Outside, he sat her on the grass and began to unwrap the plaid. It was a miracle she had survived and another one she didn’t appear to be burned. Holding her in his arms, he tenderly pushed the plaid and tangles of strawberry blonde hair back frae her bonnie face. Softly, he placed and held a kiss on her poor, dry lips. “A flask,” he called to the excessive number of his men guarding Harald with a few well placed kicks every time the bastard moved.
Brodwyn, uncommonly for her, knelt on the ground, pleading mercy—whether for Harald, or for herself, he would never know nor care.
As soon as the flask was in his hands, he held it to Kathryn’s dry lips. Dripping water over them, he smoothed his thumb gently across their fullness then held her while she drank slowly frae the flask.
It was then he made the discovery that underneath the thick swirls of plaid, her hands as well as her feet were bound. “Christ’s blood. Without a doubt, the man is a bluidy monster.” He spat out the profanity, seeing the God’s-honest proof of his words through the clouds of dark smoke belching from the doorway as Nhaimeth emerged frae the death trap they’d been placed inside.
The wee man led the way, with Jamie behind, brushing aside the red-hot storm of falling cinders. Rob, last, carried Lhilidh like the precious bundle she was, holding the lass cannily, tenderly, and suddenly he looked like a man.
Curving one broad shoulder towards Kathryn, Gavyn deliberately blocked his wife’s view. Better that she couldn’t see the multitude of changing emotions flitting across the lad’s face—expressions Gavyn read easily, having felt them but a few moments ago as he searched the fire for Kathryn.
He felt the breeze freshen, driving the smoke away from them, bringing on its cool draught the sound of shouts and running feet.
Swiftly folding a fist around the smooth ebony haft of his skhean dhu, he bent his head and sliced through the strips of leather binding Kathryn’s hands and feet, intent on freeing her before the Norsemen arrived.
The ravens cawed a warning overhead, swooping and diving around some large stones that he suddenly realised was an abandoned stone circle, grass growing knee high round the base of the stones, as if nobody ever walked there. That’s what the ravens were telling him, that even the bravest of the Norsemen never ventured into the circle.
Lifting Kathryn into his arms again, he carried her in the direction of the standing stones, yelling, “Bring Lhilidh over here, she’ll be safer.” At least, that is what his instincts told him, and the stone circle held no fear for him.
He didn’t question the presence of the ravens. By now he had learned to take what fate put in front of him in his stride. The first time he heard the story of the Norsemen sending out ravens to find a place to land, a place to make home, he had felt there was a message in it for him—a man without memories—and had taken it to heart, using the bird as his ensign.
The lads swiftly followed him into the circle, legs churning through the long grass that whipped against their thighs to a chorus of ravens. He laid his wife at its heart, her head toward the large south-facing stone. “Lay her down here next to Kathryn.”
As he turned his head to face her, he saw Kathryn had come to herself and was looking at him. Her eyes fluttered, and he recognised a smile in them. “I knew you would come for me,” she told him, her voice cracking the way his heart had when he wondered if she would live.
“How could I not? A man can’t live without a heart in his chest, and you are my heart, Kathryn. Nary a soul can gainsay that truth. I love ye, wife.” He pushed her hair back frae her smoke-stained face and gently placed his lips on her brow. She reached up, her fingertips stretching to caress his hair-roughened chin. He took it as signal that she loved him in return.
“I have to leave ye for a wee while. It would seem these folk are superstitious about the standing circle.” He looked up at the noisy birds, all seemingly unwilling to settle. “The ravens seem to think so.”
“The ravens from the cliffs?”
“Aye, they came through the tunnel with us.” He quirked an eyebrow at her, amazed he could feel diverted in the middle of a crisis, but simply having Kathryn beside him gave him confidence that they would win through. “Nhaimeth wasn’t surprised by them.”
“The Bear always said that as long as they were on the cliffs, we would be safe. And it gave me hope when you first came to Dun Bhuird—the Raven—but frae the first you couldn’t look at me without scowling.”
“I can explain, but first I have to deal with Harald.”
“The Jarl of Caithness has a fierce reputation. He is Harald’s cousin. Take care, my love. You and I belong together.” At that, he placed a swift hard kiss on her mouth, wishing this moment had come at a better time.
