Free When the Laird Returns by Karen Ranney Page A

cabin. He let the stone drop to the floor, the gesture accompanied by an oath so loud and foul that her eyes widened.
    “You mustn’t drop it like that,” she scolded, standing. “Marble cracks.”
    “I’d not be criticizing me,” he said, his scowl older than his years. “I hauled it from the boat, didn’t I? And up the ladder? What the captain was doing fetching the stupid thing, I’ll not know. Next you’ll have him mucking about in the mud to find just the right pebble for you.”
    “Do you always talk in such a fashion?” she asked, startled. He was little more than a child, yet his vocabulary and demeanor marked him as older.
    He stood, his legs still braced apart, his hands behind him, a pose she’d seen the MacRae assume.
    “I’m Rory, the captain’s boy, ma’am,” he said proudly.
    “His son?” she asked, confused.
    “You’re thinking I’m some by-blow?” he asked incredulously. “The MacRaes are honorable men,” he said, making no effort to hide his derision. “I’m his cabin boy.” With that, he stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him.
    A gale had just passed through the cabin, Iseabal thought, a two-legged force of nature to challenge the gathering storm winds outside.
    Lowering herself carefully to her knees, Iseabal placed her hands on the block, grateful to find no cracks in the surface of the smooth marble.
    This was the errand the MacRae had spoken of, going back to the pit for the stone she wished. What kind of man grants a bride such a doubtful gift? Or who does so without a word of protest?
    He was a man of fearsome stature, whose eyes had grown cold when looking at her father. The MacRae was not a man to challenge, yet he’d done such a thing for her. Nor was it the first time he’d shown consideration.
    Who was her new husband? Iseabal suddenly realized that she wanted, very much, to know.

Chapter 7
    T he increasing wind buffeted Alisdair until his wet clothing was plastered against his skin. There was no reason to change; he’d only become drenched again. After the Fortitude made Coneagh Firth, he’d revel in dry clothes, and in the warmth of a brazier carried up from the galley. A promise to himself that led to another thought.
    Where was he going to sleep tonight?
    Sleeping below the stars was a nice respite from the closeness of his cabin, smaller than most captain’s quarters due to the Fortitude ’s design. On a fair night he would not hesitate to make a berth on deck. Nor was he adverse to sharing quarters with his crew. But he wasn’t about to drown, and they were two sailors over on this voyage, the men drawing straws to see who won a hammock for the night. He wouldn’t take a place not rightfully his.
    The sails harnessed the wind in a whoosh of canvas. Below his feet, he could feel the Fortitude ’s eagerness to escape from the cove. But Scotland did not release them easily, he mused, as the thunder growled over them and lightning struck too close to the necklace of rocks, as if warning them not to leave. The sheer cliffs curving to form the promontory that was Gilmuir were starkly illuminated by a flash of light even as Alisdair gave the signal for the anchors to be raised.
    His most trusted pilot manned the wheel, easing the Fortitude around the natural barrier as he watched.
    “Henrietta was right,” Daniel said, coming to stand beside him.
    “I thought that particular omen was for yesterday,” Alisdair said, glancing at his first mate. “Or are there no timetables for Henrietta’s omens?”
    The cat might have warned him, Alisdair thought dryly, that he was about to be made a pauper and a husband.
    “The cook wants to know if it will be a cold meal, Captain,” Daniel said, not responding to his gibes about the ship’s cat. When Daniel considered himself right, he retreated into a smug silence.
    “Tell him to keep the stove cold until after the storm passes,” Alisdair replied, annoyed.
    Daniel nodded and left him. Alisdair