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

by Cathy MacRae

  On the deck below in the melee, or alone with this pirate, her time was near the end. Opting to use the reach advantage of the spear, Carys advanced two steps toward the pirate, away from the edge of the aftcastle. The pirate’s grin widened. Extending his arm, he tapped the end of Carys’s spear with the head of his axe, testing her skill and, perhaps, her resolve.

  Determined not to allow him the first move, she lunged forward, driving her spear toward the Norseman’s heart. He deflected her strike at the last second with his dagger, but could not avoid the bite of her weapon. He grunted and glanced at his arm where she had opened a long gash.

  He bit out a stream of Norse with a snarl, likely a descriptive curse, but Carys did not invite translation. Buoyed by drawing first blood, Carys pressed the attack and thrust again. The pirate deflected her spear with his axe and spun toward her to close the gap. He swung his dagger with a sweeping backhand aimed at her throat. Carys ducked, his attack whistling just above her head. She took a sliding retreating step to her left, cutting his thigh as she drew the extended spear back to guard position. The Norseman narrowed his eyes and circled her, wariness in his gaze. She’d lost the element of surprise. He now realized she was more than a defenseless woman with a man’s weapon.

  The pirate feinted to draw her attack, but Carys stood her ground, not willing to give in to his attempts to bait her. She recalled her battle against Colin Dubh and how she’d outlasted him. The spear she held, however, was substantially heavier than her thin javelin. If she didn’t end this soon, her arms would cease to wield the weapon effectively.

  She thrust again. The pirate hooked his axe over the shaft of her spear and jerked the weapon from her hands. It clattered to the deck and rolled away, coming to rest against the railing. He lunged at her, his dagger flashing in his hand. Carys dropped and rolled to one side, narrowly missing being gutted. Warmth trickled down her belly, evidence he’d found flesh. She leapt upright then drew the short sword and dagger. She’d no option but to give away size, strength, and now reach to her foe. Even wounded, she was the quicker of the two—a poor consolation considering his advantages.

  The warrior rose to his full height and strode confidently toward her, his axe raised. Carys crouched, ready to move to either side to avoid a blow she had no hope of blocking. He swung his axe in a diagonal strike that would open her from shoulder to opposite hip. Stepping to the side and slightly forward, Carys managed to move out of his reach. She took another step forward, just past him, and swung her short sword low before he could halt the momentum of his heavy axe. Her blade bit into the back of his leg and he staggered. He turned, reaching for her as he dropped his axe.

  He shoved her backward and Carys fell awkwardly, losing her grip on her sword and dagger as she struggled to regain her balance. Landing hard, she banged her head against the side of the Már.

  The Norse warrior picked up his axe and charged, showing no sign of his injury. Cornered against the railing, Carys lay helpless, her sword and dagger out of reach. He raised his axe for a killing blow, only a few steps away. Desperate, Carys tried to roll, but landed against the spear wedged between her and the rail. Bracing the blunt end in the angle between deck and rail, she brought the tip up as the Norseman lunged. Unable to stop his attack, he impaled himself, shock widening his eyes and mouth. His axe hit the wooden deck with a thunk, its arc carrying it a few feet beyond Carys’s head. His massive body fell lifeless across Carys, driving the breath from her lungs. Pain streaked across her side.

  Gritting her teeth against the stabbing ache in her belly, Carys shoved his body aside and staggered to her feet. She retrieved her short sword and dagger, then made her way toward the ladder, her steps faltering, her breath catching in great gulps as she tried to suppress the pain, shocked she still lived.

  The sounds of battle had ended, replaced by the groans of the wounded. The once-orderly deck had become a scene of carnage. Brody remained standing below her, the cabin door shut. His arm dangled uselessly at his side. Carys scanned the deck for Birk and found him among the surviving men returning the dead invaders to the sea.

  A small group of wounded, divided MacLeans to one side, pirates to another, lay midships, surrounded by armed MacLean warriors. A burning pain stirred her sluggish brain. Carys placed a hand against her middle. It came away sticky with blood.

