The Highlander's Norse Bride: A Novella: Book 4 in the Hardy Heroines Series

by Cathy MacRae

  Two other men leapt to sudden action, approaching Alex with wildly waving hands, shouting each to be heard above the other. Slipping swords free, Alex and his soldiers warned them back. Dropping into silence, the men held their distance, shooting anxious glances between him and the woman who refused to alter her stance.

  The heated scent of fresh blood rose to Alex’s nostrils. A young lass, perhaps fourteen years of age, huddled against the tavern wall, on the verge of bolting. Terror shone from her wide eyes, one hand grasping a handful of torn cloth at the neck of her gown.

  A dull throb rose in Alex’s head, building with the relentlessness of a smithy’s hammer as he was catapulted back in time into a memory he’d all but forgotten.

  The heat of the desert sun scorched his face, beat down on his shoulders. The horse beneath him shifted uneasily, the stench of blood and char heavy in the air.

  An expletive rolled from Bohemond’s lips and Philip and Alex exchanged startled glances. “Damn them—and damn—” The prince broke off, obviously unable to find words to express his anger.

  “We are too late,” Philip sighed, his voice bitter. His hands gripped the reins tighter, his knuckles white.

  Bile rose in Alex’s throat as they dismounted the restless horses and strode with the prince’s soldiers through the small village. Men and women sprawled lifeless in the dust, pierced with spears, cleaved with swords and axes. Blood-soaked earth clung to Alex’s boots as he walked, unable to find an unsoiled space to place his feet.

  A whimper pulled his attention to a nearly nude form crumpled against the remains of a charred wall. Stepping closer, he saw the body twitch, its fingers blackened with drying blood. Glazed eyes stared at him, and with a shock that nearly heaved the contents of his stomach, he realized the girl—likely no more than ten or twelve years of age from the small buds of her breasts and lack of body hair—had been brutalized. Her lips moved soundlessly and he knelt beside her, touching the side of her face gently with his fingertips. Her eyes closed and she turned her face into his soft caress as if seeking comfort. His heart broke, and he pulled the child into his arms, rocking her gently as she breathed her last sigh.

  The young lass in the alley gasped and shoved her fist in her mouth against a further outburst. Through a red haze, Alex fought back to the present.

  “What happened?” he demanded.

  One of the men pointed to the Valkyrie. “She killed him! Bloody Norse whore killed him!”

  The other nodded vigorously. “And he’s a Scot! The penalty is death!”

  Alex forced himself to relax the grip on his sword, forced the tension from his shoulders. He pointed the tip of his sword toward the young girl who clung to the older woman.

  “What did these men do to ye?”

  The girl shrank back, shaking her head.

  “Ye will tell me what happened,” Alex commanded, ignoring the lass’ obvious discomfort. “Now.”

  The Valkyrie murmured something to the girl, too low for him to catch the words. The lass shook her head again.

  “She is frightened,” the woman said.

  Alex’s sword tip swung to her. “I dinnae wish to hear the tale from ye. I am waiting for this one to speak.” He dismissed the woman, his patience fraying.

  “My lord . . . ,” the girl faltered and ducked behind the woman once again.

  “Speak!” Alex roared. The two miscreants shuffled their feet, more than willing to voice their accusations once again. Alex’s soldiers advanced. The lass burst into tears.

  “I will not tolerate this abuse of an innocent child,” the Valkyrie warned, placing an arm about the lass’ waist.

  Astonished, Alex sent her a questioning look. “Nor do I,” he growled. “But her account is crucial.”

  “My lord.” The lass’ sobs snuffled to a halt. “This one,” she pointed to the man at her feet, “accosted me. I . . . I did not wish it.”

  “What did he do?” Alex asked, gentling his voice.

  “He,” she swallowed. “He grabbed me and pulled me against him.” She bit her lip, anger lighting a slow flame in her eyes. “And kissed me.”

  “I see yer gown,” Alex said. “’Twas not a kiss. ’Twas an assault.” He nodded to the older woman. “And she attacked him on yer behalf.” It was hardly a question, but a prod for her to finish her tale.

  The girl glanced up at the Valkyrie, admiration on her face. “She warned him first.”

