away from the foaming surf and onto the smooth stones lining the shore. Her face and lips were blue, a swath of wet, dark hair wrapped around her throat. Fighting his exhaustion, Angus tugged her into his chest while his backside plummeted to the ground. “Live, damn you!” he cursed, repeatedly slamming his palm against her back.
With a violent cough, seawater spewed from the woman’s lips.
“Again,” he shouted, hitting her hard and making her sputter.
“Thank God,” he mumbled, dropping his forehead against her back.
The woman’s shivering commenced anew while an icy wind cut through the weave of Angus’ brechan. Bless it, both their teeth were chattering loud enough to wake the dead. Holding her steady, he rose to his knees and searched beyond the shore. Ballocks, they’d landed on the wee skerry of Nave. ’Twas but a half-day’s sailing from Dunyvaig. Hell, if it weren’t dark, he’d be able to see the Isle of Islay from this very spot.
“M’lord!”
Angus turned toward the sound, his heart skipping a beat. “Raghnall, thank God!”
The man-at-arms stumbled toward them before collapsing at Agnus’ side. A stream of blood dribbled from his temple, staining his shoulder red.
“Where are the other survivors?” Angus asked.
“Ye pair are the only souls I’ve seen.” Shaking, he rubbed his arms against the frigid cold. “With luck, they drifted farther east than we did.”
Angus looked to the skies. Still raining, black clouds hung ominously low. “We’ll no’ survive the night unless we can warm our bones. Let us away to the chapel.”
The wee lassie in his arms had barely survived, yet it was all he could do to push to his feet and lift her into his arms. She was a fighter, that was for certain. A less-robust woman would have succumbed to the ravages of the sea.
Though the little church Angus’ grandfather had built overlooking the North Sea was only about a hundred paces away, by the ache of every sinew, he felt as if he were starting at the base of Ben Nevis on an uphill climb.
“Would ye like me to carry her?” asked Raghnall. “Your shoulder needs tending.”
“I can manage,” Angus grunted as he trudged forward.
Once they made their way inside, Angus sighed at the relief to be out of the wind, though it was still bitterly cold. The chapel had been used annually for the Lammas Day feast and bonfire. The clan always began by giving thanks and praying for a successful harvest. The nave had but a small altar with a brass cross and a vaulted ceiling, which made their footsteps echo.
“Start a fire,” Angus said, gently resting the woman on the only strip of carpet, which was near the altar. She was barely conscious, shivering and gripping her fists beneath her chin.
“With what?” asked Raghnall, rubbing his hands. “Everything that might take a spark is soaked.”
Angus looked to the altar, carved with a scene from Christ’s last supper. Though it was priceless, he’d set the entire block of mahogany alight if it meant their survival. As he panned his gaze across the nave, the wooden chairs, their seats woven with wicker, caught his eye. “We’ll start with the chairs. Then we’ll bring in rushes to dry.”
While Raghnall set to work, smashing a few chairs into burnable bits, Angus pulled the tapestry from the wall. “We must remove our sodden clothes afore we’re chilled all the more.”
With flicks of his fingers, Angus took off his belt and the brooch at his shoulder, only now realizing he’d lost his father’s sword. Aye, with the prospect of a swim in the North Sea, he’d needed to release the buckle and drop the weight, but Da’s great sword with its bejeweled hilt was gone. His dirk and sgian dubh remained secure in their scabbards, thank heavens for small mercies.
After Raghnall had a fire crackling in the brazier, the man-at-arms stripped to his shirt as well, their cloaks long gone. He nodded toward the stowaway. “What about her?”
“She’s come this far. I’m no’ about to lose her now.”
The man-at-arms stooped to retrieve his dirk. “I’ll fetch the rushes.”
Angus kicked off his sodden boots and peeled away his hose, draping them over the back of a chair. Releasing a deep breath, he faced his charge. “Ye’ll nay survive if ye remain in that heavy woolen gown.”
On the boat she’d worn a sealskin cloak—a sign she might be highly born—but had he not ripped it from her person, they would be dead for certain.
When she didn’t respond, he touched her shoulder. “Come,