by E. B. Brown
“Worry about that later,” Maggie said, pulling back the edge of Dagr’s bandage with a groan. “This wound needs tending, unless we wish Dagr’s return to be only a short visit. Susanna, Rebecca – fetch a bucket of water from the well and heat it up over the fire. When it’s good and bubbling, bring it to me. The rest of you help Dagr onto the cot in the back room so I can get a look at that bloody mess. Was it a broadsword?”
“It was,” Dagr agreed.
“Of course it was,” Maggie muttered with a scowl.
“’Tis not so bad. Kanor did something to it. ‘Tis mostly healed.”
Winn shared a glance with Erich and gave up control of the situation without a whisper of dissent. When it came to taking care of battle wounds, Maggie undoubtedly had the situation under control. As Marcus and Winn pulled Dagr up off the floor, Erich offered Skye his hand, which she gladly took. She stood away from the doorway with Erich and tried to stay out of the way as the others helped Dagr to the cot.
“Happy to see him, are ye?” Erich commented quietly, one thick reddish eyebrow raised in question. Skye swallowed hard before she nodded. She did not trust herself to say a word, nor to dare take her eyes off Dagr.
All that mattered was that Dagr was there, and that he lived.
“’Tis only right that Malcolm be told,” Kyra insisted. Dagr’s sister paced back and forth by the hearth, her arms crossed over her chest. Her blue eyes flashed with pure irritation when her husband put a hand on her arm, and by the way she shrugged him off, Skye was stunned Morgan did not seem bothered by it. Despite the time she spent with them, she was still completely unaccustomed to the way the women spoke their minds. Not a day passed without some sort of conflict, yet Winn and Morgan took it in easy stride. She could not help but wonder if all men of their time allowed their women such independence, or if they were simply different from all the men she had known in her life.
“I’ll do if I must, but ‘tis for your father to ask, not ye,” Morgan replied.
“Father, surely you want him here,” Kyra said. Her persistence did not settle as easily with Winn, who was deep in conversation with Erich and Marcus at the table. Winn’s narrowed gaze shifted to Kyra, and it was the first time Skye had witnessed him so unsettled.
“Your brother is alive, Kyra. Can you not be content with that for now?” Winn replied.
“You cannot stay angry at Mal forever. He should be here, just as the rest of us,” Kyra shot back. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders as she twirled around to glance at Skye. “And I am sure his betrothed agrees.”
Skye felt the flush of heat rush up her neck, and she was certain her cheeks were blazing bright pink. Kyra had never been particularly friendly to Skye, but Skye was still taken aback by the woman’s confrontational manner. When Winn stood up and slammed his mug down on the table Skye knew Kyra pushed her father too far.
“I see no need to send a messenger out tonight,” Winn replied, his voice low and decidedly steady. “Neither for your desire, daughter, nor Skye’s. If Morgan wishes to ride out before morning, then so be it, but it will not be by my request.”
Skye’s voice was reduced to a dry lump in her throat. Being the topic of an argument between two headstrong Neilssons was not a situation she knew how to navigate, and the humiliation of Kyra’s barbs stung her.
“This again?” Maggie interrupted. Leaning her shoulder against the door to the back room, Maggie eyed up her husband and daughter as she wiped her bloody hands clean on a rag. She then raised the back of her hand and drew it across her brow, pushing her red hair away from her face with a sigh.
“Momma –” Kyra said. Maggie cut her off with a sharp hiss, her lips twisted in a frown.
“Your father made his decision and you’ll abide by it,” Maggie informed her. Kyra opened her mouth as if to argue, then clamped it shut. With another pointed glare in Skye’s direction, Kyra sat down hard on a bench at the table next to Marcus. Grabbing a jug of fresh cranberry wine, she poured herself a glass and took a long swig.
“Fine,” Kyra muttered. Maggie raised a brow but ignored her daughter’s tantrum.
“Skye, I could use your help in here. Bring the whiskey bottle from the dry closet, I think Dagr could use a nip,” Maggie said.
