The Warrior

by Greyson, Maeve

  As calm as though she spoke of the weather, Agnes sponged down Tilda’s arms and legs, then soaped her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. “Yer Auntie Moira expects yer mother within days. Yer da ordered double the whiskey sent to his private chamber.”

  That announcement required another long drink that almost emptied the glass.

  “Slow down now. Ye’ll not have another until ye’ve eaten.” Agnes took the glass from her and set it aside. “I’ll give it back in a moment. Now hold yer breath, douse yerself under as long ye can, and when ye rise, I’ll look in yer eyes and tell ye who ye shall marry, aye?”

  Tilda couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. Dear old Agnes was trying to lift her spirits with the sort of foolishness best saved for the numpties silly enough to tie their worth to a husband and his status. “I may never marry. Auntie Moira never married and look how successful she is with The White Lion.”

  Besides…the thought of becoming tied and vulnerable to a man, any man, didn’t sound all that inviting—especially not after today.

  “Yer Auntie Moira is a lonely woman.” Agnes poured some fragrant oil into one hand, then held up a pitcher in the other and gave a warning dip of her chin. “Close yer eyes.”

  Tilda complied, hoping to retrieve what remained of her whiskey after Agnes finished washing her hair. “Auntie Moira seems happy enough—not lonely at all,” she defended, cringing as Agnes scrubbed her scalp hard enough to shake her.

  “That one’s a raging bitch. Most days, anyway. Ye just never see it.” Agnes scooped up a pitcher of water and dumped it over Tilda’s head again. “The only days Moira Mackenzie keeps a civil tongue in her head is when ye and yer da are here making everything right with her world.” She set the pitcher aside and handed the whiskey back to Tilda. “Ye always enjoyed when I read yer future in the tea leavings. I can do the same with herbs cast in the bath after ye’ve finished.”

  Tilda held out the almost empty glass and fixed Agnes with a bargaining arch of a brow. If Agnes was so determined to lift her spirits with silly mutterings about husbands, children, and riches to be had, then by the saints, she could add another glass of whiskey to the mix. After all, the warm feeling of more drink would make her more open to believing whatever daftness Agnes planned to prophesy.

  Agnes frowned at the glass, then took hold of the edge of the tub and pushed herself up from the stool with a labored grunt. “This will be yer fourth and final glass until ye eat, understand? I shall not have ye drunk on yer arse and heaving.” She gathered up the linen wrap and held it aloft. “Out wi’ ye first and over to the couch. They’ve set ye a table. Ye can drink the whiskey with yer supper.”

  “Then ye’ll read the herbs about me, aye?”

  Agnes responded with a dismissive huff as she rubbed Tilda down, pausing here and there to peer closer at her wounds. Tossing the drying cloth to the floor, she turned to her table and selected a small crock filled with a pale, creamy substance. She dabbed her fingers across the surface of the salve and wiped the balm on Tilda’s body, applying a thicker layer on the rope burns. Once finished, she set the crock aside, wiped her palms down her apron, and scooped up a dressing gown. She held it up and motioned for Tilda to turn. “This one laces closed in the front like a robe. Easier for ye to manage in yer state.”

  “I’m nay drunk,” Tilda defended. Not drunk but more than a little relaxed. The room had taken on a swaying motion.

  “Aye, yer nay drunk—yet.” Agnes enfolded her in the garment, secured the ties, and led her to the couch. “I know verra well what ye’re up to.” Once Tilda had settled among the pillows, Agnes scooted the table laden with breads, cheeses, and dried fruits within reach. She pointed to the bread and fixed Tilda with a stern glare that would melt the staunchest soldier. “Eat whilst I fetch yer whiskey.”

  Tilda dipped her chin with as much obedience as she could muster. Obedience was not a quality at which she excelled. She selected a butter-slathered slice of bread and made a show of nibbling on the crust. If she ate too much, some of the delightful effects of the whiskey risked being muted. She didn’t wish to sober up—not tonight.

  Agnes clunked a filled glass down on the table beside her plate. With a gentle touch, she combed her fingers back through Tilda’s damp hair, and settled it down her back. “I canna say that I blame ye. Such a wee lamb. Ye’ve had a devil of a day.”

  Tilda lifted her glass and nodded. “That I have.”

  “Shall I seek yer fate now?” Agnes looked like a beloved guardian offering a platter of sweetmeats to appease a spoiled child.

