The next boat, a larger galley, beached further out in the surf. From waist-deep water, Logen pulled himself over the side and onto its deck, then bent to assist with its catch.
As Coira handed over her basket to be filled from the first boat, a sensation of hatred, like a cold wind, blew past her. Startled, she glanced up in time to see Logen trip over something on deck and tumble headfirst over the side.
Nay! She froze with fear as he rolled in mid-air. He hit the shallow water with a tremendous splash, spread-eagled rather than headfirst. The noise of that splash caught the attention of those around her, but she sensed only surprise, not satisfaction.
Logen floated for a moment, then got his feet under him and stood, water sluicing down his broad chest as he brushed wet hair out of his eyes.
“Wha’ the hell?” A voice drifted down from the deck. “What was that?”
She saw Logen glance upward and announce, “I’m fine.”
Tightly focused on him, Coira sensed his chagrin and anger as he struggled to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him when he hit the water. He was a master sailor. Surely, it was not like him to trip in the netting on deck. The way he studied the faces at the rail looking down at him told her he was trying to decide who, if anyone, had arranged his accident.
If someone had arranged it, they had failed. His neck wasn’t broken.
She suddenly longed to go to him, but dared not move. Not in this crowd. She could not be seen as trying to gain the favor of another laird after the last one had rejected her. No good would come from appearing either desperate or calculating. So she stayed where she was and continued collecting slippery fish in her basket, all the while keeping one eye on Logen as he splashed his way ashore.
She forced her attention to the men on the boat, but no sense of them came to her. Were the men’s emotions too muted now for her to detect? Too far away? Then why could she sense Logen’s? And why had she sensed cold hatred just before he fell?
Elizabeth jostled her when she picked up her basket. Coira glanced down, suddenly noting her basket was full, too. She couldn’t linger any longer. They must join the line of people making their way back up the cliff path. She took her time leaving the beach, moving slowly, pausing to greet anyone who made eye contact with her. She spoke to anyone Elizabeth spoke to, glancing about as if enjoying the day and the activity, but keeping her attention on Logen. She saw him working another small-boat catch and laying out nets to dry.
If she hadn’t felt so uneasy, the play of muscles under his wet shirt and the rough strength of his grip as he tugged heavy nets across the sand would have fascinated her. He worked comfortably with some of the men, as though nothing had happened to put his life at risk only a few minutes before. But she saw him glancing around and realized he was keeping watch, too. Logen’s gaze met hers just as she and Elizabeth started back up the path from the beach. She nodded, but he simply bent back to his work as if satisfied to know where she was.
“That was odd,” Elizabeth remarked when they were far enough up the path to be away from other ears.
Though she knew what Elizabeth had in mind, she asked the expected question. “What was?”
“Ye ken exactly what I mean. I’ve never seen Logen fall like that in my life. He was born to be on the water. And this close to shore, in the shallows?”
Coira’s belly tightened at the memory of Logen’s fall. “An accident, surely.”
“Or not.”
“It’s done and he’s fine.” Coira shook her head. They shouldn’t be discussing this here. “I wouldna think on it any more, if I were ye.”
“Aye, well, I’m sureheis...thinking on it, that is. If someone did that, they’ll try again.”
Coira clutched her basket tighter to her middle as a chill ran down her back. “I believe he’s aware of that.”
“For his sake, I hope so.”
They reached the top of the path and paused. Coira looked down on the scene below. Anotherbirlinnhad beached and Logen was in the midst of the activity, pulling nets, offloading fish and gear. Nothing alarmed her, so she let Elizabeth guide her back to the kitchen with their share of the catch. But she vowed to speak to Logen, later. She must warn him not to dismiss his fall too easily.
****
Logen stayed at the beach once the catch was offloaded to secure the boats and help pull them up above the high tide line. It was good, honest work. The kind he understood. The kind that taxed the muscles and relieved the mind. The kind he’d done all his life, with nary a concern it could all change one day. Oh, he’d always known a man could die at sea in a sudden storm, or lose a limb or a life to drowning, a shark, or countless accidents. But he’d never envisioned himself beached, at least not until old age robbed him of the ability to do the heavy work, or to tolerate the cold and wet for weeks at a time. Those days were comfortably far in the future and never troubled him. He was a man in his prime, too young to worry about such.
Now look at him, worried that going out on the boats was too risky. He’d thought most of the fishermen he’d worked with the last two years supported him, but clearly that was not a valid assumption. And it was all too easy to make someone disappear into the ocean.
Who had yanked the net and tripped him, knowing he would fall into shallow water? Nets didn’t move by themselves, and the timing was too perfect. That was no accident. But who ever had done it was a good actor. The faces peering down at him as he spluttered to standing in the hip-deep water all seemed genuinely surprised at his fall.
He had to get the clan in his corner, or at least firmly under his control. He needed trustworthy allies, but more than that, he needed to discover who was conspiring against him. How else could he guard against the innocent expression of a friend, a man he’d worked and lived with for years, who would try to break his neck?
He timed his ascent so the entire path was clear; saddened he had to be concerned about a companion pushing him off near the top. But that kind of fall, unlike the one he took from the boat, would surely kill a man. He needed eyes in the back of his head, and ears that could hear every word uttered by his people. Most of all, he needed to identify the man—or men—bent on sending him to the same fate as his predecessors.
Inside the hall, the smell of smoke, brine, and fish permeated the air. Today’s haul had been enough to keep them fed for a week or more. If the weather and their salt supply held, he’d send the boats out again in a day or two. He wanted a good store of dried and salted fish against the coming winter when storms would keep the boats ashore.
But first he wanted to rinse off the salt water and change into some dry clothes. He headed to his chamber after collecting a bucket of hot water from the cook. Inside, a small fire kept the room warm enough for him to strip to his skin, now prickling from the drying seawater. He wished he had someone to wash his back.
