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Will knelt down on one knee for a closer look, noticing that the lid of the crate had several holes bored into it. Water had penetrated, dampening the woman’s clothing.
‘Don’t Laird, let us be gone,’ urged Waldrick. ‘Twill bring bad omens if you disturb the dead.’
Will reached out to pull the woman’s hair back off her face.
She sat up with a shriek, making him recoil and fall backwards. She sucked in a breath in a hoarse whisper. Was she a ghost, for her face was wild, like a banshee, eyes staring as if not really seeing, shaking violently? Her fingers were corpse-white claws where they clung to the crate. She scrambled over the side and raised herself on unsteady legs and swung around, glaring at his crew. The wind and rain lashed her hair against her face so that only her terrible eyes were visible.
‘God save us, the dead have risen,’ cried one man.
‘She’s got the evil eye,’ shouted another.
Will got to his feet, heart pounding.
‘I’m not dead,’ croaked the woman, staggering sideways as a huge wave buffeted the vessel. Will reached her just as she collapsed into his arms. She clung to him, and when he pulled her hair back off her cold face, the tempest surging around him seemed to rush into his heart.
‘I know you,’ he said, in confusion, brows furrowing. It could not be. How on earth could she be here like this? He shook her hard. ‘Morna? Morna Buchanan? Is it you?’
Her eyes widened in sudden recognition, and she nodded, as her legs went from under her. There was a loud groaning sound as the vessel began to list sideways into the rocks. The Bain men didn’t need telling as they rushed over the side, back to their birlinn and safety. Will heaved Morna over the side with him. She was light and limp in his arms, but he clung on tight lest she be pitched into the water between the ships.
He landed heavily on the deck of his own ship. ‘Pull away, hard, now,’ he bellowed at his crew. The men leapt as one to do his bidding, and their vessel slowly eased away from the other, leaving it to be swallowed by the depths as they turned back out to open sea.
‘You are hurting me,’ said Morna, pushing away from him. ‘Oh, I feel sick,’ she gasped.
Will held her up by the forearm as she retched and then coughed up her guts. When she had finished, he dragged her over to the mast and pushed her down on to the deck.
‘Brace yourself for you’ll not feel better any time soon. Stay down and hang on. It will be rough getting around the headland in this storm. If you vomit again, try not to do it into the wind.’
He moved up the deck to the prow of the ship, bracing himself as the ship lurched up on the waves and crashed back down. He had no time for this now. He had no time to think about Morna Buchanan, who had once saved him from an executioner’s axe. The same Morna Buchanan, who had met him five years ago, when he was a poor, shamed wretch, an outlaw, a traitor to Scotland - in her eyes at least. Back then he had been less than nothing, beneath her contempt, now fate had thrown this girl back into his path, this girl who he had once wanted with the burning ache of youth. Morna had once been far above him, but now she was reduced to being nailed into a crate, like chattel.
Glancing back at her shaking on the deck Will was torn between exhilaration and confusion.
He must ensure she survived the day, for, if God had handed him Morna Buchanan, he wasn’t about to hand her back any time soon.
***
Hours later, clinging on to the mast with the last of her strength, Morna watched Will O’Neill command his men with an iron fist. She remembered him as big and brawny, but he had grown in stature since then. He seemed harder too. Salt spray blew in, soaking everyone on board, and every now and then a huge wave crashed over the side, but he did not flinch. He seemed fearless and wild and at one with the sea.
Morna was not. The cold made her bones ache, and the salty water stung her eyes. Violent shivering shook her limbs, and she feared she might die of fright. If only the ship would stop moving. The air was too fresh after the musty confines of the crate which she thought would be her coffin. It bit the back of her throat and set her teeth to chattering. Morna choked down the bile rising in her throat. She could not show weakness before these men for they all had the brutal look of their master, for that was what Will appeared to be, their leader. A grim-faced, scarred, hairy bunch they were and, with the last of her wits, Morna concluded that she was by no means out of danger now she was in their hands.
How long had it been? Four, maybe five years. She tried to cling on to her reason and think of anything about William O’Neill that might get him on her side. The memory of him at the Battle of Bannockburn brought tears to her eyes. She had gone to those green fields with her brother’s wife Ravenna, to bring warning of a plot by Clan Gowan against his life, and that of King Robert. On their way there, they had been taken by some outlaws, one of whom was Will. For some reason, he had released them and sent them on their way, and something had happened between the two of them that night, some unspoken understanding. He had seemed to admire her in a rough way. Even after all these years, Morna still did not understand the folly that had made her think of Will time and again.
As if he sensed her staring, he strode across the deck, his body in perfect harmony with the tilt and sway of the ship.
Looming over her, it seemed an age before he spoke and Morna shuddered a little at the scar arching around one of his eyes. ‘We’ve rounded the headland, the worst part is over, the storm is easing. You’ve no need to be frightened now.’
No need? The sea felt as rough as ever, she was fit to die with cold, and this was not the Will O’Neill she had known all those years ago. This was a hard stranger.
‘Get below decks out of the wind, before you freeze to death,’ he snarled, grabbing hold of her and hauling her to her feet. At the top of the ladder leading downwards, Morna panicked and twisted away.
‘No, I cannot go down there into the dark.’ She could barely speak or swallow, the breath left her lungs as a screaming panic ripped through her belly.
Will’s brows drew together in a fearsome scowl, and he stared into her eyes intently.
‘Fair enough, Morna Buchanan. I’ll not force you down there. Stay above if you must, but sit low, out of the wind, until we reach safe harbour.’
He turned to his man, a big fellow with a long, black beard and flinty eyes. ‘Fetch a blanket from below Waldrick, and be quick about it.’
The man disappeared below and Will looked away from her, out at the ocean, with a hard look on his face. He seemed angry with her. Why would he not look at her? Morna felt her temper start to rise. This man owed her his life and yet he was indifferent to her plight.
