The Chieftain's Curse

by Frances Housden

  Its wooden edge had been hardened but would hardly cut like a blade. No matter, it would have to do. Softly but swiftly, he followed the men in front, making nary a sound until the blade in the prowler’s hand lifted. Shovel grasped in both of his, Rob ran at him, roaring like a bull.

  There hadn’t been a breath of wind since the storm slunk out to sea, yet Euan’s sensed the air at his back shift, ruffling the hem of the plaid skirting his knees. As his fingers curled around the haft of his long dagger, an angry shout sent him spinning on the cobbles.

  God’s wine, not one but two armed villains attacking him in his own bailey. Euan’s blade flew from its scabbard with a soft metallic sound that promised a quick death, but as his dagger sliced an upward stroke through the sullen atmosphere, the angry roar tightened into a thin squeal of effort as the second man brought what looked like a shovel on the armed man’s head.

  “Got him, McArthur, I got him,” the victor chanted, in youthful glee as the armed prowler sank to his knees, his sword ringing against stone as it slipped from his hand. “Will I give him another thump to make sure?”

  Euan recognised young Rob’s voice and paused slightly in the act of grasping a handful of his assailant’s hair. The stranger’s fingers flexed as if he could will the sword to his hand and received one of the McArthur’s heavy feet atop both.

  “Leave him to me,” Euan snapped, anger roughening his voice as he pulled the rogue’s head back for a sight of his face. Sure enough, one of Comlyn’s followers.

  “Explain yourself,” he demanded.

  “It’s me, Rob. He was creeping up on you, and I could see he was armed, see the glint of his sword, so I hit him with this shovel,” he said, unaware Euan’s question wasn’t aimed at him. “It was just good luck that I hadn’t put it away from this afternoon.”

  “Good lad,” McArthur returned, wondering if he had ever been that excited about taking an enemy down as he listened to the hint of pride in the lad’s words.

  “You,” he continued, pointing at the man on the ground. “Get to your feet and let us see who we’re dealing with.”

  By Euan’s calculation, the dastard wouldn’t be as confident confronting him face to face. As Comlyn’s man staggered to his feet, nursing his flattened fingers, McArthur kicked the sword aside. “Retrieve the sword, Rob, and don’t be afraid to give him his own if he tries anything underhand.”

  “Aye, laird,” Rob answered smartly as he tossed aside the shovel for the sword. With the hilt in his hand Euan watched him flex his wrist, testing its weight. The sword was probably better balanced than any the lad had held until now. Even as he watched Euan saw his courage surge, watched him grow taller in the boots he wore. “Don’t you worry, McArthur, I won’t let him by me.”

  In a voice chilled with winter frost, Euan hit his opponent with a blast strong and icy enough to crack bones, and demanded, “Name yourself and your business arse-wipe, or I’ll run you through and you’ll die unnamed and unshriven then I’ll hang you out for the ravens to pick your bones.”

  “Harald of Cromarty, sire, and I won’t apologise for trying to attack you. Give me your sword and I’ll try it again. You, McArthur, deserve to die. But Astrid didn’t.”

  “And you dared meddle?” Euan phrased the question, in a slow drawl that sounded deadlier than the last demand he’d sheathed in ice. He heard Rob catch his breath. Out the corner of his eye saw the lad tighten his grip on the sword’s hilt. Pleased, his tone had had the desired effect, he asked, “Did Comlyn send you?”

  “No, Erik the Bear knows naught. I saw you leaving the guardhouse. Your back presented an opportunity not to be missed.”

  “So you say now, an opportunity. Hmmph. All Comlyn’s men only had right of entry into Cragenlaw unarmed, yet you carry a sword. That smacks of planning. What say you Rob?”

  “Aye laird, not only is he a dastardly coward, this villain also sneaked his sword into the castle, yet his chieftain had given his word to McArthur that his men would come unarmed. I can’t say I’d trust any of them.”

  “I took it from the armoury when no one was looking.”

  “Aha,” said Rob as if he was getting carried away with the excitement, but trying not to show it, for he was having too much fun. “Aye, he has a lot to answer for.”

