Warrior Reborn (10 page)

She sat on the floor again, loosened the ties, and pulled forth a square of embroidered linen before allowing the contents to spill out into her hand. Twenty-four bits of carved wood, darkened and worn smooth by untold years of use.

Her runes.

With the linen square flattened out in front of
her, she closed her eyes and dropped the runes from her hand.

With her Visions of the future withheld, she asked for guidance from the Ancient Ones. Some clue as to what was to come. Some clue as to what she needed to do to save herself and the man she’d forced the Elf to send to her. One false step on her part and Torquil could well bring the world as they knew it to an end. The world and Chase Noble.

Eyes still shut, she concentrated on the two of them—her and Chase, together, his arms entwined around her. With the vision in her mind, she reached down and chose two of the runes at random, closing her fingers around them, savoring the feel of the old wood against her palm.

One for her, one for the man whose arrival she’d awaited so long. One for Christiana, one for Chase.

Within her palm, the little coins of wood nested together, face-to-face. With a shaking finger, she pushed them flat to see what message she had been given.

Tiwaz,
the warrior, and
Berkana,
the birch tree. The first advised courage and strength of conviction, while the second portended new beginnings and birth. Or rebirth.

Only as she stared at the old carvings did her mistake occur to her. She should have chosen them one at a time. One clearly for her, one clearly for him.

Too late for that now. The Ancient Ones had already spoken.

She fisted her fingers around the runes and lay back on her blankets. Snuggling down into the heavy woolens, she clutched them to her heart.

The answers she’d sought were here for the taking. She had but to interpret their meaning properly. Which of them was to be the Warrior and which one was to be Reborn?

T
welve

A
S FEELINGS WENT,
this was a new one.

Chase stroked his hand along the neck of the large horse he’d chosen last night, surveying the activity in the courtyard around him.

Being here felt right. Him, the horse, his friend Halldor at his side—all of it. He basked in a new-found sense that this was where he was supposed to be at this moment in time.

At this moment in time.

Thinking the words still sent a shiver down his neck, though not the jolt to his system it had a few days before. It seemed that whether he was boarding a C-17 in the States and offloading in a desert half way around the world or slamming through seven centuries, his brain adapted and compensated, keeping him on course like the autopilot on an airplane.

“How amazing is the human mind?” he muttered, tugging on his horse’s lead as he headed across the bailey toward the waiting wagon.

“Most amazing, indeed,” Halldor agreed, keeping
pace with him. “It’s a man’s mind, not his brawn, what will most often save him in a battle.”

Chase spared a look at the big man, grinning in spite of himself. He wondered, for perhaps the thousandth time, how he’d been so lucky as to have this man be his first contact in this world.

“Is it not a fine day for a jaunt into the countryside?” Halldor boomed, returning the grin. “A hearty meal in our bellies, a sky filled with the promise of good weather, and friends to share the day. What more can a man ask from life?”

Ahead of him, Christiana waited by the wagon, her cloak fluttering in the cold breeze. She lifted a hand to brush a lock of hair from her face, revealing cheeks stained pink by the cold.

With scenery like that, a man didn’t need anything more.

“Not a single thing I can think of,” Chase responded. “It looks like I have everything I need for a good day.”

Any day he could find an excuse to spend with Christiana was a good day. The only thing that could make it better would be if the two of them were spending that day alone together.

A few more steps brought him close enough to realize it wasn’t the cold that brought color to Christiana’s face.

“Ignoring me will gain you nothing, Ulfr.” Her voice was raised beyond its normal pitch. “One barrel is no nearly enough.”

“Enough or no, it’s all yer witch gets from our stores. Now get in the wagon before our good laird changes his mind and refuses to send anything at all.”

Ulfr waited, arms crossed, making no attempt to assist Christiana.

The whole scenario struck Chase as odd. He would have expected the captain to show considerably more respect to his laird’s sister.

“If that’s yer final word, then so be it.” She stepped back from the wagon, crossing her arms to mirror Ulfr’s stance. “Unless we take the full complement to barter, I’ve no reason to go.”

They faced one another across the space of three feet, neither appearing willing to back down.