Skye obeyed immediately, thankful for the opportunity to see Dagr. Even if it was under Maggie’s watchful eye, it was enough.
He was sitting up on the cot with his eyes closed when Skye entered the room. For a moment she was frozen in place, taking in the simple sight of his presence. Beneath his dark skin she could see the tinge of paleness from his blood loss, and circles under his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. Seeing him at rest, she could not fathom how he had managed to walk into the house, let alone push through his family to get to her when she nearly fainted. She sat down on a stool beside his cot and slipped her hand into his, desperate to touch him.
Yes, it was Dagr. He was alive. He was truly alive.
“I am sorry,” Dagr said, his voice hoarse. He opened his eyes, his soft gaze connecting with hers.
“For what?” she asked, biting back a sob.
“For being late. I never intended for you to leave without me,” he replied.
Tears surged from her eyes, spilling over onto her cheeks as she smiled. “Nor did I,” she whispered. When he placed his hand on her cheek she turned her lips to his palm, kissing it gently as he cupped her face.
Maggie cleared her throat and Skye broke away from Dagr, a flush rushing to her cheeks.
“I think I need a bit of air. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Would you finish wrapping his wound, dear? Looks like the bloody fool was run through,” Maggie said.
“Of course, my lady,” Skye murmured. Maggie smiled but did not chastise her, ignoring Skye’s slip. Maggie placed a roll of flannel on Skye’s lap and kissed Dagr’s forehead, then gently closed the door as she left them alone.
Chapter 3
Dagr
DAGR COULD NOT look away from her, too entranced by her presence to waver. Even with her flushed skin and tear-streaked face he could not get enough of Skye, aching so badly to pull her into his arms. Was she well? Had she been with his family for long? The memory of their last argument before the battle haunted him, and he longed to know if she would forgive his deceit. So many questions he wanted to ask, yet nothing remotely sensible spilled from his lips.
“Skye, please let me explain. Before the battle …”
She shook her head, squeezing his hand. “Ye need not trouble yerself now. We canna change what's been done."
He felt a breath of unease in her words when she lowered her gaze.
"No, we cannot," he agreed. He winced when she tucked a fresh flannel bandage over his wound, confused at why she refused to meet his stare. He gave her a long moment to steady herself, as he could see her eyes glisten with tears, but when she continued to avoid him, he gently took her hand in his.
"Let me tend ye, yer mother will be upset if I let ye bleed," she insisted.
"I care not what my mother wants, nor any other. Look at me, Skye," he said. He ignored the searing pain in his side when he slipped his hand around her and pulled her beside him on the cot, needing to have her in his arms. She uttered a gasp of surprise and placed her hands around his neck.
"Ye canna do that!" she said. Her tone was pleading, but even she could not deny the power in their connection. She laid her forehead against his, the sound of their ragged breathing loud between them.
"I've waited long enough," he said softly. He turned his head, tracing his lips slowly over her cheek until he met her willing mouth. She was everything he remembered, everything he had dreamed of in the time they spent apart. He kissed her gently at first, loving the way she wrapped her fingers in his hair and sighed. Her touch was the ember that set him to burn, and it was not long before their eager embrace turned heated.
Damn his wound. Damn the circumstance. With every breath of his being he wanted to show her exactly what she meant to him �
�� that she was everything to him, in this life and all others. He wanted to lay her bare beneath him and show her what it meant to be worshiped. The need to claim her in every way roared through him, and it was not until he tasted the salt of her tears on his lips that he regained his control.
"I love you," he said, breaking their kiss. He refused to let her look away, cupping her face in his hands as they struggled to slow their breathing.
"And I love ye," she whispered.
"Then tell me, why do you cry?"
"Oh, Dagr," she said, her voice barely audible. "There are things ye must know. I thought … we all thought you were dead..."
The door handle rattled and Maggie came into the room. Skye stood up and backed away from him. The ache in his chest grew as he watched the way Skye's eyes lowered, and he could not help but believe it was shame he saw in her gaze.