  It pleased Euan to agree with him. “Aye, lad, the charges are mounting up.”

  Harald’s voice held a fearful quiver as he protested, “I didn’t murder anyone.”

  And so he should be fearful, thought Euan. The thief’s excuse didn’t sit well, and he determined to make his feelings known. “Only because Rob here stopped you. If not for that, you would have stabbed me in the back.” His voice rasped like steel rubbed against the granite walls.

  Rob’s hold on the borrowed sword tightened. His feet danced under him with excitement, ready to make a run for help. “Should, I call the guard, laird?”

  “Do that, but hold onto the sword until we discover which fool left it where anyone could steal. There’s more than one punishment will be handed out on the morrow.”

  After Graeme was roused and the rogue, Harald, locked up, Euan held out a hand to Rob and took the smaller one in his to shake. He could feel the strength in the lad. It hinted at the man he would become some day, made Euan wish Rob had accepted his offer to join his housecarls. A lad like him would soon move up the ranks. “I’m in your debt, Rob, and I’m a man who doesn’t forget what he owes. Your sister will be proud of you. Now off you go to the stables and get some sleep. Morning will be here before you’re ready for it.”

  Once the lad had gone, Euan turned his footsteps in their original direction. He had a warm woman awaiting him in his bed.

  What better way to pass the time until he met with Comlyn on the morrow. Harald was unaware he had given Euan the perfect excuse to rid Cragenlaw of Comlyn’s presence, and for that he was inclined to be lenient. The man had obviously loved Astrid, an emotion Euan was a stranger to, and if Comlyn had allowed a match between those two instead of using his daughter to increase his power by an alliance with the McArthur clan, Astrid might be alive today.

  There was a smile on Euan’s lips as he climbed the stairs to his apartments, though few were likely to find any humour hidden in it.

  Nhaimeth roused slightly as Euan stepped over him, and recognizing his laird, rolled over on his pallet and closed his eyes. From the door on the other side of the solar, Euan watched Morag sleep. For the first time that day, care sloughed off his shoulders. Unfastening his belt, he let his plaid slide to the floor and dragged the laces fastening his shirt loose then whipped it off over his head. As he climbed onto the bed, air cooled by the waters of the northern seas caressed his skin, following a path he imagined Morag’s fingers taking. Kneeling on the furs, he dipped his head lower, close to her neck, breathing in the scent of her warm flesh as he pulled her closer to his chest to taste her skin. This day no longer felt like the worst one of his life.

  Chapter 10

  Her dream offered but two outcomes, life or death and the first would surely take a miracle. Should she face the wolves and be eaten, or shuffle backwards to the edge of the cliffs, for in truth Morag’s only choice lay in the means of her demise. Over Morag’s shoulder she saw the Green Lady beckon, but beyond the shimmering shape lay naught but sea.

  She decided to jump … to fall.

  Down … down … down she dropped, flailing against the anticipated pull of wave and water. Then safe … safe, captured in arms strong as iron, yet tensile as a bow made of yew.

  Euan McArthur, the combination could belong to no other. Slowly emerging from the night-horror, the sleep clouding her eyes blurred hard male features hazed in gold.

  An angel?

  No, merely the gleam cast by the lamp she’d left burning above the hearth.

  The damp weight of his breath slid into the curves of her ear then dipped lower. She swallowed, hard. “McArthur?”

  He lifted her hair away from her neck. A long, drawn-out
sigh filled with weariness, and more, an emotion she couldn’t decipher, spilled into the hollow of her nape as Euan curved his body around hers, imprinting the hardness of his loins against her thigh. His voice was a low growl, “You were expecting someone else?”

  She tensed, shivered, her dream taking on new life as if the yellow-eyed wolf once more held her gaze. Learning from her father’s baleful example that a leman could be tossed aside as easily as a bone from the high table, Morag murmured, “No, laird, no I was in the midst of a bad dream.”

  “Ach, then, it might be said that I rescued you.”

  “From the bad dream, aye, you did.”

  “And here was I merely thinking to let the sweet scent of your skin fill my head. Tonight, it smells like the loveliest perfume in the whole world,” he groaned.