  Tilda took another long sip of her whiskey, then leaned back into the pillows. “Aye, dear Agnes. Ask the herbs to tell us their secrets.” As long as she had whiskey, Agnes could tell her anything she wished. She laughed as she cradled the glass to her bosom. “See if there be unicorns in my future.”

  Agnes paused in her tossing of herbs across the bathwater and gave her a pointed look that threatened any possibility of more whiskey for the evening. “Unicorns?”

  “Aye,” Tilda said as though it were the most natural request in the world.

  She had always wanted to see a mythical unicorn. If she had a few more glasses of whiskey, perhaps she would.

  With a shake of her head, Agnes pressed her hands together, cast a glance skyward, and mouthed what Tilda felt sure had to be the very best of spells. Years ago, the Mackenzies had declared Agnes Cafflecary to be the best white witch in all of Scotland. Ever since Tilda’s birth, her clan had done their best to shield and protect the woman because she had delivered Tilda, the only bairn to survive of Fennella Mackenzie’s six stillborn babes.

  Tilda smiled to herself. She hugged the glass tighter to her chest as she remembered another rumor. Agnes Cafflecary was known not only as a renowned healer but also as Chieftain Mackenzie’s most cherished companion and mayhap even his favorite mistress. Of that rumor, Tilda had no doubt. Her father lit up whenever Agnes entered the room, and he didn’t like Mother any more than she did. She stifled a yawn, took another drink, and forced her eyes open, as Agnes picked up a candelabra and commenced to circling the tub of water she had covered with a heavy dusting of herbs.

  “I see a dark-haired lad. Quite handsome.” Agnes frowned down at the herbs. She stirred a finger across the surface, swirling the dusting of dried leaves and stems in circles. The hint of a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth as she nodded. “Aye. Hair black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat and eyes as dark a blue as the midnight heavens during a lightning storm.” She cocked her head to one side and stirred the waters again. “Braw and comely, this one. A warrior. And restless as yerself.” She glanced up at Tilda and tapped the side of the tub. “The perfect match.” She pointed down at the water whilst still looking at Tilda. “He craves adventure as badly as ye do.”

  “He nay sounds the marrying sort to me.” Tilda hadn’t had that much to drink.

  The flickering flames of the candles Agnes held aloft revealed her thoughtful expression as she approached Tilda. With a knowing smile, she dipped her chin in a single nod. “But ye shall marry, lass, and live the sort of life ye have always wanted. I see it as plain as I’m looking at ye this verra moment.”

  What a bit of fluff and imagination. She had hoped Agnes would have shown more creativity than that. Tilda blew out a fake laugh and drained her glass. Thunking it to the table, she slid it toward Agnes. “Then we should celebrate with a toast, aye?”

  “As ye wish.” Agnes placed the candelabra on the table with a finality that not only gave Tilda pause but risked pushing her closer toward sobriety. Without a word, Agnes fetched the bottle of whiskey and a glass for herself. She filled Tilda’s tumbler before filling her own. “A toast,” she said, lifting her glass.

  Tilda picked up her own glass and readied herself. A chirping hiccup escaped her as she straightened on the sofa. “Aye?”

  “Aye,” Agnes repeated, an unreadable glint in her eyes. “I foresee a union of necessity. Of adventu
re. Of passion. A marriage to save a man’s life and a union to heal a woman’s soul.” She motioned toward Tilda with the bottle of whiskey. “Yer soul, child.”

  Tilda swallowed hard and forced herself to sit straighter. A curse upon Agnes. Toying with her in such a way. Trying to scare her with such foolish talk. “Pray tell, Agnes, speak the name of this brave man destined to heal my soul, so I willna miss him because of my ignorance of his identity and true purpose.”

  Their glasses connected with a loud clink, and four of the candles in the candelabra snuffed out. The fifth candle, the one in the center, burned taller and brighter with an ominous crackling sputter. Agnes drank every drop of the healthy slosh of whiskey in her glass, then huffed out a satisfied sigh. “MacCoinnich, lass. The man’s name be Duncan MacCoinnich. Slàinte mhath!”

  Chapter Four

  “Anything else for ye, love?”

  Duncan stretched, leaning back in his seat until the two front legs of the chair lifted off the floor. The wooden slats groaned in protest. He wasn’t surprised. He couldn’t remember eating so much in his life. With a pat to his stomach, he rumbled out a belch, then returned the barmaid’s smile. “Nay, lass. I’m stuffed full. Thank ye.”

