Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior (7 page)

“Bridget?” Garik asked.

Nellore chuckled. “She named her rag baby after our lady.”

Garik put his fingers to his lips, signaling for Nellore and Mary to keep quiet. Then he touched Maggie’s shoulder. She lifted her head and looked to where Garik had stood, but he had already ducked out of sight behind Nellore. A moment passed and then he peeked over Nellore’s shoulder. The wee lass erupted into giggles as Garik continued his game. After a few more rounds, Garik reached his arms out to her. She did not hesitate this time as she strained to leave Nellore’s embrace for Garik’s. Nellore could not blame her as she herself looked longingly at his strong arms.

Mary laughed alongside Nellore. “Thank ye, both of ye,” she said. “Ye’ve lifted my spirits. Laughter has been in low supply around our home these last weeks. But with that in mind, home is really where I ought to be heading. We’ve a ways to go yet.”

“Do you still live in the valley?” he asked.

“Aye,” she said. “But ‘tis not really so far.”

“I would argue differently for someone in your condition. Wait here. I will return at once.” Then he turned on his heel and headed toward the stables.

Mary raised a questioning brow at Nellore.

“I do not ken,” Nellore said.

“Ye don’t suppose he is off to the stables and will return with a horse I am meant to climb onto?” she said.

Nellore laughed as she stared after her Scottish Viking. “I’m not certain what he is up to, but I assure ye, he will do no such thing.”

“Nellore!” Mary exclaimed as a saucy glint filled her eyes. “I saw that.”

“Ye saw what?” she said as she busied herself dusting off Maggie’s tunic.

“I saw that smile.”

“What smile? I do not ken what ye’re talking about,” she said as she fought to suppress the very smile which Mary had accused her of flashing.

“Ah-ha!” Mary said, laughing. “Ye cannot hide that look from me. Ye fancy him. Don’t ye?”

At that moment, Garik came around the corner driving a wagon. “Here he comes. Enough of this talk,” Nellore said. The fluttering of her heart quickened the closer he drew.

“At long last, a man has stolen your heart.”

“Wheest,” Nellore said as she turned pleading eyes to her friend.

“I won’t say a word,” Mary said. “I won’t have to. Your eyes will do all the talking.”

“Wheest, Mary. I beg ye.” She took a few deep breaths, hoping to rid her face of the blush her friend’s words had brought to her cheeks.

Garik pulled beside them with the wagon. The sun glinted off his long, black hair. She admired how his black leather jerkin strained to cover the wide breadth of his shoulders.

“Shall I take you home in comfort?” he asked Mary.

The musical way he spoke struck Nellore to the core. God above, he was a gorgeous man.

He swept his hand out, ushering their gazes to behold the bed of the carriage. The rough-hewn wood lay hidden beneath a thick blanket.

Mary smiled as she greedily eyed the wagon bed. “’Tis good of ye. This is one kindness I am very happy to accept.”

As Mary strode past Nellore she whispered, “I saw ye drinking your fill when he pulled up just now.” Nellore blushed and urged her friend to be silent.

Garik hopped down and offered a hand to Mary. With a sigh, she settled herself on the blanket. Once situated, she reached out for Maggie and the two snuggled down together. Nellore smiled at her contented-looking friend, knowing it was likely the first time Mary had been off her feet all day. Five years her senior, Mary had wed her childhood sweetheart at the tender age of fifteen. Both she and Gordon were children of cottars and had grown up together in the valley. Now they had two children and another on the way and a home filled with warmth and happiness and plenty of noise—at least when they all enjoyed good health. Nellore worried over Gordon’s condition and dreaded to think of Mary’s heartbreak if he did not recover.

A shadow suddenly fell upon the resting mother and child, and she knew Garik stood behind her. With a deep breath, she turned. She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze, which thrilled her to no end.

“Ye’re very tall.” For pity’s sake, had she actually said that out loud?

A smile tugged at his lips. “So are you,” he said softly.

