Cadha's Rogue (The Highland Renegades Book 5) (8 page)

Their lips hovered only inches apart and with one swell of a wave, his mouth touched hers. Without thinking, she opened to him.

He had said he loved her, and the captain who knew the difference between truth and lies had believed him. Valc had gone overboard shouting his love for her, and she had followed. Some part of her knew that the warm thing growing between them was more than desperation. It was affection

An urgent, enervating chord struck in her heart as Valc kissed her, as he stroked her cheek and moved his tongue between her lips. The raw, sensitive flesh came alive under his touch. She had never been kissed before, and the longer he kept at it, the more she wanted him to continue forever.

“You will live, Cadha,” he whispered against her mouth. “You have to live.”

“I will live.” The words followed her breath, and she kept moving toward him, taking his mouth again. A new energy pulsed through her.

“Can you swim again?”

Cadha didn’t answer. She just began to make one stroke, and then another, and the spark of Valc’s kiss kept her arms moving.

It wasn’t long before he was out in front of her again, setting the course, leading the way. She tried to do as he said and keep her head in the water except to breathe. And to fix her sights on Valc every few breaths. She couldn’t lose Valc.

Valc woke in the dark. He couldn’t remember finding land, although it was solid beneath his back—if a little on the pointy side. He couldn’t remember anything but swimming for hours and hours. His tongue hurt, his face hurt. Every part of his body ached and it stung even more as he coughed out the seawater that burned his throat.

But they made it. Land. He’d pointed it out to Cadha just before the sun disappeared below the horizon. Had he hit his head? It was completely dark and he had clearly woken up, not remembering the swim.

Small rocks were slippery between his fingers, slicked by the tide, and underneath them, sand sucked at his grip. Valc felt for his head. Sand and water and pain.

He turned on his side, but the night was so dark, he couldn’t see anything. There was no moon, and the stars were points in the sky.

“Cadha,” he called into the dark.

Valc got to his feet and water slid around his ankles. He took one step and another, though he couldn’t see anything but dark.

He raised his voice a touch. “Cadha.”

As his eyes adjusted to the dark night, he began to see shapes of the land around him. A rise just ahead, and then a big hill jutting into the black sky. Some sort of structure stood atop the hill. A castle?

It wasn’t Scarborough, and the castle at Berwick wasn’t this near the sea, so perhaps they were in Scotland—where he was much less familiar with the coast. And the language.

No lights burned atop the large, dark structure, so at least there were no battlements, although why there would ever be a castle without protection at the edge of the sea was beyond him.

“Cadha,” he called again.

She may have been passed out or asleep, or had water in her ears and couldn’t hear him. Wherever she was, she would be looking for him, and they needed to be on their way.

Valc staggered up the uneven beach and to the rise, where grass began and the ground was firmer. From the higher ground, he looked across the beach behind him. The water was dark and the rhythm of waves crashing should have soothed him, but his stomach knotted and gnarled like an old rope.

Where was Cadha?

He didn’t know the shape of the beach well enough to be able to see if she was lying somewhere. And wasn’t she swimming behind him? Would she wash up later than he had?

“Cadha!” He walked along the rise. “Cadha!”

Valc ran down to the beach and began to walk along the soft edge. When he came to the rocky section, he had to make more careful progress, but he kept calling her name.

Each time silence greeted him, Valc’s insides curled up a little tighter. Where the devil was she?

A good piece down from the large hill, the coast curled around. His foot slipped and he tumbled over himself, cracking bones on rocks. His side burned and he looked ahead. Unsure of the terrain and without shoes, it wasn’t safe to be here in the dark, alone. He turned back and climbed up the rise, his side aching more with every step.

He needed help.

The castle loomed up into the darkness. From this side, he could see a small glimmer shining from what looked like a gate, nestled into the winding hillside. Valc shambled up the rise and ran up the long hill toward the light.

The air was warmer than he expected, and thicker, almost like a summer night in Hoorn. He could still hear the crashing waves as he climbed higher and higher.

