The Highlander's Welsh Bride: Book 5 in the Hardy Heroines series

by Cathy MacRae

  “Does she often reside with you?”

  “Nae. She has her own bairns and husband. She came to a council meeting several months ago and remained a bit after deciding travel in her delicate condition was unwise. I am happy to say she delivered a healthy lass a few days before I left for Dairborrodal. ’Tis likely her husband took them both home, though I daresay not before Hanna gave permission.”

  “Is Hanna your healer?” A healer held in much respect was a boon.

  The right side of Birk’s lips quirked upward. “Nae. She is my ma.”

  Carys pondered this, eyebrows drawn together in concern. A mother by marriage who lived with them and carried much influence? It did not seem a happy combination. She fingered her leggings—not the attire she’d wish for a first meeting with her mother by marriage, but she preferred practicality over formality when pirates were a distinct possibility during the voyage.

  Birk brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear where it lingered a moment before whipping free again. “Dinnae fash over my ma. She will like ye. In fact, ye remind me much of her. Strong, fair, kind. She lost her family in a raid by Scots and met my da as she fled capture. Someday I’ll tell ye the story.”

  The anxiety over meeting Birk’s ma faded slightly. “I would like that.”

  The backs of his fingers trailed down her cheek, lowering her unease further, thickening her blood, centering her pulse to a deep awareness of his touch. His palms drifted down the sides of her tunic, kept mostly out of sight beneath the folds of the cloak she’d donned against the brisk sea wind.

  She leaned against him, turning to help shield them from the gaze of others, closing her eyes as the heat of him seeped through the cloth, lighting a fire in her veins. His mouth touched hers, capturing the moan that drifted from deep inside.

  Birk nibbled her lips, cupping her cheeks in his palms. “I will take ye on a trip—just the two of us—and make love to ye as the waves rock beneath us.” With a slow wink, he strode away to join the men at the helm.

  Carys shuddered with need, wondering at the sensations he evoked in her. Is there a difference between loving and wanting? He’s naught like Terwyn . . . She hesitated. Do I wish him to be?

  Salt-laden air swept over her, refreshing, new. Nae. I cannae say I completely trust him, but I cannae say I regret my decision to marry him—and the problems we have appear to be mostly behind us. Settling in as a laird’s wife isn’t what I envisioned for my life, but simple enough. I have not been a princess of Cymru since Hywel and I fled the massacre at Orewin Bridge. And I do not wish to be that person ever again.

  * * *

  Dugan beckoned Birk near. “We are being watched.”

  With a leap made effortless with years of practice, Birk swung up onto the aftcastle, a steadying hand on the rail. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he peered over the horizon. After a moment, the form of a sailing vessel appeared.

  “Twelve, maybe fifteen benches,” Dugan noted. “That will mean thirty to forty men. And the mast is midship. The helmsman can steer fore or aft. ’Tis a Norse vessel.”

  Birk grunted. “They arenae close enough for worry yet. Keep an eye on them. We have another two hours or so before we reach Morvern. If they mean to attack, they will have to move soon.”

  Dugan nodded. “Aye. I’ll put an extra pair of eyes to watching.”

  Birk leapt back to the deck. “I’ll warn Carys.”

  She looked up when he approached, her expression hooded. Eislyn and Tully raced about, dodging the indulgent men on board and the few chests lashed to deck cleats. Abria waited patiently at Carys’s feet, playing with Tegan who appeared on the verge of settling into a nap.

  Leaning against the rail, he turned his back to Abria to lessen the chance she’d overhear. “A ship follows at the horizon.”

  Carys moved her gaze from him to the open water, the only indication she understood.

  “Twenty-four oars?”

  Birk wasn’t certain if her words were statement or question, though she had better sight than he if she could make out the number of oars from this distance.

  “Possibly, though I havenae counted. ’Tis a ship built for speed.”

  Carys’s skin blanched and she shifted as though she’d received a blow.

  “’Tis me they seek,” she murmured, hand white-knuckled on the rail.

  “Dinnae fash,” he drawled, using his words to pull her back from whatever panicked her. “We will sort them out. Again. ’Tis likely they willnae come closer.” He placed a palm over her hand, but she snatched away.

