Page 11 of Rose
Chapter Five
The man stood. Her gaze traveled the length of his great height. She’d wager he could even look Ian in the eye. A warm smile curved his lips as he bowed. “My name is Tristan Thatcher. You are on board my ship, the Messenger, and presently, you are in my quarters.”
Her eyes widened. “Yer quarters?” she gasped. “How did I…” Her voice trailed off as her fingers reached for her brow. She winced, feeling the bandage. Straightaway, she knew it was where the mast had struck her. She closed her eyes against the memory of howling wind and roaring thunder.
“The storm. There was a storm. I was sailing. It was too late to turn back.”
“Please, try to remain calm,” the man said softly.
She gripped the blanket so hard her knuckles whitened as the intonation of his speech broke through her muddled thoughts. “Ye’re English. This is an English vessel.”
Slowly, the man sat back down beside her, which set her heart to race faster. She squeezed as far as she could against the wall.
A moment later, he stood again. “You need not fear me. I have no quarrel with the Scottish. In fact, my mother was Scottish, God rest her soul.”
~ * ~
Tristan held his breath as he watched the woman’s grip on the blanket slowly loosen. Still, tension remained in her stiff posturing. He could only imagine how terrified and confused she must feel—to wake up in a strange place and in the company of an unknown man. More than that, he knew some of her worry and fear must have been for her fellow travelers. He cleared his throat, deciding it would not be fair to give her any false hope. “We came upon you, floating on splintered timber, the remains of your vessel, no doubt.” He swallowed hard, hating to say the words, but he knew he must. “You were alone. Whomever you sailed with, I’m afraid, has likely been lost.”
She did not burst into sobs as he had expected. Instead her brows drew together, and she looked confused. “But I set out alone. There was no one on board my wee skiff but me.”
His eyes widened with surprise. “You were sailing the open waters alone…in a skiff?”
She shook her head. “Nay—I mean aye, I was alone, but nay, the storm must have swept me out to sea.”
He canted his head as he studied her. Now that her hair was dry, the color was as red as the feathers of the Scottish Crossbill. Her sunburn had already begun to fade. He suspected her skin would clear to creamy white with a spattering of freckles across her nose. The color of her eyes easily bested the brilliance of the summer sky. He could look at her for hours. There was something almost otherworldly about her beauty, but what manner of woman set out in a boat on her own?
He considered the rumors being tossed about by his men: she was a silky or a siren who would bring them nothing but disaster. Cook asked the captain to throw her back to the sea, fretting she belonged to one of the Blue Men who would crash their ship into rocks if they kept her. He had ordered the men to desist their superstitious gossip, arguing she was a flesh and blood woman. When he asked if they wanted her blood on their hands, they all desisted straightaway.
Despite her ethereal beauty, her humanity was not in question in his mind. It was apparent in the fear he glimpsed in her eyes. He reached out and gently squeezed one of her hands. “You are safe now.” He still did not know her name, but he didn’t want to rush her.
She muttered something, her eyes dropping to her lap.
“Pardon?” he asked.
She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze once more. “My name is Rose,” she said as if reading his thoughts. She took her hand out from under his and pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. Straightening her back and lifting her chin, she said her name again, her voice imbued with strength. “Thank ye for rescuing me, Captain Thatcher. When can I expect to be home?”
He smiled, pleased by her frankness and the change in her demeanor. “I’m glad you asked that, because we’ve all been wondering where exactly you came from.”
“I hail from,” she started to say, but then she paused. Her eyes darted to her hands and then to a place on the wall above his head. “Jura. I hail from the Isle of Jura.”
“Are you certain?” he asked. “You seemed to hesitate.”
She nodded. “My mind is still muddled, but I assure ye, Jura is my home. When did ye say ye can take me?”
“Rose,” he began cautiously not knowing how she would respond to news that her return would not be imminent. “I will gladly bring you home, but it will not be possible for some weeks.”
“Weeks?” she said, sitting up straight, her eyes wide with alarm. “But why so long? Can ye not change course?”
“It isn’t as easy as that. Judging by your location and your condition when we spotted you, you must have drifted for at least two days. Frankly, you’re lucky to be alive.”
Her eyes grew wider still. “I can’t believe I’ve been gone for two days.”
“Longer than that, my dear. You’ve been battling a mighty fever for the last three days. Since you came aboard, we have distanced ourselves from the islands. We’re currently anchored just off Cardiff.”
“Where’s that?”
“Wales.”