A time when he could still reassure her of a lifetime together.
Afore he could turn and leave, she pulled at his hand and pushed it down over her small rounded belly. “I felt the bairn move on the way here.”
A rush of emotion filled him and, real or imaginary, he felt a flutter under his palm, his son, for he was certain the bairn was a lad. Sure, he felt him kick against his palm. A wee warrior.
That was all he needed to firm his resolve. He rose to his feet, convinced that Harald would die, and that he would take Kathryn and his bairn home to Dun Bhuird. “Rob, you and Nhaimeth stay here with the lasses. Jamie, you come with me.”
A look of relief shaped Jamie’s features. Whether it was because the lad had something to settle with Brodwyn, or like Gavyn, he dreaded what they would see when they lifted away Lhilidh’s smoking clothes.
Kathryn still coughed because of the smoke she’d inhaled, but he knew she wouldn’t turn away if Lhilidh needed her.
As they joined Gavyn and Kathryn inside the circle, Nhaimeth could see the other two lads were in the same straits as him, tears running down their faces while they pretended that the stinging smoke was responsible. That, though, would never pass as an excuse for being unmanned by the suffering Lhilidh was going through. Mayhap he felt their pain more than most, since in truth, Kathryn was his sister of the blood and Lhilidh felt like yin. Both of them mothered by Geala, the wee lass was a sister of the heart.
By the looks of it, Jamie was happy that Gavyn had given him an order to accompany him, though Nhaimeth had a notion that the Raven wasnae looking for the lad to mind his back. Nae, after what they had discovered on the way north, there was a lesson tae be learned here about sleekit women.
Kneeling beside them, Nhaimeth could have wept again at the grief he recognised in Rob’s eyes along with poor Lhilidh’s reflection. Rob’s arm supported her shoulders. He had pulled away the black crumbling cinders that had once been a worsted plaid, back frae her blistered neck and shoulders, a pitiful sight that made him wish Kathryn had some of the soothing unction she made in her stillroom—a thought, that had him turning to check on her.
He could see she was anxious to join them, leaning sideways on her left hand as if she might try to pull herself over to beside them. Catching her eye, he shook his head. Kathryn was with child, and she had just been through a physical as well mental ordeal. Nae need to add to it.
Lifting the wee lass’s hand, he kissed her knuckles and could have sworn her lips trembled on the edge of a tragic smile, but it was Rob she watched, not her almost brother.
Lhilidh tentatively licked her lips. A sigh slipping between the once rosy fullness made her chest shudder, though she avoided the cough that had to be lurking there. “Rob,” she said in a husky whisper, “will ye kiss me?”
The lad stared down on her face, a softness in his eyes as he forced his teeth to show in a rare brave smile. The left side of her face had felt the worst of the red-hot heather cinders and had peeled away, showing the red and black of burned flesh. The right side had escaped the worst and was surely still the bonnie lass they both knew and the lass Rob had been a fair way to falling in love with.
Leaning towards her, Rob said, “Aye, Lhilidh, I will. I cannae tell ye how often I wished ye
would ask me just that, my darling wee lass, or how often I considered stealing a kiss off ye.”
For all his brave words, Nhaimeth could tell the lad had reached the end of his tether. Nhaimeth had a notion he wanted to howl at the moon like a whelp of the Baron of Wolfsdale—the grandfather who had brought him up on the borders of Scotland and Northumbria—a constantly shifting boundary where battling against a foe was expected and not a surprise. Yet there was a new maturity to Rob’s control that he’d never seen before. The lad he’d known had drifted away with the smoke and left a man in his place.
Tenderly, he placed his mouth to hers then supped up the tear that ran down her barely damaged cheek. It was a braw sight as Lhilidh’s eyelids fluttered and a soft light bloomed in her eyes, as if all her dreams had come true—a dream interrupted by a bout of harsh coughing.
In response, Nhaimeth could see Rob bite the inside of his cheek. His hands trembling he drew her close. Tucking the crown of her head under his chin as she fitted into the curve of his shoulder. Now… Now she couldn’t see his face, Rob’s tears flowed freely and he hummed the refrain of a lonely pipe tune, a lament
Slowly her eyelids drooped and closed. Lhilidh appeared to be asleep, a lass curled up in her lover’s arms but Nhaimeth, holding her hand in his, felt its stillness and knew she had gone.
