Haunting Warrior (25 page)

“Mauri,” Tiarnan said, keeping his voice soft so the guards couldn’t hear. “Has yer father never talked of other matches for y’? Someone”—
better
—“more suitable to marry the daughter of a king?”

“Who more suitable than the son of a king?” she asked sweetly.

“I’m serious.”

Mauri sighed. “He has talked of wedding me to Thorgils, but it’s not what I want.”

Thorgils was fifty if he was a day and he looked every minute of it. The Northman was gnarled and chewed, missing bits and pieces of his fingers and ears, leaving behind a disjoined visage that frightened children. Tiarnan’s gut clenched at the thought of gentle, kind Mauri mated with the scarred warrior. It was unthinkable. But not to Cathán.

“Tiarnan, this is not the time to woo your love,” Eamonn said, anger in the tight, clipped words that were spoken no louder than a whisper.

“What do y’ suggest?” Tiarnan breathed back, watching the guards flanking them from the corner of his eye. The one still dozed, but the others rode backs straight and attention forward. He knew they strained to listen.

“Something,” Eamonn insisted. “
Anything
.”

As it always had been. Eamonn expected him to make an impossible situation into something that it wasn’t. It’s what all of his people wanted from him.

Ahead, Gormán, Cathán’s lead man, pulled up on his reins and halted his horse. One by one, the rest of them did the same. They’d come to the point where the road branched off, and the time to make decisions could no longer be avoided. All around them the night sucked in a breath of anticipation, silencing the squawking and chittering, muffling even the rustle of leaves.

“Which way?” Gormán demanded.

Michael nudged his horse forward and came abreast of Tiarnan. The three of them sat in a straight line, Mauri between them. Tiarnan felt the weight of expectation, of their hope as they waited for him to speak again. Couldn’t they see he had no choices? Couldn’t they understand that all directions led to disaster?

“North,” he said at last. “We go north until we reach the river.”

Tiarnan felt Eamonn start as he heard the truth spoken. He hoped his brother would be aware of what it meant that he hadn’t lied—there was no way he’d take these marauders to where their people waited. That meant that somewhere between here and there, they would have to be stopped, no matter the risk, no matter the outcome. Tiarnan chanced a glance at Eamonn and caught the widening of his eyes.

Yes, he understood.

Michael, however, looked only stunned. As he’d feared, Michael would not be of use when the battle came . . . and it would come. Tiarnan could feel the back and forth of destiny’s sword as it cut the air above his head, each swing bringing it closer to his scalp.

As they started again, Tiarnan frantically struggled with their dilemma. There had to be a way, some weakness to be used to the advantage. . . . Twelve men to their three and one woman . . . Tiarnan scanned the forest, desperately searching for an answer.

When it came, it was like a knife to his heart.

There was only one weakness, and it was one they all shared.

If Cathán was planning on marrying her to Thorgils, then perhaps he didn’t mean to sacrifice her here at all. Which meant the men would do whatever it took to protect her. Tiarnan must use that loyalty to defeat them.

He nodded, feeling the weight of his decision settle heavily around him. “Mauri?” he said softly.

“Yes, Tiarnan?”

“We have a way to go still. Would y’ like to rest a moment before we continue?”

She gazed at him with trusting eyes. “Aye, I would like that.”

He called to Gormán. “Mauri needs to rest.”

Gormán reined his horse around and stared suspiciously at Tiarnan. “Is it so much farther?”

“For a delicate girl like Mauri, yes,” Tiarnan answered. Dutifully, Mauri nodded.

Their winding trail had led them to a spot Tiarnan knew very well. Low and flat, it opened on one side to a grassy meadow that swayed in silent commune with the white moonshine. Surrounding it was a steep crag that rose up like a sentry to a point that was home to an old monument, shaped like a finger pointing to the sky. Its long shadow tracked the rising and setting sun as it circled the mound built around it. At its base, huge boulders lay in a tumble of sharp edges and unmovable surfaces, as if a giant had cracked the top of the peak and everything had toppled down but the sharp spire.

“Come,” Tiarnan said cordially, taking Mauri’s arm. “Sit over here and I’ll bring y’ water.”

