by Cathy MacRae
Dugan shrugged. “I respect yer choice. At least she hasnae turned ye into a blithering idiot. Or gutted ye in yer sleep.”
Birk narrowed his eyes, unsure if Dugan jested or not. He could certainly think of a few times when the need to take Carys to bed had overridden any other judgement. Howbeit, he did not think he could complain, and, surprisingly, neither had she.
“Nae. I still draw breath and am not yet an idiot.”
A shout from the walls silenced the sounds in the bailey, only to explode in a flurry of movement and bellowed commands. Birk’s chair clattered to the floor where it spun about once before it stilled. He was at the window in a trice, his heart racing. Carys and Eislyn stood motionless, the child pulled tight against Carys’s body, her arm across Eislyn’s chest, locking her in a protective position. The line of her body tensed, her gaze fixed on the massive gates as they swung slowly closed. Birk followed her line of sight and saw an arrow driven into the ground, still quivering from impact.
An instant later, a cloud of whistling iron-tipped rain poured over the wall.
Shoving Dugan aside, Birk raced from the room. The doorway to the keep was filled with people hurrying inside, but he fought against the screaming surge and met Carys, Eislyn tucked against her body, as they joined the mad dash to safety. He paused for a heartbeat, his gaze sweeping the pair for injury. Finding none, he pivoted about and plunged up the stairwell to his chamber.
He quickly donned a padded tunic—aketon—and tightened the ties across his shoulder, chest, and waist. Stripping away his sword belt, he added a leather hauberk, then repositioned his belt over all.
He pounded back down the stairs only moments later. Dugan paced the yard, a large shield his only concession to the stream of arrows that continued to bombard the castle.
Arrows bristled in the turf like the widespread fan of a capercaillie’s tail. A scattered few splayed across the cobblestoned area before the door of the keep. Birk pulled one from the ground, inspecting both fletch and tip. The short, straight feathers on the end told him they’d been crafted specifically for distance and speed, not accuracy. Perfect for shooting over castle walls.
The men on the ramparts returned fire to the as yet unknown enemy beyond the gates. Birk took the stairs to the outer wall two at a time and found Iain on the parapet closest to the gate.
“Who are they?” Birk rumbled, sidling past a soldier refitting his bow.
“I am not certain,” Iain replied. “I havenae seen more than a line of archers. They step from the shelter of the forest, fire, then vanish. My men have dispatched several.” He nodded to shapes dimly outlined by the fading sun.
“I dinnae want them to disappear into the forest. There is no sign of a siege tower. I will take twenty men and scour the area.”
“Laird? I’m not certain we can protect ye . . ..”
Rage exploded beneath Birk’s skin. He clenched his fists. Iain was right. It was likely they would ride into either a volley of arrows or a similar trap. He recalled the terror on Eislyn’s face.
“I willnae calmly accept their attack, nor will I allow them to escape. Gather the arrows from the yard and send them back to the bastards. At this distance, accuracy isnae expected. Just keep them away from the gate.”
His shouted commands rose above the heightened commotion. Men raced for the stables. Others put their shoulders into opening the gates, the sound of metal twisting beneath the heavy wood grating and shrill.
Birk dug his heels into Bran’s sides. The warhorse squealed and leapt forward, twenty horses with armored riders on his heels. A cry of challenge rose from the men on the wall, tribute to those who rode out to meet their enemy. Arrows sailed overhead, giving Birk and his men some protection as they charged toward the trees nearly two furlongs distant. The shafts fell short of the woods, but it was enough to force the enemy into hiding.
The arrows ceased. With a shout, Birk pulled Bran to a halt, rolling the stallion back onto his massive haunches. Around him, his soldiers mirrored the maneuver, forming a seething mass of horseflesh—and chaos.
A dozen archers rose from behind boulders and slender trees. Birk sent his horse bounding back up the road, luring the enemy from their hiding spots. Three nocked their arrows and Birk released his soldiers from their apparent retreat to charge the exposed enemy.
