by Cathy MacRae
“Och, Da! He’s so furry!”
“A wee gift from yer Auntie Bela,” Alex said. “The puppy’s ma is one of her Aidi dogs, and its da is a deerhound. I believe he will be rather large when he grows up.” Alex eyed the puppy’s enormous feet.
“I will name him Bjarne,” Gillian announced. “He will be big as a bear!”
Alex’s laughter rumbled. “I believe ye are right.”
Gillian fell to her knees, squealing happily as the puppy dashed over to her and plopped into her lap, raining sloppy kisses on her cheeks. “Can he sleep with me?” she asked as soon as she was able to cuddle the puppy in her arms.
Alex sighed. “We will have to ask Peigi. She will have charge of ye whilst I am gone. And that means of wee Bjarne, as well.”
“Och, Da, I dinnae think Peigi likes dogs.” Gillian’s face fell. “And she isnae well. Can someone else be my nurse whilst ye are away?”
Her wistful voice tugged at Alex’s heart. It was true Peigi was strict with the child, but Alex could count on her to guard his daughter with her life. Though he knew Gillian saw her nurse as a bit of a dragon, she always had the child’s good at heart.
“Mayhap just this once,” Alex reluctantly replied, casting through his memory for someone to replace Peigi for the week or so he would be gone. “I dinnae know who ’twould be, though I agree Peigi isnae helpful if she isnae well.”
Gillian’s face beamed. “Let’s go see Hanna. I think she likes puppies.”
A spark of interest ran through Alex. “An excellent idea, Daughter. I believe we should check on Hanna.”
* * *
Laughter swirled near the kitchen door, punctuated with high-pitched giggles, snagging Hanna’s attention. Laird MacLean, in the act of taking a bite of a pastry, halted, his face red, his daughter hopping from one foot to the other.
“I caught ye!” she chanted merrily. “Cook likes ye, too!”
Laird MacLean stuffed the last bite in his mouth and quickly chewed and swallowed. “’Tis not likely to ruin my supper, lassie,” he declared, planting a hearty kiss on the child’s upturned cheek. “I grew bored waiting for ye to walk yer wee puppy, and feared I would die of hunger before ye arrived.”
“Da!” Gillian protested. “Bjarne needed me.”
The laird looked at the puppy dangling in his daughter’s arms. “Have ye decided to bring the puppy into the castle, then?”
Gillian nodded vigorously. “He will be a good boy. Ye’ll see.”
Hanna shrank away, wishing for a shadowed corner in which to disappear. She did not want to see the happy father and daughter. Or the puppy with the slow-wagging tail and soulful eyes. Too many memories, refreshing her sorrow, tugging at her heart in inexplicable ways.
“There’s Hanna,” Gillian declared with a tilt of her head in Hanna’s direction. She hefted the puppy in her arms and strode to Hanna’s side. “Do ye like dogs?” She lifted the puppy a bit higher with a shrug of her shoulder to show him off. “Bjarne and I are going to be great friends.”
Bewildered, Hanna stared at the puppy. “Bjarne?”
“Aye. He’s furry as a bear. His real name is Torbjorn, which means Thor’s bear in Norse. But I just call him Bjarne.”
The child’s matter-of-fact voice startled Hanna. “Ye speak Norse?” She glanced at the laird for confirmation. Laird MacLean grinned and Hanna’s heart skipped a beat.
“The lass has an ear for languages.” He glanced about the room. “And as it appears we have as many in this kitchen who speak Norse as we do Scots or Gaelic, she had no reason not to learn.”
“But, ye are aligned with King Alexander . . . .” Hanna shook her head, fearing some sort of trap. “I do not understand.”
“The king has his plans,” the laird agreed smoothly. “But I have no concern for yers so long as they dinnae interfere with yer duties and dinnae put me or my clan in an untenable position.”
Fury sparked in Hanna. Her family had fallen to men using King Alexander’s name for their conquest. “Your king has violated his agreement with Norway.”
Laird MacLeod remained silent for several seconds. “King Alexander has concluded he and Norway are at an impasse. As such, he is prepared to unify Scotland by the most expedient means at his disposal.”