  Alex faced the dead man’s friends. “Was this the way of it?”

  The two men shuffled their feet, their gazes averted, unable to swear to their friend’s innocence. One ventured a glare at Alex. “The woman is Norse. She has no right to kill a Scot. ’Tis our right to demand justice! Take her to the baron!”

  Alex sent him a cold look. “Ye will receive justice. I am the baron.”

  He gestured to the miscreants. “Take them to the dungeon. I will tolerate no abuse of women or children here. Hang them on the morrow.”

  * * *

  Hanna shook with cold and the realization she’d likely sealed her fate. As a Norsewoman in a village held by a Scottish lord, her action—while justified in her mind—merited death. Her heart pounded and bile rose in her throat. She was not sorry she’d killed the scum at her feet. Only that it had been necessary.

  “Take them to the dungeon,” Laird MacLean commanded with a sweep of his arm. To Hanna’s surprise, his gesture included the two disreputable men—not herself or the girl whose life she’d saved. She snapped her gaze to the imposing man, startled by the blazing heat of the laird’s scrutiny, recognizing a disgust deep within him—though whether of a Norsewoman who’d killed one of his own, or of men who preyed on innocents, she did not know.

  Protests rose loudly from the two men, disbelieving that they appeared to be at fault, when it was clear this Norsewoman had killed a Scot, while they had only sought a moment of the lass’s time.

  The young girl slipped her cold hand in the crook of Hanna’s elbow. Heedless of the bloody mess of Hanna’s gown and the dead body at her feet, the girl pressed against Hanna, her body trembling. Hanna touched her cheek to the top of the girl’s head, acknowledging her presence and need for comfort. Wary as a wolf ready to battle for her cub, her eyes never left the baron.

  His gaze, stern and unyielding, silenced the miscreants’ words and accusations. Sheathing his sword, he waited until two of his soldiers marched the men away, then turned back to Hanna.

  “Are ye hurt?”

  To Hanna’s surprise, his voice rolled quietly over her, the biting anger softened into gentle inquiry. A tiny part of her responded to his apparent concern, but she recoiled as if slapped. He was a Scot, her enemy! He wished only to trap her. She would not trust him. Hanna glanced about, finding no escape.

  Their gazes locked, each fighting for the upper hand. Hanna refused to be cowed, fear holding her back rigid, keeping her heart pounding at an impossible rate, ready to flee. She flexed her hand, adjusting the grip on her dagger. She would not give in to the Scot.

  Laird MacLean released a long, deep breath and inclined his head, handing her the victory. Hanna braced for his next move. He raised one hand and crooked a finger.

  “Come with me.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Frozen in place like a downed hawk caught in the gaze of a hungry wolf, the woman watched him with wary eyes. Giving her the opportunity to calm, Alex pivoted on his heel and strode a few steps away. After a moment, he heard the whisper of steel on leather as she tucked the blade away. He faced her, noting the flash of her dark green eyes, the authoritative tilt to her chin. Alex hid a smile, not certain why her defiant attitude appealed to him.

  “Ye will not harm this child,” she said, her hands resting firmly on the girl’s slender shoulders.

  “Ye are both under MacLean protection,” Alex replied. “No harm will come to either of ye.”

  Neither woman responded, their manners guarded.

  “Are ye newly arrived?” Alex asked. The two
women exchanged glances. The younger nodded hesitantly.

  “Ye will need a place to sleep and work to keep ye fed,” Alex noted. “Help is always needed in the kitchen. Come with me and I will introduce ye to Jean.” He eyed the bandage on her arm. “She will see to the tending of your wound.”

  Silent communication flowed between the woman and girl in the barely perceptible squeeze of the woman’s blood-stained fingers on the slender shoulders and the girl’s faint answering nod. Alex gestured to his remaining guard and strode from the alley as the buzz of anger slipped away, replaced with disgust.

  Shite! What was King Alexander thinking, giving men free rein on conquering the Isles?

  He chanced a glance over his shoulder, pleased to see the two Norsewomen following. The lass was pale, still frightened over her encounter and the manner in which she’d been saved. Was the older woman her ma? She seemed scarcely old enough to have a daughter of that age, but he wasn’t adept at guessing women’s ages.

