by Cathy MacRae
It cannot be! She shook her head to dispel the memory. It is not him. His build was the same as the leader of the men who had destroyed her family, her life. But she had met many of similar stature in the weeks since, and this man was no different from them. ’Twas only the added reminder of the ship that brought the brute to mind.
His easy smile as he glanced past Gillian reassured her somewhat. Surely the devil did not smile at children.
“I see ye have yer nurse with ye,” he commented.
“This is Hanna. She’s my friend. My nurse, Peigi, isnae well,” Gillian replied.
The man’s eyes narrowed against the sun. “Och, ’tis honored I am to have such bonny lasses aboard,” he said. “I will alert yer da when the Alacrity is ready for her maiden voyage, and mayhap he will bring ye and yer friend with him.” He sent Hanna a wink. “I’m needing a lassie who eats her carrots to help at the wheel that day.” He chucked her under her chin, his grin wide.
“I will do my best,” Gillian muttered, slanting a glance at Hanna as though hoping she hadn’t heard the exchange. Her gaze strayed past Hanna. Her body stiffened and she grasped Hanna’s hand tight in alarm.
“Bjarne! No!”
Too quick for Hanna to react, Gillian darted past, her screams rising in Hanna’s ears. A cloud rushed before the sun, darkening the sky, and the wind increased, blowing strands of Hanna’s hair into her face. Reality bent and she again heard the cries of the women—of anger and anguish and fear.
Gulls shrieked overhead. Avenge us, Hanna!
Hanna shook her head, but Frida’s face mocked her. Ye are not a true warrior. Ye care more for the child of our enemy than for the children you lost.
“No!” Hanna shouted. She is not the enemy!
“Hanna!”
Gillian’s shrill cry split the air, snapping Hanna from her anguish. She spied Gillian on her belly, sprawled across the planks on the dock. A moment’s hesitation seized Hanna, but she grabbed her skirt and fled to Gillian’s side.
“He fell!” Gillian sobbed, stretching her hand as far as she could toward the pup floundering in the water. She wiggled her fingers, but the reach was too far.
Hanna knelt beside her. “Gillian, let me try,” she said, her voice firm, trying not to reflect the panic inside as the gentle sway of the ship created waves that swept rhythmically over Bjarne’s head.
“Help him!” Gillian sobbed, scooting back a few inches to give Hanna room. “Help!”
Ignoring shouts from the ship, Hanna lay flat on the boards and reached for the pup. His yelps became less frequent as he struggled to stay afloat.
“Help!” Gillian cried again as a strong wave shoved Bjarne against a piling. She lunged forward, sliding on the wet planks. Feet pounded the boards as men responded to Gillian’s cries. Rolling awkwardly from her prone position, Hanna grabbed for the back of Gillian’s gown—and missed.
“Gillian!” a man’s voice shouted.
Let her go! No one saved your daughter.
CHAPTER 13
Alex looked up from the accounting on his desk. A young woman stood in the doorway to his solar, wringing her hands and clearly upset. He set his quill into the inkstand and rose.
“May I be of help?”
The woman glanced over her shoulder as though afraid someone would overhear. Alex motioned her inside the room. She took two steps forward then halted.
“My laird, I am Agnes,” she lifted worried eyes to his. “From the kitchen.”
Alex nodded. “Go on.”
“I . . . I have seen the new Norsewoman with yer daughter.”
Alex narrowed his eyes. “Aye. Gillian likes her.”
Agnes took another step forward. “The lass has been misled. I fear she is in great danger!”
It isnae possible. Cold fear washed over him. Hanna cannae mean to harm her. The kitchen wench is wrong.
He tore through the castle gates, faintly aware of the soldiers who closed behind him. His feet pounded the familiar path through the village to the dock as a cry lifted on the air.
“Help!”
Torn between the need to retch and the urge to run faster, Alex clenched his fists and found a bit more speed. He crested a small hill, the view of the dock sprawled before him.
Why is Gillian fleeing the Alacrity? Who does she flee? Why does Hanna not stop her?
Gillian slipped, fell. Where the hell is Hanna?
