Chapter 5
What a bull. Years past she had seen a herd of cattle in the distance, tended by a croft tenant. The herd had one massive bull with a hide the same color as Aonghas’s hair brushing over his stern brow. Aye, he was a Highland bull of a Scotsman. Completely beefy.
The sun had set but she let him sleep more, popping a blaeberry into her mouth with a tangy taste. Besides, she was thoroughly enjoying watching the full slab of Scotsman lying flat on his back with his barrel torso rising and falling at peaceful rest.
Nodding to herself at her appraisal, she snatched another berry. Her fingers still held a tingle to them from being tucked before him while she had slept. She recalled his heartbeat beneath her palms, strong and steady, just like the mercenary.
How unique was this. Any Northmen who had ever touched her caused a feeling under her flesh like snakes slithering. Vile! Yet Aonghus held a different effect: a flutter caressing within her tummy like a dove’s feather floating about. Hhmmm.
When she had awoken earlier, the sight that greeted her was his woolen-covered bicep, the same size as Kollungr’s.
If only she could re-capture the moment where she made a full arse of herself at even having an notion Aonghus was a Northman, and take away the hurt look upon his face.
His face. She studied him more intently; there was the tiniest shadow of blue beneath his dark lashes, resembling the final berry she munched on.
Huh, he looked haunted by something or someone – perhaps a wife or lover?
At his height with his build, any of the gowned variety would surely seek him to their bed.
His looks were handsome as an Adonis, but there was an air of being unkempt about him.
It stemmed from longer hair than what was deemed proper, with his beard in need of a trim.
What would he look like with no beard? Certainly the same as a Gaelic divinity.
How could fate do this to her, placing such a tempting lad near, knowing full well she could never fully have him?
Why did she suddenly care about all this?
Where was her trail of thought taking her?
Her eyes darted toward the cavern opening onto the treetops lying beyond.
This was where her calling demanded: finding the King of Scots, not blithering like some blushing lass enamored by the first lad looking her direction.
It mattered not that she was still a maid at the elder age of a score and one; it mattered not that she had never been in love or felt a lover’s embrace; all that mattered was King Alexander knowing the shadow-glance which would decide Scotland’s own fate. So take heed, silly lassie!!
The dagger pressed against her hip in the makeshift pouch once holding the blaeberries.
Her newfound protector had fashioned the leather to carry the weapon at her ready, tying it to the cloak’s interior.
Her shoulders grew straighter. High and proud.
The warrior, who gave a slight groan in sleep, had granted this.
Her munching stopped; her muscles tightened after she heard a twig break on the tree line above the cavern. She summoned him with the tiniest voice: “Aonghus.” In a breath he was awake and upon his feet before her.
The moon casting light over them, she pointed toward the cavern ceiling. A second then third twig broke. His consideration reflected hers. One, aye, was possible, but two so close together? No. Oh, raging hell, they…had been found.
***
“Aye, Keirah,” he murmured, confirming the terrified thought he saw racing over her distressed expression. “Someone is rustling above on the tree line. Do you hold any considerations upon how many are hunting for you?”
She shook her head, appearing almost unable to speak from fright. They should bolt again, but he needed to know the numbers they were outrunning; it sounded like maybe a lone scout above who could provide the needed information.
“Lass, I need you to remain here.”
“Aonghus.” Her eyes were wide. “Nae, do not abandon me.”
He froze at her intimate request. “Only a short moment, Cluaran. I will return for you.”
“Promise?”
He paused to brush his thumb over the stray hair falling across her temple. Someone who relied on him and wanted him back quickly – he had never had this before. A strange fierceness captured his spirit.
“I swear it to my soul.” His words were iron.
He charged up the steep boulder incline, his steps growing stronger, with the branches breaking on the ground from the enemy’s approach, who became louder through the blinding tree line.
Aye, it sounded like a lone scout; his footfalls continued to gather determined strength.
He couldn’t kill the enemy straightaway, no.
He looked down at ‘Vengeance’, the axe in his palm.
