“I know you, Cormac MacAlpin. If I go back up to my room, you'll leave without me.”
“You're not safe dressed as you are.”
“I'll be perfectly safe.”
“Mind me, Marjorie,” he gritted out. “And stop this stubbornness.”
“Mind you? Mind you?” Her heart beat double time with her pique; she felt it glitter in her eyes, suffuse her cheeks.
“Aye.” He spun to face her but then froze. He consumed her with his gaze, and her skin seemed to tighten over her body in response to the predatory scrutiny. Finally, he spoke again, and it came out a snarl. “Mind me”
“I promise to mind every word you say, the moment we set foot through these doors.” She placed a hand on the heavy iron latch as though ready to begin then and there. “But as for my clothing, folk might recognize me from the work I do at Saint Machar, so no, Cormac,” she said, backing against the door to shove it open. “A costume makes sense, and a costume I shall have.”
He growled in frustration. “You're stubborn and impudent and… “
“And? And what, Cormac? I'll have you know I am still the same Marjorie after all these years.”
“But you're not the same Marjorie,” he shouted. Taking a deep breath, he devoured the sight of her hips, her legs. He spoke again, this time more subdued. “Believe me, the years have brought quite a few changes. Changes that aren't nearly hidden enough.”
She sputtered, battling embarrassment, shame, and hot awareness. She remembered an older, greater shame, from that day so long ago.
“At least find yourself a cloak,” he said.
“Fine. I'll wear a cloak.” She'd weather his blame for the loss of his brother, but she'd not abide his intolerance. She would help find Davie. She would redeem herself. “But I don't trust you won't leave while I search for one. You may ask Angus to fetch me a man's cloak. One of his should suffice.” And, in the end, she was glad she had it. The thick wool of the man's bonnet and cloak didn't just warm her, they made her feel safer, too; the docks were a much grittier and more frightening place than she'd anticipated.
They'd reached the head of North Pier, stone pilings topped with rotting wooden planks that stretched like an arm into the sea. A sloop had newly docked, and he wanted to investigate.
The wind whipped off the water and found its way straight to her bones. The place smelled thick and briny, like sea creatures caught and left to rot. The morning sky was as gray as the water.
She was thankful it was daylight and thankful she had Cormac by her side. She thought about wee Davie. He was somewhere out there, facing all this alone. She was a grown woman, in daylight, and still the docks made her nervous. Young Davie, alone for days, and God only knew where? The boy would be terrified.
“Wait here,” Cormac told her.
She gripped his arm. “Can't I come with you?”
“They have the look of smugglers about them.” He nodded to the end of the pier. “I'd feel better if you stayed back.”
“Is it safe for you?”
He barked a cynical and incredulous laugh. “Aye, lass, safe enough. Now truly,” he added, scanning the area one last time, “you'll be fine for a few minutes. I'd not have a boatload of smugglers lay eyes on you. One clout on my head, and they'd have you on board before you knew what they were about. And then it'd be you I'd have to come searching for.”
The thought terrified her. She'd never felt in true peril before in her life. At least not since the day Aidan was taken. But then she registered his last sentence. “You'd come to search for me?”
“Come for you?” Something gentle flickered in his eyes for the briefest of moments. “How could I not?” The words warmed Marjorie to her soul. If he'd come for her, he didn't hate her. He might bear her blame, or resentment, but somewhere down deep he still valued her. “Fine, then. I'll wait here. But don't be long.” With a brisk nod, he was off down the pier, and in no time she was watching him talk to a shadowy figure on board the sloop.
A rustling of activity slowly emerged behind her, but Marjorie pretended to be engrossed only in a single point at the end of the dock. It wasn't so much an act, either. She refused to let Cormac out of her sight. And to think she'd threatened to come down here by herself.
A legless man on a cart rolled himself in front of her, staring up for a time before moving on. Shivering, she pulled the cloak's hood lower over her head. She wondered if, when they returned safely home, she should swallow her pride and thank Cormac for making her wear it.
“Aren't you a pretty laddie?” The voice was a slurred rasp, coming from over her shoulder. There was a laugh in response.
Her heart kicked against her chest. She felt the presence of two men standing behind her. She refused to tear her eyes away from Cormac. Surely he'd be done soon.
A hand brushed at her cloak. “What brings a pretty boy like you to the quays?”
