Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior (11 page)

Suddenly a low growl escaped his lips and he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. She could not breathe or move. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heart. For years, she had dreamt of being enclosed within the warmth of Garik’s embrace. The exquisite reality was almost more than she could bear. His smell surrounded her. His strength filled her. She slowly placed her hands on his chest and stared into the heat of his gaze. The world fell away. They stood cloaked in moonlight and shadow, swathed in the warmth of the summer night. And then his lips slowly descended to claim hers and she melted into him.

He crushed her against him. The feel of her soft mouth was more exquisite than he could ever have dreamed. She rose on her toes, eager to meet the demand of his kiss, and he surrendered to her will. He poured himself into her, wishing his kiss to hold the true promise of the devotion that filled his heart. Her lips burned through him, surrounding the hunger in his body and giving it greater life and feeling, until it consumed him with a need he had never known. His tongue caressed the curve of her bottom lip and she gasped, opening her mouth in invitation. His tongue stroked hers, and her hands went behind his head as she pressed closer. Her soft moans echoed inside of him, making him feel like he soared through the air with her in his arms.

He lifted her off the ground then and pushed her against the stone wall of her croft. Her legs came around his waist and her fingers laced through his hair. Dear God above, he ached with want. Fighting against his hunger to claim her, he tore his mouth from hers. She whimpered in protest as her lips once more sought his. He could not speak. His breaths came in great heaves. He turned then with her still in his arms and leaned his back against the stone. Shifting her in his arms, he cradled her and slid to the ground.

Some time passed while they sat together, she pulled close to his chest. Their breaths slowly quieted, along with their racing hearts. He pressed a kiss to her hair, and then he crooked his thumb under her chin, drawing her gaze to his.

“You are mine now, Nellore,” he whispered.

She nodded her head as a smile spread her lips so wide it hurt. “Aye, Garik, I am yours,” she said.

“Forever,” he vowed.

She reached out her hand and cupped his cheek. “Forever,” she promised.

“Steady, Rose. Do not forget to breathe,” Nellore said as she watched her sister pull her bowstring taught against her cheek. “Take aim with intent. Be deliberate. Fill your fingers with courage, and when you feel your mark, release the arrow.”

Rose’s sleek, strawberry hair hung in a thick braid down her back. Her small shoulder’s strained against the strength of the bow, but Nellore watched her courage rise with her chest as she breathed the bowstring tighter and then released the arrow with her next breath. The shaft shot through the air and pierced the center of the target.

Rose squealed and threw her arms around Nellore’s shoulders, her blue eyes wide with delight. Nellore swept her sister’s petite frame into the air, spinning her around and around just as they used to do when they were lassies, as wild and free as the wind over the moors.

“What are we celebrating?”

Nellore recognized Logan’s voice straightaway. She put her sister down and pointed to the target. “Rose has just been demonstrating her masterful skill with a bow.”

She urged Rose to shoot again, but her sister discreetly refused while she fidgeted with the hem of her dress. Rose stared up at the sky and then out to sea. She seemed to look everywhere except at Logan. Nellore bit her lip to keep from chuckling as she recalled the night before when her own eyes had performed the same dance while she avoided looking at Garik.

“Ye needn’t be shy,” Nellore whispered. “’Tis just Logan.”

Her words earned a scowl from Rose. “I see,” Nellore said quietly. “So my suspicions have been right. That is the way of it.”

“Wheest,” Rose whispered. “Please.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Nellore said. Then movement behind Logan caught her eye. “Hello, Garik,” she said, grabbing Rose beneath the arm. “Shall we walk the cliff line together?”

Garik offered his arm to Nellore. “It is a fine day for a walk,” he said as he scanned the clear blue heavens and the gentle seas. She accepted his arm and gave Rose a gentle nudge toward Logan whose silver eyes lit up when Rose stepped his way. But then a sharp wind blew and swept his unbound silvery blonde hair across his face. He sputtered for a moment while he whipped his hair away from his eyes. Rose laughed at his struggle and reached up to help him.