The rout was over in a matter of minutes. Two of Birk’s men strode the field despite injuries—one a shoulder wound, the other with a broken shaft in his thigh. The wounds did not appear life-threatening, and the pain would register once the battle fervor cooled. All but four of Birk’s men now scoured the surrounding forest for any others who had so far escaped.
He counted eight dead among the enemy. Two would quickly add to the number, and another sat against a boulder, arm clasped tight to his side to stem the bright red blood oozing from a gash that parted flesh shoulder to wrist.
A slender form knelt beside the wounded man. Fire and ice roiled through Birk.
Carys.
He was at her side in three angry strides and came within an enraged breath of hauling her to her feet and demanding to know what the hell she was doing on the battlefield. She glanced up and rose, tearing a strip from the bottom edge of her tunic.
“I would recommend cutting his throat,” his wife said, her jerky movements betraying her wrath. Birk’s fury shifted into reluctant admiration. “But he may be useful to us.” She quickly bound the man’s arm then jerked him to his feet. Birk whistled up a soldier and sent him back to the castle with the prisoner. Carys swung up onto her horse’s back, arching a brow at Birk. Rather than reply to her silent question, he left Oran in charge and rode with Carys to the castle.
* * *
Birk recognized the prisoner’s dialect. His ma spoke in a similar manner when she was agitated, slipping back into her Norse roots.
“Why were ye here?” Birk asked as the healer laid out needle and thread on a small table next to the wooden chair. The prisoner, face pale with blood loss and pain, shifted uneasily on the hard seat. He favored Birk with a glower.
“Raiding,” he spat.
“Raiding is what ye did in my village a fortnight ago,” Birk returned, hoping to prod the man into admitting or denying the two groups were the same. “This action today had no aim other than to harry my people with the hopes of causing damage.”
A strained grimace slashed the man’s face as the healer plunged her needle into ripped flesh. “Reparation.”
Birk studied him, eyes narrowed. So, he doesnae deny being part of the raid. “Explain.”
Sweat broke out on the man’s brow and he lost his arrogance as the needle plunged into his arm again. “Ye support the Scottish king.”
Isn’t that interesting? The Treaty of Perth has been in effect these past seventeen years and King Alexander’s youngest daughter married King Eric of Norway, though she died this past April in childbirth. Are there still pockets of resentment on the Isles? Those who still pay homage to Norway?
“And ye killed Colin Dubh.” The prisoner’s voice rasped low, but his accusation was clear. They’d been here to exact revenge.
’Tis time to take my wife and daughters to MacLean Castle. None can harm them there. His gaze sought Carys. She stood to one side, mostly in the shadows, intent on their prisoner. Her eyes still burned with anger and he recalled the way she’d protected Eislyn with her body, carrying her to safety. Her fingers tapped the hilt of the dagger at her belt as though eager to put an end to the interrogation. A large dark splash marred the front of her tunic, though from her behavior, Birk did not suspect the blood was hers. She stepped forward.
“I killed Colin Dubh.”
Shouts erupted in the room. Carys stood firm, holding the startled gaze of the man before her. He scrambled to an upright position, his hand reaching for a weapon that was no longer at his side. Carys stumbled as Birk shoved her aside, away from the wounded man’s reach. Furious with his interference, she shoved back. Catching him off-guard,
he faltered.
“I will handle this.” He growled low, for her ears only.
“Have I not earned the right to question him?”
“’Tis man’s work.” He glared at her, attempted to stare her into submission.
“So was killing this blackguard’s leader, but I killed him and two others without a man’s assistance,” she shot back.
Gripping her sword’s hilt, shoving it deep into its sheath lest she bury it in someone’s chest, Carys stormed from the room, ignoring Birk’s bark of command to return.
I will not be cosseted. I will protect what is mine, and his opinion of what is proper can go hang!
She choked back a sob. I am responsible for the attack by the pirates. They came after me. ’Twas me they sought to punish.
Anguish overrode her better instincts, keeping her from answering Birk’s orders.
Death follows ye.
But I will fight for what is mine. My children. My family. My honor.
