The Highlander's Welsh Bride: Book 5 in the Hardy Heroines series

by Cathy MacRae

  A muscle in Birk’s jaw twitched. He fisted his hands at his sides, strove to contain the grief the man’s words struck. He nodded and the man scuttled quickly to the door.

  Silence echoed. Birk’s vision dimmed.

  Shite! Murdoc Ferguson, dead in the storm. And Tully.

  Bleak helplessness filled him. There was nothing he could do. The weather was fickle, uncaring. A treasured friend lost along with his son and crew. Birk’s mind traced the memory of Ferguson’s pride in the woman he’d hired, who’d saved his ship more than once, a woman who asked nothing but fairness in return. One who willingly gave of herself to benefit others.

  A woman of rare ability.

  His skin crawled, itching to release the fury building within. His fingernails dug into his palms, the pain doing little to distract him from his deep loss.

  He pivoted tightly and stalked to the door. With barely enough sense to choose weathered wood over unforgiving stone, he rattled the doorframe with a blow of his fist.

  Pain exploded up his arm, burst from his knuckles in a white-hot blast, jolting his grief-mingled anger into something he could manage.

  Birk focused on breathing. On Colin Dubh. An enemy he could destroy.

  His return to the meeting was slow, his fury echoed in the apprehension of the assembled lairds.

  “Find him,” he bit out, spitting the words as if laden with bitter wormwood. “I dinnae care what it takes.” His breath came in slow heaves. “I dinnae care what it costs.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  MacLean Castle

  Two days later

  The cry of a new-born infant instantly snared Birk’s attention. He scrambled to his feet as the healer’s apprentice slipped into the room.

  “Yer sister is well,” she murmured, her face drawn, shoulders drooping.

  Birk exhaled a sigh of relief. Gillian should have returned home weeks ago, but complications he, as a man, did not understand, kept her beneath the close watch of his ma, the healer, and midwife. Despite their care, the babe had insisted on arriving a bit before the date predicted by both Gillian and the midwife. The pains caught them all unawares just after the morning meal.

  He and James exchanged looks in the instant before James lunged up the stairs, Birk on his heels. They careened around a curve in the hall, knocking a serving lass askew as she rounded the bend, her hands filled with bloody linens.

  “Pardon, lass,” Birk murmured, grabbing her by her shoulders and setting her on her feet. Noticing her kerchief canting to the side, he shoved it atop her curls and gave her a pat on her head that shifted her knees, then bounded after James who had gained the length of the hall.

  “Da!”

  Birk quickly joined his daughter at Gillian’s doorway. Eislyn fairly danced with excitement, Abria standing quietly at her side, a thumb in her mouth.

  “She’s ever so beautiful!” Eislyn exclaimed, giving away the baby’s gender before Birk had a chance to ask. He gathered his daughters beneath his hands and guided them into Gillian’s room.

  James stood near the window, the babe tucked in the crook of his arm, experienced after fathering two other bairns. But the look on his face gave away the awe he experienced anew, the tender look turning this fierce warrior into a gentle man.

  A pang swept through Birk. Rose had never invited such depth of feeling. Bringing a child into the world had been the price she paid for the caresses she craved. He shrugged off the sense of intrusion and glanced from James to Gillian.

  “How are ye, Sister?” he asked, surprised to find his voice husky with residual worry. Gillian sent him a tired look, her face pale and drawn.

  “Naught to fash over,” she said, reaching for his hand.

  Hanna stepped to his side and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. “Yer sister is a brave lass. A bairn at her age added silver to my hair,” she teased.

  “At my age! Pah!” Gillian blew off her stepmother’s concern. “’Tis the wee ones ye should be concerned with,” she added with a wink at Eislyn and Abria.

  “It happened so quickly, I had no idea these two had remained in the room,” Hanna explained.

  “Auntie was reading to us,” seven-year-old Eislyn piped up. “And then she got a tummy ache.”

  Birk lifted an eyebrow. “Aren’t they a wee bit young to assist at a birthing?” he drawled.

  “We werenae in the way, Da,” Eislyn assured him. “But . . ..” She bit her lip and glanced away. Abria sidled closer to her sister.