Something was very wrong. There was nothing for Skye to be ashamed of, and they had the gift of their future to look forward to. Yet when even his mother uttered a short sigh he could no longer deny what was before his very eyes.
"Thank you, Skye," Maggie said. "I can manage now.
With a brief glance, Skye paused by the door, her eyes meeting his. Before he could say anything to stop her, she was gone, and his mother was plumping the pillow behind his head.
“Sit back. You’ll tear those stitches and start bleeding again. Really, Dagr, what is going on in that head of yours?” Maggie prattled.
“Tell me what’s wrong with Skye,” Dagr replied, ignoring her reprimand. Maggie sighed and sat down beside him. The way her brow furrowed gave him little consolation regarding what she might tell him.
“Drink this first, and then I’ll tell you,” Maggie said. She pushed a cup of warm liquid to his lips and he obliged her, noting the bitter taste but unconcerned. If that was what it would take to get answers, it was an easy price to pay.
“A lot has happened since she arrived,” she said. “Winn and Malcolm … well, you can imagine how your father reacted when Mal told him what happened to you. They had a falling out. Your brother went to work in town with your uncle Benjamin. He left Skye here with us for the time being.”
Dagr was not surprised to hear Malcolm left, yet there was still something more that his mother was not telling him.
“Go on,” he urged.
“I don’t think Malcolm told us everything, and Skye says very little about it,” Maggie continued. “Tell me what happened, Dagr. Because for the life of me, I can’t figure out why Malcolm is betrothed to Skye when she clearly loves you.”
Dagr closed his eyes for a moment, feeling a rush of pain as his stomach clenched. No. Surely Malcolm did not carry on his façade when they returned. Skye’s reaction suddenly made sense.
“The man Skye was betrothed to is dead. Malcolm assumed his identity. It was a contract made under false pretense. Skye is not bound to honor it.”
“No, of course not. But she is bound by the contract they made when they returned here. There were witnesses, Dagr…we were all there when Malcolm announced it. When your brother returns, they are to be married.”
“Where is he?” Dagr demanded. He sat up on the cot, shoving his mother out of the way as carefully as he could manage as he stood up. He was disturbed when his vision swirled and the room seemed to tilt, enough that he needed to grab onto the edge of the door to regain his balance.
“Get back into bed, Dagr! You can’t go running off after him right now,” Maggie yelled. “Winn, I need some help in here!”
Despite his intent, the room continued to sway. His mother grabbed his arm as he crashed to his knees, her distorted voice echoing as if she were miles away instead of by his side.
“What was in that drink?” Dagr muttered.
“Tincture of poppy,” Maggie answered. “I know you too well. I’m not about to lose you again. You’ll damn well get back in that bed and rest, and if I have to drug you for the next two weeks, I will.”
It was the only time in his life that he ever considered doing harm to his mother. Fortunately, that urge faded along with his consciousness, and his last thought was of Winn putting him back in bed.
The next day Dagr refused to eat or drink anything Maggie prepared for him, unwilling to submit to her form of recuperation once more. They ended up striking a bargain in late afternoon when he agreed to eat if she would let him out of bed. Although his body ached and the effects of the poppy tincture still lingered, Dagr was relieved to make his way outside of the house.
He spotted his father in the yard, working to repair a broken rail on the stock pen. If there was anyone who understood Dagr, he knew it was his father. Always steady, always careful, Dagr admired Winn above all others. Memories of his boyhood echoed in his thoughts, replaying the times when he prayed to be like his father someday. He placed his hand on the knife tucked into the belt at his waist, his fingertips running over the smooth bloodstone hilt given to him by Kanor.
“Yer a first son of a Chief Protector. ‘Tis a duty ye did not expect to take before the death of yer father, but I give it to ye now. As one of the Five North Men, I can give you this honor. Do you accept it?”
Dagr did not hesitate. Of course he accepted. It was his duty, his birthright. It was everything he had ever been taught, every way he meant to live his life.
