Chapter 28
She wondered which to do first: laugh, weep, or beat her fists on Rory’s chest. Aye, her grandfather might have asked Kathryn Comlyn to keep Axel safe. She was Rory’s mother. Ainsel had nae problem believing Kathryn saw the same family resemblance in Axel that she saw when she watched Rory and his father together. That wasnae to imply that Rory was stupid. Nae, when he looked at her he just couldnae believe the woman that he had been hinting he’d like to give his heart to would deceive him in that way.
Ainsel could hardly believe it herself … hardly believe this is what she had come to, what Nils had brought her to. Let him try to get her tonight—too late now to hold her grandfather’s life o’er her. She would gladly watch him die by her own hand: a thought to hold fast to as she entered the longhouse where her grandfather lay in state while another dragon-boat was being made ready to set sail on his journey to Walhalla. Ainsel’s breath caught on the lump filling her throat as she looked down on Olaf. The women of the settlement had treated him with honour, dressed him in all the regalia of a Norse Jarl—all but his ring.
Learning Nils had stolen it frae Olaf’s finger while he lay dying set her back teeth grinding, her determination hardening to see him dead afore he dared wear it. She reached out and slipped her hand around her grandfather’s cauld fingers, rubbing her thumb across his thick knuckles. The tears dropping onto the back of her hand made her aware she was crying. She might be a disgrace to her grandfather’s memory; that didnae mean she couldnae feel sorrow for his loss.
Easy to realise now that she might have been trained in the skills of a shield-maiden, trained to kill, but when had she truly put those skills to use? Killed anyone? Not until the Irish attacked. She had been young, Olaf’s granddaughter, privileged, almost a princess when Nils came into her life—handsome, silver-tongued, all she had thought she deserved. The discovery that she was mistaken had come as a huge shock. As for the threat, she should have informed Finn straight away, but the thought of her grandfather being killed had tied her hands. A lack of wisdom had numbed her brain.
Seducing Rory had been her one moment of rebellion.
She was still drowning in regrets when Gilda came up and took her arm. “Come,” she said. “If naught else, ye must eat. Dinnae think I’m not aware how little sleep ye had on the boat. I heard ye and Rory whispering nearly all night.” Her friend kept her hand on Ainsel’s arm, pulling her o’er toward a board and bench where Calder had set out food for them. They settled there close to the fire-pit where the logs gave off a desultory heat. She shivered, uncertain whether it was frae cauld or because her heart had frozen o’er frae all the bad news she had been given and, as icy drops melted frae it, they trickled down her spine.
The bread and sliced venison didnae tempt her; she needed food for her mind, not her belly. She nibbled on a crust of bread while staring at Calder. “Tell me about Kathryn Comlyn.”
Calder lifted his brows. “She’s a Comlyn,” he mumbled o’er the venison he was chewing.
“What am I supposed to make of that?”
“The Comlyn clan ruled the central Highlands for a long, long time until Kathryn’s father, Erik the Bear o’er-reached himself and the McArthur put an end to his reach. I know she thought she should run Dun Bhuird when her father died, but Malcolm Canmore thought otherwise and gave Dun Bhuird to Gavyn Farquhar on the condition that he marry her. I’m told the early results were fiery.”
He stopped to take a mouthful of ale. “Lady Kathryn is a strong woman, but she’s also a grand mother. She willnae harm Axel, after all—”
Blood rushed into her face with the temper that sharpened her tongue. “Gilda, ye told him!“
Her friend pouted. “I love Calder. That means nae secrets,” she told Ainsel, and it came to Ainsel that, though her friend had willingly given herself up to MacLoughlin for her sake, because she had believed Calder was dead, Ainsel was well aware that Gilda’s love for him was greater than that of a friend.
Calder laid his hand flat on the board betwixt her and Gilda. “I willnae tell Rory, yet. Ye must do it by yerself, Ainsel. It isnae fair otherwise. How will ye feel should he discover that he’s the only one whau didnae know about his son. If that happens, ye could lose him.”
Was this how it felt when everything in yer life turned upside down and left ye feeling empty? “I will tell him … tomorrow. For now, I need some sleep to give me the strength to do just that. I think I can hear rain, so I’ll go back to my broch now afore it gets heavy.” She ran one hand down the leather short coat, “I’ve been wearing these for days; it’ll be guid to change into something fresh.” She looked back o’er her shoulder to where Olaf lay. “I must find something appropriate for the ceremony. I’m sure it will be one Caithness willnae easily forget.”
Gilda stood and Calder joined her. Within a moment they were all staring at each other across their half-eaten meal. “What about Nils? They have yet to catch him. Mayhap I’d best accompany ye, just to be sure.”
Company was the last thing Ainsel wanted while she searched her conscience. She shook her head. “They’ll have checked the broch. I doubt he would dare go there,” she said, her hand warming the hilt of her sword. In fact, she decided as she left the hall to walk back to her wee broch that it would be only fitting if he were there, then she could kill him herself.