  “You do not understand.” She glanced wildly about, her gaze landing on Tully and Eislyn, and Abria sprawled trustingly at her feet. “Death follows me.” Her voice rasped low. “I have brought harm to you and the children.”

  Birk eyed her askance. What could possibly have startled her? It was clear to him the man they’d captured a day earlier had no idea Carys had been involved in Colin’s death. What else stalked his wife?

  “Walk with me, Carys.” His command brooked no refusal, and Carys’s hesitation was slight. With a nod she appeared to calm and followed him to a deserted spot along the rail.

  “Tell me what haunts ye.”

  This time he saw the struggle in the terse line of her shoulders, the rapid breaths that rose and fell beneath her cloak. Several long moments passed before she sighed deeply and spoke.

  “’Tis naught but words an old woman spoke to me some months past. Pay no attention to my ramblings.” Red spots rose on her cheeks, and had Birk not just witnessed her alarm, he would have dismissed the flush as a product of the brisk wind.

  “This auld woman has a bit more hold over ye than I’d like. I wish to hear more.”

  She turned away, eyes again on the horizon, though whether she sought the ship there or a distant recollection, he couldn’t say.

  “The day Hywel and I left Cymru, an old woman approached me. She was gnarled and half-blind. We have much respect for our elders and I was compelled to listen.”

  Birk mustered as much patience as possible as Carys wrestled with the memory. He edged closer, bumping her shoulder with the length of his arm, giving her a bit of his warmth. The touch seemed to sooth her somewhat and she leaned against him as if her burden was too much to bear alone.

  “She told me death stalks me. I asked how to avoid this, and she said it did not matter, though if I left Cymru that day, my death would move to some distant future.” She tilted her head back and stared into the distance.

  “The battle at Orewin Bridge was but a couple of days past, and I suggested this was what she sensed on me, but she insisted that was not true.”

  She turned haunted eyes on Birk. “Everyone around me has died since that time. The men on the Seabhag,” her voice dropped to a whisper. “Hywel.”

  How to prove her brother’s death was not her fault? He stiffened. As easy as proving Rose’s death wasn’t his fault.

  Carys edged away. She’d misread him. He slipped a palm against the small of her back, gently holding her in place. Her body tensed but she stilled.

  “Their deaths werenae yer fault, Carys Wen,” he rumbled. “Death stalks us all and enters our lives when we dinnae wish it. Ye have protected far more than ye have killed.”

  “I do not wish to bring harm to you or the girls.”

  “Yer path brought ye to us for a reason—and I dinnae think ’tis for harm. I know ye care for the girls, and know ye are a formidable force against pirates.” He stared down his nose. “Is this not true? Or was the beating ye gave me yesterday a whim of luck?”

  She relaxed beneath his hand, then motioned toward the trailing ship. “Have Dugan ready the oars. The ship draws near.”

  She would have taken an oar, but the men seemed appalled when she moved toward a bench. Perhaps it was better if she remained topside. She herded Eislyn—ignoring her protests—and Abria into the small cabin with Tegan who’d roused with yips and barks amid the grim excitement.
>
  Tully followed along, completely unaware of Carys’s concerns.

  “Carys can fight pirates!” he raved, causing Eislyn’s eyes to widen. “I’s seen her! She set their ship aflame—big flames that burned up their whole ship!” He swung his hands wide in a sweeping gesture. Abria giggled nervously.

  “She shot their whisky,” he confided. “With a big flaming arrow! I seen it light up—whoosh! Da said she sent them poxy rats to argue with Saint Peter.” He grinned.

  Carys rolled her eyes and hastily changed the subject. Hoping to keep Tully from potential danger yet give him a purpose, she extracted a promise he’d protect his new sisters and left him and Dewr in the cabin as well, pretending she did not see the slightly open door through which concerned faces peered. She’d ensure they closed it when necessary.

  She joined Birk at the rail. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, pushing his cloak aside. He met her gaze then nodded at the ship that appeared to have gained on them.

