Free When the Laird Returns by Karen Ranney

Inverness, with his habit of rubbing his palms together, would never have made her think of pagan times. None of her suitors would have tenderly dried her face, his eyes intent on hers, his voice kind.
    She began to unfasten her jacket, only now conscious of the movement beneath her. She had never been aboard ship before, and the experience was proving to be a disconcerting one. The Fortitude seemed to be alive in the storm, like a horse bound for a gallop.
    Iseabal stood behind the door to remove her petticoat. There weren’t any pegs or any other place to hang her wet clothing, so she draped it across her trunk. Next came her jacket, the effort of moving her shoulder resulting in a stabbing pain in her side. Resting for a moment, she wondered how long it would be until she felt more like herself again. The constant ache was debilitating, and her body seemed to be stiffening up in response.
    The leather of her stays was soaked and so was the shift below them. She didn’t remove either garment, not out of modesty as much as a very real fear that she wouldn’t be able to don them again.
    The light blue petticoat and jacket in the middle of the basket were slightly damp but in better condition than the clothing she’d removed. Dressing as quickly as she could, Iseabal began to rub her hair, wishing that, now she was partially dry, there was some heat in the cabin.
    Moving to the lantern, she placed her palms over it, but the heat from the oil lamp was not enough to warm her.
    Rain pelted the ship; wind swirled around the decks of the Fortitude and beneath the cabin door in a lamenting moan.
    Iseabal sat on the edge of the bunk, her thoughts not on her wedding night or on the MacRae. Instead, she was wishing that she’d learned to swim.
     
    There wasn’t time to delay, Alisdair thought, climbing the stairs once again, two crewmen with lanterns accompanying him. The storm had darkened the afternoon sky and he wanted to be gone from the cove before the rest of the daylight vanished. Yet, for some reason, he felt compelled to do this task for Iseabal.
    A rock. That was all she’d wanted. Perhaps a souvenir of Gilmuir or of Scotland. He would give her either or both. Not simply because she wished it, but more because of the decision he’d made on the journey from Fernleigh.
    His was not the nature to accept what happened to him. Instead, Alisdair believed that a man made his own destiny. Somehow, he was going to obtain an annulment. They’d been wed outside his religion, in a ceremony unblessed by the kirk. Surely it would be easy enough to petition for his freedom.
    Because of the amount paid to Drummond, he could barely support himself, let alone expand the shipyard. But he had enough left over to settle Iseabal in some other place. Some country far from Drummond, where she could live her life as she chose. As for himself, he’d made one fortune, he’d make another.
    Peering over the edge, Alisdair reached for the rope ladder and, with the assistance of the other two men, pounded the metal hooks into the ground. He lowered himself overthe side, each crewman holding a portion of the ladder to steady it.
    Walking quickly to where he’d last seen the stone, Alisdair stretched a hand into the water and picked it up, surprised at its weight. Tossing it up to the side of the pit was easier than climbing the ladder with it tucked beneath his arm. At the surface, he rolled the ladder up again before retrieving the stone.
    His boots sank into the waterlogged ground with each step as he made his way back to the priory. Turning to the men beside him, he nodded in thanks. Only then did Alisdair realize that this task had been performed in total silence.
     
    The door opened so suddenly that at first Iseabal thought it was powered by an errant gust of wind. But in the center of the doorway was a boy not much older than ten, feet apart to brace himself, arms wrapped around her marble block.
    Speechless, she watched him enter the