The Warrior (8 page)

N
iall! Niall!” Duncan shouted as he leaned over the side of the boat searching the
swirling sea for him.

A lifetime seemed to pass before Niall’s arm popped out of the next swell. A moment
later, a dark head bobbed to the surface and went down again. Niall was still alive.

Somehow, Duncan still held the rope in his hands. He quickly tied a loop at one end
and fastened it over a hook on the side of the boat. But the boat was drifting dangerously.
Before it took the next wave sideways and capsized, Duncan threw his weight against
the rudder.

The boat shook as Duncan turned it against the force of the sea pushing it sideways.

The next wave crashed over the bow. When he glanced at Moira, she looked like a rag
doll with her hair and limbs flailing in the wind.

Duncan fought to keep the bow hitting the waves head-on, while easing the boat closer
to where he’d last seen Niall in the water. Then he saw Niall’s head bob to the surface
again, thank God. Niall started swimming toward the boat, but he looked hurt. His
strokes were awkward.

A giant swell curled and crashed over Niall, taking him under. Duncan’s heart stuttered
in his chest as he watched for Niall’s head to reappear. When it finally did, Niall
started swimming again, but his strokes seemed weaker than before. His head went down
again and again, and each time Duncan feared Niall was lost.

“Niall!” Duncan shouted and tossed the rope with all his might. It uncoiled, carried
aloft in the wind, and fell into the roiling sea not far from Niall. But as Niall
swam toward it, the current carried the rope farther and farther from his reach.

Duncan pulled the rope in, coiling it around his arm. Before he could try again, he
had to grab the rudder to steady the boat for the next swell. As soon as the galley
crashed through the wave, Duncan turned to toss the rope. Niall had disappeared. Long,
long moments passed before his head popped up again. The lad did not appear able to
lift his arms to swim.

Niall did not have much strength left. If he did not catch hold of the rope this time,
there would not be another chance. Taking careful aim, Duncan flung the rope out to
him.

This time, the end landed close enough for Niall to grasp it.

“Hold on!” Duncan shouted as the boat crashed through another rolling swell. Then,
holding the rudder steady with his leg, Duncan began pulling the rope in. Duncan was
not a man who prayed much, but he was praying for all he was worth.

Give the lad the strength to hold on.

Another wave broke over the bow, and the tension in the rope grew slack for a sickening
moment. When it jerked in Duncan’s hands, relief surged through him. Niall still held
the other end.

Duncan pulled the rope in hand over hand until Niall was next to the boat. Duncan
waited for the next wave to pass so that Niall would not be hit by the force of it
while Duncan pulled him out of the water. Niall was close enough now that Duncan could
see that his lips were blue and he had blood running down the side of his face.

Duncan heaved the rope, lifting Niall out of the water. As he watched, Niall’s hands
began slipping down the rope. Duncan leaned over the side of the boat to help him,
but Niall was just out of his reach.

“Hold on, damn it!” Duncan shouted.

The next wave caught Niall broadside, and he started to fall.

Moira felt helpless tied to the mast as she watched Duncan trying to save Niall’s
life. When Niall started falling back into the water, she thought all hope for him
was gone. Her scream of anguish was lost in the wind. But when the wave passed, Duncan
was hanging dangerously over the side of the boat—and he was holding Niall’s wrist.
She could see Duncan’s muscles strain beneath his soaked tunic as he held Niall’s
deadweight against the force of the burgeoning sea.

Moira untied the rope around her, took hold of Sàr’s makeshift collar, and started
across the boat to help Duncan. The galley rocked sideways, knocking her to her knees.
When she looked up, Duncan was still leaning precariously over the side of the boat.
Over the wind, she heard him shouting Niall’s name. Leaning on Sàr for support, she
pulled herself to her feet and stumbled toward the back of the boat.

At last, she reached Duncan and wrapped her arms around his legs to help anchor him
with her weight. With his every muscle straining, Duncan held Niall as another wave
crashed over them. He grunted with the final effort of hoisting Niall’s limp body
up and over the side of the boat. All three of them fell into the bottom of the boat
as it rocked back.

Before Moira could right herself, Duncan had turned Niall onto his stomach and began
rhythmically pushing on his back. Moira crouched beside him while he worked to save
Niall. He pushed once, twice, three times.

O shluagh! Breathe, Niall, breathe!
It could not be too late.

Finally, Niall coughed and choked and threw up seawater.

“God help me, I thought I’d lost him,” Duncan said, looking up at her. “Can ye take
care of him? I must take the rudder.”

Moira had been so focused on Niall that she had not noticed that the boat was listing
dangerously to the side again.

“Go. I’ve got Niall,” she said.

Niall gasped and coughed as Moira rubbed his back.

