The Warrior (9 page)

M
oira glanced about the tiny cottage, but there was only the one bed. Duncan was looking
at her as if he were dying of thirst and she was the last drop of water on God’s earth.
If ever there was a man who could tempt her, it was Duncan MacDonald.

“Moira.” He said her name as if she were all he wanted in this world.

But she knew better. She had been down that road before.

“The ladder to the loft is there.” She pointed to it and turned her back on him.

As she listened to Duncan climbing the ladder, she forced herself to recall how she
had stood on the wall at Dunscaith in all her wedding finery, still hanging on to
hope like the foolish and trusting lass that she had been.

“How could he do this to me?” Moira had said to her maid, Rhona, who had been her
confidante from the start of her affair with Duncan. “How could he leave me?”

“This Irish chieftain’s son is a handsome man—he’ll make ye a fine husband,” Rhona
said, patting her arm. Then her eyes got big as she looked over Moira’s shoulder.
“Your father’s coming. I’ll wait for ye down in the hall.”

Moira turned and saw her father. Rhona bobbed her head and hurried past him.

“What are ye doing up here?” her father asked. “Everyone’s waiting for ye.”

“Da!” She threw her arms around his waist.

“There, there.” Her father brushed her hair back. “What’s this about?”

“He didn’t come,” she said against his chest.

“Is it that damned Duncan you’re still fussing about?”

She wept for three days after Duncan left before she confessed to her father that
she was in love with Duncan. He had been the angriest she had ever seen him when she
told him she had given Duncan her virginity and would marry no one else. But that
was before she discovered she was with child. When she told her father she was pregnant,
he had quickly arranged a marriage to a man who happened to be their guest at the
time and who had the appropriate pedigree.

“I thought Duncan would come back for me,” she choked out.

“Ye can see now that he didn’t deserve ye.”

“Duncan’s the one I want, Da,” she said into his shirt.

He leaned her away from him and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I’m telling ye,
that Duncan is bad seed.”

“Ye don’t know that, Da,” she said. “And I don’t care who his father is, anyway.”

“Ye should. Blood will out.” Her father took her face in his big, rough hands and
looked straight into her eyes. “I didn’t tell ye before to spare your feelings, but
I gave Duncan the choice of going with the others to France or staying. He chose to
go.”

Now Moira pushed the painful memories of that day aside and took off her gown to wash
up in the water the woman had so kindly left for them. She gingerly washed the cuts
and scrapes on her body that the healer had not seen. Even after being drenched to
the skin in that storm at sea, she found blood in the creases inside her elbows.

Moira covered her face with her wet hands, sank to the floor, and wept. She did not
regret killing Sean, but the memory was still terrible. Then she cried for all those
years of trying to appease him, of always having to be careful and constrained. And
now Duncan was here, bringing back those other memories. And then there was Niall
to worry about. And hardest of all, she missed her son.

She was not one to give in to self-pity, but she was just so damned tired of being
strong.

Duncan lay staring up at the thatched roof above his head. His every muscle tensed
as he strained to listen to the soft splash of water each time Moira wrung the towel
out in the bowl. As she washed herself, he tortured himself imagining her long, slender
fingers running the wet towel over her throat and down her breasts.

His erotic thoughts were interrupted by another sound, like a mewling kitten. Was
that Moira weeping?

Ouch!
Duncan hit his head on a wooden beam when he sat up. The roof was so low that he
had to crawl across the straw on his hands and knees to the hole where the ladder
was. Peering through it, he saw Moira sitting on the floor with her head on her knees.
Her shoulders were shaking.

She did not look up as he climbed down. When he sat beside her and put his arms around
her, she leaned into him. Duncan’s heart beat too fast, and his chest felt too tight
to breathe. She was just in her shift.

“Shh. You’re all right now,” he said as she wept her heart out. Words rarely helped
anything, but he gave it a try. “If it’s Niall you’re worried about, he’s tough. It
takes more than a wound like that to kill a MacDonald.”