“What are you looking at, laddie?” the second man asked, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder by her. Eyeing the sloop, he told his companion, “If laddie here has business with those runners, he's got money in his purse.” She ducked her head. So these men knew about the smugglers. Might they know something else? But how could she ask?
His companion came to stand on her other side. She could see both of them in her peripheral vision, one hulking, one tall and rangy. They smelled of ale gone foul.
“I'll wager we've got a wee lordling, fancying himself in for some sport, eh, Fergal? You don't mind if we have a look-see, do you now?” A hand tugged the hood from her head.
“Well, would you look here? 'Tisn't a laddie at all!” The tall man gripped her chin and gave it a wiggle, and she bit her lip not to scream. “What's a lovely crumpet like yourself doing here? Why don't you give us a peek under your coat, eh?”
“I am not a crumpet.” She pulled from his grip, fighting to regulate her breathing, refusing to panic.
Cormac. Come back to me, Cormac.
Her fingers were numb from the grip she had on the front of her cloak. She definitely didn't want these men seeing her in the trews, which felt suddenly, scandalously too tight. “And what do you know of smugglers?” she challenged. “Do you know of men in these parts who… smuggle people?” The men laughed. “Smuggle people?”
The voice of a third rose dark and menacing over the others. “What's a wee thing like you want to know about smuggling people?”
Terror prickled up the backs of her legs. Three men. How many more were there? She felt like a piece of raw meat that'd been tossed into a pit of dogs. The scent of blood was in the air, and there'd be no stopping the rush.
She poured her whole self into staring at Cormac, willing him to look at her. And look he did. He instantly stiffened, seeing the gathering around her. He said some final thing to the man on the boat and strode directly toward her. He rested a hand on his sword, and though the gesture was nonchalant, it was loaded with meaning.
She fought crumpling with relief.
“And who's this, then?” one of the men wondered, spotting him coming up the pier.
Worry slithered cold up her spine. What had she gotten them into? Surely these men had knives or even guns.
Cormac was armed, but how would he fare against three men? They'd kill him and then take her.
Smuggling people indeed. Cormac's words came back to her, something about a lass getting her own self snatched from the docks.
Could she not do anything right? Because of her, Aidan had been taken. Would Cormac be killed because of her, too? She fisted her hands even tighter in her cloak.
“Seems we're not the only ones interested in our fine lass here. But she's so quiet.” Someone tugged the bonnet from her head. Waves of long, light-brown hair spilled out, and they all laughed. “Such a fine thing you are, I might just smuggle you away myself. Why so quiet, luwie? You won't be so quiet when I get you under me.” Cormac walked straight to her. His face was a mask of barely checked rage, and she knew a flicker of hope. They just might manage a way out of there. Their eyes locked, and he seemed to be trying to communicate something.
“Gentlemen,” he said in a low, tight voice. He didn't take his eyes from her. “I see you've discovered our little secret.”
The cold menace in his voice made her tremble. Shaking his head imperceptibly, he mouthed, “Hush.”
“Who are you?” one of the men demanded.
“Aye, perhaps we'd like a wee cut of what you're about,” another added with a nod toward the smuggler's boat.
“What we're about?” Cormac's voice was steady and calm. “Lass, are you ready to tell them what we're about?” Her every muscle vibrated with tension. She didn't understand what he was trying to tell her.
There was a scraping of steel as one of the men unsheathed a blade.
“Are you ready?” Cormac asked her again quietly.
Ready? What could he possibly mean, ready?
The man with the rasping voice stepped just behind her. Marjorie shot him a backward glance. He looked mean, with black hair and murder in his eyes. He spoke through gritted teeth. “I said, who are you?” Stricken with terror, she looked back to Cormac. The blue-gray of his stormy eyes grew eerily tranquil. They didn't waver from her. “Ready, Ree?” he asked in the barest whisper.
And then he winked.
She fought not to gape, wondering who this stranger before her really was. He'd disarmed her, and her voice cracked, “Aye, I'm rea—”
“Duck.”
Chapter 9
Marjorie's knees buckled instinctively, and in the space
of a heartbeat, Cormac's calm transformed into
something else, something feral and raging.
She'd ducked, leaving Cormac facing the man who'd been standing behind her. A sword appeared in Cormac's hand, and in one stroke, he slashed the man's throat and swung around to thrust at another.