Chapter 28
They were outnumbered, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Gavyn’s mercenaries were highly skilled. The fact that they had returned from France after fighting the bluidy Normans was proof of that.
Harald was on his feet again. Someone had bound his hands, and the dog handler stood to one side, the mastiff ready to pounce should he try to make a break for it again. After what the cowardly bastard had done to two defenceless lasses, the dog was all he deserved. That said, Harald’s cousin the Jarl—to whom the resemblance was remarkable—was bound to object vociferously.
The sky had deepened to indigo, but the smoke from the fire hid the stars, and beneath the grey haze, the fire tinted everyone with shades of flickering red. The biggest difference in the two sides was in their dress—bright colours in the Scots’ kilted plaids compared to trowse in dull earthen shades and animal skin hides worn as jerkins. With such strong differences in their daily lives, Gavyn wondered if there would ever come a time when they could live side by side amicably. As Chieftain of the Comlyn clan and emissary for Malcolm Canmore, it was up to him to try.
His lieutenant held Brodwyn by the arm, and a nod in his direction was enough to make him accompany Gavyn to within a few paces of the Jarl. This much closer the similarity between Harald and the Norseman diminished.
The Jarl was a guid few years aulder, his stern face showed a strength lacking in the younger man’s visage. “I haven’t come here looking for a fight,” Gavyn said, “only to retrieve my wife and her maid and punish the blackguard who tried to burn them alive. Although, I’m not averse to giving a guid hiding to a Jarl who’s been casting his long shadow o’er my lands frae the north.”
The Jarl’s smile contained hints of a sneer, though he didn’t appear unwilling to discuss the matter. “And what would you have me do?”
“I want the right to fight Harald—a duel, man to man.” He glanced at Brodwyn. “This yin I’m not so sure about though I’m certain she’s as guilty as Harald. That said, she’s a woman and my wife’s cousin. The decision might not be mine.” With a wave of his hand Gavyn signaled his Lieutenant to move Brodwyn closer to the rest of his men.
Olaf glanced at Harald, the lift of an eyebrow telling. “I’m not sure if you’re aware that Harald is no’ a man who plays by the rules.”
Gavyn grimaced, his hand going instinctively to the scar on his side. “I’ve already discovered that about him; and if he wins, I should warn you that he recently murdered three men without rhyme or reason but for the pure delight he appears to take in the task.”
The Jarl’s expression hardened, and his lip curled as he studied Harald. “In that case, it’s to be hoped you win. You have my permission to duel, and no harm shall come to you should Harald die, which would appear to be fated. Since the birds of the gods fly by your shoulder, I would say Odin has already chosen.”
He stood by as Gavyn readied himself for the duel and said quietly, “Did ye ken that Kathryn is a cousin of mine as well? There was a time when Erik welcomed me to his hall. I have good memories of Dun Bhuird.” He paused then asked, “How is Geala?”
In accordance with what appeared to be Olaf’s wishes, Gavyn kept his voice low and murmured, “Dead, I’m afraid, only a few months ago. Her daughter Lhilidh is the lass abducted with my wife.”
Olaf’s face seemed to come alert. “A daughter you say, and called Lhilidh. How old is she?”
Gavyn gave him a quizzical stare as he wrapped the end of his plaid around his waist where it wouldn’t hinder him. “She is but fourteen, a bonnie lass but badly burned. My nephew Rob, the McArthur heir, is helping Kathryn and Nhaimeth to tend her, though seeing how she looked, I dinnae hold high hopes for the wee lass.”
He scowled, his lips drawn back in a snarl. “She could be mine. Lhilidh was my mother’s name,” he said, uncompromised by the news that he might have had a daughter and never known it. “If you dinnae kill him, I will.” He started to turn away then stopped. “I may as well tell you I have no interest in fighting you. The danger to us comes frae the Irish, and two nights ago they stole my wife, so let’s get on with the fight. I sail on the tide and, who knows, mayhap we can find a peaceful resolution between us some day.”
Gavyn drew his sword.
