Battle Eagle: A Dark Ages Scottish Romance (The Warrior Brothers of Skye Book 3)

by Jayne Castel

  Loxa’s handsome face was twisted into a grimace of resentment. It was an expression Donnel knew well—one he had seen on Wurgest’s face when he had challenged Tarl for Lucrezia. It was of a grievance that would not be forgotten.

  Both Donnel and Eithni had wounded Loxa’s pride. The warrior would remember. Donnel did not care—he hoped Loxa choked on his pride.

  Instead he drew Eithni close and stepped into the crowd of dancers. A moment later they were swallowed up by the revelry, and Loxa disappeared from view.

  Eithni gasped, sagging against him.

  Donnel looked down at her. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head. “Just scared,” she gasped. “He terrifies me.”

  Donnel’s mouth twisted. “I’d wager most women feel that way about Loxa.”

  She glanced up at him then, and their gazes fused.

  The world stilled. The sound of music and laughter faded and their surroundings drew back. Suddenly there was just the two of them staring at each other, a breathless moment of silence.

  Eithni’s expression, the look in those huge hazel eyes, penetrated the shield Donnel had built around him. He had never seen such naked vulnerability, such fear. He could see the edge of panic that bubbled just beneath the surface. Even though he had rescued her, she was afraid of him. She was afraid of all men.

  Looking into her eyes, he wondered once again what that man Forcus had done that she appeared so traumatized. It was like staring into the eyes of a wounded frightened animal. Donnel’s chest constricted. He did not want to leave her out here among the dancers; he did not want Loxa finding her again.

  Without thinking he scooped Eithni up into his arms and carried her from the fire. On his way through the crowd, they passed Tarl and Lucrezia. Oblivious to their surroundings, the couple were kissing passionately, bodies entwined. Farther on, at the edge of the crowd of revelers, Donnel saw Galan and Tea.

  They watched him approach, alarm on their faces. Tea stepped forward. “Is Eithni unwell?”

  Donnel shook his head. “Loxa was bothering her,” he said curtly. “I’m taking her to her tent.”

  Tea opened her mouth as if to intervene but shut it again when Galan placed a hand on her arm. They both remained silent as Donnel walked on.

  Eithni said nothing either, curled against his chest. He could feel her exhaustion, her brittleness. Another wave of protectiveness crashed over him, unlike any he had known.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Why did he feel this way over a woman who got on his nerves more often than most? Until now he had only ever thought of Eithni as a nuisance. He had been so immersed in his own bitterness that he had never really seen her before, he had never glimpsed the wounded soul beneath her role as healer.

  They crossed the encampment, passed the smoking fire pits, and walked toward the line of Eagle tents. Donnel’s tent sat next to Tarl and Lucrezia’s while Eithni’s one was easy to spot. It was small and sat a few feet from Galan and Tea’s.

  Donnel ducked into the tent, pushing aside the leather flap covering the entrance. It was a cramped space illuminated by a tiny brazier that bathed the interior in a warm red-gold glow.

  Stopping before the fur in the center, Donnel gently lowered Eithni to her feet. As he did so he was acutely aware of her warm, lithe body sliding against his. He inhaled the scent of rosemary from her hair as the fine strands trailed across the bare skin of his arms.

  A jolt of arousal went through him, and he felt his groin harden.

  He had almost forgotten what lust felt like. He did not welcome the sensation though, for it brought back too many memories that he wished to keep buried. He could not understand why it had crept up on him now.

  Eithni stepped back from him and pushed the curtain of hair out of her eyes.

  “Thank you, Donnel,” she said, her voice husky. “I appreciate your help.”

  “Will you be alright alone here?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I’m sorry if I appeared feeble back there. Loxa seems to rob me of courage. I need to learn to be braver.”

  Donnel watched her a moment before shaking his head. “Don’t apologize,” he said gruffly, “and don’t blame yourself. I know what men like Loxa are capable of. Tell me if he bothers you again.”

  Eithni stared back at him before she eventually nodded. “I will … thank you, Donnel.”

  Filled with a strange emotion he did not understand, one that made his breathing constrict, Donnel nodded. He then turned his back on her and left the tent.

