Must Love Kilts (34 page)

“Don’t be putting it there, lad.”
Agnes
tsk
ed just as Gilbert stretched to drop a twist of driftwood onto the top of the peats.

“His name is Gilbert.” Magnus spoke low from the shadows. “You’ll scare him less if you call him rightly.”

“You’re one to tell a body how not to frighten a soul!” Agnes bent an annoyed look on Magnus as she bustled between the boy and the fireplace. Huffing as only annoyed older women can, she maneuvered her bulk so that Gilbert couldn’t thrust a large piece of driftwood into the smoldering peat fire.

“Put the wood in the back, see?” She pointed, indicating where she meant. “That way we’ll not have sparks shooting onto my creel of treasures.” Gilbert complied, quickly tossing the driftwood deep inside the hearth.

“Agggh! Not that way.” Agnes waved her hands, wailing. “Don’t be throwing the wood. You’ll have ash raining all over us.”

“And let’s have the next piece here, eh?” Aunt Portia lent her opinion, her heavy heather scent wafting in the air as she extended her arm to direct the lad.

“Aye, Lady Portia.” Gilbert bobbed his head and picked up another twist of driftwood, moving toward the fire to do as she bade.

But he didn’t look happy.

And when Magnus saw Agnes swell her formidable breast and prepare to scold the boy anew, he strode forward to snatch her basket of discarded cloths off the floor.

“We need a good fire this night, Aunts.” He braced the basket against his hip, looking at them levelly.

“Even”—he winked at Gilbert—“if driftwood spits like the devil hisself.

“I like the blue flames.” He wasn’t about to tell his aunts why. That the seductive blue-purple fire with its haunting hint-of-the-sea scent swept him back to a tiny cothouse in Badachro where he’d first made love to Margo by the light of a driftwood fire.

Instead, he straightened his shoulders. “After we’ve dined and the hall is cleared for the night, I’ll have extra candles taken to your quarters. You can sort the cloth remnants there, Aunt Agnes.

“By the light of a few fine candelabrums and no’ here before the hall fire, where you had to know the driftwood hisses and spits.” He set a hand on Gilbert’s shoulder, his grip firm as his aunts fussed and spluttered before sailing away into the gloom of the great hall.

Once they were gone, he roughed the boy’s hair.

“Dinnae tell anyone, Gilbert”—he leaned down, lowering his voice—“but there are some who call thon two women the Ship-Breast Sisters.

“Now finish your work. They’ll no’ be pestering you again.” Magnus straightened, feeling both awkward and inordinately pleased when Gilbert looked up at him, his freckled face lit by a shy smile.

Standing taller, Gilbert returned to his task with vigor. Soon, the blue-purple flames would dance and leap and Magnus was glad for it. The additional warmth was welcome, as a fierce autumn storm had rolled in from the sea, chilling the air and sending rain hammering across the roof. Hard wind tore at the shutters and howled past the towers. And even through the stronghold’s thick walls, the crash of waves could be heard as angry seas pounded the cliffs.

It was a night for quiet comforts.

Magnus was pleased to offer his men a warm, dry hall with plenty of ale, bread, and meat. They had one another’s company, their swords within reach if needed, fine hounds sprawled on the floor rushes, and a halfway decent musician plucked harp strings in a darkened corner.

Nothing was amiss.

Except that he burned to sprint up the winding turret stair, burst into his bedchamber, and toss Margo over his shoulder, and then carry her back down to the high table so he could enjoy the simple pleasure of having her beside him.

After
he’d stopped halfway down the stair to back her against the wall, toss up her skirts, and ravish her as they stood in the shadows.

He needed her that fiercely.

Even now, a few short hours after taking his ease with her on the bluff.

He also meant what he’d told her on the cliff.

Watching her as she’d gazed out at the sea had touched him deeply. The look in her eyes had tugged on something deep inside him. Seeing how much she loved his home had taken his breath.

His heart had beat faster, his chest filling with pride.

Too many of his own people lived in dread, always casting their gazes over their shoulders, watching and waiting for the next raiders from the north to bring death and sorrow to their shores.

They’d forgotten the beauty.

They were no longer awed by wild mountains and foaming rivers, or empty, windy places where one’s spirit took flight. They’d grown blind to the wonder of soft twilights when the light faded from the heather and silence walked gently, cloaking the cold, dark nights.

Such appreciation had also slipped from Magnus’s mind.

