Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior (8 page)

“What is that?” she asked.

“He said that trouble finds everyone eventually. You never need go in search of it.”

She smiled. Her father had said those same words to her many times. She turned and stared at Bridget’s old hut. She had been inside on several occasions over the years. Refusing to let her ancestral home fall into disrepair, Bridget had secreted across the moors with Nellore at her side to clean and maintain the small hut. She loved its fanciful round door. She turned to look at Garik, suddenly filled with longing to tell him the truth: there was no witch, but the words remained trapped by her conscience. It was not her secret to tell.

“We have similar legends on the Orkney Islands,” he said while he turned his horse around.

“Do ye now. I would love to hear about your home,” she said.

“We have the most fearsome creatures of all, the Finmen. The stories always begin the same way. ‘Beware the Finman.’ They used to terrify me as a child,” he said, chuckling.

“What exactly is a Finman?” she asked.

“Finmen are magical creatures, not unlike men in appearance, although much stronger and taller with hollow eyes and sorrowful auras. They sail in phantom boats that require no oar or sail. They compel their vessels forward with their minds. And sorry is the fisherman who unknowingly drifts into Finmen waters.”

“What torment does the Finman make?” she asked.

“He wreaks havoc on human ships. Chances are he will send the fisherman barreling toward jagged rocks or into an approaching storm. Needless to say, the fisherman is unlikely to make shore again.”

“A chilling tale, indeed. Are there others?” she asked eagerly.

He laughed, enjoying her delight. “Is there more than one star in the sky?” he said. “Telling stories is what we do best on the Orkney Islands. The winters are much longer with scant daylight. After yule the sun does not rise until mid-morning and it sinks below the horizon well before the evening meal. That is when we come together and tell stories and play music.”

“It sounds grand,” she said.

“It is.” Then he added softly, “so are you.”

Nellore blushed and was quiet for several moments, and then she asked, “Is that how ye view the witch—as a legend like the Finmen?”

“Don’t you?” he replied.

“What do ye make of her hut?”

He smiled, “Ah, yes, the witch’s hut with the snake fang door. Well, mayhap the hut did once belong to a woman who some believed to be a witch, but for all we know her bones have long since been polished by the birds and sea air, lying at peace on her pallet where she died.”

A shudder coursed through her. He had just described Bridget’s fate had Ronan not witnessed her rare beauty in the woods on that fateful day long ago. Without Ronan and his love, Bridget would have spent the long years of her life alone.

“You trembled,” he said while pulling her closer. “You have not to fear, Nellore. I promise you, the Witch of Dervaig is only the stuff of legend.”

“Trust me when I say, Garik, that I do not fear the witch.”

They rode on and she listened transfixed while he continued telling tales of the Orkney Islands. He smiled often and spoke fondly of his family.

“Why did ye not go home? When the king gave ye leave, that is. Why come back to Mull?” she asked.

“I could not have told you when we first set out on our return only that I felt compelled.” Then he reached out and stroked her cheek. “Though now I understand.”

She turned away as pink once more colored her cheeks, but then she turned back to face him and held his gaze. He loved her display of both candor and innocence. He lost himself in the majesty of her green eyes.

“We should be heading back,” she said. “I still have berries to pick, and ye’ve nothing to show for your hunt.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said, smiling as he tightened his hold on her waist. “I’ve a confession to make, Nellore. I was not hunting. I followed you.”

“You followed
me
? But why?”

“I saw you crossing the moors, and I could not tear my eyes away, but you kept on walking, and because I still wished to see you, I followed.”

“Oh,” she said, looking away, but then she turned and looked him square in the eye. “I’m glad ye did.”

He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I will take you home.”

She rested against his chest as they rode toward Gribun. When they neared the outskirts of the village. She asked him to stop. “Leave me here,” she said.

“But your home is still some distance away.”

“Aye, but I would rather not return home with an empty basket.”

