The Warrior (10 page)

M
oira pretended to be asleep when Duncan returned to the cottage an hour or two later
and climbed the ladder to the loft. After waiting for the sounds above her to quiet,
she slipped out of bed and stepped into her shoes. She was already fully dressed.
Moving quickly, she lifted the cloak from the peg and eased the door open.

Sàr lifted his head from where he lay in front of the warm hearth. When she signaled,
he got up and trotted out in front of her. She closed the door behind her and paused
to listen. All was quiet. She released the breath she had been holding and started
out.

The moon shone between the clouds racing across the night sky, giving her just enough
light to follow the path. The sounds of the wind blowing over the hills and of the
surf on the shore below seemed louder. Animals scuttled through the bushes along the
path, making her glad for Sàr’s company.

Traveling at night was eerie, but Moira was determined to be far enough away when
Duncan awoke in the morning that he could not catch up to her before she reached Dunvegan.

Moira would wager she was the only lass in all the islands who did not know how to
sail a damned boat. If she knew how, she could have “borrowed” one of the MacCrimmons’
and arrived at Dunvegan in no time. How could her father and brothers leave her so
ill prepared?

Once again, she cursed her pampered upbringing. If she ever had a daughter, Moira
would make certain she knew how to kill a man with a dirk and sail a boat by herself.
In the end, a lass could count on no one but herself.

“I’m done with waiting for men to help me,” she said aloud.

Sàr gave her a worried look over his shoulder.

Moira still wore the delicate slippers that went with her now-ragged gown, and her
feet hurt like the devil. She was freezing as well. Sàr pranced ahead of her, unperturbed
by the cold.

She walked for what felt like hours and was tired to the bone when the sky turned
a lighter shade of dismal gray, signaling the coming dawn. When her foot caught in
a hole, she heard her gown rip as she fell on her hands and knees in the mud. Her
gown was such a rag already that she would be half-naked by the time she arrived at
Dunvegan. At least she’d be noticed.

Sàr paced around her until Moira picked herself up out of the mud.

“Time for a rest and breakfast, wouldn’t ye say?” She found a rock to sit on. Then
she gave Sàr half of the dried fish and oatcakes one of the women had left in the
cottage for Duncan. He would have no trouble getting more.

“Ye miss Ragnall, too, don’t ye?” She rubbed Sàr’s ears. “Well, we won’t see him any
sooner sitting here.”

They drank from the little cricks and waterfalls that were running down the hills
everywhere from the winter rains. Her slippers and the bottom of her skirts were a
muddy mess.

Moira trudged behind Sàr as the path climbed a steep hill. At the top, where the trail
narrowed and ran along the edge of a steep ravine, Sàr came to an abrupt halt.

“Ye big baby,” she said, laughing at him. “All right, I’ll go first.”

Sàr barked and bit at her skirt.

“Quit it! You’re as bad as Duncan,” she said. “If ye don’t want to go to Dunvegan
with me, ye can turn around.”

Suddenly Moira’s feet went out from under her, and she was hurtling down the ravine
backward. She flung her arms out, trying to grab hold of something as she crashed
through the brush. Branches cracked. Her body thumped and bounced as she careened
down the hillside like a falling rock.

“Hugh MacDonald could be of use to us,” Erik said and watched his chieftain carefully
for his reaction.

“I don’t trust a man who is a traitor to his own clan.” Alastair MacLeod’s glare deepened.
“He insulted me, suggesting I would hand Sean MacQuillan’s son over to him after I
agreed to foster the lad.”

“The boy
is
the MacDonald chieftain’s heir…,” Erik ventured.

“And he is under my protection,” the chieftain snapped.

Erik feared he had gone too far. While his chieftain was ruthless in battle, he had
an unnatural softness when it came to women and children. Erik had suffered for this
weakness of his chieftain before.

“In any case, the lad will not be the MacDonald heir for long,” the chieftain said.
“Connor MacDonald is a young man and will have sons of his own.”

