabel lowered her gaze, suddenly unable to look her maid in the eye. That is, until the moment when Jessie parroted something that rang all too familiar in Annabel’s ears.
‘Worthless! Useless! That’s what ye are.’
The force of those cruel words had Annabel snatch her hands from Jessie’s grasp and shove her away. Her nemesis—inadequacy and wretchedness—mauled her insides until they bled. Just as they’d done so many times before. She suffered the sting of failure and her shoulders slumped forwards in defeat.
‘Aye.’ The maid gave a knowing nod. ‘Yer father’s words, nae mine. And I see how they still strike ye like a brutal backhand against yer cheek.’
Annabel flinched and pushed her shoulders back to stand tall. ‘He ne’er laid a hand on me!’
‘Always quick to defend the man who treats ye like an outcast rather than his own flesh and blood. But there, in yer eyes, anger and hurt shine as bright as a midsummer sun.’
‘Ye’ve chosen the wrong time to do this!’ Anger caused Annabel to tremble.
‘And when is the right time? After yer neck snaps in the noose?’
Annabel drew herself up to her full height and stepped slowly forwards. ‘Ye forget yersel, Jessie.’
The maid stood unmoved, lifting only her gaze. ‘Aye, mistress, forgive me. But it pains me to watch yer soul wither and wilt like heather beneath a brushfire sweeping the moors. Ye’ve as much God-given right as yer father to walk this earth. The difference being ye are the better person.’
Annabel blinked, ashamed for the way she’d treated the only true friend she had. She stooped to throw her arms about the one person who genuinely cared for and about her. ‘I’m sorry, Jessie. Forgive me.’
Jessie rubbed a soothing hand on Annabel’s back. ‘Ye’ve a chance at a new and happier life here at Finvreck. Fight for a cause that secures yer future, nae one that threatens it.’
Annabel pulled back, despondent. ‘The laird fights for his own cause. To rid himself of me.’
‘Then give him a reason to keep ye. If ye carry on with what ye’ve been doing then ’tis only a matter of time before ye’re caught. I’ll remain loyal to ye until the day I die, but if one of the MacLeods gets wind of what ye’re doing, then ye’ll face the wrath of their laird. It might weel be ye who seeks passage on a boat to God kens where.’
Annabel shook her head. ‘I doubt it will ever come to that.’
‘That’s where ye’re wrong. English law—’
‘Damn the Sassenachs and their laws. I’m a Scot! ’Tis right and honourable to assist innocent men. Enough of this. I must be on my way. Stick to our plan.’
Jessie widened her eyes. ‘And say yer feeling green around the gills? Something ye ate has turned yer stomach?’
‘Aye. Perfect.’
‘’Tis nae perfect at all!’ Jessie sniffed and drew her shawl tight around her shoulders. ‘The housekeeper willnae be happy to hear it. She reigns over the castle’s victuals like that captain does his ship. I dinnae fancy being interrogated about every morsel of food ye ate yesterday and—’
‘Stop!’ It was a harsh whisper. ‘If ye can think of a better excuse, then use it.’ Annabel started for the door.
‘What about the laird?’
Annabel stopped, sighed, and spun on her heel. ‘What about him?’
‘He’ll want to ken where ye are.’
‘In bed, of course. Green around the gills.’
Jessie shook her head. ‘He was to escort us home today. He’ll see yer illness for the ruse it is.’
Annabel groaned, her patience worn thin. ‘Firstly, home is here now. Secondly, his happiness is the least of my concerns.’ She reached for the latch.
Jessie threw herself against the door to prevent it opening. ‘He’ll have questions. The thought of it scares me!’
And me. Something about Roderick MacLeod intimidated Annabel. No time to ponder why. ‘I must go. Stand aside.’
‘What if he insists on entering this room and examining ye himself?’
An alarming thought. Jessie was right. Their alibi was indeed a weak one and Roderick MacLeod would see right through it. It wasn’t fair to expect Jessie to lie about her mistress’s whereabouts and carry it off without a convincing argument.
Time was ticking. The open-draped window drew Annabel’s gaze. Last night’s storm had abated to a quiet hush. Outside, a full moon still glowed in the semi-darkened sky. She had to get to her clansman before the ship sailed without him.
It was then that Annabel sensed the moon’s face smiling upon her with the perfect solution. Of course! Last night the laird had accused her of forcing marriage upon him by passing off another man’s child as his. His father’s child, no less. How dare he cast aspersions on her character and think her a whore.
She was guilty of deceiving the new laird and her adoptive clan, yes, but not with a wee bairn. His accusation provided her with a most convenient excuse as to why she was unfit for travel.
‘Mistress,’ said Jessie, her voice soft, wary. ‘Ye’ve the most wickedly dour look about ye. What is it?’