“Can ye see where he’s bleeding from?” Duncan called out above her.

Niall had a long gash along the side of his face, but it did not look deep. She scanned
the rest of him, trying to discern where all the blood was coming from. A dark red
cloud was spreading through his wet tunic over his thigh. When Moira lifted the cloth,
she had to swallow back the bile rising in her throat at the sight of the torn flesh.

“We need to stop the bleeding,” Duncan said, glancing down at Niall’s leg. “Take my
dirk and cut a strip of cloth for a bandage.”

She reached over Niall’s prone body to take the dirk from Duncan’s hand, then quickly
cut two long strips of cloth from the hem of her gown. When she had them ready, Duncan
dropped to his knee to help her wrap the makeshift bandage around Niall’s thigh.

“We’re past the worst of the storm,” Duncan said. “With luck and God’s grace, we’ll
ride out the rest of it.”

When Moira glanced up, she saw that it was true. The swells were not so high, and
the sky was light up ahead. She had been certain they would all die. Her hands shook
as she wrapped the second strip around Niall’s leg and tied a knot to bind it.

Niall groaned as Duncan helped her tug the knot tight.

“You’ll be all right,” she told Niall, and prayed it was true.

She stole another look at Duncan. It was thanks to his skill with the boat, his exceptional
strength, and the force of his will that they had survived.

Moira lifted Niall’s head onto her lap and wiped the blood and vomit from his face.
“He’s still so cold,” she said.

Duncan fetched a blanket and gently tucked it around Niall. Then he snapped his fingers
at Sàr and the wolfhound lay down beside Niall. “The dog will help keep him warm.”

Niall opened his eyes and gave Duncan a faint smile. “Ye looked like Cúchulainn himself
when ye were pulling me in on that rope.”

“Lie still and rest.” Duncan spoke in a soft voice as if he were putting a wee bairn
to bed. He smoothed the wet hair back from Niall’s face until Niall closed his eyes
again.

Niall’s comparison of Duncan to the mythical Celtic warrior of legend was apt. His
powerful build and indomitable will were what had drawn Moira to him and stirred her
blood when she was seventeen.

But it was this gentle side of Duncan that had stolen her heart.

Duncan bailed the boat with one hand while steering as best he could with a broken
rudder. The little galley, as fine a boat as he had ever sailed, was holding together
with spit and a prayer. At least the sea was calm now. If they hit another squall,
he feared the galley would break into pieces.

Duncan took a deep breath. That had been far too close. God help him, he had almost
lost Ian’s brother. And Niall was not out of danger yet. The wound in his leg was
deep, and he had lost a lot of blood.

Moira hovered over Niall, who was moaning in his sleep. Her brows were pinched together
with worry, and her beautiful face looked painful. The swelling had gone down a bit,
but the bruises would color her skin for a long time.

“We stole this little galley from Shaggy Maclean when we escaped from his dungeon,”
Duncan said in an attempt to take her mind off Niall and their precarious situation.
“The four of us had a long-running argument over who had the better right to it.”

“How did ye end up in Shaggy’s dungeon?” she asked.

“We left France as soon as we heard about the disastrous battle against the English
at Flodden.” Duncan looked off at the horizon, remembering it all. “We didn’t know
that your father and brother Ragnall were dead or that your uncle Hugh Dubh had taken
control of Dunscaith Castle and proclaimed himself the new chieftain.”

“I did not hear of it myself until afterward,” Moira said.

“Hugh feared the clan would choose Connor as chieftain if he returned,” Duncan continued.
“He knew we would have to sail past the Maclean fortress on our way home, so he asked
Shaggy to keep watch for us and see that we never made it to Skye.”

“My uncle wanted Connor murdered?” she asked.

“He still does.” Duncan continued bailing as they talked, but the water was seeping
in through the cracks almost as fast as he scooped it out. “We managed to toss Hugh
out of Dunscaith, and Connor was made chieftain. But Hugh is still a threat. He’s
tried to kill Connor more than once, and he’ll try again.”

“Surely the clan wouldn’t make Hugh chieftain if he murdered Connor,” she said.

“They wouldn’t have much choice,” Duncan said with a shrug. “The clan will follow
tradition and choose a man of chieftain’s blood. If Connor were dead, that would leave
only Hugh and your other miserable half uncle.”

“And my son,” Moira said.

“Aye,” Duncan said.

Moira rubbed the wolfhound’s ears while silence fell between them.

“Ragnall loves this dog.” Moira’s lip trembled as she spoke. “Sean made Ragnall give
him up.”

That explained why the dog was so thin.

“He’s a big dog for a wee lad.” Duncan turned his gaze to the sea and asked his question
as if the answer were not important. “How old is this son of yours?”

“Five,” she said. “Ragnall is five.”