Footsteps pounded the stone behind her as she grabbed the doorframe and whirled about, landing nearly level with Birk’s startled face. He stepped to one side, clearing the doorway. His glower returned, eyes dark, red spots of rage on his high cheek bones.
“Do ye have any idea . . .?”
“I have many ideas,” she snarled.
“Ye are my wife, and I willnae . . ..”
“Ye willnae?” she mocked. “I have had my fill of what ye will and will not allow.” She advanced, forcing him into the yard. Stunned looks followed them, and she straightened abruptly. “Follow me.”
Her march to the area between the stables and the high wall surrounding the castle settled her anger, forcing her into a place of quiet focus, her fury on full simmer. She faced Birk, hands flexing over the sword still at her belt.
He towered over her, using his height in an attempt to intimidate her. “A woman shouldnae be responsible for leading a rout of pirates.”
She tossed her head, undaunted. “And yet, here I am. I have routed my share of them, and care not if ye do not like it.”
Birk growled. “Nae. I dinnae.”
“What did ye think ye’d get when ye married me, Birk MacLean? A warrior woman who would become a submissive fool and turned to needlework once I said my vows?” She shook her head at his foolishness. “I thought ye possessed a keener wit than that. Mayhap I err.”
“I expect ye to do as ye’re told—as any good soldier!” he shouted.
Carys’s laugh rolled bitterly. “What do ye fear? That I will be injured and cheat ye of an heir? ’Tis easily remedied. Another wife shouldn’t be so difficult to find.” She shrugged. “Or, mayhap ye are uncomfortable around a woman who speaks her mind—and has the skills to back up her words?”
“Ye are fearless—and foolish. A woman cannae fight against a man and win.”
Carys stepped slowly to the side, loosening her shoulders as she circled him. “Have I not proven myself? Were Colin Dubh and his followers not evidence enough?”
Birk frowned, clearly not pleased with the memory she stirred.
“Or the pirates who attacked the Seabhag? Mayhap the thieves at port when Hywel and I first signed aboard Captain Ferguson’s ship? Or Longshanks’ soldiers who invaded my country and killed my family?” She continued her steps, watching him move, angling first forward then back, forcing him to avoid her advance.
Birk braced his feet in the dirt. “Ye cannae win against me. Put away yer anger and come inside.”
“Ye doubt me? Then meet me with steel.”
She slipped her sword from its sheath, her heart rate increasing to fighting speed at the shush of steel against leather. Birk’s scowl deepened. He flexed his hands then drew his sword, the reluctant lines of his body sliding forward into battle readiness.
Carys eyed him carefully, mindful of the length of his arms, the stretch of his legs that increased his reach. She was not quite as tall as he, but slim and quick. His muscles made him a daunting adversary, but fighting was not always about power.
Her steps light, she continued her slow circling, weaving her hands gently back and forth in front of her body. Birk moved only enough to remain facing her, conserving his strength, giving nothing away.
“Fight me, then,” he commanded, drawing his guard close. Carys did not fall for his ruse but kept her distance. He lunged forward, aiming for the sleeve of her leather tunic. She flicked her arm back, avoiding his half-hearted attack. She would teach him to never underestimate her again.
Swinging her sword, she rushed him, nicking his arm and shoulder before she spun about, dancing lightly out of his reach. Blood welled to the surface of each wound and surprise lit his eyes.
“Do not pamper me,” she warned.
Birk crossed the ground between them in three ground-eating strides, forcing her back with a flurry of blows. She parried neatly, expending only the energy needed to avoid his attack, never meeting his blows directly. She noted he presented the flat of his sword only. He still feared harming her, and he did not appear to take her earlier attack seriously.
Her breath came harsher, but her anger was not sated. How dare he belittle her? How dare he insist she conform to his whims? If he’d wished a proper lady for a wife, he should have married elsewhere. She’d show him exactly what kind of woman he’d earned by his duplicity.
