Page 3 of Highland Fire

“Even if that charge were true, ’twould still make me a better mon than some slinking cur who beats a wee lass.”

A growl of pure rage escaped Bearnard as he charged Master Fraser. Both men fell to the deck with a crash. Moira cried out in dismay. Although she had no idea what she could do, she began moving toward the men. She had to stop the fight she had inadvertently caused.

“Dinnae be an idiot,” said a deep voice as she was caught from behind.

“Nicol!” she cried, looking over her shoulder at her cousin. “Where did ye come from?”

“I followed Father when he came looking for you. I must have had a vision that ye were about to do something verra stupid. Sweet Lord, Moira, why would ye want to tryst with that old fool?”

“I wasnae trysting with him. I came looking for Crooked Annie, and Master Fraser was trying to get me to go back to my cabin.”

“Ye should never have left it,” Nicol muttered then cursed softly. “Your savior’s belly has shifted.”

Nicol’s words made no sense, and Moira looked at the two combatants. They were on their feet again, warily circling as each sought a new opening to attack the other. She stared at Master Fraser and gasped. His soft belly was now an uneven lump protruding from his left side. His doublet was torn open, and she could see something sticking out. After staring hard for a moment she realized what it was. Mister Fraser’s soft belly was no more than rolled-up rags.

“His gray hair has washed away, too,” she said.

“Aye,” agreed Nicol. “The mon isnae what he pretends to be. Curse me, but I think I ken who he is.”

Before Moira could ask Nicol to explain, he left her side. Even as he drew near to his father, Bearnard charged Fraser, knocking the smaller man down. Fraser’s hat spun off his head to be caught by the wind and flung out to sea. His now completely black hair whipped around his face as he fought to keep Bearnard from putting his meaty hands around his throat. There was no mistaking Fraser as anything other than a young, strong man.

Nicol took a step toward his father as Bearnard froze. The looks on their faces told Moira they now recognized the man and were stunned by his presence on the ship. The expression forming on Fraser’s face told her that recognition was the very last thing he wanted. She tensed, suddenly afraid for the man who had so gallantly leapt to her defense.

“Tavig MacAlpin,” Bearnard yelled, leaping to his feet and placing his hand on his sword.

“Aye, and what business is it of yours?” Tavig snapped as he cautiously stood up to face the Robertson men.

“’Tis the business of every righteous mon twixt here and London.”

“Ye are no righteous mon, Robertson, but a brute who holds sway o’er others with his fists and an inexhaustible well of cruelty. Ye can command no respect or affection so ye instill fear in all those around you.” Tavig slowly put his hand on his sword, preparing for the attack he knew was to come. “’Tis a wonder ye have lived so long, that no one has yet cut your fat throat.”

“And ye would be a good one to do it, wouldnae ye? Ye like naught better than to creep up from behind a mon and cut his throat. Or their bellies, as ye did to your two friends. Your cousin Iver MacAlpin is offering a handsome sum for ye, and I mean to collect it.” Bearnard drew his sword, lunging at Tavig.

“Father,” yelled Nicol. “Sir Iver doesnae want the mon dead.”

“The bastard deserves killing,” snarled Sir Bearnard.

“Come and try,” taunted Tavig. “Aye, ye may yet get lucky, but I swear I will gut ye ere I die, ye swine.”

Bearnard roared with fury, and his attack became more vicious, but Tavig parried his every blow. He did not wish to die, but he did not want to be taken prisoner, either. If he was returned to his traitorous cousin Iver, he knew he faced a slow, painful death for murders he had not committed. If he could not win the battle against Robertson, then he would make sure the man cut him down.

“Nay, Cousin Bearnard,” Moira cried as Tavig faltered and Bearnard raised his sword to strike the death blow.

As Tavig frantically scrambled out of the way of Bearnard’s sword, he saw Moira rush toward her uncle. He cursed when Bearnard swatted the girl away, hurtling her back against the railing—the very railing Tavig had warned her to get away from. Bearnard’s attention was briefly diverted, and Tavig took quick advantage of that. He charged the man, knocking Bearnard to the ground. With two swift, furious punches he knocked Bearnard out. He barely glanced at Bearnard’s son Nicol as he leapt to his feet and ran to Moira.

“Moira, get away from that railing,” he demanded, ignoring Nicol, who stood to his right, pointing a sword at him.

Still groggy from Bearnard’s blow, Moira did not question him, but as she moved to obey his hoarse command, the renewed winds worked against her. They slammed into her, pushing her hard up against the railing. She tried to reach out for Tavig’s outstretched hand, but the howling wind held her tightly in place, as securely as any chains. Moira felt as if the breath were being forced from her body. The rough wood of the railings dug into her as the gale pressed her harder and harder against them. She could see Tavig start to move toward her, determinedly fighting the winds, but she could not move or extend her hand toward him. Then she heard the ominous sound of wood cracking.

The railing Moira was pinned to gave way even as both Tavig and Nicol yelled a warning. She clung to it as the section swung out over the swirling waters. Moira looked back at the ship to see that the railing she clutched was attached by only one splintered piece of wood. Carefully inching her hands along, she tried to make her way back to the ship, to within reach of Nicol’s and Tavig’s outstretched hands. She was only a finger’s length away from safety when the section of railing gave up its last tenuous connection to the ship. She screamed as she plummeted into the gale-tossed waters.

Tavig bellowed out Moira’s name as he clung to the undamaged railing. He could barely see the white of her nightgown. She still held on to the piece of railing, but half her body was submerged beneath the cold, churning water. Tavig knew Moira could not hold on for long, nor would she be able to pull herself out of the water. Soon she would be dragged beneath the high waves. She needed help if she was to have any chance of survival.

“Get me that rope,” he ordered Nicol, pointing to a length of hemp knotted to a nearby bollard.

“What can ye do?” asked Nicol, resheathing his sword as he hurried to obey.

“Go after her.” Tavig secured the ropes about his arm and moved to the gap in the railing.