However, he wasn’t that man anymore. Would Ivar be the victor?
“You cannot command me, Scot. I shall take her soon enough. Why not now? Surely you would not begrudge a man the spoils of war?”Ivar pressed away from the wall.
Logan raised his fists and widened his stance. “She isnae a spoil of war. And I willnae let ye harm her.”
“She is your prisoner, why should you care what becomes of her?”
“Prisoner, aye, and under my care.”
Lorna flattened a hand to her thundering heart and eased back against the wall as the men eyed one another. Her mind raced. What could she do to help? If she flung herself between them she’d probably end up in the way and injured. She could think of nothing she could use as a weapon. The torch flickered on the wall, not far from her head. Her gaze latched onto it but she dismissed that idea. It had not worked for her before and no matter what had occurred between her and Logan, she did not wish him burned or worse...
If they would just move away from her chamber, mayhap she could dash in and snatch something. A poker mayhap, if one had been left behind, or even a chair.
“I’ll have her eventually.”
His words rang in her ears. If she stayed, he would. She would be taken far from here and would never see her son again. Mayhap he would keep her as his slave, or tire of her and pass her around to the other Norsemen.
Logan lunged at this, his jaw tight and his eyes full of fire. Ivar blocked his punch easily enough and returned with one of his own. She winced when it caught Logan’s jaw, but he appeared not to notice and came back at him. Several swings and grunted curses later, they had their hands wrapped around each other’s necks. Lorna swung her gaze between them, unable to see who might be the winner. Who would win? They were so evenly matched, what if it ended with one of their deaths?
Without thinking, she leaped forward and latched onto Ivar’s back. She added the weight of her fingers to his neck. She had little intention of killing him—she had never killed a man in spite of her reputation for being a bold leader, and she had no taste for it—but Logan must not die. If he died, her hope died with him. Lorna prayed the added pressure of her small hands would force the Norseman into releasing Logan.
Ivar reared against the extra weight on his back and stumbled, slamming her into the wall. Her head struck stone and it sounded like the crack might crumble the walls and send the keep tumbling down around them, but in her ringing head she suspected the sound only echoed through her mind. He could crush her if he tried yet she hung on, unwilling to relinquish the fight to the men.
Logan released Ivar’s neck and set to work prying the Viking’s thick finger from his own neck. He uttered strangled curses while Lorna squeezed. She felt the heavy thump of his pulse against her fingers and the rush of blood as it tried to push past the pressure. His fingers fell away from Logan abruptly.
Logan took the opportunity to slam his fist into Ivar’s face. Bone crunched and the lightest splatter of blood touched Lorna’s hands. She released her hold, but Ivar collapsed with the punch and took her to the ground with him. He shoved her roughly aside, clutching his nose. Slowly, he came to his feet. From her position on the floor, she saw him glare at Logan.
“You will regret this, Scot.”
“We shall see,” Logan replied nonchalantly.
However, his words made Lorna’s chest drum with dread. Gillean would not forgive Logan turning against his guest, surely? She had never wanted to put Logan in danger, not really, even if she had begged for his aid over and over.
She took the time to gather in several breaths as Ivar skulked down the stairs. He’d be back. She wasn’t safe yet. The only way she would be safe from that man would be to be gone. And she had already had one failed escape attempt. She did not much fancy another.
Looming over her, Logan offered a hand and she took it. The coarse warmth of his palm eased away a fraction of her fear. She eyed him for a moment before standing. With his dark hair in disarray, that strong jaw covered in a thick dusting of hair and a wild look in his eye, she wondered how it could be he offered comfort, but then Logan’s presence had always done that. For years, he had been the one man she relied on, the one man she trusted. So why had she refused to trust him with her heart? It was a question that had plagued her ever since she had left him that fateful day.
He helped her to her feet and ran his gaze from her head to her toes. “Are ye hurt?”
