It was ironic that Harald had pushed them into this wee round broche with her own housecarls on the door to guard her—traitors both of them.
She hoped Gavyn killed them.
Kathryn gritted her teeth and laid her cheek atop Lhilidh’s head. She’d like to kill them herself, proof she had more of her father in her than the clansfolk might suppose.
Outside, she heard Harald raise his voice, and all the murderous thoughts filling her mind faded while she concentrated on hearing what he was saying, “Ye cannae turn us away; it’s done now. We have to proceed with the plan.”
Harald’s voice sounded whiney compared to the growl that answered him, “I have to do naught.” If Erik had been a bear, by comparison, this man was a wolf. “You brought this down upon yourselves, you and Brodwyn both. You call this a plan? Yer wrong, it was an impulse—an impulse that blinded ye to the need to confer with me.”
Harald’s voice was unmistakable as he mewled an excuse. “I thought that together we could make sure he surrendered Dun Bhuird to us. With the Dun in our grasp, we would have another barrier between Caithness and Malcolm Canmore, you and I.’
Harald was so obviously pleading. Kathryn pictured him down on his knees, crawling. It made a braw picture.
“Cousin!” the word slashed the air, cutting. “Ye didnae think. If ye had then ye would have spoken to me first, at which time I would have told ye that I have twenty ships and crews tied up alongside the Ness ready to sail for Ireland. The Irish have been raiding all up and down the coast, and we’re intent on taking revenge. It’s time now. Time to take back our people. I was up the coast the last time the Irish came. They took slaves. Ingrid was one of them.”
“But—”
“But me nae buts. Ye come here with two men and want help to fight off Farquhar and all his mercenaries. Well, ye ken fine I can’t fight on two fronts, and I’m intent on getting Ingrid back. Ye will have to take that pair back, or let them go and find somewhere to hide.”
Kathryn didn’t know what to think, to hope. To pray…
Would he let them go?
Her heart felt leaden at the thought of never seeing Gavyn, to never feel his arms enfold her or his mouth on hers. What she had before he came home was as naught compared to her life with him in it. At least she had had that, but what of poor Lhilidh? She’d never had the love she deserved, or the life and family Kathryn wished for her. Life wasn’t fair, but then for a Scottish lass in this day and age it seldom was.
She could count herself lucky that she’d had Gavyn, received his love, if only for a short time.
At that thought, the bairn inside her kicked. All at once the determination to fight filled her. A mother’s instinct to protect her young, like the Scottish wildcat Gavyn had likened her to, she would fight, do anything she could to save her offspring.
Nhaimeth rode perched behind Rob, with Gavyn and Jamie riding the other two horses. They were sturdy beasts, and yet another of Bienne á Bhuird’s particulars that Gavyn hadn’t heard about. He’d been too busy concentrating on the Dun’s defences because that’s why the King had made him Chieftain and why he had left … God’s blood … left the woman he had come to love and now might lose.
Now it appeared he had been o’er smart for his own guid.
If he had learned anything as a mercenary, it had to be that war was the quickest way to make enough silver if you needed to pay for fierce warriors and build defensive walls and tall keeps. However, unlike Wolfsdale where he had been brought up, he hadn’t learned all the wee things he would have known had Bienne á Bhuird been his home. Nhaimeth had known the Dun would never be his, yet he had still hoarded every little kernel of knowledge.
That’s where Canmore pushing him into another man’s seat had let the clan down. More than that, had let Kathryn wife down.
Never again, he promised as, unconsciously, the reins he held drew level with his heart, level with the place he wanted to keep Kathryn with love.
A promise he would make to Kathryn’s face when they caught up with them.
They travelled westward toward the setting sun. The tracks they followed were much fresher than the ones they had first come upon, which meant they were gaining on them.
The mount Rob and Nhaimeth rode bounded past Gavyn, brushing through a tangle of yellow and red laden twigs of birch and beech. “We saw something glinting up ahead,” Nhaimeth explained as they left him behind.
“What is it?” Jamie yelled spurring after them.
