Once again she saw the flaming golden heart.
She drew a deep breath, encouraged.
It was now or never.
Duncan had stepped back and was glaring at her, a muscle twitching beneath his left eye.
The MacKenzie eye tic.
A terrible sign if ever there was one.
Linnet smoothed a hand down the front of her gown, seeking calm.
Then she lifted her chin.
“Our daughter has been injured.” She spoke quickly, needing to finish before Duncan started yelling too loud to hear. “I do not know how or what happened, but I did see that she’s well tended. There’s an old woman with her. And a man—”
“A man?” Duncan’s bellow shook the herb bundles hanging from the rafters.
“A man!” He roared again, his face turning scarlet.
The tic beneath his eye went wild.
Linnet stepped toward him, one hand extended. But he leapt backward, waving his arms. Doing her best not to frown, Linnet kept on, wanting to soothe him.
“He’s a good man.” The surety of it filled her, giving her confidence. “He is—”
“He’s a dead man if he touches her!” Duncan grabbed his sword hilt, whipping out the blade with an earsplitting screech. “As for Captain Arneborg and the fools I sent along to protect her”—he waved his sword in the air, cutting down three bunches of dried mint—“I’ll have their heads on spits!”
“My love.” Linnet started forward again, heedless of his weaving steel. “It isn’t as you think. Let me think on what I saw before you rile yourself.”
“Rile myself ?” His eyes rounded. “I will do more than that! Wait until I rally my men. We’ll sail on the morrow, at first light!”
He jammed his sword back in its sheath, his face livid. “I’ll find our girl if I must scour every living rock in the Hebrides!”
“Duncan, please.” Linnet pleaded. “I’m sure she is well. If her injury—”
“I’ll kill the bastard who hurt her!” He grabbed his sword hilt again. “Did you see his face? His name?”
“Nae.” Linnet shook her head, wishing she had.
But not for Duncan’s reasons.
She twisted her hands in her skirts, his terror breaking her heart. “My dearest….” She tried so hard to reach him. “The man I saw had nothing to do with Arabella’s injury. I’d know if that were so. But I do think he—”
She broke off when he spun around and shot through the door, leaving her to stare after him as he tore through her garden and then pounded across the bailey. Not looking back, he ran for the keep and, she knew, the unsuspecting men who’d be gathering in the great hall for the evening meal.
It would be a night like no other.
Linnet sighed.
Determined to do what she could, she hitched up her skirts and hastened after her husband. Already, she could hear his shouts and rants echoing from the keep.
He was in a dreadful state.
So she quickened her pace, her feet flying across the cobbles. If the gods were kind, she’d reach him before he made a fool of himself.
And—she hoped—before he cost Arabella the love of a lifetime.
“Father’s gone mad!”
Lady Gelis, Linnet’s youngest daughter, burst from the shadows of the hall’s entry arch just as Linnet reached for the door’s heavy iron latch. Home to celebrate her pregnancy before travel became too difficult, her cheeks were flushed and her bright red-gold braids askew. In truth, she was radiant, more beautiful than ever before. But she also looked agitated, rushing forward to grab Linnet’s arm, preventing her from opening the door.
She tightened her grip on Linnet, panting. “If I didn’t know him, I’d be trembling in fear. I swear he has fire coming out his eyes. He’s raving about Arabella and some man—”
“I know he is, dear.” Linnet softened her voice. Gelis shouldn’t be distressing herself. “I was visited by a taibh a short while ago. Arabella has been injured, yes. I believe something happened on the merchant cog. But she’s in caring hands. I am sure of it and I told your father as much. Sadly, he only heard—”
“Nae.” Gelis flicked at her skirts. “It’s more. Much more! He says Arabella is being held by a band of scale-backed hell-fiends. He means to catch the man responsible and”—she pressed a hand to her middle, already thickening with child—“have him… err, ah… unmanned.”
“Scale-backed hell-fiends?” Linnet’s eyes rounded. “Unmanned?”
Gelis’s head bobbed. “That was just the beginning of his rant.”