Nay, she wanted to say, but no words came. If she thought about it, her head ached and her back must be bruised from connecting with the wall, but the only ache she was aware of was the one his intense gaze created. An ache deep in the bottom of her stomach that blossomed out into heated tendrils that pervaded every part of her. It left her breathless, wanting.
She gaped like a fish gasping in the air, fought for the words and gave up.
“Damnation, ye are hurt.” He drew her into him and wrapped an arm around her waist to lead her into her chamber.
With all the tenderness of a mother with her newborn, he led her over to the bed. The tiny hairs on her arms sprung to life under the long sleeves of her gown, making her skin tickle—a response to his strong chest pressed to her side, no doubt. To think she had once had that body pressed to hers, between her thighs. She released a sigh of regret.
Logan eased her down and set about lighting the candles from the fire. He came to stand in front of her, arms folded, gaze boring into her. “Where are ye hurt?”
“Nay, I am well.” Her voice came out a mere croak and she coughed to try again. Curse her weakness around him. “Truly. I ache a little, but I am well.”
Against the sounds of the fire crackling, she heard his teeth grind as he considered her. Mayhap trying to decide if she spoke the truth. It should not have surprised her he did not take her for her word. After all, he thought her an accomplished liar.
When the silence stretched on and she found herself unable to meet his gaze, she dropped it and fingered her skirts. “I thank ye for helping me.”
“Did ye think I wouldnae?”
She lifted her gaze to his. “I... I dinnae know.” The truth was, she no longer knew what this man was capable of. At times, he seemed an entirely different man, and then he did something that reminded her of the old Logan and she felt she saw him in his entirety again. That determination and loyalty was nothing new, but his aggressiveness was and that deep well of anger that seemed to linger inside him had never been present before. Mayhap much of it could be attributed to his memory loss. It had to be a most frustrating thing to know nothing of yourself, but would he ever let go of his anger and open himself up to the truth? With such little time left before he went to war, she doubted it would happen.
“I am no’ schooled in honour, I’ll give ye that much, but I wouldnae stand and let a woman be ravished.”
Hands twined in her skirts, she nodded slowly. “I know.”
“Do ye?”
“Aye.”
His lips twisted. “And here I thought ye considered me no more than a boorish beast.”
“Logan—” She released a lengthy sigh.
Exhausted from the constant fear and turmoil inside her, she felt her strength wither away. If Logan had not stood in front of her, she might have curled up and sobbed. Confusion muddied her thoughts and stole her determination. Was she speaking with the Logan of old or the new one—the callous, angry man who Gillean had attempted to mould into his likeness? Lorna knew nothing anymore. Even the idea she might escape and return to Ewan seemed a distant one.
Logan flexed a hand and her thoughts stalled. “Yer finger!”
He shrugged and lifted his hand to inspect the odd angle at which it sat. “Must have done that when I punched him.”
Lorna did not know whether to laugh or cry, so instead she stood and tugged his arms free of their folded position so she could inspect his hand.
“’Tis out of place. We must push it back in.” He tried to pull away from her but she kept
her hold firm on his shirt. “Yer no’ afeared, are ye?”
“Nay,” he blustered. “I’ll have one of the men do it.”
“Ye should put it back in now.” She took his hand and cradled the large width gently. Masking a wince at the uncomfortable sight, she took the finger and heard his barely veiled hiss of pain.
“Leave it,” he said hoarsely but made no attempt to pull away.
Lorna debated having him sit and coddling him like a child, but doubted it would work to distract him. “Be still,” she ordered quietly and in one swift movement, pressed the finger into place. Her stomach rolled at the audible click of bone and his groan.
“Damnation. Hell fire. God’s blood,” he spat in rapid succession.
She clasped his hand between both of hers, hoping the warmth of her touch might ease the pain. “Forgive me. The pain will be gone soon enough.”
His gaze met hers, an odd warmth simmering behind those dark pools. “It has already,” he said begrudgingly, as if unwilling to admit her touch comforted.
