The Warrior

by Margaret Mallory

  “The blood is his,” she said. “The blade I was holding must have gone into him when he knocked me over and fell on top of me.”

  Duncan had fought all kinds of men, good and bad, and he had seen plenty of evil. Still, it shocked him how any man could violently attack a woman.

  “Had he hurt ye before?” he asked.

  “Not like this,” she said.

  He swallowed. “What happened?”

  Moira pulled away from him and drew the blanket tightly around her. “Sean saw how ye looked at me, that’s what happened,” she said in a hard voice.

  She blamed him.

  “Sean was always getting jealous for no cause,” she snapped.

  Duncan let that sink in. “I’ll get ye another blanket, then ye should try to rest some more.”

  “I must bring my son home to Dunscaith,” she said as she stared out to sea.

  “I’m sure the lad is safe,” Duncan said. “Even the MacLeod would not harm a child he had agreed to foster.”

  That was the only reassurance he could give her. Even if there were not such animosity between the MacDonalds and the MacLeods—and there was soon to be more—a boy belonged to his father’s clan. The MacQuillans were unlikely to agree to let Moira have their chieftain’s son, especially when they believed that she, or the man she left with, had murdered their chieftain.

  “Duncan!” Niall called from the front of the boat. “They’re following us.”

  Chapter 11

  Erik MacLeod narrowed his eyes as he watched his chieftain’s guards escort the visitor into the Great Hall of Dunvegan Castle. The guards brought him to a halt a respectful distance from the dais, where Alastair Crotach MacLeod sat looking every inch the great chieftain he was, despite his hunched shoulder.

  It was unusual, to say the least, to see a MacDonald of Sleat in Dunvegan Castle, except in the dungeon. If the chieftain was surprised, he did not show it.

  The visitor was a big, fair-haired man in his midthirties who had earned the name Hugh Dubh, Black Hugh, for his black heart. If rumors were to be believed, Hugh had a hand in the deaths of his former chieftain and the chieftain’s eldest son, who were his half brother and nephew.

  Erik admired the man’s ruthlessness in pursuing his ambitions. Erik’s chieftain disapproved of Hugh, but then, Alastair MacLeod had never had to fight for his place in this world. He was born to be a chieftain and would die one. Of course, the MacLeod’s dislike of Hugh would not prevent him from using the man to benefit his clan.

  “My nephew Connor is scheming to take the Trotternish Peninsula from ye,” Hugh said after the formal greetings. “If I were the chieftain of the MacDonalds of Sleat, as I ought to be, I’d be content with the lands we have.”

  “As the keeper of Trotternish Castle,” the chieftain said, turning his gaze to Erik, “are ye worried about this pup Connor taking Trotternish from us?”

  Erik had worked single-mindedly for years to earn his chieftain’s trust and respect. He’d had much to overcome. His father had been a warrior better known for his drinking than for his skill with a sword, and his mother was a woman of no consequence at all. After Erik had led the attack when they took Trotternish Castle from the MacDonalds, his chieftain had finally given him his just reward.

  There was nothing Erik would not do to retain the castle and his position as its keeper.

  “I haven’t lost a wink of sleep over it,” Erik lied and forced a laugh. “From what I hear, the new MacDonald chieftain has so few men and war galleys that he’d be a fool to launch an attack against us.”

  Erik knew his chieftain was pleased with his response, though the MacLeod’s face remained expressionless. His chieftain did not want Hugh to believe he had anything of value to offer them.

  “I’d advise ye not to underestimate Connor,” Hugh said. “Through surprise and cunning, he has won battles against greater numbers before.”

  “Why do ye warn us?” the MacLeod asked.

  “Connor is responsible for the deaths of two of my half brothers,” Hugh said. “I want him to pay for that with his life.”

  The MacLeod raised an eyebrow. “I had the impression ye weren’t overly fond of your brothers.”

  Erik snorted. It was rumored that Hugh had murdered a second brother in addition to the one that had been chieftain.

  “How do ye know your nephew’s plans?” the MacLeod asked and signaled for his cup.