Annabel felt more dour than she did wicked. ‘Should the laird ask or insist on knowing what ails me, tell him ’tis my time of the month.’
Jessie slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.
‘Tell him I roil about in bed and suffer the agony of accursed cramps. I’m nae fit to ride a horse through the Highlands.’
Jessie shook her head in horror and her cheeks blazed red. ‘Nae! ’Tis enough I discuss such delicate matters with ye, but I’ll nae discuss yer menses with the laird!’
‘Nor he with ye. And that’s the truth of it,’ said Annabel. ‘’Tis a woman’s business. What man wants to broach the subject? All ye need do is tell him that that is what ails me and as sure as the cock will soon crow, he’ll leave us both weel alone.’
Annabel’s suggestion sent her maid into a flap, muttering further protest beneath her breath. Before Jessie could collect herself, Annabel ushered her gently aside, lifted the latch on the door and said, ‘Listen out for my knock.’
‘Aye. I’ll nae be able to open that door fast enough.’
Annabel took a lit candle from a sconce on the wall, slipped through the open door and left Jessie to close it quietly behind her. With her next breath, the cold corridor air chilled her throat. A shiver ran through her. She lifted the candle to see the way forward, and as she moved along the dark passages, the meagre flame cast wraith-like shadows against the walls.
She paused briefly at the top of the stairwell, listening for stirrings of life below. Nothing. She commenced her descent, using her free hand against the roughened wall to steady her. Leather-clad feet padded softly down each worn stone step to the base of the stairwell.
There, she progressed along another narrow passageway, cautioned by the sounds of sleep snuffles and heavy snoring coming from the great hall ahead. She stopped at the entrance to peer inside. Burning logs in the open hearth shed enough light to reveal a multitude of bodies sprawled about on makeshift pallets over the floor. Clansmen had fallen asleep with heads pillowed on folded arms at the long trestle tables.
How odd. To her knowledge, Finvreck was not expecting visitors. Was the laird among them? Perhaps a night of drinking and playing catch-up with his clansmen had seen him prefer a pallet here on the cold stone floor, rather than stagger up the stairs to the softness of his own clean bed.
After their exchange over last night’s meal, she hadn’t feared him forcing his way into the master chamber to bed her. Besides, she’d barred the door in the event he’d thought to continue his interrogation of her intent and purpose here at Finvreck.
She recalled a moment’s trepidation when she’d opened the door to her chamber and spied a tray laden with food and a bottle of wine. Was the sumptuous marriage supper there to fill his stomach should his hunger not be adequately sated in bed? Annabel had ordered it be removed and taken to his private chamber.
She looked down at the sack she carried. Pity she hadn’t thought to stuff it full with food from that tray, or to take the wine to the clansman who awaited her and toast to his impending freedom.
To avoid the risk of tripping over pallets and bodies and being seen, she hurried towards the kitchen, thinking it safer to exit into the back courtyard. She hadn’t counted on seeing two men seated on stools and slumped over the cook’s workbench in the kitchen. They snored and snorted like swine in a pigpen and the air reeked of whisky.
If Morag discovered them here contaminating the kitchen, she’d raise the roof and toss them out on their ear. Annabel smiled to herself, wishing she could loiter long enough to witness the fracas.
She stepped quietly past the man who slept, head resting on folded arms, at the corner of the workbench. He looked dead to the world.
Or so she foolishly thought, before swallowing her scream when his large hand shot out to lock around her right wrist.
‘More whisky, woman,’ he slurred. He could barely lift his head and his eyes opened little more than the thickness of a coin.
Annabel feared her linen cap had come loose, for nothing about her appearance should betray her to be a woman. She could scarce make out the man’s features in the weak candlelight, only that he had a dark mass of unruly red hair and a thick beard.
From the base of her diaphragm she dredged up what was hopefully a passable man-voice and yanked her wrist free of his hold. ‘Are ye so drunk that ye cannae tell the difference between a man and a wench?’
She swiped up the empty pewter tankard beside his head. A weighty weapon on standby.
He struggled to lift his head and studied her through one open, bleary eye. ‘Call yersel a man, eh? Nothing but a skinny lad who smells like a woman.’ His mouth stretched into a grin. ‘Or have ye been lying with one?’ He laughed at his own coarse humour. ‘What were she like?’
‘Ye’ll ne’er ken!’ Annabel brought the tankard down hard against his forehead and his head hit the table with a thunk. ‘Insufferable pervert!’
She fled the kitchen for fear of the other man waking. Once in the outer courtyard, she extinguished the candle, shook it free of hot wax and slipped it in her coat pocket. Dark would soon give way to fingers of light. She stayed close to the walls to avoid the notice of clansmen on watch.