The lieutenant had a firm grip on Brodwyn’s arm, but she didn’t mind the pain. She had more to worry about than that now, including dying.
Her sharp hearing had caught most of what Farquhar and the Jarl were saying. Strange that the two disparate leaders could act so friendly, and more, could plan a truce o’er Harald’s proposed death, for that was the intended outcome. A fitting end some might say to her ambitious plans that Harald had managed to ruin. Harald was a madman.
Now the Jarl drew Harald’s sword and used its blade to cut the bindings on his younger cousin’s wrists with a quick slash of Harald’s favourite blade. For a moment she thought at first he would run Harald through on the spot, and breathed a sigh of relief when he slapped the hilt of the sword into Harald’s hand instead. Harald obviously thought so too, the harassed lines on his face smoothed as he tested the weight of his sword, the same weapon he had used to slice up Magnus. Her stomach turned over at the memory.
He deserved to die. She realised that—didn’t care. What did worry her, made her insides quiver, was knowing that when Harald died she would be alone. Even as these thoughts scuttled through her mind, Olaf said something to him, something that made his skin turn ashen, then Olaf stepped back and left the two opponents facing each other.
Without any attempt at the courtesy of duels, Harald leapt straight at Farquhar but the chieftain was ready for him and fended off Harald’s slashing blow quick as a wink. Her cousin had always been fit, an excellent swordsman but, as in all else, he was indolent, liked to take the easy way, whereas Farquhar’s muscles were hard, won on the battlefield, not the practice ring in the bailey.
Aye, as the fight went on it was easy to see they were pretty evenly skilled, but Farquhar had the edge, she decided. It was then she became distracted, and she wasn’t the only one, as Rob walked up to the ring of men, both Norse and Scots, carrying Lhilidh in his arms. It was obviously frae the way she lay, so still, so silent, that the lass was dead. It wasn’t until he turned to Jamie that she saw the raw red flesh that the flames had left in their wake.
Rob’s expression was set, numb, as he spoke, holding out Lhilidh to Jamie who stepped back shaking his head, a look of distaste on his face. She had a sudden revelation that he, much like Harald, wasn’t the man she had believed him to be.
Nor was Olaf, he stood in front of Jamie and held out his arms to take Lhilidh. The expression on Olaf’s fac
e as he stared down at the wee lass, bent and kissed her forehead, made Brodwyn want to weep, a show of emotion few had seen in her.
She glanced away, unable to bear the pain, unable to decide whether she wanted to weep for Lhilidh or herself.
Both fighters were sweating. The perspiration ran off their faces, leaving their chests awash with the firelight’s gleam. She bit her lip, certain Gavyn Farqhar would win through, Then, between one move and the next, Harald spun to the side and kicked out, slamming the toe of his boot into the back of Farquhar’s calf. The blow made his knee buckle; it hit the dirt, and Farquhar’s hands reached out to take the brunt of the fall. She saw a smile of delight spread across Harald’s face. She had seen that look before when he cut up Magnus. Brodwyn saw him draw back his elbow ready to thrust, ready to kill.
She missed the sight of Rob picking up Farquhar’s sword from the ground, but was wide awake to the thrust of it, and to the hole the sword made in Harald’s chest as it slipped between his ribs and into his heart.
To say Harald looked surprised would be an understatement.
Rob, on the other hand, made his reasoning quite clear, stating as Harald hit the ground with a thump, the way a fallen tree might, “That was for Lhilidh. I loved her and she didn’t deserve to die that way.”
It sounded ridiculous, but Brodwyn actually felt jealous. Of all the men she had had, she didn’t ken any who would kill for her. What Harald had done, murdering yon three men, he had done for himself. She might have put the notion in his head that the two of them could take o’er Dun Bhuird—Chieftain and Lady. Fool that she was, it had taken her too long to understand that Harald had taken matters under his own thumb, and left her out of his plans.
Yet that wasn’t why Harald’s death didn’t touch her. Being with Jamie had shown her how love could be, how it felt to be cherished.
Farquhar was on his feet a hand on Rob’s shoulder, the sword now hanging limply from the lad’s hand. “I’ll take that, Rob,” he said. “I owe you my thanks, lad. You saved my life.”
Chieftain By Command Page 26
