Page 10 of Rose
Chapter Four
A gentleness crept into Rose’s mind, stirring her awake. A soft breeze or warm sunshine alighted upon her face. She lay enjoying the sensation. Then, she realized it was neither the wind nor the sun, but a gentle touch. Someone was stroking her cheek. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and a new face came into focus. He had black hair pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. Warm, brown eyes were set deep beneath a strong brow. His nose was straight with a slight flare to his nostrils and full lips curved in a soft smile as he looked down at her.
“Good morrow,” he said, his voice deep but soft.
She opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue felt so thick. A strong arm came behind her neck and raised her head. She took a long sip of ale, then closed her eyes as the liquid wet a path through her mouth, then down her throat. Relief came immediately.
“More,” she whispered.
Again, he helped her sip. She savored the rush of moisture.
When she had drunk enough, he eased her head back down. Concern filled his warm eyes as he gazed down at her. Then, once more, the backs of his fingers slowly grazed her cheek. She had no idea who the man was. She knew not his name, but his touch felt so familiar. She closed her eyes and let it soothe her.
“My name is Tristan Thatcher. Welcome aboard the Messenger.”
His softly spoken words moved through her like a puzzle, a riddle she had to decipher. When his meaning was at last clear, she whispered, “Tristan.”
But she didn’t want to talk. She just wanted him to continue stroking her cheek. “Put yer hand on me,” she whispered
And he did.
His hand gently rested on her forehead, and again she slept and dreamed of warm, brown eyes. They watched over her. Strong hands held her. Still, nothing could chase away the approaching storm from her dreams.
Her sail billowed. She positioned the steering oar to point north toward the Isle of Mull. The sky was clear. Bright stars shone down to guide her way. But then suddenly the wind picked up—a wild wind that seemed to come from every direction. A cold chill swept through her as dark clouds appeared, menacing streaks, which spread from all sides of the sky. They licked at the stars like black serpent’s tongues, swallowing them from view. She fisted her hands as the last slivers of star-studded sky disappeared behind the threatening clouds, which writhed with ferocious life.
A storm, fierce and wild, was brewing. This she did not doubt. Still, she pushed on. It was too late to turn back, just like she could never go back to happier days when she had a family of her own and a husband who loved her. She had no choice but to face the weather head-on.
The seas began to churn. Heavy clouds let loose their stores. Rain pelted down in harsh sheets, soaking her and puddling in the bottom of her small hull. She dropped the sail and tied it off. Then she seized her steering oar and fought for control.
Lightning crashed. Thunder roared. The waves rose high and smashed down upon her small boat, tossing it about. The boards creaked against the force. The bow of the hull splintered, inviting more water inside. The wind whipped her feet out from under her. She fell back in the water-logged hull. The furious sky screamed down at her. She scrambled to her feet and shouted back. She screamed with all her rage, all her might.
“Ye’ll never best me.” She shook her fist at the sky, at God, at herself. “Ye’ve already tried to sink me. Ye’ve taken everything.” She held up her empty arms. “Do yer best. Strike me down. I care not whether I live or die.”
A flash of lightning barreled at her. She screamed as it struck the tall mast. An explosion of splintered wood rained down. The mast fell like a tree in the forest. She raised her arms against the blow. And then the world turned black.
Rose sat up with a start. Her heart pounded. Thunder still echoed in her mind. Her eyes scanned the small quarters and quickly settled on a strange man at her side. She jerked the blanket up to her chin. “Who are ye?” she snapped. “Where am I?”