“He has signed our death warrants!” Hanna burst out, unable to stop her words. “King Haakon is too far away . . . .” She bit her lip against the outpouring.
Laird MacLean stepped closer. “Mayhap we should make time to discuss yer thoughts another time,” he murmured, pitching his voice lower, indicating the attention they’d garnered in the kitchen.
Hanna shrugged. “I have no thoughts,” she replied, turning back to the cutting board.
“I believe ye do,” the laird replied, his voice silky smooth over the steel edge of command.
The puppy whined, apparently no longer complacent in Gillian’s grip. He wriggled, forcing the child to release him. His fat paws scrabbled on the stone floor as he spied a tabby cat just settling in a patch of sunlight in the doorway to the garden. With a yip of challenge, Bjarne bounded over as the enraged cat arched it back, hissing and spitting a warning to the heedless pup.
“Bjarne! No!” Gillian cried, darting after him. The cat leapt onto a nearby table, causing the women working there to shriek in protest. Bjarne skidded to a halt, his youthful lack of coordination sending him crashing into the table legs. A crockery bowl, placed too close to the edge, plummeted to the floor, shattering on impact. Gillian scooped up her puppy, scolding him roundly. Laird MacLean faced Hanna, his assessing gaze gone.
“Please join me in my solar.”
Hanna slowly settled the kitchen knife on the table and wiped her hands on a scrap of cloth hanging from her belt. She followed him down the passage, keeping a goodly distance between them, her skin fairly rippling with the sensation of being so near the MacLean laird. Her arm flexed slightly, checking the weight of the small dagger in her sleeve.
Laird MacLean slung himself into a chair near the hearth and indicated Hanna to do the same. She refused, remaining rooted to the planks near the door, glaring at him from beneath her lashes.
The laird leaned his head back on the chair. “I willnae bite.”
“Nay,” Hanna replied. “Ye have done much more than that.”
He rolled his head in her direction. “What have I done?”
“Ye are Scot. I am Norse,” Hanna snarled, stepping inside the room, head up, subservient attitude gone. “I will not place myself in harm’s way.”
“Ye are under my protection,” he replied with a scowl. “And ye will answer my questions.”
Hanna flinched to recognize how truly precarious her position was. Without male protection, few men would hesitate to use her as they wished. And the clan chief owned more right than most. Hanna ground her teeth, certain he would not be bested as easily as the man on the docks. She could flee, fight, or acquiesce. Which would it be?
The laird again waved her to the chair across from him and this time Hanna accepted. She perched on the edge of the seat, hands in her lap, her thumb stroking the length of the sheath hidden beneath her sleeve.
“Relax,” he advised. “A short break will do ye good.”
Hanna lifted a brow, inviting him to forego the pleasantries and ask his questions.
“I apologize for my abruptness earlier,” he said. “Ye seem to react to everything I say as though I have wronged ye. Has anyone here attempted to harm ye?”
To Hanna’s surprise, a smile blossomed on the laird’s face. “I say attempted, for I am well aware how ye would state yer refusal, and to my knowledge, there has been no rash of injuries requiring the healer’s care. Ye are a dangerous woman, Hanna of Hällstein.”
His eyes narrowed. “Speaking of the healer, how is yer arm?”
“It does not keep me from my duties.” Hanna gathered her skirts and prepared to rise. “Did ye have other questions for me, Laird? In case ye had not noticed, I am also a busy woman.�
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“Do ye have other family nearby?”
The question, though expected, took the breath from her. Hanna swallowed hard, willing her lungs to work properly.
“I do not have kin I may shelter with, Laird,” she replied. “My parents’ village was disbanded over a year ago in another of King Alexander’s purges. I have lost track of them, and truly do not know if they still live.”
The laird leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Please call me Alex,” he requested. His words again took her off guard. His invitation was too personal and Hanna could not allow the intimacy.
She found her voice again, though it slipped brittle between her teeth as she forced herself to speak aloud what had happened only three nights prior. “My family—my husband and two children—were killed in a raid by Scots, and our village burned to the ground.”
