The Warrior (5 page)

M
oira heard the
clink-clink
of the key turning in the lock and pushed Ragnall behind her.

When Sean stepped inside, his large frame seemed to take up all the empty space in
the bedchamber. He had left her all night to wait and wonder what her punishment would
be for attempting to leave him. In the gray morning light coming through the narrow
window, Sean’s expression still appeared unnaturally calm. It did not bode well. Whatever
evil he had set his mind to, it pleased him.

“I’ve decided to foster our son,” Sean said.

It was a common practice for highborn families to foster their children with other
clans as a way of strengthening their alliances. Months ago, Moira had suggested that
Sean foster Ragnall with her own clan. Though she knew better, hope rose in her chest
against all odds, like a blade of grass that grows out of rock.

“My brother would teach Ragnall to be a strong warrior,” she said, trying to keep
her voice steady.

“I wouldn’t send a son of mine to your clan,” Sean said. “The MacDonalds of Sleat
are weak and doomed.”

She wanted to argue, but that would work against her. “Where then?”

Ragnall was all she had to live for, and she would miss him with all her heart. Still,
she wanted him away from Sean, anywhere he would be safe.

“The MacLeod chieftain has agreed to foster Ragnall.”

“Ye can’t send him to the MacLeods,” she blurted out. “They are my clan’s worst enemies!”

“They aren’t my enemy,” Sean said, with a self-satisfied smile. “The MacLeods will
be a useful ally to us MacQuillans.”

“What of the alliance your father made with mine? You’ve no cause to break it.” Despite
the danger, Moira was raised a chieftain’s daughter, and it was her duty to speak
for her clan. “Ye can’t send Ragnall to the MacLeods—he’s my brother’s heir.” At least,
she had not heard that Connor had a son of his own.

“Ragnall is
my
son and
my
heir.” Sean leaned forward, his pretense of good humor cracking. “I can send him
to the MacLeods or to the devil himself if I choose.”

Ragnall was clinging to her waist and weeping. Moira held him against her, trying
to comfort him, as her mind whirled. It struck her that Sean was not doing this to
threaten her brother and her clan, but her.

“You’d best learn to treat me with the respect I deserve,” Sean said between tight
lips. “If ye ever attempt to leave me again, I’ll make certain ye will never see our
son again.”

“Punishing me is more important than protecting our son?” Even as she asked the question,
she knew the answer. Sean had found the one punishment that would make her suffer
every hour of every day, and he meant to use it.

“Ragnall, say good-bye to your mother,” Sean said. “And stop weeping like a damned
lass.”

“Don’t do this. Please,” she begged Sean as she held her son against her side. “Ye
can’t trust the MacLeods with my precious boy.”

“The MacLeods are ready to set sail,” Sean said. “Ragnall, gather your things and
get down to the beach, or your mother will pay for your disobedience.”

Sean slammed the door behind him, leaving them alone to say good-bye. For a long moment,
she and Ragnall wept and clung to each other. Then Moira wiped her nose and eyes on
her sleeve and took her son’s face between her hands. She knew that what she said
to him now was important. It would have to sustain them both until they could be reunited.

“Never forget that ye are a MacDonald of Sleat and that ye come from a long line of
famed warriors, including Somerled and the Lords of the Isles,” she said. “Learn all
ye can from the MacLeods, for it could prove useful one day, but don’t trust anyone
except a MacDonald.”

Ragnall wiped his eyes and nodded, but his bottom lip was quivering. “I don’t want
to go.”

“I don’t know how long you’ll have to stay with the MacLeods.” She brushed his hair
back and looked into his eyes. “But I promise, I will come for ye or send someone
to bring ye to me as soon as I can.”

Ragnall nodded again. Ach, he was such a brave little boy. She pulled him close and
kissed his hair.

“Don’t forget me,” she whispered, though it was too much to ask. He was only six.

“I won’t,” he said. “I love ye, Mother.”

“You are the pulse of my heart,
a chuisle mo chroí
,” she said and embraced her son for the last time.

A
nother wave crashed over the bow, drenching Niall from head to toe.

