She squirmed and tried to push him away. When he began to slowly squeeze her throat, she tried to scream, but it came out as a pathetic muffled sound against his mouth. Finally, she managed to sink her teeth into his bottom lip.
He jerked back with a yelp and released her. “Goddamn ye!”
She gasped for air. But then he punched her in the eye so hard that everything went black. She felt herself falling. Sean caught her and slammed her against the wall. Her head bounced against it, dazing her again. She blinked to clear the stars sparking across her vision in one eye. The other eye she couldn’t see out of at all.
“You’ll never see Ragnall again!” Sean shouted. This time he hit her in the jaw. Pain jutted upward and exploded inside her head.
Moira felt as if she were watching herself from a distance. He’s going to kill me this time drifted through her thoughts, but she felt indifferent to it.
“Did ye hear me?” Sean shouted. His face was only inches from hers, but she could not see it clearly.
When her head lolled to the side, he gripped her chin and held it. His fingers dug into her cheek, sending shooting pains from her injured jaw to her ear. She tasted the tang of blood on her tongue.
“I’m going to kill your son, too,” Sean said.
“Ragnall?” Her voice was a scratchy whisper. “No, ye can’t!”
“I will,” Sean said. “And when he’s dead, there will be nothing left of ye on this earth.”
Moira fought her way through the layers of fog in her head. She knew she must do something, but her body was slow to follow her commands. She had to concentrate to hit her fists against Sean’s chest, but her efforts were feeble.
“I’ll bring Ragnall home and squeeze the life out of the little bastard,” Sean said through clenched teeth. “Just like this.”
As Sean closed his hands around Moira’s throat, panic surged through her and blasted away the fog that had debilitated her. She had to live so she could protect her son from Sean. She scratched and clawed at his hands around her throat. When that did not stop him, she kneed him in the groin.
“Huh!” Sean grunted and doubled over.
Moira sucked in lungfuls of air. When he came at her again, she fought him off, kicking and raking his face with her nails. But Sean was far heavier and stronger, and soon he had his hands around her throat again. His eyes were wild and bulging. Drops of spittle came from his mouth like a mad dog.
Her lungs burned as she fought for air against his ever-tightening hold. The bright sparks crossed her vision again, and she knew she was close to blacking out. Please, God, help me!
Something hard poked her stomach. The hilt of his dirk! Her hands were going numb as she closed her fingers around it and jerked the dirk free. Then, with a last surge of strength born of desperation, she plunged it into Sean’s side.
“Argh!” Sean made a loud animal sound between a roar and a groan and threw his hands up.
Moira’s throat burned, and her head pounded with a violence that made her stomach roil. Still, she held on to the hilt of the blade when Sean jerked away. He staggered and bent over, holding his side. Blood seeped between his fingers.
But Sean kept his feet. He was not badly injured.
When he raised his head, rage glowed in his eyes like a demon from hell. If she was very lucky, she would have one more chance. Only one. She still held the dirk, but she had no idea where to stick him. She cursed her father and brothers for not teaching her how to protect herself.
Her head was starting to spin, and she was weaving on her feet. With desperation clawing at her belly, she held the dirk in front of her.
Then everything happened at once. Sean roared and launched himself at her with such force that she was hurtling through the air backward. Her screams echoing off the walls seemed as if they came from someone else. The back of her head banged on the floor, jarring her injured jaw and setting off a burst of blinding pain. An instant later Sean slammed on top of her, his weight forcing the air out of her lungs with an oof.
God, no. She did not want to die with Sean lying on top of her.
* * *
Across the flames of the fire, Duncan saw the wolfhound’s eyes glinting in the darkness. He took another piece of dried meat and tossed it over the fire into the darkness beyond and was pleased when he did not hear it hit the ground. The dog was quick.
“I’ve never seen ye like that,” Niall said, giving him a sideways glace. “It looked as though ye intended to fight their chieftain in his own hall with a hundred of his warriors watching.”
