Conquer the Mist

by Susan Kearney

“Easy, boy,” she soothed.

  Without a word, the three men separated to surround them. Dara turned Fionn to guard Strongheart’s back. Hoping fear wouldn’t mar her aim, she tried to ignore the tension surging through her blood.

  “Wait for my signal, Princess,” Strongheart whispered.

  “So.” Borrack edged forward. “You dare to make off with my bride?”

  “She will never be yours,” the Norman replied, as if bored.

  While his tone might have exuded ennui, Dara knew better. The softer his voice, the more dangerous he became. The utter stillness of his body should have screamed a warning to his opponent. But MacLugh had purchased mail and wore a helm. No doubt he thought himself invincible. His cohorts did not wear armor, and as they closed their circle, she took measure of her targets. If MacLugh’s men meant to grab her and hold her hostage to force the Norman to lay down his sword, she would fight them to the best of her ability, and her ability was considerable.

  But there were two of them. And she had only one dirk in hand. The spare was beneath her skirt, sheathed to her thigh beyond easy reach.

  Sword raised, MacLugh lunged at Strongheart.

  “Now.” Strongheart held up his shield and defended himself from Borrack’s attack.

  Behind her, horses grunted and metal clanged against shields. Blood roared in her ears. But she had no time to watch the Norman’s display of skill.

  She’d guessed wrong. Only one man charged her, not two. Spying the opening beneath her opponent’s lowered shield, she didn’t hesitate. Lowering his shield was the last error he would make. Her dirk took him down.

  Without waiting for his collapse, she turned Fionn to aid the Norman. He’d taken on MacLugh and the other man, who was proving, if not skillful, determined enough to keep Strongheart from pursuing MacLugh. Since Strongheart’s second opponent did not wear mail, he let MacLugh bear the brunt of the attack, leaping in to distract Strongheart and then retreating out of range.

  But when he spied Dara still free, he turned his attention to her. Before she retrieved her spare dirk, he’d grabbed her wrist, yanking her from Fionn’s back.

  Unwilling to distract Strongheart, she didn’t cry out.

  Besides, the man didn’t intend to hurt her. And that gave her an advantage. Instead of struggling, she went limp in his arms. He staggered under her unexpected weight, but only for a moment before stiffening and dragging her away from the battling warriors.

  Stealthily, her hand crept to her skirt, but her captor caught her movement, pinning her wrists behind her in one of his large fists. She attempted to twist away, but his free hand clasped her throat.

  On foot, Strongheart backed toward her, MacLugh giving him little time to maneuver. Sweat glistened on MacLugh’s brow and dripped onto his nose. “Yield, Norman. Yield, or the woman will be hurt.”

  She prayed the Norman wouldn’t heed his lies. MacLugh needed her alive. “Do not—”

  The arm about her throat tightened further, cutting off her words and her air. With one last surge of strength, she rammed her head backward, directly into her captor’s nose. With a roar of pain and blood gushing from his broken nose, he shoved her to the ground, no doubt intending to tackle her.

  But she rolled toward his dead friend, intending to retrieve her dirk. Before her foe seized her, Strongheart’s blade whistled. And her pursuer breathed no more.

  “Watch out,” she screamed, but the words came out a mere croak in her bruised throat.

  The Norman must have heard her warning because he spun and parried MacLugh’s deadly thrust at his back. She crawled toward her dirk, and her hands felt the earth tremble. Placing her cheek to the ground, she heard the sound of hoofbeats. MacLugh’s men! They would soon be surrounded.

  While the two warriors fought, Dara hurriedly retrieved her dirk from the dead man’s chest, captured Fionn’s reins, and vaulted to his back. “Norman, reinforcements are coming. We must go.”

  He pressed MacLugh back. “Ride, Princess.”

  She had no intention of fleeing through these woods alone. “Come with me.”

  “I . . . am . . . busy.” The Norman spoke between sword blows.

  “He will die,” MacLugh sneered. “And then I will have you.”

  Not today. Not any day. Could the Norman not see they had no time for swordplay? The thundering sound of horses’ hooves were closer now. MacLugh’s men would soon be upon them in such numbers they would never escape.

  Her dirk wouldn’t penetrate mail. Throwing her dirk once more, she caught MacLugh in the thigh. He staggered and shrieked in pain.

  She urged Fionn close to the warhorse, captured the animal’s reins, and led the steady mount to the Norman, hoping he could slip away from the still-fighting MacLugh.

  “Strongheart. We must go. Now.”

  With a lunge at his opponent’s throat, the Norman forced MacLugh back, gaining the needed time to leap into the saddle. As they slipped into the cover of the woods, MacLugh bellowed for help.

  Dara took the lead, winding them deeper into the forest in search of a hiding place she remembered from a hunting trip. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw no signs of pursuit but knew MacLugh’s men followed. Strongheart protected their rear but remained within her sight.

  Despite the dangers of low branches and hidden roots that might trip the animals, pushing the horses’ pace in the woods was necessary. As they climbed higher, Fionn’s breathing became labored, and yet they couldn’t rest.