“This storm will pass soon,” Duncan called out over the wind whipping against his
face. “The sky is clear up ahead.”

“I don’t mind a wee bit of weather,” Niall shouted back with a grin.

Niall was a good lad, though a mite too cheerful. Duncan did not mind the foul weather,
either. Navigating through rough seas diverted his thoughts. Once they passed through
the squall and the sailing became easy, he could not keep himself from thinking about
seeing Moira for the first time after all these years of longing.

If God had any mercy, she would have grown plump and lost her looks.

Yet it would make no difference. Moira was imprinted on his soul, and there would
never be another woman he wanted in the way he wanted her.

That did not mean he would let her make a fool of him again. Not that she would bother
trying. Despite the old seer’s vision, Duncan expected to find Moira living happily
in her fine castle with her chieftain husband.

“I see it,” Niall called out and pointed to where a castle sat high on the red cliffs
emerging from the clouds.

“We’ll stow our boat out of sight up the shore and walk back to the castle,” Duncan
said.

Niall cast him a questioning look. “Ye don’t trust this clan?”

“I don’t trust any clan but ours,” Duncan said. “And I don’t trust all of our own
clansmen, either.”

Duncan steered the boat into a small cove, and they hauled it up the shore and into
the brush.

“I suppose you’ll have us sleeping out here in the cold and wet,” Niall said, “when
we could be sleeping beside the roaring hearth inside their keep.”

“A cautious man lives longer.”

Ach, he sounded like an old man. But castle walls only protected those who belonged
within, and Duncan generally avoided being closed in with men he did not trust. Besides,
he could not bear to sleep in the castle’s hall knowing Moira was in bed with her
husband on one of the floors above him.

A cold drizzle was falling in the bleak winter afternoon as he and Niall trudged up
the path that ran along the top of the red cliffs. Ahead of them, the MacQuillan castle
looked dark and ominous sitting on an outcrop that jutted out to sea.

“We’ve come on behalf of our chieftain, Connor MacDonald of Sleat,” Duncan told the
guards when they reached the gate. “Take us to your chieftain.”

The guards reeked of whiskey, a sure sign of a lax leader. As they escorted Duncan
and Niall across the bailey yard to the keep, Duncan steeled himself to see Moira
with her husband and the children she and Duncan should have had together.

“’Tis a dreary hall,” Niall said in a low voice as they entered the keep. “It could
use the flowers and such your sister puts about at Dunscaith.”

Flowers? God save him. “Keep your hand near your dirk, Niall.”

Duncan scanned the warriors who were gathered in small groups at the long tables or
by the roaring fire in the hearth.

“Which one is Moira’s husband?” Niall asked in a low voice.

One of the guards who had brought them from the gate spoke to a tall, dark-haired
warrior who stood with his back to them.

“That’s him,” Duncan said when the man turned around and fixed cold gray eyes on them.

This was the handsome chieftain’s son Moira had sat with at supper on their last night
together. The memory of her laughing and flirting while this man stared at her breasts
would never leave him.

Moira’s husband was chieftain now, which must please her. As their host crossed the
hall to greet them, Duncan noted that his face was harder and his body more heavily
muscled than seven years ago.

“A thousand welcomes to you,” the man said, though there was nothing welcoming in
his expression. “I am Sean, son of Owen, and chieftain of the MacQuillans.”

“This is Niall. He is cousin to your wife and to our chieftain, Connor MacDonald of
Sleat,” Duncan said, dispensing with the usual useless greetings. “I am Duncan Ruadh
MacDonald, captain of our chieftain’s guard.”

“Not much good to your chieftain here, are ye, Captain?” Sean said.

The man was drunk—not swaying, slobbering drunk, but obstreperous, fighting drunk.
And Duncan was tempted to wipe the sneer off the Irishman’s face with his fist.

“Ye look familiar,” Sean continued, narrowing his cold, gray eyes at Duncan. “Did
I meet ye when Moira and I wed at Dunscaith?”

“No,” Duncan said. “We carry a message from our chieftain for his sister.”

“Ye can tell it to me.” Sean planted his hands on his hips and rocked back on his
heels as he spoke. “Moira is not well today.”

