Abigail’s body ached from the tension in her taut muscles. She kept expecting to feel the vibration of men jumping onto the deck, the echoing sound of swords clashing near her ears, even hands dragging her from beneath her bench. But none came. Instead, another jarring impact pushed the boat back to port. Her head pointed toward the side that dipped toward the water’s surface, and she felt herself sliding again, despite hanging on. It was her legs being pushed toward her chest as the boat keeled.
“Abby!” Ronan glanced back in time to see Abigail’s body slam into the port bulkhead. He swung his sword over and over as he fought to keep the enemy from boarding his boat. He was unrelenting in his drive to keep their attackers away from his wife. She would be dead before she could convince the MacLeods she was one of them. She wore only her MacKinnon plaid, and Ronan doubted any of them would recognize her by sight alone. Abigail had told him she hadn’t been to Skye since she was a child. Unlike on Lewis, where people would at least be aware of the various lairds’ family members, Ronan couldn’t guarantee the MacLeods of Skye would believe her claims.
A third crash made Ronan fall backwards as one of the MacLeod birlinns continued to push against his boat in an attempt to capsize it. No longer able to remain on his feet, his clansmen struggling too, Ronan scrambled to reach Abigail. But he was only halfway along the deck when the boat finally capsized. Ronan tumbled toward the water, his eyes on Abigail as he fought to get to her. He knew her heavy skirts would cause her to sink, and the freezing water would sap her strength and steal the air from her lungs. He plunged into the water, but the birlinn flipped over him, trapping him and several other men with a pocket of air. But Abigail’s head never surfaced. He didn’t know if the sea had already dragged her under or if she bobbed on the other side of the boat. He kicked and circled his arms until he came to where he’d last seen her. He ducked under the rail that floated beside him and came up free of the boat. He twisted and turned as he looked for Abigail.
“Abby!” Ronan called out to her, just as he had when he watched her crash against the wall of the boat. “Abby!”
The only sound that reached Ronan came from the fights that raged on his other three birlinns. When Abigail didn’t answer his cry, he dove beneath the surface, the saltwater like shards of glass against his open eyes. They’d traveled close enough to land that the water was shallow enough to kick to the bottom. He looked around, moving his hands in front of him, but he could see nothing but rocks and sand. Forced to surface for a breath, he dove again, swimming back under the boat but toward the sea floor. Just as he had before, his hands searched the seabed as his eyes struggled to focus. But just as before, he found nothing. Moving beneath the surface for as long as he could, Ronan continued searching until his lungs screamed for air. His head emerged in time to see the hull splinter where the wood finally succumbed to the impact of the MacLeods ramming the boat three times. A hole now released the bubble of air beneath the boat, and the vessel sank.
Ronan continued to look for Abigail among the many heads bobbing in the water. He recognized most as his men, but there were some MacLeods among them. All his men could swim, and they were struggling against the current to reach land. But Ronan wouldn’t abandon his search for Abigail. He called out to her over and over to no avail. He felt his strength draining and began to panic, knowing that if he was growing tired, Abigail would already be exhausted. He lunged to catch a piece of driftwood from his boat before the tide carried it away. He pushed it beneath the surface and draped his arms over it. When the wood forced its way back up, he used it to keep him buoyant. Ronan knew he would die in the water before he gave up hope of finding Abigail. He kicked away from the wreckage, but his legs no longer had the power they did when he first entered the water.
Letting the water pull him further from shore, he struggled to make his way to the far side of the boat farthest out to sea. The fighting had ceased. The MacKinnons were dead or swimming toward shore. His gaze swept over the MacLeods celebrating their victory, unaware that he’d survived. He could only assume that either they hadn’t recognized his voice, or he hadn’t been as loud as he thought. If the MacLeods thought he lived, they would either capture him or taunt him until they watched him slip beneath the surface for good.
“Ro,” a feminine voice hissed at him. He watched as a pair of robin’s-egg blue eyes bore into his. Abigail floated halfway on her belly, her hand grasping an opening for an oar. He was closer than he realized. He’d looked in her direction as he came around the side of the boat, but he was certain she hadn’t been there. When a voice drifted closer, he watched as Abigail dipped underwater, her fingers barely wrapped around the wood. He followed her example, releasing the board he’d used to help him float. Beneath the waves that broke on the surface, he propelled himself toward his wife. When he felt her fingers seeking his, he squeezed in response. Together, they eased their heads out of the water until their noses were clear. They stared at one another, neither daring to make a sound, the situation still too grave for smiles. But the intense look they exchanged communicated more than words could.
“Ho-ho! And here is where the great Ronan MacKinnon shall meet his grave.” A booming bass crowed from above the couple. Ronan glared at Donovan MacLeod, Laird Cormag MacLeod’s youngest brother. “Though honor demands I save the lass.”
Ronan’s brow furrowed as he watched Abigail’s free hand move below the surface. He couldn’t see more than the barest hint of her knuckles, so he was unprepared when she launched her own attack. Donovan reached over the side of the boat and grasped Abigail’s underarms. As he lifted, she pushed down with the hand that still held onto the boat. Her other arm swung from the water, droplets falling from a blade that shone in the sunlight. It entered Donovan’s neck just as he spotted it flying toward him. He’d twisted his head to see, giving Abigail the perfect angle to slice his jugular. Blood spewed forth, and Donovan dropped Abigail. With nothing to hold on to and the weight of her skirts pulling her, she floundered as she tried to grasp the boat again. Ronan yanked a handful of her bodice upward as he slipped beneath the surface. He looked up as he felt Abigail being lifted once more. Strong hands fisted his leine, dragging him up and over the side of the birlinn. They dumped him on the deck beside Abigail, who still clutched her dirk. A man grabbed for her arm and came away with a gash across his palm.
