Must Love Kilts

by Allie Mackay

  “Dinnae tell anyone, Gilbert”—he leaned down, lowering his voice—“but there are some who call thon two women the Ship-Breast Sisters.

  “Now finish your work. They’ll no’ be pestering you again.” Magnus straightened, feeling both awkward and inordinately pleased when Gilbert looked up at him, his freckled face lit by a shy smile.

  Standing taller, Gilbert returned to his task with vigor. Soon, the blue-purple flames would dance and leap and Magnus was glad for it. The additional warmth was welcome, as a fierce autumn storm had rolled in from the sea, chilling the air and sending rain hammering across the roof. Hard wind tore at the shutters and howled past the towers. And even through the stronghold’s thick walls, the crash of waves could be heard as angry seas pounded the cliffs.

  It was a night for quiet comforts.

  Magnus was pleased to offer his men a warm, dry hall with plenty of ale, bread, and meat. They had one another’s company, their swords within reach if needed, fine hounds sprawled on the floor rushes, and a halfway decent musician plucked harp strings in a darkened corner.

  Nothing was amiss.

  Except that he burned to sprint up the winding turret stair, burst into his bedchamber, and toss Margo over his shoulder, and then carry her back down to the high table so he could enjoy the simple pleasure of having her beside him.

  After he’d stopped halfway down the stair to back her against the wall, toss up her skirts, and ravish her as they stood in the shadows.

  He needed her that fiercely.

  Even now, a few short hours after taking his ease with her on the bluff.

  He also meant what he’d told her on the cliff.

  Watching her as she’d gazed out at the sea had touched him deeply. The look in her eyes had tugged on something deep inside him. Seeing how much she loved his home had taken his breath.

  His heart had beat faster, his chest filling with pride.

  Too many of his own people lived in dread, always casting their gazes over their shoulders, watching and waiting for the next raiders from the north to bring death and sorrow to their shores.

  They’d forgotten the beauty.

  They were no longer awed by wild mountains and foaming rivers, or empty, windy places where one’s spirit took flight. They’d grown blind to the wonder of soft twilights when the light faded from the heather and silence walked gently, cloaking the cold, dark nights.

  Such appreciation had also slipped from Magnus’s mind.

  But it’d all slammed back into him each time he caught such wonder on Margo’s face.

  She gave him a piece of himself that he had lost.

  She made him remember the things he’d once loved so fiercely—all sadly forgotten through the years of warring and vengeance. There were times he felt as if he’d always known and needed her. She completed him.

  He hadn’t yet told her that he loved her, but he would.

  It rode him hard that he’d once suspected she was a sea witch come to plague him. Guilt lanced him, though he knew he’d had little cause to think otherwise. Even so, he felt a need to undo his early doubts and do right by her. And that desire went deeper than the longing at his groin. Above all, he wanted to know her safe.

  And he couldn’t do that when she let his aunts bundle her into steaming, scented baths that lulled her into such a relaxed state, she preferred sleeping away the evening to spending it with him at the high table.

  It especially annoyed him that she’d do so on a night when he’d swear odd shadows were creeping through the hall like a plague.

  Frowning, he turned and snatched his sword off the bench where he’d placed it earlier. Carefully, he buckled the blade’s belt around his hips, glad to have Vengeance’s familiar weight at his side.

  “You feel it, too?” Calum joined him, his face harsh in the firelight.

  Like Magnus, the older man had strapped on his sword.

  “Feel what?” Magnus cocked a brow, not ready to voice the prickles at his nape.

  He enjoyed a good day’s fighting as much as the next man, perhaps even more. But on such a cold, wet night, he was more of a mood to seek his bed—and Margo’s arms—than to swing Vengeance and spill Norse guts.

  The Northmen had heeded his warning at Redpoint.

  The coast had been quiet for weeks.

  And the break was more welcome than he would’ve believed possible.

  He glanced at Calum. “You’re in a strange mood.”

  “I’m feeling my battle wounds this night.” The older man rubbed an ancient scar on his neck. “But that’s no’ what I meant.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “There’s blood in the air.” Calum spoke what Magnus already knew.