Alex tore his gaze from his daughter and caught sight of the Norsewoman as she ran from the Alacrity to the dock where Gillian lay.
A dip in the path cost Alex his view.
“Gillian!” Alex shouted as he raced for the dock. The soldiers in his personal guard pounded the boards behind him. Alex shoved past sailors and deck hands and sprinted up the pier. The men moved hastily aside as he charged through their ranks.
A flash of brown skirts marked Hanna’s form sprawled along the dock. Gillian was nowhere to be seen, her cries muffled.
Alex’s hand grabbed the hilt of his sword, the other reached forward, encountering empty air, too far away to be of help.
Let her go! The words leapt to his brain, but foundered on his lips. Did Hanna grab Gillian to help? Or did she hold the lass in the water?
“Gillian!” he roared.
With a twist of her body, Hanna rolled Gillian to the edge of the dock, clutching her to her chest. Alex reached her side and snatched Gillian away, shoving her to her feet behind him. Hanna rose to her feet, staring into the water. Men surrounded Alex and he turned his attention to Gillian, crouching at her side as he inspected every inch.
“Look, Da!” Gillian cried, struggling in his grasp. He glanced up as two men dashed after Hanna who had taken the opportunity to hurry away.
“Dinnae let her escape!” One of the men shouted. “She tried to kill the laird’s bairn!”
Hanna glanced over her shoulder, her face pale. Her step faltered, and two men were on her in an instant, one on either side. Dropping her weight unexpectedly, Hanna slipped from their grasp, bringing them up short as she produced a dagger from her sleeve.
“Halt!” Alex cried.
“No!” Gillian shrieked.
Alex gripped his daughter’s shoulder, passing her back to one of his soldiers. “Stay here,” he commanded. Gillian scowled, a look of fierce rebellion on her face. “Dinnae disobey,” Alex warned. Gillian shrugged off his hands and darted away. With a curse, Alex sprang after her, only to pull up short as Gillian pounced on Bjarne as he struggled from the loch, clutching his bedraggled form to her chest. He turned to Hanna, his heart beating erratically.
“I would hear from ye what happened.”
Bright spots appeared in Hanna’s cheeks. “Call off yer men,” she countered. Alex nodded and the two men dropped several steps away.
“Put away yer dagger,” he said. Hanna sent him a defiant look.
After a moment, she sheathed the dagger.
“I did not harm your daughter.”
“Tell me what happened,” he invited.
“We spoke with the captain,” she nodded at the master shipbuilder, misnaming him, but Alex did not comment on her error. “He returned to his work and Gillian saw her puppy try to leap from the dock to the ship.”
“He dinnae like the planks,” Gillian called. “He fell in the water!”
Hanna nodded. “Gillian ran ahead of me. I . . . I should not have let her get away from me. And when I caught up with her, I grabbed for her and missed.”
One of the men grumbled and shifted his feet. Hanna met his accusing glare. He took a step forward, his chest thrust out, belligerence in his eyes.
“Ye shoved her! I saw ye. The lass nearly went into the loch!”
“I caught her,” Hanna replied, sending the man an arch look.
“Once we were close enough to see what ye were about,” he sneered.
“I would not harm her,” Hanna said.
“’Tis said ye seek revenge.” The man bristled as he stalked her. “And we’ll all
be hanged before we allow ye to harm the bairn!”
Wind whistled in the trees, crashing waves against the shore. Bjarne whimpered in Gillian’s tight grip. Alex studied the woman before him. Her eyes blazed in defiance, her dress wrapped about her in the choking grip of the coming storm. Her dagger reappeared.
“One step closer and I will pin your foot to these planks.”
The man hesitated. Alex ground his jaw in frustration.
“Does the need for revenge still grip ye?” he asked. “Or are ye the woman I believe ye to be?”
Long moments passed. Tension coiled between them. “Am I wrong, Hanna?”
Hanna lifted her chin. “I saved Gillian today. Mayhap she would have merely received an unwelcome dunking had I not grabbed her. But I could not risk her being crushed between the ship and the pilings. If ye wish to believe this rabble,” she nodded to the two scowling men, “’tis your privilege.”
