The Warrior (28 page)

Y
e can’t go with Connor,” Duncan said.

“Who else will set up his household at Trotternish Castle?” Ilysa continued sorting
and packing her clothes while her brother, who was twice her size and all brawny muscle,
glowered down at her. “Ach, there will be so much to do.”

“I won’t allow it,” Duncan said, crossing his arms.

Ilysa paused to give her brother a smile because he meant well, though she was not
going to let him stop her. “For heaven’s sake, Duncan, why shouldn’t I go?”

“If you’re keeping his household, everyone will believe that you’re also warming his
bed,” Duncan said in a low hiss.

“I’ve been managing his household here at Dunscaith Castle since he became chieftain,
and no one thinks that.” It would not occur to any of them, least of all Connor. Ilysa
stifled a sigh and returned to her packing.

“That’s because I live here as well,” Duncan said. “Ye grew up here, this is your
home. Following the chieftain to Trotternish Castle is a different matter altogether.”

What would she do if she remained here? Now that Duncan had married Connor’s sister
and been made keeper of Dunscaith Castle, Ilysa had lost her place. Though she had
become good friends with Duncan’s new bride, there could be only one mistress of a
castle.

“If you’re troubled about this, why don’t ye speak to Connor?” Ilysa asked. “He’s
been your best friend since the cradle.”

“I won’t insult my friend and chieftain by suggesting he’d take advantage of my sister!”

“But you’ll insult me?” Ilysa asked, arching an eyebrow—though if Connor MacDonald
wanted to take advantage of her, she would faint from pure happiness.

“I’m no saying anything would actually happen between the two of ye,” Duncan said,
raising his hands in exasperation. “But if the men think ye belong to the chieftain,
you’ll never get another husband.”

“I don’t recall saying I wanted one.” Ilysa held up an old cloak to examine it for
moth holes. “Should I take an extra cloak? They say the wind is strong on the north
end of the island.”

“Ily—” Duncan stopped abruptly.

Years of fighting had made her brother’s instincts sharp and his reflexes quick. Before
Ilysa could draw a breath to ask what was wrong, Duncan had run out into the castle
courtyard and pulled his claymore from the scabbard on his back.

Through the open door, Ilysa heard shouting and raced out after him.

“What is it?” Duncan called up to one of the guards on the wall.

“Three riders are galloping hard for the gate,” the man shouted. “One looks injured.”

Please, God, don’t let it be Connor.
He had gone for a last hunt with his cousins before his departure for Trotternish.
Usually, Duncan would be with them, but he had stayed behind to be with his bride.
And to lecture Ilysa.

Ilysa followed in Duncan’s wake as he ran through the warriors who were flooding into
the courtyard. Through the open gate, she saw the three horsemen riding hell-bent
toward the castle. Her stomach dropped when she recognized Connor as the injured rider,
flanked by his two cousins. He was slumped forward, looking as if he was barely holding
on. The rest of his guard was several yards behind them.

As the three riders drew up to the narrow bridge that connected the castle to the
main island, Duncan ran across it and blocked her view. Ilysa wanted to scream in
frustration as she alternately rose on her toes and leaned to the side, trying to
see.

“Clear the way!” Duncan shouted as he came back across the bridge.

The world fell away as Ilysa saw Connor enter the castle between his cousins, Ian
and Alex, who were half carrying him. His black hair hung over his face, and the front
of his tunic was drenched in blood.

“Run and fetch my medicines,” Ilysa told a serving woman who was next to her, before
she ran after the others into the keep. As she entered the hall, she called out to
another woman, “Bring blankets from my brother’s bedchamber.”

With one sweep of his arm, Duncan sent cups and platters clattering to the floor,
clearing the high table just before Ian and Alex lifted Connor onto it and laid him
down.

“
O shluagh!
” Ilysa said, calling on the faeries for help, when she saw the arrows sticking out
of Connor’s chest and thigh.
How many times will our enemies try to kill him?

When Connor tried to sit up, Duncan held him down with a firm hand.

“I’m no badly hurt,” Connor objected, but his face was gray.

“We rode hard for fear that he’d bleed to death before we reached the castle,” Alex
said as he sliced Connor’s tunic open with his dirk to expose the wound.