“Lord Torquil will no be pleased if I have to fetch him here.” Ulfr leaned closer toward Christiana. “I’d no suppose our laird’s displeasure is something you wish to bring down upon yerself, now is it?”

That Ulfr pulled the threat card didn’t sit well with Chase. Not well at all. Couple that with the way he’d been holding her arm when they’d followed her yesterday, and Chase’s hand itched for another go at the man.

“Is there a problem here?” He pasted an easy smile on his lips as he stepped within reaching distance of the two.

“No problem at all, good sir,” Christiana answered, not taking her eyes off Ulfr. “Though I fear you’ve
wasted yer time in preparing for a journey that will no be happening now.”

“We’ll see how brave you sound after I speak to yer brother.” Ulfr turned his back and strode off toward the main keep.

“Four barrels, Ulfr!” Christiana called after him. “I’ll travel with nothing less.”

An uncomfortable silence settled around them, broken at length by Halldor.

“So it’s a witch we’re off to see, is it?”

Christiana blinked several times as if she tried to process the question. Whether it was the words themselves that surprised her or Halldor’s speaking in the first place, Chase couldn’t be sure. What he was sure of was that she wrestled with her answer before responding.

“Orabilis is no witch, no matter what Ulfr or others might say. She’s but a wise woman, a healer.” She stopped, like a woman who’d said her piece, her lips drawn into a thin, straight line. Then, with a deep breath, she lifted her chin as if daring them to argue with her and continued. “She is also perhaps the kindest, most intelligent person I have ever known in the whole of my life.”

“As you’d have it, my lady.” Halldor dipped his head respectfully. “Though there’s naught in your words to refute her being a witch.”

“Is it no enough that I vouch for her? That I tell you there’s no reason to fear her? Have I given you
any reason to doubt that I speak the truth?” The color on Christiana’s cheeks deepened.

“Let it go,” Chase cautioned his friend before turning to face Christiana. “We are more than satisfied that you speak the truth.”

It was obvious that the woman was already upset enough without Halldor carrying on about witches, of all things. Though, in the man’s defense, Chase was hardly in any position to pass judgment on whatever fantasies his friend might believe to be true. He was living proof that real life actually did harbor a host of the bizarre and unusual.

“Apologies, my lady.” Halldor dipped his head once more. “It was not my intent to question the truth of your words. It’s only that you defend this woman as if being a witch is a bad thing. It’s not. They have their own roles to play in the web the Norns have woven for us. I’ve no fear of them, only a healthy respect.”

Chase cast an annoyed glance to his friend, preparing himself for Christiana’s angry response.

Instead, she surprised him with a small smile. “Yer words sound like something my father might have said. I’d offer up my own apologies for making assumptions without first listening. It’s only that Orabilis is—”

Her words were cut short by Ulfr calling out to Chase and Halldor as he approached them.

“Mount up and lead the lady’s wagon around to the door of the kitchen’s storeroom. It seems we’ll be adding barrels to our wagon.”

Every trace of Christiana’s smile disappeared, her chin once again lifted defiantly. “Four barrels in total?” she asked.

“Four barrels in total,” Ulfr confirmed, reaching for his horse’s reins. Turning his back to them, he led the way without waiting for further comment.

Christiana placed one foot upon the step of the wagon and Chase was instantly at her side, his hands around her waist to lift her up. No sooner had his fingers grazed against the cloth of her gown than a bolt of excitement shot through him, setting his heart pounding.

Beneath his touch she tensed, turning her head to look up into his eyes. She placed a hand on his forearm as he lifted, and time seemed to stop as her face came level with his. Her lips, parted and inviting, were so close he needed only to dip his head a fraction of an inch to capture them as he’d wanted to from the first moment he’d seen her.

Behind him, Halldor cleared his throat, breaking the spell.

Chase hoisted her up into the wagon and, as soon as she took her seat, he stepped quickly away, his breath coming in short, ragged pants. The urge to hold her close was so strong, he’d had to make himself release his grip on her. Forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand, he did his best to
push the feelings away as he climbed onto his horse, but they were too strong to be ignored.