“Well or no, we must see her,” Duncan said. “Our chieftain expects us to pay our respects
to his sister.”

“I can’t let ye disturb my wife’s rest when she’s ill.” Sean did not seem the least
bit worried about his wife’s health, and Duncan wondered why he did not want them
to see Moira. Regardless, Duncan was losing patience with this game.

“It would be a shame if my chieftain had to make this trip himself with a dozen of
his war galleys.” Connor didn’t have a dozen war galleys, but Duncan was hoping Sean
did not know that.

Sean locked gazes with Duncan for a good long while. Apparently, he was persuaded
that Duncan did indeed mean his words as a threat.

“Ach, no reason to get upset over so trifling a matter,” Sean said, waving his hand.
“Moira has a wee headache. Ye know what complainers women are.” He turned and shouted
at one of the serving women, “Tell my wife to come down to the hall at once.”

Duncan half turned from his host so that he was positioned to see Moira when she came
through the doorway from the stairs. Seven years he had waited for this. He needed
to see what was in Moira’s eyes the very first moment she saw him, before she had
a chance to cover her reaction.

“I’m surprised ye made the sail from Skye this time of year,” Sean said while they
waited. “Did ye get caught in any storms?”

Duncan ignored Sean’s attempt to engage him in conversation. He had a mission here,
and discussing the weather was not part of it. Niall gave him a sideways glance and
raised an eyebrow, but Duncan ignored that, too.

“I see your friend is a man of few words,” Sean said to Niall.

“Aye,” Niall said. “But Duncan’s eloquence with a sword more than makes up for it.”

If Duncan had known Niall had a silver tongue, he would have left all the talking
to him. Sean fidgeted in the silence that fell between them in the wake of Niall’s
remark. Sean was uncomfortable with silence, and Duncan preferred him to be uncomfortable.

Through the open doorway, Duncan heard a light step on the stairs. The pain in his
heart told him it was Moira.

Moira buried her face in one of Ragnall’s shirts and breathed in deeply, but it had
been a week since her son had been taken from her, and the smell of him was nearly
gone. Sean had promised to take her to the MacLeods to see Ragnall in a year or two,
but he was always threatening to change his mind.

She quickly tucked the shirt away as the bedchamber door opened.

“The chieftain wants ye in the hall,” the maid said from the doorway. “Your clansmen
have come.”

The saints be praised!
Moira pictured her brother in the hall dressed in his chieftain’s finery and flanked
by two dozen of his warriors, with a hundred more waiting on the shore with his war
galleys. Conner would take her home and help her get Ragnall from the MacLeods.

“How many warriors did my brother bring?” Moira asked as she straightened her gown.

“Your chieftain did not come himself,” the woman said. “He sent two men.”

Moira blinked at the woman. “Two?”

What use is that?
Two men could never get her out of this castle. Her only hope now was to give them
a message for Connor, begging him to send his war galleys to rescue her. As Moira
hurried down the stairs, she tried desperately to think of how she could do it. She
paused at the bottom of the stairs to school her face before entering the hall.

When she walked through the doorway, she felt as if all the air was sucked from the
room. She could not breathe. Duncan MacDonald, the man responsible for ruining her
life and for taking every happiness from her, filled her vision.

At nineteen, Duncan had already been a fierce and powerfully built warrior. Now he
carried an additional twenty pounds of hard muscle and exuded the confidence of a
warrior who had defeated so many men in battle that he no longer needed to prove himself.

His auburn hair brushed his broad shoulders, and he wore gold bands around his biceps
as if he were one of the ancient warriors of legend. Yet there was no mistaking him.
This was the man whose desertion led her directly to her current wretched existence.

When she met Duncan’s hazel eyes, they burned with a hunger that made her pulse leap
wildly. How could he look at her like that after what he’d done? How dare he? She
swept past him to stand beside her husband.

Moira made herself smile up at Sean by imagining she was sticking a dirk into his
eye. “Ye wished to see me?”

“These men of your clan are here to greet ye.”

Moira avoided looking at Duncan and instead fixed her gaze on the lean, younger man
next to him who had chestnut hair and deep brown eyes.