With practiced skill and timing, she ducked and weaved her way around and behind walls until she hid within safe distance of the postern gate. There, in the light of the moon, she saw and heard the guard relieving himself. She hunkered down, her hands sweeping the earth for one, two, three rocks. In quick succession, she thrust them into a darkened corner to one side of the guard. Startled, he fumbled with and secured his fly-front, and dashed off to investigate. It gave Annabel time enough to make her silent escape through the small wooden door and step outside the protection of Finvreck.
From there, she sprinted along a narrow path leading on to the moor and in the direction of the rocky coastline beyond. The distant roar of the ocean called to her in the still of the morning hours. She could taste the brisk briny air, and caught the scent of tangled kelp washed up on the seashore.
A sense of excitement and purpose spurred her on, knowing she was key to saving yet another innocent clansman from the gallows.
A Jacobite rebel on the run.
Roderick MacLeod. What would he think, let alone do, if he were to discover her secret? Annabel tripped and stumbled forwards, righting herself before she fell. She stopped to catch her breath and turned to curse whatever obstacle had caused her near-tumble. There was none. No rock or tangled bracken. In the growing light, she could see the earth was reasonably flat along this section of the path.
She looked up to see Finvreck at a distance behind her. It stood like a giant ink blot against a canvas of greyish sky. A symbol of strength and protection. Just like the laird who’d returned to claim it. It was he, rather, the thought of him, she decided, that had caused her loss of concentration.
Curse him!
She pushed on, stopping only when she’d reached that part where the land sloped gently away. Beyond that was a sheer drop. God’s legacy, some folk believed, whereby His own hand had sliced the granite cliff-face with a giant broadsword. If the legend were true, then why had He seen fit to do so?
She shuddered, crossed herself, and said a quick prayer for deliverance, never to be at the receiving end of God’s wrath. Surely, hiding and abetting the escape of innocent clansmen, hunted down by the English, would keep her in His good graces.
She looked ahead, to the stretch of beach below. High tide sent waves crashing onto the shore. Soon, it would recede. She smacked one hand on the crown of her hat to prevent it from blowing away. The other hand reached for the sky, and with her face tilted up she closed her eyes, feeling the updraft of sea spray and chilly wind on her face and palm. The loose-fitting breeches and coat flapped against her body.
As always when exposed to the elements, Anabelle’s senses came alive. As much as she longed to stand awhile amidst Mother Nature, she ventured forth in the direction of one of the many hidden caves at the base of the cliff.
The lightening dawn made her descent easier to see and step her way carefully over and around rocks and boulders down along the sloping cliff-face. As she did so, her maid’s advice came to mind concerning Roderick MacLeod. Give him a reason to keep you.
She already had: to conceive and bear his heir.
She suddenly lost her footing, sending small rocks and debris tumbling down the sloping edge. Her bottom hit the ground hard. Survival instinct had her twist her body and press her stomach against the earth. Her fingers clawed and dug into the dirt. It was enough to stop herself sliding dangerously in the same direction as the rubble.
Conceiving a child with Roderick MacLeod terrified her more than if she were to plummet to her death on the treacherous rocks below. Physical intimacy with a man was an unsettling matter. Something of which she had absolutely no firsthand experience.
No man had spoken her name in the same gentle tones as Roderick had last night. It caressed her softer than a summer evening breeze. What if he were to kiss her?
Curiosity urged her to find out.
Reality had her stand and dust herself off.
She continued on, careful not to set a foot wrong, tripping instead over her thoughts; remembering how flustered she’d been with his talk and innuendo of pleasure and pain, of giving and submitting to him. Even now, despite being in the chilly open air, her cheeks warmed just as they had last night with his carefully crafted words.
She remembered his splayed palm on her belly. The memory brought Annabel to a jarring halt. His heat had infused her like a healing poultice to an open wound. To her surprise, she’d liked it.
Very much.
She understood what it was to have her heart race, but never dreamed it would do so, and with such pleasurable rhythm, from having Roderick MacLeod press his hand against her body. But when he’d slowly raised that hand to touch her cheek, long-ingrained conditioning kicked in to react as her late mother would have her do.
To withdraw. Tense. Fearful. Untrusting.
Of men.
Even more surprising had been the hurt she’d seen in the laird’s eyes. Her repulsion had greatly offended him. Because she rejected his touch outright, or because he’d taken the rejection personally?
The latter she could relate to.
Was it a commonality they shared?
He didn’t know it, but there was one thing they most definitely had in common. For her part, that could never be undone. A secret she would carry to the grave.
The cry of a sea eagle sent her gaze skyward. The huge bird flapped its big, broad wings and circled, buoyed by the windy updraft. Its pale head plumes and white tail marked it as a mature bird, perhaps now in search of a tasty meal to feed its young.
Her clansman would soon be as free as that bird.
Annabel tucked thoughts of Roderick MacLeod aside. At the base of the cliff, she jumped from rock to rock until finally she reached a sheltered alcove. There, standing in the mouth of the hidden cave and waving at her, was her MacDonald clansman.