“Not if he’s dead.” Erik paused. “If Hugh were their chieftain, we’d have a good chance
of driving the MacDonalds out of Skye altogether.”

“That’s true enough.” The chieftain drummed his fingers on the arm of his elaborately
carved chair. “But if Hugh hasn’t succeeded in killing his nephew yet, he’s unlikely
to.”

Erik waited while his chieftain took a long drink from his cup.

“According to Hugh, Connor has three warriors who have been his closest companions
since they were young lads. Hugh says that no one can get to Connor without killing
them first.”

Hugh also said that the four who returned from France were willing to die for even
the lowliest members of their clan, but that was too foolish to believe.

Alastair MacLeod steepled his hands under his chin and fixed his ice-blue eyes on
Erik. “What else do ye know of them?”

“They have trained and fought together for so long that they can read one another’s
minds,” Erik said. “Fighting the four of them is like fighting a score of warriors.”

“I’ve heard the same,” the chieftain said.

“Two are Connor’s cousins,” Erik said. “Their mothers were sisters.”

“The Clanranald sisters were famous beauties in their time,” the chieftain said, nodding.

“One cousin holds Knock Castle and the other is keeper of Dunfaileag Castle on the
isle of North Uist, so they are no longer part of Connor’s personal guard,” Erik said.
“Still, if there is a battle, they will both join in the fight.”

“What of the third man?” the chieftain asked, raising one shaggy eyebrow.

“He is captain of Connor’s personal guard and the most formidable warrior of the four,”
Erik said. “Hugh says the man’s never been defeated, but he’s probably lying.”

The chieftain stared into the hearth, leaving Erik to wonder at the direction of his
thoughts.

“’Tis good you’re keeping a close eye on Hugh Dubh,” the chieftain said at last. “I
don’t like that he learned so quickly that the MacQuillan lad was here. Find out how
he knows MacLeod business.”

“I will.” Erik had told Hugh himself, but it would be easy to find someone else on
whom he could lay the blame.

D
uncan was still angry when he woke up, so it was just as well that Moira had already
left for the healer’s cottage. He steeled himself to see her when he went to see how
Niall fared.

When he ducked his head under the doorway, he found Niall on the bed, surrounded by
half a dozen giggling young lasses.

“I see you’re well cared for,” Duncan said.

“Aye,” Niall said with a wide grin. “I’m nearly mended.”

“Good. Then we’ll be leaving soon.” Duncan turned to Caitlin. “Where’s Moira?”

Caitlin shook her head. “I haven’t seen her yet today.”

Uneasiness settled in his stomach. Where would Moira go? Duncan started to leave to
look for her, but halted with his hand on the latch. “Is there a walking path nearby?”

“Aye, the path that leads to Dunvegan starts just behind the cottage you’re staying
in,” Caitlin said. “Moira was asking about it yesterday.”

God preserve him, Moira had gone alone to get her son.

The lass was as unpredictable and as dangerous to herself as ever. As captain of his
chieftain’s guard, Duncan was accustomed to having his judgment respected and his
orders obeyed. He had told Moira that going to Dunvegan was pure foolishness, but
did she listen? No. She did precisely as she pleased with no consideration of the
consequences.

“Niall,” he said. “I’m going after Moira. The fool has headed off for Dunvegan by
herself.”

“What?” Niall flinched as he swung his legs off the bed. “I’ll come with—”

“Ye will stay right there in that bed,” Duncan said, pointing his finger at him. “Ye
re-injure yourself, and you’ll answer to me.”

The pair of them was more trouble than Hugh MacDonald and his pirates.

Something rough and wet kept rubbing against Moira’s face. When she opened her eyes,
Sàr’s black nose was an inch above her, and his tongue covered half her face.

“Bleck!” Moira tried to sit up, but it hurt too much to move. She felt as if a herd
of cattle had trampled over her.

