The Warrior

by Greyson, Maeve

  “I know, Da.” Tilda blinked hard and fast against the threat of tears. She didn’t cry for herself. She ached to weep for all the pain she had caused her beloved Da. Reining in her emotions, she pecked a quick kiss to her father’s cheek. “But all is well today.” She looked at Duncan still standing beside the breakfast table. She managed a smile in his direction. “Because of that man right there.”

  Duncan nodded and returned her smile. “Does my heart good to see ye looking so well this morning, m—Tilda.” Duncan cleared his throat. “I’m doing my best, lass. Goes against years of training to not address ye as milady.”

  The mood of the room lightened considerably, and for that, Tilda owed him more thanks. She had dreaded this moment, this first meeting with Da after yesterday. “Ye’re doing fine, Duncan. I may call ye Duncan, aye?”

  “Of course,” he said with a look that warmed her heart.

  There stood a good man. Da must have felt so as well, otherwise Duncan wouldn’t be in their private rooms.

  Her father offered his arm, patting her hand when she took it. He led her to her seat and placed her directly opposite Duncan. With himself at the head of the table, Duncan to his right, Tilda to his left, Chieftain Mackenzie motioned toward the sidebar, groaning with the morning’s breakfast offerings. “Once again, ye’ve provided a fine repast, Moira. Let us begin.”

  Seated at the other end of the table, Moira gave Sairi and another maid a nod that set them in motion filling plates and hurrying to serve the bounty of parritch, fried blood sausage, smoked salmon, coddled eggs, and all manner of pastries, butters, and jams at each person’s place.

  “I’m glad to see ye at our table this morn, Duncan.” Tilda selected a bannock, split it in two, then smeared a dollop of softened cheese across it before adding a thin slice of smoked salmon on top. Never cursed with shyness, much to the consternation of both her parents, she prayed he wouldn’t find her off-putting. It was the only way she knew to be and had also proved to be an effective deterrent to unwanted advances. Well. Until yesterday. She swallowed hard and forced that thought aside. “It’s a rare thing for Da to share his breakfast table. I hope ye enjoy Auntie Moira’s offerings.”

  Duncan didn’t answer at first, just watched her, his dark brows drawn into a pondering frown. He shifted in place, almost seeming to give himself a subtle shake. “Yer da and auntie have both been over-generous to be sure.”

  “Nonsense.” The Mackenzie shoved a huge chunk of blood sausage dripping with egg into his mouth. Cheeks bulging, he waved his fork in the air. “The debt I owe ye shall never be paid,” he said around the food.

  Duncan ducked his head, and Tilda sensed the poor man’s discomfort. He didn’t wish to be here and liked their fussing over him even less. Duncan MacCoinnich was an odd man indeed. Most men would fight for a chance to get this close to her powerful father.

  “I am most grateful to ye, sir,” Tilda added in a soft whisper, her voice hitching with emotion. She couldn’t possibly put into words all she felt. “I shall never forget all ye did. Yer kindness. Yer gentlemanly ways. I thank ye and owe ye greatly.” A tear slipped down her cheek. Tilda swiped it away, then did her best to hide behind her cup.

  “I am thankful I was there,” Duncan said in a deep, gentle tone she’d remember the rest of her life.

  The Mackenzie cleared his throat with a loud rumbling cough that echoed through the high-ceilinged room. “I have a surprise for ye, Tilda,” he said, leaning forward with a pleased-with-himself glint in his eye. Tilda recognized that glint from all his years of indulging her. He pointed his fork at Duncan. “This fine man came to Inverness looking for opportunity, and I intend to afford it to him.”

  Tilda shifted her gaze from her father to Duncan. Whatever the opportunity was, and she had a fair idea what it was, either Duncan was not aware of it or didn’t want it. He sat with his head bowed over his plate, and hands clenched on either side of it. Tilda prided herself on reading people. Even Angus claimed she had an uncanny gift for sensing when aught was amiss. And something was most definitely amiss here.

  “Perhaps Duncan has other plans, Da. A man such as him would nay come to Inverness without already having a prospect well in hand.”

  Duncan’s bowed head snapped up, and his alarmed gaze locked with hers.

  A satisfied sense of victory filled her. Her instincts remained on point. She struggled to remember all he had told her when he’d first found her. In bits and pieces, his ramblings came back to her. “Ben Nevis,” she said, watching Duncan’s face for a reaction. “Yer brother is chieftain near there, aye?”

