Fighting For A Highland Lass (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 3)

by Kenna Kendrick

  “Very well, Thorvald. We shall go together.” Before that moment, she had always seemed to him a powerful, sinuous, dangerous creature, hard and fierce and fast. Now, she seemed very small in his arms. Her tearful eyes met his and unable to resist her any longer, Thorvald lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.

  Anne made a little sound as her grip tightened around him. Her mouth moved exploratorily, tentative at first, and then more confidently. He brought a hand up to touch her face, to trace the clean line of her jaw and the smooth softness of her neck. When he cupped his hand at the back of her head, his fingers weaving through her short, dark hair, she groaned, pressing herself against him, her hips making small movements against his. One of her hands gripped tightly to his back, as her hip pushed against him again, and he echoed the motion. She gasped, stiffened, and the kiss broke.

  Thorvald held her in his arms, she was utterly still. Then a slow smile formed on her sweet mouth.

  “I don’t know what this feeling is,” she said huskily. “It’s... new to me.”

  “And to me.

  He released her, and she licked her lips slowly, running her eyes up and down him in honest admiration.

  “We’ll go together,” she said decisively, and all of her fear and hesitation was gone.

  “We’ll go together, and we’ll go tonight.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The thick, darkness of February had cloaked the fishing town of Harrow. Clinging to the coast like a limpet, the little clutch of homes huddled around a generous wooden pier, where many fishing boats rocked and bumped against the wooden pilings. The lights of the inn, which catered to locals and to the occasional travellers from Orkney, faced north, onto the immense expanse of the sea. Rain fell straight down from the black sky as Sir Magnus Bain sat in the bow of his boat, staring up at the lights of the town.

  “What will ye do?” he asked the owner of the boat gruffly. The miserable man, feeling that he had already earned his generous fee, sat huddled next to the tiller, under the now limp-hanging sail.

  “I’ll pull the skin cover over the boat, so I don’t flood, and then I’ll sit here until the rain stops and the light returns. Then I’ll sail back tae Kirkwall and never agree tae carry another traveller again, no matter how much they pay. I’m lucky tae be alive after that crossing!”

  “Aye,” replied Magnus quietly. “That ye are.”

  He rose, reaching up for the edge of the pier and hauled himself onto it. It creaked in protest as he did so. The rain hit his plate armour and made a tinkling noise as he clanked and straightened up.

  “What will ye do?” asked the man in the boat, and immediately regretted it as the huge man’s silhouetted form turned towards him. He could not see but felt those beady, sharp eyes upon him. Sir Magnus said nothing, and turned and moved slowly away up the pier and toward the town.

  In the inn, the usual crowd of locals sat drinking around a warm fire. Some men were tossing dice or bone and betting pennies on the result. The rain beating on the roof and windows made a homely counterpoint to their chatter, and the occasional gust of wind rattled the windows and made the warm folk shudder with a pleasant awareness of their own comfort and security.

  It was not just men in the inn, either – on a night like this, whole families congregated around Hamish Sinclair’s warm fire. Children sat under tables or slept in their mothers’ laps, while the mothers chatted amiably to each other, exchanging stories and leaving the men to their dice and their drinking.

  Hamish Sinclair, the owner of the place for years beyond count, was a respectable, red-faced man of proud appearance, with flashing eyes and a quick temper which belied his generous gut and round face. He stood behind the wooden bar with elbows propped against the wood top, a glass of ale in hand, while his son – who was supposed to be helping run the place – dozed in a chair in the shadows. Hamish was chatting of nothing in particular with Malcolm McRob, a comfortable man of middle years who made his living transporting the daily catch of the fishermen to the nearest big town, several miles away. Malcolm was a bachelor, and it was this unenviable state of affairs that he was complaining about to Hamish while he drank. The owner was about to suggest, as he usually did, that it was Malcolm’s over-fondness for drink that was the cause of his situation when the door to the inn opened.

  A gust of wind caught it, and it slammed back against the inside wall with a crash that made all inside jump. A baby, who had been sleeping contentedly in its mother’s lap, began to wail, and his mother lifted him up and began to comfort him. All other sounds in the place had died, and all turned to look toward the door.

  For a moment, all they saw was darkness. Then, a large figure emerged from the black night, stooping his great red-bearded head to enter. Water dripped from the huge cloak pulled about his shoulders, and he was armoured like a warrior. A gigantic axe hung from his belt. As he stepped inside the inn and straightened up, Hamish heard a few of the patrons gasp in shock at the sheer size of the man. An uncomfortable thought flashed through Hamish’s mind that he was some kind of vengeful spirit from the old days of the Norse raiders. If he wanted to, thought Hamish, he could fight this entire town and win.

  The giant’s eyes fixed themselves on the innkeeper. He pushed the door closed and began to walk, step by ponderous step, toward the bar. Hamish straightened himself up and met the huge man’s gaze. The warrior stopped in front of the innkeeper and stared coldly down at him.