Birk took a step back, his guard relaxed, as if his attack should have proved his point. Carys realized several men had followed them to the yard, and now stood back, watching. Several had their arms crossed over their chests, disapproval etched on their faces. Others appeared speculative. She would teach them all a lesson this day about the grit of a Welsh woman.
“Ye yield so soon, m’lord? Surely, those wounds are no more than scratches,” she taunted.
Birk’s gaze hardened as he assumed a defensive crouch.
Carys used stuttering steps, changing the rhythm of her attacks each time, forcing Birk to block her strikes. However, he refused to counter attack. Did he think her anger to be as a gale at sea? Swift and blustery, but soon over? She drew her dagger, a blade almost as long as her forearm. Birk’s only response was a tightening of his jaw.
“I concede ye have skills . . . for a woman. Cease this and let us discuss our differences in the privacy of our chamber.”
Several men snickered at Birk’s suggestion. Carys ground her teeth at the bawdy proposition, intentional or not. Birk’s neck flushed. Carys ignored his hack-handed attempt at peace and drove straight forward for an attack. Standing his ground, Birk met her predictably by using his strength to meet her blade, then lunged forward in an attempt to off-balance her. Anticipating such a move from her hulk of a husband, Carys shuffled to the right, giving way to his shove. Not expecting her move to the side, Birk overstepped, stumbling once before catching himself.
His misstep provided all the space she needed. With the dagger in her left hand, she slammed the pommel into the back of his knee, driving his knee to the hardpacked soil. She then whirled about, placing the blade of the sword in her right hand on his shoulder, the edge against his neck.
“Do ye yield, Laird MacLean?”
Birk attempted to rise. Carys placed her dagger on his other shoulder, the smaller blade mirroring the placement of her short sword. This time, the edge drew a bead of blood as his movement broke the skin. Birk released a snort of surprise.
“I yield,” he ground out.
Carys thought to make him say it louder, but teaching him not to treat her as if she were delicate was one thing, humiliating him in front of his men was another.
Soft metal clinked. Carys glanced up as a scowling Scotsman handed Brody a handful of coins. Brody caught her gaze and grinned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Már slid through the waves, the rhythmic sway as familiar to Carys as the beat of her heart. The boards creaked beneath her feet and the sail snapped overhead. Sea-spray laden breezes whipped her hair. Music as faint as the thrum of a distant rain rose to her ears,
the words a familiar ditty Captain Ferguson regularly sang. Hywel’s face appeared on the periphery of her sight, smiling as though he approved of her return to the sea.
She turned instinctively to speak to him, but the vision vanished, leaving nothing more than a pang in her heart.
The girls tossed a rag ball with Tully. Dewr watched from a perch atop a hatch door, a pained look on her face as if undecided which required her attention more—the girls who shrieked and raced about the deck, or the puppy whose stubby legs carried her with awkward grace over the wooden planks.
Birk stepped beside Carys, leaning his forearms against the polished rail. She sent him a sidelong glance, curious how he would respond to her after the previous day’s fight—and the night they’d spent in heated, intimate discussion. Her skin warmed in remembrance, tingled to anticipate his touch. She slowly brought her pulse under control.
Birk tapped his fingertips together. “How do ye like the lass?” He gave the ship a nod.
“She’s a sturdy ship,” Carys replied, the impersonal subject welcome. “And just the right size for a trip along the coast.”
“Aye. I had her refitted with a large cabin and rigs for awnings for the weans.” He straightened, patting the rail as if it were alive. “She’s carried her share of cargo, but I have larger ships. This ship has good bones and will live out her years plying the coast from Morvern to Dairborrodal and mayhap a few other small trips with family.”
“Eislyn says már is the Norn word for seagull.”
“Aye. Eislyn helped me rename her after I retired her as a cargo ship.”
“Tell me about your family.”
Birk stared into the horizon but did not seem displeased with her request. “I am the youngest of five children. My father married my mother a couple of years after his first wife died. My elder half-brother Donal and the twins, who died young, would have been many years older than I. Gillian, the youngest of his children by his first wife—who may or may not be at MacLean Castle when we arrive—is nearly eight years my senior.”