“Do you think your parents would object to the company?”

“Nay—not to the company but to my being alone with the company.”

“Then I need to pay a visit to your home. Do I not?”

The sun had never shown as bright as Nellore’s smile. “See that ye do,” she said, before hurrying away.

Nellore rose before first light just as she did every morning and met Hamish outside her croft to train. The old warrior had taught her many things over the years, honing not just her skill with a blade but also her instincts as a warrior. “Ye must be able to guess the enemy’s next move. Ye must know it even before he does,” Hamish had often said.

When the sun fully emerged from beneath the horizon, she bid Hamish farewell and turned to go back inside her hut, but her step faltered when she saw her father leaning against the doorframe, watching her. His eyes beamed with pride.

“Ye’ve truly grown into a remarkable woman,” he said.

“Ye don’t mind,” she said, lifting her sword.

“Nay, I don’t mind so long as ye don’t go looking for trouble like ye did as a lass.”

Sheathing her sword, she fell into his arms and breathed in his scent. An immediate sense of security surrounded her. “I’m so glad your home, Da.”

“Me too, my wee lass who is not so wee anymore,” he said with a grin. “Me too.”

Together they went inside. Brenna and Rose still slumbered.

“Shall we let them sleep?” Duncan asked. “Today will be a long day.”

“Let mum rest a while longer, but I promised Rose I would wake her early. She wanted to visit Mary and Gordon before we started with the sheep.”

She watched as her da’s eyes settled first on Rose and then on Brenna. His lips curved into a smile as he quietly returned to the pallet he shared with Brenna. “I will enjoy a lazy morning with my wife then,” he whispered. “Wake your sister and hurry on your way.” With a wink he nestled under the covers beside Brenna. Brenna stirred a little and sighed when his arms came around her. Nellore smiled at her parents. Their love for each other was as constant as the love they bore their children. She could only hope she would be as lucky in love as her parents. Her thoughts brought images of Garik to the fore of her mind. She closed her eyes and felt the grip of his arms around her waist as they galloped over the moors.

“On with ye, lass,” Duncan said, pulling her from her daydream. “I would have some time alone with my wife this morn.”

She smiled and rushed to Rose’s side. She shook Rose awake but pressed a finger to her lips to signal that she must remain quiet. Rose sat up and smiled when Duncan shooed them with a gesture toward the door. Splashing a little water on her face, Rose then turned and grabbed some twigs and mint to chew on their journey to the valley.

Nellore and Rose giggled quietly when they eased the door shut on their parents. Then they rushed to the stables and saddled their horses. The sun had just began its ascent when they set out for the valley to check on Gordon’s progress.

They skirted around Gribun to hasten their journey, knowing they had a long and arduous day ahead of them. The shearing was a favorite time for Nellore, but it was very hard work. If they traveled through the village, they would be stopped by friends who would want to exchange news, and they simply could not afford the time. Once beyond the boundaries of the village proper, they urged their mounts into a gallop and set out over the open moors.

Nellore’s horse sensed the danger before she did. He slowed to a trot and refused to comply with her commands to hasten forward.

“Those are strange clouds,” Rose said as she pointed to gray streaks mingling with the morning mist and the golden sky in the distance.

Nellore covered her eyes against the rising sun as she studied the unusual sky. Then the wind shifted and an acrid scent invaded her nostrils. “Those aren’t clouds. ‘Tis smoke.” She kicked her mount hard in the flanks, and at last the beast complied. As they hastened to the top of the nearest hill, she was given a view of the distant valley, which appeared to have been swallowed by fire.

“Quickly, Rose, bring your horse around.”

“Should we not carry on and help them,” Rose asked, her face pale with terror.

“Nay, we must sound the alarm.”

They raced back the way they had come, only this time they rode straight into the village, stirring dust and skirting livestock as they sped into the courtyard of Dun Ara Castle.

