Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior (2 page)

“I’ll race you,” Garik jested as he carefully picked his way down the treacherous slope toward the meager coast below. A rock shifted beneath his foot and he skidded down, grappling at the cliff wall to stop his accelerated descent. Disturbed gravel rained down, pelting the advancing waves. With a sigh of relief, he twisted his neck to look up at Logan. “You were almost stuck with the task of fishing me out of the water,” he said.

“’Tis more likely ye’d be swimming home.” Logan said, his easy laughter taunting Garik, but then his voice dropped slightly. “Ye ken what I hope?”

“No, I cannot even venture a guess,” Garik muttered, giving most of his attention to the precarious climb.

“I hope Angus Og packed light for this journey, or else I fear I will have to shirk the demands of hospitality and force him to haul his own effects to the surface.”

It was Garik’s turn to hoot with laughter, but once more he lost control and skidded forward. When he came to a halt, a sideways smile curved his lips as he twisted to say to Logan, “No more jests until we reach solid ground, or else we will both plummet to the water and all hospitality will be forgotten.”

Garik stepped onto what he realized was less of a shoreline and more a simple ledge. Then he shimmied against the cliff wall in the direction of the cave. Being in the lead when they at last reached the opening, Garik turned so his stomach pressed against the cliffside and peered inside. His eyes widened with surprise when he met the gazes of five men awaiting their arrival. They stood on a dry ledge within the cave; however, the waterline on the cave wall proved that come high tide the ledge would disappear beneath the waves. Deeper within, Garik could just make out the shadow of a vessel that would remain well concealed from any other ships passing near to shore.

“Greetings,” Garik said. No sooner did the word leave his lips, than three arrow tips were aimed at his face. His eyes scanned the men threatening his life. With their plaids and long, wild hair, Garik knew straightaway they were Highlanders. The other two men, who stood alongside the Highlanders, resembled Garik in dress. Like him, they both wore long woolen tunics over dark pants with leather jerkins belted at the waist, but one of the men’s clothing was finer than the other’s. He was clearly a man of wealth and importance.

“My name is Garik Mackinnon,” he said, smiling. “You do not need your weapons. I’ve come with Logan MacKinnon.” The men made no move to lower their arrows. Garik cleared his throat as he considered what to say next. “We’ve been sent by our laird to escort you to Gribun.”

“I’ve not met ye before, Viking,” one of the Highlanders growled. He had brown hair and steady blue eyes that bore no hint of the malice that laced his voice.

“You must be Angus Og MacDonald.” Garik said as he continued to smile in greeting. The Highlander’s eyes narrowed but he neither confirmed nor denied the claim. Garik decided at that moment that the future chieftain of the MacKinnon was better suited for welcoming visitors to Mull. “I suggest we be properly introduced, but,” he said as he began to step slowly backwards. “That honor I will leave to Logan. If you will just excuse me, I will try to let him pass without the two of us taking an unscheduled swim. The ledge we stand on is a trifle narrow,” he explained before turning back to Logan.

“Your friends do not like me,” Garik said. “I think they may be under the impression that I am Viking.”

“Well, ‘tis because ye are a Viking,” Logan said, his silver eyes alight with laughter.

“Saints above,” Garik countered with a chuckle. “How many times must I tell you I’m an Orcadian?”

“Aye, I ken. I ken,” Logan said as he picked his way around Garik and disappeared into the cave.”

Garik returned to the horses and waited for what he hoped would be more peaceable company.

When Logan and his five new companions at last stood before Garik, they continued to eye him with suspicion. “Before we introduce ourselves, I would know his name,” the fierce Highlander said, looking pointedly at Garik.

“He is Garik MacKinnon. His grandfather, Aidan MacKinnon, hails from Mull and was our chieftain’s closest friend in their youth. He left Mull many years ago, however, to make a home on the Orkney Islands,” Logan said.

“Why did this Aidan leave Mull in the first place? He was not dishonored?” Angus Og asked, glowering now at Garik.

“Nay,” Garik said. “’Twas the love of a woman. What else has the power to compel a man to leave his home?”

