Chapter Fourteen
Dragging her spindly fingers through her hair, Tèile followed Logan as he paced up and down, down and up the gallery, agitation making his moves jerky.
She was out of time. War would be upon them in a few short days and the Viking would take Lorna far from here.
.. and far from Logan. She curled a fist and fought the rising tingling in her hand.
It would be so easy to jog his memory. Just a little sprinkle. ..
She shook her head, settled on the wooden rafter high above the hall, propped her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her hands.
Below, servants slept on and the howl of a wolf far off breached the sounds of light snoring and shuffling feet outside.
Logan’s restless footsteps created the greatest noise, the thud of his boots rhythmic yet antagonising, as if reminding her of the passing of time.
Magic was not an option. Had she not learned her lesson already? A light touch here and there would have no effect, but something as great as returning someone’s memory? That would surely mess with fate and she would be forever trying to fix her mistakes.
Her only option was to help Lorna escape.
All her attempts to force them together had been met with failure and ensuring he heard the men’s laughter to alert him of Lorna’s getaway had been a mistake.
She should have let the woman go and thought of some other way of bringing them together.
The problem was, once war was upon them, she’d have little control.
By the stars, Logan might even die in battle, and where would that leave them?
Either way, fate was way off course, and the fae council would scold her heartily.
Any freedoms she’d enjoyed from being known as a master matchmaker would vanish in a puff of faery dust.
Tèile drew in a long breath and stretched out her wings. On the morrow, she concluded. On the morrow Lorna must be assisted in her escape. She only hoped there was some way of persuading Logan to join her before the eve of battle. Even a faery had little power against the bloodshed humans wrought.
A tingle ran through her wings and she smiled to herself.
At least she could have a little fun with that bad Viking in the meantime.
Logan’s actions had placed him in danger and regardless of what she thought of the man’s foolish behaviour toward Lorna, she could not allow him to be harmed in any way.
Rising up, she studied the pacing man for a moment and gave a roll of her eyes. Willing to face punishment for her, yet unable to see the truth behind Lorna’s words. Men were indeed fools. Giving a dismissive sniff, she went in search of the Viking.
Tèile found him in the armoury, passed out with his head on the small table at the centre of the room. By the looks of it he had decided to cure the pain from his likely broken nose with a vast quantity of wine. She dabbed a finger in the goblet of red liquid and licked it.
She grimaced. Not even good wine. The man might have knocked himself senseless for the moment but he’d awaken with a mighty fine headache to match his throbbing nose. Not that he deserved anything less.
Perching by his shoulder, she flicked a finger his way.
A few dreams and some whispered words, and mayhap he’d believe it was all a dream.
A grin flew across her face. Oh! She could even have some words with his companions.
By morning, the tales of his drunken state and the way he’d stumbled and broken his nose would be all about the keep and Ivar would think he’d simply been a great big fool.
Tèile chuckled silently to herself. This was what she enjoyed the most. Meddling with silly human men. If only Logan was as easily dealt with. So twisted and confused was he, she feared even a bucketful of faery magic would have no effect.
Nay, only Lorna’s love could fix him, she suspected. And Tèile had no power over human emotions. Which was a mighty shame. What fun it would be if she did.
***
Logan paced until sunrise. His body ached and his finger throbbed in silent agony, but he barely heeded it. His neck often twinged and he was sure his body remembered everything it had suffered at times. Pain had become commonplace.
As had confusion and conflict.
How could a man with no memory be any other way?
Yet he had never been this conflicted. He used his fingers to run furrows through his hair and gripped the back of his neck with one hand as he paused to watch the orange sunrise drip through the rear windows of the hall.
It spilled onto main table and dappled across the bottom of the wooden stairs.
It even trickled into the shadowy arches surrounding doorways, erasing the lingering gloom from the hall like liquid gold.
For many, a day like today would bring promise.
For him, it only brought dread—a deep heavy weight drawing his heart down into his gut.
Another day spent watching Lorna suffer the attentions of Ivar, of every man in the keep eyeing her as if they hoped she would deign to send even just a smile their way.
Endless hours of preparations for a war he no longer knew if he even wanted a part of.
If the Norsemen thought so little of Scotswomen as to force themselves upon one, did he want a part in that?
Would he witness further savagery in the midst of battle as he fought his own people?
Men waged war, that was their nature and as such, bloodshed did not send a whirl of tightness into his muscles, but the innocent lasses and children.
.. He hardly thought Gillean would care for their fate at the hands of the Norse.
He scuffed his hands across his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to erase the gritty, itching sensation brought on from exhaustion.
He often functioned off little sleep but since taking Lorna captive, he didn’t think he’d had more than a few hours a night.
Of course, he hadn’t wanted to leave his post outside her door in case Ivar returned, but the Norseman had slunk off and was likely nursing his wounds.
Who knew what wrath he might have to face this day, but he cared little what revenge the man had in mind.
Nay, a certain golden-haired, fiery lass plagued his thoughts.
Did she really think he would believe such tales?
A son? He snorted to himself. As if a lass so fine would ever lie with a man like himself.
But the distressed noises he’d heard coming from her chamber echoed through his mind.
Small sobs, great gasping sounds of pain.
Even now, they made his heart pull. The lass had a son, that much had been true, or else she was even more accomplished at lying than he had realised.
He supposed desperation drove a person to do many things—even make up ludicrous tales.
A mother would likely do anything for a child.
Envy struck sharp and deep. Did he even have a mother?
Or had she abandoned him to the world long ago?
Shaking away such thoughts, he made his way down the stairs and past the rousing members of the household.
Ivar would not dare to do anything in the light of day, but what of the next night?
Logan could not stand guard forever. Fatigue ate into every inch of him.
Lorna’s lies ate into him. She muddled his thoughts and confused his body.
Even the few days left with her before they went to war seemed too long.
The conflict raging inside had brought him to the edge and he feared if he stayed around her any longer, she might draw him over that edge like a siren, beckoning him to dash his body upon the rocks.
After all, had he not defied his laird by fighting with his guests?
Already, she had broken through his vow to serve his laird. What other damage could she wreak?
Logan strode out of the hall and across the courtyard.
With the dry weather, the mud had become brittle and puffs of it swirled into the air as a fresh wind blew over the stone walls and surrounded the castle.
He inhaled that air and felt nothing but trepidation.
No thrill of impending battle surged through his muscles, no anticipation of all the glory to come made a tiny smile crease his face.
His taste for it, it seemed, had vanished.
His first stop was to check on the men on the walls.
He paused to speak with the guards and they confirmed all had been quiet.
Then he stopped beside the gatehouse and checked the barrels of pitch.
Should the MacRaes have discovered they had taken Lorna, they could expect the clan at their gate before they had a chance to ride out and meet them.
As it was, he thought it strange not even a messenger had arrived yet to negotiate.
Satisfied they could withstand an attack, he took the steps down to the bailey and visited the blacksmith.
The man had been working tirelessly to ensure they had sufficient arrows for the impending battle.
Remorse yanked at his gut once more. No one knew of Gillean’s plans.
They would come upon undefended, unprepared enemy, and Gillean would cut a swathe of blood across the country until the Western Isles and the coastline belonged to him.
With the support of the Norse king, the King of Scots would be forced to surrender the land for good.
The bitter tang of the smoky air clogged his throat when he stepped into the outer building.
Though the Blackie wasn’t there, Logan saw the evidence of a late night, with many arrowheads piled to one side.
He released a sigh and knew he’d have to do what he didn’t want to do—return to the keep and risk meeting Lorna.