  Crowds parted as he led the small entourage through the castle gates. Boots shuffled on the stone parapet above and Alex caught a glimpse of curious faces, guards alert to the laird’s return. Alex summoned a lad with a jerk of his chin.

  “Find Jean. Tell her I have need of her.”

  “Aye, Laird,” the boy replied, darting across the yard to the hall.

  Alex turned to the women following. “Welcome to MacLean Castle. We will rest and take refreshment in my solar.”

  The older woman halted, eyes widened, nostrils flared as though scenting danger.

  “I have promised safety, and ye shall have it,” he reassured her, understanding her wariness. “Though ye are a formidable warrior, I dinnae have to resort to subterfuge to have ye captured and thrown into the dungeon. That is neither my wish nor my intent.”

  “I do not trust a man loyal to Scotland’s king.” the woman growled, her chin tilted up in defiance.

  “Trust yer own instinct,” Alex replied. “My word is my bond.”

  With a glance to the lass at her side, the woman appeared to deliberate on his words before she at last released a short breath. “I accept on her behalf.”

  Alex nodded. “I will ask Jean for water and mayhap a clean gown as well for ye both.”

  “I do not ask for charity,” the woman bristled. “Water will suffice.”

  “I meant no insult, nor do I offer help beyond yer immediate comfort,” Alex replied, somewhat irritated by the woman’s prickly manner. He stepped through the great doors and led the pair past servants who paused in their duties to stare openly. Opening the door to his solar, he ushered the women inside. He leaned out into the hall, motioning a serving lass near, and sent her to rummage suitable gowns for his guests.

  A wide-eyed lad, giving the Valkyrie a wide berth, set two buckets of water near the hearth then fled the room. Alex motioned for the women to make use of the water, and the lass poured water over the older woman’s hands as she scrubbed them clean. Not making the mistake of approaching the elder, Alex offered a thick length of linen to the lass who passed it along.

  Jean bustled in, wiping her hands on her apron, face flush with either haste or perhaps her work in the kitchen. Drawing to a halt, she surveyed the two women with a raised brow.

  Alex gestured to his guests. “I found this pair beset by three men on the pier,” he said, moving to his chair behind the enormous desk.

  “I believe that one must have disagreed with their offer,” Jean retorted, giving the older woman a skeptical look. The woman’s chin lifted a notch, anger flashing across her face. Jean’s eyes widened, unaccustomed to any show of disrespect.

  “’Twas less than honorable,” Alex replied, his lips twitching downward in displeasure—more for the act he’d caught the men in than for any impoliteness from the beleaguered woman. She would be accorded time to recover.

  He sat, leaning against the comfortable leather-bound frame. “The two men who still live reside in the dungeon. Awaiting hanging for their offenses.”

  “And what is to be their fate?” Jean asked, inclining her head toward the women.

  “’Tis up to them, but they have my vow of protection and I offered them work here—pending yer approval.”

  Jean’s face softened, exposing her soft heart too often hidden beneath her bustling no-nonsense manner. “What’s yer name, lass?” she asked. “Ye are welcome here.”

  The women exchanged looks, and the younger, again clutching the other’s arm, ventured an answer. “I am Aadny,” she whispered. She turned her worshipful gaze to the older woman at her side.

  The elder lifted her chin. “I am Hanna, of the village of Hällstein on the Isle of Mull. The village and my family were destroyed, thanks to yer Scottish king.”

  Her voice, harsh with anger and grief, did not disguise her Norse accent, one Alex knew well. “Jeg er lei meg,” he offered, though how a simple apology would make amends for what she’d endured, he did not know.

  Both women startled.

  “I speak some Norse,” he said. “My business demands fluency in languages.”

  A serving lass appeared in the doorway. With a bob of her head, she held up a handful sturdy brown wool. “For the ladies, Laird,” she said, slipping Hanna and Aadny a quick glance from the corners of her eyes.

  Jean took the gowns. With a firm, motherly hand, she gathered Aadny to her side. “I’ll have ye in a hot tub and clean clothes in no time.”

