Must Love Kilts (36 page)

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 the 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.

Margo shuddered.

She gripped the edge of the hut’s door, unable to take her gaze from the spectacle.

Until a sudden movement from the opposite side of Until a sudden movement from the opposite side of the bay caught her eyes and a loud splashing rose above the chaos, making her turn toward several large and fierce Viking ships that flashed out from the harbor and straight into the bay. The dragon ships’ long oars rose and fell like pistons, and white water hissed down their sides as they sped toward one of the other large warships.

Before Margo could blink, the lead ship sheared down the side of the other one, snapping her long oars like wooden matchsticks, laming the ship.

She tore her gaze from the frightening sight, and it was then that she saw the tall, raven-haired warrior at the prow of the attacking warship.

A ship with fierce black and red raven heads decorating the tall stem and stern posts.

The proud warrior lord was Magnus in all his battle glory.

“Magnus!”
Margo’s heart split. Relief rushed her and her knees almost buckled. “Oh, God, he’s here!

Magnus has come for me.”

She was safe now, whatever came.

“He’ll see me slice you to ribbons is all he’ll do here.” Donata shot an arm around Margo’s waist, pulling her close as she jabbed Margo’s belly with the tip of her dagger. “I’ll keep you in sight here, at the door, until he’s on the strand. Then I’ll cut you good.”

“He’ll kill you.” Margo was sure of it.

“He can try.” Donata wriggled the fingers of her knife hand, and tongues of red fire shot from her fingertips, the flames hissing in the cold, damp air.

“Magnus MacBride can’t touch my magic.” She closed her fingers around the dagger hilt again and the flame tongues fizzled away.

“No, you’re wrong.” Margo tried to speak as strongly as she could. “Your magic can’t harm him. He doesn’t fear you, so you have no power over him.” She hoped to God she was right.

“We shall see.” Donata’s tone made Margo’s blood run cold.

Margo willed courage to flood her senses and bolster her. She also kept her gaze on Magnus, taking strength from him as
Sea-Raven
spun in a tight circle, churning the water, as she shot after another Viking warship, clearly meaning to slice more oar blades.

The beating of the oars made the water boil; men’s shouts blended with the splintering of wood as the attacking ship’s bow raced down the side of her enemy, snapping the oar shafts. Margo’s heart filled her throat as she watched, unable to look away. Other ships she recognized as part of Magnus’s fleet were clashing just as fiercely with the Viking ships.

Everywhere warships spun and attacked, slamming into one another, grapnel chains flying as the ships into one another, grapnel chains flying as the ships crashed together, men leaping from one bow platform to the next, swords and axes bright in the air.

The fighting was loud, red, and terrible. And never had Magnus looked more powerful, bold, or gorgeous.

He towered above his crew, all huge men. Dressed for warring, he was mailed and helmeted. Even from shore, Margo could see that his eyes blazed with fury.

His hair was unbound, spilling loose from beneath his headgear. A glistening raven skein, the long strands flew around his shoulders in the wind. He held Vengeance high in the air and the glinting blade shone red, as did the steel of his mail shirt and the rings on his arms. And like so many of the other men, he was cheering as they sent fire arrows arcing across the sky, many of the arrows finding their mark in Viking sails or on deck.

Within moments, the loch was ablaze. The warships’ sails were burning quickly, the fires leaping from ship to ship. And still men fought, yelling and screaming, many jumping into the sea to avoid the flames, and then sinking as their heavy mail weighed them down.

It was chaos.

Beside her, Donata mumbled, speaking low incantations Margo didn’t understand.

She didn’t care.

Donata was underestimating the power of love, a much greater force than any sorceress’s babble and threats.

When Magnus reached the shore, he’d rescue her.

Margo didn’t doubt it.

She kept her gaze locked on Magnus and the
Sea-Raven
.

He didn’t see her.

Nor—her heart stopped—did he see the huge, half-naked Norseman climbing stealthily up the far side of the
Sea-Raven
, a wicked-looking dagger clutched in his teeth, deadly purpose in his eye.

Magnus had his back to the assassin.