Rory’s fists clenched as he faced his friend. “What’s that ye say, Calder? Ye let her go back to her broch on her own?” He shook his head in derision with a force that spilled his rain-damp hair onto his forehead. The silence his irony met had done naught to appease his anger, and he definitely didnae appreciate the slight smirk on Calder’s face or the glint in his eye.
Conscious of his father close by, it was all he could do to not to let loose the next wounding question on his lips. Looking down the Great Hall, he could see his father standing beside the auld Jarl on his own, his expression weary, nae doubt because he recognised the waste of a guid man. The sight of his father put paid to the outburst nestling on his tongue, waiting. Rightly or wrongly, he always felt Gavyn kept an eye on him, watching to see whether he lived up to his high standards. Rory loved his father, but being the heir added a fair amount of pressure to their relationship that his younger brothers didnae suffer frae—the need to be as guid a man as his father.
He turned in the direction of the big doors and caught the tail end of a lightning flash that lit up the square, the thunder that followed crashing down on the rooftops of the settlement. Decision forced upon him, Rory strode through to the kitchen and out the door without looking back or caring what anyone thought of him, especially his father.
The next bolt of lightning flung him through Ainsel’s door and lit up her form as if she were a marble statue his father had spoken of seeing in one of the castles they had sacked in France. It would appear she had removed her leathers and had begun to cleanse her body—an act which explained the linen that alone stood betwixt him and all that creamy skin.
Water dripped frae his hair and he shook his head like one of his father’s big hounds until the water went flying around the room. The next nuisance he shed was his sword.
The glance Ainsel cast o’er him said she wasnae surprised to see him. In fact, far frae being startled, she stepped towards him and, lifting one corner of the linen she had wrapped about her, wiped the water frae his face. She licked her lips. “It’s a wild night,” she murmured, her breath caressing his mouth but a skerrick of the taste he remembered.
He reached for her, muttering, “Aye and about to get wilder.”
Her palm pressed against his shoulder, pushed. “First we must talk—”
Rory caught her to him, cupped her breast, felt her nipple harden against his palm as he told her, “Lass, we have done naught but talk since the MacLoughlin made guid on his threat.” With nae thought for the raindrops that that beaded on his plaid, he splayed his long fingers across one of her buttocks. A neat wee handful, he had all but forgotten the way that firm, round muscle gave as he lifted her into position with her thigh on his hip and her heel tucked in tight behind him.
With nary a thought in his mind but being inside her, he toppled them both down onto the bed. She landed on her back, arms flung wide, as if in surrender; at least that’s how it felt as he saw the way her fingers fell open in a gentle curve against the linen that nae longer separated them.
For some reason, his hand was shaking as he traced the curve of her cheek, and his heart swelled as he stared down at her precious face. He had ne’er seen aught so beautiful as this lass, and he’d be condemned to hell if he had to return to Dun Bhuird without her.
“I want ye Ainsel. I spent each moment of the voyage home remembering how guid it felt to be inside ye. Here’s the thing, I’m done with remembering. I want the real Ainsel, not the memory.” He gave one brow an inquiring lift. “What do ye say, lass?”
“I say what are ye waiting for? I much prefer the real man,” she assured him pulling his mouth down to hers, and he let her. His mother didnae raise a fool.
Ah, the taste, the thrill as his blood raced, pounded. Ainsel was the kind of lass he needed: for him she was his shield-maiden, his equal on the battlefield and in his bed. He pulled her in tight, but she was naked and his hips still swaddled in his worsted plaid with his prick pushing to find its way out of the folds.
He settled its problem with a lift of his hips as he dragged his plaid higher, baring his prick to her soft folds as it sought its way home and he thrust, taking them both there.
The sigh leaving Ainsel’s lips at his first thrust felt torn frae her soul. She had waited a year for him. When he took her under the pines by the river this time, the wait had seemed like a lifetime, and when they had that talk it might be the last. What better reason for lifting her hips to meet him and revelling in all he had to give.
Every groan that left his mouth into her ear made her heart sing in reply, Aye she loved him, heart and soul. Ne’er mind Uisge beatha; his kisses, the taste of him, were the water of life to her. He loved, of that she was certain, but how much? Enough to forgive her?
That she doubted.
All that was forgotten, drifted away frae all knowledge as he pressed up, taking weight on his arms afore dipping his head to her breasts. Aaah, the sweet pain…
Her milk had dried up with nae bairn to suckle on her, and his mouth and tongue hurt her, yet—she couldnae lie—both hurt and thrilled with a sensation that stabbed through her to touch her womb. Ainsel tightened her legs around his waist as her hips buckled, stirred by an elation she ne’er wanted to end.
But it did end, in screams and then tears, sobs of joy while her heart broke and his seed spilled inside her. Life giving seed that had once made a bairn, made Axel.
A thought to pin her hopes on, what if…?
Rory licked the tears frae her cheeks, her eyelashes, gathering Ainsel close on the back of another squeeze of her womb that tickled his prick with interest he couldnae resist. He sank farther into her heat and wet, her body’s welcome that he greeted with a groan. He would ne’er get enough of Ainsel, of loving her, of delighting in her response to his prick’s invasion of her body, since so far it had been a battle—a two-sided one—each seeking to win and only able to do so if they won together, him and his shield-maiden.
