The Warrior

by Margaret Mallory

  “Ye will not harm her,” Duncan said, shaking with rage.

  Moira struggled against Erik as he began dragging her backward toward the boat. Panic surged through Duncan. He had to stop them. If Erik got her onto the boat, he feared he would never see her alive again.

  Duncan dropped his sword to the ground. “Take me instead.”

  Erik did not loosen his grip on Moira or lower his blade, but he did stop to stare at Duncan.

  “I’m the one who took Trotternish Castle from ye,” Duncan said as he removed the dirks from his boots and the hidden one strapped to his thigh and tossed them aside. “Take your revenge on me.”

  “You’d do that for a woman?” Erik asked.

  “Aye,” Duncan said as he started walking toward Erik. “There is nothing I would not do for her.”

  Chapter 45

  Duncan walked slowly and deliberately toward Erik. He would take the man down with his bare hands or die trying.

  “Stay back,” Erik warned.

  Duncan hesitated, judging the risk to Moira. Then he saw Erik’s eyes widen. An instant later, he felt a rush of wind beside him as a blur of gray flashed past. It was the wolfhound.

  “No!” Duncan shouted, fearing Erik’s blade would slide into Moira’s throat.

  But before the word was out of his mouth, the wolfhound leaped through the air and dropped Erik and Moira. Sàr was snapping and growling over them like a wild beast, while Moira and Erik writhed on the ground.

  Moira’s screams filled the air as Duncan raced to them. When he reached them, the dog had his teeth in Erik’s neck. Duncan lifted Moira to her feet with one hand and grabbed Sàr’s rope collar with the other.

  While Sàr barked and strained against his collar, Moira flung her arms around Duncan and buried her face in his neck. His knees felt weak as relief coursed through him. She was all right.

  “Enough!” he commanded Sàr, who was still pulling at his arm, fighting to get to Erik.

  He knelt beside Erik, who lay ominously still on the ground. Judging from the blood pouring from the ragged cuts on his throat, Sàr’s teeth had found a vital vessel.

  Erik was choking on his own blood. Duncan should be glad of it, but he was not. Erik was struggling to speak so Duncan leaned down to hear him.

  “You’re a man who looks after his own,” Erik said between gurgling breaths. “I want ye to take care of Sarah.”

  “Sarah?” Duncan asked, bewildered by the unexpected request.

  “She’s your half sister.”

  “Sarah is your daughter?” Duncan asked. How could such an evil man have begotten a wee angel like Sarah?

  “Her family threatened to go to my chieftain when her mother died, so I had to take her in.” Erik’s voice was growing faint. “I didn’t intend to let her become a weakness, but…”

  “I will look after her. Always,” Duncan said and squeezed his father’s hand as the light faded from his eyes.

  Duncan was heartened to discover that his father did have a kernel of decency. Though he had shown no regard for his children in life, Erik had used his last breath to assure the welfare of his young daughter.

  * * *

  Duncan buried his father on the beach and buried his bitterness with him.

  He was grateful to Ian for keeping the other men back. Ian understood that Duncan needed to do this alone.

  With each shovel of sand, he felt released from the burdens of his childhood. All his life, he had felt something was wrong with him because his father refused to claim him. Once he was past boyhood, Duncan had understood that the fault lay not with him, but with the man who had sired him. Now Duncan finally believed in his heart, as well as his head, that his father’s failure was no reflection on his worth.

  Duncan was his own man, and he had chosen to be a man of honor.

  Erik had been right about one thing. Having to prove himself to everyone, especially to himself, had driven Duncan to become a renowned warrior. But unlike his father, Duncan employed his skills for the protection of others, and he showed mercy to his enemies when he could.

  Duncan thought of his own son living under the oppressive influence of Sean MacQuillan, and he paused in his shoveling to rest his hand on Ragnall’s shoulder.

  “Will ye teach me to fight like you do?” his son asked.

  Ragnall had explained that he ran at Erik because he saw him making the same move that had killed one of the men Duncan had left to guard them. Though the lad’s interference had nearly caused a disaster, it showed he had the natural instinct and bravery that would serve him well as a warrior.