Linnet frowned.
Duncan had taken it worse than she’d thought.
“We must calm him. I told him nothing that should have upset him so.”
“It wasn’t what you told him.”
“Then what was it?”
“A courier rode in while you were in the herbarium.” Gelis glanced over her shoulder as if she expected to see the man there, mud-splattered and tense. “He came from Doon, not stopping until he reached us. The MacLeans sent him. Arabella’s ship went down at sea. Word is she’s safe, as you saw, but”—she spoke fast in her agitation—“everyone else was lost.”
“Dear saints…” Linnet closed her eyes. The steps seemed to dip beneath her feet. She’d hoped it hadn’t been so bad.
“Father is vowing vengeance.” Gelis rushed on, her voice blending with the angry cries from within the hall. Grumbles and shouting filled the stone archway and echoed across the bailey. “He’s leapt up on one of the trestle tables and is waving his sword over his head, yelling for blood. I’ve never seen him so—”
“Ah, but I have, my dear.” Linnet sighed, remembering the time. It was many years ago, when she was still a young bride. Kinsmen who worked outlying MacKenzie lands had been attacked and slaughtered. Innocent farmers who’d had only scythes, rakes, and shovels to wield in their defense. Duncan’s wrath had been terrible. His retribution was worse, swift and merciless.
Now it wasn’t cottars he meant to avenge.
It was his daughter.
This time his fury would sear the heavens.
And—Linnet was certain—it would scald a man undeserving. Perhaps even an entire clan if the roars from the hall were any indication.
Feeling ill, she pulled free of Gelis’s grip, determined not to let that happen. “He wouldn’t heed me last time,” she said, reaching again for the door latch. “Now, when we both march in there, he’ll have no choice but to see reason. Arabella must be our only concern. We need to sail to Doon and see to her comfort. Not wave steel against longtime friends and allies. The MacLeans—”
“She isn’t with the MacLeans.” Gelis almost wailed the words. “They only sent the messenger when they learned of the cog sinking. Father is riled because Arabella was picked up at sea by the MacConachers. It is there, on their isle, where she’s—”
“The MacConachers?” Linnet’s blood chilled.
Now she understood.
Gelis was bobbing her head again, the terror in her eyes only making Linnet’s heart clench tighter. “I heard some of the garrison men saying they will use her and pass her around until she—”
“They will not.” Linnet wished she believed it.
Almost, she could.
The old woman she’d seen tending Arabella had been kindly. And the braw warrior who’d gathered Arabella into his arms, cradling and protecting her, the golden heart that had blazed so brilliantly around them…
Such were portents of truest, brightest love.
Even now, Linnet’s pulse quickened just remembering the devotion in the man’s eyes. She suspected he’d cut down anyone who so much as laid a finger against Arabella. Linnet bit her lip, tasting blood. Never had her gift told her wrong, a truth that welled in her now, demanding acceptance.
But a MacConacher…
She shuddered and pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders. “All Highlanders have honor. If Arabella is in MacConacher keeping, we must trust in
theirs.”
“But you do not believe in it.”
“I am hoping for it.” Linnet hooked her arm through her daughter’s and threw open the hall door. “That is all we can do,” she owned, pulling Gelis with her into the crowded, smoke-hazed hall. “Now come, we must speak with your father.”
“Cuidich ’N’ Righ! Save the king!” The clan war cry greeted them, every man shouting with fullest lung power so that their roars filled the cavernous space.
Linnet froze, transported back in time.
As then, Duncan stood on a table in the center of the hall, legs arrogantly wide and holding his great, two-handed sword high above his head. Only now her beloved warrior looked even more fierce, more magnificent, and without doubt more deadly. His eyes did spark flames and the naked steel of his blade gleamed blood-red in the torchlight.
He’d donned his old black mail hauberk—not worn for years, but still polished bright—and just as so many years before, his proud mane of raven hair was tangled and wild, seeming to whip about his shoulders as if he stood in the face of the devil’s own wind.
It was as if all the years between now and then were no more.
