Must Love Kilts (35 page)

He boasted the bone added strength and magic to his ax swing.

Magnus had been trying to kill him for years.

But the bastard was slippery as an eel.

“Even if Bone-Grinder managed to near the isle”—

Magnus’s mind was whirring—“he couldn’t have made it away alive. The men I sent to the nunnery are expert bowmen. They could’ve picked off Bone-Grinder and his men before they’d had a chance to run a ship onto the isle. Or they could’ve filled her timbers with fire arrows when she tried to beat away.”

“Aye, they could’ve done.” Orosius took a sip of ale.

“But they didn’t, eh?”

“What else did the runes show you?”

Orosius tugged at his beard. “Bone-Grinder was cunning. He—”

“That rat is e’er clever.” A sick feeling was beginning to spread through Magnus’s gut. The Viking shipmaster was more than crafty. He was twisted.

“What did he do? I already know it was treachery.”

“It was that.” Orosius spat onto the rushes. “He brought hill folk with him. A whole second ship filled with feeble old men, cowering young women, and bairns. Somewhere he’d also captured a few monks and a nun.”

Magnus suddenly understood the tight knot in his belly.

“The hill folk . . .” He didn’t want to voice his suspicion. That the hill folk were the vanished farmers Orla mentioned.

“A monk was the first to die.” Orosius fisted his hands on the words. “Bone-Grinder slit the man’s belly in view of the nunnery walls. Then he demanded Donata’s release, saying he’d kill the poor folk in the other boat, one after the other, if your men didn’t row her out to him.”

Magnus’s blood chilled. “Your runesticks showed you all that?”

“They did, aye.”

“I’m no’ surprised Sword Breaker wanted Donata.” Magnus ran a hand through his hair. “I should’ve realized he’d have seen her when he dealt with Godred. He’s known as a lusty bastard and—”

“Bone-Grinder is the one who desires her.” Orosius’s shrewd gaze met Magnus’s. “When the runesticks showed me the scene, I saw him claiming her as his woman. He might’ve acted with Sword Breaker’s approval, but he went to St. Eithne’s to force the return of his bride.”

“So ...” Magnus considered. “The unlamented Godred didn’t just advise Sword Breaker where he’d find rich and easy plundering. He was also willling to whore his sister as bride to one of Sigurd’s fiercest shipmasters. Some of the gold and silver we found in Godred’s hall must’ve been payment for Donata.”

“Could be . . .” Orosius rubbed the back of his neck.

“To be sure it was.” Magnus snatched an ale cup off a table and drained it. He needed to clean the taste from his mouth of a man who’d sell his sister so vilely.

He couldn’t stomach the ill treatment of any woman.

Even if she was a wicked, coldhearted sorceress who’d spew a curse if someone just looked at her wrongly.

“If Godred yet lived”—Magnus slapped down the empty ale cup—“I’d kill the bastard again.”

“You’d be wasting effort.” Orosius lifted his voice above the men’s angry murmurings. “Donata went to Bone-Grinder eagerly. My rune cast showed her as a bitch in heat, throwing herself into Bone-Grinder’s arms as soon as your men handed her onto his ship.

“Like as not”—he sounded disgusted—“they were rutting in the ship’s bilgewater even before Bone-Grinder’s rowers took up their oars.” Magnus scowled, regretting his moment of sympathy for the sorceress.

“Did the runes show where Bone-Grinder went?” Magnus could feel Vengeance humming in his scabbard, scenting Norse blood.

“Aye.” Orosius strode to the hearth fire and stretched his hands to the flames. “But the waters where I saw his ships could’ve been anywhere. There was too much mist to tell rightly. With St. Eithne’s at Loch Maree, I’d wager I saw the coast along Torridon or Gairloch.

“Either way, you’ll no’ need to go looking for him.” He turned to warm his backside. “The last thing I read in the runes was Bone-Grinder promising Donata he’d avenge her brother’s death.

“The bastard will be coming after you.” Orosius’s voice was loud in the quiet hall. “He’ll bring shiploads of friends and they’ll want vengeance.”

“And they’ll meet her.” Magnus patted his sword hilt.

“She’ll look forward to the feast.”

“The day will be soon.” Orosius sounded cheerful, as if he relished the fight. “It’ll be a great slaughter.

And I dinnae need my runesticks to know.” He grinned. “I feel it in my bones.”

