Chapter Nine
Bridget was shoved into a room and the door closed behind her. Free of restraining hands, she yanked the sack from her head, sucking in air. Her gaze darted about the narrow space. She took in the low bed, bolted to the wall, and the similarly secured table. The walls, floor and ceiling were rough wood. There was an overwhelming stench of mildew. The thin window opposite her had no latch or curtains. The whole room seemed to sway.
Bridget stumbled to the window. For a moment, the tilting horizon and slate-colored water confused her. “I’m on a ship,” she murmured. The horror of being at sea slammed into her. A ship could be going anywhere. How would Alasdair find her?
Alasdair…there’d been so many men attacking him. To what end? Capture? Somehow, she doubted that. Her breath broke in a shuddering sob. She leaned her forehead against the cold glass. Agony cut through her. She gripped the rough wood sill for support, her legs weak.
Tears slid down her cheeks. Her gaze settled on what must be the side of another ship. She lifted her eyes to take in the bobbing, unchanging strip of land beyond. She could feel each slow beat of her heart. Her lids slid closed.
And snapped open again. The ship wasn’t moving. They were docked.
Bridget straightened, squaring her shoulders. She dashed the tears from her cheeks. They were docked. She wasn’t lost somewhere at sea, and Alasdair would find her. She recalled the iron strength of his arms as he shielded her from collision with the ground. She remembered the deep scar on his palm, the wide mark across his chest. Those were suffered in fights he survived and undoubtedly won. Her glimpse of the battle in the forest was brief, but she hadn’t seen a single man land a blow save Alasdair. He would win, and he would come for her.
She drew in a long, steady breath. The first thing to do, then, was to escape the cabin. She spun and took the three steps to the door on quiet feet. Tentatively, she pressed the latch. She was unsurprised to find the door locked.
She turned a slow circle, studying every detail of the cabin. She crossed to the bed and tried to wrench a rough wooden leg free. When that proved futile, she did the same with the other leg, then those of the table. The thick posts wouldn’t work free.
Growing more desperate, she returned to the door. She clawed at the latch, to no avail. She went to the window, but found no purchase to pull off the pane. Finally, desperation welling, she scrambled about the cabin and pried at any board on ceiling, floor or wall that appeared the slightest bit loose.
After more than an hour, all she’d accomplished was bloodying the ends of several fingers. She stood in the middle of the small cabin with her fists balled and worked to suppress new tears, born of frustration. She would not be weepy, and she refused to be helpless.
There must be something she could do. She hadn’t so much as a hairpin, though. Her eyes went wide at her own foolishness. What need had she of a hairpin when she had stays? She reached for the hem of her dress.
Footsteps sounded beyond the door. She went still, the smooth fabric sliding from her sore fingers. With a grating sound, the latch slid back, unlocked from the outside. She watched for a long moment, but the heavy iron latch didn’t move again. The door didn’t open.
She tiptoed to the door and pressed an ear to the wood. The ship creaked. Dimly heard seabirds cawed. The world slid up and down in a smooth lull. She thought, maybe, she could hear something outside the cabin. Shifting feet? Holding her breath, she pulled the door open.
One of their family’s footmen stood outside the door. He bowed. “Lady Bridget, your father asked me to bring you to him when you’re ready.”
“My father?” She stared at the man, dumbfounded.
“Yes, my lady.”
“My father was taken, too?” They’d dared enter her father’s keep?
“That’s not for me to say, my lady,” the footman said. “Shall I show you to him?”
She nodded, bemused but wary. The footman set off. She followed, trying to ignore the way the ship rocked gently beneath her feet. Was their footman the spy? But, he’d been with them for years. How long had they been spied on? He didn’t seem evil. He seemed deferential, as always.
He led her up a set of steep, narrow steps. Bridget blinked in the afternoon light. One look told her the ship was anchored in Inverness’s harbor. The ship was large, three masted, though the sails were furled. She drank in the sea breeze. After the musty cabin, even the biting odor of fish refreshed her. The several men who lounged about the rails wore her father’s livery. They didn’t look rough, like sailors. They were lean, hard men with eyes that reminded her of the maid, Fiona.
At the top of the steep steps, the footman turned and led her to the entrance of a large aft cabin, directly under the bridge. He knocked once, opened the door, and stood aside. Bridget lingered on the deck, craning her neck to look at the dock. The sea breeze fanned her loose hair about her in shimmering waves. The ship was tall, but near the dock. Could she jump the rail and reach land? Were there more men waiting there?
“Bridget, lass, come in,” her father said, his voice as unyielding as always.
The footman stepped toward her. She lifted her chin and marched out of his reach, into the cabin. The room was large and nearly all windows on the three seaward sides, light and airy despite the low ceiling and plain wood walls. Her father sat at a desk that lacked the ornateness of the one in Lomall a 'Chaisteil, but not the bulk. The unadorned legs were bolted down in the middle of the room. Unlike his keep office, no chair stood before the desk.
Her father looked past her, to the footman. “Close the door.”
He obeyed, taking up a position just inside the cabin.
Bridget crossed to the desk and stopped. Her father didn’t look distressed. He didn’t seem like a man abducted against his will. He appeared to be in charge of the vessel, not restrained. His cane leaned against the low bunk behind him. The emerald clenched in the dragon’s mouth gleamed like his eyes.
“What are we doing here, Father?” she strove for a neutral tone.
“We’re leaving Scotland.” He drummed thick fingers on the desktop.
“You know that’s not what I mean.” The ship rocked in its moorings, scraping against the dock, but she stood tall. She refused to grab his desk for support.
