The Warrior (4 page)

I
’ll leave for Ireland in the morning,” Duncan said.

He and Connor were sitting alone having a last drink. Alex had taken Teàrlag home
to her cow, and Ian had gone home to Sìleas and their babies. After all the commotion
earlier, the hall had settled down to a quiet hum of voices.

“The winter storms are still upon us,” Connor said. “Wait another month or two.”

“After what Teàrlag said, ye know I can’t,” Duncan said.

“The meaning of Teàrlag’s vision wasn’t clear, and she’s getting old and confused,”
Connor said. “I expect you’ll find that all is well with Moira.”

For all Duncan’s years of misery, his one consolation had been that he had done the
right thing in leaving. He had believed that Moira would wed a chieftain and have
the kind of life that would make her happy—the kind that he could never give her.
A thousand times he had imagined her as mistress of a fine castle, with servants,
jewels, and pretty gowns. And in his mind’s eye, she had always been smiling and laughing.

If he had been wrong and he had made the sacrifice for nothing, he could not bear
it.

“All the same, I’ll be going in the morning,” Duncan said, looking into his cup.

Duncan’s affair with Moira was the only secret he had ever kept from Connor. Ian had
been at court in Stirling that summer, so he had not known of it, either. But Alex
had been around Dunscaith and, being Alex, had guessed what was going on between Duncan
and Moira long before Connor’s father did.

Their chieftain had waited to tell Connor until they were boarding the boat for France.
Connor refused to believe his father until he confronted Duncan, and Duncan admitted
it was true. That was the only time Connor had ever struck Duncan in anger. Even as
a young lad, Connor always had a cool head.

When Connor knocked him to the bottom of the boat and started punching him, Duncan
did not defend himself. He knew he deserved it. Eventually, Alex and Ian managed to
drag Connor off him.

“Use your head,” Alex had shouted in Connor’s face as he flung his arm out to point
at Duncan. “Who do ye think did the seducing? Our man, death-before-dishonor Duncan?
Or Princess Moira, who expects the world to bend to her will? Ach, I tell ye, Duncan
didn’t have a chance.”

“Do ye love her?” Connor asked him.

“Aye,” Duncan answered.

And that was the end of it. As close as he and Connor were, they never spoke about
Duncan’s relationship with Moira again.

Months later, though, Connor shared the battered letter from his father with the news
of Moira’s marriage. The letter had taken far longer to reach them than the mere fortnight
it had taken for Moira to say wedding vows to another man after professing her love
to Duncan. Connor had put his hand on Duncan’s shoulder as he read the letter. But
he said nothing, because there was nothing to say.

“I am grateful to ye for going to Ireland,” Connor said. “When you see my sister,
you’ll know if something is wrong.”

Just because they never spoke of Duncan’s feelings for Moira, did not mean that Connor
did not know them.

“I’ll take the galley we stole from Shaggy Maclean,” Duncan said. “It’s small, but
it’s fast and glides through the water like a sea otter.”

“Ye can’t take many men on it,” Connor said.

“That’s an advantage,” Duncan said. “Since ye can’t spare enough men for me to do
battle with the Irish, ’tis better to have too few to put them on their guard.”

“How many men do ye want?” Connor asked.

“I could use a second pair of hands on the boat,” Duncan said. “That’s all.”

“Ye know I can’t spare Ian or Alex.” Connor narrowed his eyes as he stared into the
fire. “Take Ian’s brother Niall.”

Duncan suppressed a groan. Ian’s seventeen-year-old brother was becoming a fine warrior,
and he had plenty of courage, but he was so damned earnest.

“Niall is not much younger than we were when we left for France,” Connor said. “He
fought at Flodden.”

“Aye, but…”

“I know, he’s so naïve as to be painful.” Connor took a drink from his cup. “’Tis
hard to believe we were that young not long ago.”

Duncan had never been naïve, and he took nothing at face value. Unlike Niall and Ian,
who had grown up in a loving home with parents who protected them, Duncan had to learn
to watch out for himself at an early age. He did not regret it; the hard lessons had
made him strong.

“People trust Niall,” Connor said. “They’ll tell him anything, and that could be useful.”

Duncan leaned forward and rubbed his head. “He’s a good lad, I suppose. Niall will
do.”