  If they didn’t find a place to hide soon, MacLugh’s men on fresh horses would overtake them. She had not ridden in these hills in many years, and, unsure of the exact spot her father’s men had camped long ago, she doubted her ability to find it.

  She didn’t recall the darkness of the forest or the steepness of the ground. Her pleasant memories of men roasting boar around a campfire and rollicking in the stream contrasted sharply with this madcap gallop. The stream. The old camp had been beside a stream.

  Listening past the thump of her mount’s hooves hitting pine needles, she heard the sound of rushing water. Their long-ago hunt had taken place near the spring, and the mountain snows had created huge falls. But this late in summer, the water would be lower, calmer.

  Suddenly she burst through the woods into a stream of clear mountain water. Allowing Fionn to drink just a few mouthfuls, she got her bearings, trying to remember a landmark that might guide her.

  Within moments, Strongheart caught up to her, his eyes wary, his mouth set in a grim line. “We cannot stop.”

  “We must. Fionn and your horse are exhausted. MacLugh’s mounts are not. But there is a cave large enough to hide us near this creek.”

  “Good. Upstream or down?”

  She frowned, knowing the information might make the difference in whether or not they survived. Finally she had to admit, “I do not remember.”

  “Then we go downstream. Our horses are too tired to climb these hills. Keep Fionn’s hooves in the water so we do not leave tracks for them to follow.”

  They walked side by side in the stream, and Dara realized he hadn’t rebuked her for her failure to remember. He was risking his life for her, and most men would have reminded her of that fact. Not for the first time, she thought Strongheart different from other men. He had not questioned her memories, hadn’t demanded if she was sure this was the same stream she recalled from long ago. He had taken her at her word. Instead of crossing and putting more distance between themselves and their pursuers, he’d made the best decision he could with the information at hand, and she admired him for that. Some men would have insisted she choose upstream or down so they’d have someone to blame if the choice proved wrong—but he based his decision on consideration for their hard-pressed mounts.

  Up ahead the grade steepened, and Strongheart led them onto granite rocks
along the rapids before reentering the water. Something about the shape of one rock, long enough for a man to lie on and flat as a bed, niggled half-forgotten memories.

  She tried to imagine the water higher than her head. The mountain snows would melt, and water would rush through this steep area, creating a waterfall and beneath, a pool deep enough for diving. She drew Fionn to a halt. “I remember Da lying on that flat rock and daring me to dive into the pool. We are almost there.”

  Urging Fionn forward, she rounded another sharp bend and peered at the granite folds to the right. She held her hand to her eyes and squinted. She pointed. “There.”

  “I do not see anything.”

  Her voice rose excitedly. “And neither will MacLugh.”

  They dismounted, and she led him and the horses around the granite wall shielding the cave’s entrance. They had to walk single file into the cave, but then the area widened into a huge cavern, its sparkling walls glistening with sunlight from several crevices overhead.

  “We need not even venture outside for water.” She led the horses to a small pool at the base of one wall and grinned at Strongheart. “What do you think?”

  “This cave is perfect.” He took a step closer and enfolded her in his arms. “You are perfect—”

  “I am far from perfect,” she interrupted him, filled with a warm glow from his compliment.

  He emitted a contented sigh. “You are perfect . . . for me, Princess. Only one thing could make me happier.”

  Tilting her head back, she looked into his smoky eyes, and her heart galloped. “And what is that?”

  “Making you my wife.” His voice sounded in an appealing, husky tone she found impossible to resist.

  Strongheart’s warhorse insistently nuzzled them apart and saved her from answering. As if unaware of the confusion his words had caused in her, Strongheart chuckled at the animal’s antics. “He wants his saddle removed and a good rubdown.”

  “You have spoiled him,” she agreed lightly.

  “He serves me well.”

  Once again she wondered if he were subtly telling her he would treat her with care if she served him well. But after his many flowers, his small kindnesses with the kitten, and the way he always made her feel special, she knew he would treat her well—so well he’d spoiled her for any other man, for in truth she wanted no other.

  As he removed their packs and set them down, she left him to care for the horses while she busied herself with their supplies so he wouldn’t see the blush on her cheeks. She tried to take an inventory, but she could not concentrate.

  This cave had been used for generations, and she’d been told winding dark passages led deep into the mountain. But this open spot, with its flat floor and high morning-gray ceilings, was larger than the great hall at Ferns and would protect them from the weather as well as from discovery.

  Strongheart crooned to the animals, and she imagined him speaking to her the same way, gentle and coaxing. She watched his large hands rub down the horses and recalled the pleasure he’d given when he touched her.

  The memories alone caused her stomach to flutter and her hands to tremble. She tried hard to clamp down on the emotions she so feared. Was she willing to lose her good sense by permitting passion to overwhelm her? Her people needed her now more than at any time in the past, but that didn’t stop her sudden shortness of breath.

  She would be spending the night alone with him. That thought should have terrified her, yet it did not. Was it foolish to think she could have the Norman in all ways and still control the passions raging inside her like a wild summer storm? Dare she risk so much for a fleeting pleasure? But then if the pleasure was fleeting, surely she could control it.