“The arrows came from rocks above us,” Ian said. “We were in the middle of an open
field where we were easy targets, so we couldn’t stop to take care of his wounds.”

“We’ll take the arrow out of his chest first, then the one in his leg,” Ilysa said
after she examined both wounds. She held her breath and prayed as she rested her fingertips
on Connor’s wrist. “’Tis fortunate that ye have the heart of a lion, Connor MacDonald.”

Connor started to laugh, then winced. “Just get the damned things out of me. They
hurt like hell.”

“Someone bring us whiskey,” Duncan shouted. “The rest of ye, out!”

When the whiskey arrived, Duncan cradled Connor’s head and poured it down his throat.

Ilysa noticed the blood running down Ian’s arm, but his injury could wait. Connor’s
could not. Still, this was not as serious as that other time, shortly after the four
of them had returned from France. She shuddered as she recalled Ian carrying Connor’s
broken body into the seer’s tiny cottage. Connor had been more dead than alive. With
God’s help, she and Teàrlag had snatched him back from death’s door.

“Cutting the arrow out will be a wee bit messy,” Alex said as he wiped his long dirk
on his tunic. “I’ll do that, Ilysa, and ye can do the sewing.”

“I think we’ll need all of ye to hold him down,” Ilysa said, knowing the men would
take that better than telling them a delicate hand was needed with the blade. “If
Connor moves it will make things worse.”

While the men poured more whiskey into Connor, she made a poultice.

“Ready?” Duncan asked Connor. When he nodded, Duncan took the tooth-marked strip of
leather from Ilysa’s basket of medicines and put it between Connor’s teeth.

Ilysa exchanged glances with the others, then took a deep breath and willed her hands
not to shake. The arrow was deep, and it was barbed, so she had to work carefully.
Thankfully, Connor passed out long before she finished.

After she cut out the arrow, Ilysa cleaned the wound thoroughly with whiskey and covered
it with the poultice. Then she did the same with the arrow in his thigh. The three
men were skilled at dressing battle wounds, so she sat down on the bench next to the
table while they wound strips of linen around Connor’s chest, looping the cloth under
his left arm and over his right shoulder.

Now that it was over, a wave of nausea hit her, and she leaned forward to rest her
forehead on the table. She slipped her hand into Connor’s. When he was so badly injured
the last time, she had washed his naked body with cool cloths to break his fever.
Somehow, holding his hand now felt more intimate.

Ach, she was pathetic. She sat up and ran her gaze over his face, which was eased
of worry for once. Though his looks were the least of what drew her to him, a lass
would have to be dead not to notice how handsome he was. He had scars all over his
body, attesting to the battles and attempts on his life, but his face was unmarked.
He was perfect, an Adonis with black hair and silvery-blue eyes.

Since Connor returned from France to find his father and brother dead and their clan
near ruin, he had devoted himself with single-minded determination to restoring the
clan’s lands and making their people safe. If he lived long enough, he would be one
of the great chieftains, the kind the bards told stories about. Whatever Ilysa could
do to help him, she would.

“Connor will be fine,” Ian said, squeezing her shoulder. “Ye did well.”

“Let me see to that cut on your arm.” Ilysa chastised herself for daydreaming while
Ian needed tending, and she pushed up his bloody sleeve. “Looks like an arrow grazed
ye.”

“’Tis nothing,” Ian said.

Ilysa rolled her eyes and set to work on it. “Connor’s wounds are deep and will bear
watching,” she said for her brother’s benefit. “He’ll need a healer to travel with
him to Trotternish.”

“There must be healers in Trotternish,” Duncan said.

“None that we can trust,” she said as she tied the bandage around Ian’s arm. “A healer
wouldn’t even have to poison him, though she could. ’Tis easy to let a wound go bad.”

It should have been a clean kill.

Lachlan mulled over what went wrong as he waited at the meeting point for Hugh’s galley,
which would take him back to Trotternish. He had wasted his first arrow on the wrong
man. When the rider entered the clearing, he fit the description Lachlan had been
given: a tall warrior near Lachlan’s age with a rangy build and hair as black as a
crow. Fortunately, the man’s horse had jerked to the side and saved his life. Lachlan
was relieved he had only winged him. He did not make a practice of killing men who
did not deserve it.

