Surrender to the Highlander

by TERRI BRISBIN

  Rurik walked for as long as he could, as long as the winds howled and the rains poured down, hoping for an easement of his pain. When he found himself below her window as the clouds rumbled above him, he knew it would take more than that. He leaned against the side of the inn and slid down to sit there. And when dawn broke the next morning, he was still there.

  Margriet struggled from the bed and staggered to the window just in time to see him walk away into the storm. The light that escaped from the inn’s door shone on him until someone slammed it against the storm.

  She should feel relief now that his attentions would stop, but she did not. She should be pleased that one less problem would follow her north and encumber any reconciliation she would have with her father and with Finn when she found him, but she was not. She should sense a clearer future now that the question of any involvement between them was answered, but she did not.

  Instead, the rains outside covered the sounds of her sobs and the tears that poured down her cheeks. She stood, clutching the edge of the window, and watched him disappear into the downpour. ’Twas only Elspeth’s assistance, when she arrived, that helped her manage the walk back to the bed.

  After lying down, she tried to think on why this hurt so much. She certainly did not want him, for she’d learned that lesson only too well. Nor could she marry him, for she carried another man’s bairn and her father would never permit it even if that were not the impediment. She certainly did not love him, for…there were so many reasons why she did not, could not, would not love him.

  But lying there, as he left, she could think of none. And the pain in her heart told her that mayhap…

  “Lady Margriet?” Elspeth said. Margriet wiped her eyes and looked at the girl. “Are you well?” She nodded. “And the bairn?” Another nod. “I was so worried for you when Sven told me how sick you were.”

  “Sven told you?”

  “He is learning quickly,” the girl said, a hint of a smile curving her mouth. “In truth, ’twas the other who said it and Sven repeated it.”

  “Rurik?”

  “Aye.” Elspeth nodded as she removed the head coverings and then lifted the tunic over her head. “Some of us were just waking when he found you. Lady, the way he screamed your name sent shivers down my spine.” Elspeth shuddered again then. “Truly, I thought you must be dead.”

  “He was simply following my father’s orders to keep me safe, Elspeth. Do not make more of it than that.”

  Elspeth’s eyes grew wide and she shook her head as she unlaced her gown. “Nay, lady. He howled as though in pain himself, like a wolf that has lost their mate.”

  The girl looked at her and nodded now. “Leathen and Donald were surprised by it, for they said that Rurik goes from one woman to the next spreading his seed as a bee flits from flower to flower making…” Color crept into Elspeth’s cheeks as she realized what she said. And to whom she said it.

  “They spoke of such things to you?”

  “Oh, nay, lady.” She shook her head again and came to sit on the bed. “I overheard them when they did not know I was awake. They believe me a nun, and you, too, and would never speak of flitting to us.”

  “You must tell me if they are disrespectful, Elspeth. We must keep up our pretense.” At the girl’s frown, she added, “Keep up our disguise until we reach my father.”

  Margriet felt sleep’s grasp grow stronger, even though she had slept for nearly two days straight. Thora’s promised return with food was still to come, so mayhap talking would keep her awake. The thought of learning more about Rurik made her fight to remain so.

  “Did you hear anything else about him? About Rurik?”

  “Donald and Leathen told one of the others of how Rurik tried to tup his laird’s wife when he first met her.”

  She gasped, shocked that he would be guilty of such a thing until she remembered his words to her.

  I have lived the last thirteen years seeking pleasure where it may be, and have never met a woman I wanted who I could not have until you.

  “And the laird did not kill him for such an insult?” Margriet still could not believe it true, for there must be more to the story. “I cannot believe my father would trust me in the care of a man who would…” She tried to say the words, but couldn’t.

  “Tup any woman who would spread her legs for him?”

  Although Elspeth repeated the vulgar words obviously spoken by one of the men, she seemed to surprise even herself for she clapped her hands over her mouth as she finished saying them. “Forgive me, lady, I should not have repeated such things to you.”

  Margriet was completely and utterly confused now. Would she ever understand how men thought? Or why they did what they did? Just a short while ago, she would have been willing to gamble her father’s fortune that Rurik had some deeper feelings for her. She would have sworn on God’s Holy Bible that he was going to pledge that love to her before she stopped him. Now, she wondered if it was all nothing more than a way to batter her defenses down.

  Elspeth must have known how her words bothered Margriet, for the girl grew quiet and prepared herself for sleep. Thoughts and fears and questions swirled inside her mind as she tried to do the same, but it was a long time before rest was granted to her that night.

  And when it came, it was pierced with nightmares that terrified her and she awoke several times to her own choking screams. Elspeth shook her several times to wake her from terror’s grip, and when morning did break, Margriet could swear she’d slept not a wink.

  Thora’s arrival brought a tray and the news that he said they were granted another day of rest. Apparently more storms were on the way and would hamper any good progress north. Margriet found her appetite restored and her strength rebounding after her collapse. When the sun forced its way through a break in the clouds late in the morning, she thought she might go for a short walk. After being reassured that Morag and Ragna had gone off to visit kin in another town for several days, she felt up to it. And so, with Elspeth in tow and Donald at their backs, they ventured out to explore the small village until the rains chased them inside again.