“Hmmph.” Duncan prided himself on never letting his temper interfere with his judgment or cause him to forget his duty. But he had failed to control it tonight. In truth, his hands still itched to murder Moira’s arrogant husband.
“Moira wasn’t at all like I remember her,” Niall said. “What did ye think?”
“About what?”
“About Moira,” Niall said, sounding as though Duncan was trying his patience.
Moira had given him nothing. Not so much as a soft glance. I have no recollection of ye at all.
“Do ye suppose she is all right?” Niall asked. “That Sean is an arse.”
“That he is.” Duncan took a swig from his flask. “But he’s the man Moira wanted.” Her father doted on his little princess—he would not have forced her to marry Sean MacQuillan against her wishes. There were other suitable chieftains’ sons.
An icy rain started up, causing the campfire to hiss and smoke. As Duncan’s temper cooled with the temperature, he thought back on that first moment when Moira entered the hall and saw him. In that brief instant, everything that had once been between them flashed in her eyes.
It was gone almost before he saw it, and then Moira was as cold as this winter rain running down the back of his neck. Niall was right; Moira had changed. Though her eyes were the same astonishing shade of violet, they carried no laughter in them. The cautious woman he had met in the hall who measured her words was a far cry from the carefree lass who ran headlong through the dark, believing nothing and no one could stop her.
Duncan threw bits of dried meat to the wolfhound, drawing the dog ever closer, while he pondered the question of what could have caused such a change in Moira’s nature.
As a quiet man who kept his own counsel, Duncan was usually a keen observer of others. He had been so angry and absorbed in his own pain that he had failed to examine Moira’s demeanor with his usual cool perception. Going over their brief encounter in his mind now, he recalled the tension in Moira’s neck and how she repeatedly smoothed the skirt of her gown with her hands.
Her aloof and dismissive manner had fooled him. Though she had covered it well, Moira was frightened. Who or what could make her fearful? And why in the hell did her husband not make her feel safe?
Only one answer came to him.
Duncan got to his feet. “Stay here with the boat and be ready.”
“Ready for what?” Niall asked, sitting up straight.
“A quick departure.” Duncan leaned inside the boat for a coil of rope and stuck it inside his plaid. “Can ye handle the boat alone?”
Niall shrugged. “If I have to. Why?”
Ach, Duncan did not like the idea of Niall sailing alone such a distance in the stormy sea, but if Duncan was dead or in the castle dungeon, Niall would have to do it.
“If I’m not back by an hour before dawn,” Duncan said, “set sail for Skye without me and tell Connor what’s happened.”
“How can I tell Connor what’s happened,” Niall asked, spreading his arms out wide, “when I have no notion myself?”
“Something’s amiss,” Duncan said. “Moira may be in danger.”
While they talked, the wolfhound had quietly come to stand beside Duncan, probably for what little warmth their sputtering fire gave off. The dog was thin and ragged.
“Leave the extra meat for the wolfhound.” Duncan patted the dog’s head as he left.
He hoped the guards
would let him in without any trouble since their chieftain had welcomed him earlier, but he picked up a rock just in case. If he had misread Moira, he was about to cause a lot of unnecessary trouble for Connor. He could not feel too badly about it. Sean had thrown his lot in with the MacLeods, which made him an enemy.
When Duncan banged on the gate, one of the guards opened the small door next it. The light from his torch spilled out into the rainy night.
“Changed your mind about sleeping out in the cold rain?” the guard asked.
“Aye,” Duncan said. “No need to disturb anyone. I’ll just go into the hall and sleep on the floor with the rest of the men.”
“Ye made your choice and can freeze to death for all I care,” the guard said. “I can’t let ye in without my chieftain’s permission, and he’s gone to bed.”
Before the guard could close the door or take a breath to shout, Duncan pulled him outside by the front of his shirt, locked an arm around his throat, and knocked him on the head with the rock.
“Simon?” another guard called from inside.
