To Avenge Her Highland Warrior (Highland Fae Chronicles Book 3) (11 page)

Exhausted from the constant fear and turmoil inside her, she felt her strength wither away. If Logan had not stood in front of her, she might have curled up and sobbed. Confusion muddied her thoughts and stole her determination. Was she speaking with the Logan of old or the new one—the callous, angry man who Gillean had attempted to mould into his likeness? Lorna knew nothing anymore. Even the idea she might escape and return to Ewan seemed a distant one.

Logan flexed a hand and her thoughts stalled. “Yer finger!”

He shrugged and lifted his hand to inspect the odd angle at which it sat. “Must have done that when I punched him.”

Lorna did not know whether to laugh or cry, so instead she stood and tugged his arms free of their folded position so she could inspect his hand.

“’Tis out of place. We must push it back in.” He tried to pull away from her but she kept her hold firm on his shirt. “Yer no’ afeared, are ye?”

“Nay,” he blustered. “I’ll have one of the men do it.”

“Ye should put it back in now.” She took his hand and cradled the large width gently. Masking a wince at the uncomfortable sight, she took the finger and heard his barely veiled hiss of pain.

“Leave it,” he said hoarsely but made no attempt to pull away.

Lorna debated having him sit and coddling him like a child, but doubted it would work to distract him. “Be still,” she ordered quietly and in one swift movement, pressed the finger into place. Her stomach rolled at the audible click of bone and his groan.

“Damnation. Hell fire. God’s blood,” he spat in rapid succession.

She clasped his hand between both of hers, hoping the warmth of her touch might ease the pain. “Forgive me. The pain will be gone soon enough.”

His gaze met hers, an odd warmth simmering behind those dark pools. “It has already,” he said begrudgingly, as if unwilling to admit her touch comforted.

Several moments passed, and Lorna found herself unable—and loath—to look away. If she let herself, she could believe that the battle never happened, that Logan had never been injured and lost his memory. This was still her castle and he was still her chieftain. Her son was sleeping soundly and she had accepted Logan into her heart.

But none of it was true. A gaping chasm of misunderstanding still sat between them.

“Are ye sure yer no’ hurt?” he asked roughly. A hesitant hand rose to her hair and pressed to the back of her hair. “Ye could have been killed, ye foolish lass.”

His words held little censure, as if he was resigned to her always behaving rashly. Lorna’s lids almost fluttered closed at the way this small action enclosed her in his arm. All he had to do was tug the other one from her hand and wrap it around her waist and she would be his.

Would she?

Aye. Whatever doubts she had about him, her body knew who he was, and would not allow her to deny him. She eased closer and raised his hand to her mouth. Would his body remember her? Was there any chance she could make him remember? She had tried this once before and failed, but she was not the sort to surrender. If she was, she’d have curled up and withered the first time her husband took a whip to her back.

She let her lips tickle across the rough skin of his battered finger. Hard work left its mark on his hands. Scratches and calluses were like sand against her mouth but they sent a thread of desire through her. What she would not give to feel those calluses against her bare skin.

Not her back though. Never on her scarred skin.

He stared at the top of her head and his fingers came down to toy with a loose strand of hair by her ear. She kissed the tip of his finger.

“I told ye, it doesnae hurt.” The grating texture of his voice seemed stronger, as if he struggled to push the words past the scarring of his throat.

“Mayhap it doesnae, but nor does a kiss.”

“A kiss from ye, my lady, I fear could do more than hurt. Ye are a dangerous woman. All the men in the keep have fallen for ye.”

She would have laughed had it not been for the way his proximity stole her breath. She had drawn some attention from men in the past, but never like this. There were far greater beauties around than her, so she could not fathom why she was garnering such attention.

“Ye have bewitched them,” he continued quietly.

“And ye? Have I bewitched ye?” she asked hopefully.
Aye, say aye
, she begged inside. Let him tell her he still loved her, or that he had fallen for her all over again. Let them leave this place and return to her son.

He stiffened and dropped the strand of hair he had been studying so intently. Withdrawing his hand carefully, he stepped back. The gap between them made her cold and she had to wrap her arms about herself to keep from shivering. Curse her foolish words. Could she do nothing right?

“I am sure ye would like that.”

His bitter tone made her wince. “All I would like is for ye to give me a chance. For ye to take a moment and think about what I tell ye. Ye have been lied to, Logan, and ye are too pigheaded to see it.” Heat rose in her face, fuelled by frustration.

“I see that ye are a determined lass, keen to escape, and willing to do whatever she can to make that so.”

“Is that all ye see?” She propped her hands on her hips and stared him down. “All ye truly see?”

The muscle in his jaw twitched—she saw the motion under the thick dark hair. He glared back, his gaze never leaving hers. The throb of her pulse in her ears grew deafening and she held her breath.

“Aye,” he finally said coldly. “Aye, ‘tis all I see.”

The air left her body in a rush, all hope dashed. She rubbed a hand over her face and willed the tears of defeat to stay at bay. “Why will ye no believe me?” Lorna stepped forward and closed the gap once more. She jabbed a finger into his chest. “Ye loved me, Logan. Ye said ye would fight to win my love. Ye were my closest friend. One night, I gave in and we made love. I didnae want to but I couldnae fight it any longer. That desire is still there, I know ye feel it.” She prodded his chest again, just by his heart. He shook his head and his expression remained stoic. Did her words mean nothing?