Ronan scrambled in front of Abigail, snatching the knife from her hand. She released it immediately, shrinking behind her husband’s wide back. It was Ronan’s turn to slash at anyone who reached toward him. Praying his legs would cooperate and support him, he pushed to his feet, stunned by his own agility after so many minutes in the freezing water. Despite facing men with swords, Ronan kept them at bay after he drove the knife into the hollow at the base of a MacLeod’s throat. Ronan recognized the knife he wielded as one he’d given Abigail before they set off, intended for the purpose of defending herself. While he rued the need for it, he was reassured that he had thought to arm Abigail. He knew she’d carried asgian dubhat court, and if she still wore her boots, it was tucked beside her ankle. She had strapped the knife he held now to her outer thigh. He’d slid it into the sheath attached to the garter the morning before.
“Knock him out and bind him. Gag the woman, and for Christ’s sake, make sure she hasn’t any more weapons.” Abigail turned her head to lock eyes with Gordon MacLeod, the middle brother named for his mother’s clan. She saw no flash of recognition in his eyes, but she’d seen it in Donovan’s just before he turned his head and she thrust the knife into him. She wondered how badly she erred to kill the only man who seemed to know who she was. A strip of MacLeod plaid—blue rather than her branch’s red—appeared before her eyes before a warrior forced it between her teeth. Hands ran over her arms and body, lingering too long on her breasts and eliciting a feral growl from Ronan as he fought his captors. They ran over the top of her skirts, but none of the men thought to check her boots.
Abigail silently scoffed at them as she took in the various knife handles protruding from the men’s boots. She watched the MacLeods strip Ronan of most of his, but she knew where he kept a few they didn’t discover. She feared his sword, an heirloom from four generations back, was lost to Ronan forever. Gordon raised it in the air as if he were assessing its quality, but Abigail and Ronan knew he did it to mock the MacKinnon laird. Abigail was powerless when Gordon used the hilt of Ronan’s own sword to bash him against the temple and watch him crumple to the deck. She turned a loathing glare on him, only to be met by his derisive laughter.
Twenty-One
Abigail shivered as she pulled her knees to her chest and watched Ronan’s chest rise and fall. He’d come around as the MacLeods dragged them from the boat, but a man struck Ronan on the opposite temple before he could get his bearings. Now they were locked together in a cell within Dunvegan Castle. Guards thrust them into the stench and filth an hour earlier, and Abigail grew frightened when Ronan didn’t wake as easily as he had the first time they knocked him out. She’d done what she could to make him more comfortable, but it was difficult with their hands bound behind them. She’d managed to nudge him onto his side, careful not to bang his head but keeping his weight from trapping his arms. Frozen and terrified, Abigail cared not that her back and hair brushed against the grimy wall. But when she grew too tired to remain upright, she curled up facing Ronan. She let her eyes close, but she kept her mind active enough not to fall asleep. Until she was certain Ronan would wake, she couldn’t relax.
“Abby.” Ronan opened his eyes to find Abigail resting with hers shut. He watched as she shivered, and he tried to scoot closer, but it was awkward. Her eyes flew open when she heard his voice, and she inched her way toward him. Their cracked lips pressed together; their kiss soft as relief overwhelmed them both. When they drew apart, Abigail’s weak smile worried Ronan. “Are ye hurt?”
“Nay. Just cold and tired.”
“Did ye tell them who ye are?”
“I didna have a chance. They removed ma gag just before they left, but they talked over me when I tried.”
“Do they ken ye’re ma wife?”
“They figured it out. Ma plaid is the laird’s pattern, and I have a ring on ma finger.”
“Did they threaten ye? Mistreat ye?”
“Nae at all. Nay one talked to me once we came on shore, and Gordon warned me that talking would only kill ye sooner. Quite the incentive to remain quiet.” Abigail pushed herself closer until her head fit beneath Ronan’s chin. “None of them touched me, either. Even though they checked me for weapons, after watching me stab Donovan, I dinna think any of the men trust getting near me. I think they all believe I’m a bampot or a banshee.”
“Would that ye could convince them ye’re a banshee. Mayhap they’d think Queen Titania sent ye.”
“They’d believe that as much as they’d believe ye’re King Oberan. Ma husband, aye. An ancient king, nay.” Abigail chuckled as she rested her cheek against Ronan’s chest. “Ronan, I’m sorry I scared ye earlier. I heard ye calling to me, but I didna dare answer. I just kept praying and praying that ye would swim around to where I was.”
“As soon as I saw ye, I figured as much. Ye were smart to nae bring attention to ye until I was with ye. It may nae have done either of us much good, but it means we’re together.”
“I ken there are plenty of other things I could want, but until we’re away from here, all I want is to be with ye.”
“How long have we been down here?”
“Probably two hours.”
“That long?” Ronan tried to rub his temple with his shoulder.