“I suppose ye should be getting Mary home,” she said.

He nodded. “Would you join me for the ride?”

A nervous knot lodged in her throat, making it impossible for her to accept his invitation, but just as she was working up the courage to tell him that she would love nothing more a voice called out her name. She turned to find her mother waving her over. “’Tis time to return home,” Brenna said.

She turned back to face him. “I have to go,” she said before stepping away, but he grabbed her arm and whirled her back to face. She waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. He only smiled while his gaze passed over her entirety with slow deliberation. His hand then loosened and slowly traveled the length of her arm all the way down until just their fingertips touched and then like a whisper his touch was gone, yet her heart still pounded with yearning.

With a mortar and pestle, Nellore mashed a heap of blaeberries that would be added to the batch of blue dye Brenna stirred over the pit fire. They labored in preparation for the sheep shearing that would commence in the morning. Nellore tried to keep her mind on the task at hand, but images of Garik crept into her thoughts, and suddenly her hands ceased mashing while fantasy took over.

“Nellore, lass,” Brenna said as she reached up to stroke her fingers down Nellore’s cheek. “What am I to do with ye? Ye were daydreaming. Tell me ye weren’t dreaming of heading off to battle again.”

“Nay, mum,” she said, flashing Brenna a smile. “Ye ken I’ve put that fancy to rest.”

Brenna wrapped her arms around her daughter. “Your valor does not go to waste. ‘Tis used each and every day that ye care for this family and your clan.”

She nodded, beaming down at her mother, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I love ye, mum,” she said.

“And I love ye. Oh my, but ye’re all smiles and daydreams today,” Brenna said, shaking her head. “Off with ye, lass. Go stretch your legs. We’ll need more blaeberries before long. Just bring your sword so I don’t worry after ye.”

Nellore set out with a basket on her arm and a skip in her step. The sun warmed her skin. Everywhere she turned the earth shone with the promise of vitality. She headed through the wood, which bordered the eastern orchards.

A broad expanse of apple trees surrounded her. The limbs shimmered with pink blossoms. As the wind blew, the air became thick with drifting petals. She spun around and around while she raised her face to the sky. The petals caressed her skin on their way to their earthly bed. Then she heard the snap of a branch behind her, and she whirled around but nothing seemed amiss. She held her breath as she listened. In a different direction than the first disturbance, she heard another branch snap. She whirled around again. This time she saw a shadow flit between two trees. She withdrew her blade from behind her back and eased toward the noise.

Suddenly, she was snatched from behind and thrust against a hard chest. Fear shot through her as lips brushed her ear and the heat of her captor’s warm breath caressed her neck. She shook her head, clearing away her surprise while her courage sprang to the fore. She threw her head back, producing a satisfying crunch as her skull connected with something much softer. A loud curse rang out and the grip on her arms loosened. She spun around and pushed the man to the ground, thrusting her blade beneath his neck.

“Garik,” she exclaimed. “Och, Garik! I’m so sorry. I did not realize it was ye.”

He held his forearm to his bleeding nose. She knelt to the ground and swept up the end of her tunic, gathering it into a bundle. “Allow me,” she said. He pulled his hand away, and the blood raced down his mouth and chin. “Oh, God, Garik, forgive me,” she said as she pressed the fabric to his nose.

He chuckled. “I should have known better than to sneak up on you,” he said. “Do not fret so. It is nothing.”

“Do not speak until the bleeding stops,” she said.

His sheer blue eyes locked with hers as she continued to hold her tunic to his nose. They were so close, he sitting and she on her knees. The hand that did not hold the compress cradled his head, her fingers laced through his black hair. She could smell him and feel the heat of his body. Her breathing quickened as his unwavering gaze held hers. She blushed under his scrutiny.

“I’m going to check whether the bleeding has lessened,” she said, pulling the fabric away. “It appears to have stopped.” She dabbed at his skin to clean away the stain of blood she had not been quick enough to catch. “I don’t think I broke it.”