  Magnus forced a smile and patted Vengeance’s hilt. “You smell the traces of my sword’s last meal.” Calum snorted. “I hear Vengeance stirring in your scabbard, screaming her hunger.”

  “She isn’t starving, as well you know.” Magnus kept his hand on the sword.

  Calum’s chin jutted. “You weren’t wearing her a moment ago.”

  Magnus flashed another glance at the torchlit stair tower, this time relieved not to see Margo coming down the steps, slipping into view.

  He wouldn’t want her to catch any war talk.

  She’d made clear what she thought of “brute force and violence,” as she called a good day’s bloodletting. Magnus shoved a hand through his hair, hoping he’d be able to persuade her to think differently.

  A man without a sword was like a tree without roots and branches.

  Totally useless.

  “For an old man, your eyes are sharp.” Magnus didn’t hide his annoyance.

  “Glower all you wish.” Calum wasn’t daunted. “I knew you when your shoulders were no wider than the span of my hand.” He stepped closer and poked a finger into Magnus’s plaid-slung chest. “I could stil fight off you and six o’ your best men if you pressed me.”

  “That I know.” Magnus allowed the older man his pride.

  Years ago, Magnus had watched him cut down six Viking warriors. Big, fierce men who’d fought like howling demons. They’d died grandly, their blood flowing like rivers in spate. Calum—Magnus’s father’s most trusted battle companion—had walked off the field with little more than scratches.

  He’d taught Magnus everything he knew about sword-craft.

  Calum had also shared his vast knowledge of women, divulging secrets that Magnus had put to good use in the years before he’d met Liana and vowed to keep her innocent until he could make her his bride.

  Now...

  For the first time, his heart accepted that he could no longer call Liana’s features to mind.

  Instead, Margo’s face flashed before his eyes.

  Beautiful, vibrant, and alive, she filled his soul and made his heart soar. As if they were still on the cliff, he could feel the cool silk of her hair beneath his fingers.

  How she’d thrown back her head as she rode him, her smooth, sleek thighs gripping his hips. His vitals stirred as he recalled the hot, tight glide of her womanhood, descending and lifting on him. The tempting views of her breasts, bouncing and flushed with desire. Then—his entire body tightened—he recalled letting his fingers delve through the bright golden curls topping her thighs. He knew exactly what waited for him beneath that gleaming triangle and he wanted her now, so fiercely he could hardly breathe.

  He did glare at Calum.

  His friend’s war-battered face could wipe the lust from any man’s mind.

  Calum was rubbing his neck scar again, worrying the long-healed wound.

  “Blood in the air, eh?” Respect made Magnus repeat the aging champion’s concern.

  Calum nodded. “The stench fills my lungs, aye.” Squaring his shoulders, the older man set a hand to his sword. “I could walk out into thon wee blow gusting past our walls and still smell the evil. It’s so strong even the wind can’t chase its taint.” Magnus agreed.

  Ill ease rolled through him, thick and da
rk.

  He glanced again at the stair tower, relieved to know that Dugan and Brodie stood guard outside Margo’s door as she bathed and rested.

  They’d stand there all night, even without supper, if Magnus didn’t relieve them, which he intended to do very soon.

  He was weary of waiting for her.

  But when Magnus followed Calum to a narrow slit window, he immediately wished he hadn’t. The moon had slid out from the clouds, and the sea gleamed like a sheet of beaten silver, made eerie by swirls of blowing mist. It was easy to imagine the high beast-headed prow of a Viking warship gliding out of such fog, one ship after another.

  “I could almost choke on bile.” Calum’s gaze went to the shifting mist. “Something vile is afoot. If I’m wrong, then I’m an archangel, glittery winged and haloed.”

  “You’re the devil and all his minions rolled in one.

  The closest you come to angels is having them for breakfast. And”—Magnus punched Calum’s arm, pleased by the spark his words put in the older man’s eye—“I dinnae mean holy angels.”

  “I do like the ladies.” Calum’s lips twitched. But then he peered again through the window, looking toward the horizon. “Still. . .”

  “There’s no threat from the sea this night.” Magnus knew that was true. “The danger lies elsewhere. I can feel it simmering and shaping, but I cannae say where—”

  A loud crack shattered the hall’s peace as the entry door flew open and slammed against the wall. “Holy heather, but it’s a foul night.” Orosius’s booming voice announced his unexpected arrival.

