Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior (13 page)

Still, despite their many victories, the fight was not over. King Edward’s mighty army continued to march, and, most importantly, he still held Stirling Castle. Garik knew that more blood would be spilled over the fight for Scotland’s independence, but at least for a short while he had a reprieve—not from war, for they journeyed home to face yet another enemy—but rather from the worst suffering of all: being separated from Nellore.

As soon as he had been able, Angus Og had granted Garik and the Mull MacKinnon leave to protect their village. It had been plain from Ronan’s message that the MacLean tarried with more than just their stores. The MacKinnon warriors had been warned that they would have little time to secure Gribun; however, they had been released to do just that.

Garik dipped his oar into the water and thrust it forward and then back again with all his might. They glided over the still waters of the Sound of Mull, steering around patches of ice, but with Gribun so close, Garik did not feel the wintry chill. All he could feel was Nellore’s sleek strength filling his arms. His whole body ached to hold her, to feel her, to tell her of the love he bore her. For a moment, a nightmarish thought crowded into his mind—did she still love him? Had she waited? Two years was, indeed, a long time to suffer someone’s absence, but then he shook his head and reclaimed his oar, which he drove through the water. He would not doubt her love.

“Gribun,” Logan shouted.

Garik stood from his seat and turned, spying the familiar port in the distance. The sun had just risen above the cliffs of Mull. Morning mist clung to the docks and rose from the shallows along Mull’s shore. Dawn wove ribbons of color through fog and sea, which fanned out in glistening shades of gold and rosy hues.

“Row, ye eegits,” Duncan shouted, a full smile straining the contours of his face.

The bell sounded. The watch had seen their approach. Soon the port would be teeming with villagers all eager to welcome them home.

Garik whirled around and picked up his oars. He rowed as if his very life depended on it, and in his heart he truly believed it did. Nothing could wipe the smile from off his face. He hungered for her closeness. The thought of seeing her at long last filled him with the strength of ten men. He strained as he poured all his might into each row.

A roar of such joy erupted from the many onlookers as their ship drew into port. Cormac leapt first from the ship, landing straight into Anna’s open arms.

Garik, Logan, and Duncan stood side by side, accepting the warm wishes and affectionate embraces from their kin, but the women they each longed for most were nowhere to be seen. Then Garik remembered the isolation of Duncan’s home. It would have taken them longer to respond to the bell. Mist clung to the hill where she would first appear. He started to ignore the greetings of those around him, refusing to tear his eyes from the hilltop.

He heard her before he saw her.

“Garik,” her voice called from beyond the mist. He surged forward, pushing through the throng of villagers.

“Nellore,” he shouted, and then she emerged into the new dawn. Sun-kiss gold lit her flowing black locks, making them gleam with fire as she hastened down the hill. Patches of snow shone in the morning sun. Her hands gripped a plaid that hugged her shoulders, her only shield against the cold. As she raced, it spread out behind her like the wings of a graceful bird. Never had he seen anything so beautiful.

He barreled up the hill to meet her, and when she fell into his open arms a great sob shook her body and she cried out his name again and again. She melted into him, and he claimed her lips, kissing her with the flame of passion that had burned within him for so long. They clung to each other. He knew not where his body ended and her’s began. Joyful laughter soon merged with tears of sorrow—an expression of the agony both had felt when the world had forced them apart.

He scooped her into his arms and she clung to him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Still, he felt the tears stream down her cheeks. Garik passed Duncan who clung to his Brenna, both reveling in the joy of their reunion.

“Duncan,” Garik said as he passed.

“Aye, Garik,” he answered not tearing his eyes from Brenna’s beautiful face.

“I am marrying your daughter,” Garik called. Nellore threw her head back with laughter.

“As ye wish,” Duncan shot back, adding his own laughter to their merriment.

Garik continued to carry Nellore across the moors toward her croft.