“Don’t ye recognize me?” the young man said. “I’m your cousin Niall.”

“Niall?” She broke into a wide smile. “Ach, ye must have grown a yard since I saw
ye last.”

“Well, you haven’t changed. You’re as pretty as ever.” Niall was well over six feet,
but he blushed as if he were a lad of twelve.

“’Tis good to see ye, cousin.” Moira decided she must take the chance to give him
the message that she needed help and leaned forward as if to kiss Niall’s cheek. But
before she could whisper in her cousin’s ear, Sean put his arm around her and pulled
her tight against his side. The bastard had a sixth sense that allowed him to foresee
her every attempt to escape.

“And what of me?” Duncan asked.

With a false smile pasted on her face, Moira took her time shifting her gaze to Duncan.
She steeled herself to show no reaction, and yet she faltered for an instant. This
close, Duncan was everything she remembered, magnified. He was bigger, taller, more
handsome. His powerful presence radiated through the room, drawing every eye.

“Tell me ye remember who I am,” Duncan said when she failed to answer.

She remembered everything. Every touch, every look, every conversation, every pleasure
he gave her. But her clearest memory of all was standing on the wall at Dunscaith
on her wedding day with her insides cut and bleeding as if she had swallowed shards
of glass.

“I fear I have no recollection of ye at all,” she said.

“I’m a close friend of your brother,” Duncan said as the tension snapped between them.
“Surely ye remember something of me.”

She heard the challenge in his voice and shrugged, as if he were beneath her notice.
But when the light from the candles glinted in his auburn hair, she felt a sharp pang
as she recalled how it felt between her fingers. Duncan’s hair had the same texture
as her son’s…

God have mercy!

What if Sean saw the resemblance between them? Ragnall’s hair was several shades brighter
and his eyes were blue, but his face was a softer, boyish version of Duncan’s. The
likeness was plain to anyone looking for it.

Moira tried to calm herself. Red hair was common among those of Celtic blood, of course,
and Duncan was a giant compared with Ragnall. There was no reason for Sean to make
the connection.

Moira’s heart hammered, but she kept the bland smile fixed on her face. Over the course
of her marriage, she had become practiced at putting up a false front. Sean was like
a hound, though, sniffing out any slight against him. If he suspected who Ragnall’s
father really was, he would not let her live.

“Truly, I don’t remember ye,” Moira said in a clear voice. “’Tis such a long time
since I left Skye.”

Duncan was staring at her like a starving lion and frightening her half to death.
God help her, he was going to give her away. Moira risked a sideways glance at her
husband. A frisson of fear went through her when she saw the ugly red blotches on
Sean’s face and neck. She prayed they were due to his usual angry jealousy—and not
because he had guessed the truth she had hidden from him all these years.

Sean squinted at her, the question in his snake eyes. “Now that our guests have satisfied
their curiosity, ye may return to your sickbed.”

“We want a word alone with Moira.” Duncan’s deep voice reverberated through her.

“No need,” Moira said quickly, knowing Sean would never permit it. Fear made her mouth
feel dry and her tongue thick as she patted Sean’s arm. “There’s nothing I’d tell
ye that I couldn’t say in front of my dear husband.”

Duncan never took his eyes off her. “Connor is concerned about you.”

“He’s been home well over two years,” she said, the hurt making her voice tight. “If
he wanted to see me, he knew where to find me.”

Her emotions were running far too high. She had to leave the hall before she lost
control.

“I must rest now,” she said. “Whatever business ye have ye can discuss with my husband.”

Moira felt Duncan’s gaze drilling into her back as she left the hall. Please, God,
had she not suffered enough? She hardly knew which was worse—feeling like she was
dying inside from seeing Duncan after all this time or fearing Sean had guessed the
truth.

Duncan had not thought it possible, but Moira was even lovelier than before. The girl
had given way entirely to woman, and the result took his breath away. Her body was
fuller, with curves so voluptuous that his palms itched to run over them. Though her
face had lost its youthful softness, the stronger lines gave her a regal beauty that
would have a prince bending his knee to her.