  “Magnus!” The seer stamped his feet and shook the water off his shoulders. “I’ve brought grim tidings.” He whipped off his dripping bearskin cloak and threw it on a bench. “Where are you hiding?”

  “I hide from no man.” Magnus strode up to him.

  “That may be.” Orosius stood with his hands on his hips. “But I’m here to tell you there’s a woman you should hide from.”

  Some of Magnus’s men sniggered.

  Others hooted, perhaps not seeing the earnestness in the seer’s eyes.

  “There’s ne’er been a MacBride born who feared a woman.” Scowling, Magnus stepped around his sooth-saying friend and shut the hall door against the wind. “I’ll no’ be the one to start such a fool tradition.” Orosius huffed. “Do you think I’d leave Windhill Cottage on such a night for foolery? I rarely leave my peat fire, as well you know.”

  Magnus did know.

  There were few men who savored solitude more than Orosius. He didn’t suffer others gladly. If he did seek company, he had good reason.

  Worse, Orosius looked genuinely alarmed. His shaggy black hair and his huge beard appeared more tangled than usual, whipped by wind and spattered with raindrops. And he kept darting glances behind him to the hall’s closed door.

  “What are your tidings?” Magnus gestured for someone to fetch the seer a cup of ale. “Were you peering into your kettle steam again?”

  “I wasn’t scrying o’er my cauldron, nae.” Orosius let his voice boom. “I cast my runesticks is what I did.

  They showed me the sorceress Donata Greer.” He shuddered visibly. “She’s escaped.”

  “That cannae be true.” Magnus stared at him. “How could she get away from St. Eithne’s? The nunnery sits on an island in Loch Maree and”—he glanced at Ewan and some of the other warriors gathered near—“I sent a score of my best fighters to guard the isle.

  They wouldn’t let her go.”

  “I saw her free.” Orosius’s jaw set stubbornly. “The runes dinnae lie. They fell clear and true, showing me all.”

  “What did you see?” Magnus felt a throbbing pain begin between his eyes. “Speak fast.”

  “Bjorn Bone-Grinder fetched her.” Orosius spoke the name with scorn.

  “Bone-Grinder?” Magnus’s anger surged.

  Bjorn Bone-Grinder was one of Sigurd Sword Breaker’s most formidable shipmasters. A huge man with flaxen hair down to his waist, he enjoyed a reputation as a ferocious fighter. But his byname didn’t come from the men he crushed in battle, though didn’t come from the men he crushed in battle, though the assumption was close to the truth, for he ground the bones of men he felled. He then mixed the dust into the sand he used to polish his weapons and mail.

  He boasted the bone added strength and magic to his ax swing.

  Magnus had been trying to kill him for years.

  But the bastard was slippery as an eel.

  “Even if Bone-Grinder managed to near the isle”—

  Magnus’s mind was whirring—“he couldn’t have made it away alive. The men I sent to the nunnery are expert bowmen. They could’ve picked off Bone-Grinder and his men before they’d had a chance to run a ship onto the isle. Or they could’ve filled her timbers with fire arrows when she tried to beat away.”

  “Aye, they could’ve done.” Orosius took a sip of ale.

  “But they didn’t, eh?”

  “What else did the runes show you?”

  Orosius tugged at his beard. “Bone-Grinder was cunning. He—”

  “That rat is e’er clever.” A sick feeling was beginning to spread through Magnus’s gut. The Viking shipmaster was more than crafty. He was twisted.

  “What did he do? I already know it was treachery.”

  “It was that.” Orosius spat onto the rushes. “He brought hill folk with him. A whole second ship filled with feeble old men, cowering young women, and bairns. Somewhere he’d also captured a few monks and a nun.”

  Magnus suddenly understood the tight knot in his belly.

  “The hill folk . . .” He didn’t want to voice his suspicion. That the hill folk were the vanished farmers Orla mentioned.

  “A monk was the first to die.” Orosius fisted his hands on the words. “Bone-Grinder slit the man’s belly in view of the nunnery walls. Then he demanded Donata’s release, saying he’d kill the poor folk in the other boat, one after the other, if your men didn’t row her out to him.”

