Must Love Kilts (30 page)

“My cloak has a hood.” She was already reaching for it.

Magnus stopped her with a quick grip to her wrist.

“The thicket, lass. Go back there now, stay with the villagers waiting there, and dinnae show yourself again until I come for you.”

“But—”

“I’ll no’ have you distracting my men.” Magnus’s head was beginning to pound.

Several of his warriors were already edging near, bending their ears. Their appearance proved his words.

What red-blooded man wouldn’t have his head turned when she paraded past? High color slashed her cheeks, her eyes flashed blue sparks, and the wind tossed her shining, sun-bright hair about her beautiful face. Most damning of all, her lips were fetchingly kiss-swollen.

Magnus eyed those lips, remembering how heatedly they’d kissed through the night.

Would that he was plundering her mouth now.

Instead, it annoyed him to see that Orla’s woolen cloak fell in a much more appealing manner than Orosius’s heavy bearskin mantle. Margo’s new clothes drew attention to the full curve of her breasts and the ripeness of her hips. Charms made all the more evident because the wind molded the cloak’s folds to her feminine shapeliness.

His men couldn’t help but stare at her.

Even so, he glared at them.

“Just be careful.” Her mouth set in a disapproving line. “I remember what I saw at Gair—”

“You’ll be seeing none the like here”—he took her arm, urging her away from the cliff edge and back toward the thicket—“if you stay behind thon bushes.” When she stood in place, her blue eyes starting to spark again, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her hard. It was a rough, bruising, no-quarter-given kiss that he hoped would keep her too stunned to argue with him.

“Now go.” He set her from him, sharply aware of his men’s stares.

“There’s been enough of this vengeance stuff,” she said—or so Magnus thought—before she turned and strode away, her back straight and her shoulders rigid.

Magnus scowled after her.

He waited until she disappeared around the thicket, and then he went back to the cliff edge. His men still lingered a good distance behind him. He stepped closer to the edge than before. He was too steady on his feet to slip. And his anger appreciated the challenge.

He also didn’t worry about being seen, for the deep shadows of a large, broken-stoned outcrop hid him well. And even if it didn’t, he and his men had prepared the strand below with care. No Norse raider intent on easy plunder would waste glances on the soaring bluffs that hemmed the little cove where such ripe pickings beckoned.

It was a fail-proof plan.

Peering down at the beach now, he flexed his fingers, and then rolled his shoulders, waiting.

Cook smoke curled lazily from the clustered hovels of the fishing village, and drying nets hung from stunted, wind-bent trees at the far end of the curving strand. Magnus said a silent prayer of thanks that the Redpoint fishers’ huts were bunched at the south edge of the cove. Their boats lined the sand directly beneath Magnus and his men. That was a shame, but boats could be replaced and he’d do so gladly. No one stirred at this early-morning hour, but somewhere a dog barked, the sound making him smile.

The bark meant that Calum and Frodi were in place on the strand, out of sight behind the thatched cottages, but doing their job. Which was to keep the six fat cattle—some of Magnus’s best—from getting bored and wandering away from the cove and up onto the more tempting grazing grounds beyond the dunes.

The beasts wouldn’t be seen there.

And Magnus wanted them noticed.

Just as he hoped that the pile of sand-filled barrels near the cottages would be mistaken for a generous supply of plump, brine-soaked herring.

Viking warriors had ravenous appetites and the need for food was as great as their constant hunger for gold, women, and easy-to-capture slaves. Knowing how they treated the poor souls who fell into their hands made his gut clench and—for what seemed like the thousandth time since climbing onto the ridge—he narrowed his eyes to scan the horizon.

He was eager for a good bloodletting.

But the waves still stretched bleak and dark, a rolling sheet of beaten gray.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and a mist dampened the air, but he welcomed the day’s wetness. Later, after the killing, a good rain would wash the Norsemen’s blood from the cove’s dark red sand.

“The sea is quiet.” Ewan lifted his head from where he lay in the grass. “Nothing’s moving except the tide and”—he tore his gaze from the water long enough to glance at Magnus—“maybe those thick clouds gathering in the west.”

“They’ll come.” Magnus slapped his sword hilt; there was no doubt in his mind.