Linnet began to tremble. Hot and cold chills raced through her. The threads of silver in Duncan’s hair seemed to have vanished and he looked taller, broader, and more muscled than he had that morn when they’d risen. Even the lines that crinkled his eyes and bracketed his mouth were gone.
He looked young again.
And so like the Duncan she’d fallen in love with that she almost forgot to breathe.
“Cuidich ’N’ Righ!” He thrust his brand higher in the air, his head thrown back as he roared the slogan. “Arabella!”
“Arabella!” His men shouted back, rage in their voices. Stomping feet or leaping onto benches, they shook their own swords in the air, following Duncan’s lead. “Hail the Maid of Kintail!”
“Death to MacConachers!” Someone bellowed near Linnet and Gelis.
“Aye!” Another agreed. “Their heads on spikes!”
“See!” Gelis grabbed Linnet’s elbow, shaking. “It isn’t just Father. They’ve all turned blood-mad.”
“Not for long.” Linnet blinked, the horror in her daughter’s voice bringing her back to the present. “Take heed,” she urged, summoning all the courage of her years. Then she grabbed two large metal ewers off a table and started clanging them together.
“Hear me, men of Kintail!” She scrambled onto a bench, lifting her voice and banging the jugs until the hall fell silent.
“I am Lady of Kintail!” She looked around, letting her gaze challenge. “And I say MacKenzies and MacConachers have spilt enough of each others’ blood. We have heard my daughter is safe. I have seen that it is so.”
She waited for the men to comprehend and then tossed down the two dented ewers. “I say we sail for MacConacher’s Isle, aye. But we must go in caution and without rattling swords until we’ve seen—”
“We, my lady?” The voice was deep, husky, and right behind her.
Duncan.
Two strong hands seized her waist and lifted her off the bench and into the air. Effortlessly, he turned her to face him, his well-loved scent of sandalwood, musk, and a hint of wood smoke swirling around her as he swung her back down on the rushes.
Linnet tried not to notice, but her heart made a little, capitulating roll.
“We are no’ going anywhere.” He spoke with finality.
But the confident, up-tilted corner of his mouth made her stubborn.
“You”—the corner-tilt deepened—“will stay here as is fitting. I’ll no’ have you—”
“You’ll have me at your side.” Linnet lifted her chin, unbending. “If you do not take me, I shall hire someone who will. We shall dog your every move, sail after you in your wake.”
She folded her arms, pleased by the shock on his face.
He glanced round. “Where is that blundering Sassunach? He put you up to this! I’ll—”
“Sir Marmaduke is in his own keep just now—as well you know.” Linnet smiled sweetly.
Her husband glared. “Then who—”
“No one.” She flashed a look at Gelis, delighted to see approval on her daughter’s face. “Arabella is not just your daughter. She is ours. And we shall make this journey together.”
Duncan compressed his lips.
His men were equally silent.
Avoiding his eyes, they began sheathing swords and otherwise occupying themselves. Some shuffled their feet. Many took sudden interest in their fingernails, and a few brushed or tugged at their plaids.
“Spineless bairns!” Duncan glowered at them.
Linnet leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Cuidich ’N’ Righ!” she whispered, for his ears alone. “All will be well, I promise you.”
“Aye, I’ve no doubt.” His eyes flashed as he patted his sword hilt, his meaning clear.
Then the indomitable Black Stag of Kintail strode from his hall, slamming the great iron-studded door behind him.
Hours later, as a fulling moon dipped low in the night sky, Darroc tossed and turned in his bed. Leastways, the bed he’d claimed since Arabella of Kintail had been using his own. Not that it mattered just now. Caught in the gray dark between sleep and waking, he splayed his hands across the borrowed bedcovers, feeling not the mussed linens but the sweet curve of smooth, warm flesh.
Sleek, silky thighs and, he was sure, the tempting rounds of a plump and well-formed bottom. Full lush breasts, firm and wonderful, with—he could feel them—hot, tight nipples that begged tasting.