  Magnus’s blood chilled. “Your runesticks showed you all that?”

  “They did, aye.”

  “I’m no’ surprised Sword Breaker wanted Donata.” Magnus ran a hand through his hair. “I should’ve realized he’d have seen her when he dealt with Godred. He’s known as a lusty bastard and—”

  “Bone-Grinder is the one who desires her.” Orosius’s shrewd gaze met Magnus’s. “When the runesticks showed me the scene, I saw him claiming her as his woman. He might’ve acted with Sword Breaker’s approval, but he went to St. Eithne’s to force the return of his bride.”

  “So ...” Magnus considered. “The unlamented Godred didn’t just advise Sword Breaker where he’d find rich and easy plundering. He was also willling to whore his sister as bride to one of Sigurd’s fiercest shipmasters. Some of the gold and silver we found in Godred’s hall must’ve been payment for Donata.”

  “Could be . . .” Orosius rubbed the back of his neck.

  “To be sure it was.” Magnus snatched an ale cup off a table and drained it. He needed to clean the taste from his mouth of a man who’d sell his sister so vilely.

  He couldn’t stomach the ill treatment of any woman.

  Even if she was a wicked, coldhearted sorceress who’d spew a curse if someone just looked at her wrongly.

  “If Godred yet lived”—Magnus slapped down the empty ale cup—“I’d kill the bastard again.”

  “You’d be wasting effort.” Orosius lifted his voice above the men’s angry murmurings. “Donata went to Bone-Grinder eagerly. My rune cast showed her as a bitch in heat, throwing herself into Bone-Grinder’s arms as soon as your men handed her onto his ship.

  “Like as not”—he sounded disgusted—“they were rutting in the ship’s bilgewater even before Bone-Grinder’s rowers took up their oars.” Magnus scowled, regretting his moment of sympathy for the sorceress.

  “Did the runes show where Bone-Grinder went?” Magnus could feel Vengeance humming in his scabbard, scent
ing Norse blood.

  “Aye.” Orosius strode to the hearth fire and stretched his hands to the flames. “But the waters where I saw his ships could’ve been anywhere. There was too much mist to tell rightly. With St. Eithne’s at Loch Maree, I’d wager I saw the coast along Torridon or Gairloch.

  “Either way, you’ll no’ need to go looking for him.” He turned to warm his backside. “The last thing I read in the runes was Bone-Grinder promising Donata he’d avenge her brother’s death.

  “The bastard will be coming after you.” Orosius’s voice was loud in the quiet hall. “He’ll bring shiploads of friends and they’ll want vengeance.”

  “And they’ll meet her.” Magnus patted his sword hilt.

  “She’ll look forward to the feast.”

  “The day will be soon.” Orosius sounded cheerful, as if he relished the fight. “It’ll be a great slaughter.

  And I dinnae need my runesticks to know.” He grinned. “I feel it in my bones.”

  “So do I.” And Magnus really did.

  But before he could press his fingers to his throbbing temples, the hall door burst open again. The door crashed against the wall as six men from Magnus’s night patrol burst in from the rain, one of them carrying a limp and drunk-looking Dugan, while two others lurched under Brodie’s weight. The two guardsmen were hardly able to support the big man.

  Brodie appeared as befuddled as Dugan.

  “Found ’em up on the cliff, we did.” One of the patrol guards threw a glance at Magnus. “Out cold, they were, flat on the ground.”

  Both men’s heads lolled on their necks, their limbs hung loosely, and they babbled like witless fools.

  Magnus stared at the spectacle, fury scalding him.

  Fear lamed him.

  He was aware of his jaw slipping and his eyes flying wide, but no words left his mouth. His throat had snapped tight, dread stealing his ability to speak, making it impossible to even breathe.

  Dugan and Brodie weren’t abovestairs, standing guard at Margo’s door, after all.

  They weren’t watching her.

  They were ale-taken and he was going to kill them.

  Seeing red, he started to reach for his dirk—a quick neck slice was what the bastards needed—when his aunts appeared out of nowhere. The two women were making a fast line for the men. Portia had her healing basket clutched in one hand, and Magnus grabbed the basket now, slamming it down on a table.