He could smell the Vikings’ taint in the air as surely as he could still taste Margo’s rich, womanly sweetness on the back of his tongue.

His sword, Vengeance, also knew the Northmen were coming.

Magnus could almost feel the blade’s readiness to sup blood. There was no denying the sword’s thin-as-air quiver when she smelled battle.

It was a joy to feed her.

But just now, he had others needing nourishment.

Food to fill bellies and ale to take the edge off the terror of souls who lived from catching herring and eels and not by how fiercely they could wield steel.

He also hoped that the need to calm and soothe frightened villagers would keep Margo occupied, her mind off the horrors that would unfold on the still-peaceful stretch of lovely red sand.

Turning his face into the wind, he cast another glance at the empty sea, and then looked again at Ewan. “Do the villagers have enough to eat?”

“More than we had this morn.” Ewan grinned.

“They’re all back there.” He nodded to the thick line of broom and whin bushes. “They’re feasting on bread, herring, cheese, and enough ale to have them sleeping through till the morrow. Your lady, too, if she knows what’s good for her.”

A muscle jerked in Magnus’s jaw, but he didn’t correct Ewan for calling Margo his lady.

Leastways, he wished a true union with her would be possible. It was one reason he’d been so disappointed when his crew had failed to turn up the Cursing Stone after searching the strand in Gairloch.

He didn’t just want to toss the enchanted stone into the sea to keep such powers from landing in the hands of dangerous, evil men.

He also feared the stone’s existence might always present a threat to Margo.

Something might snatch her from his arms as swiftly as the stone’s magic had helped her appear.

He frowned, liking none of it.

For now, he nodded at Ewan. “The villagers are still guarded?”

“Och, aye.” Ewan sounded amused. “My grandfather told the guards he’d cut off their balls in their sleep if they left their posts.”

“Calum would.” Magnus stifled a laugh. Sound carried on water. “And”—the humor left his voice—“if a single villager is harmed, I’ll slice off the rest o’ the guardsmen’s bits and make each man eat his own danglers.

“If aught befalls Margo, they’ll lose more than their danglers.” Magnus set his hand on Vengeance’s hilt.

“I’ll have their heads.”

“They know that, lord.”

“Then pray they stay with Margo and the fisherfolk when it comes to a fight.” Magnus shot another glance at the thicket. The glint of spear heads and mail could just be seen through the broom’s yellow blooms if one knew where to look. “I’ll no’ be having them rushing down to the strand if the battle joy takes them.”

“They won’t, lord.” Ewan’s gaze was on the sea again, watching.

A curlew called then, the haunting cry coming from farther along the cliff.

Magnus’s pulse quickened. “Vikings have been spotted.”

He shot a look at Ewan. The lad’s hand already hovered near his sword hilt, his fingers twitching. A broad smile was spreading across the younger man’s red-bearded face. Magnus nodded, pleased. Then he glanced at the other warriors, each man behind a rock or hidden by grass. Every one bristled with arms, ready to kill.

The sea still stretched empty.

But the prickling at Magnus’s nape told him they were no longer alone.

And they weren’t.

Suddenly Magnus could see the enemy. Dark shapes beneath the blackening sky, three dragon ships slid out of the mist, their long oars rising and falling, sending up plumes of bright silver spray. Each ship boasted fearsome beast heads on stern and stem, and the oarsmen beat faster on every smooth, sweeping stroke. The ships rode the flooding tide, coming fast, and were filled with howling, fierce-faced warriors, their helmets and mail glinting in the dim morning light, their swords and battle-axes already drawn.

“Hold, men.” Magnus spoke only loud enough for his warriors to hear. He threw a glance over his shoulder at the thicket, relief sluicing him when he didn’t see Margo peeking out through the underbrush.

Turning back to his men, he jerked a nod. “We wait until the ships run ashore and Frodi chases the cattle from the strand.”

Releasing his grip on Vengeance’s hilt, he flattened his hands against the large, deliberately loosened boulders before him. He splayed his fingers and took a deep breath, willing victory.

From below came the loud hiss of sheared water, the splashing of oar blades, and the wild shouts of the Norse marauders.

Fury, hot and seething, scalded Magnus’s blood.

But he stayed where he was, unmoving. He kept still as stone, out of sight behind the sheltering outcrop. It was a reprieve of heartbeats, for very soon hell would open and the quiet little strand would become a killing place.