“Stop licking me,” she said, batting at the dog.

Sàr rested his head on his paws next to her ear and proceeded to whine until the sound
was so annoying that she forced herself to sit up. She spit out the bits of dirt and
leaves in her mouth and looked up the hill—or cliff—she had fallen down. It was so
steep she could not see the path above.

“We are in a fine fix,” she said to Sàr.

She had scratches from head to toe, though it was a miracle she had not broken her
neck. Sàr stuck his nose in her face until she hauled herself to her feet. She felt
stiff, as if she had lain on the cold ground for a long time. She probably had.

What was wrong with Sàr now? The wolfhound had ceased whining, but he was pacing back
and forth in front of her and growling.

Then she heard it—a long, high howl that sent a shiver of terror up her spine. A wolf.
There was no mistaking the sound, for there was nothing else like it. Heart hammering,
Moira picked up a stick.

Two answering howls echoed against the hillside. The wolves were close.

Duncan had been running along the path for an hour. Without slowing his pace, he took
a drink from his flask and wondered how far ahead Moira was. He cursed himself again
for not hearing her leave the cottage. It was not like him to be so slack.

Duncan thought of Moira’s fancy slippers. At least she could not be making good time
in those. He should catch up with her soon.

Up ahead, at the top of the hill, the path had been washed out in a mudslide from
the rains. Duncan scanned the hills, looking for another way across. Then, over his
breathing, he heard a dog bark. Praise God, he had found them. He halted and listened.
The barking was coming from the trees at the base of the ravine.

O shluagh!
Moira and the dog must have gone down in the mudslide.

Duncan’s blood froze when he heard the yips and eerie howls of wolves, calling to
one another.

He left the path and scrambled across the hillside toward the ravine. Judging by Sàr’s
steady barking, the wolves had not attacked yet. Duncan had to believe that. He did
not let himself consider that Moira could already be dead from the fall.

“Moira!” Duncan leaped over fallen trees and rocks and crashed through the brush as
he entered the vortex of the ravine.

Suddenly Sàr’s barking became fierce and frantic. Duncan pulled his claymore from
his back and ran harder. Through the trees, he saw the dog and a gray wolf fighting.
The two animals were on their hind legs, locked in a death struggle, trying to bite
each other’s throat.

Behind them, Duncan caught a glimpse of Moira’s blood-red gown.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a movement and turned. Four wolves were slinking
through the trees toward Moira.

Moira did not see the wolf until it sprang through the air, lunging at Sàr’s throat.
She screamed and gripped her stick, ready to hit it and protect her dog. But before
the wolf’s jaws reached his throat, Sàr attacked the wolf with a viciousness that
startled her. This snarling and snapping beast was a different animal from the gentle
giant dog she knew.

The two fought on their hind legs, biting at each other in a brutal dance. With a
ferocious lunge, Sàr caught the wolf’s neck in his jaws. Moira’s stomach turned as
Sàr shook his head back and forth until the wolf’s body went limp.

Moira sagged, relieved that the fight was over and that she and Sàr were safe.

But then she saw two sleek gray forms sliding through the trees. When one of the wolves
turned its head and fixed its yellow eyes on her, Moira’s blood froze. The next moment,
Sàr was in front of her, growling and baring his teeth. She screamed as the two wolves
attacked Sàr at once. While Sàr fought one wolf, the other tried to bite the back
of his leg.

Moira heard a yip and turned to find another pair of sleek dark forms in the trees.
While Sàr fought for his life, the two new wolves watched and waited.

Moira prayed.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, protect us.

A roar filled the air, and Duncan burst through the trees brandishing his claymore.
With the flat of it, he slammed first one and then the other of the wolves attacking
Sàr. The wolves turned on Duncan, snapping and darting at him between his swings with
the claymore. One jumped, and its teeth were an inch from sinking into Duncan’s arm.
But Duncan was lightning-quick and blocked it with the flat of his sword.

