“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.
But the woman Moira had become was serious and cold. He missed the flashes of mischief and joy he used to see in her violet eyes.
“Ye are welcome to stay the night,” Sean said, drawing Duncan’s attention from the empty doorway through which Moira had gone.
By suggesting they were only invited to remain at his home for one night, the MacQuillan chieftain was perilously close to violating a Highlander’s almost sacred duty to welcome guests.
“We don’t wish to impose upon your generous hospitality,” Duncan said.
“If ye have any business to discuss, let’s hear it.” Sean glanced meaningfully toward the stairs and said, “With a wife as beautiful as mine, I’m sure ye understand why I want to get to bed.”
Duncan’s anger, already burning bright, flared like a raging inferno at the thought of Sean touching Moira in all the ways that Duncan once had—and desperately wanted to again.
Niall saved Duncan from punching Sean’s smug face by poking his elbow in Duncan’s side and saying, “Our chieftain asks that ye consider fostering your son at Dunscaith.”
Connor had them make this request as a means of determining if the MacQuillan chieftain was still committed to the alliance.
“We can take the lad with us now,” Duncan said, “unless ye think he’s too young to be parted from his mother.”
“Ragnall is already fostered,” Sean said.
“Who did ye send him to?” Duncan asked.
Sean paused before answering, his eyes glinting with amusement. “I sent him to the MacLeod chieftain.”
“MacLeod of Lewis?” Niall asked, referring to the branch of the MacLeods with whom the MacDonalds were on good terms.
Sean shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “MacLeod of Harris and Dunvegan.”
When Duncan wrapped his fist around the handle of his dirk, the MacQuillan chieftain’s guards took their places beside him.
“Ye must have known what a grave insult it would be to our chieftain to send his only nephew to foster with his worst enemy,” Duncan said. “Did Moira agree to this?”
“Ye seem overly concerned about my wife’s opinion.” Sean narrowed his eyes at Duncan, examining him as if he were seeing him for the first time. Then his eyes suddenly widened, and his face flushed a dark red.
Duncan smiled because he thought Sean was going to give him the fight he longed for. One move, and my fist will be in your face.
“We’ll bid ye good night and farewell,” Niall said, grabbing Duncan’s arm. “We’ll be gone in the morning.”
Chapter 9
Moira!”
The hair on the back of Moira’s neck stood up as her husband’s voice thundered up the stairs and echoed off the stone walls. Before she could prepare herself, the door crashed open. Sean stomped into the bedchamber and slammed the door behind him.
“What is troubling ye, dear?” She attempted to make her voice calm, but it came out high and thin.
“Don’t ye play games with me!” Sean shouted. “I know what ye did.”
Moira took an involuntary step ba
ck as he came toward her. “I don’t know what ye mean, Sean.”
“Ye pretended ye were an innocent virgin while ye carried that man’s child! Ye whore!”
He backhanded her across the face so hard that Moira staggered backward and fell against the side of the bed. She grabbed the bedpost and struggled to keep her feet. In the last week, she had learned that there was nothing worse than to fall to the ground and try to protect her head from kicks. Her ribs had not healed from the last time.
“Ye will pay for this,” Sean said as he shoved her against the bed.
Sean was always accusing her of perceived wrongs or slights, and she had seen him angry countless times. But this was different. The rage in his eyes glowed like a wild beast and bespoke murder.
Moira looked about her desperately for something to use to protect herself.
“I should have known the boy wasn’t mine. He’s nothing like me.” Sean grabbed hold of her shoulders and shook her. “Ye told me he was born early!”
“Ye remember the blood on the sheet,” Moira said. “Of course Ragnall is yours.”
“Then why does he look exactly like that big red-haired MacDonald warrior?” Sean demanded.
“He doesn’t!” Moira said, her voice sounding far too desperate. “Ragnall takes after my father and older brother. They were both fair.”
“Ye lie,” Sean hissed an inch from her face. “That Duncan MacDonald looked at ye as if he believed ye belonged to him.”
“I’ve told ye that I can’t help if men look at me.”
“Other men look at ye as if they want ye,” Sean said. “But that man looked at ye as if he’d touched every inch of your skin and memorized it.”
Moira shivered as Sean slid his hand around her neck in a menacing caress. His thick fingers curved around the back of her neck as he rubbed his thumb up under her chin, forcing her head back.
“Don’t, Sean. Please.”
“Ye made a fool of me for all these years.” He kissed her roughly on the mouth.
The Warrior Page 5