The Warrior (3 page)

S
ean finally released Moira and left her to make her own way back to shore. She glared
at his back as she coughed up salt water and fought the pull of the undertow.

“If I see that dog again, I’ll slit its throat,” Sean shouted at Ragnall as he passed
him in the water. Ragnall was in up to his knees, with each wave threatening to knock
him over, but Sean continued to shore without looking back.

“Don’t come any farther!” Moira called out to her son.

She stumbled and fell headlong into the water and came up gasping. Her knees and palms
were cut and bleeding from the barnacles, but she concentrated on her son’s face and
kept moving. Finally, when she was within a few feet of him, Ragnall ran into her
arms. A wave crashed into her from behind, nearly causing her to lose her footing
again on the slippery rock.

Ragnall took her hand and pulled her toward shore.

Once they were on the beach beyond the reach of the waves, she collapsed onto the
sand. Ragnall ran to fetch the blanket they had brought to the beach, then dropped
it around her shoulders and crawled into her lap. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably
as she rocked her son, a ball of heat that she enveloped in her icy body. Seawater
from her hair streamed down to mix with the tears on his face.

“We cannot stay here any longer,” she said.

Moira had felt the lash of Sean’s tongue almost from the start of their marriage,
but this was the first time she had been in fear for her life. Though Sean had become
increasingly volatile these last months, she had fooled herself into believing she
could control him by cajoling and flattering him, as she always had.

The moment Ragnall raised the stick at Sean, everything changed. She should have known
her son would try to protect her. Ragnall had an innate sense of honor that Sean could
not comprehend—and it would put her son in danger.

“I don’t know how yet, but we will go home to Dunscaith Castle. We’ll be safe there.”
She rubbed her son’s head and stared out at the empty sea toward Skye. Whatever she
had to do to get her son to safety, she would do it.

“I wish he weren’t my father.” Ragnall paused, then asked in a small voice, “Will
I be like him?”

“No.” Moira took Ragnall’s face in her hands and looked hard into his eyes. “You’re
nothing like him, and ye never will be.”

“How do ye know?” Ragnall asked, worry tinting his dark blue eyes, the only part of
him that he got from her.

“Because at six you’re already a better man than he is.” She brushed his hair back
from his face. “Ye will grow up to be a fine warrior and the best of men. Ye will
make your mother proud.”

Sàr reappeared and lay down next to her, smelling of wet dog.

“He’s trying to warm ye,” Ragnall said.

“He’s a good dog,” she said, scratching the wolfhound’s shaggy head, “but you’ll have
to let him go. Sean will kill Sàr if he sees him.”

Ach, Sean was a demon to force a child to choose between his beloved dog and his mother’s
life.

“My father will never catch him,” Ragnall said. “Sàr is too fast.”

“Until we can make our escape, we must do our best not to provoke Sean,” she said.
“Do ye understand?”

Ragnall buried his face against her. “But how will Sàr eat?”

“Whenever we can, we’ll leave food for him in our special place in the old fort.”

Ragnall was quiet for a long while, then he asked, “Can we take Sàr with us when we
go to Skye?”

Moira was tempted to lie, but she had been raised on lies and false hopes, and she
would not do the same to Ragnall. She brushed the hair back from his face with her
fingers and kissed his forehead. “I don’t think so,
mo chroí
.” My heart. “But you and I will escape.”

No matter what she had to do, she would save her son.

W
hile they all gaped at Teàrlag, who stood at the entrance to the hall moaning and
waving her arms, Ian’s seventeen-year-old brother Niall came in behind her and pulled
the doors shut.

“Are you the fool who brought Teàrlag out in such weather?” Ian asked him while Connor
and Ilysa helped the old seer to the chair closest to the hearth. “Ye could have killed
her.”

Niall looked sheepish and came to stand next to Duncan. “I tried to tell her no,”
Niall whispered to him, “but the old woman threatened to cast a spell that would make
my manly parts shrink to nothing.”

Duncan chuckled. Teàrlag was well known for her foretelling and no doubt had the gift,
but she made use of her reputation to suit herself.

“What have ye seen that is so important that ye left your cottage, and in such bad
weather?” Connor asked, kneeling beside the old seer.

She looked around her with her one good eye. “Will no one fetch an old woman a cup
of whiskey before I die of a chill?”

Ilysa retrieved the flask from the head table and poured Teàrlag a small cupful. All
eyes were on the old seer as they waited to hear her news while she downed her drink.

Teàrlag wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and gave Connor a mournful glance.
“My own jug is pathetically low…”

“I’ll send a new jug home with ye,” Connor said, patting her arm and showing the patience
of a saint. “Are ye ready to tell us now?”

