There was a flash of lightning. The dark mass of clouds was now directly overhead. In the distance, the ship was flying across the water, its sails bulging full of wind from the storm.
Another flash of light illuminated the shoreline.
So far away…
And it felt as if there was a grip on her from below. Hands reaching up to pull her down to her death.
The thunder rumbled above her.
No, she would not give up and die!
Ailsa ripped at the buttons on her doublet, forever grateful for the tiny cabin on the ship that had seen her dressing in her simplest garments. There was no room for farthingale or fashionable French dresses. Now, she stripped the outer garments off.
With her legs free, she began kicking, propelling herself toward the shore. Toward life. If there was any mercy in the heavens above, she would make it.
The best vengeance would be to survive. Because if she failed to live, there would be no way to claim justice.
*
Keith stronghold. Scotland.
In the middleof summer, the roof of the stables was dry. Far too dry for the bolts of lightning the storm brought with it. Flames ate greedily at the thatch. Though the rain extinguished the flames atop the roof, inside the stable, the fire continued to smolder.
Diarmuid rushed out into the onslaught of rain and wind with the rest of the Keith retainers. Horses screamed, the scent of smoke making them frantic to escape. The thunder felt as if it shook the very ground he stood upon, while the wind was so fierce, the drops of rain hit like pebbles.
“Get the horses!” Diarmuid ordered. Every able-bodied man braved the onslaught to calm the horses. The animals were key to the defense of the clan.
As the stable continued to burn, smoke filled the stalls.
“Take them to the hall and the Maiden’s Tower!” Diarmuid ordered. “Anywhere there is shelter!”
There was no time to debate old curses. The retainers led the horses to the old, square tower where the animals at last found relief from their terror. The wind still howled, but there was no smoke to blot out their senses.
“Get the goats and sheep up the steps,” Diarmuid directed.
The younger lads who took care of the smaller animals spared a glance upwards.
“I’ll go first.” Diarmuid led by example.
Superstition be damned. He grabbed up two ewes and climbed with them secured beneath his arms. The tower was mostly empty thanks to the curse. Today that was a blessing because it meant there was a place for the animals.
Soon the place reeked of wet wool. Diarmuid nodded with satisfaction, though, for the small ewes would survive. Wool wasthe currency of the country. Tomorrow, there would be chores a plenty to clean up the mess, but they would have their animals.
“Help me…please, please, please.”
Diarmuid frowned. He looked around but there wasn’t another human in sight.
“Oh, do please open the door. I am shut in here!”
The voice came from above him. Up another steep flight of steps was the top floor of Maiden’s Tower. The place where Brigitta Campbell had been imprisoned and died.
“Please, please, please do not leave me here all alone.”
Diarmuid let out a little grunt. At last, it seemed as though there was someone else who didn’t let the old stories frighten them into staying away from the tower.
He climbed some more, and the door was unbarred. He peered intently at the thick bar of wood that was propped against the wall. Beyond the doorway, a bolt of lightning illuminated a large bed.
Someone had, in fact, come up to the top floor. He was curious to meet her. Whoever she was, the lass had spirit.