There was nothing he could say about her dead husband except good riddance.

He kissed the top of her head. Memories of kissing her creamy skin flooded his mind
as he breathed in the smell of her hair. His hand shook as he ran his fingers through
the shining black locks. He should not take advantage of her being distressed to touch
her, but he could not help himself.

When she buried her face against his chest, the heat of her breath through his shirt
set his skin on fire. He never thought to hold her again, and he told himself to be
content with this. But having her in his arms only made him long to touch her in all
the ways he had during that long-ago summer. He wanted to kiss every inch of her skin
and make her his a thousand times over.

When she leaned her head back and looked at him with her deep violet eyes, he cupped
her cheek with his palm and marveled at its softness. The black soot lashes framing
her eyes were wet. He caught a tear with his finger before it fell.

The bruises on her face pained him, and he wanted to kiss every hurt away. He pressed
his lips lightly to her forehead, and the soft sound of her sigh was like an answer
to every prayer he’d made for the last seven years. Time held still as he leaned down
closer and closer to her mouth. He hesitated just above her red rose lips to give
her a chance to say no.

Kissing her would be a mistake. It would only make him miss her worse afterward.

His heart clenched as his lips touched hers. They were as sweet as in his memories.
Since she was sad and wanted his comfort, he made himself keep the kiss soft. But
his heart was bleeding for her, as it always had. He would let her cut it to shreds
again.

When he broke the kiss, he stared into her lovely eyes and wondered what she was thinking.
Probably that Duncan MacDonald was the most foolish of the many fools who had loved
her.

But then she slid her hands up his chest, clasped them at the back of his neck, and
pulled him down into another kiss. Her mouth softened against his, and he died a little
more inside. He cupped the back of her neck and deepened the kiss.

For a long time, he was lost in a mindless, never-ending kiss. But when she groaned
into his mouth and pressed her breasts against his chest, lust too-long denied surged
through him like a roaring river. And that river of desire swept away all the barriers
he had built through all the years away from her.

To have this woman, he would die a thousand deaths, face any enemy, fight the very
devil himself. He could never have enough of her.

Duncan drank in her sighs and whimpers as he kissed her mouth, her arched black eyebrow,
her perfect nose, her determined chin. Very, very softly, he brushed his lips over
her injured jaw.

“Moira,” he said her name over and over. He ran his tongue over her, tasting her skin,
as he moved down the side of her throat. Then he leaned her back onto the floor and
buried his face between her breasts.

Please, God, let me have her again just this once
. He had waited so long and missed her so much. Even as he pleaded with God for one
more time, he knew once would never be enough.

Moira should be his. She should belong to him, now and forever.

Her hands were under his shirt, on his skin.
Aye, aye, aye
. Hope and desperate desire took hold of him as he tugged at the skirt of her gown.
At last, his hand was on the silky skin of her bare thigh. Paradise was within his
reach.

“No!”

Through the blood pounding in his ears, Duncan barely heard her. But he could not
miss how Moira stiffened beneath him. And just like that, she was weeping again.

Oh, Jesu,
what had he done wrong?

He rolled off her and tried to pull her onto his chest, but she strained against him.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t!” She sat up and covered her face.

He sat up beside her but dropped his arms to his sides. She did not want him after
all. Though he had known she was distressed and seeking comfort from him, he had let
foolish hope blind him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

He stopped himself. Though he felt badly that he had upset her, he would not be her
fool again—no more than he already was, anyway. Duncan got up and stoked the fire,
then climbed the ladder to the loft. He stretched out on the straw and listened to
the wind whistle through the thatched roof over his head. Despite her rejection, he
still wanted her so badly he ached.

Duncan had not met a man who could defeat him since he was full grown. And yet, this
black-haired lass half his size could rip out his heart with her velvet touch.

Moira hugged her knees to her chest.