  “Have the healer take a look at Hanna’s arm, if you please. I would rather not find her in bed with a raging fever in a day or two.”

  Jean sent Alex a brisk nod, “Leave it to me, Laird. I’ll have the healer attend her. I’m certain I have lodging and work for them both.”

  With a twitch of her skirts, she led the women from the room. As the door closed behind them, Alex turned to the clutter on his desk, wanting very much to leave it behind and follow the women, anxious to see Hanna was well-cared for.

  With a wry shake of his head, he dismissed the urge, having no need to embroil himself with one of the many refugees arriving at MacLean Castle daily.

  But the peculiar desire he’d felt the first time he saw her, dagger dripping blood, her pale face and hair speckled with the dark spatter, a fierce Valkyrie defending a young lass’s honor, floated through his chest again. Heat tightened his chest and loins.

  Though presented with acceptable lasses, should he decide to take another wife, he’d found the one woman of whom no MacLean clan elder would approve.

  Alex sighed. Jean would care for the woman. Perhaps it was best he dismissed from his mind the golden-haired Valkyrie with the wounded eyes.

  CHAPTER 7

  Hanna ignored Jean’s chatter as she submerged herself in the wooden tub. The water could have been as cold as the Strait of Mull for all the attention she paid to such minor details. It irked her to accept hospitality from Laird MacLean, and she did not trust his motives or those of the people around her. They were Scots—wild and uncivilized. Enemy to the Norse.

  Hands gently gathered her hair and she gritted her teeth to keep from showing her revulsion. Water ran over her head and fingers massaged soap scented with rosemary into her hair and scalp. Hanna’s stomach clenched at the kindness and she gripped the edges of the tub, using the dull pain to keep her shattered heart from betraying her.

  Jean clucked her tongue. “I have need of a lass to help with the children. Aadny will suit.” She motioned to Hanna. “Freya will help ye finish yer bath and show ye about. If ye have further need, send someone to find me.” With a rustle of skirts, keys to the castle clanking at her waist, Jean hurried from the room, Aadny a silent shadow at her heels.

  The door clicked shut and silence descended. Water sluiced the soap from Hanna’s hair and she leaned forward, taking a square of cloth from the table and lathering it with more of the scented soap. Scrubbing vigorously, she erased the evidence of the past two days.

  After a final rinse, the other woman spread Hanna’s hair across h
er shoulders to begin drying and rose to her feet, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “’Tis no Scots name ye bear,” Hanna noted. The other woman, her hair a slightly darker gold than Hanna’s, nodded.

  “I, too, am a refugee. I arrived here little more than a sennight past.” She lifted troubled eyes to meet Hanna’s gaze. “Ye will find safety here. And acceptance.”

  “Acceptance?” Hanna drew back in horror. She could not envision a place among Scots where she, a Norsewoman, would be accepted. Their past was too stormy, the recent attacks on the Norse villages too bloody.

  “The laird is a fair man, the work is not onerous, and after a time, ye will discover the people here are friendly.” Freya’s lips thinned. “’Tis best ye forget your past. Make a new life for yourself.”

  “Ye have not forgotten.” Hanna’s words did not question what she knew to be the truth.

  Freya shook her head. “I will help ye dress and show ye to your duties. My life as a Norsewoman is over. I have made peace with myself. Ye would do well to consider yourself a Scot, now.”

  Hanna’s blood fired in her veins. Not for all the peace in Scotland would she consider herself a Scot. She was Norse, and Clan MacLean would soon remember it as well.

  She dressed quickly, slipping her dagger in her sleeve when Freya’s attention was diverted, then followed the woman to the kitchen. Her duties were quickly explained, and she set to chopping vegetables, her eyes scanning the busy room, ears tuning to the high-pitched chatter.

  The sight of a girl near her daughter Signy’s age, cheeks rosy in the glow of the massive fireplace where she tended the cook fire, made Hanna’s heart stop. Pushing the fierce longing past the grief clogging her throat, Hanna dragged her gaze to the women nearest her. Their actions spoke of long practice. Their voices, however, rose excitedly, and Hanna realized this evening’s meal was more than a simple gathering.