  Out in the cool evening air, he heaved in a deep breath and walked away. However, there was a strange restlessness in him that would not give him peace.

  Eithni sank down onto the fur, her limbs suddenly boneless.

  The light from the brazier was dim, casting long shadows over the hide walls of the tent. Heaving in a long shuddering breath, Eithni brushed away the single tear that escaped and trickled down her cheek.

  Enough, she chastised herself. I must be strong. She appreciated Donnel’s words although she could not bring herself to heed them. I must learn to stand up for myself. One day the likes of Donnel might not be around to protect me—what then?

  Eithni had been so scared tonight. When Loxa had hauled her into the dancing, and then dragged her around like a doll, she had felt so frightened she thought she might faint. The way he had grinned down at her had dredged up terrible memories of the past.

  Donnel had rescued her.

  The feel of Donnel’s arms around her had not frightened her. When he had picked her up and carried her out of the crowd, she had merely let go and huddled in his embrace. She had heard the steady beat of his heart as he had taken her to her tent.

  Eithni lay down on her side. She was too tense to sleep, so she listened to the sounds of the revelry and laughter drifting up from the hillside below the camp. She wondered what had happened to her harp. She had dropped it when Loxa grabbed her. It had probably been trampled underfoot during the dancing; she would have to get another made.

  Tears stung her eyelids, but Eithni blinked them back. She would not weep. Tomorrow she would talk to Tea; she would ask her for help. She needed to learn how to defend herself. She was tired of cowering. The likes of Tea and Lucrezia would not have needed rescuing tonight.

  The night stretched out, and the revelry eventually died down. It took Eithni a while to fall asleep, and when she did it was more of a fitful doze halfway between sleep and wakefulness.

  It was early morning—the time of night when the silence was always the deepest, the time when Eithni’s weakest patients would often be taken by The Reaper—when a noise awoke her.

  An odd ripping sound, like a sack being torn down the middle.

  Eithni stirred and pushed herself up on her fur, blinking as the fog of sleep receded. The embers in her brazier had died, and the interior of her tent was pitch black. For a few moments she was completely disoriented.

  Something was wrong. The whisper of cool air against her back alerted her—someone had sliced open the back of her tent. She was not alone.

  Eithni’s breathing hitched in her chest, and she scrambled toward the entrance, a cry rising in her throat.

  A moment later a hand clamped over her mouth, smothering her scream.

  Chapter Twelve

  Taken

  “EITHNI!” THE SHOUT jolted Donnel out of sleep.

  He sat up, shaking his head to clear it.

  That was Tea’s voice, and there was an uncharacteristic note of panic and fear in it. In an instant Donnel was on his feet. He ducked outside into the misty early dawn, his gaze shifting to where a crowd gathered a few yards away—around the smallest of the tents.

  Donnel's stomach clenched. Eithni’s tent.

  He strode over to the group—to where Lucrezia stood, her face stricken. “Eithni’s gone,” she told him.

  Donnel moved past her to the back of the tent, where he saw a gaping hole. Someone had ripped it open with a knife. Tea stood
there, her eyes wild with panic. Muin perched on one hip.

  Tea’s gaze met Donnel’s. “Someone’s taken her.”

  Donnel went cold.

  Tea, who was watching him, stilled. “What is it? Do you know who took her?”

  “Aye,” Donnel replied. “Loxa mac Wrad.”

  Tea’s blue eyes hardened.

  “Where’s Galan?” Donnel asked.

  Her jaw clenched. “He and Tarl are searching the camp.”

  Donnel strode past her and pushed through the gathering crowd. He found Galan and Tarl up ahead. His brothers stood before the knot of Boar tents. They were speaking with Urcal.

  Galan saw Donnel’s approach. His brother’s sharp-featured face was thunderous.

  “Loxa’s taken Eithni,” Galan informed Donnel.

  “Were you part of this, Urcal?” Unbeknown to Donnel, Tea had followed him. She still carried her son on her hip although her face was hard, her eyes murderous slits as she faced The Boar chieftain. “Did you know he planned to take her?”

