In the firelight Errol could see her ashen pallor, her flaxen hair unwashed and unkempt, and the hollowness of her tear-stained cheeks—ah, God, once so fair and rose-tinged as when he had last seen her almost a year ago at her mother’s funeral.
All he wanted to do was get her to Gavin’s ship and into the cargo well where he could tend to her, try to revive her, hold her close and try to reassure her that all would be well?—
“Will it, though?” he barely managed to whisper to himself, Tira moaning softly and fluttering up a hand to her swollen lower lip.
Blood from what must have been a harsh blow had trickled down her chin, which made Errol curse whoever must have struck her. He could see purplish bruises appearing on her cheek, too, where she must have been slapped, hard, Errol clenching his teeth and holding her close while wading into knee-deep water to the side of the ship.
“Help me!” he cried out, several crewmen who had been left onboard to guard the birlinn appearing at the railing. Errol lifted up Tira into arms reaching down to hoist her over the side and then he clambered aboard and immediately took her from the two startled-looking men.
“Aye, you see what Thorgren Sigurdson has done tae her?” he grated, his jaw tight with fury. He must have appeared so enraged that the crewmen backed up several paces on the deck illuminated at the prow and stern by sputtering torches, though Errol’s barked commands sent them running.
“Clear out the prisoners and hold them here for Laird MacLachlan’s judgment—by God, I hope he cuts their throats! I need lanterns lit and blankets, food and water!”
Not only those two crewmen but several others rushed to oblige him. Errol strode with Tira to the canvas-covered cargo well as the captive raiders were hauled up and thrust to their knees near the railing, both men pleading incoherently for their lives.
Errol ignored them and climbed down the creaky wooden steps into the cargo well that stunk of sweat and unwashed bodies, a bucketful of urine in one corner amidst casks of fresh water—but there were no better conditions for Tira on the ship.
A burly crewman hastened down the steps after him and set about doing what he could, ripping away the soiled blankets from the two cots where their prisoners had slept and laying down cleaner ones, and then handing the slop bucket to another man who waited at the top of the steps.
Another moment more and a pair of lanterns were lit and set atop barrels while the cramped space already smelled better. A strong sea breeze wafted into the cargo well until Errol ordered the canvas thrown back into place, the thick fabric skimming the top of his head, he stood so tall.
Any rain had ceased right after the initial attack, the thick clouds clearing away. A bright three-quarter moon cast light upon the steps from a corner of the canvas left open to admit fresh air.
Fresh air that Errol believed Tira sorely needed—God only knew in what shabby conditions she must have been kept. He was loath to set her down, but her moaning had grown louder and her eyelids fluttered, which told him she was regaining consciousness.
With great tenderness, he settled her upon the nearest cot, though lying upon her back made her stomach appear all the more huge beneath her stained cloak.
How could she even breathe easily with such weight upon her from the bairn? He could see that she shivered now, too, which deeply worried him.
As carefully as he could so not to jostle her, he eased the cloak from beneath her and tossed the wadded-up garment onto a cask in the corner. He had discarded his rain-sodden cloak on deck before battle, and his plaid breacan was splattered with his enemies’ blood. He unwound the garment from his shoulder and waist, and wiped his face before throwing the breacan aside.
“Here’s some water for the lass,” the same crewman said behind him, Errol nodding and taking the brimming cup without a word.
He couldn’t have Tira drink yet or she would choke, her eyes half closed and her head lolled to one side. He murmured, “Leave us,” to the crewman, who gestured toward some oatcakes and a wedge of dried venison he’d left atop a barrel, before disappearing with heavy footfalls up the steps.
“Tira, can you hear me?” Errol’s voice hoarse with emotion, he set down the cup alongside the food and knelt beside the cot so he could draw closer to her, but still she didn’t fully open her eyes.
She had grown so still, her breathing so shallow, that a stab of fear coursed through him that mayhap she would never fully awaken and was dying—the shock of her rescue proving too much for her. He leaned closer to stroke her cheek, his fingers barely touching her skin before her eyes widened and she turned her head to look him full in the face, an earsplitting shriek bursting from her.
“No, no, no, dinna touch me! Dinna look upon me! Get away,get away!”
Errol half-stumbled to his feet as Tira rolled onto her side and curled into a tight ball, her outcry so piteous, so heartrending that Errol felt moisture burn his eyes.
God in heaven, what had that fiend done to her to make her react to him so? He didn’t know whether to gather her in his arms in spite of her outburst and try to comfort her, or to stand there quietly until she grew calmer, Tira’s body shaking as fierce sobs overcame her.
“Errol, leave the lass tae me for a while, will you?”
He spun around at the sound of Brody MacCreary’s voice, Gavin’s long-time helmsman standing at the foot of the steps. Errol hadn’t even heard him climb down into the cargo well, Brody was so short and wiry a man, his sun-weathered face etched with pity as he glanced past Errol to Tira.
“I’m no healer, but I know enough tae help her as best as I can until we get her home—aye, even if the bairn comes soon. From the look of her, she’s due tae give birth any time now, though I pray the child will wait a wee bit longer. A soft bed with clean linen, hot water, and a hearth fire would be far better than anything we can do for the lass aboard ship. Och, man, are you listening tae me at all?”
Errol nodded, though he found himself staring at Brody as if he hadn’t understood a single word, while Tira continued to weep like her heart was breaking.
“She’s falling into a frenzy, Errol! Canna you see that it’syoudistressing her? Get on with you or we’ll have a bairn squalling in this stinking place before you can blink!”
Errol did move, so distressed himself now that he vaulted up the steps and onto the deck in time to see one of the captive raiders grab a knife from a guard’s belt and plunge it into the man’s chest.
The murderer lunging over the side of the ship before Errol could grab him, wild splashing marking his desperate escape to shore while the other raider still knelt upon the deck, begging for his life.
