Chapter 7
Please, a thousand times over!
Closing her eyes, she brushed her lips over the hairs upon his damp brow just as a fierce pinch came behind her gaze when she clasped her lashes tighter.
There!
He would not fall; she wouldn’t let him!
When she re-opened her gaze, it had taken her again; time had reversed, and where did it land her? To the exact moment right before Aonghus had cut the owl free.
Once again, the past repeated and her companion turned to cock a brow at her, leaning over the bird, his words edged by mirth: “Nae Northman.”
She hid a grin to repeat in whisper, “Nae.”
He bowed down to cut the line on the owl, who shuddered away, frightened, into flight. Now. Warn him!
She lunged forward while yelling, “Turn, now, Aonghus!” Grabbing Aonghus by the elbow, she tore him left at the exact second the arrow whizzed by them – this time it only caught air then died into the stream beyond with a splash.
Aonghus spun her around toward the ground. Her breaths ragged, she rendered the words by gasps. “There…is…a Scotsman who traveled with Sturan called Hamysh. He is about to descend upon us, he owns that arrow which charged; he has a bow and dagger, nae other weapons.”
Taking her words in quickly, Aonghus asked, “There is only one, you are certain?” His eyes darted from her to the distance in a way calling to retaliation.
“Aye,” she advised, looking up at him lying over her like a protective shield.
At the information he replied, “Keirah, remain here, I do not wish for your eyes to see this.” The tone in his voice caused a shiver down her spine when he began to stand.
She gave a nod, unable to speak at the look within his gaze, like he had the fires from hell in his pocket and was about to torch the blaze upon the threat.
***
She should have covered her ears as well.
The screams from Hamysh’s pleas laced with panic couldn’t be scrubbed from her mind while Aonghus extracted his information at the unseen distance.
Aonghus reappeared while she crouched onto the ground, clutching her knees to her chest, but at the sight of her Scotsman wiping the blood from his blade on the damp fern leaf before replacing the blade to the strap at the top of his chausse, she rose to throw her arms about him.
Her hand almost caught the sword in the leather scabbard across his back from her eagerness to be near him.
“I have you, Keirah,” he murmured gently, tucking her close.
To hell with keeping a distance from temptation. “Aye,” she agreed, “you do, Aonghus MacCade, more than you know, lad.”
He kissed the top of her scalp; she leaned back as he pulled her gently southward toward the direction for Stirling.
“You were very strong in your appraisal.” His expression was stern.
“Sturan sent his brothers Seumas and Sorley to harry the burghs in his stead while he hunts for you with Lord Kollungr. Hamysh was the scout sent south; Rune and Lord Kollungr took northward, Sv?rn west, Sturan and Torsten ventured east. I pressed him hard to find the final assembly point.”
She tripped on a tree root. “I heard.”
“He did not give; traitor took the place unto his grave.” He finished with, “You and I shall take our place to where we originally sought, a remote inn well south of Crianlarich. You must rest” – he nodded at her next stumble – “then as planned, we advance for Stirling, which we should reach by the morrow’s eve. ”
She couldn’t argue when her foot almost caught on a third root. Chaos had kept her in its clutches. How else could she explain losing her way to end up so far north from where she had been on raids with Sturan?
Chaos. What if something happened to her on this journey in the way of more chaos?
If the fates saw fit to cast her unto the hereafter, who would warn the king?
She saw death every day; what if her own came before she could deliver her message?
Did she trust this stranger with the kingdom’s future?
Her head still throbbed from the emotional bolt of her reaction at seeing him perish before her. Trust in this.
“MacCade?”
“Aye?”
“Perhaps a certain truth should be shared by me in the dire chance only one of us steps foot before King Alexander. Thus, I would care for you to know the night-glance I have beheld.” Why did he halt?
“Keirah.” He met her gaze directly. “Hours past I would have welcomed such information; however, you cannot possibly consider only I will kneel before King Alexander. This is the root of your concern?”
“Aye, ’tis a grand one as there are moments, MacCade, where the fates see fit to stay cast in an iron hold; they do not reverse. This is what happened at Castle Rothesay during the siege – nae reversal when those lads were slaughtered. If I were to be unable to reach…”
He cupped her jaw in a way that made her lean in more for his touch. His eyes grew dark with determination. “You are under my watch, my care,” he vowed. “You shall speak with our lord king. To consider otherwise I will not hear of, understood?”
Unable to find the words for a reply at the sheer strength written across his features, she simply nodded before he released her. Someone to watch or guard or protect her. Not just someone – Aonghus was a force of nature in his own way.
Her shoulders lowered while she took a deep breath.
No wonder she wept so in the shadow-glance – her soul had already taken solid notice of what her mind was just beginning to chronicle.
Silently she fell into step beside him again.
When she caught her toe on another root, his hand caught hers to steady her, and she didn’t pull away.
***
The double-story inn gleamed in the distance.
The warm portrait it made by the open shutters radiating firelight devoured the ominous tones belonging to night’s desolate darkness.
The inn was a beacon for travelers or locals looking for an ale; Aonghus spotted those locals charging about inside with a vigor in their purpose in enjoyment.
Aonghus kept his hand snug on Keirah’s. Would Fiona be present?
He released an inward groan; the tavern lass had made a press for him when they met on his way north.
Her dimpled cheeks had turned into a frown after he had refused her that eve.
However, Fiona notwithstanding, the rooms were clean, no lice, and the innkeeper’s wife was a marvel with the kettle and pot.