  “I have spies in his castle,” Hugh said, looking a mite too pleased with himself.

  When his cupbearer brought him his intricately carved wooden cup, the chieftain took a deep draught. Though he never permitted himself to drink in excess, he did take whiskey for the lifelong pain he suffered from the MacDonald axe that had split his shoulder.

  “I supported ye once before against your nephew. It cost me the lives of some of my best warriors and gained me nothing.” The MacLeod stared down at Hugh from his high chair, the heat of his temper burning in his eyes. “What is it that you’ve come to ask me for this time, and why should I give it to ye?”

  “I hear ye are fostering my niece Moira’s son.”

  The MacLeod narrowed his eyes at Hugh.

  “The lad is Connor’s heir,” Hugh said. “I want him.”

  * * *

  Damn, the MacQuillans were persistent.

  Duncan glared at the three war galleys that had been following them for two days, then turned around to watch the black clouds rolling toward them from the west. Bolts of lightning flashed in the narrow band of horizon between the thunderclouds and the sea.

  This had the makings of a storm that sailors would talk about for years afterward. Unfortunately, the MacQuillans had cleverly positioned their war galleys between Duncan’s boat and the shelter of the islands to the east. They were forcing him to choose between going to shore where they were sure to catch him or sailing directly into the storm.

  Risking his own life was one thing, but Duncan could not sail into this gale with Moira and Niall. He turned their boat toward their pursuers and the nearest island.

  “When the MacQuillans take us,” he said to Niall, “I killed Sean. Understood?”

  Niall nodded.

  The only good news was that Moira seemed to be recovering from her injuries. Duncan watched her now as she leaned into the wind and crossed the boat to where he and Niall stood at the stern.

  “What are ye doing?” she asked when she reached them. When Duncan did not answer, she grabbed his sleeve. “No, I won’t go back. I’d rather die.”

  Her hair was snapping across her bruised and battered face. One of her eyes was no more than a slit. Even with Sean dead, he could understand why she was loath to return.

  “I expect they’ll throw us all in their dungeon to rot,” Niall said. “I’m for taking our chances at sea.”

  If Duncan could be certain the MacQuillans would punish only him for their chieftain’s death, he would sail for the island and let them take him. But Niall was right. After their chieftain had been murdered under their noses, the MacQuillans might not be in a mood to distinguish guilt among the three of them.

  Praying he was not making the wrong choice, Duncan turned the boat again, this time toward the open sea and the gathering storm. Before long, the war galleys behind them tacked eastward to take shelter in one of the protected coves of the islands. The MacQuillans were not foolish enough to risk their lives and boats to capture them.

  As they sailed closer to the storm, the wind drove hard pellets of rain against Duncan’s face. Thump. Thump. Thump. Their galley rose and fell in the waves.

  Before long they collided with the storm, and the sea became a torrent. The wind whirled about them and tossed their boat with increasing violence.

  “Niall, take the rudder.” Duncan had to shout to be heard. “I’m taking the sail down before the mast snaps.”

  He took Moira’s hand and wrapped it around the piece of rope he had tied around the wolfhound’s neck. “Stay down and hold on to Sàr unt
il I come back for ye.”

  The sea crashed over the boat, drenching Duncan while he dropped the sail. Working fast, he retrieved two coils of rope from the bottom of the boat and returned to the others.

  “Moira, I’m tying ye to the mast so ye don’t get washed overboard,” he shouted. “So long as we all stay in the boat, we’ll be fine.”

  If the boat capsized, it would not matter that she was tied and could not swim. There would be no hope. Duncan led Moira to the mast, then tied the rope around her waist, taking care to avoid her bruised ribs.

  “Stay,” he ordered the dog, who obediently sat and leaned against Moira.

  “We will make it,” he said, and cupped Moira’s cheek for a moment before he left her.

  The boat creaked and shook as each cresting wave pounded into it. Duncan had to hold on to the side of the boat as he worked his way back to Niall.

  “I’ll steer,” he shouted. When he took the rudder from Niall, he felt the full power of the sea pushing against it. “Now tie yourself to the mast with Moira.”