When he reached the door, he pounded against it with raw hands. The guard would come and they would likely arrest him. But he didn’t care. He needed help finding Cadha.

The woman he was falling for. He couldn’t deny that any longer. He’d tried to ignore the intensity of the emotion when it had first come on, watching her tie up the ridiculous contraption of her dress.

But there was something so innocent and beautiful about her headstrong, careless attitude. She had navigated the cog all on her own while he slept. She had gone over the side of a ship for him. And what had he done for her? Besides put her in danger.

Valc pounded harder.

A voice called out to him in English. “Hold your horses, I’m coming. You’ll wake the whole monastery at that rate.”

Valc looked up and saw the shape of a man’s head sticking through a small window at the top of what looked like a short tower.

Monks. Not soldiers. He wasn’t sure whether to thank God or start praying. Monks were the only group of men who liked him less than soldiers. On the other hand, monks weren’t likely to chase him.

Small favors.

He stood back as the old man swung open the heavy door. The monk wore a simple, gray habit with a cord around his waist. Not Benedictine, then. Could be Cistercian.

Knowing your opponent was the key to playing a good game. He couldn’t very well tell the truth to the black monks known to be in the royal pocket. But some of the vow-of-poverty types were safe.

“What do you want, boy?” the old monk barked.

“I need your help, brother.” Valc indicated his own clothing. “I’ve just washed ashore and my wife is somewhere out on the beach. I don’t know the rocks and have already done myself injury.”

The old man drew down one corner of his mouth. In the low, shadowed light, Valc couldn’t tell if it was disdain or compassion that creased his face, but he took a chance.

“We were set upon in the sea and thrown overboard. Forgive my ignorance of your customs, my friend. We are not from your country.”

“You speak my language well for a foreigner.”

“My mother was English.”

The old man raised an eyebrow, which looked menacing in the shadow. “Where in England?”

“Canterbury.”

A scuttling inside took the man’s attention. Just inside the door, a smaller, older man appeared.

“Who is at the door at this hour, Brother William?” The older man wore a matching cassock, but the cord around his waist was missing. He hobbled on one foot and his hand hovered in the air as though he expected to lean on a cane. Valc almost reached out for the man, but he leaned on Brother William for support instead.

“A traveler who requests our help, Father.” William gave the old man a deferential bow.

“Well, we must give it. This is our charge.”

Valc took his turn to bow. “My wife, sir. We were set upon in the open sea and thrown off our ship. I washed ashore near here, but I was unable to find her in the dark.”

The older man waved at him. “We’ll have the brothers roused and lanterned in no time. Meanwhile, you come inside, boy, and put on dry clothing. You’ll catch a fever in those wet clothes.” He crossed himself and reached for Valc.

Brother William’s drawn face darkened as the old man pulled Valc across the threshold. He backed into the door and let them pass.

“Thomas and Rayner are still at prayers,” the sour monk protested.

“Then leave them,” said the white-haired man. “But take the rest. Wake the abbot and search the whole island.”

“Island?” Valc repeated. “Which island?”

“Why, Holy Island, boy.” Brother William slammed the door and grabbed a torch from the wall. “What other island is there?”

“Off with you.” The old man waved at his compatriot, grabbing Valc’s arm. Brother William handed the light to Valc and disappeared up some stairs.

Valc let the old man usher him through the dark interior, down a short but wide flight of stairs, and into their simple dining room. The ceiling was low, but the torch lit most of the space.

They hobble-walked to the far side of the room, to a small door. The old monk knocked on it.

“You’ll find dry clothing through here. I’ll wait while you change out of your wet things and you can tell me your story.” He crossed himself once more. “God’s peace with you, brother.”

Valc hurried into the room with the torch. On one side of the narrow larder were shelves full of dry food. His stomach burbled as a reminder, in case he needed one. He couldn’t remember his last meal.

The other side was packed with supplies. Candles, clothes, utensils, bowls, cups, and a surprising pile of hilted weapons. Valc grabbed clothes and tried not to think of the fact that his sword and dagger were both aboard his ship. Greta’s ship.