  One of his brows twitched on the same side of his face where his cheek dimpled whenever he smiled. “Aye. Chieftain to Clan MacCoinnich.” He looked back down at his plate, making a show of cutting a chunk of blood sausage into bits and pieces.

  The Mackenzie shook his head, mimicking the motion with the knife and fork he held in each of his hands. “I’ve already made him see sense, Tilda. He now understands the horses would never make it to Inverness. He’s wisely set that notion aside.”

  “Horses?” She looked at Duncan, both perplexed and intrigued.

  “Aye. The Neal horses of Scotland,” Duncan said. “Best ye’ll ever find.”

  A loud snort came from the other end of the table. “Horse trading,” Moira muttered, spitting out the words as though she were ashamed to say them.

  Ignoring Auntie, Tilda watched Duncan’s mannerisms and realized the poor man had appeared more relaxed back in the woods while fighting the blackguards. She leaned forward and touched her father’s hand. “Did it ever occur to ye, Da, that Duncan might not wish to enter the business of smuggling?”

  Duncan exploded with paroxysms of coughing, spewing the drink he’d just taken all across the table.

  “Damn, man.” The Mackenzie rose and hit Duncan on the back. Hard. “Breathe, man, breathe.” It sounded as though he was beating him to death.

  “Enough!” Duncan pushed the Mackenzie away and stood. With a fist clutched to his mouth, he barked out one last cough before bowing to Tilda. “Forgive me, but I must see about my horse.” Then he strode from the room.

  Tilda thumped her fist on the table, drawing her father’s attention. “Did ye ask him if he wished to be a smuggler, Da?” Tilda knew how her father worked. He told people what they wanted to do. He didn’t ask them for their druthers.

  “I made him part of the clan. Claimed him as son.” The Mackenzie shrugged, looking to Moira for support. “Did I not do so, Moira?”

  “Aye, ye did,” Moira defended, patting her napkin to the corners of her mouth as she sat taller in her chair. “Gave him every courtesy. Many a man would sell his own soul for the chance at what ye offered Duncan MacCoinnich.”

  “He said himself he knew of us, knew of our dealings. Ye can help him, Tilda. Help him learn the business, aye?” The Mackenzie strode across the room, heading for the outer lobby of the Mackenzie suites. He paused before opening the door, his large hand swallowing the brass latch. “And he’ll be a good guard for yerself.” With a decisive nod, the Mackenzie yanked the door open, then glanced back at Tilda. “Ye need a guard now, lass, at least until I’ve settled the sorry business with the two remaining soldiers.” He pointed in the direction to which Duncan had disappeared. “Go find him. Make him understand everything, aye?” Then the Mackenzie stormed from the room and thudded the door shut behind him.

  “Why doesn’t he find him and make him understand?” Tilda pushed her plate aside, all appetite gone.

  “He makes ready for yer mother’s arrival today.” Auntie Moira gave Tilda a sympathetic look from behind the rim of her goblet.

  That revelation pushed Tilda to her feet. She would find Duncan, learn his druthers, then do her best to see his wishes done. Then she would find a place to hide where Mother would never find her. Without another word, she left the room, and hurried down the back stair leading to the stables. Hopefully, Duncan was still there telling his woes to his hor
se.

  She pushed out into the early brightness of the day. One hand shielding her eyes, she trailed the other along the stone wall until she reached the stable door, then slipped inside. The earthy scent of fresh hay, warm animals, and mucked out stalls locked her in place. She swallowed hard, then pulled in several strained gasps of air. All of a sudden, her lungs refused to work. A hollow roaring filled her ears, blocking all other sound and rattling her senses. Skin clammy, Tilda fell back against a stall, grabbing at the boards to remain standing. A wave of nausea washed across her. Stomach churning, she clapped a hand over her mouth. She stumbled deeper into the stable, made it to a back stall, bent double, and retched. A touch against the center of her back spiked her panic.

  “Dinna touch me!” she screamed, reeling deeper into the darkness. The side of her hand brushed a wooden handle. A pitchfork. They would not take her again. Never would take her again. She grabbed hold of the tool and swung it in front of her. “I’ll kill ye. Skewer ye dead!”

  “Lass, it’s me! Duncan!”

