Errol sent his captain a look that wasn’t befitting of the laird of the clan. It was the beseeching look of a desperate father.
“Where do I find such a lass?” Brom asked with a shake of his head. “What girl would give up what she has for so slim a chance at a good life?”
As if in answer, a bolt of lightning cut through the heavens. It was thicker and brighter, momentarily blinding Errol and Brom. The following rumble of thunder was centered directly above them. As though heaven itself was experiencing a battle.
Errol looked at Brom. “It is a night of unnatural happenings. I have earned merit in this life. Head for the crossroads. There will be a lass. Find her, Brom. If there is justice in this life, ye’ll not have to promise her anything.”
Brom didn’t agree with him. Errol saw that in the way his captain’s eyebrows lowered. But Brom tugged on the corner of his cap in acknowledgement before he turned and left.
Errol looked toward the back of the hall where his household staff was clustered. “Clean the maiden’s tower chamber. Ready it for my son’s wedding.”
There were wide eyes and shuffling of feet but not the action Errol craved. Standing there on the high ground, unable to help his son was intolerable. He pointed at his staff.
“Clean the chamber! Bring the finest things! Spices and beeswax candles! We will show my son the way back to this life!”
One of the older maids set her jaw and grunted at the younger ones. Errol watched them scurry out of the hall at last. A small bit of satisfaction was his, but it was only a fleeting moment. Desolation came for him in the next breath.
He had but one living child. All of the rest had already gone across the boundary into the afterlife. It was overly harsh of fate.
So fate would have to give him a lass to help lead Diarmuid back to his side. Hope flickered inside of him. It was faint but it was like a candle on the darkest night. Even a tiny flame pushed the blackness back like David facing Goliath.
Brom would find a lass.
There would be a bride to challenge Brigitta for Diarmuid!
*
There was saltin her eyes.
Ailsa rubbed at her face, but her hands carried a coarse, grainy substance to her eyes. She opened them, smiling at the sand stuck to her hands.
It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
Every inch of her body hurt. She smiled because that pain felt so very good.
It meant she was alive.
By divine grace, or pure stubborn determination, whatever the reason, she had made it to shore. Above her the storm was breaking up into fluffy white clouds. They drifted against the backdrop of a perfect dawn sky. It was golden and yellow, promising to be blue in another hour.
It was as if the night before had never been.
She struggled to her feet. The effort was almost too much until she recalled the way Mol had paid off the captain of Fortunes Gift.
Ha! She had survived.
Rays of morningsun broke over the horizon. Ailsa smiled in welcome. She started up the beach, picking her way across the rocks and debris. Her practical ship shoes had mercifully been too difficult to remove in the water.
But she wore naught but her smock. The undergarment was made of good linen, yet it was no match for the brisk morning air. She needed food and clothing, but she had no idea where she was.
And she refused to allow doubt to riddle her with fear. She would find someone compassionate and kind and they would help her.
She would not die on this remote stretch of rocky sand. Mol would not be so lucky.
The wind blew, flattening the linen of her smock against her body. Every inch of her was chilled and her belly rumbled long and low.
No, she hadn’t survived this far to give up!
A new sound touched her ears. Ailsa turned her head so it would funnel into her ear better. Whatever it was, it was growing louder.