  As he thrust the rope at Niall, a wall of water twenty feet high crashed over the side of the galley.

  “Niall!” Duncan shouted and reached for him.

  Time moved slowly as Duncan watched Niall spread his arms wide trying to catch hold of something before the mammoth wave hit them. Then the wall of water crashed over the boat, lifting Niall off his feet and tossing him head over heels like a twig in a whirlpool.

  The rushing surge of water swept Duncan after Niall and slammed him against the side of the boat. Duncan held on to the rail, his arms straining against the force of water sweeping past him. As the swell receded, washing back across the top of the boat, Duncan heard Moira’s screams over the wind. That meant she was still safe, tied to the mast.

  But Niall was gone.

  Chapter 12

  Niall! Niall!” Duncan shouted as he leaned over the side of the boat searching the swirling sea for him.

  A lifetime seemed to pass before Niall’s arm popped out of the next swell. A moment later, a dark head bobbed to the surface and went down again. Niall was still alive.

  Somehow, Duncan still held the rope in his hands. He quickly tied a loop at one end and fastened it over a hook on the side of the boat. But the boat was drifting dangerously. Before it took the next wave sideways and capsized, Duncan threw his weight against the rudder.

  The boat shook as Duncan turned it against the force of the sea pushing it sideways.

  The next wave crashed over the bow. When he glanced at Moira, she looked like a rag doll with her hair and limbs flailing in the wind.

  Duncan fought to keep the bow hitting the waves head-on, while easing the boat closer to where he’d last seen Niall in the water. Then he saw Niall’s head bob to the surface again, thank God. Niall started swimming toward the boat, but he looked hurt. His strokes were awkward.

  A giant swell curled and crashed over Niall, taking him under. Duncan’s heart stuttered in his chest as he watched for Niall’s head to reappear. When it finally did, Niall started swimming again, but his strokes seemed weaker than before. His head went down again and again, and each time Duncan feared Niall was lost.

  “Niall!” Duncan shouted and tossed the rope with all his might. It uncoiled, carried aloft in the wind, and fell into the roiling sea not far from Niall. But as Niall swam toward it, the current carried the rope farther and farther from his reach.

  Duncan pulled the rope in, coiling it around his arm. Before he could try again, he had to grab the rudder to steady the boat for the next swell. As soon as the galley crashed through the wave, Duncan turned to toss the rope. Niall had disappeared. Long, long moments passed before his head popped up again. The lad did not appear able to lift his arms to swim.

  Niall did not have much strength left. If he did not catch hold of the rope this time, there would not be another chance. Taking careful aim, Duncan flung the rope out to him.

  This time, the end landed close enough for Niall to grasp it.

  “Hold on!” Duncan shouted as the boat crashed through another rolling swell. Then, holding the rudder steady with his leg, Duncan began pulling the rope in. Duncan was not a man who prayed much, but he was praying for all he was worth.

  Give the lad the strength to hold on.

  Another wave broke over the bow, and the tension in the rope grew slack for a sickening moment. When it jerked in Duncan’s hands, relief surged through him. Niall still held the other end.

  Duncan pulled the rope in hand over hand until Niall was next to the boat. Duncan waited for the next wave to pass so that Niall would not be hit by the force of it while Duncan pulled him out of the water. Niall was close enough now that Duncan could see that his lips were blue and he had blood running down the side of his face.

  Duncan heaved the rope, lifting Niall out of the water. As he watched, Niall’s hands began slipping down the rope. Duncan leaned over the side of the boat to help him, but Niall was just out of his reach.

  “Hold on, damn it!” Duncan shouted.

  The next wave caught Niall broadside, and he started to fall.

  * * *

  Moira felt helpless tied to the mast as she watched Duncan trying to save Niall’s life. When Niall started falling back into the water, she thought all hope for him was gone. Her scream of anguish was lost in the wind. But when the wave passed, Duncan was hanging dangerously over the side of the boat—and he was holding Niall’s wrist. She could see Duncan’s muscles strain beneath his soaked tunic as he held Niall’s deadweight against the force of the burgeoning sea.