  Birk hunkered down, bringing himself closer to eye level with Eislyn. He gently took a hand from each girl. “Ye can tell me,” he said, running his thumbs over the backs of the soft hands. He trembled to think what it was about the birth that troubled Eislyn, feeling woefully inadequate to the job of educating his wee daughters in the finer points of womanhood.

  Eislyn narrowed her eyes then glanced at her grandmother. Birk followed her gaze. Hanna shrugged.

  “What is it, a leannan?” Birk urged Eislyn’s confidence with a gentle tug on her hand.

  Eislyn glanced about, clearly uneasy with the attention—something quite unlike his normally outgoing lass. Birk nodded solemnly and managed to keep his mirth buried.

  “The bairn,” she began. “The bairn in Auntie Gillian’s tummy . . ..” She glanced over her shoulder and Gillian nodded sagely. Eislyn turned wide eyes on her da. “It came out here,” she announced with a vague gesture with her free hand. She leaned closer to her da. “And it broke Auntie’s hoo-ha.”

  Birk’s mind blanked. “Her hoo-ha?”

  Eislyn nodded vigorously. “Aye. I dinnae know it could stretch that big!” She paused, tucking one edge of her lower lip between her teeth. “I think it hurt.”

  Birk swayed on his heels, his remnants of self-control rapidly slipping away. “What does yer auntie say?”

  Eislyn ducked her chin, clearly unwilling to discuss her dilemma with her auntie. Birk glanced at his sister, and for a moment paled to see her rigid form convulsing silently on the bed.

  “I think yer auntie will recover quite nicely,” Hanna managed in a slightly strangled voice. “’Tis the way of things for a woman’s, er, hoo-ha to stretch a bit when she gives birth.” She patted Eislyn’s head. “She will be right as rain in no time.”

  Eislyn quirked a brow at her grandmother, then nodded slowly, apparently skeptical of the reassurance. She peered around Hanna’s skirts to Gillian who, to Birk’s relief, had ceased convulsing and regarded him with a grin, tears of mirth sparkling on her cheeks.

  Hanna shook her head. “I fear your lassies have a new appreciation for bairns and how they enter the world,” she admitted. “’Twas not my intention to involve them, and I will correct her misconception at an appropriate time. They were as quiet as wee mice and I did not notice them in the room once Gillian’s labor began.” She waved a hand vaguely. “I dinnae know where their nurse is.”

  “Somewhere in MacLean Castle?” Gillian choked, still struggling to withhold further mirth.

  Birk gave her a warning frown. “Likely ’twas no harm done,” Birk replied, turning his attention back to his ma, even as his twitching lips traitorously threatened to betray him yet again.

  Hanna nodded. “Do ye still plan to travel to Dairborrodal Castle?”

  “Aye. In a day or two. Repairs are proceeding, and I must see to the crofters in the area. Colin Dubh evades us yet.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “And hunting is good in the area.”

  “Legends of a fine stag, if I am not mistaken,” Hanna teased, a twinkle in her eye. “I think it would be an excellent idea to take Eislyn and Abria with ye. Gillian will be abed for some time—not because of her hoo-ha,” she stumbled on the word, “but because the bairn came early and there were complications. She needs peace and quiet, and the girls need more time with their da.”

  Birk considered Hanna’s words. Eislyn, bored with the adult talk, had wandered back to Gillian’s bedside, Abria as ever at her side. The pair clung to the bedclothes, Eislyn chatte
ring excitedly, her young voice rising and falling cheerfully.

  “Mayhap ’tis time to give them a puppy,” Hanna suggested.

  Birk took the blow with only a slight grimace. He’d promised the girls a puppy more than a month ago—under extreme coercion from a tearful Eislyn when she’d decided she and her sister would be grievously harmed if they were denied the love and loyalty of their own dog. Birk had little use for dogs as pets. A braw hunting dog was functional, a thing of deadly, muscular beauty. Wee furballs that cavorted at yer feet, piddled in the hall, and yipped unceasingly were little more than annoyances, certainly with little or no other function. He’d hoped his daughter had given up on the idea.

  As if reading his thoughts, Hanna smiled. “Talk of Gillian’s bairn will wane, and Eislyn will pick up the battle for a puppy once again.”

