Page 83 of Bride of the Wicked Laird
Hauling on his oar Everard turned his boat around as Dùghall leaped into the seat beside him and took up the other oar.
“Row. Give it laldy, we’ve nae a second tae waste. Once the birlinn is at sea we’ve nay hope of catching them.”
This had an all too familiar ring to it as far as Everard was concerned. As he’d feared, having failed in his first attempt to claim Davina’s life, Laird Murchadh had boldly snatched her from under their noses, where Everard had believed her to be safe.
They bent their backs over the oars and the little boat sped across the water.
As they neared the lantern-lit birlinn they spotted two men. Between them was a figure, clearly recognizable as Davina from her long mane of hair blowing in the breeze.
In desperation they picked up speed, their hearts almost bursting, drawing close to the birlinn.
Everard raised a hand. “Hold,” he whispered, “We need tae approach in silence, timing it so that they are aboard as we come alongside without them paying heed tae us. While their ladder is still swinging over the side we can be up and on board before they realize we’re there.
Dùghall’s whispered “Yes” emerged from the darkness. They resumed rowing, taking it slowly and carefully to ensure the oars made no sound as they dipped and rose again.
They were alongside the birlinn in a matter of moments, Dùghall managing to seize the swinging rope ladder in his hands. He held it steady as Everard placed his foot on the first ratline, his claymore on his back in its leather sheath, his dirk between histeeth. He held firm as he made his stealthy way up the ladder and slipped over the side.
As he took his bearings, he saw a group of men toward the prow, where two men were dragging Davina, who was managing to somehow wriggle away from them attempting to hold her.
Dùghall was now beside him as he watched Murchadh MacKinnon approaching Davina. His blood surged. If the man so much as touched her, he would dart forward and run him through with his claymore, even though it meant his own death.
He felt Dùghall’s restraining hand on his arm and inhaled a long deep breath, forcing himself to patience.
It was then that one of the men turned toward them and raised the alarm.
He stood back-to-back with Dùghall as four men rushed them. Two men came at him, lashing their swords wildly. It was clear they were not trained warriors but ruffians or bandits. With two well-aimed strikes from his claymore, both men fell to the deck, blood spurting from blows to their necks.
Dùghall, a seasoned warrior, was putting paid to two more of their assailants.
In the short space of time they had been on board the birlinn, four men lay dead or dying at their feet.
Without another word, they advanced on Murchadh, who wrenched Davina forward to shield himself.
He held a dirk poised beneath Davina’s chin, and even in the dim lantern light, Everard could see the blood trickling down her neck.
“Come any closer and I’ll cut her throat.”
Everard froze. There was nothing in his mind but keeping her safe, and he knew that at his first move, the evil man who held her would not hesitate to take her life with one slash of his dirk.
The one remaining man who had stood beside Murchadh turned on his heel as the two fierce warriors approached. The last they heard of him was a splash as he went over the side.
Clutching Davina’s arm with one hand and keeping his dirk at her throat with the other, Murchadh sidled toward the ladder. It was clear he intended to make his escape, using Davina as his hostage.
Reaching the ladder he flung one leg over the side, and with a mighty shove he tipped Davina into the water below.
Everard raced to the side. Tearing off his heavy jacket, he dropped the claymore and the dirk ready to dive. In that instant Dùghall reached forward and seized Murchadh’s hair, dragging his head back in a fierce, unyielding grip.
Murchadh screamed. “Ye son of a whore, ye’re the man who…” He flailed at Dùghall who released him. Throwing down his claymore he took up his dirk so making the two men evenly matched.
Everard leaped off the side of the birlinn and dived into the blackness. As he went, Murchadh’s dying scream resounded in his ears.
He stayed under the water until his lungs were bursting, feeling frantically for any trace of Davina. As he reached the surface, catching his breath, he bumped his own small boat which had was alongside the birlinn, tangled in the end of the rope ladder.
Miraculously, Davina was there, lying half senseless in the bottom of the small craft having fallen not into the sea as he’d supposed but had tumbled into their boat. He dragged himself on board, wrenched the gag from her mouth and quickly set about untying the rope from her hands.
To his overriding relief, she groaned, and raised her hand to clutch his sleeve. “Is it really ye, or are ye only a dream?”
“Nay lass,” he said, taking her in his arms. “I am real. Ye’re wi’ me. All is well.”
