Page 55 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

“S omebody gi’ me a sword. A good one.” MacNabh growled the words, never taking his eyes from Deathan. “I shall, aye, teach this upstart a lesson. And when I am done wi’ him, ye will tak’ his bloody carcass and leave it on the border o’ my land.”

His men did not look so certain. But he was their chief, after all, and there were loyal hearts among them.

Ardroch stepped up. “Here, chief, use mine.”

MacNabh weighed the sword in his hand with unconscious canniness, never taking his gaze from Deathan. Aye, the man had been a warrior once—likely a good one, given what Tighe had inherited from him.

And still, it did not matter. The old knowledge, that which Deathan had determined lived deep in his bones, or perhaps in his soul, now simmered inside him, ready to flare.

He grimaced at MacNabh. “And when I kill ye? Wha’ then? Shall your son”—he jerked his head at Tighe, who stood by, eyes wide—“inherit your lands?”

MacNabh’s pale eyes flicked to Tighe also, and an odd look came to them. “Aye so, why not? But ye will no’ kill me yet.”

They would see about that.

Deathan raised his sword just in time to meet MacNabh’s blade, which came crashing in upon him.

The man had strength, aye, and he also had some skill, but if he swung his sword like a woodsman felling trees, he would soon tire himself.

Whereas the knowledge flooding up through Deathan felt patient and near bottomless.

He did not know what warrior dwelt within him, but it was a gifted, clever one.

He danced, stepping light on the strawy floor. MacNabh remained rooted where he stood, heavy as the rain outside the door. An elemental sort of battle it became, a meeting of opposites with death as the prize.

Deathan’s vision narrowed, as did his thoughts. Even Darlei was thrust to the back of his mind as, two-handed, he caught MacNabh’s tremendous blows. He saw only MacNabh’s face with its pale-blue eyes and the sweat starting to flow.

I must end it. I must take him now.

He got in a blow, a kiss of his blade at MacNabh’s right shoulder.

The chief reacted like a bull stung by a wasp, reared back, shook his head, and then ignored the wound.

But now he moved, turned, and swiveled. Even as the onlookers gasped, his feet tapped the stones in a desperate answer to Deathan’s dance.

Did he know he was beaten?

Another sting, this time to MacNabh’s left cheek, and the blood began to flow. The onlookers murmured. Would they respect the outcome of this battle when Deathan felled their chief?

One more blow, Deathan decided. Not a sting but a thrust. And not to MacNabh’s heart but his throat.

Deathan’s feet quickened. He raised his blade and began to whirl.

“Chief MacNabh! Chief MacNabh! ’Tis the Caledonian woman! She is dyin’.”

The guard who burst in through the stable door was very young and soaking wet. Face pale and eyes wide, he seemed to fail at grasping what took place in the center of the crowded stable.

At his words, the battle halted, and MacNabh bellowed, “Wha’?”

Nay , Deathan thought at the same instant. Nay, and nay.

The lad, out of breath, centered his attention on his chief.

His words came out in a garbled stream. “They pounded on the door and said she was ill—dyin’!

They are usually so quiet, chief, I didna know what to do.

The one said Mistress Roisin had knocked the other down and broke her head.

She did look all battered, so I carried her.

Carried her down to the hall. I went to find the old healer and sent him there, then I came straight to ye. ”

“Curse it all!” MacNabh, blood trickling down his face and from his shoulder, lowered his borrowed sword. “Where is the woman now?”

“Still in the hall, chief. I sent the healer thence—”

“Unguarded?”

“Wi’ Mistress Roisin and Mistress MacNabh.”

MacNabh gave a roar. Without awaiting further information, he brushed past the lad and ran out into the yard, sword still in hand.

Deathan followed him.

Nothing on earth could have held him back, though he could hear Ardroch giving orders behind him, and he sensed the young guard followed.

Then he was in the rain and could hear nothing at all save the drops crashing all around him. Had it ever rained so? No matter. Only one thing meant aught to him now. If something had happened to Darlei…

How would he go on? Face the rest of his life?

MacNabh rushed in through the house door, which stood open and unguarded. With his foot on the threshold, Deathan hesitated. This one step and what he found within could change everything. For on this turn of the wheel—in this life—he might have lost her.

Which meant he would have to search for her again, in the next.

He went in to find the hall full of smoke and in confusion.

Servants, a couple of girls and an old man, milled about. A blowsy woman whom MacNabh addressed as Roisin, who was bleeding profusely from the head, teetered on a bench. An old woman—little more than a bundle of bones and clothing—lay stretched out on the floor, moaning.

No sign of Darlei, living or dead.

MacNabh planted himself in the middle of the floor and roared, “Wha’ goes on here? Roisin? Mother?”

He looked to the old woman, who, with the help of an equally aged man who must be the aforementioned healer, sat up and began babbling at him. She had very few teeth and was difficult to understand, but MacNabh must have managed, for he listened and then barked at her, “Where is she now?”

Roisin got to her feet. Formidable and large breasted, she faced MacNabh with a burning gaze. “Gone!” She gestured to the open door. “The both o’ them.”

Both? Orle.

“Did ye no’ go after them?”

“How? They pushed yer mam down. And me. As soon as Angus had gone for the healer, they stopped wi’ playing at being ill and leaped up. Attacked us. Yer princess had the spit fro’ the fire. Look, she has burned me!”

Just like a wild woman , Deathan thought on a bound of the heart. Even as he’d fought for her, she’d been fighting for herself.

He turned his gaze to the door, to the crashing rain. Gone, but where?

“After them!” MacNabh yelled, ignoring Roisin’s complaints. “Someone fetch my horse.” He turned and glared at Deathan before letting his gaze slide past him. “Ardroch!” he called. “They canna get far on foot, no’ in this weather.”

Ardroch came running in, fresh from the stables with a number of the other men behind him.

“Fetch my horse!” MacNabh barked at him. “And quick.” He turned to Roisin. “Ye fool o’ a woman. How could ye let her go? She maun be here when the king arrives.”

No other thought than that possessed him, or so it seemed. Gone were all thoughts of combat with Deathan. Not waiting for the woman’s feeble protests, he ran outside again.

Deathan once more followed. And wondered—how could anyone get away in this weather? The world was gray, a cacophony of pounding rain, and as wet as the bottom of the sea. How could anyone follow the women in this? Equally impossible.

One of the guards went streaking away to the stables. To fetch MacNabh’s horse, presumably. But the outer gate stood open and unguarded.

Had she got away? Deathan’s heart rose and then plummeted sickeningly. If she had, where might she go? Not home, surely. It would be the first place MacNabh would look. And as Deathan well knew, MacNabh had a right to drag her back here again, alive or otherwise.

She might disappear into the wild. She no doubt knew and understood Scotland’s heart far better than he, who’d lived his life beside the sea. He might never see her again.

But he would never stop looking. And at least she would be free.

He jerked to life as a lad came round from the yard leading MacNabh’s horse, and two others with their own mounts. He cursed himself—he should have gone at once and fetched his pony. Now he would have to follow on foot.

It did not matter. He would follow.

MacNabh climbed a bit stiffly onto his mount and went out through the unguarded gate, his two men in attendance.

Deathan pelted off after, through the driving rain.