“I should have tied my hair back on this windy day as ye’ve done,” he said, reaching out and gently taking her long braid in hand. “Rose,” he said in a whisper. Their eyes locked.

Nellore smiled at Garik. Then they quietly moved away together, leaving Logan and Rose to their staring.

“I’ve spoken to Ronan with your father’s blessing,” Garik said when they were alone.

Nellore’s heart soared, but she contained her joy and gave him a quizzical look. “Oh, and what was the nature of your discussion?” she said. He threw his head back and the sound of his deep baritone laugh surrounded her. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close. “You,” he said. “We discussed you and my lonely, empty hands.”

She covered his hands with hers, which still gripped her waist. “Your hands appear quite full to me,” she said. The words started off coy but then trailed off as she lost herself in the increasing intensity filling his blue eyes.

“Did our laird give ye his blessing,” she asked softly as she rose up onto her toes and brushed her lips against his.

“He did.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and seized him in a crushing embrace. She inhaled his scent. Happiness surged through her, but her bliss was short-lived. Just as her eyes opened and a new avowal of love rose to her lips, she spied something over his shoulder that stole the breath from her body. Tears rushed to her eyes. A ship sailed their way and at the helm she could see the crest of the Clan MacDonald.

“Angus Og has come for ye,” she whispered.

Garik pulled Nellore tightly against him and then turned about to face the water. “So he has.”

He looked down at her. “Do not surrender to fear. This changes naught. Our enemies have not the power to sway hearts. Nothing could ever alter my love for you—not absence…not even death.”

“Ye must come back to me,” she said, grabbing hold of his arms. “Swear it.”

“I swear,” he whispered. Then he pulled her against him once more and claimed her lips. His kiss raged through her, and she met the demand of his passion with a fury all her own. She could not imagine life without him. Pain squeezed her heart, her breath, and held her mind in a cage of terror as the insecurity of their future blinded her will. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to compel the vessel and its banner of ill-tidings away.

Rose’s gasp forced Nellore’s eyes to open. She and Logan, who stood some feet apart, had spotted the ship. As tears welled in Rose’s blue eyes, Logan reached out and placed a comforting hand on her arm.

Three days later, Nellore and Rose stood once more upon the cliffs of Mull, but this time without the men they held dear in their hearts. The ship nosed through the current, carrying their love into the mist. The future loomed dark and fierce, and from every angle she glimpsed suffering. She narrowed her eyes on the ship that, despite how her heart screamed, continued to diminish in size and fade into memory. A warning slunk between the vulnerable crevices of her mind. The world was on fire, and the flames would reach even the rolling moors of Mull.

Rain poured from the heavens, blending with the tears that coursed down her cheeks. Rivulets of muddy water captured tufts of bracken on their journey over the cliffs and down to the brisk waters below. She stared at the barren water, trying to conjure the image of the ship that had sailed out of view.

“I ken what ye feel inside,” a soft voice said behind her. Nellore turned, meeting the courageous blue eyes of their mother. “Fear wells up from the pit of your soul. It steals your breath, and all ye wish to do is hide and forget the world until he is once more at your side.”

Nellore turned away. Her sorrow swelled and writhed within her until she tasted bile churning in her stomach. “Do not ask me to move from this spot,” she gritted. Fury rose up inside of her, competing against the sorrow for her soul.

“Ye cannot stand by and wait. No one’s heart is strong enough to withstand the loss ye will feel with each breath that does not mingle with his, with every breeze that does not carry his scent, and with every wave that does not draw his ship closer.”

Nellore shifted her gaze from the empty horizon to her mum.

“I know of what I speak. Your love is not the only one to have sailed away this day.”

Nellore turned then and threw herself into her mother’s knowing embrace. “How do I bear it,” she sobbed. “How do I bear the unknown?”

“To love a warrior demands the strength of a warrior,” Brenna said. “You will bear it because ye must.”