  Euan was mistaken. That title was reserved for the fragrance of his skin. It wafted up to her, filled with memories of days when her only worry was escaping down the secret passage running under the bailey to the cave where she had hidden Euan.

  Her father had never noticed she was gone. He was too busy mourning Gavyn to remember she existed.

  She savoured his scent, recalling the sweet rewards his touch promised, while Euan’s grip on her shoulders aligned her spine with his chest. Who would have believed iron could feel this hot without melting.

  A sigh left her as he gathered her in tighter, pressed her next to his heart. She felt its slow thud reverberate against her shoulder blade, unlike her own heart. That traitorous organ tripped in excitement as his roughened fingertips moved restlessly over her skin. At last, his large hand enclosed her breast, cupping its sensitive curve.

  Her breath locked in her throat. She’d been wrong. For certain, this was the loveliest thing in the whole wide world.

  In less than an instant, her feelings shifted from pleasure to shock as he told her, “One of Comlyn’s men tried to murder me tonight.”

  Her breath stuttered, astounded that danger lurked in his own castle. It reminded her of the black wolf in her dream that had sent her racing toward the cliff-top. Had the Green Lady known she would land in Euan’s arms?

  Safe, the way she had felt as she woke from her dream.

  “Christ on the cross.” He shredded the words through his teeth. “It happened out there in my own bailey. The nerve of it.” His hand stopped smoothing, tightening on her breast.

  In response, her palm skimmed the tense muscles of his forearm where anger simmered beneath his skin. She felt it pounding through raised blood vessels that ran like ropes on his wrist. Her hand stopped, poised.

  She twisted in his arms, hands flying across the smooth planes of his chest to slide down rock hard arm muscles, searching, seeking an injury. “Where are you hurt? Did he cut you?”

  “No, have no fear,” he shook his head, anger waning as an ironic bark of humour escaped his lips. “That brother of yours is a dab hand with a shovel.”

  For a moment she was confused. Frightened, he had discovered they had buried his son’s afterbirth without seeking his leave. Her fear faded as he went on. “He battered my attacker over the head before the dastard managed to carry out his vile intent.”

  “Rob did? Is he—

  “No, he took no hurt. And, as I mentioned, neither did I.” His assurances were ruined by the wry gurgle of laughter that followed them.

  Morag’s hand curled into a fist. “I hear nothing worth laughing over,” she snapped. “Are you sure it wasn’t you who was hit over the head?”

  “Ah, but you don’t know the whole of it, yet. Let me just say that Comlyn has done me a favour. Should all go well, on the morrow, I will reveal why.”

  Curiosity set her mind abuzz with questions she dared not venture, and just as suddenly, her thoughts darted back to the reasons for her quest to Cragenlaw.

  Morag pushed aside the thoughts tumbling through her mind. She was his leman and surely certain responses were required when your master held you in his arms, in his bed. With her hand still clenched in a fist, Morag trailed her knuckles downward, over his ribs till she reached the lean span of his belly. The smooth column of his phallus rose between them, hot enough to burn at a touch, but she resisted the temptation to touch.

  Instead, she settled for combing her fingernails through the thick hair surrounding its length, drawing a moan from Euan. Taking the sound as assent, Morag slipped her hand lower to measure the weight and feel of his full sack in her palm.

  In response, she felt his lungs empty in a long, low growl of warm air that tangled in her hair, dampening the skin below her ear. A couple of huffs later, his fingers locked round her wrist. He pulled her hand higher, until it rested between her breasts. “No lass, I’ve no need for more than a warm body to wrap in my arms while I sleep. Tomorrow is like to be even more difficult than today, and the rest of this night would be best spent in sleep.”

  He turned her in his arms until his chest rested against her spine. She felt him adjust his erection until it rode against the cleft between her buttocks. “As you can feel, it’s not that I don’t want you. However, as much as I enjoyed our earlier mating, it was probably a mite overhasty. My conscience wars between the pleasure your body will bring, and the truth that today, I buried my wife.”

  A gasp she couldn’t hide burst from her lips. “Your conscience?” she asked.