  “More drink though, aye?” She cleared away the empty tankards and plates, stacking them on a large tray. She held it secure with the crook of her arm and the fine, firm roundness of an ample bosom. “This is Himself’s table,” she said with a proud smile. “His man rode ahead to tell of the Mackenzie’s arrival. Our chief gets fearsome mad if his ale and whiskey are nay waiting for him. I’ll fetch ye a fine share as well. Mistress Mackenzie said ye’re to be taken care of.” She hurried away before Duncan could stop her.

  He plunked the chair back down on all fours and scooted it back from the table. The Mackenzie’s imminent arrival triggered a rumble of indigestion. He belched again, then rose, and shimmied around the tight confines of the corner. Whilst eating, he’d felt safe with his back to the wall, a full view of the room laid out in front of him. Now, he felt as trapped as a rooster about to lose its head. Time for a bit of fresh air and a long walk—away from The White Lion. He had accepted the free food and drink for both himself and his horse with gladness and appreciation. Now, the time had arrived to be free of the Mackenzies.

  “Where ye headed, Master MacCoinnich?”

  Damned if it wasn’t the she-dragon herself. Appeared out of nowhere. Like she’d hidden in the graininess of the pub’s walls ’til time to make herself shown. Duncan scrubbed a hand across his mouth, then motioned toward the door. “Air and a stroll, Mistress Mackenzie. Sometimes a wee walk is just the thing to settle such a fine meal. I thank ye for yer generous hospitality.”

  “Pleased ye enjoyed it.” The matron, made even more fearsome by her black attire, shifted her stance and blocked his path. “We expect the Mackenzie at any moment. I’m sure ye wouldna wish to keep such an important man waiting whilst ye finished yer walk, now would ye, Master MacCoinnich?”

  If the damned woman had been a man, escape would be easy. But he couldn’t, in good conscience, knock Mistress Mackenzie on her arse. Mam had taught him better. He stole a glance around the room. Damned, if he could nay spot another door. Anywhere.

  “There be no other door, Master MacCoinnich.” She touted her victory with a smirk, then made a gracious wave toward the corner table. “Return to yer seat, and I shall have Nell fetch ye a fine whiskey to settle yer meal better than any stretch of the legs.”

  “Ye be a vile, pushy, she-dragon of a woman. Ye know that, aye?” He might not hit the haughty matron, but he could damn sure scorch her ears. “Let me pass, Mistress Mackenzie. No debts remain betwixt us.”

  Loud voices and an inrush of cool night air followed by the hard bumping of the outer door interrupted them.

  Her chilling smile grew even colder. “Himself is here.” She took hold of Duncan’s arm. Her grip hardened to a pinching iciness. “Allow me to introduce ye to my brother, Master MacCoinnich.”

  Duncan repressed the urge to yank his arm away. It was too late to escape. To do so now would appear unmanly.

  The crowded pub fell silent as Matheson Mackenzie, chieftain and fourth Earl of Wrath, lumbered into the room like a great, scarred bear returning to its den. The man stood half a head taller than Duncan and had shoulders twice as broad. His long hair, pulled back in a knot at his nape, shone white as fleece but his dense beard, cropped close about his chin, was black as soot. His eyes, the same striking blue-green of his daughter’s, scanned the room with the sharpness of a hawk. The man’s glare settled on Duncan, riveting him to the spot with more ferocity than Mistress Mackenzie’s grip on his arm.

  “Be this the man?” The Mackenzie strode forward.

  “Aye, brother.” Mistress Mackenzie released Duncan’s arm and took a submissive step to the side. “This man saved our precious Tilda from a horrible fate.”

  “My Tilda…” The powerful man changed before Duncan’s eyes. Every aggressive, hardened edge of the chieftain softened. “My precious daughter—is she…all right?”

  Mouth flattening into a tremulous line, his sister limited her reassurance to a single downward jerk of her chin.

  The Mackenzie shifted back into the battle-hardened warrior filled with raging bloodlust. He turned back to Duncan. “Yer name?”

  “Duncan MacCoinnich, m’lord.”

  “Dinna address me as m’lord,” Mackenzie said with a growl as he took hold of Duncan’s forearm.