Alex shook his head. “This has gone much too far. My father swore allegiance to Scotland’s king when we came here nearly thirty years ago. It was an expedient move, as he’d hoped to set up a shipping trade at ports along the Scottish coast. My ancestors, however, aligned with the King of the Isles, and thus we were both accepted and considered suspect by both parties.”
“I know of ye as the king’s man, though we have . . . had traded with ye a few times in the past. It appears ye have a reputation for fairness from both sides.”
“And yet ye speak of my reputation as though it pains ye.”
Hanna grew still. “My home was attacked by soldiers under your king’s orders,” she continued as her throat constricted and her palms grew sweaty. “We were given the opportunity to swear allegiance to the Scottish king, foreswearing all ties to King Haakon and the King of the Isles.” She bit her lip, then continued. “After they killed the men and torched the long house—and those sheltering inside it.”
Alex’s gaze narrowed and he tilted his head to one side. “What would ye have said, had ye been given time to answer their demand before such carnage?” he asked.
Hanna leveled an icy gaze at him. “I would have refused.”
CHAPTER 10
Aadny’s pale, slender fingers stroked through Gillian’s dark hair, smoothing the sections into a braid. “I am happy Peigi asked me to help care for ye,” she said. “Ye remind me of my little sister.” Aadny tweaked Gillian’s ear. “Ye are a livlig jente, as she was.”
Hanna paid scant heed to Aadny’s words. It had been two days since an ailing Peigi had asked for Aadny’s assistance, and Hanna found the proximity with the laird’s daughter exhausted her emotions. Aadny still stuck close to Hanna’s side, as if by saving her life, they were now forever linked, and Gillian had joined their tiny circle. It was impossible to watch Aadny and Gillian together and plot revenge.
I cannot avenge myself on an innocent. The thought warred constantly in her head, and only Gillian’s cheerful laughter and Bjarne’s antics had the power to quiet the passion revenge stirred in her breast.
At what point do my actions determine the truth of my heart? Hanna could not deny the pain of loss, the terrible, empty space in her chest that often stopped her breath. She had killed men, in both battle and in self-defense. But this act she contemplated was not the same. Gillian’s death would force the same grief upon the MacLean Laird. But it would not lessen hers, and it would not bring honor to Signy or Sten’s memory.
She stared at Aadny’s hands, mesmerized by their slow, repetitive movement. She imagined the feel of baby-fine hair beneath her own fingers, silk rasping against work-roughened skin. A pang of longing shot through her.
“Hanna?” Gillian’s voice piped through the pain. “Will ye tell me a story tonight?”
Hanna released her breath and took a step into the present. “I do not think I know any stories,” she lied. “I will take Bjarne outside once more and then ye should sleep.”
“Did ye not tell stories to yer children?” Gillian asked, peering over her shoulder as Aadny secured the bottom of the braid.
The question caught Hanna off-guard. “My children?”
“Do ye not have bairns?” Gillian’s question was innocent, but Hanna could scarcely answer, so tight was the band about her heart.
“I believe Hanna does not wish to speak of it,” Aadny whispered to Gillian. The child’s face fell. After a moment, she rose and went to Hanna, encircling her knees with her arms.
“My brothers and sisters died, too,” she said solemnly as she buried her face against Hanna’s skirt. “So did my ma.”
Hanna’s chest rose and fell rapidly, the only rhythm which kept her tears at bay. Her hands fisted, opened, fisted again. Her knees shook, and she lowered to the floor, pulling Gillian into her arms. Aadny sank beside them, her sobs blending with Gillian’s.
Completely empty and bereft as her thoughts of revenge fled, Hanna let hot tears trail down her cheeks.
* * *
Alex viewed Gillian’s friendship with Hanna with mild suspicion. Though the woman had been at MacLean Castle for less than a sennight, it was easy to see the child was besotted with both Aadny—understandable as the lass was more like an elder sister than a nurse—and Hanna. Though Hanna appeared to keep Gillian at arm’s length.
If he was truthful, Alex’s interest in the Norsewoman was more personal. There were any number of young women—both Scots and Norse—available to care for Gillian. But Alex found his attention pulled more and more in Hanna’s direction. Even when his gaze met a cool, calculating look. What did Hanna contemplate?