“Garik is no stranger to Mull,” Logan interjected. “He fostered here in his youth. Yesterday marked his return to our shores. He has come back to Mull so that he might join our cause.” Logan rested his hand on Garik’s shoulder as he met the Highlander’s gaze with a challenge. “He came to answer
your
call to arms, Angus Og.”

Garik had guessed correctly back in the cave. The man he had thought to be Angus Og stepped forward. He was not nearly as tall as Garik nor was he as broad, but his gaze held a confidence and an intelligence that inspired Garik.

“Ye look like a Viking,” Angus Og said. “Ye sound like one too, but ye keep good company. If ye fostered under Ronan, then I ken you must be a fine warrior.” Angus Og smiled slightly. “I am Angus Og MacDonald, Lord of Islay. I am joined by two members of my clan. This here is Lachlann,” Angus said, gesturing to a stout warrior with bright red hair to his left. “And Hamish.” He pointed to an older warrior with long, graying hair and a scar that ran from the top of his brow, through his eye, which appeared to be rendered useless, and down to the middle of his cheek.

Garik nodded at both men.

Then Logan stepped forward. “Ye’ve now been introduced to my guest, but what manner of men have ye brought?” Logan said, jerking his head toward the two lowlanders who stood silently behind the MacDonalds.

“’Tis my honor to introduce Lord James Douglas, one of our king’s lieutenants,” Angus Og said. The younger and less finely dressed of the two men stepped forward and dipped his head in greeting.

“I bid ye welcome,” Logan said.

“Indeed, you are most welcome,” Garik said with a bow. Now that he had a proper look at James, he was struck by the man’s youthful eyes. “Forgive my candor, Lord Douglas,” Garik began, “but you seem rather young to be a lieutenant.”

James smiled at Garik, but it was the wealthy man at his side who stepped forward with an answer. “He is one and twenty, no doubt only a year or two older than both of you, but let it be known that I trust no one so well as I do James. His instincts and mind for strategy have no equal. If you have come, young Garik MacKinnon, late of the Orkney Islands, to join my cause, know this—you will be taking your orders from him.”

“Your cause?” Garik said, his eyes wide. He whirled around and met Logan’s equally stunned gaze.

A slight smile played at Angus Og’s lips. “Ye’ve not let me finish the introductions.” He turned and swept his arm in a grand gesture toward the man who Logan and Garik now knew to be the king of Scotland. “Before you stands Robert the Bruce,” Angus Og said. Then he turned back to face Logan and Garik. “Men, ye owe him your allegiance.”

Garik and Logan both dropped to their knees, folding their hands as though in prayer, and vowed to be true and faithful to their king.

The Bruce accepted their homage and bid them rise once more.

“Has the time come?” Garik asked. “Is that why you are here? Do we go to battle?”

Garik looked to his king, but it was James who answered. “Aye. War is at hand, and we’ve something special planned for the Mull MacKinnon.”

Riding in the lead, Garik was the first to crest the steep hillside that led down into a valley on the outskirts of Gribun. Scanning the huts scattered about the plain, Garik raised his hand to signal danger. Horses grazed in a distant field while five warriors crawled on their bellies toward one of the huts with blades drawn.

“MacLeans,” Logan growled. He reached behind his back to free his blade, but the king stayed his hand.

“Hold, Logan. The MacLean’s son, Balfour, swore fealty to me at Scone two years ago. Make my presence known and I shall restore a peace.”

Garik had no interest in exposing the king’s presence on the isle to the blackguard MacLean, and by the looks on the rest of the men’s faces, they agreed.

“Nay, my liege. I dare not test the MacLean’s love for ye against his hatred for my clan. Our feud is old,” Logan said.

“I implore ye to heed Logan’s caution,” Angus Og said. “’Tis a band of five men. Wait here. We shall subdue them with ease and then continue on to Gribun.”

“Five men and one lass,” the Bruce said.

“What?” both Garik and Logan said in unison as they whirled around. A lass with wild, black hair came out from behind the long, thatched hut, charging toward the MacLeans on a fine, black palfrey. She reached behind her back and drew a sword that she brandished high and from her lips came forth a chilling battle cry.