Duncan flattened himself against the castle wall and waited. As soon as the second guard poked his head out the small door of the gatehouse, Duncan hit him with the same rock. Working quickly, he tied the two men together with his rope and dragged them a few feet into the darkness away from the castle wall.
He drew his dirk and entered the gatehouse without making a sound. Anticipating he might need to make a quick escape, he removed the heavy crossbar that held the gate closed. When he heard footsteps, he paused until they passed. A single set of boots. Duncan trained his men to work in pairs when they stood guard—not that two men could have stopped him.
The guards up on the walls would be looking outward for attackers, if they were awake at all. To avoid raising suspicions, Duncan walked across the yard as if he belonged there.
Inside the keep, a few men were still drinking near the hearth. Sean was not among them. Staying in the shadows, Duncan followed the wall around the room until he reached the doorway that led to the stairs. This was the riskiest part so far because no one but family members and a few trusted servants would have good cause to go to the rooms above at this late hour.
Duncan waited until there was a burst of laughter from the men around the hearth, then strode through the doorway and started up the stairs.
When he was halfway up, a woman’s scream came from above, piercing the air—and his heart. It was Moira. Duncan charged up the spiral stone stairs three at a time. The door on the next floor was closed. Without pausing, he slammed his shoulder against it. The door crashed open and banged against the wall.
Moira lay on the floor in a pool of blood with a man on top of her.
Duncan was across the room in two strides. He jerked the man up by the back of his tunic with one hand while he brought up his dirk with his other to slice the man’s throat. He stopped his arm midswing. The man he was holding was Sean, and he was already dead.
Duncan looked down at Moira. Oh, Jesu. One of her eyes was swollen purple like a ripe plum, and the rest of her face was battered. Her gown was torn and gaping open.
Blood was everywhere. In her hair. On her hands and face. Soaking her gown. Duncan dropped to his knee beside her. Grief swept through him. God, no! He was too late to save her.
Chapter 10
Moira moaned and struggled to sit up.
Praise God, she is alive. Duncan put his arm beneath her shoulders. “Are ye hurt badly, mo leannain?” My sweetheart.
“Is Sean dead?” She sounded dazed.
“Aye,” he said. “Can ye walk? We must leave the castle at once.”
Even while he said it, he heard boots on the stairs. If the men found Moira covered in blood and their chieftain dead, it would not go well for her.
Duncan lifted her to her feet. Holding her with one arm and his sword in the other, he started out with her just as one of the MacQuillan warriors filled the doorway. Two more were right behind him. Duncan needed to dispatch them quickly before they raised the alarm and brought the fifty men sleeping in the hall into the fight.
“What have ye done to—”
Duncan cut the first man down before the words were out of his mouth. Then he shoved the next one backward into the third, sending the pair tumbling down the stairs.
Holding Moira to his side, Duncan leaped over the flailing men and continued down the stairs. The noise had drawn three more warriors into the bottom of the stairwell. But the fools did not have their blades at the ready. Before they could unsheathe them, Duncan kicked one in the gut, swung his claymore into another, and rammed the third with his shoulder.
Damn. The commotion was waking the other MacQuillan men. When Duncan started through the hall, some of them were already on their feet and reaching for their swords. Duncan lifted Moira over his shoulder and ran like hell for the door.
He burst through it, cleared the steps in one leap, and ran hard through the darkness of the bailey yard to the gate. Knowing he had removed the bar, he hit the gate running. It was made of heavy oak, but it swung open against his weight.
After a few yards, he was in pitch blackness. The MacQuillan men were on his heels, and Duncan could not see the path to the beach. He was running blind.
A dog barked. A moment later he saw the wolfhound in front of him, leading the way, his golden fur just visible in the night.
Moira moaned, and Duncan thought of her bruised and battered face bouncing against his back. But he had no choice. He must get her away from here at all costs. The shouts behind them were growing closer, but so was the sound of waves crashing on the beach. As he crested a hill behind the dog, he saw the white foam of the curling sea swells through the darkness.
