Must Love Kilts

by Allie Mackay

  “They’ll no’ have pampering.” He glared at his aunts, putting himself between them and the creel of herbs and cures. “They’re stone drunk and will have naught but my fist in their noses—”

  “They look something other than ale-headed to us.” Portia drew herself up to her full height. “And”—Agnes darted around them, snatching the basket before Magnus could stop her—“my potions aren’t for them.

  We want to help Margo. If Dugan and Brodie have been set upon, she’ll also be in need of tending. We—”

  “What?” Magnus roared as the hall around him dimmed, then reared back—everything near him flashed black-and-white. “Margo isn’t bathing?”

  “How could she be?” Agnes kept the healing basket behind her, out of Magnus’s reach. “No one made a bath for her. We went to look in on her a few times this evening, thinking to offer her one, but not a sound came from behind her door and so we left her alone.”

  “We thought she was sleeping.” Portia was starting to look gray.

  “Where is she?” Magnus’s head was going to explode. He glanced round, his heart icing, blood thundering in his ears, absolutely deafening.

  “She’s gone.” Portia sank onto a bench, her fingers pressed to her mouth.

  “Dugan and Brodie didn’t bring her back from the cliff with them.” Agnes voiced Magnus’s dread. “She must’ve gone missing,” she repeated her sister’s must’ve gone missing,” she repeated her sister’s words. “Oh, dear, oh, dear ...”

  “Nae, she was taken.” Dugan spoke with great effort, his words slurred. He’d been laid on a cleared long table and now he rolled his head to the side, trying to focus his glazed eyes on Magnus. “It was Donata. She—”

  “Donata?” Magnus felt the floor open beneath him.

  Dugan nodded. “She appeared out of nowhere just after you left. We shook our swords at her, thinking to scare her away, but”—he took a long, shaky breath—“she smiled and pointed a finger at our feet, making flames shoot up out o’ the ground.

  “It was a wall of fire, but cold fire.” He looked at Magnus, the horror in his eyes showing that he spoke true. “That fire whipped around us, trapping us where we stood as she chanted and raved, staring at us with glowing silver eyes until our legs buckled and we fell to our knees.

  “I dinnae remember much after that, everything went dark.” His eyes started to fill, glistening brightly. “If aught happens to Lady Margo . . .”

  On another table, Brodie struggled to speak. “L-last thing we saw, Donata was sneaking up behind your lady. The Lady Margo was napping, where you’d left her on the cliff, and—” He couldn’t finish, a rough, rattling cough seizing him.

  “No-o-o!” Magnus threw back his head and howled.

  He clamped his hands against his temples, twisting his fingers in his hair. All the horror and darkness he’d ever known came rushing back to crush him now.

  He’d promised to keep Margo safe, even vowing to rip the sky if she was taken from him.

  Now...

  What hollow promises he’d given her. Cold guilt and anguish pressed the life from him, filling him with bitter ash. His body was frozen, heavy and leaden as if he’d been cast to stone.

  He looked around his hall, seeing no one and nothing.

  He heard everyone. The low, rumbling voices of his men, his aunts’ distress, and even Frodi’s whine, but that was all. Everything else was dead for him.

  His world had slammed to a shuddering halt and he couldn’t bear the thought that Margo was gone. Even worse, she was in Donata’s clutches. He was living Liana’s tragedy all over again. And once more he hadn’t been there to stop the horror. The woman he loved had been taken and he hadn’t even known it until it was too late.

  He had to find her.

  This time he couldn’t fail.

  Chapter 20

  Three days and much searching later, Magnus stood on the bow platform of Sea-Raven. He cast a scowl at Ewan, who skillfully manned the sleek warship’s steering oar. The lad’s face was grim-set, his eyes swollen and darkly shadowed, as were the eyes of all men on board. Magnus knew he looked worse than the lot of them. Even Frodi whined and hung his tail between his legs in Magnus’s fearsome presence.

  But it wasn’t often he spent full days and nights tearing through every clump of heather, knocking apart each tumble of stone on the moor, and wading through bog pools, dreading what he might find at their oozing black bottom.

