Free When the Laird Returns by Karen Ranney Page B

turned, flattening his hand against the rail. Loch Euliss was a silvery gray, its waves quieted under the onslaught of rain.
    The Fortitude was beginning to rock in the increasing wind, an indication that there was too much sail. Alisdair called out the order to Daniel and watched the men clambering up the mast. They were lost in gray shadows, as if they’d climbed into a watery cloud.
    A gust of wind nearly felled him, as if in displeasure for his departure. Alisdair steadied himself, wondering if thestorm would follow them all the way to Coneagh Firth. The MacRaes were once again leaving Scotland, and the rain and the thunder seemed to chase them on their way in punishment.
    He had heard stories of the first exodus, when his parents had married aboard ship amidst the sound of bagpipes played by his great-uncle. Alisdair could almost hear Hamish’s pipes now, the wind playing a tune as it whistled across the deck.
    During the next few moments the elements became female, the wind careening around the mast, shrieking in high-pitched fury. The current from Loch Euliss churned below the Fortitude , slapping against the hull in an imitation of a barmaid’s playful smack. Thunder, maternal and aged, boomed no farther than the top of the masts, and lightning, acting as a petulant daughter, illuminated the steep glens on either side of the loch.
    They were too damn close to shore.
    Alisdair made his way to Daniel’s side, shouting at him as the rain pelted both of them with the surprising taste of ice.
    “Have the men come down from the rigging,” he ordered. The ropes were the most dangerous place for a man to be in a storm. Not only could he be swept out to sea by the force of the wind, but lightning occasionally struck the masts and spars.
    “We’re in for a night of it,” Daniel yelled back. “Are we heading for the firth in this?”
    “We’ll sit here and wait out the storm.” There was no other choice. They were too close to shore and could easily go aground in the darkness.
     
    They were all going to die.
    Iseabal sat on the edge of the bunk, gripping both sides of the frame with clammy fingers. The mattress smelled of herbs and pine, and would have been soothing at another time. But not now when a Highland storm, frightening enough on land, had been transformed into a monster that lived in the loch.
    She’d taken the precaution of extinguishing the lantern and now sat in the darkness, a hundred prayers trembling on her lips. The Almighty was evidently on the side of nature as the ship began canting from side to side. Her basket slid across the floor, landing with a thump against the edge of the bunk. Even the marble block moved, crashing into the side of the wall. The other furniture, she suspected, was bolted down.
    Gouging her nails into the wood of the bed frame, Iseabal held on. A violent shudder shook the ship, as if the ocean had gripped the Fortitude in its teeth, tossing the vessel from side to side like a cur with a bone. Iseabal lost her handhold and was suddenly tossed from the bunk, striking the floor with such force that she cried out in pain.
    She had been wrong after all. God was not in the storm, but in her body.
    Carefully, she rolled onto her stomach, each damp palm pressed flat on the floorboards, fingernails sliding into the joints between each plank. Turning her face to the side, Iseabal rested her cheek against the cold wood. Her mind was curiously empty, pain robbing her of thought and reason.
    Her mind began to wander, following the pain around her waist and above to her chest and back again to her side, a torturous journey accompanied by short and laborious breaths.Her stomach lurched, nausea spreading through her body like a wave.
    There was no way to tell how much time had elapsed. The storm had darkened the sky until not even a sliver of light appeared beneath the door.
    Twice she tried to move, and both times was halted by the pain. The third time, she managed to rise to her knees.