“So do I.” And Magnus really did.

But before he could press his fingers to his throbbing temples, the hall door burst open again. The door crashed against the wall as six men from Magnus’s night patrol burst in from the rain, one of them carrying a limp and drunk-looking Dugan, while two others lurched under Brodie’s weight. The two guardsmen were hardly able to support the big man.

Brodie appeared as befuddled as Dugan.

“Found ’em up on the cliff, we did.” One of the patrol guards threw a glance at Magnus. “Out cold, they were, flat on the ground.”

Both men’s heads lolled on their necks, their limbs hung loosely, and they babbled like witless fools.

Magnus stared at the spectacle, fury scalding him.

Fear lamed him.

He was aware of his jaw slipping and his eyes flying wide, but no words left his mouth. His throat had snapped tight, dread stealing his ability to speak, making it impossible to even breathe.

Dugan and Brodie weren’t abovestairs, standing guard at Margo’s door, after all.

They weren’t watching her.

They were ale-taken and he was going to kill them.

Seeing red, he started to reach for his dirk—a quick neck slice was what the bastards needed—when his aunts appeared out of nowhere. The two women were making a fast line for the men. Portia had her healing basket clutched in one hand, and Magnus grabbed the basket now, slamming it down on a table.

“They’ll no’ have pampering.” He glared at his aunts, putting himself between them and the creel of herbs and cures. “They’re stone drunk and will have naught but my fist in their noses—”

“They look something other than ale-headed to us.” Portia drew herself up to her full height. “And”—Agnes darted around them, snatching the basket before Magnus could stop her—“my potions aren’t for them.

We want to help Margo. If Dugan and Brodie have been set upon, she’ll also be in need of tending. We—”

“What?”
Magnus roared as the hall around him dimmed, then reared back—everything near him flashed black-and-white. “Margo isn’t bathing?”

“How could she be?” Agnes kept the healing basket behind her, out of Magnus’s reach. “No one made a bath for her. We went to look in on her a few times this evening, thinking to offer her one, but not a sound came from behind her door and so we left her alone.”

“We thought she was sleeping.” Portia was starting to look gray.

“Where is she?” Magnus’s head was going to explode. He glanced round, his heart icing, blood thundering in his ears, absolutely deafening.

“She’s gone.” Portia sank onto a bench, her fingers pressed to her mouth.

“Dugan and Brodie didn’t bring her back from the cliff with them.” Agnes voiced Magnus’s dread. “She must’ve gone missing,” she repeated her sister’s must’ve gone missing,” she repeated her sister’s words. “Oh, dear, oh, dear ...”

“Nae, she was taken.”
Dugan spoke with great effort, his words slurred. He’d been laid on a cleared long table and now he rolled his head to the side, trying to focus his glazed eyes on Magnus. “It was Donata. She—”

“Donata?” Magnus felt the floor open beneath him.

Dugan nodded. “She appeared out of nowhere just after you left. We shook our swords at her, thinking to scare her away, but”—he took a long, shaky breath—“she smiled and pointed a finger at our feet, making flames shoot up out o’ the ground.

“It was a wall of fire, but
cold
fire.” He looked at Magnus, the horror in his eyes showing that he spoke true. “That fire whipped around us, trapping us where we stood as she chanted and raved, staring at us with glowing silver eyes until our legs buckled and we fell to our knees.

“I dinnae remember much after that, everything went dark.” His eyes started to fill, glistening brightly. “If aught happens to Lady Margo . . .”

On another table, Brodie struggled to speak. “L-last thing we saw, Donata was sneaking up behind your lady. The Lady Margo was napping, where you’d left her on the cliff, and—” He couldn’t finish, a rough, rattling cough seizing him.

“No-o-o!”
Magnus threw back his head and howled.

He clamped his hands against his temples, twisting his fingers in his hair. All the horror and darkness he’d ever known came rushing back to crush him now.

He’d promised to keep Margo safe, even vowing to rip the sky if she was taken from him.

Now...

What hollow promises he’d given her. Cold guilt and anguish pressed the life from him, filling him with bitter ash. His body was frozen, heavy and leaden as if he’d been cast to stone.

He looked around his hall, seeing no one and nothing.

He
heard
everyone. The low, rumbling voices of his men, his aunts’ distress, and even Frodi’s whine, but that was all. Everything else was dead for him.