  “She pulls less draft than the Már. I dinnae expect her to manage to get close enough to attempt to board, but they may think to fire a few shots in our direction.”

  Carys peered at the ship, its long, slender lines with high bow boldly stating its Norse heritage. “It skims the water,” she remarked, appreciation for the ship overriding her fear for the children.

  “A Snekkar or snake-ship. Almost flat-bottomed.” Birk frowned. “And verra fast.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the cabin. His frown deepened.

  “But unstable,” Carys noted.

  “Aye. But the waters in the strait arenae as rough as open water.”

  “How long until we sight Morvern?” Carys asked.

  Birk adjusted his gaze to the sky. “We should sight the harbor within the hour.”

  “They risk much plying the waters so close.”

  “Aye. But we carry much they desire.”

  Carys’s heart rate sped. “I . . ..”

  Birk sent her a hard stare. “Ye arenae the only passenger aboard worth ransom.”

  Or worth killing. Cold fingers swept up her spine. The children—Tully’s boast of protection notwithstanding—were completely helpless. And would make good hostages.

  She pulled her attention from those things she could not change to the image of the ship drawing ever closer. A row of brightly colored shields ranged along the top of the rail, protecting the oarsmen from attack. Tension crackled along the planks of the Már. An eerie quiet reflected the anticipation of battle. The sails snapped overhead and water crashed against the prow. Oars dipped almost silently into the depths before pulling the ship forward, shedding the scent of brine as they raced above the waves for another bite at the sea. The deck planks rocked beneath Carys’s feet.

  A metal shriek stuttered as the wheel cranking the ballista mounted on the aftcastle tightened another notch. A seagull shrieked overhead.

  A shout from above nearly sent Carys over the rail. She glanced up to see the lad on the mast pointing excitedly off their starboard bow. Following the line of his arm, she squinted against the glare of the sun. A second ship, built much like the Már only bigger, pricked the horizon.

  “The Alacrity!” Excitement swept the deck. Apprehension drained from Carys. Whether by accident or design, help was at hand. The pirates would not face two ships at once.

  She swept her gaze westerly. The Snekkar slowed its approach. Within moments, the gap between it and the Már increased noticeably. Moments later the Snekkar slipped from sight.

  * * *

  MacLean Castle loomed on the horizon, perched atop a cliff as both a beacon and sign of strength, as the Már eased into port. The village of Morvern lay between them, busy and full of vigor. Birk, immersed in conversation about the pirates, left the disembarkment of the children to Carys.

  She checked the cart arranged for the girls—puppy snuggled between them—and then helped Tully climb into the back of the conveyance, feet trailing off the edge, a happy smile on his face. A weather-worn Scotsman took up the reins.

  Carys mounted the horse held for her with Dewr standing alongside. Eislyn and Abria, impatient for their noon meal and on the verge of exhaustion after a full morning of shipboard excitement, fidgeted and whimpered. Birk showed no evidence he was ready to leave. As Carys took stock of the children, safely ashore and ready for the last short leg of their journey, relief swept over her, leaving a hollow spot where tension had coiled like a viper. Her muscles quivered, released from their strain.

  Eislyn shrieked. Carys sighed.

  “We’ll go on without him,” she said, giving the girls a bright look. “I doubt he’ll be long, but I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

  Like magic, the girls’ whines became happy chatter. Carys put her heels to her horse’s sides and set aside her lingering worries about meeting Birk’s ma and the people of MacLean Castle. A dozen mounted soldiers hurried to catch up.

  They wound through the village and approached the castle gates. Her stomach pitched and dropped as though still aboard ship. She frowned. She did not want to be nervous to meet Birk’s ma, but her confidence waned as they approached the formidable castle. She smoothed a hand over her hair, noting the strands that had pulled loose from her braid, victim of the brisk sea air—and Birk’s clever fingers.

  Damn him. ’Tis too easy to allow him to distract me. Coupling—and an heir—is all he wants from me. ’Twill be all he gets. A pang of regret bubbled inside.

  She glanced at the cart rattling its way over the cobblestones. All three children gripped the wooden sides, but none appeared discomfited by the bumpy ride. Dewr darted ahead through the crowd, then returned to the cart as if to check on her charges, her efforts ensuring she’d cover at least three times the distance before they reached the castle.

