“Where would we stay? Knock on the Morrisons or the MacIvers’ doors? The only people the Morrisons hate more than the MacLeods are the MacIvers, and they have nay love for us either. We can’t go to any of their strongholds without them kenning who I am. My hair and eyes are too distinct, and my features look too much like Kieran's and Madeline’s. Even if I’m a MacKinnon now, they won’t welcome you. Better yet, the MacLeods of Harris. They’re likely to send someone to Skye ahead of us and tell Cormag exactly where you are. I don’t ken which is more dangerous: the sea or the clans.”
“We may have no choice but to remain on the ships, but there are coves where we can anchor and shelter,” Ronan reasoned. Abigail nodded, and Ronan noticed for the first time that her lips had a blue tinge. Recognizing how cold Abigail truly was made his decision easy. “We put in at the cove between Grimshader and Ranish!”
Men from all four boats nodded their heads, relieved that they would move out of the crosswinds and hopefully calm the horses, that whinnied and tried to rear. Ronan had never seen these experienced warhorses, who had sailed countless times, become so agitated. He believed strongly that animals sensed danger well before humans, and the horses’ behavior increased his nervousness. Based on the wind’s direction, which pushed them backwards and side-to-side, Abigail guessed that the trip south to where Ronan wanted to stop—usually a five-minute journey—was still at least a half hour away. Abigail reminded herself that she had survived a year with the Chisholms and nearly four months at court. A minor storm would not get the better of her. She watched as the men slid oars into the water, fighting against the surging tide until they finally neared the inlet.
“We drop anchor here. Even our shallow bottoms can’t risk running aground.” Ronan ordered his men as they dropped the anchors. Abigail dreaded having to wade ashore. It was only a few yards, but she was certain her toes would be numb by the time she was above the shoreline. Ronan reached out his hand to Abigail and pulled her against him. “Once I’m in, I’ll lift you over. Keep your skirts tucked in your lap.”
“Tucked in my lap? No, Ronan. The surf is too rough for you to carry me. I can walk, just like the rest.”
“And unless you intend to pull your skirts over your head, there is no way that you’ll make it without the current trying to drag you away. The fabric will become your anchor.”
Abigail drew in a deep breath and nodded. She saw the sense in what Ronan said, even if she feared she would cause them both to fall over. She watched as the men lowered the ramps into the water and led the horses off. The water was nearly waist-deep on most of the men. She knew they normally would have ridden them ashore, since the horses’ hooves touched the bottom, but the added weight and height in current conditions would only endanger man and beast.
Ronan clenched his teeth to keep from grimacing as the frigid water swept his plaid up to his waist. He braced himself and reached for Abigail, who had wrapped her skirts around her legs, then tucked the extra length into the belt that kept her arisaid in place. She hobbled to the rail and sat upon it before swinging her legs over the side. Until she released her skirts, she had little space to move her legs. She pushed off from the rail and was immediately caught in Ronan’s brawny arms that held her high against his chest. He didn’t wait to turn toward the shore, since one of his men was already guiding his horse.
Abigail looked around, noticing there was little shelter in the way of trees where they’d stopped, but they were no longer on the rolling and pitching boats. Driftwood brushed the sand before the tide pulled it back out, only to send it back toward shore. There was no point in gathering any, since it would never catch fire. Abigail couldn’t see any other way for them to generate heat, to warm themselves, or to cook. She wasn’t even certain there was anything to catch to eat. It surprised her to see several men working to drill oars into the sand in order to tether the horses. One after another pulled dried beef and fruit from their saddlebags, and then they piled their saddles high enough to drape tarps over them and climb underneath. Abigail realized that if she hadn’t been traveling with the men, Ronan would have been the first to go ashore. He would have scouted before allowing his men to make camp, but with her aboard, Ronan waited until other men signaled it was safe to bring Abigail onto the beach. She also realized that Ronan moved slower than he could have to keep water from splashing onto her. By the time Ronan lowered her to her feet and she unwrapped her skirts, the men had built the makeshift lean-to as far out of the wind as they could. She looked around, but none of the men entered the tent. She looked up at Ronan, her eyes widening as she understood that the men erected it for her. And none would use it while she was there.
“No, Ronan. I’m not sitting there by myself while your—our—men freeze. I’m no princess. I will not take that and leave them to suffer. Either they share with me, or I won’t go in. And if you think to drop me in there, I will only climb out.” Abigail’s brilliant eyes warned Ronan that she would fight him until he relented. It wasn’t worth the battle, since he would welcome the entire Isle of Harris if it meant Abigail was out of the elements. Ronan called out three names and told them to build a second shelter behind the first, since they only had spare plaids to use for that one. The first lean-to would buffer the wind for the second. “Go inside, Abby. I need to check the animals and send men out to hunt.”