  “Aye,” Duncan said, meeting his son’s serious gaze. “’Tis a Highland man’s duty to protect his clan and his family, and so I will teach ye to be a great warrior.”

  But Duncan hoped to teach him much more than how to swing a claymore. He wanted to go sailing and hunting with him and to sit by the hearth listening to the seannachie tell the old stories of their clan. Perhaps Ragnall would want to learn to play the harp.

  Duncan finished covering the grave and put his arm around Moira as she said a brief prayer.

  Then he left his father to God.

  * * *

  After helping Duncan unfurl the sail, Moira settled beside him and lifted Ragnall onto her lap. Duncan put his arm around her, pulling her close, while he held the rudder with his other hand. When Sàr joined them in the stern, he lay across Moira’s feet, keeping them warm. The rain had stopped, and it looked as though it would be smooth sailing all the way home to Dunscaith.

  Moira sighed and leaned her head back against Duncan’s arm to watch the clouds passing overhead. They were quiet for a long time, enjoying the peaceful sail and the comfort of being together after the strain of the last days. When Ragnall fell asleep in her arms, it felt so good.

  “I hope Niall recovers quickly,” she said in a low voice so as not to wake Ragnall. “He seemed no worse than when I left him.”

  “Except for being mightily annoyed at missing the fight with the pirates.” The corners of Duncan’s mouth tilted up as he gave her a sideways glance.

  “I’m glad it’s just the three of us and Sàr sailing home in this small galley,” Moira said.

  One of the other men captained the war galley Duncan had sailed from Trotternish, and Ian had taken Niall in his war galley.

  “Ragnall’s had a rough few days,” Duncan said, looking down at his sleeping face. “You must be tired as well, mo leannain.”

  “I’m tired to the bone, but I’m too happy to sleep,” she said, smiling up at him. “I want to stay awake and enjoy it.”

  “Ye were so brave to come to warn us.” Duncan pulled her close and kissed her hair. “Ye saved many lives today.”

  Moira’s heart swelled to bursting at his praise. She had been trying to decide how best to bring up the loss of Trotternish Castle, which she knew must be a grave disappointment to him. His remark gave her the opening she needed.

  “I threatened to murder a woman, argued with a man who wanted to murder me, sailed in the freezing rain for countless hours, and even slept with Teàrlag’s cow,” Moira said. “So I hope ye can see that I’m no damned princess.”

  Duncan laughed. “What you are, m’ eudail,” my treasure, “is a warrior princess.”

  Moira liked the sound of that.

  “What I’m trying to say is that ye don’t have to give me fine things to keep me,” Moira said, looking up into his eyes. “All I need to be happy is you and Ragnall.”

  “I know that now,” Duncan said. “I’m blessed to have the love of the strongest, bravest lass in all the isles.”

  “I am sorry ye did not succeed in taking Trotternish Castle from the MacLeods.” Moira rested her hand on Duncan’s thigh. “I know how important that was to ye. But I’ll be content to live in your cottage on the hill.”

  “We did succeed in taking the castle,” Duncan said.

  Moira swallowed her disappointment over leaving Sleat. Her home would be wherever Dunc
an was. It was Duncan, not Dunscaith’s walls, that made her feel safe.

  “I’m so proud of ye.” Moira pulled him down so she could kiss his cheek without disturbing Ragnall. “But why aren’t ye at Trotternish Castle now? If my brother did not choose his best warrior to be its keeper, he’ll answer to me.”

  “Connor has decided to make Trotternish Castle his home,” Duncan said. “I am to be keeper of Dunscaith.”

  Dunscaith! Moira was too stunned to react for a long moment—then she threw her head back and laughed. After torturing her for seven years, the faeries were finally smiling on her, making her every secret wish come true.

  “Take the rudder, and I’ll lay Ragnall down where he can sleep better,” Duncan said as he unfolded himself and stood up.

  Duncan lifted Ragnall from her arms and carried him to the bow, where he made a bed for him out of blankets. Then he snapped his fingers, and Sàr got up off Moira’s feet and went to lie down by their son.