“Your first task is to find out if the MacQuillans and the other Irish will fight
for or against us when we take on the MacLeods,” Connor said. “I don’t want to risk
our alliance with them over a wee spat Moira is having with her husband.”

“And if it’s more than a wee spat?” Duncan asked.

“We have too many enemies already,” Connor said. “Do whatever ye can to get her home
without starting a clan war. I don’t care if ye have to lie, cheat, or charm them
to do it.”

“Hmmph. Lie, cheat, or charm? You should send one of the others,” Duncan said. “I’m
a fighting man.”

“You’re that and more,” Connor said, squeezing his shoulder. “Be careful. I can’t
afford to lose ye.”

“
Mìle fàilte oirbh
.” A thousand welcomes. Moira bit out the traditional greeting to the MacLeod chieftain.
She was furious that Sean had invited her clan’s worst enemy to their home. This was
one more affront, and hopefully the last.

She brushed her fingers over the skirt of her wine-red gown to remind herself that
she was leaving tonight. Twice before, she had worn it. Both times she had had to
call off her plan when Sean came upstairs instead of falling asleep drunk in the hall
as he usually did. Tonight she was determined to succeed. She caught Colla’s eye and
gave him a slight nod.

“
Beannachd air an taigh
.” A blessing on this house. Alastair Crotach MacLeod spoke in a deep, raspy voice
while he appraised her with his cold eyes. He did not appear to be any more pleased
by the prospect of sharing a meal with a MacDonald than she was at sharing it with
him.

The MacLeod chieftain carried a constant, and likely painful, reminder of his hate
for her clan. He was called Alastair Crotach, Alastair the Humpback, because a terrible
axe wound he had received as a young man, from a MacDonald, had left his shoulder
deformed.

Alastair MacLeod had been chieftain of his clan for nearly forty years, and he wore
his power like a second skin. He was sixty-odd years but looked far younger. Paradoxically,
his deformed shoulder made him seem more formidable and added to his mystique.

“Ye look like your mother,” the MacLeod said.

“Ye knew her?” Moira had not intended to converse with the man, but his remark startled
her into blurting out the question.

“She was the youngest and prettiest of the three beautiful Clanranald sisters,” he
said. “I saw her but once, but she was not a woman a man forgets.”

Moira had no memory at all of her mother.

“Shame she left a good man for the likes of your father,” the MacLeod said, “and then
died trying to leave him.”

How dare he speak ill of my family to my face?
Only the dead knew the truth of what happened between her father and mother at the
end.

“And they say ’tis women who spread rumors and gossip,” Moira said, giving the MacLeod
chieftain a falsely sweet smile.

“Moira!” Sean squeezed her arm painfully and marched her out of the hall. “I expect
ye to be courteous to my guests.”

Moira bit her tongue to keep from saying that his guest was rude first.

“I will deal with ye later, woman.” When Sean had her through the door to the stairs,
he gave her a shove. “Go upstairs. I have important business to discuss with the MacLeod,
and I can’t have ye causing trouble.”

She would never have guessed that she would be grateful for the MacLeod’s visit or
his rudeness. But thanks to him, she would have more time to make her escape. The
two chieftains were likely to talk and drink far into the night, and Sean would not
discover she was gone until morning.

Ragnall was asleep on the pallet on the floor next to the bed.

“Wake up,” she whispered and shook his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, she said,
“We’re leaving,
mo chroí
.”

She gathered the last of their things, shoved them into her cloth bag, and flung it
over her shoulder. After taking her son’s hand, she put her ear to the door. She heard
no one in the stone stairwell, so she eased the door open.

With her hand on the latch, she paused to glance back at the bedchamber that had been
the source of such misery to her.

Good riddance, Sean MacQuillan. May ye burn in hell for all eternity.

Y
ou’re packing?” Rhona asked.

“Mmph.” Duncan grunted in the affirmative, though it was obvious what he was doing.

“How long will ye be gone this time?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” He took an axe down from the wall and tested the sharpness of the
blade before setting it on the table with the other weapons and supplies he was taking.

“Where can ye be going in the midst of the winter storms?” Rhona asked.

