The Viking's Highland Lass (3 page)

She wanted to shove her way past the hulking warrior, but she knew he would not let her pass and would report her behavior to Seamus. She saw Lynette in the inner bailey then, watching her, as if she knew what she was up to. Brina didn't want anyone to know what she was planning.

Brina stalked back into the keep and headed up the stairs. She would try to take her horse out again when more of the men were inside the keep, preparing to celebrate. If she could, she would ride out of here, look for her da, and if he was truly dead, she would say a few words over him, then be on her way. But she didn't truly believe she could leave here on horseback. She figured she'd have to walk out, or she would be seen leaving.

The feasting was well on its way and she knew she'd pay dearly for not seeing Seamus in the hall when he had returned victorious from battle and he had told her she would sit with him.

The thought of marrying Seamus left her cold with worry. He wanted her only as a means of taking over the clan. He'd never shown a hint of affection for her, and she didn't delude herself into believing the situation between them would ever change. How could it when she despised him and his men?

She headed back outside the keep, found a couple of men caring for the horses, and some of the women still tending the wounded men near the stables. One of Seamus's men, Corak, looked in her direction as he led his horse into the stables.

She would never get past any of Seamus's men. Probably not her da's either. But especially not Seamus's men.

She began to take care of one of the injured men, giving him some ale to drink and thinking one of these men might tell her the truth about her da. “Did you see my da die in the battle?”

He shook his head.

When she was done, she went to the next man, settling a fur over him, and asking him the same question. And received the same answer.

Then she reached a man with a leg wound who nodded. “I seen him fall from his horse, his forehead bleeding, and he was still as death on the ground. But then I was struck from my horse and I dinna know what happened after that. No' until I arrived here. Seamus will wed you now, aye?” Culain asked. He was their blacksmith, but had been required to fight as well.

But as to the matter of wedding Seamus? Not if she could help it. She bound Culain's leg wound and gave him a tankard of ale.

Even if Seamus suddenly changed his ways, she could not tolerate him. Not after witnessing his cruelty toward others in the two years he'd lived with the clan. No love would ever exist between them. She'd argued with herself all that time over this—knowing this day would come and the role she had to play. Telling herself she had no choice. That someone in her position didn't marry for love. That she had only one role to play: manage the staff at the castle and satisfy her husband's needs, which meant providing him with a bairn.

“Rest,” she told Culain, patting him on the shoulder. Had she been in charge, she would never have sent their blacksmith into battle.

If she hadn't intended to leave, she would have come by to check on him later. She wasn't about to give the man false promises.

Boisterous boasting and laughter filled the great hall, the men celebrating their victory with a feast and kegs of ale. She looked up at the gray sky and the mountains beyond. A light snowfall had already dusted everything in white. She'd never traveled anywhere other than the shieling where she used to live by the loch and the surrounding area. Her da had never permitted her to stray very far once she'd found the Viking lad wounded in the glen. Her da and the other men had ridden out there not to take care of his injuries, but to kill him, and she'd been horrified. When the men had returned with word that the wounded lad had made his escape, she‘d been relieved, but then again concerned he would have died somewhere else from his injuries.

Experiencing her da's wrath when she'd disobeyed him in a fit of passion, twice, she had earned a lashing each time and so he'd quashed her rebellious nature right away.

Would Seamus be as dangerous if she chose to disobey him? She was certain he would be. He was cut from the same plaid, though he was no relation to her kinsmen. He had always looked at her in a way that was predatory and insulting—as if he knew she was his, and only waited for the day when he could claim her.

She finished caring for the last man and when she returned to the inner baily, she glanced in the direction of the stables. Two of Seamus's men were speaking to one another in front of them. She ground her teeth and hurried back to her chamber. As soon as she shut the door, someone knocked on it, and she jumped a little, dread pooling in every fiber of her being. “Aye?” she called out.

The door opened and Lynette peered in. “I beg pardon, Lady Brina, but Seamus wishes you at the meal straight away.”

Torn between wanting to leave and avoid being married to Seamus, but wanting to stay here in her own home, she tried to reason this out. How bad could it get being married to him? He was only a man. Surely, he would see her as the woman who would be his wife and the mother of his bairn and treat her with some dignity and respect. He would not beat her, if she continued to run the household staff as she had always done. He couldn't act any worse toward her than her da had behaved.

Yet her stomach roiled with upset as she envisioned what it would be like now that Seamus was ready to claim the clan as his own and her along with it.

“My lady?” Lynette said, watching her with wide blue eyes. “He wishes you to come now and isna happy that you didna come right away to greet him when he first arrived home like a woman who is to be his bride. He is saying you asked about your da, but not about how he fared. He says he will have to train you to be a better wife. The longer you stay away from the feast, the worse it will be for you, I fear.”

Brina could do this. She had no choice but to do this. She nodded, then left her chamber to join Lynette. The maid said nothing to her, behaving like most of the women there, knowing here they had no say in anything that went on. Though Brina's da had been careful not to antagonize Cook because she tended to make him pay for it in the way she could subtly ruin the taste of his food or give him stomach pains.

When Brina reached the great hall, the conversations and laughter continued, and she hoped she could take her place at the head table without anyone noticing her much. Maybe they would think she was just one of the kitchen staff, serving the meal and ale while she made her way to the table. But as soon as Seamus saw her, he glowered at her. She had insulted him by not greeting him as a warrior coming home victorious from battle, and instead had only cared about her da's welfare.

