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They were outnumbered, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Gavyn’s mercenaries were highly skilled. The fact that they had returned from France after fighting the bluidy Normans was proof of that.
Harald was on his feet again. Someone had bound his hands, and the dog handler stood to one side, the mastiff ready to pounce should he try to make a break for it again. After what the cowardly bastard had done to two defenceless lasses, the dog was all he deserved. That said, Harald’s cousin the Jarl—to whom the resemblance was remarkable—was bound to object vociferously.
The sky had deepened to indigo, but the smoke from the fire hid the stars, and beneath the grey haze, the fire tinted everyone with shades of flickering red. The biggest difference in the two sides was in their dress—bright colours in the Scots’ kilted plaids compared to trowse in dull earthen shades and animal skin hides worn as jerkins. With such strong differences in their daily lives, Gavyn wondered if there would ever come a time when they could live side by side amicably. As Chieftain of the Comlyn clan and emissary for Malcolm Canmore, it was up to him to try.
His lieutenant held Brodwyn by the arm, and a nod in his direction was enough to make him accompany Gavyn to within a few paces of the Jarl. This much closer the similarity between Harald and the Norseman diminished.
The Jarl was a guid few years aulder, his stern face showed a strength lacking in the younger man’s visage. “I haven’t come here looking for a fight,” Gavyn said, “only to retrieve my wife and her maid and punish the blackguard who tried to burn them alive. Although, I’m not averse to giving a guid hiding to a Jarl who’s been casting his long shadow o’er my lands frae the north.”
The Jarl’s smile contained hints of a sneer, though he didn’t appear unwilling to discuss the matter. “And what would you have me do?”
“I want the right to fight Harald—a duel, man to man.” He glanced at Brodwyn. “This yin I’m not so sure about though I’m certain she’s as guilty as Harald. That said, she’s a woman and my wife’s cousin. The decision might not be mine.” With a wave of his hand Gavyn signaled his Lieutenant to move Brodwyn closer to the rest of his men.
Olaf glanced at Harald, the lift of an eyebrow telling. “I’m not sure if you’re aware that Harald is no’ a man who plays by the rules.”
Gavyn grimaced, his hand going instinctively to the scar on his side. “I’ve already discovered that about him; and if he wins, I should warn you that he recently murdered three men without rhyme or reason but for the pure delight he appears to take in the task.”
The Jarl’s expression hardened, and his lip curled as he studied Harald. “In that case, it’s to be hoped you win. You have my permission to duel, and no harm shall come to you should Harald die, which would appear to be fated. Since the birds of the gods fly by your shoulder, I would say Odin has already chosen.”
He stood by as Gavyn readied himself for the duel and said quietly, “Did ye ken that Kathryn is a cousin of mine as well? There was a time when Erik welcomed me to his hall. I have good memories of Dun Bhuird.” He paused then asked, “How is Geala?”
In accordance with what appeared to be Olaf’s wishes, Gavyn kept his voice low and murmured, “Dead, I’m afraid, only a few months ago. Her daughter Lhilidh is the lass abducted with my wife.”
Olaf’s face seemed to come alert. “A daughter you say, and called Lhilidh. How old is she?”
Gavyn gave him a quizzical stare as he wrapped the end of his plaid around his waist where it wouldn’t hinder him. “She is but fourteen, a bonnie lass but badly burned. My nephew Rob, the McArthur heir, is helping Kathryn and Nhaimeth to tend her, though seeing how she looked, I dinnae hold high hopes for the wee lass.”
He scowled, his lips drawn back in a snarl. “She could be mine. Lhilidh was my mother’s name,” he said, uncompromised by the news that he might have had a daughter and never known it. “If you dinnae kill him, I will.” He started to turn away then stopped. “I may as well tell you I have no interest in fighting you. The danger to us comes frae the Irish, and two nights ago they stole my wife, so let’s get on with the fight. I sail on the tide and, who knows, mayhap we can find a peaceful resolution between us some day.”
Gavyn drew his sword.
The lieutenant had a firm grip on Brodwyn’s arm, but she didn’t mind the pain. She had more to worry about than that now, including dying.
Her sharp hearing had caught most of what Farquhar and the Jarl were saying. Strange that the two disparate leaders could act so friendly, and more, could plan a truce o’er Harald’s proposed death, for that was the intended outcome. A fitting end some might say to her ambitious plans that Harald had managed to ruin. Harald was a madman.