  Chapter Twelve

  “No church, Sister.”

  “Who cares for your immortal souls then?” she asked.

  Margriet had thought to escape the inn, but Thora insisted on asking her all kinds of questions about the convent where they came from and her father’s call home. Thinking to distract the woman long enough to get out, she moved toward the door.

  “A priest usually travels through here about two times a year, spring and autumn, to bless the graves or baptize the newly born.”

  “And mass?” she asked, lifting the latch of the door and holding it open. “Surely, you hear mass more than that?”

  Thora stopped at that, the blush in her cheeks revealing that she did not want to admit to such a thing. Harald called her from the kitchen and the woman excused herself to answer his call, leaving the nuns on their own.

  Margriet made her escape as well, turning her face into the breezes that buffeted them along and promised more rain soon. For now, though, she and Elspeth, and Donald, walked down the worn paths of the village, and discovered that it was bigger than she first thought. They had traveled in from the south and headed out to the northeast, following the river’s path. But, the village was not boxed in by the river and had expanded to the other bank. A small wooden bridge connected the two halves over the rushing water. They had just crossed the bridge when the shouting began.

  Donald tried to guide them back to the inn, but Margriet wanted to see what was happening in the field next to the smithy’s workshop. Following the noise and the growing crowd, she stopped and gasped at the sight before her eyes.

  Sven and Magnus and Rurik, all stripped to the waist, fought each other at the same time. She’d never seen anything like it, she truly did not remember ever seeing men fight with swords, and she watched as they turned one on the other and then back against the third. The clashing of the metal against
metal rang out loudly and made her wince with each blow delivered. And they did not limit themselves to only the blows of swords.

  Elspeth grabbed her hand as they pushed each other aside and kicked from behind, always trying to gain control. The girl gasped so loudly when Sven tripped that he turned and saluted her with his sword as he regained his footing. Rurik used that momentary distraction to go on the offensive, slashing and thrusting with his sword until Sven had backed up across the whole field.

  They laughed like loons as they alternated control of the match. And they called out insults to each other as they moved across the field, insults she tried not to hear. The villagers cheered them on, enjoying the display as much as those who were putting it on for them.

  Margriet tried not to stare at Rurik’s naked chest and the way the pale curling hair on it trailed down and disappeared below the belt of his breeches. He wore old-style gold armbands, carved with runes, that outlined the strong muscles of his upper arms. He glistened with sweat in spite of the cool air.

  Magnus stumbled once and then again, and then was sent sprawling in the dirt by a blow to his back by Rurik. He climbed to his feet and bowed to the others, leaving the battle to them. When he faced the watchers, he saw them and walked to where they stood. Pushing his sweaty hair from his face, he laughed.

  “If not for my recent illness, I could have won,” he boasted to those listening.

  “Of course, Magnus,” she said, accepting his explanation as the truth. Margriet did not look away now, for Sven and Rurik moved so quickly that the end could come at any moment and she did not want to miss it. “Who has the advantage now?”

  Magnus laughed again. “Rurik but plays as a cat to a mouse now. He can end this whene’er he chooses. See now how he forces Sven to overextend himself.” Magnus’s comment made her watch more closely and she saw the truth in his words.

  Now she noticed how the muscles of his legs tensed and relaxed as his stance changed, the power visible even at this distance. His breeches lay plastered against his legs, making it difficult not to see the strength and masculinity there.

  Elspeth tugged on her sleeve and she realized the girl had not understood Magnus’s words. When Margriet translated the words, Elspeth paled. Before she could explain any further, the crowd cried out as Rurik delivered two punishing blows to his opponent—the first knocked the sword from his hands and the next sent him to the ground on his back. Even she gasped now as Rurik placed the tip of his sword at Sven’s neck.

  “Stop!” the girl screamed shrilly, as she pulled away from Margriet and ran to the two men. “Stop!” she said again, in Norn, as she pushed against Rurik to force him and his sword away.

  Margriet and those watching stood in surprise as Elspeth helped Sven to his feet after Rurik stepped aside. She and Magnus made their way across the field and watched with Rurik as Sven and Sister Elspeth walked back toward the inn.

  Rurik shook his head and shrugged, while Margriet saw that the danger here had not been the battle at all. Did she try to explain Elspeth’s behavior or not comment and hope it would fade from memory as the men talked excitedly about the battle and who delivered the best blows and who won? Deciding that discretion was her best weapon, she examined them and found both bleeding and covered in dirt.

  “Come, it looks like you have wounds that need tending now,” she directed as they both stared at her as though she’d lost her wits. “Look there,” she said, pointing at Magnus’s forearm. “That will need sewing to close it—” looking over at Rurik’s chest and trying not to get lost in it, she nodded at his shoulder “—and there as well.”

  “Nun or not, is she not a bossy bit?” Magnus asked.

  Margriet held her breath as he spoke the first words since their encounter the night before.

  “Oh, aye. Thank the Almighty that you were sick those few days and missed the worst of it.” Rurik winked at her then and she felt a light brighten her soul.