“Nay,” she whispered as she cupped his cheek. “I do not wish to go home.” Her fingers splayed out through his hair and then moved behind his head. She pulled his lips down to meet hers. Her tongue plunged into his mouth with bold, languid strokes. He groaned, filling her with fire. She deepened her kiss. She felt his strength surround her. For so long her life had been barren of true warmth, true joy. For two years, she had lain awake dreaming of his touch, his kiss, and his hands on her body. His smell ignited her with heat. She needed to feel him, to know that he was real, to know that he was hers. She wriggled from his arms and took hold of his hand, pulling him toward the wood.

“Where are we going? It is freezing out here. You will catch your death of cold.”

She turned then and pulled him close. The yearning still trapped within her soul begged for release. “I do not plan on being cold for long,” she said.

With a low growl he scooped her into his arms. “I shall keep you warm,” he promised before passing through the trees.

He knew where he would take her, to a clearing beside a small brook. Snow lingered on the forest ground. The sun could not reach the white blanket to melt it away like it did on the open moors. The crunch of ice and the snapping of frozen branches announced their arrival as he picked his way through the woods. He set her on her feet and removed his cloak, which he laid on the ground, followed by his leather jerkin.

“This is how you were meant to be loved,” she said. “Except the sun should be setting and not on the rise. For you are snow and twilight to me with your white skin and black hair and your eyes that gleam like blue ice.”

He smiled, his white teeth shining like stars. “You are so beautiful,” she whispered. He drew close and his hands gripped her sides. Slowly, his fingers trailed down her waist and over the curve of her hips, then back up the length of her torso to her breasts, which he gently cupped. His lips kissed hers and then traveled down her throat. “If I am twilight, then you are the moon in my sky,” he whispered.

He swept the plaid from her shoulders and tossed it aside. They both reached for the others’ clothing, their movements hurried and desperate. He ripped her belt from her waist and jerked her tunic over her head, letting the garments fall where they may. She grabbed his tunic and pulled it above his waist and up his chest. She stopped to kiss his skin, laving her tongue across the hard, taut ridges of his stomach. The surprise of her tongue against his skin shot through him, forcing a groan from his lips. His hands dug into her hair and he kissed her, bending her back. His mouth moved hard and hungry, his tongue stroking hers with passionate fervor. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she pressed herself into his strength, her hands stroking across his thickly muscled shoulders. A deep moan escaped her lips. The years apart were forgotten. All she knew was him. He filled her. He was everywhere and in all things—in the air she struggled to breathe, in the new light and mist surrounding them. The pain and fear within her faded away and all that mattered was him.

His kiss broke away. His breaths were coming in great heaves as he stared down at her, but she did not meet his gaze. Her eyes raked over his naked body, boldly exploring every taut line and chiseled muscled. Then his lips upturned in a wicked grin while he reached for her. He groaned at the sight of her sleek strength as she stood before him clad only in her shift. Her breasts pushed taut against the thin fabric. He hungrily eyed the dark hue of her nipples. Her waist curved with graceful force. He could not contain his desire. His fingers came to the top of her shift and ripped it from her body. It fluttered to the ground like a secret whispered in the wood. The last barrier between her soft skin and his lay discarded in pieces on the ground.

He crushed her against him and groaned when he felt the fierce hold of her arms around his neck. He kissed her mouth and then down her throat, devouring a path of hunger across her breasts. Then he was on his knees, kissing her sleek stomach. His hands gripped her round, firm bottom while she raked her fingers through his hair. Soft groans drifted from her parted lips, fueling his passion. His lips and tongue trailed down her stomach and found the heat of her desire. He touched and tasted her until she writhed in his arms.

She trembled and shook. She did not think she could take anymore. His tongue stroked the very heat of her, making her cry out with need. A fire exploded within her, enflaming every inch of her body with wicked desire. The sweet, fiery ache grew until she thought she would burst with need. But then she felt his jerkin beneath her back, and he stretched over her. She opened herself to him and cried out when he filled her with his body. The years of longing guided their movements with desperate fervor as they pounded against each other. It was a struggle for oneness, a fight to unite in a way that would change them body and soul so that they might never be apart again.

