Chapter Thirty
A song played in Hulda’s head, one from which she could not seem to free herself. It had followed her from that place—MacMurtray’s hall—all the way back down to the rocks of the shore. A tune she did not know, yet somehow recognized.
Just like Quarrie himself. She did not know him. Only she did.
She marveled over it even as she rejoined Garik, who looked immeasurably relieved to see her. He stood surrounded by hostile clansmen, all of them armed. None had moved against him, but danger filled the air.
Could it work, this thing she suggested to Quarrie MacMurtray?
He had walked her down, she carrying her helm under one arm, the feel of his wrist, his skin still seeming burned into her fingers. Warm. Strong, inexpressibly pleasurable.
A pleasure he was to gaze upon, she thought as she turned to look at him. Even more so to touch.
He had what she would consider a perfect body. Tall, lean, yet well-muscled. Broad in the shoulders and narrow at the hips, with a pattern of red-brown hair on his broad chest. She wanted to feel him. Wanted it with an intensity that shocked her.
How long had it been since she’d had a man? Haakon had been the last, and naught about Haakon had felt like this. How long since she’d let herself feel like a woman?
He made her feel so, from the bones outward. Yet gazing at him now, on this stretch of his shore, she saw uncertainty in his eyes.
“I will need to talk this over with members o’ my council,” he repeated.
“Ja, good. we will wait where we did before, the inlet of that island. If you need me, you have only to row across. Or”—one corner of her mouth quirked up—“if you choose, you may swim.”
*
That mouth. It had once been fastened to Quarrie’s. Hot. Hard, yet soft.
He wanted it there again. He wanted more, much more.
This was madness, every bit of it.
And yet…and yet there was reassurance in knowing she would be where he could reach her. If, as she said, he chose.
Her men fairly hung from the longboat not far off in the water. Indeed, one of them clung to the neck of the beast that formed the prow, watching to make sure she returned to them safely.
A hundr.
She turned and, with her man at her side, splashed out. No one on the shore moved. Quarrie could not be sure they breathed.
Hulda and her companion climbed aboard. With undeniable grace, the boat came about, moving lightly on the waves at the direction of the men, who had taken the oars. Not until they were far out did everyone left on the shore turn on Quarrie—all speaking at once.
“Wha’ was that?” Borach demanded, loudest because he was right in Quarrie’s ear. “Are those the same who captured ye?”
“Some the same. Same commander. Different vessel. Different crew.”
“Wha’ did she want?”
“Come to the hall. Call others o’ the council. I will explain.” Try to explain.
His ma came to the meeting, news of their visitor having reached her.
He could only consider that good, for she’d taken little interest in anything since Da’s death.
She’d only rarely ever sat in on meetings Da held.
Did this mean she had no faith in whatever decisions Quarrie might make?
Or merely that she sought to represent her husband?
Either way, she sat quiet, face pale, hands clasped in her lap. Quarrie recounted the visit from Hulda, leaving out his own feelings for now. Chaos ensued.
Everyone spoke at once. Protests came thick and fast. It is madness. Aye, well, he agreed with that. Out of the question. Well, mayhap not so.
“Ye canna trust her,” one of Da’s old cronies howled.
“I do trust her.” From whence had that come? He’d not meant to say it aloud.
“Lad, ye’re raving. The pressures o’ walkin’ in your da’s footsteps ha’ turned yer mind. They are Norse. Just because she is a woman does no’ mak’ her less dangerous.”
Nay, it did not. More so, perhaps.
“Land!” roared another of the men. “Our land. That which we ha’ died to defend. Ye would gi’ it over to them?”
“I did no’ say that.”
He could have her within reach. Where he might see her often. Mayhap every day. Everything inside him yearned toward that, even as his mind agreed with what his advisors were saying.
“They are but a small crew. One boat,” Borach said. “We might lure them in and destroy them.”
“We could.” Quarrie glanced at him. “Wha’ good would that do?”
“So many fewer Norse in the world,” old Kalen replied. “By God, lad! Will ye even entertain such a scheme?”
Quarrie frowned at the fire. They were not going to agree. These men would not accept any scheme that might keep Hulda near to him.
“Think on it, lad,” said old Fergus, who in Quarrie’s youth had been their arms master. “She is asking ye to house her that she might prey upon other Scotsmen. Yer neighbors and of Celtic blood.”
“Surely,” said Borach more softly, “our loyalty is to them.”
“I am no’ certain about that.” Quarrie raised his eyes from the fire and looked at each of them in turn.
“My loyalty is to ye, and ye, and every other member o’ our clan.
Where were our neighbors last year when we came under attack?
When our chief was so sore hurt. If I can keep from fighting more such battles as that which stole my father’s life, by alliance or otherwise, I will. ”
They stared back at him, appalled. Angry. Wondering.
He got to his feet. “I ha’ heard yer opinions. I need to think.”
He went out and drew the blessed air into his lungs. From the front of the keep he could still see the Norse boat, Hulda’s boat, moving off with unearthly grace back toward the offshore island. A threat? A promise.
Should there be promises between them, him and this woman who had entered his life from nowhere, and who had somehow been there all the while?
He could not remain standing here. Faces turned toward him and eyes stared. He needed to be alone.
He might go to the burying ground where Da lay in peace or otherwise. Though he’d visited there often enough since Da’s death, his father had never yet spoken to him. If he chose to do so now, it would likely be in anger.
Da would not want him to deal with the Norse. No more than Borach or old Fergus did.
He took off walking down to the shore, moving swiftly and then heading northward.
He preferred the trail to the south, a good place to be alone and gather his thoughts.
Here, the sheds of the fishers and boatbuilders lined the shore along with a few huts that soon petered out into rough gorse and seagrass.
He trudged on, and the rocks lining the shingle grew larger, as if scattered by a giant’s hand.
Here, so the old stories told, the hero Adair MacMurtray—an ancestor of Quarrie’s hailing from Ireland—had come ashore with his woman to save the settlement, him being a warrior of some renown.
Long, long ago that had been. He had taken over the settlement and, if one could believe the scholars and shanachies, led it well.
The man’s blood still ran through Quarrie’s veins. It made a connection. And a responsibility. Those of his blood had been protecting this place a long while.
Should he be the one to crack open the door and admit an enemy?
He rounded a jut of rock that stuck out into the quiet ocean, and stood looking.
Here, around this curve of the headland, lay a narrow inlet not unlike the one on the far island toward which Hulda’s boat now headed like a homing gull.
Room for one small ship, no more. A rough knoll of land that was not in use, but MacMurtray land. His to lend or gift, if he chose.
He could place them here, the Norse. House them in this wild and disused place like a hound at its master’s door.
From here, she could miss nothing that moved up or down the coast. From here she could sally out to do her marauding.
Not his folk, though. She would not harm his own.
How far would a man go to protect what he loved? To be near what he—
But nay. He did not love her. He could not possibly. He was taken by her, aye. Attracted. Fascinated. But…
Och, let him at least be honest about it. He had never wanted anything the way he wanted Hulda. Had never imagined wanting anything so much.
Must he sacrifice a desire so bright to the will of his people? Aye, so. A chief did sacrifice. He had only to look at his da to remember that.
She had been right about one thing, though. As chief, this decision was ultimately his and his alone.