Read Online When the Laird Returns by Karen Ranney - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Karen Ranney
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undimmed by the storm.
“The Fortitude, ” he said, pride lacing his voice.
Chapter 6
U nlike the other merchant vessels Iseabal had seen in Inverness, the MacRae’s ship was stretched at both ends until her bow and stern rose high above the water. Four towering masts spread the length of the ship, each intersected by thick horizontal beams holding huge swags of sails.
The Fortitude ’s name in Gaelic was emblazoned in bold crimson lettering along her side. Iseabal knew little of the language, the Gaelic having been forbidden for decades now. In a strange way, she thought, the MacRae was more Scots than she. He wore the tartan, displayed the language of their ancestors, and no doubt spoke it as well.
MacRae led the way to a lone skiff on the shoreline. Without warning, Iseabal was being effortlessly lifted, her feet stumbling in the bottom of the boat before she was released. Stifling a cry of pain, she sat on the bench, surreptitiously pressing her arm against her side.
The MacRae sat beside her, one sailor behind her, the other opposite them manning the oars. Her sideways glance revealed that his lips had thinned, his face bearing a look of irritation. Was he a man of her father’s temperament, slow to please and too quick to anger? If so, she simply didn’t have the energy to care.
Iseabal sat on the rough wood seat, clutching her hands in her lap, choosing not to look at the MacRae, concentrating on the Fortitude instead.
Thunder boomed overhead; lightning appeared to sizzle from one cliff face to another. Rain had transformed the air into a gray, waterlogged blanket. Was it possible to be more miserable than she was at this moment? She was drenched and in pain, and even locked in her chamber Iseabal had not felt as isolated as she did at this moment.
The MacRae was as drenched as she, his hair slicked back in the pouring rain, yet he didn’t look battered by the elements. Instead, he sat aloof and apart, as kingly as if he commanded the climate. Or perhaps a god of rain and storm, and in his eyes the promise of a fair, sunny day.
He turned, his gaze locking with hers for a moment before he looked away, gesturing to the man in front of them. The oars were stowed, the boat carried by the current until it nudged the Fortitude . One sailor reached out to grip the rope ladder, holding it steady for the other crewman. Then, Iseabal realized, it was her turn. Staring up at the distance to the railing, she felt unequal to the task. There was nothing to do but put her foot in one of the rungs and pull herself up the side of the ship.
Halfway there, Iseabal was certain she wouldn’t make it. The pain in her side was as sharp and piercing as a knife point. Laying her forehead against the wet rope, she took asdeep a breath as she could, gripped the rung above her, and began to pull herself slowly upward again.
The MacRae spoke from beneath her, but the rain abruptly increased in volume, rendering conversation impossible. Was he giving her words of condemnation or encouragement? Neither mattered at the moment. This ascent would be made with sheer determination and nothing else.
Iseabal gritted her teeth, ignoring the pain and the increasing violence of the storm, finally reaching the railing. The same two sailors helped her to the deck, a flurry of petticoats alerting her to the need for modesty. Such consideration, Iseabal thought, weighed less than her wish for warmth, shelter, and an end to the pain.
None of the sailors seemed to mind the storm or pay it any heed. A few of them bravely gamboled up the masts, untying the ropes that held the front sails furled.
Behind her, the MacRae swung a leg over the railing, speaking to Daniel before joining her. Gently, he took her arm and led her across the deck. Tucked into an expanse of well-polished wood was a door. He pushed it open, stepping back for her to precede him.
His hand on her back was both impetus and encouragement. Moving forward, Iseabal heard the door
“The Fortitude, ” he said, pride lacing his voice.
Chapter 6
U nlike the other merchant vessels Iseabal had seen in Inverness, the MacRae’s ship was stretched at both ends until her bow and stern rose high above the water. Four towering masts spread the length of the ship, each intersected by thick horizontal beams holding huge swags of sails.
The Fortitude ’s name in Gaelic was emblazoned in bold crimson lettering along her side. Iseabal knew little of the language, the Gaelic having been forbidden for decades now. In a strange way, she thought, the MacRae was more Scots than she. He wore the tartan, displayed the language of their ancestors, and no doubt spoke it as well.
MacRae led the way to a lone skiff on the shoreline. Without warning, Iseabal was being effortlessly lifted, her feet stumbling in the bottom of the boat before she was released. Stifling a cry of pain, she sat on the bench, surreptitiously pressing her arm against her side.
The MacRae sat beside her, one sailor behind her, the other opposite them manning the oars. Her sideways glance revealed that his lips had thinned, his face bearing a look of irritation. Was he a man of her father’s temperament, slow to please and too quick to anger? If so, she simply didn’t have the energy to care.
Iseabal sat on the rough wood seat, clutching her hands in her lap, choosing not to look at the MacRae, concentrating on the Fortitude instead.
Thunder boomed overhead; lightning appeared to sizzle from one cliff face to another. Rain had transformed the air into a gray, waterlogged blanket. Was it possible to be more miserable than she was at this moment? She was drenched and in pain, and even locked in her chamber Iseabal had not felt as isolated as she did at this moment.
The MacRae was as drenched as she, his hair slicked back in the pouring rain, yet he didn’t look battered by the elements. Instead, he sat aloof and apart, as kingly as if he commanded the climate. Or perhaps a god of rain and storm, and in his eyes the promise of a fair, sunny day.
He turned, his gaze locking with hers for a moment before he looked away, gesturing to the man in front of them. The oars were stowed, the boat carried by the current until it nudged the Fortitude . One sailor reached out to grip the rope ladder, holding it steady for the other crewman. Then, Iseabal realized, it was her turn. Staring up at the distance to the railing, she felt unequal to the task. There was nothing to do but put her foot in one of the rungs and pull herself up the side of the ship.
Halfway there, Iseabal was certain she wouldn’t make it. The pain in her side was as sharp and piercing as a knife point. Laying her forehead against the wet rope, she took asdeep a breath as she could, gripped the rung above her, and began to pull herself slowly upward again.
The MacRae spoke from beneath her, but the rain abruptly increased in volume, rendering conversation impossible. Was he giving her words of condemnation or encouragement? Neither mattered at the moment. This ascent would be made with sheer determination and nothing else.
Iseabal gritted her teeth, ignoring the pain and the increasing violence of the storm, finally reaching the railing. The same two sailors helped her to the deck, a flurry of petticoats alerting her to the need for modesty. Such consideration, Iseabal thought, weighed less than her wish for warmth, shelter, and an end to the pain.
None of the sailors seemed to mind the storm or pay it any heed. A few of them bravely gamboled up the masts, untying the ropes that held the front sails furled.
Behind her, the MacRae swung a leg over the railing, speaking to Daniel before joining her. Gently, he took her arm and led her across the deck. Tucked into an expanse of well-polished wood was a door. He pushed it open, stepping back for her to precede him.
His hand on her back was both impetus and encouragement. Moving forward, Iseabal heard the door
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