Now the Jarl drew Harald’s sword and used its blade to cut the bindings on his younger cousin’s wrists with a quick slash of Harald’s favourite blade. For a moment she thought at first he would run Harald through on the spot, and breathed a sigh of relief when he slapped the hilt of the sword into Harald’s hand instead. Harald obviously thought so too, the harassed lines on his face smoothed as he tested the weight of his sword, the same weapon he had used to slice up Magnus. Her stomach turned over at the memory.
He deserved to die. She realised that—didn’t care. What did worry her, made her insides quiver, was knowing that when Harald died she would be alone. Even as these thoughts scuttled through her mind, Olaf said something to him, something that made his skin turn ashen, then Olaf stepped back and left the two opponents facing each other.
Without any attempt at the courtesy of duels, Harald leapt straight at Farquhar but the chieftain was ready for him and fended off Harald’s slashing blow quick as a wink. Her cousin had always been fit, an excellent swordsman but, as in all else, he was indolent, liked to take the easy way, whereas Farquhar’s muscles were hard, won on the battlefield, not the practice ring in the bailey.
Aye, as the fight went on it was easy to see they were pretty evenly skilled, but Farquhar had the edge, she decided. It was then she became distracted, and she wasn’t the only one, as Rob walked up to the ring of men, both Norse and Scots, carrying Lhilidh in his arms. It was obviously frae the way she lay, so still, so silent, that the lass was dead. It wasn’t until he turned to Jamie that she saw the raw red flesh that the flames had left in their wake.
Rob’s expression was set, numb, as he spoke, holding out Lhilidh to Jamie who stepped back shaking his head, a look of distaste on his face. She had a sudden revelation that he, much like Harald, wasn’t the man she had believed him to be.
Nor was Olaf, he stood in front of Jamie and held out his arms to take Lhilidh. The expression on Olaf’s face as he stared down at the wee lass, bent and kissed her forehead, made Brodwyn want to weep, a show of emotion few had seen in her.
She glanced away, unable to bear the pain, unable to decide whether she wanted to weep for Lhilidh or herself.
Both fighters were sweating. The perspiration ran off their faces, leaving their chests awash with the firelight’s gleam. She bit her lip, certain Gavyn Farqhar would win through, Then, between one move and the next, Harald spun to the side and kicked out, slamming the toe of his boot into the back of Farquhar’s calf. The blow made his knee buckle; it hit the dirt, and Farquhar’s hands reached out to take the brunt of the fall. She saw a smile of delight spread across Harald’s face. She had seen that look before when he cut up Magnus. Brodwyn saw him draw back his elbow ready to thrust, ready to kill.
She missed the sight of Rob picking up Farquhar’s sword from the ground, but was wide awake to the thrust of it, and to the hole the sword made in Harald’s chest as it slipped between his ribs and into his heart.
To say Harald looked surprised would be an understatement.
Rob, on the other hand, made his reasoning quite clear, stating as Harald hit the ground with a thump, the way a fallen tree might, “That was for Lhilidh. I loved her and she didn’t deserve to die that way.”
It sounded ridiculous, but Brodwyn actually felt jealous. Of all the men she had had, she didn’t ken any who would kill for her. What Harald had done, murdering yon three men, he had done for himself. She might have put the notion in his head that the two of them could take o’er Dun Bhuird—Chieftain and Lady. Fool that she was, it had taken her too long to understand that Harald had taken matters under his own thumb, and left her out of his plans.
Yet that wasn’t why Harald’s death didn’t touch her. Being with Jamie had shown her how love could be, how it felt to be cherished.
Farquhar was on his feet a hand on Rob’s shoulder, the sword now hanging limply from the lad’s hand. “I’ll take that, Rob,” he said. “I owe you my thanks, lad. You saved my life.”
Brodwyn noticed neither of them afforded Harald as much as a glance, not even when two of the Jarl’s men picked him up between them and carried him off while the Jarl himself went o’er to speak with the Farquhar men. After what had happened this night, she could no longer think of Rob as a lad.
His arms full of Lhilidh, Olaf said, “She reminds me of Geala. Her mother was a beauty when she was young. Erik thought so as well. Her first son was the Bear’s.”
“And his second was Nhaimeth,” said Rob.
Brodwyn’s eyes went wide.
“Now that was something I didnae ken, but I’d like to claim this one as mine,” Olaf said in a voice that brooked no argument. “And I’d like to bury Lhilidh here before we sail. I might not have done anything for her while she lived, but in death she will have all the honours due a Jarl’s daughter.”