  Carys smiled. I have a family again. Her heart rose in her throat, threatening to choke her, and she swallowed back the reminder of what she could have lost that day. She turned her attention to the fortress looming far larger at the end of the road than she’d imagined.

  Laird and wealthy merchant? Very wealthy—and for many generations if she’d any guess. A shiver slid beneath her skin. Such a man could draw the attention of kings. At least Edward Longshanks had not turned his acquisitive eye toward Scotland. Yet.

  The girls’ excitement rose in shrill shrieks and giggles as they approached the massive gates. They passed through the barbican, a stone tunnel so thick torches were required to light the way. Carys was further startled to discover the gates in the curtain wall were still a fair distance from the keep. The sweep of the yard included many buildings, some, like the smithy, instantly recognizable, others less so. Magnificent horses, very different from the ponies she was accustomed to, grazed in a paddock beyond a low stone building with a slate roof. The stable.

  Abria half-stood in the little cart. She cried out when Eislyn pulled her back to her seat. The corgi pup yipped. Carys drew a deep breath. She could scarcely scold the girls for being excited to be home.

  The double doors of the keep opened, and a tall woman, hair pulled neatly back beneath a long white cloth, appeared on the top step. The cart rumbled to a halt and Abria and Eislyn rose, impatiently awaiting help. Carys dismounted, and the man driving the wagon handed the girls down to her. Abria hopped from foot to foot, snatching her puppy from the man’s grip. Eislyn beckoned them to follow.

  Carys walked at Abria’s side, a hand on her shoulder, her other tucked in Eislyn’s as the child pulled her forward. At the bottom of the steps the girls tore free and rushed to the top, wrapping their arms about the woman’s legs.

  “Amma!” Eislyn shrieked.

  The woman met Carys’s gaze, her expression neither welcoming nor forbidding.

  “Welcome to MacLean Castle, Baron MacLean’s home. You must be my granddaughters’ new nurse.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A swirl of disbelief, anger, and frustration pulled at Carys. Baron? His children’s nurse? What other surprises await? Her temp
er simmered, threatened to boil over. If this doesn’t drop me from a cauldron into a fire, I do not know what does.

  Words Birk’s ma would likely not wish to hear about her son almost left Carys’s lips, but Eislyn leapt to her defense.

  “Amma! She isnae our nurse. We have a new ma!” She beamed at Carys. “Her name is Carys, and she knows Cymraeg.”

  Abria released her squirming puppy. Tegan sat at her feet, tongue lolling, round rump wiggling against the stone.

  The woman stilled, the expression on her face wiped away for the moment it took to compose herself. “A new wife and a new puppy?” she murmured. A smile flirted with her lips, but something, perhaps uncertainty, seemed to temper her response. Her gaze slid up Carys from leggings to cowl to bedraggled braid, and Carys managed not to squirm.

  “I apologize,” she said, inclining her head toward Carys. “Birk did not inform us he’d married.” Something flickered in her eyes—amusement? Anger? “My name is Hanna, my lady, and I am the eldhúsfífl’s mother. On behalf of Clan MacLean, I bid ye welcome home.”

  Home? What a kind thing for Hanna to say. Tension eased in Carys’s chest and she decided not to ask for a translation for eldhúsfífl. At least not with the children present. She returned the woman’s slight nod. “I am pleased to meet ye. I am simply Carys.”

  Hanna arched a brow. “Ye are a baroness now, Lady MacLean, but I will be happy to call ye Carys. Did my son not explain his holdings to ye?”

  “I thought he was a gaoler,” Carys drawled, allowing her tone to show what she thought of Birk’s deception.

  Dewr bounded up, her bark interrupting the conversation. Tully dragged a chest to the foot of the steps and dropped it with a thud to the ground. He grinned broadly, looking from his new sisters to the woman at the door. Carys wrapped her arm about his shoulders possessively.

  “This is Tully. ’Tis a long story, but he is as a brother to me, and the girls have adopted him temporarily. We are searching for his family.”