Return of the Lost Bride: A St. Briac Family by Cynthia Wright

Author:Cynthia Wright
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2019-07-12T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Less than a week later, Violette found herself on Félicité, a two-masted merchant ship bound from Calais for Scotland. Thomas obtained a tiny cabin for her, and when the skies turned dark and the waves came up, she gratefully took refuge in her narrow bunk.

Huddled in the gloom, clutching the edge of a bulkhead shelf to avoid being tossed off her bunk, Violette thought of Ciaran and all the uncertainty that lay between them. Would he still care for her when she returned? Perhaps the loss of the castle, combined with his injuries, would reawaken the darkness within him and cause him to be bitter. Ciaran was a warrior to his bones and if he had been grievously wounded, it would sorely tax his spirit. Perhaps he would have already invited another lass into his bed, if only to distract him from his pain.

No, no, he cares for me. He has said so. She tried to remember only the way he had looked into her eyes that last night, but at the same time, another part of her remembered the cynical words he had spoken to Lennox.

The bonds between them had begun to knit together, yet were they not also fragile? So many elements in their lives lay beyond their control.

On the deck above her, men’s shouts rose above the sounds of the storm. As rain lashed the hull and the ship was tossed on towering waves, Violette began to feel very afraid. Was this going to be her fate? Would she drown in a terrible shipwreck before she could reach Ciaran?

It came to her that this cramped, dark, musty-smelling cabin might become her coffin, entombing her forever at the bottom of the sea. Violette struggled to her feet, pulled on her cloak, and worked her way slowly out to the gangway and up to the deck. The force of the rain and wind nearly drove her to her knees as she emerged into the storm-ravaged night. Men were pulling at the lines, bringing in the sails, some of them shrieking in terror.

A moment later, Violette watched as the kind-hearted first mate, Philippe, was knocked completely off his feet by a sudden blast of wind. He staggered back up, but as the deck pitched wildly, he soared over the rail as if he’d been made of twigs. Aghast, Violette tried to call out to the other seamen, but no one seemed to notice her. She pulled off her sodden cloak and crawled toward the rail.

“Someone, help!” she screamed as rain washed the tears from her cheeks. Philippe had been the first person on board Félicité to smile at her. How could she allow this to happen? When she finally reached the rail and dragged herself upright, she caught a glimpse of his white shirt bobbing amid the black waves of the English Channel.

“Don’t give up!” Violette called. Looking around, she spied an empty wooden keg that was rolling toward her on the deck. Perhaps it was folly, for he was so far away, yet she had to try.

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