Moira lied instinctively to protect her son, but she did not regret it. Duncan did
not deserve the truth. After living with Sean, Ragnall was hungry for a man he could
look up to. He would take to this big man who had a quiet strength and the fighting
skills of the warriors of legend.

She would never give Duncan the power to disappoint Ragnall as he had her.

“Ye said the four of ye had a dispute over this boat,” she said to change the subject.
“How did you get it?”

“I made a wager with Alex that he would wed within six months.” A rare smile lit Duncan’s
face. “He was wed in three.”

“Ach, the poor woman.” Alex was her cousin, but he was a born philanderer.

“His wife Glynis is happy,” he said. “Alex is a devoted husband and father.”

So many changes at home. She reminded herself that she had missed them all because
of Duncan. While she was exceedingly grateful that he’d rescued her, she would not
have needed rescuing if he had done the right thing seven years ago. He had failed
her when it mattered most.

Moira looked out at the empty sea and wondered if she would die out here with him.
She could almost hear the faeries laughing.

M
oira was desperate to get out of this damned leaky boat. Duncan was wearing her down
with his kindness and self-sacrifice. After handing her half of their remaining dried
meat and soggy oatcakes, he packed the rest away, saving it for when Niall woke up.

“Aren’t ye going to eat any of it?” she demanded.

“I don’t need it,” Duncan said. “I’ve gone without food far longer than this. I’m
trained for it.”

“You’re a liar. Your stomach has been growling like a bear since yesterday.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t hungry,” he said with a half smile.

Ach, the man thought he was invincible. It was beyond annoying. She shared her meat
with Sàr, hoping to get a rise from him, but Duncan did not appear to begrudge the
dog a share.

Duncan put his arm beneath Niall’s shoulders, gently lifted him, and held the last
of their ale to his lips. Niall was burning with fever, and she suspected worry was
half the reason she was snapping at Duncan.

“’Tis good we’re nearing land,” Duncan said. “We need to find help for him.”

Moira leaped to her feet. When she saw land in the distance, her heart beat fast.
Seven years she had waited to see her home again.

“Is that Skye?” she asked. “It doesn’t look like I remember it.”

“The storm blew us miles off course,” Duncan said. “That is Skye, but we’re headed
for the MacLeod end of the island.”

“My son is with the MacLeods,” she said

“Our being taken hostage would not help bring your son home to Dunscaith,” Duncan
said.

But perhaps she could be with him. She wished she knew whether the MacLeods had Ragnall
here on Skye or at their fortress on the isle of Harris.

“See that small bay?” Duncan pointed toward the shore. “It belongs to the MacCrimmons.
The MacLeod chieftain gave it to them as reward for serving as the MacLeods’ hereditary
pipers. That’s where I’ll try to land.”

“Won’t these MacCrimmons deliver us to the MacLeods?” she asked.

“I’m hoping they won’t since I’m kin of sorts,” he said. “My mother’s mother was a
MacCrimmon.”

Why did she not know that? What else didn’t she know about him?

“All the same, let’s not tempt them by telling them ye are the MacDonald chieftain’s
only sister,” Duncan said.

Not that Connor cared what happened to her.

Duncan touched the back of his fingers to Niall’s forehead. Then, using an oar in
place of the broken rudder, he guided the boat toward the MacCrimmon cove. At the
same time, he minded the sail and bailed with one hand. Did he think she was useless?

“Let me do that,” Moira said, snatching the bucket from him.

Duncan picked up a large wooden bowl that was floating in the bilge and began to bail
with that. The land was farther away than it looked, and it seemed like they bailed
for hours. Despite the cold winter mist, Moira was sweating when they finally drifted
into the cove. A small crowd had gathered on the shore. The men had their blades drawn.

“Your MacCrimmon relations don’t look friendly to me,” she said.

Duncan grounded the boat and hopped over the side. As he dragged it up on shore, several
men with unsheathed blades surrounded him. The women and children gathered on the
beach stared at him from behind their men.

“I am the great-grandson of Duncan MacCrimmon,” Duncan said. “I have an injured man
in desperate need of a healer.”

Without waiting for permission, Duncan lifted Niall’s limp body out of the boat.

A young, fair-haired woman pushed through the men and peered down at Niall. “He’s
in a bad way,” she said and then turned to one of the warriors. “Take him to my cottage.”

Luck was finally with them. They had found a healer. Duncan let the MacCrimmon man
take Niall from him so he could help Moira out of the boat.

“Ye must come to my cottage as well.” The young woman took Moira’s arm and gave Duncan
a sour look. “Big fellow like you should be ashamed of yourself.”

By the saints, the healer thought he had done that to Moira’s face.

Moira touched her swollen jaw, as if she had forgotten her injuries. “I’m fine,” she
said. “And it wasn’t him that did it.”