He peered around the outcrop and down to the cove, and for one terrible moment, he imagined Liana running across a similar beach, her innocent eyes wide with terror as she tried to flee the wild-eyed, huge-bearded men chasing her. To his horror, he couldn’t recall her face clearly.

He saw Margo instead. His mind’s eye conjured her lithe, naked, and terrified, as she raced along the surf, chased by Viking hordes and—his gut twisted—Donata, who rode the wind on a birch switch.

Magnus shuddered, banishing the image.

Then nothing else mattered because in that instant the first of the three dragon ships roared onto the shore, its keel crunching into the strand in a wild spray of foam and flying pebbles. The other two boats came as quickly, grinding to the same screeching halt even as mailed, screaming Norsemen leapt down from the prows, swords, axes, and spears in their hands.

Magnus felt a surge of elation.

This was the moment he’d been awaiting.

He flashed a look at Ewan, jerked a swift nod.

The younger man grinned. Then he set a hand to his lips and made the sharp drumming notes of a great spotted woodpecker. The sound rippled the air, echoing across the hills like drifting smoke rings. It was all the encouragement Magnus’s warriors needed. On the strand, the Vikings didn’t notice the birdcall as they splashed through the surf, shouting taunts and swinging axes.

But the world around them split wide as Frodi shot onto the strand, barking wildly as he herded the six cattle into the safety of the dunes. Frodi flew across the strand, excitement letting him forget his old bones as he ran faster than he had in years.

Laughing, the Vikings chased after Frodi and the cattle beasts, oblivious of impending doom. Coming death swept near as Magnus and his men sprang to action, heaving as one to send a barrage of boulders hurtling over the cliff to crash onto the marauders.

Other men burst from inside the fisher huts, shooting fire arrows into the beached longboats as they ran out onto the sand.

The arrows streaked into the ships with unerring accuracy, some slamming into hulls, others piercing sails or thudding into the rowing benches. Flames caught swiftly, crackling to life and licking across the planking, blackening the masts and rearing beast heads. The fire grew quickly, sweeping the timbers and leaping high to turn the sky red and fill the cove with clouds of whirling, choking smoke and ash.

A vile stench filled the air and burned his eyes, but the moans of dying Norsemen—and the rage of those Vikings yet living—was a sweet song in Magnus’s ears as he hastened down the cliff path, Vengeance drawn and ready, his men on his heels.

Chaos met them.

Many of the Vikings lay sprawled on the strand, their big mail-clad bodies mangled by the rocks. Most had whipped around and run back to their burning ships, where they dashed about, yelling and scooping up sand and water with their shields, trying to douse the flames. But a few whirled to attack Magnus and his men as they thundered down the cliff track and raced into the confusion.

“I want blood!” Magnus swung Vengeance, the great sword’s blade clashing against steel, then slicing through the wooden haft of an ax.

The ax wielder roared, casting aside the useless weapon and reaching to whip out his sword. Before he could, Vengeance whistled through the air, taking off the Norseman’s wrist in a lightning-fast strike.

Howling, the man staggered, then dropped to his knees, clutching the bloodied stump to his chest.

Magnus stabbed deep with Vengeance’s tip, ending the Viking’s misery with a swift jab to the throat, the force of his thrust almost severing the man’s head.

“MacBride!” A huge Norseman snarled his name, proving they knew whose coast they’d dared ravage.

Agile for such a giant, the man danced around Magnus, his war ax swinging, already dripping red.

“You’ll not fell me! Come try”—the man’s eyes flashed challenge—“and the gulls will feast on your eyes before the blood dries on my blade.” Magnus grinned coldly and reached to yank the leather band from his hair. “Hold tight to your ax, Northman, if you wish to dine in Odin’s hall this e’en!” Still smiling, he tossed his head, letting the loose strands swing about his shoulders. “Word is, there’s an empty chair there, waiting for you.”

“You’re cursed, MacBride.” The Viking kept dancing, tossing his ax from hand to hand, a gap-toothed grin splitting his bushy blond beard. “Donata’s cast her spell on you, speaking death and misery to you and yours.”

“I dinnae believe in spells,” Magnus lied, eager to redden his steel on the man’s blood.