The Warrior (7 page)

M
oira moaned and struggled to sit up.

Praise God, she is alive.
Duncan put his arm beneath her shoulders. “Are ye hurt badly,
mo leannain
?” My sweetheart.

“Is Sean dead?” She sounded dazed.

“Aye,” he said. “Can ye walk? We must leave the castle at once.”

Even while he said it, he heard boots on the stairs. If the men found Moira covered
in blood and their chieftain dead, it would not go well for her.

Duncan lifted her to her feet. Holding her with one arm and his sword in the other,
he started out with her just as one of the MacQuillan warriors filled the doorway.
Two more were right behind him. Duncan needed to dispatch them quickly before they
raised the alarm and brought the fifty men sleeping in the hall into the fight.

“What have ye done to—”

Duncan cut the first man down before the words were out of his mouth. Then he shoved
the next one backward into the third, sending the pair tumbling down the stairs.

Holding Moira to his side, Duncan leaped over the flailing men and continued down
the stairs. The noise had drawn three more warriors into the bottom of the stairwell.
But the fools did not have their blades at the ready. Before they could unsheathe
them, Duncan kicked one in the gut, swung his claymore into another, and rammed the
third with his shoulder.

Damn. The commotion was waking the other MacQuillan men. When Duncan started through
the hall, some of them were already on their feet and reaching for their swords. Duncan
lifted Moira over his shoulder and ran like hell for the door.

He burst through it, cleared the steps in one leap, and ran hard through the darkness
of the bailey yard to the gate. Knowing he had removed the bar, he hit the gate running.
It was made of heavy oak, but it swung open against his weight.

After a few yards, he was in pitch blackness. The MacQuillan men were on his heels,
and Duncan could not see the path to the beach. He was running blind.

A dog barked. A moment later he saw the wolfhound in front of him, leading the way,
his golden fur just visible in the night.

Moira moaned, and Duncan thought of her bruised and battered face bouncing against
his back. But he had no choice. He must get her away from here at all costs. The shouts
behind them were growing closer, but so was the sound of waves crashing on the beach.
As he crested a hill behind the dog, he saw the white foam of the curling sea swells
through the darkness.

“Niall!” he shouted as he followed the wolfhound down the bluff to the beach.

“Over here!” Niall called.

Duncan saw the black shape of their boat.

“There they are!” a voice came from behind him. “Stop them!”

Niall was already pushing the galley out when Duncan reached it.

“Get in!” Duncan shouted. As soon as Niall jumped into the boat, Duncan thrust Moira
into Niall’s arms and took hold of the side of the boat.

“Get ready to raise the sail,” Duncan called to Niall. As he strained to push their
galley farther out to the sea, a huge dark shape sailed past him and landed inside
the boat. The wolfhound.

Over his shoulder, Duncan saw men with torches coming down the bluff and onto the
beach.

“Now!” Duncan shouted as he flung himself into the boat.

Niall unfurled the sail in the gusting wind, and the vessel lurched forward. It listed
to the side before Duncan could grab hold of the rudder. He straightened the boat
quickly, and they headed out to sea.

When Duncan looked back again, torchlights filled the beach. The MacQuillans knew
these waters far better than he did. But with any luck, they would wait until daylight
to set sail after them.

He wished Alex were with them. The old Viking blood was strong in Alex, giving him
a sixth sense on the water that would be useful sailing through unfamiliar shallows
in the dark. Twice the boat scraped rocks, and it was only by the hand of God that
they made it out to deep water.

As soon as it was safe to do so, he fastened the rudder in place, found a blanket,
and went to check on Moira. She was shaking and weeping when he wrapped the blanket
around her, so he put his arms around her as well. Despite the danger they were in,
a fleeting sense of peace settled over him. This was not how he’d dreamed it would
happen, but he had Moira in his arms again.

Moira slept fitfully, plagued by dreams that made her feel as if she were falling
through time. She dozed and awoke so often that she did not know what was real and
what was dream.

No! No!
Sean’s weight was crushing her, and she was begging God not to let her last moment
on earth be with Sean’s smell in her nose and his body touching hers. Then the weight
was gone, and Duncan MacDonald stood above her in all his glory. Duncan had fire in
his eyes and his blade brandished, just as she had imagined him every time she had
hoped and prayed he would come.

But she must have dreamed him, called him up into the nightmare that was her life.
As always, Duncan was too late to save her. Moira felt the motion of the waves beneath
her, and she was floating in the sea beside her mother.

Then Sean was alive again, and his hands were closing on her throat.

“It’s all right.” Duncan held Moira against him, stilling her flailing arms.

He hated to awaken her again, but it was dangerous to let her sleep for more than
a short time after how hard she had been hit on the head.

“Drink,” he said, holding the flask of ale to her lips. Moira drank it greedily, but
half went down her chin because the side of her mouth was swollen. He dabbed it gently
with the corner of the blanket.

“Duncan?” she said.