“Ronan, they must go inland at least a mile before they find trees either for firewood or wildlife. I don’t know how far north and east the MacIvers send scouts. If they should find MacAuleys, they should tell them I travel with you. They’re the only ones who get along with us. The Mackenzies can go either way, but we aren’t on good terms with them.”
“Who are you on good terms with?” Ronan chuckled, creases forming at the corner of his eyes.
“The MacLeods.” Abigail pursed her lips.
“There is one MacLeod I’m happy to be on vera good terms with, lass,” Ronan said with a wink. He knew the clan dynamics as well as Abigail; in fact, it was likely he knew them better, since she’d been away from the island for more than a year. But he appreciated her concerns for her new clansmen, and it relieved him that she understood the gravity of being discovered by rival clans. He hoped his voice sounded lighthearted enough to ease her worry, but as her eyes continued to sweep the water and the surrounding land, he knew she would remain as vigilant as all the men. “Try to rest, Abby. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
Abigail nodded, knowing that there was no more she could say. She trusted Ronan would tell his men her preference that they share the cover, but she also understood the confined space with their new lady would make them uncomfortable. Honor and chivalry dictated they give the tent to her alone, but she refused to make any of them suffer for the sake of decorum. She also knew they were on edge from being in an unfamiliar location with little but one another to guard their backs. Abigail crawled under the shelter and sighed. While she once again had to huddle, the wind no longer gusted against her. She anticipated the warmth Ronan would bring when he sat beside her and engulfed her in his embrace. She knew his soaked plaid had to be freezing. He and the other men stomped their feet whenever they stood in place, trying to keep their circulation going. The only thing Abigail could imagine to make their situation worse was snow. She gazed at the sky and prayed that now that they were off the rough seas, they wouldn’t face Mother Nature’s wrath any longer.
It wasn’t long before Ronan had his men organized into watch shifts and hunters. He climbed under the tarp with Abigail, wanting to lift her onto his lap to save space, warm her, and to hold her. But he knew his still-wet plaid would only soak her gown. He settled for pulling her tightly against him and kissing her cheek. She leaned against him, curled tight within her layers of plaid and her wool gown. Hesitantly, despite her welcoming smile, four men came to share the shelter with Ronan and her. She remained quiet, too tired to speak and worried that she would annoy the men if she chattered. It wasn’t long before her eyes drifted closed, warmed by Ronan enough to relax. He kissed the top of her head and leaned his cheek against her crown.
Twenty
Ronan didn’t want to alarm Abigail, but his men reported signs of patrols three miles inland. They returned with wood and a collection of rabbits and squirrels that hadn’t been easy catches in early January. He knew all his men needed heat from a fire to keep them from suffering damage to their feet from stockings and boots that were still wet. Neither could they eat the ground animals raw. But he didn’t want to alert anyone nearby. He ordered a fire made to the right of both tents, keeping the camp small and tightly gathered. He had to accept the risk of being spotted over losing his men to the elements. He would have preferred neither risk since Abigail was with him.
When it was Ronan’s turn to stand watch, he eased Abigail onto her side on the unforgiving ground, wishing he had more to protect her from the frost that developed during the night. He instructed the men within their lean-to to remain there. If Abigail needed privacy, they were to take her no further than one hundred yards, encircle her, and turn away. He wouldn’t risk anyone sneaking up on his wife. He stood his two hours’ sentry, softly whistling every quarter hour and listening for his men to return the call. When he eased back into the tent after one of his men relieved him, he found Abigail sleeping peacefully. He wrapped his broader frame around her, making a cocoon, before falling asleep. They awoke to a clear sky and calm seas.
Abigail inhaled the fresh saltwater scent as the sun peeked over the horizon. The inclement weather from the day before might have been a figment of her imagination were she not standing on a beach rather than on a birlinn or within the walls of her new home. With the tide out as they boarded the ships, the men weren’t in the water for as long—or at the same depths—as when they arrived. Abigail began to argue that she would wade out on her own, but Ronan’s scowl cut her short. She nodded, knowing he was being the sensible one, but she felt guilty nonetheless. With the waves lapping against the hull rather than crashing against the wood planks, the horses were quiet once the anchors and the sails were raised. Just as they’d started their journey the day before, Abigail and Ronan stood together at the bow. Ronan’s wide shoulders kept some wind and spray from Abigail as she tilted her head back to feel the sun against her skin.