  Birk glanced about, seeing little of the ship, seeking Carys. The aftcastle was empty and he found her a moment later among the wounded—to his gut-wrenching relief, alive and on her feet. He turned back to the job of removing the dead. With a shove, the last body disappeared into the frothing sea. Birk dragged the back of one hand across his forehead, wiping away sweat that dripped into his eyes. He flexed his shoulder, the tug of a long gash hindering the move. He motioned to the wounded.

  “I wish to know who they are.” With a grimace, Birk left Iain to complete the task of minimizing the damage to the ship and crossed the deck. His step quickened as he saw Hanna wrap a length of cloth about his wife’s midsection, and only managed through great presence of mind not to grab her into a fierce embrace.

  “She has taken little harm, though ’twill ache from the bruising.” Hanna knotted the bandage then tilted Carys’s face from side to side. “Any other places?”

  “Nae. I will be fine,” she replied, her voice thin.

  “Fine?” Birk buried his anger and relief but did not fool Hanna.

  “Aye, she will be fine. At the moment she is sore and exhausted. I do not believe the wound requires stitching, though we must keep watch that it does not fester. The bandage should control the bleeding.”

  Bleeding? His hands itched to yank the knotted strips from her belly and inspect the wound for himself. His arms ached to hold her against him.

  Carys pulled her cloak about her, shadows dark about her eyes, her skin pale and drawn. “See to Brody,” she murmured. “He saved us all.”

  “I would be dead ten times over were it not for ye and that bow of yers.” Brody grunted as Hanna prodded his arm that hung at an awkward angle. Sweat beaded his brow and color left his face. Birk knew what Hanna would do with the dislocated limb and left the job to her and two others. He touched Carys’s shoulder.

  “In a bit I will realize I almost lost ye today. I dinnae know what happened to ye on the aftcastle, and someday ye will tell me. For now, ’tis enough to see ye alive and on yer feet.”

  “I am relieved to see ye, also. There is still much to do. I will help where I can.”

  Birk gazed at her, taking in her slack-shouldered stance that spoke of her weariness, and the careful tuck of her left arm against her side to protect her injury. He palmed the back of her head and she sighed. He kissed her cheek.

  “For now, let us see to the others.”

  Kern glanced up from the wounded who lay against the bow railing. He slid the palm of his hand over one man’s eyes, closing them in the finality of death. With a shake of his head, he allowed the sailor assisting him—and looking only a heartbeat better than the man at his feet—to draw the edges of the sheet of canvas that had once been a hammock below decks over his still form—his own bed now a shroud.

  Beyond the MacLean wounded, three pirates still breathed. With the enemy swept from the deck like so much detritus, Iain had set men to work with pails and brooms to scrub the blood from the boards. Debris from the second pirate ship floated past. A hole had been hacked into its side to scuttle it, the mast hewn to little more than firewood.

  Birk and Carys approached the three pirates. A moment later, Hanna joined them. It was immediately clear two were beyond questioning.

  The third man, body battered and bleeding, rolled his head slowly side to side. Hanna drew to a halt next to him. Her hand flew to her throat.

  “Odin, Allfather!” she gasped.

  Birk and Carys stepped to her side. Hanna wavered. He grasped her elbow, steadying her, then followed her gaze to the injured man.

  “What is wrong, móðir?”

  Ha
nna raised a trembling hand. “It cannot be, yet this man . . . he looks exactly like Torvald—my first husband.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Late afternoon sun slanted through the evening clouds. As soon as the deck had been cleared, Carys had taken bannocks and cider to the children, giving them full bellies to help reassure them all would be well. Exhausted from the fright, they had eaten sparsely then curled up on blankets to rest. Carys left them in the cabin, bidding them stay within a while longer. Birk consulted with Captain Aklen atop the aftcastle, and she missed his presence.