  “Battle,” Birk agreed. “One I am doomed to lose.”

  “Teach her to fish, or perhaps sail a wee boat,” Hanna suggested. “It might serve to distract her for a time.”

  “And if it fails?”

  Hanna gave him her best advice. “At least teach the wee beastie to pee outside.”

  * * *

  Ardnamurchan Peninsula

  Three months later

  Carys sat with her back to a tree next to the stream that spilled in front of their cave, the waterfall concealing their home of the past few months. The aroma of rabbit stew made her smile and her stomach rumbled hungrily. Tully certainly knew his way around a cooking fire. His skills with a pot and hers with a bow had ensured they wouldn’t starve.

  She gazed into the dark sky. The stars appeared close as the moon’s glow waned, giving way to their beauty. Dewr lay next to Carys, head on her lap as Carys absently scratched behind the dog’s ears. Carys wondered how she would have survived since the shipwreck without her companions. Even with Tully and Dewr and the life they’d carved out for themselves in the forest, she longed for a home of her own rather than living in a cave. The land provided most of what they required, but she’d found herself calling on the crofters in the area more and more, to barter game she’d killed for oats and honey or simply for a home-cooked meal. If she was honest with herself, she needed to be around others more than she’d realized.

  Tully was a sweet boy, but all their time alone weighed upon her, giving her mind ample opportunity to recall her husband’s death and the terrible storm which claimed the lives of all aboard the Seabhag, especially her beloved brother. Tully had all but stopped asking when his da would return, which saddened her as he lost the hope of being rescued and reunited with his family. He’d told her about his mam, a couple of younger sisters and a brother. Though he knew their town was on the coast, she wouldn’t know where to begin to look for it. Carys wasn’t sure why the Almighty chose to spare them, but she felt certain it wasn’t to live out their days in a cave.

  “Hywel was right, girl. We’re not meant to live alone.” Dewr pushed her head into Carys’s hand in response. She accommodated the demanding beast by scratching her head. “’Tis the thought of loving and losing again that scares me witless.” A sense of hollowness in the pit of her stomach proved the accuracy of the statement.

  Dewr licked her hand, brown eyes seemingly full of understanding.

  “Ye know better than most since ye’ve lost yer home and master as well. Perhaps Fergal and Lorna will adopt us. Young Gorrie has taken a liking to us since I made him a bow and started teaching him to shoot.”

  She’d made friends with the crofters when she killed a wolf that had been stealing sheep. Instead of payment, she’d asked for Fergal’s vow he and his family would take care of Tully should anything happen to her. She’d been fearful they’d reject the boy, but after a few visits at their home, she realized they treated him as one of their own. He helped Lorna cook supper the times they stayed. Tully had been overjoyed when Carys made him a gift of the wolf’s pelt and he slept on it each night.

  Dewr perked her ears and whined.

  “What is it, girl?” Standing, Carys caught the scent of smoke and spotted a distant fire the direction of Fergal and Lorna’s croft. She slid down the hill and darted into the cave.

  “Stew’s almost ready,” Tully said, a grin on his face.

  “It smells wonderful. Save me some,” she said with forced cheerfulness to avoid worrying the boy. “I need to go to Fergal and Lorna’s, but I’ll be back shortly. Dewr, guard Tully.”

  Dewr trotted over to Tully and plopped her furry rump on the ground next to him, tail swishing gently.

  “Good girl,” Tully said as he patted her head.

  Grabbing her bow, quiver, and both javelins, Carys stepped into the night. She found the trail and loped along, using the wan moonlight to guide her. A distant scream pierced the night goading Carys’s trot into a run. The light from the fire grew as she neared. Cautiously, she approached the croft away from the fire to preserve her sight. Four horses stood near the wattle and daub home. A man held Gorrie from behind, a knife at his throat. Fergal lay on the ground unmoving. Another man had thrown Lorna to the ground and lifted his plaid, his intentions rising clear from the junction of his legs. A third man stood by, laughing at the scene.