  When Duncan returned, he knelt on one knee in front of her and took her hand.

  “I know I’m seven years late—and I’ll try to make up for it every day—but, Moira MacDonald, a chuisle mo chroí ,” pulse of my heart, “will ye marry me?”

  “Of course I’ll marry ye,” Moira said, smiling at him. “Now that I know how to sail, ye couldn’t get away from me if ye tried.”

  “I love ye with all my heart,” Duncan said, cupping her cheek with his hand. “I always have.”

  “I’m looking forward to all that making up,” Moira said and pulled her warrior down into a long kiss. “I believe it was closer to seven and a half years.”

  When the boat veered sharply to the side, Duncan broke the kiss to grab the rudder, which she had abandoned. Then he kissed her again and again.

  “The moment we get home to Dunscaith,” Moira said, her voice breathless between kisses, “we’ll call everyone in the castle into the hall, say our vows before them, and have a grand feast to celebrate.”

  “I wish we could,” Duncan said. “But that’s a wee bit soon.”

  “What?” Moira leaned back and gave him a hard look. “You’d better have a damned good reason for keeping me waiting again, Duncan Ruadh Mòr MacDonald.”

  Chapter 46

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  Mmmm.” Moira snuggled next to Duncan. Of course, he had been right that they should wait to say their vows until Connor arrived. It seemed churlish not to wait for him when he was coming specially for it—and after he had given them Dunscaith.

  Besides, Moira was enjoying these last days of clandestine meetings. Though everyone in the castle knew, they pretended not to.

  “I’ll miss sneaking away to your cottage,” Moira said, running her hand over Duncan’s chest.

  “We can come up here any time we want after we’re wed,” Duncan said.

  “But will it be as much fun when we’re married?” she teased him.

  Duncan rolled onto his side and took her face between his hands. “Everything will be better when we’re married,” he said, fixing his serious eyes on her. “I promise.”

  “How can it be better than this?” she asked, her throat suddenly tight. “I’m so happy now.”

  “That’s all I ever wanted,” Duncan said and then kissed her with a tenderness that let her know how precious she was to him.

  His body was all hard muscle, and yet his lips were soft and warm on hers. Moira sighed against his mouth and pressed against him. Eventually, their kisses grew heated. No matter how many times they made love, they wanted each other again.

  After all the time apart and how much they both had suffered, she cherished these intimate moments together. If this joy between them had come easy, perhaps Moira would not know its worth. But now, she would never take it for granted.

  Sometime later, she was collapsed on top of Duncan, her limbs limp and every muscle relaxed. She thought it would take the cottage catching on fire to get her to move—but it only took someone pounding on the shutters.

  “Get out of bed, you sinners! I’ve come a long way for a wedding!”

  Moira laughed when she recognized Alex’s voice.

  “Connor’s galley is nearly to the castle.” This time the voice calling through the shutters was Ian’s. “Sìleas and Ilysa sent us to fetch the bride so they can help ye dress.”

  “That’s the end of this.” Moira grinned at Duncan and gave him a quick kiss. “From now on, I’m only making love to my husband.”

  * * *

  Duncan stood before his clan in the castle he had grown up in and loved, but which had never truly been his home until today. He knew every stone of its keep and every hill and mountain that could be seen from its walls.

  Connor faced him, holding a new claymore, an expensive and symbolic gift to mark the occasion. The flat of the unsheathed blade, which rested across his palms, gleamed in the light from the lamps and candles that filled the hall.

  “As chieftain of the MacDonalds of Sleat, I entrust this castle and my clansmen who rely on its protection to a great warrior,” Connor said in a voice that carried through the room. “Let our enemies beware that Duncan Ruadh MacDonald is now keeper of Dunscaith Castle!”

  The roar of voices and stomping of feet was so loud that it seemed to shake the walls as Duncan accepted the sword. Fortunately, their clansmen knew Duncan and did not expect a speech.

  “I’m grateful for this honor to serve you and our clan,” Duncan said to Connor over the continuing clamor. He held the gaze of his friend and chieftain and saw the pride he felt reflected in Connor’s eyes.

