Authors: Connie Mason
Highland Warrior (2 page)
“I doona want to kill you, but I will it you refuse to leave the battlefield.”
“You can try,” the woman taunted. “I trained with my brothers—you willna find me easy to slay.”
Though Ross had to admit the flame-haired lass was adept with a sword, she was no match for a warrior renowned for his fighting skills. Ross continued to dodge and parry his opponent’s efforts without inflicting too much harm, though he was growing weary of this child’s play.
The day was waning. Wisps of mist peeled away daylight as the sun dropped behind the Cuillin Hills. It was no longer possible to distinguish the MacKenna red-and-black tartan from the MacKay green and blue. From the comer of his eye, Ross surveyed the battlefield. Men from both clans lay on the ground, while others helped their wounded comrades off to the sidelines.
Ross spotted the MacKay laird bending over a body that lay unmoving in the blood-soaked dirt. He heard the laird’s anguished cry and saw him beat his chest. Obviously someone dear to the man had fallen.
Ross could scarcely see his opponent now for the dark mist that swirled around him. He cursed as the lass continued to hack away at him. Though she deliberately aimed for vital parts, her efforts were hindered by Ross’s skill and the lengthening shadows.
Suddenly the MacKay laird appeared at the lass’s side, his face contorted by grief. Grasping the lass’s arm, he pulled her away from Ross’s deadly sword.
“Gillian, what are you doing here?”
“Fighting,” Gillian replied. “Let me go. I have the MacKenna laird where I want him. Let me finish him off.”
Ross nearly laughed aloud. It would be a cold day in hell when a lass got the better of Ross MacKenna.
Tearlach MacKay glared at Ross. “1’m taking my dead home. Let the battle be over for now.” So saying, he dragged the flame-haired warrior woman away.
“We’ll meet again, MacKenna; count on it,” the woman shouted.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Ross returned.
Ross turned away, the woman instantly forgotten as he looked over the battlefield. Too many dead and wounded, he thought, shaking his head. The feud was killing men in their prime from both Clan MacKenna and Clan MacKay But no matter how hard he tried to envision it, Ross saw no peace as long as Clan MacKay continued to demand the return of Ravenscraig and the fertile lands surrounding the tower.
“You’d best come, lad,” Gordo said. “Your cousin Gunn is among the fallen.”
Ross snapped his head around. “Gunn? He is but a lad, scarcely old enough to wield a sword.”
“Aye, but wield one he did, and he is likely to die for his bravery.”
“Take me to him,” Ross ordered.
His body limp, his face pale, Gunn lay on the cold ground, his life’s blood quickly draining from him. The boy, still a gangly youth despite his muscular body, opened his eyes.
“Och, lad, why didna you remain at Ravenscraig, as I asked you?” Ross choked out.
Somehow Gunn found the energy to shake his head. “I couldna remain with the women, Ross. Not as long as I am able to wield a sword. You taught me yourself.”
Ross leaned close. Gunn’s words were so softly spoken, Ross could barely hear him. “Hang on, lad. Old Gizela will fix you up as good as new.”
A light rain began to fall, dampening spirits as well as clothing. Ross whipped off his distinctive red-and-black plaid and placed it over his cousin. He felt neither the cold nor the sting of rain; what he felt was a bone-deep sorrow. And anger.
“How bad is it, Gordo?” Ross asked.
Gordo knelt in the blood-drenched dirt and lightly touched Gunn’s rapidly cooling flesh. “He’s gone, Ross.”
“Naaay!” Ross shouted up to the heavens. “ ’Tis not fair. Did you see which MacKay struck the killing blow, Gordo?”
“Nay, lad, it could have been any one of them.”
“Even the woman,” Ross said beneath his breath as he scooped Gunn into his arms and carried him back to Ravenscraig Tower.
Braemoor CastleGillian paced her chamber, waiting for her father to determine her punishment. She didn’t regret joining her father and brothers in their ongoing battle with Clan MacKenna. She had been training with her brothers for years and felt competent enough to fight the enemy. She was of an age to make her own decisions, and joining the battle had been her choice. She had been willing to suffer the consequences; why was her father so angry?