  Unfortunately, he’d ripped the sky in vain.

  They hadn’t found Margo.

  She remained gone without a trace.

  Now they were following Magnus’s last, desperate hope. They were rowing the Sea-Raven south toward Gairloch, riding the huge gray swells of a flooding tide.

  The men were silent, each warrior sending his oar biting hard into the cold, wind-whipped water. Needle-sharp rain and a thick, blowing mist obscured the line of jagged black cliffs that marked the nearby coast.

  Not that it mattered.

  Magnus and his crew knew every inch of these waters.

  There was also the stench of blood on the wind that drew them onward. And like good hounds, they needed only to follow that foul smell and they’d come to the fishing hamlet where Orosius swore they’d find trouble.

  The taint in the air proved the seer right.

  Magnus just hoped that Margo’s lifeblood wasn’t adding to the reek.

  If he couldn’t find her, if he failed to save her . . .

  “Damnation!” He clenched his fists and clamped his jaw, cursing whatever cruel gods had tossed her into his arms only to rip her away again. He could feel her now, the urgent press of her lush curves against him, how she wrapped her arms around his neck, returning his kisses with singeing ardor.

  The memories made his blood roar. Fury raced through his veins like liquid fire, flaming his need to find her.

  And to tear apart the heathen devils who’d taken her.

  Magnus drew a tight, furious breath. He squeezed shut his eyes for a moment, wishing he could open them and still be on the cliff with her. He should have them and still be on the cliff with her. He should have swept her up in his arms and carried her back to Badcall with him. But he’d gone, leaving her vulnerable.

  Now...

  He shoved a hand through his hair. His heart was a cold stone in his chest, his soul hollowed and black.

  Margo’s scent was still on him. It was faint, only a trace, but enough to madden him.

  “’Tis glad I am you’re no’ aiming such a look at me.” Calum’s deep voice boomed close by. “I’m no’ of a mind to feed Vengeance with my blood.” Magnus turned to the older man. “Pray God that Vengeance will soon gorge herself on Viking blood.

  And that none of the bastards challenge us before we reach Gairloch. My gut tells me that’s where Margo is, trapped and helpless in the thick of the horror there.” Calum didn’t argue.

  And his silent agreement skewered Magnus’s heart.

  When a glimmer of sympathy flickered in Calum’s eyes, Magnus turned swiftly away, returning his gaze to the sea. They hadn’t yet seen any Norse ships, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  Magnus just hoped that if any Northmen spotted Sea-Raven and her escort ships shearing through the waves, they’d assume the long-keeled, high-prowed fighting ships were their own and not come to investigate. If they also caught the gleam of mail and helmets, Magnus was counting on such marauders simply raising their oars in greeting and then speeding on their way, accepting that Sea-Raven and his other ships were hastening south to do their own raiding.

  There was a certain code of honor among such cravens.

  Any other time, he’d have welcomed a chance encounter with a well-manned Norse longboat. Better yet, several of them. He’d developed a liking for fast and furious Viking slayings at sea. Smearing the waves with Nordic blood was gratifying. As was watching the howling bastards sink like stones to the seabed. A dressed-for-war Viking, weighted down with heavy mail
and steel, vanished beneath the waves in an eye blink.

  Just now his only wish was to find Margo.

  He kept his gaze on the dark smudge of the coast, what little of it could be seen. If he squinted, he could just make out the faint glow of hearth fires above some of the cliffs. The smoke haze was reassuring because it meant those scattered fishing settlements were as yet unmolested.

  If the villages were untouched, there’d be folk able to take in Margo if she escaped Donata’s clutches.

  It was a thin hope.

  Magnus leaned into the wind, peering hard through the flying mist and rain. They were just entering Loch Gairloch, and dim lights shone far ahead where the large sea-loch ended and the fishing village’s harbor awaited them. A few flimsy thatched-roof hovels already dotted the shore. Magnus studied each one carefully, but nothing stirred anywhere near them.

  Several piles of driftwood could just be made out through the fog, showing where men dried herring on the strand, but no one was there now. All seemed quiet as his ships rowed through the cold dark morning. Until they approached the first moored fishing boats and entered the gates of hell.