In quick succession the two wolves gave up the fight and withdrew to find easier prey.
When Moira turned to look where the other wolves had been waiting, their dark shapes
were already slipping through the trees like seals in the water.

Moira threw herself into Duncan’s arms, and he held her tight. His heart flipped over
in his chest as he thought about how close he had come to seeing her ripped apart
before his eyes.

“Are ye all right?” he asked.

When she nodded, Duncan picked her up and whistled to Sàr. He was anxious to get her
out of the wood before the wolves decided to return. He was relieved when the dog
ran ahead, showing no sign of serious injury.

“I can walk now,” Moira said after they left the ravine, and he was carrying her across
the grassy hillside.

“I saw the cliff ye fell down, and you’re not walking anywhere until I have a good
look at ye.”

When he judged they were a safe distance, Duncan unfastened his mantle, spread it
on the ground, and set her down on it. He knelt on one knee beside her, while Sàr
lay down on her other side. The dog had survived his battle with nary a scratch.

Moira, however, looked like hell. He could hardly see the bruises on her face for
the mud, and she had twigs in her hair.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Moira said. “I’ve nothing worse than a scratch or two.”

Duncan snorted.

“What could ye possibly find amusing about this?” she demanded.

“’Tis just that ye don’t look much like a princess at the moment.”

Moira leaned forward and glared at him. “I know that’s what you lads used to call
me.”

Duncan fought a smile as he ran his hands over her ankles.

“What are ye doing?” She slapped at his hands as he started up her legs.

“Checking to be sure nothing is broken.”

“Nothing is broken.” As if to prove it, she started to hoist herself up, but gasped,
“Aah.”

“If it hurts, I’ll carry ye,” Duncan said as he helped her to her feet. “We’d best
get started back.”

“Thank ye for coming to my aid,” Moira said. “But I’m continuing on to Dunvegan.”

Duncan grabbed her arm before she took a single step. His humor was gone.

“Have ye no sense at all, woman?” he said. “It was only by the grace of God that ye
didn’t kill yourself already.”

“I did ask ye to come with me,” Moira said. “’Tis not my fault ye didn’t.”

“Ye can’t just do what ye please, every time the notion strikes ye,” Duncan said.
“The last thing Connor needs is to have his closest relation held by his worst enemy.
Don’t ye see what that would do?”

“I do,” Moira said, her eyes spitting fire. “The MacLeods would learn what I already
know—that Connor doesn’t give a damn what happens to me.”

“Of course he does.”

“Connor didn’t trouble himself to visit me and his only nephew in the two years since
he returned from France.”

“Can ye not see beyond yourself when there is so much at stake?” Duncan asked. “Ye
don’t understand the danger to both Connor and the clan.”

“Then perhaps ye should explain it to me,” she said, putting her hand on her hip,
“instead of shouting at me.”

“I don’t shout at women,” he said.

“Ye were shouting,” she said.

Duncan sighed because she was right. Moira was the only woman who could rile him.
“I’ll tell ye anything ye want to hear while we walk back to the MacCrimmons,” he
said.

“What about my son?”

“’Tis unfortunate the MacLeods have him, but as I told ye, he is safe under Alastair
MacLeod’s protection.” Duncan took her hands. “The same cannot be said for you. What
do ye think the MacLeods would do with ye when they heard about Sean’s death? Most
likely, they would return ye to your husband’s clan for punishment.”

Duncan thought they would first use the threat of returning her to the MacQuillans
against Connor—and after they got what they wanted from him, they would send Moira
to the MacQuillans anyway.

“That would not help your son,” he said.

“I suppose not.” Moira had not shed a tear before, despite the fall and the wolves,
but a wet streak was working down her muddy cheek now. “I miss him.”

Duncan lifted her chin with his finger. “We
will
get your son back.”

“Promise?” she asked, her solemn gaze fixed on him.

Duncan paused. He did not give his word lightly, but he could not take away her hope.
“I promise.”