Michael obeyed, but not fast enough to save them from scraping the jagged reef. The rowboat shuddered and tilted to the left. A wave crashed in, soaking them both. Catherine blinked the water from her eyes. "Now right."
A few minutes of rowing brought them through the danger zone. Then Catherine bailed until most of the water had been removed. When she was finished, she asked, "Do you have any idea how close we are to Skoal?"
Michael paused, letting the oars drift. In the moments before clouds veiled the moon again, she saw his broad shoulders slump with fatigue. He answered, "Not far, I think. Listen."
She strained her ears. There was a heavy, throbbing undernote to the sounds of the night. "Breakers ahead."
"Good." He began rowing again. "If I've judged rightly, we'll land on Little Skoal, not far from Haldoran's house."
She turned to the bow again, frowning into the darkness. "How on earth can you tell?"
"Homing pigeon blood. A useful talent for a soldier."
She hesitated. "My heart wants to go after Amy right away, but my head says we should go to the castle for help."
"Perhaps. But it might take time to persuade anyone that Haldoran is a villain." His voice became grim. "Also, she'll be safer if we can take her out in a quiet raid rather than a pitched battle."
He was right; Catherine would not put it past her loathsome cousin to hurt Amy from sheer spite if he thought he was going to be defeated. She swallowed hard. "Onward to Ragnarok."
The laird came awake more easily this time. It was still dark, but there was a hint of dawn in the sky. He turned his head. Davin Penrose sat by the bed, his face drawn with concern.
The laird whispered, "H-how long since I sent for you?"
A smile of relief crossed Davin's face. "I got the message last evening, about eight hours ago."
Good. The laird had feared that days might have passed while he slept. "Catherine?"
"She disappeared," the constable said gravely. "We've searched the island, but there's no trace of her. She had been nursing you day and night. It seems likely that she went for a late walk the night before last and fell from a cliff."
"No!" Knowing his strength was limited, the laird chose his words carefully. "Clive kidnapped her daughter and blackmailed Catherine into sending away that so-called husband of hers."
Davin's brows rose. "So-called?"
"Her real husband's dead. This one is a friend or lover or something," the laird said impatiently. "The fellow came back to see Catherine. Clive found them together and captured 'em. He was planning to take them to Bone and hunt them down like rats."
"Good God!" Davin's face paled. "Once or twice yesterday, I thought I heard shots coming from Bone."
The laird closed his eyes, trying to control the unexpected rush of emotion. It might be too late. Catherine had deceived him, but… he'd grown fond of her.
"How did you learn all this?" the constable asked.
"Everyone talked in front of me as if I were already dead." The laird took a deep breath, struggling to organize what must be said. "Clive has Catherine's daughter at Ragnorak. Take some of the militamen and get her out. I don't know if Clive is there, but go armed. He's mad and dangerous. After you have the child, cross over to Bone and see if… Catherine and that fellow are alive. If she isn't…" His voice faded away.
Accepting the outrageous story without question, Davin got to his feet. "I'll be on my way as soon as I can collect half a dozen men. First Ragnarok, then Bone."
"Don't trust Clive."
"I never did." The constable turned and was gone. The laird closed his eyes and tried not to weep. He was an old man. He should be used to loss by now.
There wasn't a single light visible on Skoal, though that wasn't surprising at this hour of the night. As they approached the island, Catherine sharpened her vigil, knowing that this last stretch was the most hazardous.
The currents worsened, whipping the boat back and forth. Michael was panting with exertion as he fought to keep them steady. The boom of the surf intensified, vibrating in her bones. The silhouette of an islet appeared ahead. She warned Michael and he managed to pull away, but a ferocious current grabbed the boat, sweeping it toward a jagged rock. She shouted another warning. The stony pinnacle loomed above her, almost close enough to touch. In the nick of time, Michael pulled them beyond the lethal obstacle.
The moon came out again, illuminating what lay ahead. "We're only a couple of hundred yards out," she reported. "From the sound of the breakers, it's a beach, but I can see boulders."
"Good," he said breathlessly. "That's what the shore is like on the south side of Little Skoal."
The surf caught the boat, hurling it toward land. They were close enough to see the pale, undulating lines of breaking waves. Catherine clamped her hands on the gunwales, frightened by the speed with which they were flying toward shore. One small part of her mind said that they would never survive this wild ride, while another said that Michael could do anything. The rest of her mind, and all of her body, was focused on watching what lay ahead.
Too late, she saw the rock lurking just below the surface. "Look out, to the right!"
As Michael tried to pull away, one oar crashed into the stone and shattered. He yelled, "Brace yourself!"
Out of control, the boat spun sideways and slammed into another rock. Catherine was almost pitched out by the impact. Water gushed in through the crushed planks.
But they were moving too quickly to sink. An immense surge of water swept them into the air with a wrench that turned her stomach. The boat seemed to hang endlessly. Then the wave smashed them onto the beach. The boat capsized and Catherine was thrown out. A vicious undertow dragged her back toward the sea, rolling her over and over along the seabed. She was drowning, helpless to break free…
Then Michael seized her and dragged her to her feet. "Get up! We're almost there!"
The waves fought to pull them under, but he kept her upright, his grip the one sure thing in a tumultuous world. The last stretch was interminable, a treacherous slope of stone and seaweed and crushing waves. Then suddenly they were beyond the reach of the water. They staggered a dozen steps farther before sinking to the ground, clinging to each other. Catherine felt as if her heaving lungs would burst through her chest.
Michael gasped, "Are you all right?"
She took stock of her aches and pains. "Some bruises, and a passionate desire never to board a boat again."
He gave a breathless chuckle. "Intrepid Catherine."
"No," she said firmly. "Cowardly, exhausted Catherine."
"We only have to keep going a little longer."
She left his embrace with reluctance. His touch made everything seem possible.
As they stood, she saw that Michael had managed to retain the smuggler's sword and the coiled rope. Amazing. "Do you recognize where we are?"
"I think that Ragnarok is less than half a mile away." He pulled off his jersey and wrung the excess water from it, then squeezed what moisture he could from his other garments. "It won't take us long to climb this hill and reach there."
"Then what?" Catherine asked as she wrung out her own jersey.
He smiled, his teeth a white, wolfish flash in the dark. "Then, my dear, we'll brave the dragon in his own den."
It took time for Davin to rouse a handful of the island's best militiamen. They gathered at the castle stables, where he handed out rifles and tersely explained the situation. His words were received with matter-of-fact nods. No one appeared to have trouble believing that Haldoran was a villain. On the other hand, Catherine and her husband-or whoever he was-had made a good impression on the islanders.