Gormán laughed at his manners, but Tiarnan ignored him, knowing—hoping—he’d be the last to laugh. “Michael,” he called. “Bring my flask.”

Michael did as he was told and, as Tiarnan had expected, Eamonn followed him to the largest of the boulders where he waited with Mauri. Taking the flask from Michael, Tiarnan let his gaze roam over Cathán’s men. They stood in a half circle, talking amongst themselves, keeping a watchful eye on Tiarnan and his brothers. One of them stood off to the side, holding the reins of their horses.

The situation would not get better.

Feeling like his limbs were made of lead, Tiarnan moved close to Mauri, leaned down and whispered in her ear.

“Forgive me.”

“Forgive you? Why, Tiarnan, whatever for?” she began just as Tiarnan grabbed her and jerked her back against his chest, one arm clamped across her small, soft breasts. Her body fit snuggly to the length of his, all curves and yielding flesh. They should be joined like this in love, not in war. Not in betrayal. He held her tight when she tried to squirm away, and using his free hand, he laid his knife to her throat.

With speed that would have filled him with pride had not the circumstances been so shameful, Eamonn and Michael drew their weapons and moved in beside him. The three of them stood with their backs to the towering crag, facing twelve furious men with only Mauri in between.

“Tiarnan? What are you doing?” Mauri cried. She tried to jerk free, and his blade nearly nicked the silky skin of her throat.

“Hold still, damn y’,” he growled in her ear. “Do not make me hurt y’”

“Yer a fool, Tiarnan,” Gormán said, taking bold steps forward.

“Aye, I’ve heard that before. Drop yer weapons, right there. Now.”

“I don’t think so.”

Tiarnan tightened his grip on Mauri, dying inside as she whimpered. “Y’ test me?” he shouted with far more conviction than he felt. “You’d rather face Cathán with his daughter in pieces?”

“Y’ won’t hurt the girl.”

Tiarnan didn’t bother to answer. Instead he pressed the point of his knife into her throat until he pricked the skin and a trickle of blood spilled over his blade.

Mauri cried out with fear and pain.

It was wrong. It was so very wrong. Inside him, pieces began to fall away, like the great stones from the spire, tumbling down, down until his soul was left in ruins.

Gormán ceased his advance. “Y’ have bigger balls than I gave y’ credit for,” he said with grudging admiration. “But I will kill y’ nonetheless.”

“Perhaps. But not this day. Weapons. On the ground.”

Gormán gave a nod and slowly, reluctantly, the men began to strip their weapons. Gormán bent to toss his sword into the pile and shot a quick glance to the man at his left. It happened so fast, Tiarnan barely had a moment to register what had transpired before a blade was sailing toward him. He shifted, instinctively twisting to shelter Mauri from the attack. In the same instant, the man on the right charged and everything seemed to slow to a painful stop.

The knife flew toward him like a hawk made of silver. Michael lifted his sword and brought it down, fiercely cleaving the man just in front, wrenching the blade free and slicing through to the second. Tiarnan had underestimated his younger brother’s reflexes. On his other side, Eamonn plunged his blade into the man who’d thrown the knife and then pressed forward to the next. And as Tiarnan spun to avoid the flying blade, he tripped and slammed back against the wall.

He saw the blur of silver and then heard the sickening sound of it hitting flesh, then bone. He jerked, instinctively bracing for the searing pain that did not come. His shocked brain registered the flow of hot blood splashing his face, the wheeze of Mauri’s breath as she fainted away. The sight of the knife protruding from her shoulder, buried deep in a ghastly wound filled him.

It was all he needed to see. The searing heat of a warrior’s rage washed over him, turning everything red and black and fierce. The cry that broke from his lips as he charged pierced the night like a banshee’s scream, hurting, tearing. Knife in one hand, sword in the other, Tiarnan leapt into the fray.