Several moments passed, and Lorna found herself unable—and loath—to look away. If she let herself, she could believe that the battle never happened, that Logan had never been injured and lost his memory. This was still her castle and he was still her chieftain. Her son was sleeping soundly and she had accepted Logan into her heart.
But none of it was true. A gaping chasm of misunderstanding still sat between them.
“Are ye sure yer no’ hurt?” he asked roughly. A hesitant hand rose to her hair and pressed to the back of her head. “Ye could have been killed, ye foolish lass.”
His words held little censure, as if he was resigned to her always behaving rashly. Lorna’s lids almost fluttered closed at the way this small action enclosed her in his arm. All he had to do was tug the other one from her hand and wrap it around her waist and she would be his.
Would she?
Aye. Whatever doubts she had about him, her body knew who he was, and would not allow her to deny him. She eased closer and raised his hand to her mouth. Would his body remember her? Was there any chance she could make him remember? She had tried this once before and failed, but she was not the sort to surrender. If she was, she’d have curled up and withered the first time her husband took a whip to her back.
She let her lips tickle across the rough skin of his battered finger. Hard work left its mark on his hands. Scratches and calluses were like sand against her mouth but they sent a thread of desire through her. What she would not give to feel those calluses against her bare skin.
Not her back though. Never on her scarred skin.
He stared at the top of her head and his fingers came down to toy with a loose strand of hair by her ear. She kissed the tip of his finger.
“I told ye, it doesnae hurt.” The grating texture of his voice seemed stronger, as if he struggled to push the words past the scarring of his throat.
“Mayhap it doesnae, but nor does a kiss.”
“A kiss from ye, my lady, I fear could do more than hurt. Ye are a dangerous woman. All the men in the keep have fallen for ye.”
She would have laughed had it not been for the way his proximity stole her breath. She had drawn some attention from men in the past, but never like this. There were far greater beauties around than her, so she could not fathom why she was garnering such attention.
“Ye have bewitched them,” he continued quietly.
“And ye? Have I bewitched ye?” she asked hopefully. Aye, say aye, she begged inside. Let him tell her he still loved her, or that he had fallen for her all over again. Let them leave this place and return to her son.
He stiffened and dropped the strand of hair he had been studying so intently. Withdrawing his hand carefully, he stepped back. The gap between them made her cold and she had to wrap her arms about herself to keep from shivering. Curse her foolish words. Could she do nothing right?
“I am sure ye would like that.”
His bitter tone made her wince. “All I would like is for ye to give me a chance. For ye to take a moment and think about what I tell ye. Ye have been lied to, Logan, and ye are too pigheaded to see it.” Heat rose in her face, fuelled by frustration.
“I see that ye are a determined lass, keen to escape, and willing to do whatever she can to make that so.”
“Is that all ye see?” She propped her hands on her hips and stared him down. “All ye truly see?”
The muscle in his jaw twitched—she saw the motion under the thick dark hair. He glared back, his gaze never leaving hers. The throb of her pulse in her ears grew deafening and she held her breath.
“Aye,” he finally said coldly. “Aye, ‘tis all I see.”
The air left her body in a rush, all hope dashed. She rubbed a hand over her face and willed the tears of defeat to stay at bay. “Why will ye no believe me?” Lorna stepped forward and closed the gap once more. She jabbed a finger into his chest. “Ye loved me, Logan. Ye said ye would fight to win my love. Ye were my closest friend. One night, I gave in and we made love. I didnae want to but I couldnae fight it any longer. That desire is still there, I know ye feel it.” She prodded his chest again, just by his heart. He shook his head and his expression remained stoic. Did her words mean nothing?
“The day I thought ye were killed was the worst of my life. I realised much—how much time I had wasted, how I lo—” Her voice split on a sob and she drew in a breath through her nostrils. “That one night together, we... we conceived a child.”