The alluring scent from roast – hhmm, smelled like some sort of beef pottage – livened the air, and he heard a small grrr from beside him.
Turning his eyes, he found her face flushed by mortification at her avid stomach summons.
“A lass with a hearty appetite, pleased and noted,” he chuckled.
The left side of her lips twitched as if she were hiding a grin at his comment.
He’d failed her, so taken with releasing the owl he had missed the direct threat.
Her explanation about weaponry carried by Hamysh had been spot on.
No wonder the Northmen had such an urgency to have her back within their ranks; the extent of her abilities…
did he believe her claims? Aye, she was a fate-seer unlike any other he had ever heard of even in the legends of lore.
It was the expression on her face when she had explained the shadow-glance itself with the haunted look within her eyes.
She had kept staring his way through the remainder of walking in the woods, almost calling to mind she was fearful he would vanish on her.
The lass didn’t realize the only thing to separate him from her would be the devil himself.
She would have her audience before the king even if it took his last breath to make it so.
“Cluaran,” he counseled when they came up to the splintered door.
Turning, he pulled the hood on her cloak farther up to cover her dirt-stained cheeks while he finished: “When we enter, tug my fingers twice if there is anyone of a questionable sort who traveled with you on the siege. However, do so while keepin’ your head down and do not draw attention.
” His touch lingered on the hood’s edge when she raised her eyes meeting his.
“I do not believe this to be an issue forthwith.” She smiled. “I still feel the dried earth upon my face. ’Tis the perfect disguise, but the sensation, ugh, ’tis wretched.”
He assured her, “A bath shall be seen to.” His fingers lingered longer on the hood as every part of him turned into stone.
“Promise?” Her tone was wishful.
“I swear it.” Stay the course – she must speak with the king; he must not endeavor to fulfill the dark thoughts lingering in his mind.
Throwing the door open, she lowered her head, staying concealed behind the hood when the common room, overflowing with Scotsmen and boastful banter and howling laughter, silenced.
He glanced at his flank: no unicorn, only them.
His travel companion certainly didn’t need to look up from the packed earth floor after they entered to know all eyes were on them when they crossed the threshold into the dominion giving warmth from the robust hearth at the far wall.
He spotted the innkeeper behind the bar’s edge: Iain, squatty, gray, and grin wide as a bridge.
“MacCade!” Iain greeted him, pouring another mead into a leather tankard. “You returned our way in a brisker pace than considered, lad.”
Iain glanced at Keirah, but the innkeeper kept silent.
She didn’t give any tugs after a quick look up.
Good. His turn to check over the surroundings.
Beards, brews, and belching. Nothing appeared to raise suspicion by way of whispers or terse looks.
His feet took the last two steps to stand before Iain, who was now wiping his hands on the rag hanging below his gut.
“I do not have any chambers, Aonghus, if this is what you’re seekin’,” the purveyor informed him.
No chambers? He shucked off the leather pouch from his waist strap to begin lining up the coins bearing the king’s features upon the oak counter, keeping his attention locked on Iain, whose eyes, which always looked half-mast, bulged when he kept stacking the coins in a tidy long row.
He might not be a knight, but his trade belonging to warrior of fortune paid well enough to make certain Keirah would not be spending the entire eve in the common room. Still no chambers?
“Shite, Aonghus, will need a wee bit of time to clean a chamber for the lass.” The mead overflowed onto the counter; the purveyor seemed to have forgotten the task in his greed to start palming the coins from the bar with his free hand.
“You shall be remaining here in the common room all eve?” His tone was reserved.
The mercenary’s eyes looked down at Keirah, who became wide-eyed as the purveyor at his claim: “Nae, Iain, I shall be in the chamber with the lass.”
“Lad,” he blustered, “my wife will take my hide if you are here for a simple…” His words stalled when he looked accusingly at Keirah.
“Nae, Iain, the chamber is for my wife and myself.” He felt a very long hard tug with a spark of fire within her gaze. This was how she had survived all the years in the Northmen’s grip; she was a fierce spirit. He unknowingly leaned closer toward her.
“Good.” The man puffed an exhale with relief and his gut looked ready to pop. “You may take a rest at the benches there; my wife will fetch some pottage for you both while I see to your chamber,” Iain said, quickly scraping the last coins off the bar.
“My wife requires a bath as well,” Aonghus demanded, laying out two more coins.
“Aye, it shall be seen to,” the innkeeper gushed, then dove for the final two prizes before bolting toward his plump wife, who grinned after seeing the rich exchange from across the room.
“MacCade, your wife?!” Keirah’s voice may have been hushed but it was feisty. “Was there a moment I missed where we were handfasted among the folds in bolting for our lives?”
He grasped her arm firmly, leading her toward the only open bench beside the wall, then sat her down at the table covered by dried wax before he took the seat across.
“Smooth your feathers, lass…” he began.
He was interrupted by her leaning over the table toward him to grind out: “Raging hell, MacCade, do not order me to smooth feathers. I may be a bit of an elder lass at twenty and one, however this does not proclaim I am…”
We are fire – together. “Cluaran,” he cut her right back off, his temper kicking up a notch like the flames in the hearth. “You are not an elder lass, and I will not have you alone all evenin’ in a chamber within the current enemy terrain…”
“Aonghus MacCade!” A tone rivaling the screeching owl from earlier took the air.
Oh hell, Fiona’s present. He stifled a grimace when Fiona stepped up toward the table, her hands holding two heaping bowls filled with pottage.