C
URSING under his breath, Rory strode past Saraid, untied Pooka’s reins from the tree branch, looped them over the horse’s head, and secured them to the strange saddle it wore on its back. The animal had become more agitated by the moment, and Rory soothed it, running his hands down its sleek neck. He cleared his head of the emotional tangle he felt over Saraid’s deception and tried to think calming thoughts. He pictured the stables he’d seen as they entered the village with the wedding party, thought of oats and hay and the boy he’d seen mucking the stalls. The horse’s ears perked and swiveled and it gave him a soft whinny and head toss that looked suspiciously like a nod. There was intelligence in the dark brown of its eyes. Intelligence and understanding that disconcerted Rory as much as the knowledge that danger was coming and coming fast.

“Go on now,” Rory murmured, giving the horse a gentle swat on its rump.

With a toss of his head, Pooka took off in the direction of the keep, gaining speed as if compelled.

“What are y’ doing?” Saraid demanded, watching the horse gallop away with wide, shocked eyes.

Without answering, Rory took her hand, pulling Saraid in the opposite direction, into the thick growth of trees and undergrowth. “One of two things is happening here,” he said softly as he stepped off the worn path and into the dense foliage. “Either they figured out we’re not coming back and they sent someone to get us, or they’re here to kill Stephen when he comes out.”

She said nothing, but he heard the sharp intake of breath.

“Whichever it is, we don’t want to be around to find out. If we take the horse, they’ll have a better chance of tracking us. With a little luck, they won’t think we’d head into the woods.”

“No, they won’t think that,” she said. “Only someone brainsick would head into these woods.”

With that she paused to hike up her gown and wrap the extra material around her arm. He waited, unabashedly taking in the flash of creamy thigh and long calf, remembering the feel of all that skin sliding up his own legs, wrapping around his back . . . would it be so bad to be stuck here with her, no matter her reasons for wanting him? He’d already had a taste of what she’d do for duty and it had been very, very sweet.

She looked up, caught him staring, and for a moment their gazes held. There was something earthy in the look that passed between them, something as dark and sensuous as the lush scent and rich fertility of the flora surrounding them. Was it real? Or was it just a renewed effort to seduce him into being the savior Colleen had told her was coming?

Blushing, but steely eyed, she gave him a brisk nod to continue. Without a word, he took her hand again and they moved silently through the deep and dark woods that exploded with chirping, scratching, rustling, and angry cawing as they approached and then fell into a midnight quiet as they were upon it. Rory had the sense of undulating corridors that stood opened behind and ahead of them, echoing with a clamoring ruckus of wildlife. But in the circumference of their presence not even the whispering sigh of the leaves in the breeze could be heard.

“Why would they kill Stephen?” she asked in a low voice after a few moments of dodging fallen logs and half-submerged stones.

“If he’d done his job, he’d be the only witness other than you. The only one who could tell the truth about what happened behind that curtain. No one would believe you without someone else to support your story.”

“Y’ think Cathán would kill both of his sons? But he would be wiping his own seed from the earth. There would be no heir left to take up his holdings when he’s gone.”

“Does he look like he’s worried about getting old and dying to you?”

He could see her thinking over that one, picturing Cathán’s youthful face and fit body. He should be in his fifties, but look close and he didn’t appear a day older than Rory.

As they moved deeper into the woods, the branches overhead grew so thick that they blocked out the bright moon and stars. Beneath, it was almost as black as the tunnel had been and twice as treacherous. Each step had to be taken with care. As near as Rory could tell, they were headed east, northeast most likely. Certainly away from the Isle of Fennore, his destination, the last place he’d seen the Book of Fennore.

When they were far enough from the tunnel that he felt safe stopping for a moment and regrouping, Rory pulled out the flask he’d found on the horse and took a drink before silently handing it to Saraid. She stared at it for a moment before finally taking it from him. Even in the darkness he could see that her face was flushed, her eyes bright. Even knowing she’d tried to manipulate him, he couldn’t look away.

“Where are you supposed to meet your brothers?” he asked softly.

“There’s a waterfall north of here, tucked back from the forest. It can only be seen from the hills above.”

“How far is it?”

“Half a day on horseback. Not far.”

He would have laughed, but she looked so serious he didn’t. They’d be lucky to make it by sunset tomorrow and that was trudging on without a break. He looked down at her slippers. If they were half as uncomfortable as they looked, midnight might be closer to the mark.