  Shackled with panic, Tilda clutched the handle between both hands. “No. Never again,” she sobbed, unable to reason through the fear. “I’ll kill ye if ye touch me.”

  “Tilda—listen to my voice, lass. Ye know me. Ye know I would never hurt ye. Duncan MacCoinnich, remember? I shall keep ye safe as long as I draw breath. I swear it. Hear me, Tilda. Can ye hear me?”

  Gulping against her sobs, Tilda shuffled backward until the knobby stall post bumped into her back. That voice. A safe voice. Duncan MacCoinnich. Aye. Her savior. Her brave warrior. She bumped her head back against the wood and struggled to calm herself. Her middle still churned, drowning out the hard pounding of her heart. With the pitchfork hugged to her waist, she bent over it and retched until she could do no more than spasm and gag with dry heaving.

  “Tilda, listen. I shall take hold of yer arm to keep ye from falling, aye?” Duncan’s rich, deep voice soothed its way through the terrible hysteria, helped her take control. His presence gave her something to hold, something to overcome the terror.

  She managed a weak nod and let the pitchfork drop to the ground.

  Duncan took her arm and led her to the center aisle between the rows of stalls. Inch by inch, he helped her move closer to the front of the stable. Sunlight filtered in through the doors and windows. It was lighter here, and she could see.

  “Breathe, lass. Rest easy. Ye’ll best those demons in time. I promise.”

  With a hard swallow, she looked up at him, blinking to clear her blurred vision. Kindness and understanding shone from him. Without thinking, she dove into his arms, knotted his jacket in both fists and sobbed, burrowing her face into his strong, broad chest. She hated this. Hated this damned weakness those bastards had thrust upon her. She had never been this weak in her life.

  After a fit of uncontrollable sobbing, she calmed enough to notice the warm strength of Duncan’s arms around her. She pressed her cheek tighter against the hardness of his chest. The safety of him, the familiar pleasant scent of him. His gentle strength chased the rest of her panic away. She pulled in a deep breath and blew it out. Something warm pressed to the top of her head and lingered for a tender moment. A kiss. Tilda smiled as the deep, low humming of a song vibrated against her cheek. A song she remembered from childhood. A lullaby Da had oft sung to help her sleep. She closed her eyes and gave herself to Duncan’s slow swaying, the words of the song lilting through her memories.

  Dinna weep, my child, my fairest one.

  Dinna weep o’er little or plentee.

  Ye’re in my arms and in my heart.

  I’ll see ye want for nothing.

  In my arms and in my heart.

  I’ll see ye want for nothing.

  Ye’ll always be my dearest love.

  For all eternitee.

  “I know that song,” she whispered, slipping an arm around Duncan’s waist and hugging him tight while still fisting the lapel of his jacket in her other hand.

  “Do ye now?” Duncan pressed his cheek to the top of her head and continued humming the tune with a gentle rocking back and forth.

  “Ye be a good man, Duncan MacCoinnich.” Tilda sniffed and held him tighter, a sleepy weariness taking hold. “Thank ye once again for chasing away my demons.”

  “I’ll always chase away yer demons, Tilda. Never ye fret about that.” His hand rubbed up and down between her shoulders, his touch calming her as deftly as the lullaby.

  “Aye, but have I ruined yer life, ye poor man?” she whispered. “Has saving me stolen yer future from ye?”

  “All will be well, Tilda.”

  But his tone had changed. Everything was very much not all right, and it was just as she had feared. Her rescue had placed Duncan square in the middle of one of her father’s well-meant snares, a snare Duncan could never escape, not if he valued his life.

  She eased herself out of his arms and took a step back. “Ride away now. Ride hard and fast. Mother’s coming, and Da will be in such a dither at having to deal with her, he’ll have no time to send anyone to find ye. Ye can make it to yer brother’s keep and bide yer time there ’til Da’s anger about ye leaving cools.”

  Duncan stared down at her, the emotions shadowing his face unreadable. “Yer da means well, Tilda.” He gave her a sad smile. “And I dinna blame him for his ways. He loves his daughter, and he’s grateful. The die is cast, and all shall work out, I’m sure.”

  “Die is cast,” Tilda repeated. He was so despondent. So unhappy as if resigned to a fate he couldn’t avoid. “Tell me true, Duncan. Many a man would sell their soul to be yerself and hover under the protection of my father’s wing. Why do ye not wish for this opportunity? Please. The truth now. Tell me what troubles ye?”