  Then he coughed, quietly at first, but there was an involuntary quality to it that made Hamish think that the man was about to be taken by a fit. Eventually, he got control of himself, took a deep breath, and spoke in a harsh voice.

  “Ye have a room I can stay in for the night?”

  The tiredness of the man’s voice gave him a human quality and seemed to break the spell. This was no ghost, just a huge man, a warrior come down from Orkney. Hamish tried to loosen up his tense shoulders and speak in a normal tone.

  “Well, of course, I do, good sir!” he replied jovially, and with the spell broken, the locals began their conversations again. Mugs were lifted, and the sound of dice rolling on the wooden tables was punctuated with the clink of coins and the groans of the losers.

  “Will ye take a seat?” offered Hamish, indicating an empty bar stool. Sir Magnus Bain looked dubiously at the small, rickety construction.

  “Anyone been through here recently?” he asked, disregarding Hamish’s offer of a seat. “Today or yesterday? Any strangers?”

  “Oh, one or two, you know. We get some travellers through here, from Orkney, or traders from Shetland further north sometimes, although they usually go straight on down to Aberdeen. Will ye take a drink or some food?”

  “Once ye have told me about the strangers who have been through here today.”

  “Ah, of course. Well, today there was only one, in fact, and he came in the morning, on a little boat that went away again afterwards. He had a horse with him, a funny-looking chap, nervous, with his hair shaved back from his brow and a silver chain he kept fiddling with. But ye know what those priests are like, from up at the palace in Kirkwall. Came in here and asked the same question as ye, now I think of it. Wanted tae know if there had been any travellers through. Yesterday it was just merchants, and I told him so... he seemed relieved.”

  “Asked after a big man,” came a slurred voice, interrupting Hamish in his flow. It was Malcolm McRob, who glared blearily up at Sir Magnus from over his ale mug. “Asked me on the docks, he did. Said he was after news of a big man with a red beard. ‘The biggest man you’ve ever seen,’ he said.” Malcolm eyed Magnus suspiciously and then, with the drunkard’s bluntness, added heavily, “I reckon he was meaning ye.”

  Sir Magnus turned his head and looked levelly down at the drunkard, then back at the landlord.

  “Which way did he go?”

  “There’s only one way out of here on land, and he took it. Went south on foot, down the road but then... ah now, I remember! A man I know, coming up
the road to the town, spotted the priest and mentioned it when he came in here. Said he took the east road, riding like the wind. But now, shall I pour ye a mug, sir?”

  Magnus stared blankly, “I need a horse.”

  “A horse Oh, I’m sorry sir, ye won’t get a horse for love nor money in this village. There’s none to hire or for sale – we’re too small. Perhaps in the morning...”

  “I have a horse,” called Malcolm McRob, in a mocking, challenging tone, easing himself from the barstool and drawing himself to his full height, bringing him just level to Magnus’ shoulder. Everyone in the inn stopped what they were doing. Malcolm’s whole attitude was challenging and insulting, as he rolled his shoulders and made a show of looking around at his audience. Magnus looked down upon him with a mixture of interest and disdain.

  “How much?”

  “Well, she’s the only horse in the village, and we need her for the fish run, ye see, so I couldn’t part with her for... ooh... let’s see now... Two hundred pounds in gold!

  There were a few sniggers around the room, and Hamish wished he could reach out and stop Malcolm’s idiotic baiting of this monster, whose anger could be plainly seen, bubbling below the surface.

  “Two hundred pounds in gold?” repeated Magnus.

  “That’s right. She’s in the stall outback, saddle and tackle all hanging up. Yours for two hundred pounds.” Malcolm looked around at his audience again, an oafish smile on his drunken face. The price was ridiculous. For two hundred pounds, Sir Magnus could have bought the inn and everything in it, and probably had money left over for a horse too. It was an insult, and Hamish could feel the amusement changing to dread in the room.

  Magnus took one step toward Malcolm, who tried to back away, but got entangled in the barstool and nearly fell. He looked up at the giant, with sudden fear.

  The great bulk of a man moved with a speed and suddenness that belied his enormous size. His gauntleted fist flashed forward, stopping inches from Malcolm’s face. It held a canvas bag.

  “Take it, then,” cried Magnus, shaking the bag. The drunken man reached up, and almost unbelieving took the bag. With shaking hands, he opened the drawstring and topped the coins out onto the bar. The gleam of gold meeting his eyes.

  “Two hundred pounds in gold,” said Sir Magnus.

  “But... what...”

  Magnus turned to the landlord.

  “I will not need the room,” he said, before turning on his heel and marching out of the inn. Malcolm tipped the contents of the bag out onto the bar, and the others crowded around to see. Outside, they heard the whinny of a horse, and the thump of retreating hoofbeats.

  Suddenly, one of the fisherfolk cried out, “Malcolm, ye bloody fool! That’s the only horse in the village! How the hell are we supposed tae get the fish tae market in the morning?”

  Malcolm McRob found his voice, staring at the pile of gold on the bar in front of him.

  “We’ll buy another,” he said, in a choked voice.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Darkness.