Duncan did not trust what he could not see. His mother had had strange visions on
occasion—or thought she did—and the whole business made him uneasy. And he sure as
hell did not like that his sister was learning the Old Ways from the seer.

“I saw a great storm at sea.” Teàrlag swayed in her seat and waved her gnarled hands
in the air. “Thunder came rolling over the water, and lightning cracked.”

It didn’t take
The Sight
to see the storm outside. Duncan glanced toward the stairs, wishing he could leave
the hall unnoticed, though with his size that was never possible. Ach, he was leaving
anyway.

Before Duncan had taken two steps, Teàrlag’s next words stopped him in place.

“Just before the storm, I heard Moira’s voice.”

“My sister?” Connor asked. “Is she safe?”

“Would I leave my cottage for the first time in a dozen years to tell ye all was well?”
Teàrlag snapped.

Duncan crossed the room and pushed the others aside to stand in front of Teàrlag.
“What do ye see?” he asked.

Teàrlag closed her eyes and made a humming sound before she spoke again. “I can’t
see Moira, but I hear her voice…and then I see a pool of blood.”

Duncan felt as if he had taken a blow to the chest.

“So much blood!” Teàrlag wailed.

“But is it Moira’s blood?” Connor asked.

“I’ve no notion whose blood it is,” Teàrlag said, coming out of her “trance” with
alarming speed. She got to her feet, but she was so hunched over that she looked no
taller standing than sitting. “Now I’ll have a wee nap before I return to my cottage.”

“Stay here tonight,” Ilysa said, resting her hand on the old woman’s shoulder.

“No. My cow will need milking.” Teàrlag fixed her good eye on Duncan. “You, lad, help
me upstairs to a bed.”

Duncan walked her across the hall to the stairs at an excruciatingly slow pace and
wondered if it would hurt the old seer’s pride to pick her up and carry her.

“Do ye remember,” Teàrlag said between wheezing breaths as they climbed the circular
stone staircase, “when I predicted ye would suffer great sorrow?”

“Aye.” That wasn’t something a lad of eleven was likely to forget.

Teàrlag had seemed older than the mist even back then, so he, Connor, Alex, and Ian
had gone to her cottage hoping she would predict their future before she died. Being
lads, all they had wanted to hear was what great warriors they would become. Instead,
her predictions had been about love and women. The old seer had always been contrary.

“I told ye then that sometimes a man can change his fate,” she said when she stopped
to catch her breath. “’Tis time ye changed yours, Duncan Ruadh MacDonald.”

He had changed it—he was no longer just the nursemaid’s fatherless son. Whoever sired
him had violated the Highland tradition that required a man to claim his child, regardless
of whether he was wed to the mother. Duncan had risen from that shame to become captain
of his chieftain’s guard, a respected warrior with a fearsome reputation.

“Ye try an old woman’s patience. Ye were fated from the start to be a great warrior.”
Teàrlag stretched her arm above her head to tap her knobby finger on his chest. “But
are ye brave enough to trust in a woman’s love? Because that is your only hope of
truly changing your fate.”

That would change his fate, all right. For the worse.

“Do ye still carry that old bone whistle?” she asked.

Ach, the old woman’s mind was growing weak with the way it wandered.

“Aye,” he said, touching the eight-inch whistle that was tied to a leather thong around
his neck. It was a gift from his mother, and he always carried it with him.

“Good,” Teàrlag said. “Ye will need it before your trip is done.”

His whistle?

“And in our clan’s time of need, your music will provide the answer.”

Moira hated having to do this. Her heart pounded in her ears as she glanced at Sean
again to be sure he was immersed in the fabricated tale he was telling the men on
the other side of him. Then she met Colla’s eyes across the table and slowly ran her
tongue across her upper lip. Colla leaned forward with his mouth hanging open like
a fish.

Ach, she should have chosen a man capable of subtlety. Once she scratched the men
with wives and children off her list, there were few to choose from who owned their
own boats. Besides, Colla had wanted her for years. It should not take long to convince
him to take her away, and she was in a hurry.

Moira stood up from the table and put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. When Sean
turned his face toward her, she remembered how handsome and charming she had thought
he was when she first met him. The charm had evaporated a long time ago, but his drinking
had not yet softened his warrior’s body or made the skin over his broad cheekbones
blotchy.

He had the eyes of a snake.

“The wine is getting low,” she said. “I’ll see that the new barrel is opened.”

“Be quick about it,” Sean said.

She clenched her teeth as he slapped her bottom. Ach, he had the manners of a pig.