“Wasn’t your husband?” Duncan heard the healer say as he followed behind the two women
toward a line of cottages built along the shore. “That’s a story I want to hear.”

It was odd to hear the healer mistake him for Moira’s husband. For the first time,
it struck him that Moira was free. Hope was a foolish thing. He had no reason to believe
Moira would have him now, or if she did, that he could keep her. Yet, despite the
unremitting disasters since they were reunited, hope sparked in Duncan’s chest for
the first time in seven years.

Moira sat on the edge of the bed holding a vile-smelling compress to her eye while
she felt Niall’s forehead with her free hand. Praise God, his fever was down. Despite
all the commotion in the little cottage, he was sound asleep. Duncan had had to hold
Niall down while the healer cleaned and sewed up the wound on his leg, and the process
had sapped Niall’s strength.

“How do we know you’re who ye say ye are?” one of the men asked Duncan.

“My mother gave this to me.” Duncan pulled the six-hole whistle he always carried
on a leather cord around his neck from inside his shirt and held it out for them to
see. “She told me it belonged to her grandfather, the one I’m named for.”

An ancient woman with wild white hair shuffled up to Duncan and examined the whistle
an inch from her nose. As she turned it in her hand, Moira remembered that the whistle
had a thistle carved on the back of it.

“This is Old Duncan’s whistle, but ye could have stolen it.” The old woman leaned
her head back and scrutinized Duncan as carefully as she had the whistle. “If ye are
his grandson, ye didn’t get your size from him.”

The MacCrimmons whispered among themselves for a time, then a handsome man with graying
hair asked, “Can ye play that wee whistle?”

Duncan sat down on a stool that was far too small for him, placed his fingers on the
holes of the whistle, and began to play. His music was so entwined with Moira’s memories
of the summer they were lovers that the first note took her back to that time.

“Ach, he’s got MacCrimmon blood in him for certain,” the man with graying hair said
when Duncan had finished the song. “Ye should have learned to play the pipes.”

“I do play the pipes a wee bit,” Duncan said, “though not as well as the harp.”

“The man is boasting now,” the old woman said. She waved to a lad in the corner. “Fetch
Caitlin’s harp, and let’s see what this big fellow can do.”

When Duncan strummed the strings of the harp, the sounds made Moira think of delicate
faery wings and the fields aflower on a high summer day at home. She closed her eyes
and let the music take her back to a time when she was a young lass with nothing to
worry her but which gown to wear.

“Who taught ye to play?” the same man asked after Duncan finished the tune.

“One of the MacArthurs taught me the pipes,” Duncan said, referring to another well-known
piping family. “My mother played the harp a bit. I figured the rest out on my own.”

“I remember your mother well,” the man said. “She was a fine woman and a beauty, but
she didn’t have the gift.”

“’Tis in his blood,” a plump woman standing next to Moira said. She waggled her eyebrows
and nudged Moira. “MacCrimmon men have music in their souls and magic in their fingers.”

Moira remembered. The memory had blighted her marriage.

“Shame your mother didn’t send ye to us,” the man said.

“I was born to be a warrior, not a piper,” Duncan said.

“Ach, the Highlands are filled with warriors,” the man said, waving his hand. Then
he grinned. “If ye had the training ye should have, ye could be a famous piper like
me. My name is Uilleam, by the way. I’m Caitlin’s father.”

“I’ve heard of ye,” Duncan said. “I hope I have the pleasure of hearing ye play before
we leave.”

“Ye won’t be taking your friend anywhere for a few days,” the healer interrupted.
“Now, if ye all have satisfied your curiosity, let me tend to this poor injured man
in peace.”

Duncan expected to be sleeping with the cow in one of the cottages. Instead, one of
the women led him and Moira to the last cottage in the little row.

“We keep this cottage ready for visiting pipers,” the woman explained as she opened
the door for them. “We have pipers from all over the Highlands come here to improve
their skills, though we have none staying with us at the moment.”

The woman opened the door and bustled about the tiny cottage, lighting the lamp on
the table and pouring the pitcher of water she had brought with her into a bowl for
washing.

“You’ll find peat by the hearth and warm blankets on the bed,” she said.

There was only the one bed. Duncan told himself that nothing interesting was going
to happen in that bed. For one thing, Moira was widowed but three days.

But his cock was not listening to reason. As he looked at the bed, seven years of
pent-up yearning had him nearly shaking with desire. His body prickled with awareness
of Moira’s as she stood so close to him. When his arm brushed hers, a jolt went through
him like the lightning in the storm they had sailed through.

“Caitlin said to give ye this salve,” the woman said, handing a pot to Moira.

“Thank you,” Moira said as the woman left.

Duncan heard the door close. The two of them were alone.