  All would be well, she thought, as she followed the men back to the inn. They had each reconciled to the truth of their situation now and all would be well.

  They left her to wash in the river and she slowed her pace to catch her breath—the breath that had left her at the sight of him, in tight breeches, moving as one with his weapon. At once, the consummate warrior and strong protector of legend.

  The crowd pushed past her as she dawdled along and ’twas then she heard the voices of two of the men who traveled with him from Lairig Dubh.

  “That’s the old Rurik,” Leathen boasted to those from the north. “He favors two things in life and does them better than any man I know.”

  “And what would they be?” another called out.

  “He loves to fight,” Leathen offered as those around him laughed and pushed him about. “And he loves to f…”

  The men shouted out, making it impossible to hear the final word, but Margriet needed no one to tell her. She knew without doubt the missing word.

  She knew even more now that she’d felt the heat of his touch, the seductive invitation of his kiss and his formidable form and skills in battle. He was a man built to fight men and to f…Er, tup women.

  And she prayed with equal measure that she would and would not ever discover it to be true.

  The rest of the day passed more easily, now that the fight had both entertained and released some of the tension in the men. Rurik, especially, seemed at ease now, even though she had sewed two wounds to stop their bleeding. He argued that they were but flesh wounds and would heal, but she closed them with needle and thread, stopping short of demanding a bandage on them. Magnus sat quiet under her attentions as she patched his skin back together, as did Sven when they finally dragged him from the weeping Sister Elspeth’s side.

  Margriet tried to discourage such a thing with a sharp look and whispered warning, but the girl thought Rurik meant to kill Sven and now endangered their charade with her inappropriate concern for the man. She planned to speak to Elspeth after the evening meal.

  The men carried out preparations all day, even as the rain started and stopped. Before dark fell completely, the supplies that would see them to the north coast were readied and packed and all was in good stead for an early morning departure.

  Thora had tempted her and Elspeth from their room to eat in the common room with the others on the promise of no untoward occurrences, and Margriet was glad she’d done so. Some of the villagers gathered at the inn that night and Margriet could see that the men enjoyed the camaraderie after many days on the road.

  She did notice that none of the men under Rurik’s command overindulged in ale that night. Some, no doubt, were still feeling the aftereffects of the stomach ailment of a few days before. Others knew the morning would come quickly and that they needed a clear head and calm belly to ride out. It did not take long, once they’d eaten their fill and had a cup filled with ale in their hands, for talk to turn to the fight this morning. If she encouraged the direction of the talk, well, ’twas no matter.

  “Tell me of Lairig Dubh and the clan that calls it home,” she said while nodding to Leathen. His tongue seemed the loosest and a good place to start. And from his earlier comments, he knew much about Rurik.

  “Connor MacLerie and his lady-wife make their home there, Sister. It sits on a hill at the side of a river off in the west of Scotland. Connor is Earl of Douran and Laird of the MacLerie clan,” he said, pausing to lift his cup in a salute. The other Scots joined him and nearly rattled the windows with their cry. “A MacLerie! A MacLerie!”

  When she noticed that Rurik had joined them, she decided it was time to find out more, especially about the laird’s wife and the supposed tupping. “Rurik, you lived there?”

  “Aye, Sister, and I lived at other MacLerie holdings for my uncle is one of the elders of the clan and counselor to Connor.”

  He met her gaze, almost inviting more questions.

  She obliged.

  “Your uncle is a MacLerie then?”

  “My unc
le is connected by marriage to the sister of the laird. I pledged to him and the laird when I could hold my sword straight and not embarrass myself—” he looked to the men who enjoyed some private joke at his words “—and better men I have yet to meet or serve.” This time, only he offered the words. “A MacLerie!”

  Now she could get to the heart of it. “And the laird’s wife? From what clan did she come?”

  His voice lowered to an almost reverent tone then and she could feel his true affection for the woman he spoke of now.

  “Jocelyn came from the MacCallum clan, but has made Lairig Dubh her home and the Clan MacLerie her people. A good woman and a fitting mate for Connor,” he finished and put his cup down. He leaned down and spoke words only meant for her ears as the chattering went on around them. “He was called the Beast of the Highlands before she came to him and she proved them all wrong about him and nearly at the cost of her own life.”

  “It sounds as though you care about her,” Margriet offered, remembering the words spoken earlier about them.

  “Aye, I do care. She is a good friend and a woman worthy to be married to the man I call Laird.”

  He emptied his cup and turned it over on the table so no more would be poured in it. He did not move from his seat on the bench, so Margriet thought him not ready to leave.

  “And now you return to your father in Kirkvaw?”

  She held her breath, waiting to find out if he would answer or not. He’d already said his mother was Scottish, so she wanted to discover more about his father.

  “Aye, Sister. I return at my father’s call, much like the prodigal son in your Good Book.” He reached up and ran both hands over his head, wincing as he moved the area she’d sown.

  “Does it still bleed?”

  “Nay, it does but pull when I move it. As I said, ’tis but a flesh wound and not the worst I have ever suffered.”