“Water, a loch, or sea shining in the distance. Whoa the ground is falling away here. We’re at the top of a brae.”
“Caw canny,” Gavyn warned. “Don’t break through the trees without thought, if we’re getting closer. Don’t give them any warning.”
Within moments, Rob had reined their mount in and sat staring into the distance. Following him, Gavyn saw the lowering sun outline islands in the distance and, worse, a firth or ness with a row of ships tied up—a dozen, probably more, with oars shipped.
A picture leapt to the forefront of Gavyn’s mind’s eye. Kathryn and Lhilidh being dragged aboard to be sold as slaves. A sharp breath grazed his nose, sent his nostrils flaring while his lips flattened tight against his teeth at the thought.
Closer at hand, a long house was tucked into the foot of the brae as well as a scattering of round, thatched broches. Smoke rose above the longhouse. From its placement, a hole in the centre of the roof, he imagined there was an open fire pit. And slightly behind it he saw more smoke, too much to be somebody cooking supper.
At full gallop, they could be upon them swiftly and take them by surprise. “We can be there before nightfall.” He grasped the head of his war axe and pulled it out from the strap that fastened it to his back. “Listen,” he said. “Can you hear the barking? The rest will be up with us soon, but not soon enough, we haven’t time to wait.” One-handed, he slashed at the branches of the trees closest to him. “I want the way we went to be obvious when the rest get here. The hounds and mastiffs will be following Kathryn and Lhilidh’s scents, not ours.”
Jamie curled his reins around his fist as he caught Gavyn’s eye. The lad hadn’t said much since they’d left Dun Bhuird, but Gavyn could tell by the way he held himself, sat his horse, he was anxious to catch up with them. The Ruthven lad had been first up the cliff face after Nhaimeth, his expression closed, though Gavyn could imagine what was going on in his mind: Brodwyn’s treachery.
An experience like that could make a lad grow up quickly. “Do ye think they’ll be on the ships?” he asked as he eased his mount forward.
“They could, but I hope not. I doubt there is any chance of them sailing before morning. It’ll depend on the tide. If they’re aboard, it will be more difficult to rescue them. The vessels don’t look huge, probably take a crew of twenty at the most.” Gavyn put a hand up to shade his eyes and peered into the red light shining on the water. “How’s your eyesight? Are the ships wearing warheads, dragons mayhap,” he wondered, thinking of the Dragon Slayer.
Nhaimeth answered, “Most likely wolves if they’re Harald’s cousins’.”
A pair of large black birds landed on a branch near Gavyn’s shoulder, as if to remind him of his insignia flying on the shield that rested on his mount’s rump.
He was surprised they were still with them, and had yet to come to a conclusion about their reason for following them. He gave no credence to Nhaimeth’s mystical explanation.
“No matter, we must be on our way. Stay under the trees as long as possible. Once it’s dark we’ll be harder to see.” And so Gavyn led the way, his eyes and heart seeking out his wife. His Kathryn.
Chapter 27
Brodwyn hurried along at Harald’s heels as he strode through the settlement, black anger writ clear on his usually handsome features. She should be frightened, but she didn’t think he would harm her any more than he had already. In his own peculiarly wicked way he needed her.
“What are you going to do?” she called to him a
s he marched farther away frae her, determination in every step. She didn’t think she’d seen him so throng, not even when he’d tried to kill the McArthur and that little whelp Rob interfered.
He ignored her, heading in the direction of the broche where they had left Kathryn and Lhilidh. The housecarls he had bribed to help them had fled. Dragging Kathryn’s maid along with them had been a mistake, Brodwyn thought. They could have tied her up and left her in a storeroom or dropped her off and let her find her way back round the mountain. That’s what she would have done, but Harald was in one of his Harald-kens-best sort of moods. She had to wonder if arriving at their Norse cousin’s settlement would have done them much good. With a little forethought, maybe Olaf wouldn’t have been so harassed at Harald causing him to miss the tide. Ach aye, but then he still would have refused to help, what with Ingrid being carried off by the Irish.