As soon as the next man charged his horse into the clearing, Lachlan realized his
mistake. He could not have said why, for the two looked much alike, but he had known
immediately that the second man was the chieftain. There was something about him that
bespoke his position as leader of the clan.

Odd, how the chieftain had ridden directly into Lachlan’s range when he saw the arrow
strike his companion. Connor MacDonald had not hesitated, not spared a glance behind
him to look for someone else to do it.

It was the chieftain’s unexpected willingness to put the life of one of his men before
his own that had caused Lachlan to falter, just for an instant, and send his next
arrow into the chieftain’s thigh instead of his heart. Lachlan recovered quickly,
and his third arrow struck the chieftain in the chest, though it may have been too
high to kill him.

Next time, he would not falter.

The four men were in deep discussion when Ilysa slipped into the chamber with a tray.
She glanced at Connor, who had no business being out of bed a day after he was wounded.
Though he hid his pain well, she saw it in the strain around his eyes.

“We haven’t found the man who shot those arrows yesterday,” Ian said. “His tracks
were washed out in the rain.”

As Ilysa started around the table refilling their cups, Duncan gave her his icy warrior’s
stare to let her know that their earlier argument was not finished. Ilysa responded
with a serene smile to let him know that it was.

“We all know Hugh is responsible for this attack,” Alex said, referring to Connor’s
half uncle who was set on taking the chieftainship from him. “He’s tried to have Connor
murdered more than once.”

“The MacLeods wouldn’t attack us here on the Sleat Peninsula where we are strong,”
Ian agreed. “This was a single archer, and my guess is he was one of our own.”

“We have vipers among us!” Duncan slammed his fist on the table, causing their cups
to rattle.

As Ilysa refilled their cups, Ian shot her a quick, dazzling smile, and Alex winked
at her. She had always been fond of Connor’s cousins, though the pair had been philandering
devils before they settled down to become devoted husbands. Ian and Connor had gotten
their black hair from their mothers, who were sisters, while Alex had the fair hair
of the Vikings who had once terrorized the isles.

“Will ye reconsider your decision to live at Trotternish Castle?” Ian asked Connor.
“Up there, ye won’t have us to guard your back as we did yesterday.”

“Hell,” Alex said, “if someone kills ye, we’re likely to end up with Hugh as chieftain.”

“By making Trotternish Castle my home,” Connor said, “I’m sending a message to the
MacLeods—and to the Crown—that I am not giving up our claim to the Trotternish Peninsula.”

Connor’s deep voice reverberated somewhere low in Ilysa’s belly, making her hand quiver
as she poured whiskey into his cup. For a moment she feared he would notice, but she
needn’t have worried.

“I want them to know,” Connor continued, “that we will fight for the lands the MacLeods
stole from us.”

“
A’ phlàigh oirbh MacLeods!
”—A plague on the MacLeods!—the four chanted in unison and raised their cups.

Ilysa could see that she had arrived just in time with more whiskey.

“If you’re intent on this,” Duncan said, “I should remain as captain of your guard
and go with ye.”

“I need ye to protect our people here, just as I need Ian and Alex to hold our other
castles,” Connor said. “I’m sailing for Trotternish in the morning, so I suggest we
discuss how to remove the MacLeods from our lands.”

Ach, the man should let his wounds heal before leaving. Ilysa would have to watch
him closely on the two-day journey.

Ilysa took her tray to the side table and stood with her back to them, pretending
to be busy. Because they suspected Connor’s uncle had spies in the castle, Ilysa had
always served them herself when Connor’s inner circle met in private. The four men
were so accustomed to her coming and going that they never noticed when she stayed
to listen.

“The MacLeods are a powerful clan,” Ian said. “We won’t defeat them without a strong
ally fighting at our side.”

“If ye want us to take Trotternish,” Alex said, “ye should make a marriage alliance
with another clan.”

Ilysa tensed, though she was certain Connor would say it was not yet time, as he always
did.

“Several clans have already left the rebellion, and it will end soon,” Ian said. “’Tis
possible now to judge which clans will have power—and which won’t—when it’s all over.”