The shipmaster took a step forward. “If I may, my laird, from my viewpoint, the lady dinnae attempt to harm the bairn.” He nodded at Hanna. “And it appears she harmed herself trying to save wee Gillian.”
Hanna lifted fingers to her cheek where angry red streaks spoke of striking the wooden boards as she grabbed Gillian.
“Da, Hanna wouldnae hurt me. She doesnae even scold me—much.” Gillian’s small voice settled on Alex’s heart and his apprehension melted.
“I will speak with Eric later,” he said, indicating the man who’d accused Hanna. “For now, I wish to be alone with Hanna and Gillian. The rest of ye may leave.”
Laird MacLean had every appearance of a patient man, but those around him vanished quickly at his dismissal. Gillian released Bjarne and moved to Hanna’s side, gripping her skirts in one grubby fist as she leaned against Hanna’s legs.
“Da, dinnae be angry with Bjarne. He dinnae know he couldnae leap the gap.”
Angry with the dog? The laird is angry with me. Hanna wondered at Gillian’s judgement.
“I am not angry with any of ye,” the laird said. “Unless mayhap with the man who accused Hanna.”
“He is wrong,” Gillian replied matter-of-factly. “Hanna wouldnae hurt me. Hanna likes me.”
The laird’s gaze moved to Hanna. “Is this true?”
“I do like her,” Hanna said. Her voice dropped in timbre. “And, aye, the man is wrong.”
Gillian smiled happily. “Good! Scold him, Da, and he willnae do it again.” She lifted her face to Hanna. “Can we go back? I’m hungry.”
Hanna met the laird’s gaze.
“Go back to the hall, Gillian,” he said. “We will follow.”
With a snap of her fingers to beckon Bjarne, Gillian skipped up the path, her troubles quickly shed. Hanna eyed the laird warily.
“Who accused me?”
He gave her a blank stare.
“Other than that man ye named Eric,” she clarified. “Why did ye rush here?”
“A woman from the kitchen worried Gillian was in danger.”
His prevarication irked Hanna. “A woman—and I believe I know who—turned ye against me so easily? Had I gone to your bed last night, would ye have kept a dagger beneath your pillow? Ye would bed me but not trust me?”
“I always keep a dagger,” he replied. “But if I dinnae trust ye, I would have hidden it beneath the mattress.” He shook his head. “Hanna, if there was no trust between us, I wouldnae invite ye to my bed. I dinnae glean added pleasure from danger. I prefer to assume I will wake with my parts intact.”
Despite her cold anger at his seeming betrayal at a mere whisper from an envious source, Hanna had to suppress her smile. It would take cunning to best this man. She would not subdue him with brute strength. So far, she’d only encountered a gentle touch from him. His breadth of shoulder and corded arms promised much more.
“Hanna, I shouldnae have listened to Agnes. I am afraid where Gillian is concerned, I have a blind spot.”
Hanna released a heavy breath. “I killed trying to protect my daughter,” she said, her throat suddenly clogged with tears. “I will not condemn ye for wishing to protect yours.”
CHAPTER 14
Hanna lifted fingertips to her cheek, testing the salve the laird had badgered her into accepting from the healer. His concern and wry smile as he reminded her she’d suffered on behalf of his daughter, chipped away at the reserve she felt around him. It hadn’t been that long ago she’d wished him great harm—perhaps even the death of his daughter.
She shivered. Not Gillian. Never Gillian. And, perhaps never the laird, either. Her desire for revenge ebbed daily, replaced by something much warmer, more wholesome. More desirable. He was a Scot, but she now knew him as a man who cared deeply, and who had treated her fairly.
He’d asked if she would accompany him after the noon meal to view the changes being made to the Porpoise. Part of her balked at the request to approve conditions for the Scottish king, and part of her balked at being seen so freely in the company of the MacLean laird. He’d asked her to become his mistress, and if she accompanied him, people would assume she’d accepted. That was not the role she desired.
“Are ye ready?”
Hanna glanced up as Alex poked his head through the open doorway. He seemed not at all disconcerted at being on the uppermost level of the tower, in one of the tiniest, most ill-appointed rooms in the entire castle.
“I do not think this is a good idea,” she said.