He pointed at the little silver hammer glued to her skin by the flames. “This was Geala’s, I gave it to her before I left Dun Bhuird.”
Farquhar nodded. “Though I’m sure Rob would like her laid to rest at Dun Bhuird, it will take us two days to return home. Better that she rest here without suffering all the handling the journey will take.”
“And what of this woman?” the Jarl enquired.
Brodwyn suddenly became aware he was staring in her direction, and her heart sank, knowing she could expect little mercy.
Before Gavyn could answer, Kathryn and Nhaimeth arrived at his side.
Nhaimeth, who could have ruined any claim Harald had of becoming Chieftain of the Comlyn clan. Brodwyn wondered what his story was and how it had been kept secret all these years.
Taking Kathryn into his arms, Farquhar held her close and, unhooking the end of his plaid that he had tucked under his belt, he wiped the smudges of smoke frae her face. “Ye might not agree with what I’m going to say, my love, but it has to be done. Olaf, take her to Ireland with you, mayhap you can exchange her for your wife or sell her as a slave—as long as she is out of Scotland. I believe many men would be grateful for her skills.” He looked directly at Jamie, who could not but blush.
Seeing that, Brodwyn felt certain he would be no help to her. It didn’t avert the need to hold out her hand and call his name. “Jamie…”
He turned his back on her and walked away.
The Jarl’s smile showed no mercy. “Take her aboard my ship,” he told the men standing behind the lieutenant. “We’ll sail as soon as I have buried my daughter.”
His orders were confirmation that she would never win with that man, cousin or no’. She straightened her shoulders and walked between two Norsemen towards the shore. What Farquhar had said about her skills was true, and when she reached Ireland, she would use them to her advantage.
Brodwyn walked off with a backward glance, well aware there was no longer anything waiting for her in the place she would always call home.
The ravens left them as soon as they crossed the boundary into Comlyn territory amongst the Cairngorms. It was as if they were saying ‘yer safe now, we can leave.’
Kathryn certainly felt safer. That, however, was Gavyn’s doing.
To begin with, she had felt confused, dazed, and blamed it on the smoke in her lungs that continued to make her feel breathless. She worried that it might have hurt the bairn, however the wee thing’s movements were unceasing, as if it danced a fling happily around her womb, as if it had suspected how close to death they had been and had made a decision to celebrate their survival.
Gavyn had refused to be separated from her, and she rode in front of him, his arms around her and his hands on the reins, taking it easily, refusing to rush, as well as using the time to talk. “Do you really believe that Lhilidh was his daughter?”
“He believed it. That’s what is important. It might be true. She wore a little carved pendant in the shape of a hammer—a sign of the auld gods. Olaf said he had given it to her mother. Seems, he and Geala were lovers during the appropriate period—enough to convince him.”
She snuggled her head under Gavyn’s chin. He hadn’t shaved for a while, yet it suited him. He’d always appeared manly but now, just to look at him made her hot and want to squirm in her place on the horse’s shoulder, especially when his hand and fingertips swept across her belly, feeling the bairn kick. Occasionally his hand would slip between her kirtle and shift, to dip lower, to tease her until she wished they were home. The truth was, she would be able to find nae release for the now, since they were surrounded by Gavyn’s mercenaries.
And then there were young Rob and Nhaimeth.
Rob McArthur had shocked her. Och aye, the truth was, he was big for his fourteen years, but the incident had changed him. He wore a sombre air now, and not just frae losing Lhilidh, losing the lassie he loved—which had come as a surprise to Kathryn.
She hadn’t been part of the circle when Harald died, hadn’t seen the act that had killed him, but Rob had. He had picked up his uncle’s sword and run Harald through without a second thought—until now that is.
The lad would get over it, Gavyn said. They always did, but the first killing made the most impression, took the most from you. Better that it was over and done with before he faced another man in battle with a sword or axe in his hand.
Late in the afternoon on the second day Dun Bhuird came into view.
Gavyn drew his mount to a halt as they circled the foot of the mountain and looked up at the Great Hall. She had never seen anything more beautiful in all her days. Some might think the hall was dull, grey and ugly, but not her, not Kathryn Comlyn.
Circling her waist with his arms, he drew her back against his chest and nuzzled the back of her neck. Even through their clothing she could feel the thud of both their heartbeats. “Home,” he murmured against her skin. “You know what that means?”
“Aye, I do.” She couldn’t stop herself smiling, and her answer came out tangled in a light-hearted giggle. “Bed,” she told him.
“That’s right,” he said taking a light nip of her ear. “And not afore bluidy time.”