“Aye, it’s me.”

“You’re too late,” she murmured. “I watched for ye, but ye didn’t come.”

Moira was out of her head. She had been saying that to him all night.

He batted away the wolfhound, who kept nosing her face. “Leave her be or I’ll toss
ye over the side.”

“No!” Moira wailed.

“Shh. I didn’t mean it.” Duncan brushed his fingers through her hair, which was still
sticky with blood, as he rocked her in his arms. “He’s a good dog. He led me down
the path to the beach.”

“He’s my son’s dog,” she said in a choked whisper.

The next time Duncan checked on her, dawn was breaking, and Moira seemed alert. Ach,
her lovely face was a mess. He helped her sit up.

“Tell me where you’re hurt, Moira.”

“My head hurts like the very devil, and I can’t open my left eye,” she said in a strong
voice, “but I don’t think he broke any bones.”

God in Heaven
. If Sean were not already dead, Duncan would go back and kill him now. “There was
a lot of blood. If ye have a wound, we should bind it.”

He had checked her for fresh bleeding as best he could in the night and found none,
but he needed to be sure.

“The blood is his,” she said. “The blade I was holding must have gone into him when
he knocked me over and fell on top of me.”

Duncan had fought all kinds of men, good and bad, and he had seen plenty of evil.
Still, it shocked him how any man could violently attack a woman.

“Had he hurt ye before?” he asked.

“Not like this,” she said.

He swallowed. “What happened?”

Moira pulled away from him and drew the blanket tightly around her. “Sean saw how
ye looked at me, that’s what happened,” she said in a hard voice.

She blamed him.

“Sean was always getting jealous for no cause,” she snapped.

Duncan let that sink in. “I’ll get ye another blanket, then ye should try to rest
some more.”

“I must bring my son home to Dunscaith,” she said as she stared out to sea.

“I’m sure the lad is safe,” Duncan said. “Even the MacLeod would not harm a child
he had agreed to foster.”

That was the only reassurance he could give her. Even if there were not such animosity
between the MacDonalds and the MacLeods—and there was soon to be more—a boy belonged
to his father’s clan. The MacQuillans were unlikely to agree to let Moira have their
chieftain’s son, especially when they believed that she, or the man she left with,
had murdered their chieftain.

“Duncan!” Niall called from the front of the boat. “They’re following us.”

E
rik MacLeod narrowed his eyes as he watched his chieftain’s guards escort the visitor
into the Great Hall of Dunvegan Castle. The guards brought him to a halt a respectful
distance from the dais, where Alastair Crotach MacLeod sat looking every inch the
great chieftain he was, despite his hunched shoulder.

It was unusual, to say the least, to see a MacDonald of Sleat in Dunvegan Castle,
except in the dungeon. If the chieftain was surprised, he did not show it.

The visitor was a big, fair-haired man in his midthirties who had earned the name
Hugh Dubh, Black Hugh, for his black heart. If rumors were to be believed, Hugh had
a hand in the deaths of his former chieftain and the chieftain’s eldest son, who were
his half brother and nephew.

Erik admired the man’s ruthlessness in pursuing his ambitions. Erik’s chieftain disapproved
of Hugh, but then, Alastair MacLeod had never had to fight for his place in this world.
He was born to be a chieftain and would die one. Of course, the MacLeod’s dislike
of Hugh would not prevent him from using the man to benefit his clan.

“My nephew Connor is scheming to take the Trotternish Peninsula from ye,” Hugh said
after the formal greetings. “If I were the chieftain of the MacDonalds of Sleat, as
I ought to be, I’d be content with the lands we have.”

“As the keeper of Trotternish Castle,” the chieftain said, turning his gaze to Erik,
“are ye worried about this pup Connor taking Trotternish from us?”

Erik had worked single-mindedly for years to earn his chieftain’s trust and respect.
He’d had much to overcome. His father had been a warrior better known for his drinking
than for his skill with a sword, and his mother was a woman of no consequence at all.
After Erik had led the attack when they took Trotternish Castle from the MacDonalds,
his chieftain had finally given him his just reward.

There was
nothing
Erik would not do to retain the castle and his position as its keeper.

“I haven’t lost a wink of sleep over it,” Erik lied and forced a laugh. “From what
I hear, the new MacDonald chieftain has so few men and war galleys that he’d be a
fool to launch an attack against us.”

Erik knew his chieftain was pleased with his response, though the MacLeod’s face remained
expressionless. His chieftain did not want Hugh to believe he had anything of value
to offer them.

“I’d advise ye not to underestimate Connor,” Hugh said. “Through surprise and cunning,
he has won battles against greater numbers before.”

“Why do ye warn us?” the MacLeod asked.

“Connor is responsible for the deaths of two of my half brothers,” Hugh said. “I want
him to pay for that with his life.”

The MacLeod raised an eyebrow. “I had the impression ye weren’t overly fond of your
brothers.”