  Down an empty corridor, Anne Gow walked as silently as the night itself, sliding unseen against the deepest shadows of the wall. All was prepared, the only thing left to do was to free Thorvald from the tower.

  Neil Gow-Sinclair had been drunk all evening. A fresh supply of food and drink had arrived from his cousin, the Earl of Caithness, and there had been three bottles of nasty, cheap rum and one of brandy. Neil and Juarez had immediately set to business and had spent the whole day drinking steadily until, by night time, both were roaring drunk.

  Neil’s men were on edge, staying out of the captain’s way, sticking to their quarters and keeping their heads down. This had made it easier for Anne to make the necessary arrangements – food, blankets, flint and tinder, water bottles. All had been stashed outside, by the little lean-to where the firewood was stored. She would leave that way; it was least likely to be guarded, leading as it did into an enclosed courtyard and then to the cliff. But climb the cliff they would, she thought with determination. It could be done, she had done it once before.

  As she moved in the direction of the main hall, she paused. Spirits. She had seen brandy on the table in the hall earlier – perhaps it would be wise to furnish herself with some of it? A reviving dash of brandy could save a life, or keep a stumbling man on his feet for a crucial last mile. It could be used to clean a dirty wound. And it would hurt her uncle, seeing it gone.

  Slipping toward the great hall, she listened intently for any sound. Even though Neil and Juarez had both rolled up to bed in a drunken stupor hours ago, one could not be too careful. All was silent, but for the sound of the driving rain outside.

  She slipped in through the door.

  Sure enough, there was the brandy bottle sitting on the table, next to an abandoned pile of papers and the remains of a meal. Careless, uncle, she thought, leaving your documents about. She moved quickly forward and snagged the brandy bottle, still three-quarters full despite her uncle’s attentions; he and his mate both preferred rum, and an empty rum bottle rolled away as she paused to look at the papers on the table, to see if there was anything useful.

  Maps, mostly, sea charts of the area around Orkney, with reefs and tidelines, currents and landmarks all inked with great care. These, she knew, were British navy charts, stolen from a brig which had been unlucky enough to be caught floundering in high seas some years ago. The haul of rare, high-quality maps had been better than much treasure for a man like Neil, and she remembered with a shudder the pleasure he had taken in the grim slaughter that followed. Anne had killed, that was true, and she was cold and efficient at it, but she killed in self-defence, and never took pleasure in the act. Not so for her uncle.

  There was a blue envelope lying atop the pile of charts. It was torn open at the top, leaving the seal intact on the flap, and the corner of a yellow sheet of paper protruded from it, where it had been roughly stuffed back. She pulled it from the envelope and began to read. There was no location appended that she could see, but a quick glance at the first few lines made it clear that this was the missive from Neil’s client, instructing the transportation of Thorvald to the Carolinas in America, and assuring him that payment would arrive soon.

  I will bring the gold myself, or send another, as chance allows, said the message. She was about to read on when a noise from the corridor made her start. She stuffed the letter back into the envelope and turned, pushing it without thinking into the pocket of her jerkin. A figure came into the hall from the kitchen. It was Peter, the cook.

  His eyes widened in surprise as he spotted her, and he stopped, his eyes taking in her outdoor clothing, her surreptitious attitude, and the bottle of brandy which dangled from her hand. Then a long, slow smile spread across his weathered face. He raised one hand and put a finger to his lips in a gesture of silence, then turned back to the kitchen. Anne understood. She was safe. Whatever happened, her old ally would not betray her.

  * * *

  Thorvald paced the small room in a fever of agitation. The only light came from the fireplace, where a generous blaze crackled and hissed merrily, the cheerful sight at odds with his disturbed mood.

  “When will she come?” he muttered to himself, again and again, as the hours ticked by and Anne did not appear. At last, just as he was beginning to think that she must have given up on the idea, he heard her quick, light footstep on the stair. The key turned in the door, and she slipped in, her eyes afire with excitement and fear.

  “Anne!” he whispered, relief flooding him, “I was beginning tae think ye wouldn’t come after all...”

  She stepped to him and cut his words with a fervent kiss. Heat flooded him, and for a moment, the taste of her lips was the only thing on his mind.

  “I am here, and all is prepared. The only thing I have not managed tae get for ye is a sword, but I have mine, and hopefully, that is all we will need.”

  This was not good news for Thorvald. He felt vulnerable embarking on such a perilous
undertaking without a weapon at his side, but there was nothing to be done. He could tell that Anne was on fire to be away, and she was already dressed in leather and fur, ready for travel. She looked up, expectantly into his eyes. He breathed deeply, “thank ye Lass.”

  “Thank me when we are safely on our way, now, are ye ready?”

  He nodded, and they left, as she locked the door behind them.

  The castle was quiet. The pirates, efficient and competent when at sea, were sloppy and disorganised about setting guards when on land. More often than not, guard duty meant getting drunk and falling asleep next to a doorway rather than in one’s own bed, and Anne was counting on that tonight. Warily, Thorvald followed her down the long stairway. He could smell the sea, the night air, and the rain.