  Blood smeared the water.

  Torch-bearing villagers scurried along the shore, the flames casting a reddish glow on the stained water as they pulled bodies from the sea.

  Orosius hadn’t erred.

  Nor had Magnus’s own gut instinct failed him.

  Bone-Grinder had killed more than one captive. The heap of limp bodies near one of the piers indicated that he’d slit the throats of every villager he’d captured.

  Some had suffered worse than neck cuts.

  And to Magnus, staring at the carnage, the cold, wet wind racing past him felt more like scorching blasts of sulfurous hellfire.

  Suddenly he wished his instincts were wrong, prayed that Margo would be found somewhere else.

  Anywhere but trapped in the red-stained nightmare all around them. He’d rather spend endless days searching for her, as long as she was safe and spared such a heinous sight.

  He gripped Vengeance’s hilt, his rage surging. Bile hot in his throat, he scanned the harbor, looking for the Viking warships.

  He saw only fishing craft.

  So the heathen dastards had escaped. Sword Breaker’s brutish shipmaster was nowhere to be seen. Nor was there any sign of his raven-haired whore. Bone-Grinder and Donata had fled the scene, leaving only a bright stain of red and swollen, broken bodies in their wake.

  “Mar-go!” Magnus cupped his mouth and yelled her name as the Sea-Raven neared the shore. Again and again, he bellowed, many of his men taking up the cry.

  But there was no sign of Margo anywhere.

  Nothing stirred except the villagers who’d turned, freezing where they stood, to stare in horror at Sea-Raven . Others screamed and ran, sprinting for the dunes or behind the nearest cottages, the bravest reappearing with scythes and hoes in their hands.

  “Row faster!” Magnus swung round to glare at the men on the oar banks. “Mother of God, pull! Pull hard!

  They’re too beset to see clearly. Calum”—his gaze flashed to the older man—“wave Badcall’s banner so they’ll recognize us and remember we’re friendly.” When they were close enough, he leapt down from the Sea-Raven and splashed to shore, running up to the nearest villagers and grabbing one of the men.

  “A fair-haired maid, so tall”—he thrust out a hand, measuring Margo’s height—“have you seen her?

  She’s no’ local and speaks with the accent of the south,” he improvised, furious by the man’s uncomprehending stare.

  “She’s with a small, dark-haired woman, dressed in black.” He shook the man, flashed a desperate look at the other fisherfolk gathered near. “The fair-haired lass is my wife.” He would make that true when he found her. “She’s been taken, stolen away by—”

  “Pssst ... MacBride.” The hissed cry came from the shadows near the docks.

  Whipping around, Magnus saw nothing. But he knew he’d heard a man call his name furtively.

  Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the deserted fishing huts and flicked his gaze over a large pile of herring barrels.

  Nothing stirred.

  Except—he tossed back his hair, scowling—the terrified villagers, who’d used his distraction to run away.

  Furious, Magnus turned back to the fishing huts, this time seeing a glint of mail in the darkness between the tumbledown cottages. He started forward, Vengeance already half-drawn.

  “MacBride, I greet you.” Arnor Song-Bringer stepped forward to the edge of the shadows, not leaving the dimness of the narrow alley between the cottages.

  He was the young Viking from Redpoint—Sigurd Sword Breaker’s nephew, and the warrior Magnus had sent forth, stripped and weaponless, in a tiny skin boat without oars.

  Now he was dressed for war, glittering in mail and arm rings, a long sword at his side and a huge Viking war ax slung from his shoulder. But he held his shield upside down, extending it before him in the accepted sign of peace.

  Magnus frowned, not taking his hand off his weapon. “Song-Bringer.” He drew up in front of the younger man. “You lived, I see.”

  “Northmen are not so easily killed.” Arnor Song-Bringer looked past him, his gaze darting up and down the now-empty harbor. “Nor are fair and brave young women, praise Odin.” He turned back to Magnus, lowering his voice. “I was left here as a lookout and must be away, but first—”

  “You know where Margo is?” Magnus grabbed the Viking’s arms. “She lives?”