His world had slammed to a shuddering halt and he couldn’t bear the thought that Margo was gone. Even worse, she was in Donata’s clutches. He was living Liana’s tragedy all over again. And once more he hadn’t been there to stop the horror. The woman he loved had been taken and he hadn’t even known it until it was too late.

He had to find her.

This time he couldn’t fail.

Chapter 20

Three days and much searching later, Magnus stood on the bow platform of
Sea-Raven
. He cast a scowl at Ewan, who skillfully manned the sleek warship’s steering oar. The lad’s face was grim-set, his eyes swollen and darkly shadowed, as were the eyes of all men on board. Magnus knew he looked worse than the lot of them. Even Frodi whined and hung his tail between his legs in Magnus’s fearsome presence.

But it wasn’t often he spent full days and nights tearing through every clump of heather, knocking apart each tumble of stone on the moor, and wading through bog pools, dreading what he might find at their oozing black bottom.

Unfortunately, he’d ripped the sky in vain.

They hadn’t found Margo.

She remained gone without a trace.

Now they were following Magnus’s last, desperate hope. They were rowing the
Sea-Raven
south toward Gairloch, riding the huge gray swells of a flooding tide.

The men were silent, each warrior sending his oar biting hard into the cold, wind-whipped water. Needle-sharp rain and a thick, blowing mist obscured the line of jagged black cliffs that marked the nearby coast.

Not that it mattered.

Magnus and his crew knew every inch of these waters.

There was also the stench of blood on the wind that drew them onward. And like good hounds, they needed only to follow that foul smell and they’d come to the fishing hamlet where Orosius swore they’d find trouble.

The taint in the air proved the seer right.

Magnus just hoped that Margo’s lifeblood wasn’t adding to the reek.

If he couldn’t find her, if he failed to save her . . .

“Damnation!”
He clenched his fists and clamped his jaw, cursing whatever cruel gods had tossed her into his arms only to rip her away again. He could feel her now, the urgent press of her lush curves against him, how she wrapped her arms around his neck, returning his kisses with singeing ardor.

The memories made his blood roar. Fury raced through his veins like liquid fire, flaming his need to find her.

And to tear apart the heathen devils who’d taken her.

Magnus drew a tight, furious breath. He squeezed shut his eyes for a moment, wishing he could open them and still be on the cliff with her. He should have them and still be on the cliff with her. He should have swept her up in his arms and carried her back to Badcall with him. But he’d gone, leaving her vulnerable.

Now...

He shoved a hand through his hair. His heart was a cold stone in his chest, his soul hollowed and black.

Margo’s scent was still on him. It was faint, only a trace, but enough to madden him.

“’Tis glad I am you’re no’ aiming such a look at me.” Calum’s deep voice boomed close by. “I’m no’ of a mind to feed Vengeance with my blood.” Magnus turned to the older man. “Pray God that Vengeance will soon gorge herself on Viking blood.

And that none of the bastards challenge us before we reach Gairloch. My gut tells me that’s where Margo is, trapped and helpless in the thick of the horror there.” Calum didn’t argue.

And his silent agreement skewered Magnus’s heart.

When a glimmer of sympathy flickered in Calum’s eyes, Magnus turned swiftly away, returning his gaze to the sea. They hadn’t yet seen any Norse ships, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

Magnus just hoped that if any Northmen spotted
Sea-Raven
and her escort ships shearing through the waves, they’d assume the long-keeled, high-prowed fighting ships were their own and not come to investigate. If they also caught the gleam of mail and helmets, Magnus was counting on such marauders simply raising their oars in greeting and then speeding on their way, accepting that
Sea-Raven
and his other ships were hastening south to do their own raiding.

There was a certain code of honor among such cravens.

Any other time, he’d have welcomed a chance encounter with a well-manned Norse longboat. Better yet, several of them. He’d developed a liking for fast and furious Viking slayings at sea. Smearing the waves with Nordic blood was gratifying. As was watching the howling bastards sink like stones to the seabed. A dressed-for-war Viking, weighted down with heavy mail and steel, vanished beneath the waves in an eye blink.

Just now his only wish was to find Margo.

He kept his gaze on the dark smudge of the coast, what little of it could be seen. If he squinted, he could just make out the faint glow of hearth fires above some of the cliffs. The smoke haze was reassuring because it meant those scattered fishing settlements were as yet unmolested.