Page 6 of Highland Crown
The woman was nowhere to be seen.
A quick series of explosions propelled Isabella to her feet. The blast was close, and she hurriedly yanked on her boots. Throwing on her cloak, she crossed to the door and peered out into the rain. Here on the Highland coast, the night sky retained the dismal grey hue of twilight throughout the summer, never yielding completely to the blackness of more southern climes. Even the storm clouds failed to blot out the dim light. But a second sun was burning brightly on the water. She stepped out onto the hard-packed sand and stared through the windswept rain at the wild scene before her.
Not a half mile from the stony beach, nearly cut off from view by heavy mists, the remains of a burning ship lay on a reef. Flames and smoke rose high in the sky.
Smatterings of villagers lined the black stretch of strand, pointing toward the wreck. A few men stood on a jagged ridge of rock projecting out into the raging surf. The attention of Jean’s neighbors was riveted on the events offshore, but Isabella moved cautiously to a vantage point on the shadowy side of a line of large boulders leading down into the sea. From here, she could see and not be discovered.
A thick swirling cloud obscured the reef for a few moments, lifting just as a wave carried the burning vessel off the rocks. Shouts and curses peppered the air asthe ship went under. Isabella had no experience with shipwrecks, but she guessed the sinking was a hard blow to the scavengers waiting on shore.
Before long, villagers began to wade out to gather the few casks and parts of the ship being carried in ahead of the crashing rollers. Working together, they dragged their meager treasure up onto the beach.
Isabella recalled that a visitor had come to Jean’s door earlier. They must have seen the ship hit the reef. They knew this was coming.The sea takes, and the sea provides; that’s the way of things.
Through the mist, she espied a single longboat foundering near the rocky point. It disappeared into a trough, and when it rose again, the boat was riding lower in the water. Wind and waves were buffeting it about.
A shot rang out from the rugged point.
Isabella gasped and took a couple of steps forward as a man in the longboat fell backward, tumbling out and disappearing into the surf. From where she stood, she could not see who fired the musket, but it was clear to her that the villagers were determined to scavenge what they could. They wanted no survivors to muddy their claim. And they would not brook the existence of any interfering witnesses either.
Pressing a fist to her stomach, Isabella watched the longboat fight to turn away from the rocks. A moment later, it disappeared into the mists.
Villagers continued to pull wreckage from the water, but she looked on with unseeing eyes. Lost in thought as the rain beat down on her, she considered the absurd naiveté of the life she led. Isabella had devoted her entire existence to healing people. But in the real world, menregularly ended each other’s lives without hesitation or regret. She’d seen it. In Edinburgh, her own husband had died from a bullet fired by some soulless man in uniform. Even as they ran from the house, she’d seen the bodies on the streets, ridden down by the very men who were supposed to protect them. And she’d seen it here. Now.
How long she stood there, she didn’t know. But suddenly she became aware of Jean hurrying toward her from the cottage. The old woman reached her and plucked at Isabella’s cloak.
“I told ye to stay inside,” Jean said fiercely, motioning toward the door. “This is village business. It’s no business of yers. Get back inside afore someone sees ye.”
“Who set the ship on fire?”
“They did, the blasted curs.” She spat in the direction of the water. “They wanted to deny us whatever they were carrying.”
“A villager shot a man in the boat,” Isabella said, unwilling to forget what she’d seen. “In cold blood.”
“I saw nothing of that. And neither did ye.”
No law. No principle. No compassion. The only thing that mattered was one’s own survival. This is how they lived. And, she guessed, how they’d always lived. This was why John brought her here. Still, it was difficult to witness. But she had to remain silent. Three days, she reminded herself. Three more days and she’d sail away from the Highlands. And the events of this night would fill only one thin chapter in the tragic memoir of her life in Scotland.
“Go in, I say.” Jean peered through a gap in the boulders at the villagers. “Now. And don’t be talking of shooting. We’ve got no guns in the Highlands.”
Isabella planted her feet when the old woman tried to push her back toward the cottage. A movement at the sea’s edge drew her eye. At the base of one of the boulders that cut off this narrow stretch of stony beach from the long strand leading to the village and Duff Head, a man was dragging himself through the wind-whipped foam. Just above the waterline, he sank onto the beach.
“Someone from the ship!”
Jean gripped Isabella’s arm tightly. “I see no one.”
She shook herself loose of the older woman. “I care nothing about salvaged goods. Your villagers can keep it all. But that man needs help.”
“Wait. Ye can’t.”
For many, being a physician meant following a dignified profession, one that generally garnered respect and modest financial benefits. But to Isabella, it was an obligation and an honor. She always treated her chosen path as a responsibility. It didn’t matter who or what the patient’s circumstances were. Friend or foe, poor or rich, she did the same for all. She’d been given a gift that she was determined to use.
She moved quickly down the stony slope to the water’s edge, and Jean stayed close behind her, grumbling the entire way.
The man’s longish dark hair was matted with seaweed and grit. His face was half-buried in the stones and sand. He was clearly a large man, tall and broad across the shoulders. From the well-made wool jacket and from the quality leather of the boots, she decided he was no ordinary tar. He was either a passenger or an officer from the ship.
Isabella put her back to the gusts of rain and crouchedbeside him. Putting her fingers on his throat, she felt for a pulse. His skin was clammy and cold.
“God willing, the dog’s dead,” Jean mumbled, hovering over her.
