Perching by his shoulder, she flicked a finger his way. A few dreams and some whispered words, and mayhap he’d believe it was all a dream. A grin flew across her face. Oh! She could even have some words with his companions. By morning, the tales of his drunken state and the way he’d stumbled and broken his nose would be all about the keep and Ivar would think he’d simply been a great big fool.
Tèile chuckled silently to herself. This was what she enjoyed the most. Meddling with silly human men. If only Logan was as easily dealt with. So twisted and confused was he, she feared even a bucketful of faery magic would have no effect.
Nay, only Lorna’s love could fix him, she suspected. And Tèile had no power over human emotions. Which was a mighty shame. What fun it would be if she did.
***
Logan paced until sunrise. His body ached and his finger throbbed in silent agony, but he barely heeded it. His neck often twinged and he was sure his body remembered everything it had suffered at times. Pain had become commonplace.
As had confusion and conflict.
How could a man with no memory be any other way? Yet he had never been this conflicted. He used his fingers to run furrows through his hair and gripped the back of his neck with one hand as he paused to watch the orange sunrise drip through the rear windows of the hall. It spilled onto main table and dappled across the bottom of the wooden stairs. It even trickled into the shadowy arches surrounding doorways, erasing the lingering gloom from the hall like liquid gold. For many, a day like today would bring promise. For him, it only brought dread—a deep heavy weight drawing his heart down into his gut.
Another day spent watching Lorna suffer the attentions of Ivar, of every man in the keep eyeing her as if they hoped she would deign to send even just a smile their way. Endless hours of preparations for a war he no longer knew if he even wanted a part of. If the Norsemen thought so little of Scotswomen as to force themselves upon one, did he want a part in that? Would he witness further savagery in the midst of battle as he fought his own people? Men waged war, that was their nature and as such, bloodshed did not send a whirl of tightness into his muscles, but the innocent lasses and children... He hardly thought Gillean would care for their fate at the hands of the Norse.
He scuffed his hands across his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to erase the gritty, itching sensation brought on from exhaustion. He often functioned off little sleep but since taking Lorna captive, he didn’t think he’d had more than a few hours a night. Of course, he hadn’t wanted to leave his post outside her door in case Ivar returned, but the Norseman had slunk off and was likely nursing his wounds. Who knew what wrath he might have to face this day, but he cared little what revenge the man had in mind.
Nay, a certain golden-haired, fiery lass plagued his thoughts. Did she really think he would believe such tales? A son? He snorted to himself. As if a lass so fine would ever lie with a man like himself. But the distressed noises he’d heard coming from her chamber echoed through his mind. Small sobs, great gasping sounds of pain. Even now, they made his heart pull. The lass had a son, that much had been true, or else she was even more accomplished at lying than he had realised. He supposed desperation drove a person to do many things—even make up ludicrous tales. A mother would likely do anything for a child.
Envy struck sharp and deep. Did he even have a mother? Or had she abandoned him to the world long ago? Shaking away such thoughts, he made his way down the stairs and past the rousing members of the household. Ivar would not dare to do anything in the light of day, but what of the next night? Logan could not stand guard forever. Fatigue ate into every inch of him. Lorna’s lies ate into him. She muddled his thoughts and confused his body. Even the few days left with her before they went to war seemed too long. The conflict raging inside had brought him to the edge and he feared if he stayed around her any longer, she might draw him over that edge like a siren, beckoning him to dash his body upon the rocks. After all, had he not defied his laird by fighting with his guests? Already, she had broken through his vow to serve his laird. What other damage could she wreak?
Logan strode out of the hall and across the courtyard. With the dry weather, the mud had become brittle and puffs of it swirled into the air as a fresh wind blew over the stone walls and surrounded the castle. He inhaled that air and felt nothing but trepidation. No thrill of impending battle surged through his muscles, no anticipation of all the glory to come made a tiny smile crease his face. His taste for it, it seemed, had vanished.