It was still the middle of winter, but with no gusts assailing them and no snow in sight, it felt tolerable. Abigail felt excitement building as they sailed closer to the Isle of Skye. The worst of the journey was behind them, and everyone expected the rest of the journey to be uneventful. It was nearly midday when the tip of the Isle of Skye became a fuzzy outline to the south. Abigail grinned as she considered what her distant cousins would think when they discovered she had married the very man they lived to antagonize.
With nearly no wind that day, Ronan ordered the men to the oars. Abigail looked back over her shoulder from her place at the bow as she watched Ronan take his turn. Even with his leine on and a length of plaid crossing his back, Abigail could still see the powerful muscles bunch and strain beneath the layers. She bit her top lip as lurid images of running her fingers over his back danced before her eyes. She recalled how she had circled Ronan the first time she saw him naked, mesmerized by his perfect physique. She knew many women at court shied away from the colossal Highlanders when they arrived, preferring the average-sized men who spent their days as courtiers. But Abigail couldn’t picture bedding any man who lacked a warrior’s build and strength. As she thought about it, she couldn’t imagine that any man could meet the standard Ronan now set. While the ladies-in-waiting might have tittered over him, she was the one who shared his bed.
As Abigail turned back to watch as they approached the headland while keeping a safe distance from it, she tried to imagine what Ronan’s chamber looked like. They’d already agreed that there would only be a shared chamber, neither wanting to prowl along passageways, even if the lady’s chambers were next door to the laird’s. Her cheeks grew warm as she recalled confessing to Ronan how she’d passed the afternoon between their time in the library and their walk. She’d admitted that she’d daydreamed about his chamber while pleasuring herself. His response had been immediate—and lasted well into the night.
Abigail already knew there was no bed in the lady’s chamber and that Ronan’s mother had used it as a solar. Ronan’s parents, despite never being in love, had shared a chamber since early in their marriage. Ronan had blushed to his roots when he told Abigail that. His cheeks hadn’t pinked when he’d told her about his father’s regrets about his actions before he married. But admitting that his parents shared a bed every night—the bed Ronan now slept in and would that night share with Abigail—made him flustered.
Shading her eyes from the sun overhead, Abigail squinted as shapes materialized and inched toward them. She leaned forward until her toes were nearly off the deck. Her stomach dropped before it heaved upward and settled in a knot. She turned toward the men and eased her way to Ronan’s bench. Keeping her voice low, she leaned over to whisper, “There are seven MacLeod birlinns moving toward us.”
Ronan checked over his shoulder, not wanting to believe Abigail’s observation. He nodded before he drew his oar in and rose to his feet. His men, still rowing, strained to look at him as he followed Abigail to the bow. Uttering an oath, Ronan led Abigail to the bench closest to the stern. “When the attack starts, get beneath this bench. It’s the only way to protect you from arrows. It won’t keep them from spotting you, but it will make you a harder target to hit.”
Abigail nodded, looking at the man who sat beside where they stood, continuing to row but listening to every word. Ronan didn’t mince words with Abigail, refusing to pretend that anything other than violence awaited them. She knew as well as Ronan, and every man now aware of the impending attack, that they would not pass quietly by the MacLeods. Ronan prayed that the MacLeods would leave them alone if they moved away from their rival’s fishing lanes. But as the MacLeods sailed closer and the steel of their swords caught the light, Ronan signaled to the other boats. All oarsmen pulled as the four birlinns attempted to steer away from the approaching boats.
Ronan ordered his men to point toward shore. He would get them as close to land as he could, praying that some—most importantly, Abigail—would make it ashore. He didn’t doubt his men would fight valiantly, protecting Abigail as their top priority, but he would prefer to stand against the MacLeods on land. If the enemy forced them to defend themselves on the boats, the MacLeods would encircle them and then overwhelm them by sheer numbers. If they made it to shore, he would abandon the boats and lead his warriors and Abigail overland on horseback.
With the wind at their backs, the MacLeods’ progress was far faster than the MacKinnons’. When time ran out for them to reach the coast before the MacLeods reached them, Ronan and his men drew their swords. Abigail slid beneath the bench, her back to their attackers, shielding her organs from the arrows Ronan warned her about. It felt like the minutes were hours as Abigail waited for the first battle sounds. She desperately wanted to turn over to watch Ronan, but she knew he would want her to protect herself before all else. She heard the orders drifting from their enemy, at times, drowned out by Ronan’s commands. She knew the moment the MacLeods recognized Ronan and made him their primary target.
The impact pushed her onto her belly, smashing her face against the deck, when one of the enemy boats rammed the MacKinnons’. The boat shuddered and pitched precariously to port, and Abigail felt herself slipping. She struggled to roll over and grab the bench above her. She clung to it as the sound of metal striking metal rang around her. It was just distant enough for her to know the enemy boarded one of the other boats, not hers.