  “Who thought we would see this day, my friend, when I was chieftain and you the keeper of a MacDonald stronghold?” Connor said, his silver-blue eyes gleaming. “And now, to make you my brother.”

  At Connor’s signal, the hall went quiet and then the wondrous music of Uilleam MacCrimmon’s pipes filled the room. Duncan had sent word to him as soon as he and Moira had returned to Dunscaith and was pleased Uilleam had received the message in time to come.

  Duncan slid the new claymore into the scabbard strapped to his back, then turned and held his hand out to his bride. As always, Moira took his breath away. She was stunning in a dark blue velvet gown that matched her vibrant eyes, set off her dark hair and ivory skin, and clung to her full curves like a lover.

  But it was the glow that shone about her, as it had when he first fell in love with her, that made her truly beautiful to him. His darling Moira was fearless and full of laughter once again.

  Moira touched the sprig of white heather in her hair, like the one pinned to his plaid, and winked at him. “I hear ’tis not easy to find heather this time of year,” she whispered under the music of the pipes, “unless ye know where to look.”

  White heather, which was a wedding token for good fortune, had been especially hard to find.

  Duncan nodded to Alex and Ian when they came to stand on either side of Connor. Ragnall, Sarah, and Alex’s daughter Sorcha stood at the front of the crowd, where they could see. Ilysa was with them, along with Ian’s wife Sìleas and their babes. Alex’s wife, whom Duncan was very fond of, was pregnant and too near her time to travel.

  When Uilleam finished his tune, Duncan and Moira turned to face each other.

  Their marriage would be blessed by the church, along with all the others that had taken place over the last year, when Father Brian came on his annual visit to the island. Since the marriage contract had already been signed, all that remained was for them to say their vows before witnesses. In the contract, Duncan had given Moira his cottage, which was all he had. Moira had been inordinately pleased, though her tochar, dowry, was worth far more.

  Duncan and Moira first exchanged rings, circles with no end that represented eternal love. Then they held up their right hands and joined them, palm-to-palm, entwining their fingers. Moira locked gazes with him as he wound a long, cream-colored strip of linen around their wrists three times.

  “I, Duncan MacDonald, take you, Moira Cat
riona, great-granddaughter of the Lord of the Isles, granddaughter of Hugh…,” Duncan began. Moira’s name took considerably longer than his to recite because of her illustrious lineage. He saw the amusement in her eyes as he concentrated to say it all correctly. Finally, he reached the essential promise. “…to be a faithful and loyal husband until God shall separate us by death.”

  Duncan said the traditional final words though he believed that even death could not separate them. Their souls were entwined and bound together like their hands were now.

  “I, Moira MacDonald,” she said simply, breaking the rules as she liked to do, “take you, Duncan Ruadh MacDonald, to be my husband, before God, our chieftain, and all our clansmen. I promise to be a faithful and loyal wife to you until God shall separate us by death.”

  A sense of peace settled over Duncan. At long last, Moira was truly his. As he leaned down to kiss his wife, the hall erupted in cheers. The kiss was like stepping into warm summer sunshine from the cold winter that had been his life without her.

  Uilleam MacCrimmon took up his pipes again as their clansmen surrounded them, wishing them happiness with the traditional blessings.

  “Guma fada beò sibh.” Long may you both live. “Guma slàn dhuibh.” Health to you both. “Móran làithean dhut is sìth.” May you be blessed with long life and peace. “Le do mhaitheas is le do nì bhith fàs.” May you grow old with goodness and with riches.

  Under Duncan’s glare, the men were cautious with the traditional kisses to the bride and limited themselves to circumspect pecks on Moira’s cheek.

  “You’ve taken my best man from me,” Connor said as he took his turn and kissed his sister.

  “I have,” Moira said, smiling up at Duncan in a way that made him feel all soft inside.

  Connor turned to him, and they gripped forearms in the ancient greeting of warriors and friends.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do without ye,” Connor said, his eyes intent on Duncan. “But it warms my heart to see ye happy. No man deserves it more.”