When Duncan had wrapped his arms around her, she had felt safe for the first time
in years. She should have left it at that and been grateful. But when she looked up
at him and saw the longing in his eyes, it stirred feelings she had believed were
buried too deep for any man to awaken. She had wanted to know those feelings again.

And she did, for a while. When Duncan kissed her, she felt that wonderful, long-ago
sensation of being swept away and yet aware of every inch of her body. His fevered
touches burned through the layers and layers of the protective cocoon she had built
between herself and her body to survive the life she had.

But when Duncan pulled at her skirts, images filled her head of Sean grunting over
her. Her throat closed, and panic surged through her veins.

She had survived living with Sean. More than that, she had not let him destroy her
pride or her sense of her own worth. She was proud that she had been strong enough
to be the mother her son needed.

But Sean had ruined her for a better man’s touch. He had ruined her for pleasure.
That was the part of herself she could not save. To feel those wonderful, intense
feelings again, she would have to make herself vulnerable to a man. And for that,
she would have to trust him.

Moira never intended to trust a man again. Least of all, Duncan MacDonald.

D
uncan hoped Niall healed quickly so they could get the hell out of here. The tension
between him and Moira was thick as a dense fog as they walked to the healer’s cottage
in the morning.

“How is he?” Duncan asked the healer as soon as she opened her door.

“Ye can ask him yourself,” she said, waving her arm to where Niall lay in the bed
propped up with pillows.

Duncan was relieved to see that Niall was alert and his color much improved. The only
other person in the room was the old woman who had recognized his great-grandfather’s
whistle. Duncan nodded to her.

“Caitlin is as good a healer as old Teàrlag,” Niall said, looking at the young woman
with calf eyes. “But she has a far gentler touch.”

Ach, Niall was thoroughly enjoying his injury. “How soon will he be ready to travel?”
Duncan asked.

“Not for a few days,” Caitlin said.

“I’ll have the boat repaired by then.” He turned to leave. “I’ll be on the beach.”

“If you’ll take a seat,” Caitlin said, gesturing to her small table, “I’ll give you
and your wife some breakfast.”

His wife, ha
.

“Thank ye kindly,” Moira said and sat at the table with the old woman.

Duncan was starving, as usual, so he joined them and made quick work of the steaming
bowl of porridge Caitlin set in front of him. When he glanced up, hoping there was
more, the old woman was staring at him with her bulging eyes. She appeared to have
forgotten the spoonful of porridge she held in her quivering hand halfway to her mouth.

“Ye were born here, ye know,” she said.

He did not. So far as he knew, his mother never told a soul where she had been the
year she was gone. She certainly had not told him.

“Ah, I see that she kept her secret,” the old woman said. “A woman’s allowed.”

“I remember our bard telling the tale of Duncan’s mother disappearing from the beach
one day with a secret lover,” Moira said with a faraway look in her eyes. “It was
a great mystery and a favorite tale on long winter nights in our castle.”

“The truth is no romantic tale,” the old woman said, shaking her head.

“I never believed it anyway.” Duncan hated that this strange old woman knew more about
his birth than he did. And he hated it even more that he wanted to know. He ground
out the words, “What did happen?”

Duncan stiffened when the old woman reached across the table and touched his arm with
her clawlike hand. He did not need pity from an old woman.

“All I want is the truth,” he said.

“Your mother was stolen from the beach near Dunscaith Castle one day, that much of
the tale is true,” she said. “A MacLeod took her.”

“My mother ran off with a MacLeod?” Ach, this was worse than he thought.

“She didn’t go willingly.” The old woman paused, giving him time to absorb that. “Your
mother was a dreamer and didn’t notice the galley full of MacLeod warriors until they
were upon her. At sixteen, your mother was a rare beauty, to be sure. One of the MacLeod
men decided to take her away with him.”

Duncan leaned his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands. His father was
a MacLeod and a rapist. Christ, help him. No wonder his mother had refused to tell
him.

“What was this MacLeod called?” he asked without looking up.