Brenna’s deep blue eyes met Nellore’s with a willful, intractable spirit, but beneath the sensible calmness, Nellore glimpsed undercurrents of suffering. She took hold of her mother’s hand. “My heart is not the only one to tremble with fear and need,” she said while reaching to also take Rose’s hand.

“Nay,” her mother said quietly, her blue eyes now brimming with tears. Nellore’s own heart quailed at Brenna’s uncharacteristic display of sorrow. For the first time in her life, she saw Brenna not as mother but as a woman, a woman whose true love had once more been pulled from her side and sent hurtling toward danger.

“I’ve always longed to be a warrior so I could fight for those I love most,” Nellore said. “But I see now so clearly that which I have not understood until this moment. We
are
warriors, mum. Rose too, for we must fight to keep our minds and our homes at the ready for their return.”

“Aye, dear heart,” Brenna said as her hands swept tears from her eyes. “Come, ladies,” she said. “Enough pining. The harvest is upon us.”

The Mountains of Argyle, Scotland

Summer 1313

Garik stared up at the sky through the canopy of leaves overhead. The mountain air was cool and fragrant. He inhaled deeply and then closed his eyes, conjuring Nellore’s image from memory. His eyes grazed over her long waves of black hair. The richness of her laughter soared through his mind, fueling his courage for battle.

“Seven years ago, our king and his fledgling army sought refuge in these mountains, but they found no respite,” Angus Og said with his arms raised, directing the gazes of his men to the towering, jagged peaks that rose above the earth like grand sentinels. “Scots, Highlanders like ourselves, attacked our king. ‘Twas the bastard MacDougall, the very chieftain who tried to steal MacDonald land.”

Garik scanned the surrounding army of MacDonald and MacKinnon warriors. He stood out among the plaid clad men in his black leather jerkin, helmet, and mail, but then again, he was both Highlander and Viking; the ferocity of both peoples fed his blood.

“The fight for Scottish support of our King ends now, for the MacDougalls are the only remaining Scottish clan to give their fealty to the English king.”

Nellore’s image dissipated, drifting away on the breeze as Garik felt the immediacy of battle grip his body. His heart pounded, his hunger for justice stoked by his commander’s every word.

“Ye’ve been given your orders,” Angus Og cried. “Go now. Take to the mountains. Tear down these traitors to the Scottish crown.”

Jagged boulders cut the mountainside. The narrow, steep passes and patches of dense wood would keep all English armies at bay, but they weren’t looking for knights. They hunted for men not unlike themselves in appearance—Highlanders—but that was where all common ground ceased. Dishonorable conspirators to the English crown, the MacDougalls chose to make enemies of their own countrymen, but the end of their treachery was nigh.

Angus Og led the largest band of warriors straight up the mountain, their number sure to draw the enemy into battle. Under the command of James Douglas, Garik and a smaller band of only twenty men moved like shadows up the steepest side of the mountain. Running where the terrain allowed and scrambling over rock, they at last took position on the cliffs over the highest mountain pass where they hunkered down to wait.

Garik gained the ear of their leader. “Angus Og said the English have taken to calling you the Black Douglas,” Garik whispered.

James grinned. “We’ve succeeded in scaring the English.”

Logan appeared from behind and sidled next to James. “Lord Douglas, ‘tis the MacDougall’s,” he said. “They are closing in on Angus Og.”

“Ready yourselves, lads,” James said.

Garik gripped his axe and waited. Every thought, breath, and beat of his heart trained on the forest below as he waited for the battle to begin. Then suddenly the forest came alive with terrific cries. They rose to their feet and with their own battle cries tearing from their lips they descended, pouring forth from tree limbs and rocks onto the MacDougall’s below.

Garik charged with fury down the steep slope. Instead of skirting around a boulder jutting from the mountainside, he scampered on top of it and leapt through the air driving his ax into the neck of one MacDougall before flattening another to the ground. Blood splattered his face as his dagger carved through the man’s neck, slicing it clean from his body. Jumping to his feet, he stayed low, ducking the swing of an enemy blade. Then he swung around and drove his dagger into the man’s chest.