He deposited the torch in the dining room, leaving the larder door open, and found the old man huddled at the end of the room by the fireplace. Valc hurried to him and righted him.

“Let me do that, Brother.”

“Father,” the old man corrected. “I am a priest, not a monk.”

“Very well. Let me do that,
Father
.”

The old man pushed at him. “I can light a fire well enough. You change that clothing before you make yourself sick.”

Valc stepped back, but hovered. He’d cared for Greta long enough to know that old people often thought they were more capable than they were, and sometimes that knowledge could save them from injury.

“Go,” the Father ordered.

Valc retreated out of the light, barely inside the door, and stripped off the remains of his clothing. The heavy purse that had been tied to his belt sank to the floor once he loosed it. Valc had forgotten he was carrying it.

Greta had taught him well. If only he could have kept his sword.

The daggers on the thrawl inside the larder looked far too tempting when Valc considered how far he would have to travel to get Cadha to the north of Scotland. It would take them days to walk, likely even days to ride. He would need a weapon.

But he wouldn’t steal from a priest. Lying to one was bad enough. Valc couldn’t afford to put his eternal soul in so much jeopardy. He left the daggers where they lay.

He pulled on the warmer clothing and searched the lower larder shelves for a pair of boots that looked like they might fit. The ones he settled on were tight, but would serve. All were simple, which he preferred. He took out two of the precious gold pieces and tied the purse back to the inside of his trousers, near his left hip.

He needed to find Cadha.

Valc set the two coins on the table. “For your coffers,” he said. “I thank you for the dry clothing.”

“No need to pay us, my boy. Our charge is to help the needy.” With a low fire burning in the hearth, the old man rose and hobbled to the table. He took a seat, let out a stale breath, and looked up at Valc. “Now. Tell me this story of yours.”

Valc tried to recount as much truth as he could, careful to keep the details vague. The lie about his marriage to Cadha was necessary. They would never allow him to take an unmarried woman into the night as he would need to, once they found Cadha. Hopefully God would forgive him.

The old priest folded his hands as he listened and rested them on the table in front of him, though they shook with age. His interest perked when Valc mentioned their captor.

“Calum Acheson?” he asked. “The Scottish pirate?”

Valc nodded. “He boarded us somewhere north of Scarborough.”

“I know this man. His southern berth is not far from here, near Berwick, when he is not in Balfour.” The old man glanced at the larder. “We often retrieve Acheson’s bodies on our beach.”

Valc’s ears perked. “He has a southern berth, you say? The old Sheriff at Berwick was notorious for giving safe passage to privateers.”

“And the new Sheriff has unfortunately continued in those same practices. The shores of Northumberland are awash with debris from the conquests of men like Calum Acheson.”

With downcast eyes, Valc ventured, “Would it be possible for me to purchase transportation to Berwick?”

The priest pounded the table. “We will do you one better, boy. One of my brothers will take you to the port once your wife is returned.”

“My wife,” Valc repeated. Something twisted inside and he had to catch his breath. He still hadn’t forgotten her kiss, in the middle of the dark waters. So searching, so open. “I should join the brothers as they look for her.”

“Nonsense. You would be more of a hindrance to them. They know these shores almost as well as they know the Holy Scriptures.” The old man rose. “Come, let me show you to one of our rooms. I will have Brother Simon bring you some bread and wine, and you will rest. When we have your wife, we will care for her and bring her to you.”

Valc tried to protest, but the old man gestured as he hobbled away.

“Come, boy. Do not tarry. I may look old and feeble, but these stairwells are a maze without a guide.”

With the two coins now in his hand, Valc followed. He didn’t like the thought of leaving Cadha’s destiny to a group of monks, but if there was one thing he knew for certain, he could trust their will with her chastity.

Much more than he trusted his own.

Chapter Ten

Valc woke in the uncomfortable monastery bed and looked around the room. They had not, as they had promised, brought Cadha to him. He pulled on his new tunic and walked into the hallway.