Therein lay the irony, she decided—though she doubted if Harald had seen the parallel—expecting Olaf to help them against Farquhar when the same sort of circumstance had robbed him of his wife. Ingrid was quite lovely, and there were times not so long ago when she would have hated her for it, the way she had hated Astrid and Kathryn; and they were both blood kin, both beautiful in a way that caught men’s eyes, while she had to work at getting their attention. She hadn’t always enjoyed doing sexual favours for men, but soon she’d become ambivalent, saw it as a task to get through like any other. As long as it got her what she wanted.
She had been working on Harald for a guid few years, and it hadn’t taken much to stir him up and make him eager to get rid of Euan McArthur, to convince him he had always been in love with Astrid, and if she died giving birth, which Brodwyn had believed would happen… No wife of the McArthur had survived the curse, so why would Astrid be any different? Besides, the McArthur had insulted her, refusing to consider her as a substitute while Astrid was carrying.
Then Harald had gone and got it in to his head that he knew better—had gone his own road, and now look at them. How would he solve this problem?
Her breath rasped in her throat as she trotted behind Harald in an attempt to catch up with him before he did something stupid and harmed the lasses. The only way they might get through this with their skins, was to escape to the Hebrides, leaving Kathryn and Lhilidh to find their way back to Dun Bhuird unharmed. Otherwise Farquhar would simply hunt them down and put them both to the sword.
Never cross a man caught in the throes of love. And Farquhar was most definitely in love with Kathryn. She recognised the symptoms.
She sped up, quickened her pace, her gaze spinning wildly around for anybody she could ask for help as, in a flash of premonition, she read Harald’s mind as he bent down and pulled a half-burned branch from the fire.
“No-o-o-o,” she screamed as he stomped up to the broche, branch held high, red-hot tip catching the breeze and bursting into flames.
“No-o-o,” she yelled, charging up to him.
Too late.
He pushed the burning branch into the thatch and watched the flames begin to lick at the dry heather thatch.
The realisation that she dare not let this happen sent her racing in the direction of the low opening to the broche, intent on pulling the both lasses out. Before she could reach the doorway, she cursed out loud as Harald grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her away. He held her against him, screaming and kicking, his hands rough, careless of hurting her. Although this time she wasn’t trying to placate him, or sway him to do her bidding, she felt his prick rise, harden and press into the crease in her buttocks, confirming her notion about the pleasure he had taken in murdering Magnus, watching the light drain from the constable’s eyes as if he had gathered it up into his being to bring him a perverse kind of pleasure.
This time she was adamant he wouldn’t use her to feed his aberrant soul. “Fool,” she spat the word at him. “You’re like a spoiled child who must have his way, even though you know killing the lasses will be the death of us.”
Another thought flashed before her, like a drowning man sees his past float by his eyes. The truth of it was that naught had changed. Harald had taken from her, and she, thinking he would liberate her from days, months and years of naught but boredom and busy work and, lacking the intellect to see the future, she had always paid the price.
Over the years he had cost her everything.
But naught worse than here and now when he had cost her the only love she had ever felt—cost her Jamie—and this time for certain he had cost her her life.
They galloped up to see a fire blazing in front of them. Not the wee one Gavyn had seen smoking outside of the longhouse. These flames leapt brightly skyward frae the blaze. Mayhap a warning.
No matter, naught would hinder them now. The noise of their mounts’ hooves was like thunder in Gavyn’s ears, and farther behind, he could hear the keening howl of hounds on the scent. A swift glance over his shoulder showed the lieutenant and the other men were right on their heels and that they had let the hounds loose.
When Kathryn imagined Harald murdering them, it hadn’t been in this fashion—by burning them alive. Burning heather fell in a shower of sparks on top of them. Soon she was sure it would fall in and suffocate them in a sea of flames.
Trussed up they might be, but they had to fight for life, fight to survive. “Lhilidh, we must wriggle over to the door. It’s our only chance. Follow me,” she croaked choking on a belch of smoke. If they didn’t burn, they would suffocate.