  Hanna remained at the injured pirate’s side, silent and withdrawn, clearly caught in a time when she and Torvald had lived together, raising two children on the Isle of Mull. A time before King Alexander set out to conquer the Isles and bring them under Scottish rule.

  Carys stepped from the cabin, her heart aching for the older woman. She shared her sense of loss, but could not begin to imagine losing a child as Hanna had lost her son, Sten.

  “We will question him as soon as he wakes.” Carys laid a palm on Hanna’s shoulder. “Ye should eat a bite. Brody will watch over him.”

  For a moment, Carys wasn’t certain Hanna had heard her. Then, as if waking from a deep sleep, she rose, leaning heavily against Carys as though her strength had left her. In that moment Carys understood Hanna had outlived two husbands and was no longer a young woman herself, despite her active nature. Without comment, she lent the support necessary until Hanna straightened and regained her composure.

  “’Tis uncanny, the resemblance,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder. “It should not affect me so, but . . ..”

  “Your heart does not forget,” Carys replied soothingly.

  Hanna drew a deep breath. “Alex’s father was the great love of my life, not Torvald, but our life together was not without caring. He was stern and demanding, yet fair, and with him, I was blessed with two . . ..” Her voice broke.

  Carys squeezed her hand comfortingly.

  The prisoner groaned and rolled to his side. Instantly, Brody and two other soldiers stepped close, hands on their sword hilts. The man flinched and placed the heel of his palm to his forehead. A pained look crossed his face and he twisted face-down, pushing feebly from the deck with his hands. He retched but spat only a bit of bloody liquid from his cracked lips.

  “Bikkju-sonr,” he growled, touching his fingertips to his mouth. He glared at the men towering above him, his gaze settling on Hanna who stood only a few steps away. Her golden hair—more silver now with age—fluttered in the wind. Her face reflected the same prominent brow, the same piercing blue eyes as the prisoner, bound together in similar ancestry.

  “Ye are not Scots.” He glowered. “Ye keep dishonorable company, Amma.”

  “I was born Norse but wed a Scot—whose vocabulary in the presence of women, I might add, was more respectable than yours.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I am sorry for your loss, Amma, but nothing good has come from Scotland in many years.”

  “Ye appear to claim fewer than twenty years, ungr. Much has changed in your lifetime.”

  “I would delight in discussing the times with ye, if these swina bqllr would permit me to rise. I am weaponless and pose no threat to them.”

  “Let this murtr sit,” Hanna instructed. The prisoner scowled at Hanna then raised a hand in surrender to Brody’s growl.

  “I am not a small fish,” he complained. He gasped and clutched his side. No one moved to help him. He sat gingerly on the deck then slumped slowly against the side of the ship, hand tucked beneath the opposite arm, body folded forward.

  “Who captained your ship?” Hanna asked.

  The man did not answer for several long moments. Finally, he drew a stuttering breath and stretched his legs one small movement at a time until they sprawled before him. He cocked his head.

  “I did.”

  Carys narrowed her eyes. Nae, he is no small fish, but rather someone who can answer our questions.

  Hanna lifted her chin. “Why choose pirating over honest work?”

  He flicked his fingers in the air as if a stronger gesture was beyond him. “I have a home and honest work. ’Tis an honor to reap some satisfaction from those who destroyed my family.”

  “There is little strife between Scot and Norse these days, save that which ye create.” Birk’s gravelly voice startled those gathered around the prisoner. Carys jerked about, surprised she had not heard his booted step upon the boards.

  “What is yer name?” Birk demanded.

  The prisoner flushed, a sickly hue against his ashen skin. “Ye stand and lord over me as a coward would an enemy not downed by his own hand.” He glanced unflinchingly at Birk, his lips tight, the skin around them gray.

  Birk’s eyes narrowed. “Yer name, or only the ravens will speak it.”

  “I am Haldor of Colonsay. By what name are ye called?” Haldor sneered as though speculating on Birk’s honor. As though, without the women present—and with a lesser injury—he would give voice to Birk’s presumed ancestry and character.

  “I am Birk of Morvern.”