His own curiosity knew no bounds. The golden glint of Hanna’s hair, her sinewy grace, the piercing look of her dark green eyes, urged him to do more than watch. He wanted to touch her, spill her loosened braids across his hands, capture her interest, engage her wild, passionate nature. Perhaps Edan was right. No one would blink an eye if he took a lover.
The door to his solar opened a few inches and a shadow appeared in the lower half of the opening. Gillian stuck her head around the edge of the wood plank, her eyes wide with distress. Alex rose immediately.
“Leannan,” he said. “What is wrong?”
“I made Hanna cry,” she whimpered as she burrowed against him. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to one of the chairs by the hearth. He settled against the deep cushions and hugged her tight.
“Tell me what happened.”
He got the story out of Gillian in sniffling bursts. Now that Hanna had retired for the night, leaving Aadny to sleep in Gillian’s room, the child was overcome with remorse and sought Alex’s reassurance.
“I am certain she does not believe ye meant to hurt her,” Alex said. “She will feel better in the morn, as will ye. And now, I shudder to consider what Aadny will think if she wakes and finds ye gone.”
Gillian’s lips rounded. “Och, I dinnae think about her. Must I go back to my room? Can I sleep here?”
“I believe ’tis best I take ye back. Though I dinnae know if I would be welcome inside.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Young lasses dinnae like to wake to find men in their room uninvited.” He waggled his eyebrows and Gillian giggled.
She slid from his lap. “I will go back to my room.” She placed her palms on his knees and leaned forward to plant a giant kiss on his cheek. “I wouldnae wish to frighten Aadny.”
She giggled again, humor restored, and Alex opened his door, making a show of peering into the hall.
“All clear,” he whispered. Gillian darted into the passage, her white sleep gown a pale flutter in the darkened hall. Alex watched until she reached her own door two rooms away. Gillian paused, then blew him a kiss before stepping inside.
Alex listened for the snick of her door closing, then leaned against the door frame, pensive.
So, that is what keeps Hanna from falling under Gillian’s spell. The wound is still too new, too raw for her to consider giving her heart to the child. Perhaps Gillian was right after all. Perhaps Hanna needed Gillian—and Alex, too.
Hand on the latch, he started to pull the door cl
osed. But a figure paused at the head of the stairs then bolted across the hall to the stairs leading to the parapet. After a moment’s hesitation, Alex followed.
* * *
Hanna closed the door of the tiny room beneath the rafters where she and Aadny quartered. As their stay lengthened, Jean had assigned them the small space rather than remain scattered about in the great hall. Two pallets, piled with patched quilts and topped with faded woolen blankets, took up much of the floor space, though as the bitter night air was wont to slip between the cracks in the wooden floor—the quality of the planks at this level woefully unable to form tight seams—and between the stone walls and the roofing, made small rooms preferable to larger ones that were harder to heat.
Usually, she and Aadny brought heated stones to bed with them, and occasionally, when Hanna could manage it, a smaller stone to heat water in a small, dented basin for a quick wash. But this night, alone and heartsore, Hanna sank onto her pallet, oblivious to the cold.
I cannot do this. My heart does not wish to inflict pain on innocents. Laird MacLean is not the man who commanded the men who burned my village. I can no more hurt Gillian than I could my own child.
Something sharp twisted in her gut and she nearly cried out at the unexpected pain.
My family is gone. Yet I live. She stared into the darkness. Why? For what reason does God keep me here? What have I done to deserve such torment? How can I endure the pain?
Wind whispered beneath the eaves and a shutter banged against the stone—an empty sound that resonated deep inside Hanna.
Suddenly, the darkness was too much and Hanna leapt from her pallet, heedless of the blanket that tangled about her ankles. She stumbled to the door and yanked it open, met by the dim glow of a guttered torch. With blind determination, she proceeded through the passage and down the stairs to the landing one level below, where the laird and his family slept. A door at the end of the hall opened into a narrow stair to the parapet. Hanna made the ascent and fled to the edge of the stone wall.
Fresh air rushed over her skin, prickling it into henflesh. Her cheekbones and nose chilled instantly. Hanna drew a deep, shuddering breath and stared over the landscape arrayed in black and white.