  Laying her javelins aside quietly, Carys drew a bodkin arrow and aimed at the man who planned to violate Lorna. She let the shaft fly. The pointed tip penetrated his skull, exiting part way through the other side. The man crumpled at Lorna’s feet like a banner on a calm day. Drawing a second arrow, this time a broadhead, Carys aimed at the devil holding Gorrie. At twelve summers, the boy hadn’t yet gained his full height, and was held by a much taller man. The wide tip sliced cleanly through the villain’s throat, causing him to release Gorrie and grasp the arrow. He staggered backward, gurgling as blood spilled down his shirt and onto the ground.

  Carys drew another shaft and aimed at the third man who shouted something in Gaelic she didn’t understand. He’d drawn a short sword and turned toward the forest searching for the threat.

  Idiot. He gave up his night vision by standing near such a large fire.

  Aimed midline and to the right, the arrow sank into the muscle of the brute’s chest. He lurched forward then fell. Dragging to his feet, he staggered toward the horses. Carys tracked his progress with the tip of an arrow, but a fourth man shoved the door aside and charged out of the cottage like an enraged bull, drawing a sword so huge it required two hands to wield. Not wishing to waste an arrow, and seeing the third man fall again, she turned her attention to the swarthy man coming toward her. The fiend was the largest man she’d ever seen. His long black hair lay matted against his skull as if he never bathed, the exposed skin of his body covered in hair, much like a bear. She dropped her bow and picked up a javelin. Taking a step forward, she hurled her weapon and struck him just below the breastbone, driving the point into his lung muscle.

  The strike knocked him back a step. He bellowed then plucked her javelin with a grunt and tossed it aside.

  Gorrie had taken up the knife from the man who’d held him and approached from behind the mountain of a man.

  “Gorrie, see to yer mam and leave this one to me.” Carys’s command rang crisp in the night air.

  The lad hesitated but did as he was told, helping his ma to her feet and away from the dead.

  “Show yerself! Or are ye too craven to face a man in battle?” the giant bellowed.

  Grasping her remaining javelin, Carys stepped from the forest and strode toward her foe with a confidence she didn’t feel. She spotted Fergal, still as death, blood covering his head.

  “Craven? Ye attack good people in their homes, fire their barns, and ye name me coward?”

  The man spat on the ground. “This is MacLean territory. There arenae good people here, only those who need killin’.”

  “And yet, ’tis yer men who met their deaths this night,” she countered as she lowered her hood and glanced about.

  A malicious smile that would make the devil proud twisted the giant’s lips. “A woman?” he
mocked. “Aye, a situation I’ll soon remedy after I gut ye, then tup ye as ye take yer last breath.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ardnamurchan Peninsula, same night

  “Shite!” Birk struck the pommel of his saddle with a blow that shifted the horse beneath him. Bran tossed his shiny black mane and champed his bit, using a front hoof to paw the ground.

  Birk swiveled in his saddle, noting the desolation of the small croft. Moonlight shone on charred timbers no longer red with embers. Bodies stiffened in death’s rigor, awkward bundles as the soldiers attempted to move them. A thin trail of smoke, easier smelt than seen, curled into the air from the haphazard pile of blackened wood that crowned crumbled rock walls. A solitary cow lowed softly, her udder swollen and pendulous, long past her milking time.

  “He keeps one step ahead,” Dugan spat, leaning his forearms on the pommel of his saddle. “The bastard boasts no man alive can kill him.” He nodded to the bodies being lowered into shallow graves. “He proves his boast over and over, whilst we do little more than give proper burial to these muckless souls.”

  “He will boast one time too many,” Birk growled. Bran shook his head and shied a step away as an errant breeze covered them in the stench of death. Birk dismounted and shoved his reins at Dugan who accepted them with a dubious look at the pitch-black stallion, his coat blending with the night. Bran sank to his haunches, backing away as he tossed his head in the air, stretching the reins taut, nearly jerking the leather from Dugan’s hands.

  “Staund!” At Dugan’s command, the horse settled, ears pitched forward as he took a mincing step forward. “Ye great daft beast,” he grumbled.

  Birk strode across the moon-dappled grass. He halted at the still open, hastily dug graves and peered down at the bound bodies of the deceased. His men had wrapped them in old woolen cloth, the colors faded beyond recall. But he knew the man and woman who faced the dark sky, an elderly couple who ever had a kind word for friends and strangers alike.