  His dark eyes narrowed as he pulled in a deep breath then, groaned out a heavy sigh. “My business in Inverness was to learn the smuggling trade under the tutelage of Sern MacDonald, the MacDonald of Skye’s nephew.” He gave her pained smile. “I’m certain ye understand why I could nay verra well share that with yer father or yer aunt.”

  He couldn’t have spoken truer words. Duncan’s dilemma became clear as a Highland stream. “Be ye under contract to the MacDonald?” She held her breath, praying Duncan would say no. The ruthless, unforgiving nature of the MacDonald even surpassed her father’s formidable reputation.

  “I was.” He shifted with a half-hearted shrug. “I returned most of the money he had advanced me with the promise to send the rest when I had it. Sern is an old friend. I beseeched him to ask for my release.”

  “And what did yer friend say?”

  Duncan scrubbed the back of his neck with a frustrated swipe and shook his head. “Informed me I am a dead man and promised to return my body to Tor Ruadh once the MacDonald killed me.” He snorted out a bitter laugh and lifted both hands as though surrendering. “But I was already damned anyway. Inverness crawls with MacDonald’s men. My association with the Mackenzie, no matter how short term or the fact that it had nothing to do with smuggling, was certain to have been reported whether I rescinded the MacDonald’s offer or not.”

  All because of her. This fine figure of a man doomed and hunted by the cruel MacDonald. All because of her. Tilda took Duncan’s hand. “I am so verra sorry fate cursed ye by putting me in yer path.”

  Duncan’s dark look softened. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Everything happens for a reason, lass.”

  “Aye,” she whispered. Agnes’s prophecy came to mind. She blinked away the thought. Such foolishness to think such things when poor Duncan’s life was at risk. If he’d shunned Da’s offer, the Mackenzie would’ve made his life miserable and then both the Mackenzies and the MacDonalds both would’ve hunted him. At least now, with his attempt at honorably withdrawing from the MacDonald’s clutches, he had but one clan seeking to stretch his neck rather than two.

  A calloused finger slid beneath her chin and gently lifted. Duncan smiled down at her. A smile bereft of
any blame or accusation. “Dinna fash yerself, my dear, wee lass. None of this is yer fault.” The smile shifted to a lopsided, dimpled grin and a warm chuckle rumbled free of him. “I’ve always had a talent for getting myself into scrapes. Takes me a bit sometimes, but I always manage to wiggle free.”

  His generosity. The way he spoke. The warmth of him so close. So nice. Duncan made her feel safe. Tilda pressed a hand to his chest. His heartbeat, strong and true, thumped against her palm. “For all ye have done for me, for all that ye are, I swear on my soul, Duncan MacCoinnich, I shall protect ye any way I can as long as I draw breath. That goes for my clan, as well, ye ken? I swear it.”

  Then she knew in her heart what she had to do. This was destiny, aye and for certain. Before Duncan could comment, she stretched up, cupped his cheek, and sealed her oath with a kiss.

  Chapter Six

  “Where is she? Where is my daughter?”

  Tilda waved to get Sairi’s attention. She mouthed, “Delay her. Please.” If the maid drew Mother aside long enough, a secret panel between the dresser and bed awaited. If she could just make it to the hidden passage, she’d escape Mother’s ear-beating for a little while longer.

  The door to Tilda’s bedchamber burst open and bounced against the wall.

  “Do ye dare try and run from me, girl?” Mother stood in the doorway, her generous form blocking that means of escape. “Ye never change, Tilda. When will ye learn ye can never outwit me?” She jabbed a bejeweled finger at the maid, then swung it toward the sitting room. “Out wi’ ye! Now!”

  The poor girl grabbed her skirts and ran.

  Plump hands clasped in a prim pose, Fennella Mackenzie swept into the bedchamber with the regal posturing of a queen. Her bulbous nose wrinkled and twitched with the haughtiness of her perpetual sneer. The woman always looked as though she smelled a stench. Tilda never remembered her looking any other way.

  Mother marched deeper into the chamber, her judgmental gaze pinning Tilda to the spot. “I understand yer shame, Tilda, but I’ve never known ye to be a coward. Why would ye run from yer precious mother when all I wish is to see ye fair well and whole, despite yer father’s ill caretaking of ye?”