One side of his lips lifted into a lazy sideways smile that told her he would not care if she had. “I am more concerned about your tunic,” he said, pointing to the stained, wadded fabric still in her hands. She looked down and saw that her knees and the bottom of her thighs were exposed to his gaze. She blushed again and quickly smoothed the fabric in place. His hand grazed her thigh, his touch as soft as a whisper, and yet it burned through the fabric to her skin and then throughout her whole body. “I would do it all again,” he said.

A smile came unbidden to her lips as she lost herself in his shining eyes. Strands of long, black hair had escaped from the leather thong he used to secure it back at the nape of his neck. Her eyes then roamed over his broad shoulders. He wore a soft brown leather jerkin and a plain linen shirt beneath it. His trousers were gray, and he wore no shoes on his feet. She turned her gaze back to his face and saw a look of amusement in his eyes. She had been caught staring. She stood up then and dusted off her tunic. He continued to stare up at her, and seemed in no hurry to pursue any other endeavor. She passed several thrilling moments under his watch. When at last he stood, she once more savored his height. He did not quite tower over her—no man did that—but he did almost make her feel small. Almost.

“Shall we walk then?” he asked.

She nodded, accepting his arm. “What are you collecting?” he said, motioning toward the basket swinging at her side.

“We begin the shearing on the morrow. My mum sent me to gather more blaeberries,” she said. Then she stopped and turned to face him. “I should be asking ye the same question. What brings ye this far east of Gribun?”

“I was heading into the wood to hunt,” he said, drawing closer.

Nerves coursed through her. “I shouldn’t linger overly long. My mother waits for the berries.”

“I will help you then,” he said. “But first, you owe me that ride.”

A weak protest rose to her lips, but she swallowed it back down, instead allowing him to pull her toward his horse. He ran his hand down his horse’s sleek nose.

“What is he named?” she asked.

“Ulf. In my language it means wolf. I named him so because of the white patch on his chest.”

“He is beautiful,” she said, running her hand across the horse’s black side. “He is not unlike ye with your black hair and white skin. Ye even have eyes like a wolf. I’ve never seen eyes like yours.”

She gasped as he came behind her and scooped her into his arms. She clung to his neck and laughed out loud. “Carry me about all day and ye’ll not need to train for a fortnight. Ye’ll be as strong as an ox.”

“This may come as a surprise, my dear, but despite your height and strength you feel like air in my arms.” He lifted her onto Ulf’s back and pulled himself behind her. “Your hair smells of lavender,” he said while he started to undo the bindings of her scabbard. “Do you mind? I had hoped to feel something softer than steel in my arms while we rode.”

“I do not mind,” she said as she gripped the horse’s mane to keep her arms from trembling. He secured her sword to his saddle, and then his arms came around her, pulling her flush against his chest.

Riding west, they galloped across the moors. He loved the feel of her body pressing against his. The curve of her waist demanded his touch, and her soft hair brushed his face, surrounding him with her scent while they raced across the moors. No other woman could feel as good as Nellore. Their bodies fit together as though destined to be joined. The sweet sound of her laughter filled his ears when he urged Ulf to gallop ever faster. Lost as he was in the pleasure of her body pressed against his, he had not observed the shift in scenery. He pulled tight on the reins when he glimpsed the hut of the Witch of Dervaig in the distance.

“What is it?” she asked. “Why have we stopped?” He saw her hand rise to feel for her sword, but her fingers grappled at air.

“I have your sword,” he reminded her. “I did not mean to bring us this far west,” he said.

She turned in her seat and looked up into his eyes. “Are you afraid?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I’m not afraid. I’ve never given the legend of the witch much due since I first heard the tales as a lad. In fact, my grandfather, Aidan MacKinnon, told me not to fear the witch, but when I pressed him further, he refused to speak more on the subject.”

“If ye’re not afraid, then why have we stopped?”

He smiled down at her. “When Angus Og first arrived five years ago, and we set out to fight for our king, your father told me something I will never forget.”