“The valley is aflame,” Nellore cried as she slid from her horse. “The alarm, Thomas,” she shouted to a lad who stared up at her with a dumbstruck expression. At her command he raced off toward the tower where the bell waited to be struck so that it might sing out to the crofters who were the most vulnerable to attack. The gates to the keep opened, releasing a torrent of warriors. She glimpsed Garik among their number. The stable teemed with chaos while several young lads raced about to carry out the stable master’s commands. When readied, warriors seized the horses, swinging themselves in place and galloping off toward the smoke, which could now be seen billowing against the brightening sky.

The singed smell reached her nostrils. “Rose, get ye home,” she called out to her sister who stood amid the confusion with a sickly look upon her face. Then Nellore mounted her horse and hastened back toward the fire.

The thunder of hooves tore up the earth as the mighty force of the MacKinnons fought to outrun the Highland wind that would feed the flames and spread the fire. The charred valley stretched out before her.

“Thanks be to Mary and all the angels,” Nellore cried when she saw Mary’s croft untouched by flame, but others were not as blessed. Several thatch and peat huts had crumbled, engulfed by fire. Towers of smoke stretched toward the sky. The families could do naught but watch their homes fade into ash.

“Maggie,” a voice screamed.

Nellore’s heart seized in her chest. “Mary?” she shouted. She slid from her horse and rushed about calling to her friend. Then she saw her. Horror gripped Mary’s face. “My Maggie,” she cried, her mouth wide as a sob rose to her lips.

“Mary,” Nellore called as she raced through a barley field that had been spared by the flames, but before she could make it to the other side, strong hands grabbed her, lifting her into the air and astride a familiar black horse.

“Garik,” she said. “Put me down. I must get to Mary.”

He kicked his horse and charged across the field to Mary’s side. With Nellore cradled in his arms, he slid from his mount. “Stay out of the fields,” he said. “If a spark lands on the plants and the wind picks up, it might be engulfed before you find a way out.”

She nodded, realizing her mistake. “I will be careful,” she promised and then turned away, rushing to Mary’s side. “Mary,” she cried.

“My Maggie,” Mary sobbed. “I cannot find her. I’ve searched everywhere. Oh, please, dear God above, where is she?”

Nellore grabbed Mary’s shoulders. Pain twisted her features. “Mary, look at me. Where did ye last see her?”

Mary shook her head, heart-wrenching sobs wracked her shoulders. “I do not ken. She was playing with the other children when the fires began.” She fell to her knees. “My Maggie,” she sobbed.

Nellore pulled Mary into her arms, “We’ll find her,” she swore. Then she rose. “I promise ye, Mary. Now, stay where ye are,” she said before she turned in search of Garik.

*

Garik reached down and lifted an old cottar to his feet. Wizened fingers clung to a pitch fork.

“The old codger used to it to fend off the enemy,” a cottar named William said as hurried over to help Garik.

The ancient man’s white hair was streaked with soot, and tears marred the black stains on his face. “There were too many,” he said, turning dazed eyes on Garik. “There was naught we could do.”

“You fought valiantly,” Garik said as he gently pried the pitchfork from the old man’s hands. He then heard his name being shouted. Recognizing Nellore’s voice, he scanned his surroundings, but he could not find her through the undulating smoke.

“See to this man,” he said to William. Then he stood and shouted, “Nellore.”

She raced into his arms. Her chest heaved, and her eyes stretched wide with panic. “Maggie,” she gritted, choking back tears.

“What about Maggie?” he said. Then his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. He grabbed her by the arms. “Is she hurt, Nellore? Speak to me,” he said.

She took a deep breath. “I do not ken,” she said. “She’s missing. Mary said she searched everywhere for her. She is out of her mind with grief.” Then she pressed her face into his chest. “So am I,” she whispered, but her weakness lasted only a moment. She drew away and squared her shoulders. Her vulnerability disappeared, replaced by fierce determination.