  As she tossed their blankets aside, her thoughts whirled in endless circles. He’d finished with the horses long before she’d completed the simple task of laying out a meal of bread and cheese and filling their cups with water from the stream trickling inside the cave.

  At the pool she took the time to dip her hands into the icy liquid and wash her face. Doing her best to remove the twigs and stray leaves clinging to her hair, she promised to give it a good combing later.

  But when she returned to the spot where she’d left their meal, Strongheart had stepped outside the cave. Digging through the pack, she retrieved her comb and began the task of loosening the snarls. Tomorrow before they rode, she’d braid her hair.

  “There’s no sign of them,” Strongheart told her as he returned. Coming beside her, he took the comb from her hand. “Let me do that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That they are gone? No. That I want to comb your hair? Oh, yes. Of that I am very sure.”

  A warm glow filled her. “But our food.”

  “Can wait.”

  As if he were a lady’s maid and performed such tasks daily, he sat behind her and started at the bottom tangles, working them free. She drew her knees toward her chest and leaned forward, giving him better access to her long tresses.

  Inch by inch he worked the comb through the lower tendrils before moving higher. The comb lightly snagged, and with amazing patience, he repeatedly untangled snarls without causing pain.

  The soothing motion should have relaxed her, but his task had the opposite effect. Her flesh was especially sensitive where the comb touched her back, shooting sensual spires down her spine, along her hips, and lower. The feminine place between her thighs ached with an odd, prickling sensation.

  She shifted to make the odd ache go away.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” Her stomach tightened. If she couldn’t hold still and control her movements when he simply combed her hair, she might lose all control if she succumbed to her yearnings.

  He’d worked his way to her scalp, and she tilted her head back and closed her eyes. She could let him run his hands through her hair like this for hours. And yet she wanted to see what he would do next.

  “You have beautiful hair, so thick and shiny. I would never tire of combing it for you. Running my fingers through it is like touching the finest silk.”

  A strange restlessness had her almost squirming. “Have you combed many women’s hair?”

  If he thought the question odd, he didn’t say so. “Only yours.”

  His answer pleased her. She didn’t want to think of him performing such an intimate task for another and realized she would be jealous if he did. She saw little reason to lie to herself. This wasn’t just desire coursing through her. Despite fighting it, despite doing her best to think badly of him, despite knowing he was the wrong man for Leinster, she loved the Norman.

  But what was she to do about him? Common sense told her she would not be able to resist him for long. She should be worrying about her father making his escape. She should be worrying about her people in Ferns. She should be worrying if their enemies would find them. But instead, it was taking every measure of her considerable control not to turn, throw herself into his arms, and beg him to kiss her.

  Not for the first time, she silently cursed the hot blood surging through her. Why must her good sense have to war with the desire in her body and the passion in her heart? She knew the Norman was not for her. An alliance between them would cause strife throughout her land. And yet she wanted him with every fiber in her being.

  A shudder racked her.

  Strongheart finished his combing but continued to run his fingers through her hair. He found the tense spot at her shoulders and gently rubbed the soreness away.

  His searching fingers moved up along her neck, seeking the stiff spots. When he planted a kiss there, another shiver ran through her, and she forced herself to jerk away. Somehow she knew this time, once he started, she would be unable to utter the words to make him stop.

  “What is wrong?” he asked, all innocence.

  “What i
s wrong is that I want you,” she admitted in a fierce whisper. “I want to tear off our clothes and make love.”

  He grinned, and she wanted to hit him.

  “’Tis natural to want a man. I am just glad ’tis I you want.”

  She raised her chin with defiance. “How do I know ’tis just you?”

  Her question knocked the grin off his face as if he’d been slapped. Before he answered, she continued. “How do I know I would not respond to any man who was good to look upon and who murmured sweet words?”

  His grin returned. “Is that all that is worrying you, Princess?”

  Frustration sharpened her tongue. “Do not patronize me, Norman.”

  He rose to his feet and advanced. “Patronizing you is not what I had in mind.”

  She told her feet to retreat, but they disobeyed, and she leaned toward him. “No good will come of this.”

  “Children will come of this.” He cupped her chin. “Your father has given permission for us to wed.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I CANNOT marry you,” Dara whispered, her heart leaping like a jittery Irish hare.

  Strongheart drew her chin closer until their lips almost touched. “Why not?”

  He stared into her eyes so intently she suspected he might see the real reason for her fear. Yet she could not draw away and instead, leaned closer, surprised to find their whispered argument oddly stimulating—so much so her lips yearned for his kiss, her breasts ached for his touch. “Have you listened to nothing I have said? You are a Norman.”

  “How can I forget it when you remind me every few minutes?” His brow arched, and he whispered into her mouth, their lips so close she savored the scent of his breath.

  She should stop him but was weary of fighting the yearning of her body, the wild desire of her heart, and him, too. Just this once, she wished to stop her thoughts and shove aside the sharp warnings flaring in the sane part of her mind. “But—”

  Sweeping aside her objection, he spoke slowly, his husky voice as mesmerizing as a mystic’s. “We are not so different, you and I. We both want this.”