Page 15 of When a Warrior Woos a Lass
“I dunnae ken why I am even listening to ye and considering such a preposterous idea.”
“Ye’re listening to me,” she rushed out as Munroe flicked his gaze toward Alex, undoubtedly to call him over, “because the four men ye have sent up the mast to tie the loose rope have failed.” She smiled at the men, who were all lined up against the side of the ship. Munroe had given each of them large, heavy pieces of wood to hold after they had failed at the task, and he had told them that if any of them dropped his piece of wood before Munroe got the rope secure, he’d cut off one of the failed man’s fingers as punishment.
She didn’t think he was serious, as she had seen him turn his head to smirk after delivering that dire news, but she didn’t truly know the man. She’d seen men lose limbs over less. Findlay had once cut out a boy’s tongue because the child did not answer a question quickly enough. She shivered at the memory.
Munroe glanced at Alex again, so Lena did, as well. The sight that greeted her made her gasp. Alex had stripped off his plaid, and he stood in nothing but his braies. Everywhere her eyes landed, hard muscle defined his body. His bronze skin seemed to ripple as he raised his arms behind him, pulled his hair back from his face, and then dove over the edge of the birlinn. Her heart leaped at the rugged beauty of his body and the graceful way he commanded it.
After a breath, she could hear him barking orders at the man in the water with him, and when he bellowed for Munroe, and the man gave her a stern look and said, “Dunnae move.” She nodded blithely, then rushed for the mast the minute Munroe was looking over the ship and speaking with Alex.
It took a moment to gain her footing, and as she began to climb, she realized that doing so in skirts was much harder than in the braies her brother had told her to don when teaching her. The wind whipped her hair toward her face and into her eyes, and her damp palms made gripping the mast much more difficult. As she moved upward, she heard Broch suddenly yell her name. She glanced over her shoulder to see the MacLeod warrior standing below her, shock and anger apparent on his face.
“What the devil are ye doing, lass?” Broch bellowed.
“I’d say that’s obvious,” she retorted, not slowing her progress. If she could get just a little farther up, she was sure she could grab the rope. But the more she climbed, the stronger the wind seemed to become. Near the top, the wind blew so hard that she struggled to get her hair out of her eyes to see. Below her, Broch’s roars had grown louder, and Marsaili’s higher-pitched voice had joined him. The two of them made so much racket that Lena had little doubt Alex had to hear them. She had to make haste if she was to secure the rope before Alex was back on the ship. No one else had climbed up after her, but she knew instinctively that Alex would.
The rope flapped near the tips of her fingers as she stretched for it. The moss fir that made up the rope scratched her fingers, causing her skin to sting as the rope scraped across it. She grabbed for it, exclamations rising up below her. When she chanced a look down, she winced. Alex’s men had stopped what they were doing to watch her. She could not fail and embarrass herself and Alex. The rope fluttered teasingly just out of reach, and the only prayer she saw for grasping it was to unwind her arm from the mast and lean toward the rope while gripping the mast with just her hand. She wrapped her right leg around the mast as best she could, and when the rope fluttered her way once more, she stretched for it and secured it. But then she realized with complete horror that she did not have the strength to pull herself back toward the mast. As the rope tugged back the other way, her hold on the mast slipped, her leg unwound, and she went flying through the air.
She lost her hold on the rope and plummeted downward and sideways. Astonished faces blurred past as she was hurled over the edge of the birlinn and shot into the water. She hit hard, the water swallowing her in a cold embrace, encompassing her in darkness, and forcing the air from her lungs. For one moment, panic consumed her as she frantically twisted around, unsure which way was to the surface, and then hands gripped her arms so forcefully that she was immediately propelled back to a moment in time when Findlay had dragged her out of the water by her hair for daring to swim without his permission.