“The devil’s name is Erik,” the old woman said. “And he’s no dead, if that’s what
ye think.”

Duncan sat up straight. “He’s alive?”

“Aye,” the old woman said, bobbing her head.

Erik MacLeod
. Duncan rolled the name of his father and enemy over in his head. He was going to
kill this man. “Where will I find him?”

“Erik is the keeper of the MacLeod Castle at Trotternish,” the old woman said.

The very castle the MacLeods had stolen from his clan. When the MacDonalds fought
to take it back, Duncan would kill Erik MacLeod and avenge his mother.

“How did Duncan come to be born here among the MacCrimmons?” Moira asked.

“His mother’s grandfather, Old Duncan, was the MacLeod chieftain’s piper at the time.
As I’m sure ye know, that is a position of great respect,” the old woman said, settling
back in her chair. “When Old Duncan heard that his granddaughter was being ill used
by one of the MacLeod warriors, he went to someone in the chieftain’s family, who
ordered Erik to marry her or release her to her grandfather. The swine chose to release
her, which I’m sure was better for the poor lass, and Erik was forced to make a payment
for what he’d done.”

A payment.
Bitterness ate at Duncan’s stomach as he recalled his mother’s pitiful hoard of silver
coins. He understood now why she sometimes looked at him the way she did. While Duncan
knew she loved him, he was also aware that he made her uneasy. She must have feared
he might become like his father.

Moira spent the day helping Caitlin crush herbs and mix them for healing remedies.

“How far are we from the MacLeods’ stronghold?” Moira asked Caitlin as they worked.

“Dunvegan Castle? ’Tis just a short sail from here,” Caitlin said.

“What about walking?” Moira asked.

“Ach, I don’t know. A day, maybe more,” Caitlin said. “The path that goes along the
coast starts behind the cottage you’re staying in, but I’ve never taken it all the
way to Dunvegan.”

In the isles, people rarely traveled by foot when they could take a boat.

“Why do ye ask?” Caitlin asked.

“I just wanted to know that we’re a safe distance from the MacLeod chieftain’s lair.”
Moira gave her a wink. “Ye see, I was raised on tales of him eating small children.”

Niall, who was lying on the bed behind them, laughed. “We were told he prefers to
eat MacDonald children roasted.”

Moira turned and smiled at him, grateful for the diversion. Her cousin had turned
into a charming young man, and she was enjoying getting reacquainted with him.

“Where have all the lasses gone?” she asked to tease him.

“Every MacCrimmon female between the ages of twelve and eighteen has already visited
my cottage today,” Caitlin said. “They’d be here still if I hadn’t shooed them out
before supper.”

“I should go as well so ye can get to bed,” Moira said. “Unless ye think I should
stay here so people won’t talk.”

“So long as Niall can’t walk, I think I’m safe from him,” Caitlin said, suppressing
a smile.

“I’d never press my attentions on a lass,” Niall said, looking so offended that Moira
could not risk meeting Caitlin’s eyes for fear of laughing.

“Besides,” Caitlin said, “my grandmother is here.”

Moira glanced at the old woman, who had been snoring on a pallet in the corner for
hours, and this time she did laugh. It struck her that she could not recall the last
time she had laughed. It felt good.

She was putting on the old cloak Caitlin had lent her when Duncan came to the door.

“Evening,” Duncan said to Caitlin and Niall, then to her, “Let’s go.”

Judging from Duncan’s stony expression, he was still thinking about what the old woman
had told him about his father.

“Have ye had anything to eat since breakfast?” Moira asked as they walked to their
cottage.

“Some women brought me food while I was tarring the leaks in the boat.”

Some things had not changed. Moira recalled how women at Dunscaith were always bringing
food to Duncan, hoping to draw his attention.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Moira said.

Duncan gave her a fierce, sideways glance that would have discouraged a lesser woman.
“’Tis always best to know the truth,” he said.

“Is it?” She wasn’t so sure. “Ye know, Duncan, you’re nothing like him.”