  “She’s in a fish-drying shed on the other side of the loch.” He nodded across the water, and Magnus could just make out a tiny turf-walled hut, standing alone against a spill of fallen rock. “The witch-woman is with her. Soon, Bone-Grinder will come to fetch them. My uncle will be with him.” The young Viking glanced at the water. “They mean to cross the sea to Ireland, where they’ll sell your woman at the slave market.”

  “This is true?” Magnus reeled, a strange mixture of disbelief, hope, and horror crashing through him.

  He flashed another glance at the tiny shed across the loch. “You are no’ lying, setting a trap for me?”

  “I might do that on the morrow.” Arnor Song-Bringer didn’t turn a hair. “But I speak true now. My uncle needed someone to stay behind and watch the seas, make certain no one approached the shed where Donata holds your lady. I asked to be that man. I was sure you’d come looking for such a prize.” He shifted, adjusted the upturned shield on his arm.

  “I owe you the debt of my life. That burden is now paid, and with my appreciation. I hope to wed soon”—for a moment he looked very young, no longer an enemy—“and I can do that because you spared my life at Redpoint.

  “If we meet again ...” The young Viking shrugged, his meaning clear.

  “I am now in your debt, Song-Bringer.” Magnus’s throat was thick as he reached to grasp Arnor’s arm with both his hands. “Live well.”

  Then he turned and ran back into the surf, plunging through the waves until he reached the Sea-Raven and one of his men reached down to help him on board.

  “Margo is here! She lives, but Donata has her.” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his thighs, gulping air. “We must make haste. Bone-Grinder, Sword Breaker, and their warships are returning for the women. They’ll be here anon.”

  “Back oars!” Calum shouted the order. “Back the oars,” he yelled again. “Slew her round, now!” And the crew did, Magnus’s escort ships following suit, each craft back-rowing at speed so the sleek warships surged to life and sped around, shooting past the harbor’s long, wooden piers and out across the red-stained waters toward the far side of the loch.

  Margo was there.

  And if the gods were kind, Magnus would have her on board the Sea-Raven and halfway to Badcall before the Vikings beat into Loch Gairloch.

  “See there, my lover is returning.”

  Smiling benignly, Donata gripped Margo’s arm and hustled her to the cracked door of th
e drying hut.

  “Bone-Grinder has brought his friends, just as he promised. Have a look. ...” She shoved Margo forward, giving her no choice but to stare out at the terrifying sight before her. “Sword Breaker will take you on his ship and then you’ll be rid of me.” Donata stepped close, lifted a lock of Margo’s hair, and rubbed the strands between her fingers. “I tried to seduce him myself once, but he prefers fair women.

  He’ll make the journey to the slave market in Dublin enjoyable for you. Many women say he’s a good—”

  “He’s a devil.” Margo whipped her head around and glared at the other woman. “I’ll kill myself before I’d let him touch me.” She snarled the words, not even sure where they’d come from.

  Unfortunately, she wasn’t feeling strong and courageous enough to fight the smaller woman.

  Donata held a wicked dagger at Margo’s side.

  And she’d nicked her more than once. Margo’s gown was already red-drenched at the middle, her hips and belly sticky with warm blood. Thank goodness, the cuts were only flesh wounds, nothing deep.

  Still. . .

  She didn’t want to provoke her captor into doing anything worse.

  And now . . .

  She stared out at the loch, terror sluicing her. There were so many ships, a whole Norse fleet, and with more racing in from the horizon.

  They filled the sea in every direction.

  With their high, beast-headed prows and narrow lines, they looked as beautiful and proud as they were frightening. They flew across the waves, their flashing oars ripping the water and sending up great plumes of spray. And each ship was filled with mailed and helmeted men.

  Men who loved to fight.

  And they were coming to take her to a slave market.

  On the journey south, Donata had gleefully told Margo that female slaves rarely lived more than a few days. Some survived a week or two, at most. The Viking shipmaster or warlord used them, then the crew and other men until there was nothing left of the woman.