“The day I thought ye were killed was the worst of my life. I realised much—how much time I had wasted, how I lo—” Her voice split on a sob and she drew in a breath through her nostrils. “That one night together, we... we conceived a child.”

She stared hard, willed him to believe. A flicker of shock skittered across his expression before he schooled it back into one of impassive disinterest. She gripped his shirt and her voice rose with desperation. “He has dark hair like ye. I must return to him. Ye must return to him.”

Logan tore away from her grip and scrubbed a hand over his beard. He refused to look at her. Dare she hope her words had seeped in? Even sparked a memory?

After eons of silence with only her throbbing heart for company, he dragged his hand away from his face and shook his head. “Ye know, my lady, I much admired yer courage, but to see ye sink so low...” He smirked. “I can have little respect for a woman who would tell such falsehoods.”

“Ye must believe me. We have a son. I must go back to him!” She tried to grasp his arm, but he shook her off as if she were no more than an annoying fly.

“Ye tell so many appealing tales, ‘tis hard to know which to believe, Lorna.” He swivelled on his heel and stepped over the threshold. He eyed her with distaste. “I bid ye good night, my lady. Dinnae fear the Viking. I’ll keep watch over yer chambers this night.”

“Logan—”

Her cry was drowned out by the slam of the door. She jolted as the sound vibrated the floor, and her knees buckled. It had been her last hope, telling him. And if he told Gillean, would the laird hunt for her son, the heir to the dowry Gillean now held? She slapped a palm to the wooden floor and an agonising sob rose up from deep within. This time, she held nothing back. Her grief poured out until her eyes were red and itchy, and her chest ached. With no energy to climb into bed, she curled up on the floor and closed her eyes.

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.

Ach, that woman dug under his skin and made him itch. Did she cry still or had she drawn herself up into that noble posture, with her pointed chin lifted, her pert nose in the air? He recalled staring down at her nose and counting the freckles as she kissed his injured hand. In his short memory no one had cared for his injuries. How different would his recovery have been with her at his side?

He stopped at the well to bathe briefly, stripping down to the waist and dashing icy water over his face and chest. His skin prickled and he shuddered, but he welcomed the bite of cold drops on his skin. It eased away any heated thoughts or wishes. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall too easily for that lass’s lies. To believe he had lain between those creamy thighs and heard her sighs or his name on her lips, was too enticing indeed.

As he dressed, his traitorous gaze drifted to the window of her chamber. The shutters were thrown open and he could have sworn he caught sight of the swish of a chemise. He clutched his fists at his side. How easy would it be to stride up there, pretend he believed her and take her against the wall, hard and fast, like the savage peasant he was. Would she deny him? Attraction might swirl between them but there was no changing what he was—a battered, scarred nobody. Mayhap he would call her bluff and when she denied him, he would know for certain she had lied.

But he knew that already, did he not?

And, of course, the risk was she’d say aye and then he’d be lost to her. He suspected a moment of freely touching that soft skin and kissing her with abandon would be the end for him. Everything he’d worked for would be dashed by that vixen.

Logan rubbed his temples and strode to the kitchen steps. He needed to be concentrating on proving his worth to Laird Gillean,
not
agonising over that woman
.
He took the steps quickly and paused outside the door. It was ajar and the voices of several men drifted up.

Norsemen. Was Ivar amongst them? He listened hard but could not make out the sound of his voice. He had to face the Viking at some point but he’d rather not do it in the company of his companions.

Crooking his neck, he pushed through the door and took the few wooden steps down to the dark kitchen. A handful of servants and the cook scurried around the men who were clearly in the way of the morning preparations. With their boots propped on the table, they looked to be deep in their cups already. Scattered beakers and several jugs sat next to the dusty soles of their leather shoes. One—Olvir—dropped his feet from the table and lifted his beaker in greeting. It seemed none knew of his altercation with Ivar yet then.

“Good morrow, Logan, have you come in search of drink? I fear we may have emptied the stores of it already.”

The men around the table laughed and Logan kept his expression impassive. He could ill afford to anger them, but he did not see how drinking at such an early hour was a wise choice when they should be readying themselves for battle.

“Have you been to visit the lady this morn?” Olvir asked.

“Nay, why.”

“Well you spend a lot of time with her. We were just saying she seems to favour you. Perhaps Ivar should heed some of your advice on how to charm her.”

Logan pressed past the cook, who grumbled something about ‘damned Vikings,’ and snatched a chunk of bread from the side table. He tore off a bite with his teeth and spoke through the mouthful, “I know little about charm, and I didnae think ye Norsemen relied on it either.”

Olvir laughed and another man, Gunnar, lounged against his chair, his grin expanding. Logan only remembered his name because the man was more scarred and grizzled than himself. An ugly slash marred one side of his face and his closely shorn hair revealed an angry welt across the top of his scalp.

“Aye, it is true. Why charm when you can take. No doubt Ivar will make good use of the lady soon enough. And if he does not, I will be sure to do his duty for him.”

The remains of the bread in his mouth grew tasteless and dust like. He swallowed the remnants with difficulty.

“Gillean will have yer head,” he warned.

And if Gillean didn’t, he would. Regardless of how he felt about the lass, the thought of these filthy Vikings pawing over her, ravishing her, tore at every fibre of his being.

Olvir shook his head and laughter rippled through the men. “Gillean cares little for the woman. If it were not for Ivar’s interest he might have killed her long ago.”

Logan shook his head. “Nay, he talked of ransom.”

“Why ransom when he is to kill her family and take their riches anyway?”