Let the battle recommence, he thought as, prick hard as steel he thrust into her and drove the dreamy glaze frae Ainsel’s eyes and made them pay attention. Her ankles locked behind the dip in his waist and her nails dug into his shoulders in time with the moans she made with each thrust of his hips—moans of intense pleasure that only made him go about his task with even greater fervour. If there were some way to make these feelings last for e’er he would take it. The best he could do would be to marry her and keep her by his side for the rest of his days.
That felt like one of his better plans.
Yet even that was forgotten as her heated depths clasped around his prick, sending flutters along its length that made him lose control, lose his mind and let his seed spill where it would.
Lightning flashed, lit up the broch as his throat tensed, caught in a rictus he had to force his yells past, his whole body jerking with each spurt of seed as thunder drowned out both their voices and nature left them both blind and dumb, exhausted.
Rory dragged in breath after breath afore he could gather enough energy to roll to the side, lifting his weight off Ainsel, then impulse sent him leaning back o’er her to deliver a swift hard kiss on her mouth. “Thank ye, my love, for ye are my love.”
He had ne’er said those words to another lass and had hoped for a more enthusiastic response to his confession than the rub of her knuckles down his face, ruffling the growth of unshaven bristles back and forth.
“Ye realise there’s naught to hinder us anymore. Our journey at least taught us the truth of that. Ye thought ye were a widow, then discovered ye were ne’er wed. Nils might think he can claim the bairn he gave ye, but Finn will put paid to that as soon as he finds Nils,” he began to reassure her, but the rest he might have said was lost as the door flew open in a sound storm of wind and rain revealing an armed man—Norse without a doubt.
Rory rolled off the bed and found his fist clenched round the hilt of his sword afore Ainsel had the chance to rewrap the linen cloth around herself. Jaw slack with shock, she stood staring at the stranger, if that’s whau he was.
Rain-darkened flaxen locks as long as his beard hung about his shoulders, slowly dripping down his shirt since, now that he was in the broch he didnae move a muscle, simply stared about the dimly lit spaces of the curved room. Lips stretched in what purported to be a smile but looked more like a grimace, he said, “Home at last, and we have a visitor.”
“This isnae yer home. Dead men have nae home, nae rights,” she spat the denial at him and confirmed the stranger’s identity.
Instinct said attack, but the inside of the broch didnae leave Rory much room to manoeuvre, and Ainsel was all but naked with nae protection yet she refused to back down and he watched Nils’s eyes widen in surprise as she snarled at him. “Ye killed my grandfather, and for that ye have to pay.”
“He was auld, time he was dead. The settlement needs new blood.”
“Aye, yer blood, spilled all o’er the ground while ye bleed to death,” she sneered with a curl of her lip. “I’d be pleased to see to that myself.”
He appeared to have forgotten Rory’s existence as he concentrated his venom on Ainsel. “Found yer courage at last, have ye?,” he taunted, “But then ye dinnae have to worry about yer grandfather now he’s ready for Walhalla. Olaf was well aware ye were my wife, my property … and my son.”
Rory moved to block Nils’ view of Ainsel. “There was a lass in Orkney whau might object to that. She believed that she had wed ye long afore ye came to Caithness. That wife was most cut up to discover ye had drowned stealing MacLoughlin’s wife. In fact, thinking herself a widow, she didnae seem to mind when we gave her to MacLoughlin in place of his own wife,” he lied, remembering the resistance she had shown, tooth and nail.
It felt guid to get a rise out the sleekit bastard whaus ambition had set the north afire and to create an opportunity to take Nils off guard as he stepped forward, sword at the ready, and forced Nils to step outside with Rory in his wake in a clash of steel as Nils raised his sword to fend him off. Rory was in his element out in the open with nae risk of trickery by his opponent and putting all he had been trained for to guid use.
Nils Larsen wasnae the most skilful fighter he had ever faced, but he was one whau had suddenly discovered the only way this fight would end was in death—mayhap his.
Rory was lighter on his feet as they danced back and forth, circled and twirled. They fought in the dark and the rain, the ground slick with the water that lay atop dirt baked hard frae the sunshine that had come with the solstice. Only in the moments when the lightning flashed and the thunder hammered down on them—a true weapon of Thor—was each able to catch a glimpse of the other, the enemy. The rest was instinct and training.
A shadow skimmed the air behind Rory in light seeping frae the broch—distracted him.
He twisted, ready to defend his back, and slipped in the wet. Down on one knee, plaid trailing in the water, he saw Nils lift his weapon skyward, fully prepared for a killing blow, and knew he had but moments to react. Elbow braced, sword head high to protect against the force about to rain down on him, digging the toes under him into the dirt for leverage ready to spring, Rory reached for his Sgian dhub with his free hand. Afore he could act, Nils’ sword swung in a great arc and would have killed him if the gods hadnae taken a hand. At least that’s how it appeared to Rory as he was flung backward by the blast of a lightning bolt leaping the length of Nils’s sword.
Ainsel would probably call his saviour Thor but, Norse or Celtic, Rory thanked the gods for their intervention in the affairs of men.