She could not risk a quick glance at Colla on her way out of the hall. Even blind
drunk, Sean might notice. She hurried down the stone steps into the damp coolness
of the undercroft. To her left, the kitchen was noisy and lit with torches and cooking
fires. She turned to her right, into the dark corridor that led to the storerooms.

Using the key tied to her belt, she unlocked the door to the room in which they kept
the whiskey, wine, and ale. The smell of spirits and dank earth filled her nose as
she slipped inside. Her heart hammered as she waited and watched through the crack
in the door.

Would Colla come? She did not know which she feared more—if he did or if he did not.
Playing on a man’s desire without letting him have what he wanted was a difficult
game to play, and the stakes could not be higher.

Footsteps echoed against the stone walls. Her chest tightened while she watched the
boots and then the legs of a man appear as he descended the stairs. A moment later,
she saw that it was Colla. After pausing to glance furtively toward the kitchens,
he strode toward the storerooms.

“Quickly!” She opened the door for him and then shut it behind him.

Colla pulled her against him at once, before she was prepared for it. She turned her
face when he tried to kiss her.

“Did I misread ye?” Colla’s breath in her face smelled of onions and ale. “Or are
ye playing coy with me?”

She tried to ease him away. “Ye didn’t misread me, but—”

“God, how I’ve wanted ye,” he said as he began planting sloppy, wet kisses down the
side of her throat. When she shivered, he mistook her revulsion for excitement and
increased his efforts. Ach, men saw what they wanted to see. They were all vain as
peacocks.

“We don’t have time for this now.” Moira gripped his shoulders and gave him a hard
push. “And ’tis not safe here.”

“Can ye get away and meet me in the field behind the castle tonight?” Colla asked,
breathing in her face again.

“In the field behind the castle? Is that all ye think of me?” She did not have to
pretend to be affronted.

“I think the world of ye,” Colla said, leaning too close again.

“’Tis too dangerous for us here,” she said. “If Sean caught us, he’d murder us both.”

“If ye could slip away for an afternoon,” Colla said, “there’s a quiet bay a couple
of miles to the west.”

“Do ye think I’d leave my husband for a man who only wants to roll around on the grass
with me a time or two?” she asked.

“Leave your husband?” Colla straightened and blinked at her.

Had she misjudged how badly he wanted her? Moira did not have much time to persuade
Colla to take her and her son away. Sean was like a pot of oil on a hot fire ready
to explode. She took Colla’s hand and placed it on her breast.

“
O shluagh
,” Colla murmured, calling on the faeries for help.

Moira swallowed back her distaste. Even through the cloth of her gown, his hand felt
hot and damp.

“Please, Moira, I’ve wanted ye for so long. Just tell me where ye want to meet.”

When will this be over?
His hand was on her breast like a limpet.

“I want ye to take me far away from here,” she said, “to a place where Sean could
never catch us.”

“Meet me tomorrow and we’ll talk about it.” Colla’s breathing grew harsh as he rubbed
his thumb over her nipple. This was taking longer than she’d anticipated.

“The only place we’ll be safe is at my brother’s castle on Skye,” she said and removed
his hand from her breast. “My brother is chieftain of my clan and would welcome us.”

Connor damned well better welcome her, after all she’d been through.

“Ye would take me as your new husband?” Colla asked. “My heart has been yours for
years, but I didn’t dare hope ye would consider marrying me.”

Colla may have convinced himself that his heart was engaged, but Moira knew precisely
what part of him he hoped to engage with her. And, typical man, he did not even notice
that she had failed to answer his question.

“I won’t be parted from my son.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts to draw his
attention to them.

“Ach, I don’t know about taking a man’s child from him…”

“I will not go without Ragnall,” she said.

Colla dragged his gaze from her breasts to her face. “Whatever ye want, Moira.”

She let her breath out slowly. This time, when Colla pulled her into his arms, she
gritted her teeth and let him for a moment.

“I must wait for an opportunity,” she said, leaning back from him. “Ye cannot tell
a soul. Sean is a dangerous man.”

“Ach, I’m no afraid of Sean,” Colla said, puffing out his chest. “I’m willing to fight
him for ye.”

Men.
She had told him that to make him cautious, not to prick his pride. She cupped his
jaw with her hand and smiled up at him. “Please. I don’t want a fight.”

“All right,” he said.

Panic rose in her throat when Colla crushed her against him. She felt cold and clammy
as he began running his hands over her.

“I must go before Sean sends someone looking for me.” Feigning reluctance, she eased
him away. “We’ll have all the time we want once we are away from here.”

“How will I know when and where to meet you?” Colla asked.

“When I wear my dark red gown, that means I will try to get away that night,” she
said. “Ye know where the old wooden fort is?”

“Aye.”

“I’ll meet ye there at midnight.”