She saw Findlay, heard him, felt the sting in her scalp of the tugging on her hair, and knew the terror in her chest at what was to come. She kicked out and met with flesh, but when she was not released, she pummeled a solid wall of muscle with her hands. The water made her movements too slow. She was doing no damage, and she knew she had to escape Findlay. She clawed her nails down the right side of his face, only to have her hand grabbed and both her arms trapped by her side. With no hope of escape remaining, terror swept through her like a tide. She opened her mouth to scream but instead gulped in huge amounts of water.
As they broke the surface, she coughed furiously, water blurring her vision. But the moment she could speak, she spouted the blackest curse she could think of. “Release me ye rat, devil clot-heid!”
“Now, lass,” came a deep, calm voice, “that is nae a way to thank yer husband for saving yer life.”
She blinked the last bit of water out of her eyes. Her vision cleared, and she found warm, brown eyes full of concern gazing at her. Relief and happiness flooded her that she’d imagined Findlay, followed swiftly by embarrassment.
“Dunnae berate yerself for the fear,” Alex said, obviously recognizing hers. “’Twas natural.”
She could feel her mouth part in shock at his caring words, even after what she’d just done. He brushed his hand across her forehead to push back her hair. It was only then that she realized he was keeping them above the water by himself. She’d been like a piece of heavy wood in his arms. She started to kick her legs, but he shook his head.
“I’ve got ye,” he said. “Will ye trust me?”
She nodded, and he turned her around, slipping his hand around her waist. He secured his arm directly under her breasts so that they pressed against his forearm. “Lay yer head back against my chest,” he commanded.
She did, turning her head slightly to do so, and it was then that she saw all the men and Marsaili lined up along the side of the birlinn gaping at her and Alex.
“Is she unscathed, then?” a man with striking silver hair asked.
“Aye,” Alex replied. “Get the men back to work. We’ll be aboard shortly. I’ll expect an explanation of how this came to be and who is accountable for it.”
“Do ye need my aid, Lena?” Broch called down to her.
“She dunnae need ye,” Alex responded before she could. “She has me,” he finished on a growl.
Broch scowled at Alex but nodded. Lena bit her lip, knowing well it was her own fault that this had occurred. “I’m to blame,” she blurted, “so if yer mind’s turning to punish someone, punish me.”
Even in the water as they were, with Alex’s legs kicking to propel them toward the birlinn, she felt the muscles of his chest tighten. “What sort of discipline do ye advise I give ye, Lena?”
“I’m nae such a clot-heid as to help ye contrive ideas, Alex MacLean. If ye mean to punish me, then ye can certainly rely on yer own imagination!” she snapped, feeling suddenly churlish and wary. She honestly had not thought Alex the sort of man to punish a woman at all, she realized. She supposed she’d been counting on that, and now she felt dejected and disappointed. As they neared the birlinn, Alex pushed her toward the edge where a rope had been left to dangle over the side for them to climb back into the ship. With his body, he caged her between the birlinn and himself. Fear did not spike, though; something entirely different overcame her. Heat washed over her despite the cool water and a low burning blossomed in her belly. Water swished around them as he closed the small space that separated them. They were so close that each time he exhaled, his hot breath tickled her nose.
His wet hair was slicked back from his forehead, drawing her gaze to his ruggedly handsome face. The shadow of beard on his face gave him an even fiercer aura than he already possessed, and with his skin bronzed by the sun and wind, he looked almost like a Viking of days gone by—untamable and unstoppable. Her heart beat a hard rhythm as the pull in her belly grew stronger. His sensual lips tugged almost imperceptibly upward, and she realized she had been staring—and he had been allowing it.
“Do ye truly believe I’m the sort of man to punish a woman, Lena?”
It was almost as if he had read her earlier thoughts! Swallowing hard, she shook her head. “Nay.” The word came out in such a throaty voice, she half wondered who spoke it. He was doing something to her. Something strange, yet wonderful.
He nodded as a satisfied gleam entered his eyes. “Put yer hands around my neck, Wife.”