But it’d all slammed back into him each time he caught such wonder on Margo’s face.

She gave him a piece of himself that he had lost.

She made him remember the things he’d once loved so fiercely—all sadly forgotten through the years of warring and vengeance. There were times he felt as if he’d always known and needed her. She completed him.

He hadn’t yet told her that he loved her, but he would.

It rode him hard that he’d once suspected she was a sea witch come to plague him. Guilt lanced him, though he knew he’d had little cause to think otherwise. Even so, he felt a need to undo his early doubts and do right by her. And that desire went deeper than the longing at his groin. Above all, he wanted to know her safe.

And he couldn’t do that when she let his aunts bundle her into steaming, scented baths that lulled her into such a relaxed state, she preferred sleeping away the evening to spending it with him at the high table.

It especially annoyed him that she’d do so on a night when he’d swear odd shadows were creeping through the hall like a plague.

Frowning, he turned and snatched his sword off the bench where he’d placed it earlier. Carefully, he buckled the blade’s belt around his hips, glad to have Vengeance’s familiar weight at his side.

“You feel it, too?” Calum joined him, his face harsh in the firelight.

Like Magnus, the older man had strapped on his sword.

“Feel what?” Magnus cocked a brow, not ready to voice the prickles at his nape.

He enjoyed a good day’s fighting as much as the next man, perhaps even more. But on such a cold, wet night, he was more of a mood to seek his bed—and Margo’s arms—than to swing Vengeance and spill Norse guts.

The Northmen had heeded his warning at Redpoint.

The coast had been quiet for weeks.

And the break was more welcome than he would’ve believed possible.

He glanced at Calum. “You’re in a strange mood.”

“I’m feeling my battle wounds this night.” The older man rubbed an ancient scar on his neck. “But that’s no’ what I meant.”

“Then tell me.”

“There’s blood in the air.” Calum spoke what Magnus already knew.

Magnus forced a smile and patted Vengeance’s hilt. “You smell the traces of my sword’s last meal.” Calum snorted. “I hear Vengeance stirring in your scabbard, screaming her hunger.”

“She isn’t starving, as well you know.” Magnus kept his hand on the sword.

Calum’s chin jutted. “You weren’t wearing her a moment ago.”

Magnus flashed another glance at the torchlit stair tower, this time relieved not to see Margo coming down the steps, slipping into view.

He wouldn’t want her to catch any war talk.

She’d made clear what she thought of “brute force and violence,” as she called a good day’s bloodletting. Magnus shoved a hand through his hair, hoping he’d be able to persuade her to think differently.

A man without a sword was like a tree without roots and branches.

Totally useless.

“For an old man, your eyes are sharp.” Magnus didn’t hide his annoyance.

“Glower all you wish.” Calum wasn’t daunted. “I knew you when your shoulders were no wider than the span of my hand.” He stepped closer and poked a finger into Magnus’s plaid-slung chest. “I could stil fight off you and six o’ your best men if you pressed me.”

“That I know.” Magnus allowed the older man his pride.

Years ago, Magnus had watched him cut down six Viking warriors. Big, fierce men who’d fought like howling demons. They’d died grandly, their blood flowing like rivers in spate. Calum—Magnus’s father’s most trusted battle companion—had walked off the field with little more than scratches.

He’d taught Magnus everything he knew about sword-craft.

Calum had also shared his vast knowledge of women, divulging secrets that Magnus had put to good use in the years before he’d met Liana and vowed to keep her innocent until he could make her his bride.

Now...

For the first time, his heart accepted that he could no longer call Liana’s features to mind.

Instead, Margo’s face flashed before his eyes.

Beautiful, vibrant, and alive, she filled his soul and made his heart soar. As if they were still on the cliff, he could feel the cool silk of her hair beneath his fingers.

How she’d thrown back her head as she rode him, her smooth, sleek thighs gripping his hips. His vitals stirred as he recalled the hot, tight glide of her womanhood, descending and lifting on him. The tempting views of her breasts, bouncing and flushed with desire. Then—his entire body tightened—he recalled letting his fingers delve through the bright golden curls topping her thighs. He knew exactly what waited for him beneath that gleaming triangle and he wanted her now, so fiercely he could hardly breathe.

He did glare at Calum.

His friend’s war-battered face could wipe the lust from any man’s mind.

Calum was rubbing his neck scar again, worrying the long-healed wound.