  Shite. The man shared his daughter’s opinion of formal address. Instinct told Duncan this was not the moment to cede his ground and cower with submissive respect. A man like Matheson Mackenzie appreciated strength. Valued it more than gold. Duncan emitted his own low-throated growl and stared down the bull of a man, increasing the hardness of his own grip to match that of the Mackenzie’s. He’d had about enough of the Mackenzies—every damned one of them. If it was a test of wills the chieftain wanted, it was a test of wills he’d get. MacCoinnichs were stubborn and fierce as well.

  “Chieftain Mackenzie,” Duncan corrected as he squeezed the man’s arm harder. “Does that address suit ye?”

  The Mackenzie’s eyes narrowed; his glare locked with Duncan’s. All gathered within the room remained silent. The only sound was the wind and rain pattering against the windows.

  With a hard yank of Duncan’s arm, Matheson Mackenzie pulled him forward and clapped his other large hand to Duncan’s shoulder and squeezed. Smiling, the white of his teeth shone bright against the blackness of his beard. “From this day forward, ye be a part of Clan Mackenzie and under my personal protection. I am forever in yer debt. I thank ye, Duncan MacCoinnich, for saving my beloved child.” He lifted his meaty hand high and looked around the room. “I consider this man a son. Treat him as such, ye ken?”

  All gathered lifted their glasses, mugs, or tankards and responded with a hearty, “Aye!”

  Duncan cleared his throat, then swallowed hard. Such a pronouncement was a double-edged sword—especially, if the MacDonald, Clan Mackenzie’s greatest rival in the dark world of smuggling, got wind of it. He forced a smile. At the moment, the Mackenzie had snared him, plain and simple. All he could do was bide his time and make the best of it.

  “Drinks!” The Mackenzie shouted while he pulled Duncan alongside him to the corner table. With a firm push, he settled Duncan down into a chair, then thumped a hand to his back. “Sit.” He smiled down at the table already filled with tankards and glasses, then jerked a thumb toward the barmaid headed in their direction with more bottles and pitchers rattling on her tray. “Whiskey and ale. Fair Nell willna let our cups go dry.” Squeezing his enormous frame into the corner, Mackenzie lowered himself into his chair with a relieved groan. He leaned forward and propped his forearms on the table. “Now tell me—how did ye come about finding my Tilda?” His loud booming voice had shifted to a low rumbling tone meant for their table alone.

  Duncan paused, sorting through the best way to describe to this po
werful man how he had found his poor daughter. He downed his whiskey and thumped the glass back to the table. “West of here. I was riding through the woods on my way to Inverness when I heard her screams.”

  The Mackenzie’s fists tightened and each of his knuckles popped. His dark beard didn’t hide the rippling of his jaw as he ground his teeth. “Go on,” he said, his gaze locked on his glass of whiskey.

  There was no way to make this easy on the man. “Three soldiers. Sassenachs.” Duncan paused as Nell refilled his glass, then left a platter of bread before meandering away. “They had tied her down in a clearing. But…”

  “But,” the Mackenzie said, biting out the word. Hatred and rage emanated from the man like the heat from a blacksmith’s forge.

  “I arrived in time.” He would not say it any other way. He emptied his glass and prayed this conversation would soon come to a peaceful end so he could be on his way.

  Matheson Mackenzie bowed his head and whispered, “And I thank God for ye.” Shifting with a deep sucking in of air, the Mackenzie lifted his head, downed his whiskey, poured a refill, and emptied it again. “Go on. I would hear the rest.”

  “Killed only one of them.” Duncan snorted out his frustration. “I wounded another. ’Tis my hope that bastard bled to death. I tracked him for a while before yer daughter’s cries made it clear she needed my help more than I needed to find those men.”

  “The third?” The Mackenzie topped off Duncan’s glass before pouring more of the golden liquid into his own.

  “Escaped uninjured.” Duncan fiddled with his glass, turning it back and forth, gaze locked on the dance of the whiskey reflecting the glow of the lamplights’ flames. “Forgive me.”

  With a hard squeeze of Duncan’s forearm, the Mackenzie shook his head. “There is no forgiveness required. Only gratitude.” He held up the almost empty bottle of spirits and gave Nell a nod. Thunking it back down, he studied Duncan, fixing him with a look that sent a bead of cold sweat racing down the center of Duncan’s back. “What brings ye to Inverness?”