  Urcal shook his head. For once The Boar chief seemed unsettled, at a loss for words. One look at his rugged face, and Donnel knew that this had come as a surprise to Urcal as well.

  “I never even knew he’d taken a liking to the lass,” Urcal muttered. “I’ve just checked—his pony is gone.”

  Tea cursed before passing Muin to the woman standing behind her. “Then we’ll ride out after him.”

  Eithni kept her eyes squeezed shut and gave herself up to the jolt of the pony’s stride. Loxa had slung her across the front of his saddle like a sack of barley. Her mouth gagged, her wrists bound, Eithni had long since given up trying to get free. She could not run away; she could not fight. Her ribs were bruised. Each stride threw her up against the pony’s sharp wither.

  Her captor did not speak as they rode although he kept one heavy hand clamped on her back, pressing it down between the shoulder blades just in case she tried to throw herself off the pony.

  They journeyed for a long while, the pony racing over the uneven ground, before it eventually slowed to a bouncing trot. It was then that Eithni finally dared to open her eyes and look around her.

  They rode through a landscape she did not recognize, possibly far to the north of The Gathering Place. She had been too scared, too blinded by the darkness, to take note of their direction of travel. The surrounding landscape was craggy, and they continued on up a hillside studded with huge blue-grey boulders. After a spell the ground grew steeper still, and Loxa slowed his pony to a walk.

  Finally they stopped, and Loxa swung down, his feet crunching on gravel. He pulled Eithni into his arms and turned her around to face him before untying her gag.

  “Finally.” His smile was oily. “Alone at last.”

  Eithni looked about her. He was right. They stood alone upon the stone-strewn hillside under an overcast sky. It was then that Eithni realized they were next to a large stone overhang. The stone ledge cast a long shadow over a damp and mossy space littered with stones and the remnants of an old fire pit.

  Her knees wobbled and her stomach clenched. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. “You won’t get away with this,” she gasped, her jaw aching from being gagged. “They’ll track us here.”

  Loxa shrugged. “Eventually, aye. But not before I’ve had my fill of you. I’ve been wanting to plow you since I set eyes on you last summer.” He paused here, contempt flashing across his features. “And this time the Battle Eagle isn’t here to protect you.”

  He left her wrists bound while he hobbled his pony—a shaggy bay stallion with a white blaze. Eithni watched him, her body chilling. She wanted to run, but she knew he would only catch her and punish her for it.

  Finishing the last knot of the hobbles, Loxa returned to Eithni, and he untied her wrists. Then he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her under the overhang.

  Eithni’s feet stumbled, her limbs struggling to obey. Like when Loxa had taken her from her tent and dragged her through the slumbering camp, fear threatened to paralyze her.

  Loxa pushed her to the ground and stood over her. He then began to unlace his plaid breeches, leering down at her. “Lift your skirt. No use pretending to be coy now—we both know you want it.”

  Eithni stared up at him, aghast. She did not obey Loxa. Instead she lay there frozen. Do you really believe that?

  Loxa grinned. “You like to watch, eh?” He pulled down his breeches, revealing a dark thatch of hair and a huge swollen member that thrust arrogantly out at her. “Take a look at this, lass.”

  Eithni’s gorge rose.

  Loxa fell to his knees before her, hampered by the breeches, which he had pushed down to his ankles. He grabbed the hem of her tunic and shoved it up, revealing her legs.

  “Lovely,” he growled. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

  Loxa pushed her onto her back and lowered himself onto her, his breath hot on her cheek.

  Eithni struck.

  While Loxa had been distracted, she had picked up a blunt-edged rock from the ground behind her. With her right hand, and with every inch of her strength behind it, she smashed the rock into the side of Loxa’s temple.

  I won’t let another man hurt me.

  The warrior grunted and collapsed on top of her.

  Eithni dropped the stone and wriggled out from under him, pulling down her skirt as she went. She did not stop to check on Loxa. He was knocked out, but likely would not stay that way. She could not waste a moment, for Loxa would come after her as soon as he awoke.

