Chapter Twelve
She could barely remember their hasty walk through Rùnach to the port or climbing into Freya’s skiff, and yet there she sat hours later far from where she had last held her precious son.
Back straight, ankles crossed, she stared beyond the stern at the barren blue canvas of sky and sea.
Her arms wrapped around herself, clasping at the painful shadow where so much feeling had once lived.
She could still feel the weight of Nicholas like a ghost in her empty arms. The whipping wind dried the tears leaking from her eyes before they even had a chance to fall.
Surf splashed as they collided with rough waves.
She knocked against the sides of the small boat, but felt nothing, no pain.
The suffering inside her kept her physical discomfort at bay.
She kept as straight as she could and unfurled her arms, looking down at her empty hands.
She had lost it all, her whole life. Her son, her father and sister, her security and title.
She glanced back at Quinn. His thoughtful black eyes met hers, but she turned away.
She knew it was only a matter of time until he too slipped from her grasp.
When the sea had calmed and the sail hung slack, Quinn put the oars to water. “Do ye wish to know where we are going?” he said.
She did not answer.
“We travel to the outer most reaches of Scotland, to Caithness, the home of the Sinclairs. Some years ago, I sailed with the youngest of the laird’s sons on the merchant ship, La Vierge.
When the ship docked at Berwick, Hamish Sinclair would take his meals with my family. I know we will be welcomed.”
She stiffened. “I am English, remember?”
Quinn shook his head. “It will not matter. Hamish owes me.”
“Regardless of any debt owed, they will not harbor a murderer.”
He stopped rowing. “Catarina, look at me.” She turned wet, aching eyes on him. “Do not doubt yerself.”
Her empty hands balled into tight fists. “My father is guilty of treason. My mother was the daughter of a commoner, not to mention that I am a woman. My word is the only thing which holds less worth than my life.”
He shook his head. “That is not true.”
Her eyes flashed with anger. “To those who hold power that is the only truth.”
She turned from his goodness and looked instead to the cliffs rising high above her head. Their stony surfaces caught the warmth of the setting sun and glowed orange like violent towers of fire.
“Surely that is how this will end, ablaze in loss and fire,” she murmured.
She sat unmoving as Quinn rowed toward shore.
When the hull dragged the sand, he swung over the side into the surf and pulled the skiff ashore.
Still, she sat fixed in place like stone while he carried the blankets, a large sack of oat flour, a bow and quiver of arrows, and other supplies from Freya into a cavern he had spotted from sea.
She did not move when he reached out his hand to her or while he eventually lifted her limp body from the boat and carried her into the deep cave.
He laid her down on a blanket. Her head rolled to the side, her stare vacant.
Catarina felt adrift in despair. The acrid scent of smoke filled her nose and the crackle of burning logs, her ears.
Sorrow bound her in a knot of fear and regret, pulling her into a dark place where it hurt to breathe.
And then black eyes met hers. Quinn stroked her cheek, lying opposite.
“There was a woman born long ago on a remote island in the Hebrides,” he began.
His deep, rich voice penetrated her tangled thoughts.
“The people who lived on that island took great pride in the land and sea. The woman’s father had been a fisherman and her mother the village midwife.
One day, the island was attacked by Vikings who killed without mercy.
Like a shoal of fish, the villagers had clung together, running for their lives.
Her foot caught on a rock and she fell. Cries of agony echoed around her as the dead piled upon her.
Buried beneath the tangle of bodies, she glimpsed her mother’s lifeless eyes, her father’s hands, and her sister’s long legs.
The horror stole her breath, and she fainted dead away.
When at last she came to, everyone was slain but her.
For weeks, she toiled, burying the dead.
Her parents were the last. Then, with the carpenter’s tools, she built a boat, though her hands bled.
She set sail, and fierce storms tossed her hard-earned vessel.
She awoke washed up on another island, waves lapping her aching body.
Sitting up, she met kind, blue eyes belonging to a lad who fell in love with her then and there.
After they married, he agreed to return to the island of her birth and so did all of his brothers and their wives who were drawn to new fishing waters.
By the time, her second son was born, her beloved island bustled once more with life. ”
She turned onto her side to face him, though her body ached in protest. “Why have you told me this?” she whispered.
The fire cast his black hair with a warm glow. Emotion imbued his dark, soulful eyes as he reached out his strong hand to cover hers. “Life is never too bleak to fight for.”
She looked away. “I am not strong like you,” she whispered.
“Look at me, Catarina.”
She did, and he slowly stroked his fingertip down the bridge of her nose.
“My mother bore and raised seven children. My sister, Rose, bore three daughters and buried them all after the massacre. Women give life. Women heal life. When men can no longer bear the pain, they leave while women standby as life slips away. Do not for a moment, doubt yer own strength.”
Once more, tears flooded her eyes, but it was not fear or grief that made her cry.
It was the exquisite pain that follows hope.
She felt the heat of his body the instant before his arms came around her, pulling her close.
Gently, he rocked her. She wrapped her arm around his neck and gripped his tunic in her fist. “I will fight,” she whispered again and again until at last fatigue overcame her.