The sheer exhilaration of actually wielding a sword in battle against the hated MacKenna laird had left Gillian too excited to rest. She replayed in her mind the exact moment she’d realized she had engaged Ross MacKenna in battle and was holding her own against him. If Da hadn’t dragged her away, she might have driven her sword straight into her enemy’s heart. What a grand day that would have been!
It was rumored that Ross MacKenna was nearly invincible on the battlefield. Bards sang his praises throughout the Highlands. From what she had seen, the man was certainly bonny enough. “Twas said his clan was descended from the Norse Vikings who’d settled Caithness centuries ago, and Ross MacKenna lacked none of the renowned Viking fierceness.
Though the MacKenna’s sky-blue eyes had glittered at her with malice, she could see why women spun tales about his prowess in bed. Admittedly, his muscular body might hold appeal for some women, but not for her. She preferred the more refined Angus Sinclair to a rough and violent man like the MacKenna. Gillian was as good as promised to the Sinclair laird, and was eager for the betrothal to be finalized.
Footsteps sounded outside her door. Gillian braced herself as her father burst into the chamber. Tearlach MacKay, a large, barrel-chested man in his middle years, wore an expression that sent Gillian’s heart plummeting to her toes. Rage softened by sadness shimmered within the depths of his dark eyes.
“Name my punishment,” Gillian challenged. “Just don’t expect me to regret what I did. I can fight as well as Tavis. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to raise a sword in the clan’s defense?”
The MacKay’s fists clenched at his sides. “Tavis is dead. He died on the battlefield.”
Gillian’s knees buckled; she stumbled to a bench and sat down heavily. Tavis was Gillian’s younger brother by one year and dearly loved by her. “Nay, it canna be.”
“ ’Tis true, lass. His body is being prepared as we speak. Tavis is my second son to die by a MacKenna’s sword; do you think I want to lose my only daughter in the same way?”
Gillian searched her father’s face, frightened by what she saw there. Weariness etched deep lines around his eyes, and his hair seemed to have grown gray overnight. Damn the MacKenna for tearing apart her family. First Loren and now Tavis. When would it all end?
“I canna lose another bairn,” MacKay lamented. “And you,” he said, pointing a thick finger at her, “deliberately placed yourself in danger. A battleground is no place for a lass. You were mad to challenge the MacKenna. The man is heartless; he could have sliced you in two with little effort.”
“But he didna, Da. I was holding my own against him.”
MacKay shook his head. “Foolish as well as mad. He was toying with you, daughter. Never doubt that the MacKenna could have slit you from gullet to groin with one stroke.”
He began to pace. “This killing has to stop. Deaths on both sides are destroying the clans.”
“Nay, Da, we are in the right. Ravenscraig Tower belongs to us. Have you forgotten that one of MacKenna’s ancestors kidnapped a MacKay lass on her wedding day? The poor woman jumped from the tower rather than submit to a MacKenna.”
“I have forgotten naught, daughter, but the sad fact is that, one by one, the feud is taking my sons. First Loren and now Tavis.” He peered intently into Gillian’s eyes. Gillian could tell he had something in mind for her, and braced herself. “I should punish you, but my heart isna in it.”
Gillian stared at her father, stunned beyond speech. He had ever been heavy-handed when it came to punishment. She had felt the sting of a switch often enough, along with her five brothers. It wasn’t like her father to let her off so easily, unless grief had gotten the best of him. Tavis had been the youngest and favorite of his five sons.
Gillian began to weep silent tears, sadly aware that she was never going to see Tavis’s mischievous smile again, or suffer his good-natured taunts. How could she bear it?
MacKay began to pace once more. Gillian could tell he was grieving, and hadn’t the heart to interrupt him. If the MacKenna were here now she would tear him limb from limb. She hated the man. He might not have been the one to end Tavis’s life, but she still held him responsible.