  Eithni ran onto the slope below the overhang. Loxa’s pony stood cropping at dry tufts of grass. It was hobbled so the beast had not gone far. Eithni hesitated. She wanted to steal the pony and was just considering how long it would take to untie the knots on those hobbles, when she heard a low pain-filled groan behind her.

  Gods, he’s waking up already.

  There was no time to untie the hobbles. She had to run—now. Eithni took off down the hillside, fleeing as if The Reaper himself had come for her.

  They found Loxa’s trail just north of Bodach an Stòrr—one set of hooves in the damp earth heading north-east, deep into the territory of The Stag.

  Eight of them tracked Loxa: Galan, Tea, Tarl, Lucrezia, Donnel, Urcal, and two other Boar warriors. All of them, even Urcal and his men, wore grim expressions.

  Donnel rode at the front of the column alongside Galan. Reothadh pulled at the bit. The stallion itched to outrun the beast galloping at his side. Galan’s stallion, Faileas—as dark as Reothadh was pale—was his rival. The two stallions had to be kept apart at night or they fought.

  Donnel urged his pony forward, letting him draw ahead of Galan. He tried not to think about what awaited them—he doubted they would find Eithni unharmed. He blamed himself; he should never have left her alone in the tent. Yet he had thought Loxa would respect The Gathering Place and leave her be.

  He had underestimated the man’s desire for the comely healer. Not only that, but both Eithni and Donnel had slighted Loxa the night before.

  He was taking his revenge now.

  Rage simmered within Donnel. He dug his heels into Reothadh’s flanks and the stallion responded, surging forward and leaving the others behind.

  Loxa, I’m coming for you.

  Eithni had never run so fast. Her feet flew over the rocky ground. Even barefoot, she barely noticed the sharp stones. Her heart pounded in her ears, her breathing now coming in ragged gasps.

  She ran down a shallow valley in between huge boulders. There were few places to hide here, no dark spot where Loxa would not find her. Panic pushed any coherent thought from Eithni’s mind; all she could think about was fleeing. Cold sweat bathed her skin.

  Ahead she could see the land opened out into rolling green hills, but she would find even less cover there.

  Don’t stop running, or he’ll find you.

  Then she heard the tattoo of hooves behind her, audible even over the drumming of her heart. Eithni twisted her head back, her
gaze alighting upon a figure many furlongs behind. Even at this distance she could see Loxa’s mane of dark hair, and the white blaze on his pony’s head.

  Terror gave her feet wings. She had thought herself exhausted, that she had reached the limits of her endurance, yet she discovered another reservoir of strength. However, it did not matter how fast she sprinted, Loxa was gaining on her. She could hear his pony drawing closer with each heartbeat.

  Despair rose in her breast. He’ll catch me.

  Eithni kept her gaze fixed ahead, her arms pumping by her sides as she pushed herself on. She would not let him take her easily. She would fight him this time, fight till the end.

  And then she saw them. Dark shapes approaching from the opposite end of the valley.

  Eithni’s heart soared. Riders.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Justice

  EITHNI KEPT RUNNING. Loxa was drawing close. She could hear his curses and the snort of his pony’s breathing.

  Up ahead the riders were also approaching. She could make them out now. Donnel was out front, far ahead of the others, dust boiling up from behind his stallion’s huge feathered hooves. Behind him Eithni spied Galan and Tea. Her sister’s hair flew in the wind. Her son was not with her; instead she was dressed for battle, a wooden shield slung over her left arm. Tarl and Lucrezia rode directly behind Tea, their faces grim.

  Donnel thundered past Eithni, heading farther up the valley to meet Loxa. He did not even look her way; his gaze was focused upon the warrior who galloped toward her.

  Tea and Lucrezia pulled up when they reached Eithni, forming a protective circle around her. Meanwhile the other warriors raced past, following Donnel toward Loxa.

  Lucrezia bent double and gulped in deep breaths of air. When she had recovered enough to straighten up, she saw that Donnel had almost reached Loxa. The others were still far behind him.

  As she watched Donnel drew level with Loxa and threw himself from the saddle. He collided with The Boar warrior, knocking him off his pony, and the pair of them tumbled to the ground.