“
Hmmph.
”

They walked the rest of the short distance in silence. When they reached the cottage,
Duncan made her wait outside while he went in with his dirk in his hand.

“That can’t be necessary,” she said as she hung her borrowed cloak on the peg by the
door.

“It’s what a man does.” Duncan said with his back to her as he knelt by the hearth
and prodded the fire to life.

“It isn’t what all men do,” she said. “Do ye think that Erik would put the safety
of others before his own? Sean never did.”

Duncan continued poking at the fire, so she pulled up a stool beside him. The firelight
set off the warm reds in his rich auburn hair, but his face was all hard lines.

“Ye are your own man, Duncan MacDonald,” she said. “Your father’s shame is not yours.”

“I am a man of the sword like he is,” Duncan said without looking at her. “No matter
how hard I try to be different or what I accomplish, his blood runs through my veins.”

Without thinking, Moira leaned forward and touched his cheek with her fingers. She
felt the muscles of his jaw tighten beneath the rough beard. Before she could pull
away, Duncan covered her hand with his and closed his eyes. He turned his head and
pressed a kiss to her palm that sent warm tingles all the way up her arm.

Then he opened his eyes and looked straight into hers. The desire burning in them
was like a hot fire sucking air from the room. Clearly, Duncan was not thinking about
his father anymore.

How could she let herself forget, even for a moment, the wrongs Duncan had done her?
He seemed so straightforward and trustworthy, but then, he always had. It was so easy
for a woman to mistake a man’s lust for something more.

“I have a weakness for ye, as ye well know,” Duncan said, his voice rough and dangerous.
“I don’t need your sympathy. And if ye aren’t careful, I could mistake it for something
I do need.”

Duncan wanted her badly. And there was something she wanted from him as well. Anxiety
balled in her stomach. This would cost her dearly, but she had to try.

“Take me to Dunvegan Castle to get my son.”

“Ye want to go to the MacLeod stronghold?” Duncan pulled away from her. “We can’t
do that.”

“Why not?” she asked. “Niall seems to be out of danger. Surely ye can leave him long
enough to take me to Dunvegan.”

“It would be pure foolishness for a MacDonald of Sleat to willingly walk into the
MacLeod stronghold,” he said, raising his voice. “There is no fortress in all the
isles stronger than Dunvegan. And ye don’t even know your son is there. He could just
as well be on the island of Harris.”

But Ragnall
could
be at Dunvegan. If there was a chance he was there, Moira had to go to him.

“Ye needn’t go inside Dunvegan with me,” she said. “Just get me within sight of the
castle and leave me.”

“Leave ye there?” Duncan asked, sounding affronted. Then he rested his hands on her
shoulders. “Once I have you and Niall safely home at Dunscaith, I’ll talk to Connor,
and we’ll figure out how to get your son for you.”

Duncan expected Moira to continue arguing, though it would be pointless.

Instead, Moira locked gazes with him, then reached back and unfastened her hair. As
it fell over her shoulders in a shining dark mass, the smell of summer wildflowers
brought back memories so strong Duncan’s knees nearly buckled.

His breathing grew shallow as she ran her fingertips over the bare skin above the
neckline of her gown. When she reached the valley between her breasts, she looped
her finger round and round the little tie at the center of her bodice. Duncan was
vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open, but he did not have the concentration
to close it.

“I know what ye want,” Moira said in a throaty voice and gave the tie a little tug.
“And I’ll give it to ye, if ye take me to my son.”

With all the blood rushing to his cock, it took some time for Duncan’s addled mind
to take in Moira’s words. And it took him longer still to comprehend that she was
offering herself to him, not because she wanted to, but because she wanted something
from him.

“You’re offering an exchange?” He could not believe it. “Ye gave yourself to me freely
before. Don’t ye dare play the whore with me.”

Duncan was so angry his vision blurred. He stormed out of the cottage, slamming the
door behind him.
How could she?