His first stop was to check on the men on the walls. He paused to speak with the guards and they confirmed all had been quiet. Then he stopped beside the gatehouse and checked the barrels of pitch. Should the MacRaes have discovered they had taken Lorna, they could expect the clan at their gate before they had a chance to ride out and meet them. As it was, he thought it strange not even a messenger had arrived yet to negotiate.
Satisfied they could withstand an attack, he took the steps down to the bailey and visited the blacksmith. The man had been working tirelessly to ensure they had sufficient arrows for the impending battle. Remorse yanked at his gut once more. No one knew of Gillean’s plans. They would come upon undefended, unprepared enemy, and Gillean would cut a swathe of blood across the country until the Western Isles and the coastline belonged to him. With the support of the Norse king, the King of Scots would be forced to surrender the land for good.
The bitter tang of the smoky air clogged his throat when he stepped into the outer building. Though the Blackie wasn’t there, Logan saw the evidence of a late night, with many arrowheads piled to one side. He released a sigh and knew he’d have to do what he didn’t want to do—return to the keep and risk meeting Lorna.
Ach, that woman dug under his skin and made him itch. Did she cry still or had she drawn herself up into that noble posture, with her pointed chin lifted, her pert nose in the air? He recalled staring down at her nose and counting the freckles as she kissed his injured hand. In his short memory no one had cared for his injuries. How different would his recovery have been with her at his side?
He stopped at the well to bathe briefly, stripping down to the waist and dashing icy water over his face and chest. His skin prickled and he shuddered, but he welcomed the bite of cold drops on his skin. It eased away any heated thoughts or wishes. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall too easily for that lass’s lies. To believe he had lain between those creamy thighs and heard her sighs or his name on her lips, was too enticing indeed.
As he dressed, his traitorous gaze drifted to the window of her chamber. The shutters were thrown open and he could have sworn he caught sight of the swish of a chemise. He clutched his fists at his side. How easy would it be to stride up there, pretend he believed her and take her against the wall, hard and fast, like the savage peasant he was. Would she deny him? Attraction might swirl between them but there was no changing what he was—a battered, scarred nobody. Mayhap he would call her bluff and when she denied him, he would know for certain she had lied.
But he knew that already, did he not?
And, of course, the risk was she’d say aye and then he’d be lost to her. He suspected a moment of freely touching that soft skin and kissing her with abandon would be the end for him. Everything he’d worked for would be dashed by that vixen.
Logan rubbed his temples and strode to the kitchen steps. He needed to be concentrating on proving his worth to Laird Gillean, not agonising over that woman. He took the steps quickly and paused outside the door. It was ajar and the voices of several men drifted up.
Norsemen. Was Ivar amongst them? He listened hard but could not make out the sound of his voice. He had to face the Viking at some point but he’d rather not do it in the company of his companions.
Crooking his neck, he pushed through the door and took the few wooden steps down to the dark kitchen. A handful of servants and the cook scurried around the men who were clearly in the way of the morning preparations. With their boots propped on the table, t
hey looked to be deep in their cups already. Scattered beakers and several jugs sat next to the dusty soles of their leather shoes. One—Olvir—dropped his feet from the table and lifted his beaker in greeting. It seemed none knew of his altercation with Ivar yet then.
“Good morrow, Logan, have you come in search of drink? I fear we may have emptied the stores of it already.”
The men around the table laughed and Logan kept his expression impassive. He could ill afford to anger them, but he did not see how drinking at such an early hour was a wise choice when they should be readying themselves for battle.
“Have you been to visit the lady this morn?” Olvir asked.
“Nay, why.”
“Well you spend a lot of time with her. We were just saying she seems to favour you. Perhaps Ivar should heed some of your advice on how to charm her.”
Logan pressed past the cook, who grumbled something about ‘damned Vikings,’ and snatched a chunk of bread from the side table. He tore off a bite with his teeth and spoke through the mouthful, “I know little about charm, and I didnae think ye Norsemen relied on it either.”