  Carys snorted lightly, well-versed in her husband’s tactic of giving little information away.

  “Of Colonsay?” Hanna interrupted. “That is very close to Mull . . ..” Her voice trailed off.

  Carys eyed her narrowly. What did the Isle of Mull have to do with pirates?

  Haldor gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Faðir was born on Mull.”

  Hanna took a step closer. “What is your father’s name?”

  Birk placed a palm on her shoulder. She quivered as though she would shrug him off, but Birk’s fingers curved, holding his hand in place.

  “Answer her,” he ordered.

  Haldor coughed then gasped, clutching his side, his face twisted in agony. A trickle of blood appeared in the corner of his tightly pressed lips. “What does it matter? Faðir was captured in a raid as a young boy and sold into slavery. ’Twas many years before he was able to return home, only to find it in the hands of the Scots. He discovered those who sympathized with him, with the plight of the Norse despite the treaty signed by Scotland and Norway.”

  Hanna knelt beside him. “I beg ye, speak his name.”

  Haldor turned his gaze to her, his eyes dull, his breath shallow and forced. “His name is Sten of Hallstein. He is the son . . ..”

  “Of Torvald and Hanna of Hallstein.”

  * * *

  Birk stretched his arm about Carys’s shoulders and she settled against him with a sigh. Tully and the girls played a quiet game of sticks on the deck, near the shelter of the cabin. Their gazes drifted occasionally to the bow where Hanna and the prisoner sat. A spare cloak had been rolled and used as a bolster between his back and the boards, another draped over him to keep off the worst of the sea spray. Even with what comforts they’d accorded him, Birk knew the slap of the ship against the waves had to hurt like hell. Broken ribs needed stabilizing, not a ride against a choppy tide.

  He tightened his arm about Carys. “I couldnae bear to lose ye as Hanna lost her family.”

  Carys traced her fingertips against his arm. “Neither of us will live forever.”

  “I understand that well,” Birk replied. “And there are perils in everyday living. But I dinnae believe I could bear losing ye to something as senseless as a raid.”

  “’Tis why ye are glad I am skilled with the weapons at hand.” Her voice, light and teasing, carried a bit of the dread that enveloped his own heart.

  “’Tis the same with the children,” she continued. “None are guaranteed long life—or even to grow to adulthood. And yet, it tears my heart to consider a life without their sweet faces.”

  Birk dropped a kiss to the top of her head. It pleased him he did not have to bend much to accord himself such a small pleasure. He liked this tall, confident woman he was blessed to call wife. This warrior who’d killed more than her share of pirates, protecting his children with her life.

  “This has
broken Hanna’s heart. There is a wide gulf between grieving for a child thought dead and discovering he had been torn from her to another’s purpose.”

  His daughters’ faces rose in his mind, and it took all of his power to not lose control at the thought of them taken from him to appease a captor.

  As though she felt his rising anger, Carys shifted away, and he carefully relaxed each muscle, letting his right hand fall from his sword hilt.

  “I am glad Da found Hanna’s daughter Signy not long after she was captured. I remember her a bit from when I was a wean, though obviously she was many years older than I. She was like a second mother, for a time. She wed when I was verra young and moved away. Gillian and I are much closer.”

  “She will be glad to know her brother still lives.” Her whispered words cracked, and he knew she was likely grieving the loss of her brother all over again.

  “I would give Hywel back to ye if I could,” he murmured.

  She turned her face into his chest and wept.

  * * *

  Eislyn nudged Carys. “He’s our uncle?”

  “Aye.” How to explain to a child the complications of the relationship? It was easier to simply agree as he apparently was Hanna’s grandson, and let time take care of the rest.

  “I dinnae know I had a pirate for an uncle.”

  “Mayhap he will choose to no longer be a pirate,” Carys replied. “’Tis what he does now with his life that is important.”

  Abria grasped Carys’s hand, worry translating in her grip. Tully leaned against the rail.

  “I see a ship!” he cried, pointing over the bow.