Un-freaking-believable.

It was need that overwhelmed him. Need, pure and simple, and every bit as vivid as if he were caught in another dream of her.

T
hirteen

W
HAT ARE WE
to do with her?”

Brie backed against the side of the Tinklers’ wagon, refusing to cower before the people gathered around her. She straightened her back and squared her shoulders, meeting their accusing stares. She’d known this moment would come, when they’d discover she’d hidden herself in their wagon and confronted her for her actions.

But knowing didn’t make it any easier. And it certainly wasn’t her fault that pitiful little minstrel dancer had been frightened enough to jump from the wagon and hurt herself.

“Return her. She belongs to the MacGahan.”

Brie cut her eyes to the woman who’d spoken and the woman took a step away. As she should. Brie belonged to none save her own self.

“There’s no silver to be made in backtracking. I say we leave her here and go on,” one of the minstrels said.

Not exactly a caring man, that one. And people
claimed it was the Tinklers who were not to be trusted.

“I say we punish her.” The minstrel girl sat on the ground several feet away, her eyes wet with tears, a cold, wet cloth held to her face. “Beat her with a stick and leave her here by the side of the road.”

Brie lifted her chin and stared the girl down. She’d like to see any of them try what the weak little scold dared suggest.

“Hush, Eleyne. Yer face and foot will heal.” The Tinklers’ leader spoke up at last. “What say you, lass? Why have you hidden yerself in our wagon? What are you running from?”

“Yer mistaken in yer question, William.” His wife, Editha, moved closer, her hand outstretched as if she caressed a passing breeze. “It’s where she’s running
to,
no from, that puts her here with us. Is that not so?”

Brie studied the other woman’s eyes, searching for any sense of accusation, but she found no malice there. No judgment. Nothing to draw her ire.

“It is true that I have a need to travel north. When I learned that yer wagons headed in that direction, I decided to join you.”

The woman who wanted to take her back to Castle MacGahan responded, “Hiding in a pile of woolens is no joining us. Yer but a shameless woman who’s run from her home, leaving us to be heaped with the blame for stealing you away against yer will. We must return her, else they’ll send men after us.”

“Calm yerself, Esther. The MacGahan is unlikely to think us responsible for—”

“Leave her and be done with it,” the minstrel interrupted. “She’s but a witless, troublesome wench who thinks to gain herself the adventure of a market day in Inverness, hunting for pretties. There’s no a single silver to be made in taking her there.”

“I’ve no interest in market day or in Inverness.” Brie had contained herself as long as she could. “It’s no pretties I seek, but a man. The man who murdered my father.”

“Revenge, is it?” The minstrel laughed, his mouth drawn into a cruel, mocking line. “Revenge is the business of men. Best you keep yerself to yer man’s warm hearth, woman.”

“Have a care for yer tongue, Hugo,” William warned. “She’s but a lass.”

“I belong to no man. I am Bridget MacCulloch, daughter of the House MacUlagh, descended from the Ancient Seven who ruled all this land upon which you trod. I’m more than capable of seeking my own revenge.”

“Oh, my apologies, yer highness,” Hugo mocked. “I’ll grant you appear to be fit enough for a woman. I’ve no doubt yer chores are but little effort to you, and you obviously had no problem in tossing our poor wee Eleyne out on her arse. But yer hardly a fit match for a man. For a fact you—”

With a speed matched by only a well-trained few, Bridget leapt at the man, unsheathing the knife she
wore at her waist as she moved to hold it to Hugo’s throat, abruptly ending his words in a sharp, hissing intake of breath.

“Hardly a fit match for a man, am I? Then what are you, minstrel? No a man by yer own definition, I’d say. Here I’ve bested you, and I’m no even breathing hard for doing it.”

“You see? She’s wicked!” Eleyne screamed.

“Hold yer weapon down, Bridget MacCulloch,” William ordered. “If, that is, you’d have us give any consideration to taking you where you want to go.”

“What?” Hugo exclaimed, stumbling away from her, his hand at his neck, as she resheathed her weapon. “By what good sense would you think even once upon allowing this savage wildling to travel with us?”