  “Aye, did you think I didn’t have one? Well, you’re wrong. I’m more than just a cock that comes to life at the sight of you. And you’re more than a warm place to stick it.”

  Even as he spoke she felt said cock stir against her. Euan didn’t acknowledge its seeking foray; instead, he continued to make certain she understood his motives. “You’re warm and winsome, lass. Tender. But I’m the first man you’ve had in a long time, and I made you weep.”

  Tears of joy.

  How could she confess her true feelings? Tell him of those long-ago years when she had imagined herself in love with him? Better to say nothing at all.

  “After the strife of the past few days, few years if the truth be told, my resistance is a puny thing. I want you Morag of Roslyn, but for my Clan’s sake I needs must keep a clear head for dealing with Comlyn. The McArthur lands provide a rich livelihood compared to those of most of our neighbours. On our borders, three different clans wait for the least show of weakness. Astrid’s death nullifies my alliance with Comlyn. Straightway, I must find safeguards to protect my people. Having no direct heir … to take my place makes them … vulnerable.”

  She heard a thread of regret knot his last few words together. She had come to Cragenlaw seeking safety, but she had been thinking only of Rob, of his future. Suddenly, she felt completely egotistic. For years, Rob had been the centre of her world, but it was a tiny world, populated by no more than two. Euan, who had such huge responsibilities, the care of his clansmen and their families, had existed only in her dreams.

  “I respect your honesty, McArthur, but you’re the Laird and need justify yourself to no one. I’m naught but your leman.”

  “Aye you are. My first in all my twenty-eight years, and I took the choice out of your hands.”

  She released a sigh. “Since we are being honest, I must tell you that compared to being a maid of all work, it’s no hardship. I find you quite personable,” she told the small lie for her own sake, not Euan’s.

  Man and boy, Euan had looked beautiful to her eyes, but she was wary of revealing old feelings. It wouldn’t do to make him suspicious of her. Once, she had guarded those feelings from her father, no matter his demands.

  Aye … with each touch of her skin, Euan turned her senses wild, filling her mind with memories of that swift current of youthful passion. A river she had once dived into with no notion of where it would take her. Often and often she had wondered whether having a mother, an older woman to advise her, would have altered her life.

  Would she have wanted it changed?

  Euan felt Morag gradually relax against his chest. Her breath finally segueing into gen
tle puffs. She was asleep and, for the first time in days, he was able to let go of all the hurt inside him and let his mind roam.

  His son…

  Euan remembered the rush of love he’d felt when his son at last shuddered out backwards into his open hands from between Astrid’s thighs. The lad had grabbed all his attention, so much depended on him. A skelp on the lad’s wee arse wasn’t enough to start him breathing. Euan had looked up at auld Mhairi and seen his own fear reflected in her eyes as she handed him a damp strip of linen to wipe the baby’s face. He opened his lips, covering the tiny mouth and nose and breathed into the baby, willing him to live, to no avail. The lad was too weak, the curse too strong.

  Then, he noticed the blood pouring from the place that had sheltered his son for nine months. The anxious look in Astrid’s eyes dimmed as she stared at the baby in his arms. As a warrior he always followed his instincts, but for once he was torn.

  Who to save first, his wife or his son?

  Had he hesitated too long, or had their lives been a lost cause from the moment he met up with the crone and laughed at her curses? Arrogance his wives had paid for.

  Astrid would have been better married to the young idiot who had tried to put an end to Euan’s life in the bailey, might even have succeeded if not for young Rob.

  Comlyn’s nephew, the dastard had said he’d loved Astrid since they were children, but Comlyn would have none of it. No, Erik the Bear had saved his daughter for Euan and, between them, they had killed her.

  Not that Comlyn would own to such a thing. He remembered Astrid’s father in the chapel, all his attention had been for his grandson, not his daughter. It had curdled Euan’s innards to watch the Bear unwrap the baby and inspect him like he might a piece of merchandise. He still didn’t know what that had been all about.

  Giving into the weight of his sorrow, Euan closed his eyes, resting his chin on the crown of Morag’s head and grieved for his son, just a wee bit of a lad, far too small to be burdened with the future of the McArthur clan and the ambitions of the Comlyns.