Answers were needed on how many were searching for her; he would get this first. Blood pumping, he thrust up the cusp of the incline to surge through the ferned terrain.
Stay to the shadows from the pine’s trunks; they will aid in the deathly game of hide and seek.
As he wove concealed around the thickest pine, the bark scraped his tunic.
His breath paused when the opponent’s steps came closer.
Ready for the game to commence, Northmen?
His weight leaned forward, and his grip tightened on Vengeance’s handle.
The wind bore upon the hairs across his stern brow; his eyes narrowed in the shadows cast from the high moon.
Was it east the scout came from? Aye, there is the first adversary, twenty steps out; look at that shield painted red for war.
His grip grew fiercer on the axe’s handle.
Was the keeper of the red shield alone? Trunk, trunk, boulder, too small to conceal an enemy, low ferns. Alone, aye, a single foe – for now.
Despite the moon’s brightness, shite, he couldn’t see his enemy’s face; his build was beefy as an ox.
Infernal cast iron helm. Could he get his fist in under the threatening point directly over the opponent’s nose?
Aye. The thickness only curved over the opponent’s scalp; Vengeance could break through the iron layer.
Another option after answers were sought.
Ten strides out. His feet settled into the earth with a press before he took one step out from the shadows.
The Northman spotted him at once, raised his shield high, and drew his sword, releasing a grind from the scabbard.
Trying to sow fear, Northman? Truly takes a brave warrior to torment a lone unarmed Scotswoman, wee North prick.
Northman, let’s see how the game advances facing off against an opponent the same size who is armed.
His fist tightened on Vengeance in preparation to question the Northman.
He needed to watch that low branch on the axe’s path to come.
A hiss tore his lips; his body flared like a dragon, forcing all its power onto the release.
One, two, three graceful arcs. Dead center above the iron boss on the shield.
Exact. Pressure? The Northman huddled behind it flew backward, crashing violently onto his spine.
Perfect. Now for the dagger and questions and throat slicing.
He couldn’t leave Keirah for much longer, the risk was too great.
As he took a full step, his gut twisted at the bone-chilling scream from behind.
“Aonghus!” Keirah cried at him from the cavern. Instantly ripping the sword from his shoulder scabbard, abandoning the enemy, he charged in the direction belonging to the terrified summons.
“Nae!” he roared, bolting faster through the slash of pine needles. “Nae!” Why? Why did he leave her?!
“Aonghus.”
His soles froze to the ground. It was Keirah’s whisper, but she wasn’t calling him from the cavern – no, she was center in the woodland’s grove over his left shoulder. What the hell?
The other Northmen’s charging steps, meanwhile – he heard the echo – were headed to the hidden cavern by way of the crusted ravine on his far right side in the unseen thicketed distance. How had she known? Could she be all she had claimed as a fate-seer, and it wasn’t the torment talking?
Without a sound, his step like a wispy leaf in weight, he kept to the next shadow by the taller pine.
He ventured farther into the woodland’s plump trunks; there was a tiny rustle before he gazed down.
Clever Scotswoman, there she was, hidden within the branches, almost crouching with one knee to the ground.
She gripped his palm then readied to stand for them to bolt away.
He was going to take her the large stretch toward the Lowland vista to the inn he’d spoken about.
The possibility belonging to food and warmth and comfort would only hold a shred of hope if he could get enough distance between them and the Northmen.
He stilled when she gave a small whimper from being unable to rise.
Crouching over her, he quickly pressed the springing ferns aside.
The scent from damp moss became heavier while he neared the ground and spotted the tail belonging to her woolen skirt catching behind her.
The base of it had twisted severely on a low grizzled branch, ensnarling her.
Blade. One swipe from his sword and she was free to race beside him.
***
“At least six?” she heard Aonghus ask during their journey southward.
They had been speaking about the number of Northmen trailing them in relation to the amount of noise generated by the Northmen’s footsteps he had heard charging toward the cavern.
She pulled his mantle, warding off the gust at her neck, like a spear against her flesh.
As she took a deep breath, the wool’s scent from pine and sweat and Scotsman greeted her nose; she tugged it tighter. Glorious!