Olvir laughed and another man, Gunnar, lounged against his chair, his grin expanding. Logan only remembered his name because the man was more scarred and grizzled than himself. An ugly slash marred one side of his face and his closely shorn hair revealed an angry welt across the top of his scalp.
“Aye, it is true. Why charm when you can take. No doubt Ivar will make good use of the lady soon enough. And if he does not, I will be sure to do his duty for him.”
The remains of the bread in his mouth grew tasteless and dust like. He swallowed the remnants with difficulty.
“Gillean will have yer head,” he warned.
And if Gillean didn’t, he would. Regardless of how he felt about the lass, the thought of these filthy Vikings pawing over her, ravishing her, tore at every fibre of his being.
Olvir shook his head and laughter rippled through the men. “Gillean cares little for the woman. If it were not for Ivar’s interest he might have killed her long ago.”
Logan shook his head. “Nay, he talked of ransom.”
“Why ransom when he is to kill her family and take their riches anyway?”
He dropped the remaining bread on the table and pushed away. Gillean was ruthless, aye, and heartless for the most part, but would he have killed Lorna for no other reason than he had no use for her? Unease made his neck twinge, and he rubbed the scar.
He studied the group of men, sickness churning in his stomach, and without bidding them farewell, he took the steps two at a time until he reached fresh air. He paused and bent double to draw in air through his tight throat.
The Norsemen had made it clear. Lorna would be raped or killed. He might be without honour in her eyes and he had behaved little better than a savage these past seasons, but could he really stand by and let that happen?
Chapter Fifteen
Lorna avoided everyone for much of the day. Ivar appeared not to remember his attempt on her—mayhap he had been too deep in his cups—but he had taken a moment, late that evening, to brush past her and grab her rear. It left her in no doubt that if he did not try to force himself on her again this night, he would soon enough. Mayhap he would wait until she was his, and mayhap he would not.
At present, thoughts of her own welfare were far from her mind. Her heart ached for her son. She strode out onto the walls. No one stopped her. The gates were heavily guarded and in spite of the strange admiration she garnered, none of the men seemed inclined to help her. She peered down the length of the wall and then lifted her gaze to stare out into the night. Torches flickered on either side of her, casting wild shadows onto the stone, but they did not light much of the darkness. The horizon was an endless black and the cloudy sky did not allow the stars to break through, nor the moon to reveal herself.
Lorna smiled grimly. How appropriate the night echoed her thoughts. So grim and dark were they, she feared she might never find the light again. Only her son could do that. She tried to remember the scent of him or the soft touch of his skin against hers, but the memories were hazy. How must it be to have nothing though? To think back and have nothing? In spite of it all, she understood Logan’s distrust and anger.
She leaned over and eyed the length of the wall again. She’d break a leg probably. Or even die. She’d be confined to an eternity in hell for such an act but a life away from her son would be no better. Oh where was her strength when she needed it? Even after her back had been torn to shreds by her angry husband, her thoughts had never been so grim.
Shaking her head at herself, she went to turn away but a hand clamped around her mouth. She screamed against it. Her heart beat fiercely in her chest as she kicked back but her foot met only air.
“Hush.”
She relaxed marginally at the sound of Logan’s harsh voice. His chest pressed into her back, hard and unyielding. He eased his fingers away and she drew in a deep breath.
“What are ye doing?” she demanded.
The hand covered her mouth once more, and she squealed against it. She flailed her arm around to grip onto something to force him away, but she only succeeded in weakening her position. He grabbed her arm and drew it up behind her back. The grip did not hurt but it was enough to let her know she was at his mercy. One wrong move and her arm would snap. She stiffened. Ivar had done the same.
“For once in yer life, dinnae fight me, Lorna.”