He stepped fully into the doorway. “Why not?”
“I do not wish your people to get the wrong idea about me,” she explained.
“They are yer people as well, for as long as ye live here,” Alex protested.
“That does not change the fact that I am of an enemy clan—an enemy country. And to be seen at your side indicates a bond between us that does not exist.”
“That much is true,” he admitted.
“And I still must work among them,” she pointed out.
“Agnes will be working in the laundry,” Alex said. “Ye need not fear repercussions from her.”
Hanna’s eyebrows lifted.
“She chose to make trouble where none existed,” Alex stated flatly. “Had ye acted in such a manner, ’twould be ye sortin’ through the stained garments.”
Justice? Impartiality? What manner of man is he?
“Will ye come? I’ve sent Gillian to Peigi for a nap after the morning’s excitement. I dinnae wish to go alone.”
“Lairds scarcely go anywhere alone,” she noted drily.
He planted his feet square and crossed his arms over his chest, rooting himself firmly to the spot. “I want to go with ye.”
“Ha! So much for not demanding my compliance,” Hanna remarked, reminding him of his declaration of the night before. “Is this a condition of my stay? For ye know if I go, ’twill shorten the distance to your bed—at least in the minds of your people.”
Alex grinned broadly. “Nay. I willnae put conditions on yer stay. However, I will use whatever charms are at my disposal to lure ye to my side.”
“Charms?” Hanna drawled, an eyebrow cocked warily. “Filling up my doorway like a Norse god?”
He cocked his head, considering the image—the conceited man. “I dinnae believe I have ever been likened to a Norse god before,” he mused. “Then again, I have never before listened to the opinions of a beautiful Norsewoman before, either.”
“The women here do not praise ye?” Hanna asked, baiting him, ignoring the flutter in her belly as he named her beautiful. ’Twas a man’s ploy. She knew she was not beautiful.
“I dinnae pay attention. To those of my hall, I am their laird. The women who are paraded before me as likely wife candidates mouth empty flattery. If ye refer to those who share my bed, I dinnae repeat those confidences.”
Kitchen gossip came to Hanna’s mind. “I have heard ye and your late wife were not often in accord,” she ventured, an eye to his features, curious to see how he would react.
His smile lost position to a scowl,
but he merely shook his head. “Even two years after her death the gossip doesnae cease. Mayhap ye have ample cause to balk at my request this day. I willnae demand it of ye.”
Even as he released her from his request, his eyes begged her to join him. Hanna sighed. “I will put a cloak over my gown and go with ye.” She indicated the stains that blotched the wool.
Alex frowned. “Do ye not have another gown?”
“Nae.” Hanna hesitated. “I did not believe I would need another.”
* * *
Not need another? An inconceivable thought considering his late wife’s vast wardrobe. Realization dawned. “Ye knew ye would die if ye took yer revenge.”
Hanna met his gaze evenly. “Aye.”
Alex studied her intently. “Will ye need another gown, Hanna?”
“Aye. I believe I will.”
With a nod and small sigh of relief, Alex latched on to her earlier statement. “Ye will go with me this day?”
“Lord help me, for I find it difficult to resist such an earnest plea.” She reached for the cloak hanging from a peg by the door—a garment clearly at its end of use. Alex beat her to it. Handling it as though it were of finest silk, he draped it over her shoulders.
“Do not put up the hood,” he said as she reached for the covering. She sent him a questioning look. “I like yer hair.”
He motioned for her to precede him, hiding his smile at her startled looks. He rather enjoyed besting Hanna, provoking her into telling him her private thoughts, listening to her candor. And he enjoyed when she bested him, as well.
They stepped into the bailey, eying the dark clouds overhead.
“Do we risk a drenching, my laird?” she asked.
“If ye get so much as a drop on ye, I will have three gowns made to replace this one,” Alex vowed, liking the slightly skeptical look on Hanna’s face. “I can stand the cost, Hanna, but only if ye call me Alex.”
His prompt hit home. Her cheeks pinked becomingly, and her glance darted away.
“Is it too difficult for ye—or should I teach it to ye in Norse?”
Her startled look returned. “What is your name—in Norse?”