Gillian dried her eyes, leaped to her feet, and shouted, “We should attack the MacKenna, Da. We should storm Ravenscraig now, when he least expects it. Where is my sword?”
“Sit down!” MacKay roared, turning on her. “Bloodthirsty little wench.” His pride in his only daughter was tempered by his anger at her. “I’ve come to a decision. I’m going to attempt to end the feud between our clans, if the MacKenna is agreeable.”
“Nay! You canna do it, Da! The feud must continue until we regain control of Ravenscraig.”
“Is that what you think Tavis and Loren would say if we could ask their opinion? I can answer that, daughter. They would want to live.”
“I’ve never heard you talk like this before, Da.”
“Losing two braw lads and watching my only daughter challenge a Viking berserker have taken their toll on me. I’m going to seek out the MacKenna and make my wishes known to him. Together we may find a peaceful end to the feud between our clans.”
“Ross MacKenna is a bloodthirsty cur. He willna agree. What do Murdoc, Ramsey and Nab say? I doona believe they will agree with you. We’ve been fighting Clan MacKenna too long to forgive and forget.”
“I am still the laird, and your brothers will do as I say. Ramsey wants to go to court and canna leave as long as the fighting continues. Nab wants to go with him. Murdoc, my heir, is courting Mary MacDonald, and hopes to marry soon and raise a family. I doona want his sons to die because of a senseless feud.”
“What about me? Does anyone care what I think?”
“You’re only a lassie; your opinion doesna count. Besides, you’re going to play a major role in my dealings with the MacKenna.”
Gillian brightened. “I am? Am I to help my brothers attack and kill the MacKenna laird?”
MacKay made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Your sainted mother would turn in her grave to hear you talk like that. You didna get your warlike tendencies from her, God rest her soul.”
“How am I to help, then?”
“ ’Tis best you doona know until I’ve spoken with the MacKenna. But first, I need time to bury and mourn my son.”
Ravenscraig TowerA brimming tankard of ale in his hand, Ross sat brooding before the giant hearth in the great hall. A fortnight had passed since Gunn’s death, and he still missed the lad. Missed his good-natured teasing, his laughter, his way with the lasses. But as much as he missed Gunn, he knew the lad’s parents missed him more, just as he missed his brother, who had died fighting the MacKays a year ago.
“Laird Ross, beware.”
Ross looked up at the old crone who shuffled into the hall. Though Ross thought the woman mad for claiming to see the future, he considered Gizela a miracle worker when it came to healing the sick and wounded. Still, he didn’t want to deal with the woman today. He was still mourning the loss of his kinsman.
“What is it now, Gizela?” he asked crossly. “I’ve no heart for foolishness today.”
“Call it foolishness if you wish, laird, but you had best listen to what I have to say.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me you had another of your visions,” Ross growled, more annoyed than he should be. Gizela was always having visions, most of which he ignored. Some called the hag a witch, but Ross didn’t believe in witchcraft.
“Aye, and you had best heed me this time.”
Ross sighed. “Verra well. You’re going to tell me whether I listen or not, so go ahead. What dire event have you foreseen this time?”
“The news is not necessarily dire, laird. Make of it what you will.”
Ross’s patience was ebbing. “Are you going to tell me or must I guess?”
Gizela gazed past Ross toward the window, her eyes murky and unfocused. “The day approaches.”
“What day? You’re talking nonsense, Gizela. If you werena my kinswoman and a talented healer, I wouldna be so patient with you.”
Gizela began to sway, as if in a trance. “The day approaches,” she repeated. “I see the end of war. I see our clan at peace.” She turned her unseeing gaze on Ross. “But for you, laird, there will be obstacles to overcome. A flame will enter our lives. You will be consumed by it if you are not vigilant. Or you can absorb it into your soul, become a part of it, welcome it. If you doona, your heart will know no peace.”
“Begone, woman! Flame, indeed. As usual, you spout nonsense.”
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