Erik snorted. It was rumored that Hugh had murdered a second brother in addition to
the one that had been chieftain.

“How do ye know your nephew’s plans?” the MacLeod asked and signaled for his cup.

“I have spies in his castle,” Hugh said, looking a mite too pleased with himself.

When his cupbearer brought him his intricately carved wooden cup, the chieftain took
a deep draught. Though he never permitted himself to drink in excess, he did take
whiskey for the lifelong pain he suffered from the MacDonald axe that had split his
shoulder.

“I supported ye once before against your nephew. It cost me the lives of some of my
best warriors and gained me nothing.” The MacLeod stared down at Hugh from his high
chair, the heat of his temper burning in his eyes. “What is it that you’ve come to
ask me for this time, and why should I give it to ye?”

“I hear ye are fostering my niece Moira’s son.”

The MacLeod narrowed his eyes at Hugh.

“The lad is Connor’s heir,” Hugh said. “I want him.”

Damn
, the MacQuillans were persistent.

Duncan glared at the three war galleys that had been following them for two days,
then turned around to watch the black clouds rolling toward them from the west. Bolts
of lightning flashed in the narrow band of horizon between the thunderclouds and the
sea.

This had the makings of a storm that sailors would talk about for years afterward.
Unfortunately, the MacQuillans had cleverly positioned their war galleys between Duncan’s
boat and the shelter of the islands to the east. They were forcing him to choose between
going to shore where they were sure to catch him or sailing directly into the storm.

Risking his own life was one thing, but Duncan could not sail into this gale with
Moira and Niall. He turned their boat toward their pursuers and the nearest island.

“When the MacQuillans take us,” he said to Niall, “I killed Sean. Understood?”

Niall nodded.

The only good news was that Moira seemed to be recovering from her injuries. Duncan
watched her now as she leaned into the wind and crossed the boat to where he and Niall
stood at the stern.

“What are ye doing?” she asked when she reached them. When Duncan did not answer,
she grabbed his sleeve. “No, I won’t go back. I’d rather die.”

Her hair was snapping across her bruised and battered face. One of her eyes was no
more than a slit. Even with Sean dead, he could understand why she was loath to return.

“I expect they’ll throw us all in their dungeon to rot,” Niall said. “I’m for taking
our chances at sea.”

If Duncan could be certain the MacQuillans would punish only him for their chieftain’s
death, he would sail for the island and let them take him. But Niall was right. After
their chieftain had been murdered under their noses, the MacQuillans might not be
in a mood to distinguish guilt among the three of them.

Praying he was not making the wrong choice, Duncan turned the boat again, this time
toward the open sea and the gathering storm. Before long, the war galleys behind them
tacked eastward to take shelter in one of the protected coves of the islands. The
MacQuillans were not foolish enough to risk their lives and boats to capture them.

As they sailed closer to the storm, the wind drove hard pellets of rain against Duncan’s
face.
Thump. Thump. Thump
. Their galley rose and fell in the waves.

Before long they collided with the storm, and the sea became a torrent. The wind whirled
about them and tossed their boat with increasing violence.

“Niall, take the rudder.” Duncan had to shout to be heard. “I’m taking the sail down
before the mast snaps.”

He took Moira’s hand and wrapped it around the piece of rope he had tied around the
wolfhound’s neck. “Stay down and hold on to Sàr until I come back for ye.”

The sea crashed over the boat, drenching Duncan while he dropped the sail. Working
fast, he retrieved two coils of rope from the bottom of the boat and returned to the
others.

“Moira, I’m tying ye to the mast so ye don’t get washed overboard,” he shouted. “So
long as we all stay in the boat, we’ll be fine.”

If the boat capsized, it would not matter that she was tied and could not swim. There
would be no hope. Duncan led Moira to the mast, then tied the rope around her waist,
taking care to avoid her bruised ribs.

“Stay,” he ordered the dog, who obediently sat and leaned against Moira.

“We will make it,” he said, and cupped Moira’s cheek for a moment before he left her.

The boat creaked and shook as each cresting wave pounded into it. Duncan had to hold
on to the side of the boat as he worked his way back to Niall.

“I’ll steer,” he shouted. When he took the rudder from Niall, he felt the full power
of the sea pushing against it. “Now tie yourself to the mast with Moira.”

As he thrust the rope at Niall, a wall of water twenty feet high crashed over the
side of the galley.

“Niall!” Duncan shouted and reached for him.

Time moved slowly as Duncan watched Niall spread his arms wide trying to catch hold
of something before the mammoth wave hit them. Then the wall of water crashed over
the boat, lifting Niall off his feet and tossing him head over heels like a twig in
a whirlpool.

The rushing surge of water swept Duncan after Niall and slammed him against the side
of the boat. Duncan held on to the rail, his arms straining against the force of water
sweeping past him. As the swell receded, washing back across the top of the boat,
Duncan heard Moira’s screams over the wind. That meant she was still safe, tied to
the mast.

But Niall was gone.