She stared hard, willed him to believe. A flicker of shock skittered across his expression before he schooled it back into one of impassive disinterest. She gripped his shirt and her voice rose with desperation. “He has dark hair like ye. I must return to him. Ye must return to him.”
Logan tore away from her grip and scrubbed a hand over his beard. He refused to look at her. Dare she hope her words had seeped in? Even sparked a memory?
After eons of silence with only her throbbing heart for company, he dragged his hand away from his face and shook his head. “Ye know, my lady, I much admired yer courage, but to see ye sink so low...” He smirked. “I can have little respect for a woman who would tell such falsehoods.”
“Ye must believe me. We have a son. I must go back to him!” She tried to grasp his arm, but he shook her off as if she were no more than an annoying fly.
“Ye tell so many appealing tales, ‘tis hard to know which to believe, Lorna.” He swivelled on his heel and stepped over the threshold. He eyed her with distaste. “I bid ye good night, my lady. Dinnae fear the Viking. I’ll keep watch over yer chambers this night.”
“Logan—”
Her cry was drowned out by the slam of the door. She jolted as the sound vibrated the floor, and her knees buckled. It had been her last hope, telling him. And if he told Gillean, would the laird hunt for her son, the heir to the dowry Gillean now held? She slapped a palm to the wooden floor and an agonising sob rose up from deep within. This time, she held nothing back. Her grief poured out until her eyes were red and itchy, and her chest ached. With no energy to climb into bed, she curled up on the floor and closed her eyes.
Chapter Fourteen
Dragging her spindly fingers through her hair, Tèile followed Logan as he paced up and down, down and up the gallery, agitation making his moves jerky. She was out of time. War would be upon them in a few short days and the Viking would take Lorna far from here... and far from Logan. She curled a fist and fought the rising tingling in her hand. It would be so easy to jog his memory. Just a little sprinkle...
She shook her head, settled on the wooden rafter high above the hall, propped her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her hands. Below, servants slept on and the howl of a wolf far off breached the sounds of light snoring and shuffling feet outside. Logan’s restless footsteps created the greatest noise, the thud of his boots rhythmic yet antagonising, as if reminding her of the passing of time.
Magic was not an option. Had she not learned her lesson alread
y? A light touch here and there would have no effect, but something as great as returning someone’s memory? That would surely mess with fate and she would be forever trying to fix her mistakes.
Her only option was to help Lorna escape. All her attempts to force them together had been met with failure and ensuring he heard the men’s laughter to alert him of Lorna’s getaway had been a mistake. She should have let the woman go and thought of some other way of bringing them together. The problem was, once war was upon them, she’d have little control. By the stars, Logan might even die in battle, and where would that leave them? Either way, fate was way off course, and the fae council would scold her heartily. Any freedoms she’d enjoyed from being known as a master matchmaker would vanish in a puff of faery dust.
Tèile drew in a long breath and stretched out her wings. On the morrow, she concluded. On the morrow Lorna must be assisted in her escape. She only hoped there was some way of persuading Logan to join her before the eve of battle. Even a faery had little power against the bloodshed humans wrought.
A tingle ran through her wings and she smiled to herself. At least she could have a little fun with that bad Viking in the meantime. Logan’s actions had placed him in danger and regardless of what she thought of the man’s foolish behaviour toward Lorna, she could not allow him to be harmed in any way.
Rising up, she studied the pacing man for a moment and gave a roll of her eyes. Willing to face punishment for her, yet unable to see the truth behind Lorna’s words. Men were indeed fools. Giving a dismissive sniff, she went in search of the Viking.
Tèile found him in the armoury, passed out with his head on the small table at the centre of the room. By the looks of it he had decided to cure the pain from his likely broken nose with a vast quantity of wine. She dabbed a finger in the goblet of red liquid and licked it.
She grimaced. Not even good wine. The man might have knocked himself senseless for the moment but he’d awaken with a mighty fine headache to match his throbbing nose. Not that he deserved anything less.
To Avenge Her Highland Warrior Page 11