“Niall!” he shouted as he followed the wolfhound down the bluff to the beach.
“Over here!” Niall called.
Duncan saw the black shape of their boat.
“There they are!” a voice came from behind him. “Stop them!”
Niall was already pushing the galley out when Duncan reached it.
“Get in!” Duncan shouted. As soon as Niall jumped into the boat, Duncan thrust Moira into Niall’s arms and took hold of the side of the boat.
“Get ready to raise the sail,” Duncan called to Niall. As he strained to push their galley farther out to the sea, a huge dark shape sailed past him and landed inside the boat. The wolfhound.
Over his shoulder, Duncan saw men with torches coming down the bluff and onto the beach.
“Now!” Duncan shouted as he flung himself into the boat.
Niall unfurled the sail in the gusting wind, and the vessel lurched forward. It listed to the side before Duncan could grab hold of the rudder. He straightened the boat quickly, and they headed out to sea.
When Duncan looked back again, torchlights filled the beach. The MacQuillans knew these waters far better than he did. But with any luck, they would wait until daylight to set sail after them.
He wished Alex were with them. The old Viking blood was strong in Alex, giving him a sixth sense on the water that would be useful sailing through unfamiliar shallows in the dark. Twice the boat scraped rocks, and it was only by the hand of God that they made it out to deep water.
As soon as it was safe to do so, he fastened the rudder in place, found a blanket, and went to check on Moira. She was shaking and weeping when he wrapped the blanket around her, so he put his arms around her as well. Despite the danger they were in, a fleeting sense of peace settled over him. This was not how he’d dreamed it would happen, but he had Moira in his arms again.
* * *
Moira slept fitfully, plagued by dreams that made her feel as if she were falling through time. She dozed and awoke so often that she did not know what was real and what was dream.
No! No! Sean’s weight was crushing her, and she was begging God not to let her last moment on earth be with Sean’s smell in her nose and his body touching hers. Then the weight was gone, and Duncan MacDonald stood ab
ove her in all his glory. Duncan had fire in his eyes and his blade brandished, just as she had imagined him every time she had hoped and prayed he would come.
But she must have dreamed him, called him up into the nightmare that was her life. As always, Duncan was too late to save her. Moira felt the motion of the waves beneath her, and she was floating in the sea beside her mother.
Then Sean was alive again, and his hands were closing on her throat.
* * *
“It’s all right.” Duncan held Moira against him, stilling her flailing arms.
He hated to awaken her again, but it was dangerous to let her sleep for more than a short time after how hard she had been hit on the head.
“Drink,” he said, holding the flask of ale to her lips. Moira drank it greedily, but half went down her chin because the side of her mouth was swollen. He dabbed it gently with the corner of the blanket.
“Duncan?” she said.
“Aye, it’s me.”
“You’re too late,” she murmured. “I watched for ye, but ye didn’t come.”
Moira was out of her head. She had been saying that to him all night.
He batted away the wolfhound, who kept nosing her face. “Leave her be or I’ll toss ye over the side.”
“No!” Moira wailed.
“Shh. I didn’t mean it.” Duncan brushed his fingers through her hair, which was still sticky with blood, as he rocked her in his arms. “He’s a good dog. He led me down the path to the beach.”
“He’s my son’s dog,” she said in a choked whisper.
The next time Duncan checked on her, dawn was breaking, and Moira seemed alert. Ach, her lovely face was a mess. He helped her sit up.
“Tell me where you’re hurt, Moira.”
“My head hurts like the very devil, and I can’t open my left eye,” she said in a strong voice, “but I don’t think he broke any bones.”
God in Heaven. If Sean were not already dead, Duncan would go back and kill him now. “There was a lot of blood. If ye have a wound, we should bind it.”
He had checked her for fresh bleeding as best he could in the night and found none, but he needed to be sure.
The Warrior Page 6