She lay down on her side, digging her soft boots into the dirt floor to push forward with her feet. “Do like I am, Lhilidh. Dig your heels in and slide over toward the door.” Kathryn gave another push, demonstrating the action to Lhilidh.
The biggest trouble they experienced, apart from the flames and smoke, was the growing darkness outside and the increasing difficulty of seeing the door. “Help!” she yelled as loud as she could, knowing that soon she wouldn’t have the breath to call out. “Help us! Please help us.”
She undulated on the dirt floor, hips and legs slowly moving in the direction she thought safety lay. Sparks and burning heather poured down on her. She could smell the acrid scent of worsted burning as the thatch rained down on her plaid and kirtle. “Hurry, Lhilidh. We have to hurry lass or we will burn alive.”
All she got in reply were Lhilidh’s screams as the roof at her side collapsed and buried her in burning heather. A moment later her own screams joined those of her maid’s. Screams almost as loud as the baying of dogs she could hear outside.
The hounds reached the fire before the men did and began dancing and bouncing at the edge of the fire, leaping around two people, a man and a woman watching the broche burn—Harald and Brodwyn. Gavyn’s heart sank, knowing full well there was but a single connotation he could take frae the sight.
Kathryn and Lhilidh were inside the building.
His blood boiled, pounded in his ears as it did in battle, and the killing madness took o’er. Reaching behind him, he freed his war axe. The weight felt good in his hands, its purpose undeniable. Gripping the barrel of the horse with he knees he dug his heels into his steed as he had done time and time again. Charge…
“With me lads,” he roared, wanting naught more at that instant than to split Harald frae crown to cock for a start.
The expression on Harald’s face was pathetic. Had he actually believed he could steal Gavyn’s wife and live. Naught would prevent Gavyn frae doling out his brand of retribution. Naught.
The coward thrust Brodwyn into the path of the thundering hooves as he turned to run. The reflection of the flames transformed the scene in front of Gavyn into a one frae a nightmare, for no sooner did Harald skelter away like the coward he had proved to be than a dog pounced, sank its teeth into the folds of his plaid and hindered his escape. Two huge paws straddled the villain’s shoulder blades, toppled him to the ground where the dog worried at the back of his neck.
Swerving to avoid Brodwyn, Gavyn called to the handler. Haul the dog
off, but don’t let him get up. I’ve a more satisfying death in mind for him. He might have run like a rabbit but he’ll have to die like a man.”
He’d barely drawn another breath when he realised he could hear women’s screams. Kathryn.
Kathryn alive in the heart of the flames.
Gavyn leapt from his mount’s back, axe in hand. “Quick lads, help me get them out of that inferno before it collapses entirely on top of them.”
He ducked through the doorway of the burning broche. He could smell burnt flesh, and his stomach roiled and twisted. His bonnie lass. He didn’t give groat as long as she lived, as long as he could hold her in his arms. “I’m here Kathryn, here to get you and take you home. All you have to do is shout my name so I can find you amongst the flames.”
Over the crackle of burning heather he heard somebody moaning in the corner to the left-hand side of the opening. He used his axe like a rake to drag the red-hot twigs out of his path and gradually a dark shape formed against the wall where she crouched.
“Kathryn, speak to me. Tell me you’re alive, my lass, my love…” His voice faded as he groaned, “my love.”
“I’m here, Gavyn,” she moaned as if with pain, and his heart twisted again, suffered with her—Kathryn’s pain his pain. Clearing a path with his axe, he thrust the haft of the weapon through his belt and stooped to sweep his wife into his arms. She had rolled herself in thick folds of worsted plaid. It smouldered but, praise be to God, it wasn’t ablaze.
The three lads bent low to enter the broche. Gavyn saw them as he held Kathryn against his chest for a few heartbeats, both of them gasping from relief and smoke. Through the folds he heard her say, “Find Lhilidh. She is at the other side of the room.”
He swept around as if she was but a feather weight in his hands, shouting, “Lads, Lhilidh is under all that burning debris, get her out of there quickly—now!”
Chieftain By Command Page 25