So many things he needed to discuss with his father. The title of Chief Protector meant different things in different times, yet there was one duty he was clear on – he must protect the Blooded Ones at any cost. Suddenly it was more than the love he held in his heart for Skye that drove him. It was his blood-sworn duty. His purpose. His reason for taking breath.
Winn put down his handaxe when Dagr approached.
“Father,” Dagr said quietly. Winn’s face tightened, his blue eyes squinted into slits against his dark skin as he looked at Dagr. Dagr bit back his emotion when Winn embraced him, afraid to let his father see him weak when he so desperately needed Winn to understand he was stronger than that.
“Son,” Winn said, his voice hoarse. With a squeeze of his shoulders Winn let go, his face carrying the weight of his thoughts as he looked at Dagr. “Does it pain you? Your wound?”
“A bit,” Dagr replied. “The Norseman did something to heal me, he said it will be a speedy recovery. But ’tis difficult to feel much since mother slipped me the poppy.”
Winn smiled, shaking his head with a low chuckle. “Ah, yes. You must not blame your mother. She worries for you.”
“She worries for Malcolm, you mean,” Dagr shot back tersely.
“Yes, as she does for all of her children.”
Winn placed a hand on the fence post and wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, eyeing up Dagr. Dagr was in no mood to rest, however, and he could plainly see that his father meant to distract him.
“I’m no child, father, and neither is Malcolm. He is man enough to meet the consequence of his actions,” Dagr said.
“And what will that be? What punishment will he serve, and will you be the one to wield it? The laws he broke were ones of magic and blood vows, not the laws of common men.”
Dagr scowled. Did father really feel that Malcolm should go unpunished? That he could keep Skye bound to a sham of a betrothal?
“I cannot let this go,” Dagr replied.
“You have no power to change it, nor do I. Skye has no family here to break her contract. It was witnessed and signed by John Bass under the laws of King Charles of England.”
“Then Malcolm must break it,” Dagr insisted. “And if he does not, then I will do what I must.”
Winn sighed. “If I could impose my will on Malcolm by force, do you think it would not be done? He will not listen to reason. He is convinced that the path he takes is true.”
“So you spoke to him about it?” Dagr asked. He knew he had no right to expect his concerns to be more important to Winn than Malcolm’s, but there was the part of him that hoped Winn would understand. Yet it seemed a father’s love was a
complicated thing, and it would not be that easy.
“He claims he loves her. Skye agreed to the match. I had no cause to interfere then, and even now, as you stand before me, I can do no less. I will not stop you if you bring the matter to your brother; as men, you must deal with it. But what I will do is protect Skye from harm – even if I must protect her from the two of you.”
Dagr swallowed hard, giving his father a curt nod. So Winn had drawn a line in the sand. He would not take one son’s side over the other. Dagr could not fault him for it. Dagr turned to walk away.
“Son,” Winn called out.
“Yes?”
“Did your mother ever tell you the story of the words of promise? How we were married in my yehakin and bound together for all of our days? The English King had no say in our marriage…and I believe that still bides true for the Powhatans,” Winn said. “It is a hard life for a woman not born to Tsenacommacah. There was much for me to consider before I made that vow to her. You should ask your mother about it some day.”
There was a flicker in Winn’s eye, and Dagr thought his father almost smiled. It was quickly replaced with his stoic gaze, however, and Dagr bowed his head in respect.
“I will ask her. Thank you, father,” Dagr replied.
It was enough to give him hope. The solution was not an easy one, yet Dagr was grateful for it – and for the love of his father.
They heard the sound of approaching riders at the same time. As three mounted men came into view and Dagr recognized one of them, Winn’s gaze met his.
“Remember that you are wounded. Your mother will have both our heads if she needs to stitch you up again,” Winn warned him. Dagr failed to reply, too focused on his younger brother’s face as Malcolm dismounted.
Benjamin accompanied Malcolm, but Dagr did not recognize the other man with them. Dressed in homespun breeches and a loose white shirt, Malcolm was far from the fanciful Laird he had pretended to be in the past. For a long moment Dagr stared at his brother, recalling a time when they once been close despite their differences.