His ticket to freedom was anchored offshore. All he needed do was board it.
She broke into a run along the sandy shore and caught sight of a skiff bobbing up and down at a safe distance in the shallows. Panic rose for fear of having missed the opportunity to vouch for her clansman and see him safely spirited away. One hand dove into her coat pocket to retrieve the silk scarf, symbolic of a white rose, and identifying her as a Jacobite supporter. She used it to flag attention.
‘Here! Over here!’ Annabel shouted at the top of her lungs. She let loose her hair so that the ship’s captain could identify her—as she knew he would—through his spyglass.
His response came in the form of a flickering spout lantern. Seeing this, the skiff’s oarsmen rowed swiftly to shore.
The tall, middle-aged MacDonald caught Annabel in a tight embrace. ‘Och, lass. I thought ye werenae going to make it.’ Relief rumbled in his deep voice.
‘Nonsense, Uncle. Ye ken me better than that.’
Her gut churned like the undercurrent in a turbulent sea. It was perhaps the last time she’d hold her dear uncle close. It deepened the hole in her heart and sent her soul to an even darker place. But she’d learned to look at life through pragmatic eyes.
Make good with what you have. The one piece of constructive advice her father had seen fit to offer her. The better side of who she was, she mused, and that was inherited from her mother: kindness, consideration, compassion.
‘Now then …’ Annabel set herself apart from the man who, like her, considered himself an outcast. She sniffed back tears. Stalwart and resolute, she tucked the white silk scarf back in her pocket. She removed the sack of provisions from her person and looped it over his head. ‘Food so ye willnae starve, and a knife for protection.’
Gratitude shone in eyes the colour of warm, autumn brown. A thick, puckered battle scar disfigured his cheek, marking him as a wanted man and easily identifiable by the English. Over a year in hiding and on the run had taken its toll. Once a strapping Highland warrior, he now looked gaunt and thin.
And yet he stood tall. ‘My eternal thanks, lass. Ye do the memory of yer mother proud, and ye’ve equal courage to that of every clansman I fought alongside at Culloden.’
Annabel shrugged, being unaccustomed to compliments. ‘Aye, weel, I’m nae so sure about that.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘God bless ye, lass.’
‘Let’s hope He does.’ She smiled. ‘Putting distance between ye and the Sassenachs is reward enough for what I do.’
His mouth curved into a winsome smile. ‘It shames me that my own brother turned his back on me. Ye, his daughter, are my saving grace.’
A wooden hull slushed against sand. ‘Ye there!’ An oarsman shouted. ‘We’ve nae time to waste! The tide is turning.’
Annabel threw her arms around her uncle’s neck. ‘May ye find peace and a happy life abroad.’
‘Come with me to France, lass. There’s naught for ye here.’
Annabel stepped back and glanced over his shoulder at the ship waiting offshore. She selfishly entertained his earnest plea. Strong belief in what she did dictated she stay. She’d become a useful link in a chain that served a higher purpose. Remove herself from the covert cause and she had … nothing.
She’d finally found something, not someone, to live for.
‘Ye’re wrong about that, Uncle. France disnae need me. Our clansmen do.’
‘Yer too soft-hearted, lass. Watch yer back else ye put yer own life in danger.’
She shook her head. ‘I dinnae believe I’m risking anything of myself by offering assistance to free those who would otherwise be sentenced to death by the English.’
‘If yer husband discovers—’
‘He willnae.’ Annabel urged her uncle with haste towards the skiff and watched him settle on the wooden seat.
The oarsman who’d hailed them shoved an envelope in her hands. ‘From the captain,’ he said.
Annabel tucked it deep in her coat pocket. Later, she’d interpret its cryptic contents conveying when the ship would return. And for whom.
She swallowed the ball of grief in her throat and waved her dear uncle farewell.
Time to turn and retrace her steps, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to move. Seeing her uncle’s face fade in the distance rekindled the memory of her mother drawing her last rattling breath in Annabel’s arms. Gut-wrenching.
She consoled herself knowing that at least her uncle had cheated an early death, and that she, Annabel MacDonald, had played a part in his escape.
She snatched her hat in hand, whipped around and sprinted headlong into the wind along the shore. Clumps of sand flew high in her wake. Tears stung her eyes, or did they smart from the wind and salty sea spray? The white wash from an incoming wave licked her boots. Above, gulls cried.
She leapt up onto the rocks and gazed back out to sea. A majestic wind-filled sail prepared to send the ship’s bow slicing through choppy waters.
Daylight had dawned and with it a renewal of Annabel’s determination to see Roderick MacLeod return to England. First, she must make him accept that they were legally wed, to secure her future at Finvreck.
Only then would she give him an heir. No child should ever be made to bear the burden of being another man’s bastard.