Deirdre by Linda Windsor Page A

Gleannmara, counted on her to win her brother’s freedom. Cairell had risked his life without hesitation to protect the church from Ecfrith’s raid and had been taken. How could she save her own skin and not his?
    Love for Cairell spurred her on. Recollections of her older brother carrying her on his shoulders, taking time to spar with her on the training field, making her a little wooden sword that looked like Kieran’s, complete with painted gems …
    “Father, with Your grace, I can do this,” she said, clenching her jaw with determination.
    With superhuman effort, Deirdre untangled her feet, taking theweight upon her arms again, and swung a long leg up, catching her foot on the edge of the ship’s rail. With sheer determination, she hauled herself up until she lay lengthwise, panting shallow. If she was found now, she could not lift a cry for help, much less a finger to defend herself.
    But God’s grace was with her. The guards were still engaged in conversation with the stranger who’d wandered down to the dock earlier. The rest of the crew had gone ashore and were either drunk or working on it. With a silent groan, Deirdre slid off the rail and crouched in its shadow. Once certain all was clear, she crept to the grate and lifted it. The rough wood bit into her hands and the weight taxed her weary arms, but she managed to slip beneath it and find a rung on the ladder leading to the hold.
    It was blacker than sin below deck. What little light the moon and the mast lantern afforded identified the location of the hatch from above but was of little use in her surroundings. Blindly, Deirdre oriented herself. The treasure chest had been straight ahead, but the kegs of wine were to her right. Feeling her way into the pitch darkness, she found some barrels of the right size, but something was wrong. They were stacked only two high, instead of taking up the span between the floor and the deck overhead. The Saxons had moved the cargo around maybe even unloading some of it.
    Backing up till the ladder stopped her, Deirdre closed her eyes, crushed. There was no point in wasting more time. With a light, she’d have a hard enough time finding the right keg—
    Something skittered across her bare foot. Clamping a hand over her nose and mouth, she stifled a scream.
Don’t even
think
about rats …
    A sudden recollection stiffened her spine with renewed hope. She had rolled the keg between the beams supporting the upper deck, so chances were it had not been disturbed. If she crawled over the keg tops, she might find it lying on its side against the ribs of the ship. Rallying, Deirdre crawled on her belly on the top of the two layers of kegs, then wriggled toward the bulkhead. Ahead of her, she heard the scramble of her unsavory companions and shuddered but pressed on. If she could just—
    Above her, the loud commotion of footsteps, laughter, and singing in that harsh Saxon tongue froze her in place even as her brain screamed for her to run. She breathed deeply, forcing herself to calmness and rational thought. Raucous feminine laughter provided the reason for the early return of the crew. Their celebration was in full blow and growing more debauched by the hour. Deirdre wrinkled her nose as one of the men grumbled, slurring the general sharpness of his foreign speech.
    “Don’t talk to me in that tongue, derling love,” the female chided.
    “He’s lucky he can talk at all.”
    That voice. It couldn’t be! What was Alric doing here? Deirdre refused to ponder the possibilities. The man was simply perverted.
    “What I wish with you, my derling …” The other man paused. “What is your name again?”
    “Raeda,” Alric told him. “Our beautiful Raeda.”
    “Red will do,” the woman said.
    The wench must have red hair, Deirdre surmised inconsequentially. And she was likely of British stock, given her reluctance to use the Saxon language—a slave perhaps, sold to a brothel.
Father, deliver us from such a fate.
    “What