A spill of cool, satiny hair brushed against him. Luxurious tresses, loose and free-flowing in a sensual cascade meant to bewitch him. A beguiling scent surrounded him, rich, dark, and just a bit exotic.
Darroc’s blood flamed.
Desire flashed through him, swift and demanding.
His breathing stopped.
He ran hard, need consuming him. It didn’t matter that he burned for the daughter of his worst enemy. He wanted the lass and he wanted her now. A groan rose deep in his throat, proving it, and he slid his hands up and down the vixen’s nakedness, seeking her slippery wet heat. He opened his eyes, wanting to see her face as he claimed her, knowing the triumph would be sweet.
But instead of Lady Arabella the sleep-stealing siren, a sword-wielding, glowing-eyed she-demon glared at him from the shadows.
Naked save a narrow swath of MacKenzie tartan knotted low around her hips, she had the same silky smooth skin and glorious tresses of the object of his desire. But this Arabella of Kintail, with her talon nails and blood-red lips, was the stuff of a fearing dream.
She glided toward him, hatred glinting in her eyes as she came.
“You think you’ve waited long for vengeance, MacConacher.” The words hissed from lips that didn’t move. “In truth”—she raised her sword, testing its edge with her thumb—“we have waited longer. Now you will learn what happens when MacKenzies are wronged.”
She flew at him then, swinging the blade in a vicious arc, her feet not touching the floor.
Darroc’s heart froze.
His protest lodged in his throat, choking him. He stared, waiting for the stinging bite of steel, but the sword—and the she-demon—vanished into thin air, leaving him alone in the room.
A room that was empty save its single, threadbare tapestry and two long-gutted wall torches.
“Saints!” Darroc’s pulse thundered in his ears.
Shaken, he flung off the bedcovers and leapt to his feet. That would teach him to let Mungo hover around him before he sought his bed. The cantankerous old goat couldn’t string two words together without harping about how much Darroc needed a bride.
If he knew who Arabella was, he’d be full of ways they could use her to bring down her hated clan.
Darroc blew out a quick, hot breath.
He wouldn’t—couldn’t—use a woman to serve vengeance.
He did stride across the room and throw open the s
hutters to glare out at the moon-silvered sea. Something he’d done repeatedly throughout the night, though he couldn’t explain why he felt such a need.
Nothing but the moon and a few pale stars peered back at him. In the distance, the outline of his friend Olaf Big Nose’s isle showed as a low, dark smudge against the horizon. And he could see that a strong swell was running. The jagged rocks rimming his bay gleamed blackly, their edges frothed white with foam.
From beneath the tower, he could hear the crash of good-sized rollers hitting the cliffs. The seals that had so unsettled him weeks ago were nowhere to be seen.
But someone strongly connected to them now slept in his bed.
Darroc frowned.
The thought galled him.
Furious, he glanced over his shoulder at the bed across the room. Borrowed or not, its comforts beckoned. He was so tired. But he remained where he was, his hands braced on the cold stone splay of the window, the chill air welcome.
A good night’s rest wouldn’t be his this night.
Indeed, it wouldn’t surprise him if he never slept well again.
Chapter Seven
Black Vikings?”
Mungo nearly choked on the words. He did spew the ale he’d just tipped down his throat. “Pshaw, I say!” He tossed aside his empty cup and drew his sword. “I’d sooner believe this cold steel”—he brandished the blade with relish—“will turn into a wriggling, two-headed snake!”
Several kinsmen nodded agreement.
One snickered.
Only Conall took a slow sip of his own ale, his expression guarded.
“Mayhap a three-headed snake.” Mungo rammed his sword back into its sheath. “If Black Vikings were more than myth, we’d have seen them by now. I say they’re naught but a bunch o’ belly wind. Isles chieftains have more pride than is good for them. I’m for thinking some find it easier to blame disaster on rogue Norsemen than admit their own galley men ran a ship onto the rocks!”
“So say we all!” Geordie Dhu slapped his thigh. Named for the dark mane that had once crowned his now shiny pate, he flashed a gap-toothed smile.
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