“Blood in the air, eh?” Respect made Magnus repeat the aging champion’s concern.

Calum nodded. “The stench fills my lungs, aye.” Squaring his shoulders, the older man set a hand to his sword. “I could walk out into thon wee blow gusting past our walls and still smell the evil. It’s so strong even the wind can’t chase its taint.” Magnus agreed.

Ill ease rolled through him, thick and dark.

He glanced again at the stair tower, relieved to know that Dugan and Brodie stood guard outside Margo’s door as she bathed and rested.

They’d stand there all night, even without supper, if Magnus didn’t relieve them, which he intended to do very soon.

He was weary of waiting for her.

But when Magnus followed Calum to a narrow slit window, he immediately wished he hadn’t. The moon had slid out from the clouds, and the sea gleamed like a sheet of beaten silver, made eerie by swirls of blowing mist. It was easy to imagine the high beast-headed prow of a Viking warship gliding out of such fog, one ship after another.

“I could almost choke on bile.” Calum’s gaze went to the shifting mist. “Something vile is afoot. If I’m wrong, then I’m an archangel, glittery winged and haloed.”

“You’re the devil and all his minions rolled in one.

The closest you come to angels is having them for breakfast. And”—Magnus punched Calum’s arm, pleased by the spark his words put in the older man’s eye—“I dinnae mean holy angels.”

“I do like the ladies.” Calum’s lips twitched. But then he peered again through the window, looking toward the horizon. “Still. . .”

“There’s no threat from the sea this night.” Magnus knew that was true. “The danger lies elsewhere. I can feel it simmering and shaping, but I cannae say where—”

A loud
crack
shattered the hall’s peace as the entry door flew open and slammed against the wall. “Holy heather, but it’s a foul night.” Orosius’s booming voice announced his unexpected arrival.

“Magnus!” The seer stamped his feet and shook the water off his shoulders. “I’ve brought grim tidings.” He whipped off his dripping bearskin cloak and threw it on a bench. “Where are you hiding?”

“I hide from no man.” Magnus strode up to him.

“That may be.” Orosius stood with his hands on his hips. “But I’m here to tell you there’s a woman you should hide from.”

Some of Magnus’s men sniggered.

Others hooted, perhaps not seeing the earnestness in the seer’s eyes.

“There’s ne’er been a MacBride born who feared a woman.” Scowling, Magnus stepped around his sooth-saying friend and shut the hall door against the wind. “I’ll no’ be the one to start such a fool tradition.” Orosius huffed. “Do you think I’d leave Windhill Cottage on such a night for foolery? I rarely leave my peat fire, as well you know.”

Magnus did know.

There were few men who savored solitude more than Orosius. He didn’t suffer others gladly. If he did seek company, he had good reason.

Worse, Orosius looked genuinely alarmed. His shaggy black hair and his huge beard appeared more tangled than usual, whipped by wind and spattered with raindrops. And he kept darting glances behind him to the hall’s closed door.

“What are your tidings?” Magnus gestured for someone to fetch the seer a cup of ale. “Were you peering into your kettle steam again?”

“I wasn’t scrying o’er my cauldron, nae.” Orosius let his voice boom. “I cast my runesticks is what I did.

They showed me the sorceress Donata Greer.” He shuddered visibly. “She’s escaped.”

“That cannae be true.” Magnus stared at him. “How could she get away from St. Eithne’s? The nunnery sits on an island in Loch Maree and”—he glanced at Ewan and some of the other warriors gathered near—“I sent a score of my best fighters to guard the isle.

They wouldn’t let her go.”

“I saw her free.” Orosius’s jaw set stubbornly. “The runes dinnae lie. They fell clear and true, showing me all.”

“What did you see?” Magnus felt a throbbing pain begin between his eyes. “Speak fast.”

“Bjorn Bone-Grinder fetched her.” Orosius spoke the name with scorn.

“Bone-Grinder?”
Magnus’s anger surged.

Bjorn Bone-Grinder was one of Sigurd Sword Breaker’s most formidable shipmasters. A huge man with flaxen hair down to his waist, he enjoyed a reputation as a ferocious fighter. But his byname didn’t come from the men he crushed in battle, though didn’t come from the men he crushed in battle, though the assumption was close to the truth, for he ground the bones of men he felled. He then mixed the dust into the sand he used to polish his weapons and mail.