She had further affronted him by not joining him straightaway at the meal and instead taking care of the men's injuries. Everyone would know what had prompted her behavior. And watch expectantly to see how he handled a recalcitrant wife-to-be.

He didn't rise from the table to greet her, just watched her like a warrior who was ready to beat her for daring to insult him. She bowed her head a little to him in greeting, the conversation all around them slowly dying as she felt her heart shriveling.

He would be like her da, only worse. With Seamus, she would have to suffer his abuse in bed.

T
he chilling wind
blowing the snow about, the flakes fat and heavy, Gunnolf had split off from a group of the MacNeill clansmen in the snowstorm, checking on those living farther away from the castle. They were concerned for their health in the winter storm, as Gunnolf headed for Wynne's shieling. She was an elderly woman, set in her ways. No matter how many times members of the Clan MacNeill tried to convince her to leave her shieling and move into the keep, she had refused. She reminded him of Helga, his
amma,
his grandmother, the woman taking care of him as if she were his mother when he was growing up. Helga had odd ways, just like Wynne, he had soon learned. Something about the woman touched a place deep inside him, just like his
amma
had done.

Maybe her reluctance to live at the keep was because of her strange ways, and she felt she would not be welcome.

Gunnolf had been gone for over a year, staying with the laird's brother, Malcolm, a laird now in his own right to help him with a fight with his neighbors. And then off to see Angus and the clan he now lived with. He'd only been at Craigly Castle since this morn, so this was the first time Gunnolf had seen Wynne in all that time, and he was anxious to visit with her.

He observed the cold, stone shieling in the distance, dread worming its way into his blood when he saw no peat smoke curling above the chimney. Without a fire to warm her old bones, Wynne would freeze to death in this chilling snowstorm. She was said to have the gift of two sights or
taibhsearachd.
He'd heard tell of how she had seen the
taibhs
, or vision, concerning James and his discovering the pearl of the sea—the woman who had become his wife. That's how the
taibhsear
would share a vision—in cryptic words, unclear to any of them who heard her message as to what she really meant. Despite his grandmother having the same gift, Gunnolf had been wary of believing in such a thing until the woman James had wed had been rescued twice from the rough sea.

If Wynne could see what future events awaited them, why didn't she look to her own future and know she would be safer living among her clansmen within the walls of Craigly Castle? Maybe her gift told her that she would stay here in her own shieling until she died.

When Gunnolf had asked her a while back if she had ever seen a vision of
his
future, she'd only lifted a white brow. She didn't think he believed she could truly have the gift. But then she had shrugged and told him he would have his own place of honor at the head of his clan. Which made no sense at all. He would never be next in line to manage Craigly Castle. If James died, his son, when he was old enough, would be laird. If James's son died, one of his brothers or his cousin would take his place. Gunnolf would not be the head of anything there. If Gunnolf returned to his people's land, someone else would have taken over his family's farm by now.

Worried, Gunnolf moved his horse into the byre. He gave Beast some oats, then strode toward the door of the shieling and knocked. No response.

“Wynne, ‘tis me.”

When she didn't call out in greeting, Gunnolf opened the door. The shieling was empty, the sweet smell of heather and other dried flowers and herbs hanging from the rafters scenting the air, her bed covered in furs, neatly made. Everything was in place, the windows shuttered, the gloomy wintry light from outside spilling into the one-room home. A modicum of hope that she might have gone to stay with a neighboring sheepherder helped to settle his concern.

The weather worsened as the snow blew around and piled up against the shieling. He made a fire in the fireplace, then went out to the byre to take care of his horse. That done, he took a walk around the cottage, calling out Wynne's name in the whistling wind, just in case she had left her place and lost her way in the storm.

Still no response. He went back inside and began stripping off his fur cloak to warm himself by the fire. All he could do was pray that Wynne was staying with another family, keeping warm, and telling someone else's fortunes this blustery day when he heard movement outside the door.

He unsheathed his sword, Aðalbrandr, and rushed to the door, yanked it open, and saw the grizzled face of the woman who lived there.

Wynne scowled at him, her white hair covered in snow, her brown wool brat turned white from the flakes piled high on the woolen fabric. “What are you doing here?” she scolded, her voice high pitched and irritated, her blue eyes narrowed as she pushed him aside to enter her abode. He shut the door and blowing snow out. “Put Aðalbrandr away. ‘Tis no' necessary to defend yourself against me.”

He smiled at her tenacity. She had lived a hard life, had aches and pains, and yet she complained of naught. Even now, he saw her wince as she moved about her shieling, removing her cloak and hanging it on a peg.

Even as old as she must be, her face had a soft, grandmotherly look about it, the bridge of her nose dotted with freckles, and despite the narrowed eyes, they were kindly, all-seeing. “I thank you for the fire, but I was staying with the sheepherder, Rob MacNeill, and his wife, Odara. And then I knew you were here, and I had to return in this weather when you are no' supposed to be here. ‘Twas a good thing I didna lose my way!”

He closed his gaping mouth and sheathed his sword. “I am glad to see you alive and well.”

“Och,” she said, waving a hand at him, dismissing his comment and making her way to the fire. “I will make you porridge, but then you must be on your way. I didna need rescuing. Do you think me daft? You are a warrior trained in the art of fighting. Not only that, but you are good of heart. She needs a champion, and I am no' that she.”