Silence resounded throughout the great hall when only moments before warriors had bellowed words of dissent while they debated how best to handle the threat of war from the MacLeans. Most wanted nothing more than to attack, ending the feud with a flurry of violence. However, Garik favored other solutions he viewed as more lasting. In the end, Ronan had silenced the debate with a stern reminder that while he still breathed air into his lungs
he
was the laird of the MacKinnon.

“We shall lead a small party to meet with the MacLean,” Ronan announced. Garik scanned the room. He exhaled when he realized none would dispute their laird.

“What sort of man is the MacLean?” Garik asked.

“He is a coward,” Logan barked. “A greedy, feckless coward. We would be content to live in peace, but their chieftain is never satisfied. He hordes his stores and disciplines his clan too harshly, and so they work only to serve, which is just hard enough not to starve.”

“Calm yourself, Logan,” Ronan said. “Anger must not guide our actions. Now is the time for prudence. The only leader more unscrupulous than Darach MacLean was his father, Angus. But ‘tis my belief Darach is not directly behind the latest attacks. He has not risen from his bed now for months, but while his health dwindles, his sons vie for power. I’d wager worse than that, he pits his sons against one another, challenging them to compete for the chiefdom rather than nurturing the rightful heir.”

“Then the MacLean himself is an invalid?” Garik said.

“Aye,” Ronan said. “The MacLean warrior who killed Tavish confirmed this.”

“We should wait for their move and then attack,” Logan said.

Ronan shook his head. “We’ve not the time to wait idly by. Remember, we await the call of our king.”

Ronan’s reminder made Garik’s heart ache, but he swallowed the pain. Some truths hurt; still, they had to be faced.

“Our time here is limited. I would have us journey to Duart Castle and speak to the MacLean.”

“What did ye mean by ‘our’ time?” Logan asked pointedly.

A rueful smile spread across Ronan’s features. “I will be joining ye when the king calls once more, but for now I wish to propose a treaty with the MacLean that will establish a peace while we are away. He too swore his fealty to the Bruce. We march in the morning. Logan, gather the warriors, our number not to exceed ten. Most importantly, we do not wish our effort to be mistaken for a raid. We will carry our own colors but also the colors of the Bruce himself, for it is on his behalf that we make peace and remind the MacLean of the fealty he swore to Scotland.”

*

Darkness still cloaked the courtyard as warriors assembled.

“Why have ye brought Nellore?” Ronan asked Logan.

“’Tis the very question I asked,” Duncan snapped without looking at his laird. He was too busy glaring at Garik.

“Ye said ‘twas essential our party not be mistaken for a common raid. With a woman in our company the peaceful purpose of our mission will be undeniable,” Logan replied.

“The MacLeans are spineless blackguards who will think nothing of killing a woman,” Duncan growled, shifting the sting of his gaze to Logan.

Garik stepped in between his friend and his soon-to-be wife’s father, not liking the position at all. He cleared his throat. “Logan’s idea has merit—” Duncan cut his words off as his hand came around his throat.

“If ye will so easily cast my daughter into mortal danger, then I have misjudged ye, Garik MacKinnon,” Duncan snarled.

“Calm yourself, Duncan,” Ronan said. “Logan’s plan does have merit. Ye ken we are in no position to fight. If we march in a number great enough to make a strong defense, the MacLean will think we wage war. Should we appear as a raiding party, we will be outnumbered—lambs to the slaughter. With Nellore in our company and the king’s banner flying overhead, the MacLean will have no choice but to grant us an audience.”

Duncan continued to hold Garik’s throat in a vice-like grip while he addressed his laird. “I will not allow my daughter to be the means to a questionable end.”