“God’s blood, Nellore,” Logan cursed as he kicked his horse in the flanks.

“He appears to be familiar with the lass,” James said to the king with a grin.

“Did I not tell ye of the fierce Mull MacKinnons?” Angus Og chuckled. “Even their women are cutthroat.”

“That is no woman. She is naught but a wee lass,” Garik said. With his eye trained on the girl, he raced after Logan, sounding the battle cry of the MacKinnon. He could not believe one lass could be so spirited or so deadly. As soon as she was close enough, she leapt from her horse, pinning a man more than twice her size to the ground—not with her weight, for she was a wisp of a lass. It was the steel pressed against the vein in his neck that made him lie so still and her green eyes that flashed with blood lust.

“Move and I will cut ye open,” she taunted.

Garik’s eyes widened with astonishment.

“For the love of all things decent, Nellore. I did not teach ye that,” Logan said with a grimace. Then he turned to look down upon the MacLean warrior who lay disarmed at his feet. “We will spill no blood here today, but listen well, ye spineless coward. Any crime carried out by a MacLean on MacKinnon soil shall be returned ten-fold.”

The enemy tried to struggle to his feet, but Logan pressed him back into the dirt with his foot. “Ye can leave the same way ye came—on your bellies like snakes. Now, be gone from our land.”

The lass replaced her blade in the scabbard strapped to her back with what appeared to be a look of regret upon her face. She then joined Logan in watching the progress of the MacLeans as they scrambled toward their horses. It was not until the warriors were mounted and racing back to their own territory that Logan turned to address the child.

“I did not teach ye to wield that blade so that ye could put yourself in harm’s way,” Logan said, his silver eyes flashing. Garik was reminded of Logan’s grandmother, the lady of their clan, whose coloring Logan had inherited. On the few occasions Garik had crossed the Lady Bridget in his youth, her queer, silver eyes had gleamed like polished coins just as Logan’s did now. Equally as difficult to offend as his grandmother, it was not often that Garik saw Logan’s eyes flash, and although it was a chilling sight, apparently, Nellore thought differently. She appeared unaffected. The scowl that distorted Logan’s handsome features would have made many men step down, but the recipient of his anger was no man. Garik choked back laughter as she turned and flung a finger in Logan’s face.

“Ye taught me to defend myself and my own, which is what I just did,” she snapped.

“What ye just did was almost get yourself killed. Ye aimed to take on five grown men. Ye have skill, Nellore, but ye’re a child,” Logan said.

“And a lass,” Garik could not resist adding. Angry, green eyes flashed his way before they turned back to glare again at Logan. “I’ve twelve years to my credit. I’m no longer a child. Besides, I intended to ride for aid, but then I saw ye. So I turned my horse around and attacked.”

Logan raised a skeptical brow.

“I speak the truth,” she said. Several moments passed while she withstood the might of Logan’s scrutiny, but she gave him no further opportunity to scold her. Garik grinned with pleasure when, apparently having decided the matter should be dismissed, Nellore threw her arms around Logan’s neck.

“Where have ye been, Logan? I’ve not seen ye for days and days.”

Garik could not believe Nellore’s transformation from shield maiden to child. An endless string of questions gushed forth from her lips at a dizzying rate.

“We’ve been on a hunting party, and then yesterday Garik’s ship drew into port so I’ve not had a chance to visit ye. Do ye remember Garik at all?”

She turned to scrutinize Garik with wide, green eyes and a face smudged with dirt. She continued to stare at him but shook her head in reply.

“You may not remember me, lass, but I remember you. You used to follow us about, but not with a rag baby in your arms like the other girls,” Garik said, laughing. “No, not you. You would proudly tout a wooden sword in your tough grip. It would seem little has changed.”

Nellore continued to stare at him. He thought he might have angered her youthful heart with his earlier quip, but then at last she spoke. “I do not remember ever meeting ye, but I do like how ye speak. What are ye then?” Suddenly, her eyes danced with excitement. “Are ye a Viking?”