He shot her a glance. Asking so many questions was contrary to the understanding between
them. He never told her the chieftain’s business. In fact, he never discussed it with
anyone, except for Ian and Alex. And he wouldn’t even tell them if Connor asked him
not to.

“Perhaps I won’t be here when ye return,” Rhona said, folding her arms.

“Do as ye wish.” They got along well enough, but if she wanted to go, she could.

“Is that all ye have to say to me?” she said and grabbed his arm. “I’ve been sharing
your bed for two years.”

Duncan had thought their arrangement suited her. He should have listened when Alex
warned him that Rhona might think there was more to it than there was. Alex understood
women. Duncan sighed. It was not Rhona’s fault that there was only one woman he would
ever want for more than a bedmate.

And that one woman had forgotten him in a fortnight.

“You’d be sorry to find me gone when ye return,” Rhona said.

Duncan strapped his sword on his back, picked up his bag, and turned to face her.
It was ironic that he had been sleeping with Moira’s former maid. Of course, it was
Moira who had developed the plan that Rhona pretend she was the one slipping out of
the castle and carrying on with him. Rhona had none of Moira’s vibrant beauty, but
she was a curvy lass with dark hair and blue eyes. It was because of Rhona’s superficial
resemblance to Moira that they had been able to carry on as long as they had without
discovery.

It was also the reason he had let Rhona into his house when she kept coming around
after he returned from France. Ach, he was a sorry man. At least he never pretended
that she was Moira in the dark anymore.

Well, almost never.

Moira hugged herself more against the chill growing inside her than the bitter wind
coming off the sea as she watched for Colla’s boat. Seven years she had waited. Surely,
God should not ask one more day of her.

For the first hour she and Ragnall waited, Moira had to force herself not to think
about the price she would have to pay with her body for this boat ride home to Skye.
Colla was not a bad sort, but she did not want him touching her. Perhaps she could
persuade him that a good deed was its own reward. Ha.

They had waited so long now that she feared Colla was not coming.

“Where is the boat?” Ragnall asked in a sleepy voice. He sat on the ground leaning
against the wolfhound, who had joined them shortly after they entered the ruins of
the old fort.

Moira dug her fingernails into her palms to keep from crying in front of her son.

“We’ll wait a wee bit longer,” she said. “If he doesn’t come, we’ll find another way.”

Clump, clump, clump
.

Moira jumped at the sound of footsteps on the stone slabs that had once been the floor
of the old fortress. Finally, Colla had come. She wanted to believe it, but with every
echoing footstep, she felt disaster coming closer.

Clump, clump, clump. Mary, Mother of God, please let it be Colla.

Out of the shadows the figure of a man emerged. It was not Colla.

She heard Ragnall whisper “Go!” and the wolfhound disappeared into the darkness.

Despite the numbing cold, Moira’s palms were clammy, and sweat prickled under her
arms. Her mind worked feverishly to find an explanation she could give Sean for their
being at the old fort in the night. But there was none.

“Expecting someone else?” Sean’s voice came out of the blackness.

The calmness of Sean’s voice frightened her more than if he had shouted. She did not
want her son here.

“Go ahead, look for Colla’s boat,” Sean said, swinging his arm out toward the sea.

How had he discovered that it was Colla who was taking her away?

“Ye won’t be seeing him again.” Sean paused. “No one will. Colla’s feeding the fish.”

Moira sucked in her breath. “No! Ye wouldn’t. Not to your own brother.”

But she knew in her heart that Sean spoke the truth. Dear God, she had not meant to
cause Colla’s death.

She told herself to brazen it out, to pretend that she did not know why Sean had murdered
Colla, but she could not. Instead, she sank down on her knees on the cold, hard ground
and bent over, trying to get her breath back. Ragnall ran to her and threw his arms
around her.

Although Moira had no real memories of her mother, she had been plagued as a child
by dreams of her mother’s body floating facedown in the sea with her long dark hair
swirling about her. Those images of her drowned mother came back to her now, but with
Colla’s body floating beside her.

Mary, Mother of God, please help me.
Would she ever have the chance to attempt an escape again? Sean would watch her even
more vigilantly than before. All was lost.

She was too drained to fear Sean’s temper. Surely, there was nothing worse he could
do to her than keep her trapped with him in his castle.