  Moira untied the rope around her, took hold of Sàr’s makeshift collar, and started across the boat to help Duncan. The galley rocked sideways, knocking her to her knees. When she looked up, Duncan was still leaning precariously over the side of the boat. Over the wind, she heard him shouting Niall’s name. Leaning on Sàr for support, she pulled herself to her feet and stumbled toward the back of the boat.

  At last, she reached Duncan and wrapped her arms around his legs to help anchor him with her weight. With his every muscle straining, Duncan held Niall as another wave crashed over them. He grunted with the final effort of hoisting Niall’s limp body up and over the side of the boat. All three of them fell into the bottom of the boat as it rocked back.

  Before Moira could right herself, Duncan had turned Niall onto his stomach and began rhythmically pushing on his back. Moira crouched beside him while he worked to save Niall. He pushed once, twice, three times.

  O shluagh! Breathe, Niall, breathe! It could not be too late.

  Finally, Niall coughed and choked and threw up seawater.

  “God help me, I thought I’d lost him,” Duncan said, looking up at her. “Can ye take care of him? I must take the rudder.”

  Moira had been so focused on Niall that she had not noticed that the boat was listing dangerously to the side again.

  “Go. I’ve got Niall,” she said.

  Niall gasped and coughed as Moira rubbed his back.

  “Can ye see where he’s bleeding from?” Duncan called out above her.

  Niall had a long gash along the side of his face, but it did not look deep. She scanned the rest of him, trying to discern where all the blood was coming from. A dark red cloud was spreading through his wet tunic over his thigh. When Moira lifted the cloth, she had to swallow back the bile rising in her throat at the sight of the torn flesh.

  “We need to stop the bleeding,” Duncan said, glancing down at Niall’s leg. “Take my dirk and cut a strip of cloth for a bandage.”

  She reached over Niall’s prone body to take the dirk from Duncan’s hand, then quickly cut two long strips of cloth from the hem of her gown. When she had them ready, Duncan dropped to his knee to help her wrap the makeshift bandage around Niall’s thigh.

  “We’re past the worst of the storm,” Duncan said. “With luck and God’s grace, we’ll ride out the rest of it.”

  When Moira glanced up, she saw that it was t
rue. The swells were not so high, and the sky was light up ahead. She had been certain they would all die. Her hands shook as she wrapped the second strip around Niall’s leg and tied a knot to bind it.

  Niall groaned as Duncan helped her tug the knot tight.

  “You’ll be all right,” she told Niall, and prayed it was true.

  She stole another look at Duncan. It was thanks to his skill with the boat, his exceptional strength, and the force of his will that they had survived.

  Moira lifted Niall’s head onto her lap and wiped the blood and vomit from his face. “He’s still so cold,” she said.

  Duncan fetched a blanket and gently tucked it around Niall. Then he snapped his fingers at Sàr and the wolfhound lay down beside Niall. “The dog will help keep him warm.”

  Niall opened his eyes and gave Duncan a faint smile. “Ye looked like Cúchulainn himself when ye were pulling me in on that rope.”

  “Lie still and rest.” Duncan spoke in a soft voice as if he were putting a wee bairn to bed. He smoothed the wet hair back from Niall’s face until Niall closed his eyes again.

  Niall’s comparison of Duncan to the mythical Celtic warrior of legend was apt. His powerful build and indomitable will were what had drawn Moira to him and stirred her blood when she was seventeen.

  But it was this gentle side of Duncan that had stolen her heart.

  * * *

  Duncan bailed the boat with one hand while steering as best he could with a broken rudder. The little galley, as fine a boat as he had ever sailed, was holding together with spit and a prayer. At least the sea was calm now. If they hit another squall, he feared the galley would break into pieces.

  Duncan took a deep breath. That had been far too close. God help him, he had almost lost Ian’s brother. And Niall was not out of danger yet. The wound in his leg was deep, and he had lost a lot of blood.

  Moira hovered over Niall, who was moaning in his sleep. Her brows were pinched together with worry, and her beautiful face looked painful. The swelling had gone down a bit, but the bruises would color her skin for a long time.