Chapter Eight
The Norseman splashed through the water without regard for the breaking waves. Of average height he was, and of slender build, with long strides that ate up the distance between him and Quarrie.
Quarrie experienced a moment of unreality, of time slipping in its steady pace so it felt he glimpsed another age, or perhaps events that had not yet happened or could not happen at all.
An illusion possibly caused by the afternoon sun in his eyes that struck glare off the Norseman’s helmet and set the sea to sparkling. But it shook him.
It shook him.
Two other men came behind the first, one of them trailing the line of the small boat. They did not advance far but stood in the foaming breakers.
A hush fell behind Quarrie. Not one of his people but trained their eyes here, yet there was not a sound besides the pulse of the sea, like the pulse of the world.
“Are you commander here?” the Norseman asked in Gaelic with his gaze also hard on Quarrie.
He nodded.
“Good. I come to you with the offer of a bargain.” The man said it boldly, just as if he did not stand the focus of as many weapons as gazes. A strong, ringing sort of voice he had that called out, but the sound of it started an odd feeling in Quarrie’s chest.
He backed up a step. He did not want to, yet instinct made him do so. “Wha’ sort o’ bargain could ye offer me?”
“I will spare your settlement. Your people.”
“Och, will ye then?” Quarrie’s eyebrows shot up. This man spoke his language well, and that was but one of the chain of surprises.
He must be in his bed and dreaming all this. That was it—he’d never yet come awake this morning.
“Ja. I want but one man. You hand him over to me and I will go away with him, spare the rest.”
Quarrie flushed with heat, brought by disbelief or mayhap pure aggravation. He shook his head. “What man?”
“I do not yet know. He might be you.”
The Norseman took three more steps forward out of the sea and onto the shingle. Onto the soil of Scotland. Quarrie looked into his face and saw—
He was not a he. He was a woman.
The realization shocked him so, it made him blink.
Made him wonder if he was mistaken. For the person facing him was tall enough to be a man.
Dressed like every Norseman Quarrie had ever seen in leggings and boots—now wet—a long tunic covered by metal and leather mail.
A sword and several knives, including one strapped to a leg.
His gaze returned to the intruder’s face, trapped beneath the helmet so he could see very little hair. The few wisps he could see were pale as flax. But many Norsemen had hair that color.
The features—the features were all wrong for a male. Strong, aye, with a straight nose and a firm chin. But the mouth—that mouth was feminine, and no beard had ever marred that skin.
Her eyes—they looked pale in the strong light. Not blue so much as gray.
“Ye’re a woman,” he said, nearly under his breath.
She heard. So did the men behind her, who stirred. Big brutes, they; he could not doubt their gender.
“Hulda Elvarsdottir is my name,” she announced. “We are from Avoldsborg in Norge. As I tell you, I have five more ships in my fleet, but we have not come to raid, at least not here. Not this trip.”
“Then why do ye come?”
“For vengeance. I have told you I want but one man.” She splashed out of the water till she stood beside him. She was not as tall as he. He was built long, so once her feet came level with his, he found himself looking down at her. Yet he could not deem her aught but…
Formidable.
He’d never seen a woman to match her. Nor imagined one.
“Which of us d’ye seek?”
“May we sit and speak of it? I have your safe conduct.”
Quarrie had not given it, not precisely, yet she had given him no reason to strike her down. He did not know how to handle this. He’d never had a woman walk out of the sea in full armor to challenge him. Like an old tale it was, one Danoch the harper might tell.
His thoughts scrambled. He did not know how to choose. He dared not choose wrong.
“If I say no, ye mean to return to yer ships and attack this settlement, is that so?”
“I will burn it to the ground.”
“And ye trust in any safe conduct I offer, that I will no’ merely kill ye?”
She lifted sandy brows. “If I do not return, my men have orders to attack.”
Her men. They followed her, this woman.
That gave Quarrie a kind of thrill. Surely caused by apprehension.
“Aye, so, I suppose ye had better come and talk.”
*
He led her to the hall because he did not know where else to take her. People stared. They stood grouped all along the way, some gaping, and inside, Quarrie wanted to do the same.
Just as part of him wanted this woman, this savage stranger, to be impressed by the stronghold his ancestors had built, that he worked so hard to defend. But when they paused outside the gate, Hulda Elvarsdottir’s expression revealed nothing.
She had courage, he had to acknowledge that, walking straight in here alone, for she had barked at her two men in her own tongue and they had stayed with the boat. He might say she had balls of iron, if she’d had…
At the gate she paused and looked back, perhaps measuring how far into enemy territory she had come. A tiny frown hovered between her brows.
After looking down at the small boat and her two waiting men, she glanced at Quarrie. “You have not told me your name.”
“So I ha’ no’. Forgive me. Quarrie MacMurtray, I am.” He bowed slightly.
“You are jarl of this place?”
“Nay.”
“Not jarl. Chief.”
“That is my father. Come in.”
Borald stood at the door, fully armed, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head.
“Let us in, man,” Quarrie told him. “And watch the shore. The lady has come to talk.”
“Lady?” Borald’s eyes flew to their visitor and narrowed. His face lit with astonishment. Aye, her disguise was very good.
If it was a disguise.
The hall stood dim and empty. Someone had lit a fire that morning, Ma most likely, but it had nearly gone out now. The servants would light it again before supper.
Quarrie’s steps sounded loud, his companion’s a bit lighter. Her weapons jingled. He saw her look around, but she did not comment.
When they reached the hearth, Quarrie turned to her. “Now, what is all this about? Ye maun admit ’tis an unusual—”
She pulled off her helmet. Quarrie lost all his breath.
Her hair, pale, ashen blonde, fell all around her face. It had been braided tightly to fit beneath the helm. It had to be, for there was a lot of it. The plaits came down like golden rain.
It changed her astonishingly, turned her in a wink to pure woman. Quarrie felt precisely like he’d been thumped hard in the chest.
He knew her, surely? As she turned to him with the helmet in her hands, there was something so familiar about her…
But nay. He had never seen this woman before.
“Pray, sit,” he invited her, treating her, aye, like a guest because he did not know how else to treat her. “Will ye tak’ ale?” Did a man offer a female warrior ale? “I will call the server.”
He did so, signaling to Seonad, who stood concealed in the door that led to the rear alcove. Behind her, he could see a guard lurking.
They thought he was likely to have his throat cut.
Mayhap he was.
But when he turned back, Hulda Elvarsdottir was taking a turn on her heel, staring about the room as if fascinated. Surely they had such large halls where she dwelt.
“Please, mistress,” he said, “let us sit. Say wha’ ye will to me.”