Her mind reeled. Clouds of fear and confusion muddled her thoughts. The soapy scent of him washed over her, hard muscles warmed her body. Yet she did not know what he intended for her. Friend or foe? Once she had known exactly what Logan was thinking, but now she was lost. She wriggled in vain, succeeding in wrenching her arm.
“I dinnae wish to harm ye, Lorna.”
Why then was he holding her captive? She stilled and allowed herself to be dragged along the wall and down the inner steps. Logan paused in the shadows of the wall. Unable to see what he was doing, she took the time to concentrate on drawing breaths past the barrier of his hand. His own breaths whispered harshly across her hair. Heat rolled through her, as harsh and as unexpected as a sudden gale out at sea.
There had been a time when she’d relished that sound, when those rasping breaths had been from pleasure, not from injury. The moment she had given into her need for him had been the best night of her life. But she could never give herself fully to a man. Not then… and mayhap not even now. Had Logan not proved even the best of men could not be trusted? Logan had once deserved so much more than her. Now, she was not so sure. The hatred in him seemed too deep and raw. A woman like her had little power against such emotions.
They were moving again, her feet slipping on the mud. Her skirts tangled around her ankles and she nearly tumbled several times, but the painful hold on her arm kept her upright. Logan led her past the stables and to the rear door out of the keep. There, in the shadows, he released her arm and pushed her away.
She blinked at him, flexing her arm to relieve the ache.
“Go,” he hissed.
“What?” She scanned their surroundings and saw no guards, no one ready to grab her and take her back to her chambers or lock her in the donjon again.
“Go.”
She eyed the door and then the man in front of her. In the dark shadows and faint torchlight, his gaze glittered and the furrows on his brow increased. She stepped forward and paused. “Logan—”
“Leave, Lorna, before the men return.”
Emotion threatened to drown her. She’d said farewell to Logan once before, in this same spot. And he’d nearly been killed. Her throat throbbed painfully. “Logan, pray—”
“Go,” he barked.
Her eyes grew hot. Her heart reached out to her child. Being apart from him tore her in two, the notion of being forever separated from him ate into her soul, yet if she left, would she be condemning his father to death?
“Come with me, Logan,” she begged. “Leave th
is place, forget all that has happened.”
He shook his head. “I cannae. I dinnae belong with ye and ye know that as well as I do. This is where I belong.”
“But what will ye do?” Lorna closed the gap and gripped his arm. “Will Gillean no’ harm ye for releasing me?”
His lips quirked. “Ye are a canny lass. He knows that much. ‘Twill be no stretch of the imagination to believe ye escaped on yer own. Now, leave.” He drew away her hand and turned.
“And then what?”
Logan smirked. “Do what ye do best, Lorna. Yer a leader. Raise an army. Dinnae let Gillean break through the walls at Glencolum. Protect yer son.”
“And what shall ye do?”
“What I have always done.” He offered her a tilted smile. “Survive.”
Lorna stared at his back as he disappeared into the shadows. Her feet twitched with the need to run after him. What did he intend to do? Whose side was he on? He planned to stay on this side of the war. And from what she had heard, it left her in no doubt war would be upon them soon and few Scots would be left untouched by it.
Footsteps on the wall above made her heart bound. She turned and raced to the door. The heavy joist that stretched across it creaked as she lifted it from its iron mounts but determination gave her more strength than she knew she had. Lorna dropped it to the ground, pulled open the door and stepped out.
She was free.
***
The next morning, Logan found the castle in an uproar. Servants hurried about, avoiding the laird at all costs and the men-at-arms made a fine attempt at appearing as busy as possible. When Logan came down for the morning meal, he found the laird indulging heavily in wine.
“Where is she?” he asked through gritted teeth as Logan approached.
Nonchalantly, Logan plucked a chunk of bread from the table and chewed on it. “Who?”
“Ye know very well who. Lorna.”
Logan straightened. “She is gone?”
To Avenge Her Highland Warrior Page 12
