She heard her name again and felt an odd sensation all over her body. She held her forearm up in front of her face and could see each individual hair was erect. The air was full of menace. There must be a fast-approaching squall, blown off the sea, with no warning.
The boat rocked with a sudden wave.
She sat up from the bottom of the boat and thought she saw a figure along the edge of the loch, waving both arms at her. But she knew she must be quick so she turned and took her seat and got her oars in the water and began rowing.
Within seconds, there was torrential rain. Heavier and more violent than the rainstorm she and Jack Pike had driven her cart through from Cumdairessie to Kinmarloch when the roof of the keep had collapsed.
Flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder. Wind and white tops on waves which had not been there just moments ago.
She fought the oars, panting, unsure if she was still directed toward the nearest shore. The rain pelted her eyes and splashed into her open mouth. The bottom of her boat began to fill with water from the rain and from waves coming over the sides.
She pulled on her oars. She bent her strong back and she pulled. She pulled. She pulled. She twisted her body, trying to see where she was going, trying to find the shoreline. She could see nothing but rain and a wild, tossing loch.
The water in the boat covered her feet, her ankles, and was creeping up her calves. Her mind was empty of everything but the need to pull, to get to land, to pull.
A big wave came up and the boat did not ride it but dipped under it and the boat was completely full of water and going away from her into the down deep and she was surrounded by water and her tired arms were thrashing and water was going into her mouth.
She sank down under the surface.
A jerk. Something strong around her waist. Her head up above the waves. Gasping. A body next to hers, holding her against him.
The most beautiful man she had ever seen.
He turned her away from him and yoked an arm around her chest and she had no sense of movement, only water on her face from waves and the rain. The crack of thunder. Her own thudding heart.
But he must have been moving because she was being dragged over something solid and she was lying on land. She clutched the earth next to her. She was safe.
His face over hers. “Helen.”
She put muddy hands to his cheeks. “Mo luran.”
She was being lifted off the ground and carried. She grabbed his shoulders, turned her face into his chest, wanting to bury herself in him.
Then there was no more rain falling on her face or body. He had taken her into the little hut on the shore. He laid her on the earthen floor and now their bodies were not touching. He knelt next to her, his chest heaving. The rain thrummed heavy on the thatched roof.
She struggled to sit up. “Jack Pike.”
“Rest, Helen. Rest.”
She found his hand and clutched it, lifted it, brought it to her chest and lay back.
They stayed that way for some time, her lying, him kneeling, looking in each other’s eyes, unable to draw breath fully. She held his hand over her heart as the thunder rolled and boomed.
Jack’s cheeks were smeared with mud where she had touched him. He was still the sunrise and the stars, but there was something different about him besides the mud. He had pain in his eyes and all she wanted to do was wipe it away, like it was the mud on his face.
But she didn’t know how she could do that.
And she didn’t know how to be in the same place as the man she loved.
Finally, she spoke. “I dinnae know how to swim.”
“No.”
“Ye saved me.”
He shook his head. “No more rowing until you learn how to swim.”
“Aye. Thank ye.”
