Warrior Untamed (25 page)

“I pray yer right,” she muttered, releasing one hand from Torquil’s wrist.

Freed from her hold, the blade plunged into the top of her arm as she dug the fingers of her free hand into the wound on Torquil’s shoulder.

He screamed with agony and threw himself back away from her, grabbing her braid as he rolled over the edge of the cliff.

Pain slammed into her as his weight dragged her toward the edge. Below her, the white foamy waves crashed onto the jagged rocks. She fought for a handhold on the wet stony ground, something—anything—to slow her slide over the edge.

“If I go, you go,” the desperate monster of a man screamed at her.

With her fingers losing their grip on the rocks, and one leg already over the edge, Brie knew it was only a matter of
when—
not
if.

H
ALL WATCHED IN
horror as Torquil tumbled over the edge of the cliff, dragging Bridget along with him. He jumped from his horse and threw himself forward onto his knees to grab her hand.

He pulled and she screamed, leaving little doubt that Torquil held on to her still. One look over the edge, and Hall drew his sword and swung, slicing through the silken strands of Bridget’s hair.

As the MacDowylt plunged down toward the raging water, Hall dragged her into his arms, crushing her to his chest as he moved back from the brink of disaster.

He’d almost lost her. The fear consumed him,
weakening his legs so that he couldn’t stand, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold her close.

She clutched his shirt as if she might never let go, whimpering in his embrace.

“I’ve ruined your hair,” he managed, his mind still roiling with what might have been.

Her shoulders shook, and he didn’t know if she sobbed or laughed. He didn’t care which, only that she was safe in his arms, no matter what the Norns had woven into their tapestry as her fate.

Though he wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms, there was still one last thing requiring his attention.

Releasing his hold on her, he lifted the makeshift necklace from over her head. The ruby was needed in the bag with the other jewels to secure Fenrir’s imprisonment.

“Holy Mother,” Jamesy bellowed, pulling Bridget away to wrap her in his own embrace. “Get my bag, Alex, she’s bleeding.”

With her brother taking charge, Hall rose to his feet and joined Eric, who stood near the side of the cliff.

“The last jewel,” Hall said, handing it over to Eric, who added it to the bag tied at his waist. “We’ve no cause to worry over the Beast any longer.”

“And what about Torquil?” Eric asked, turning his gaze to the rocks below. “What do you suppose became of him?”

“Fish food, likely,” Finn answered, joining them. “No one could have survived that fall.”

“As you say.” Eric looked unconvinced. “I’d feel better, though, to see his body on those rocks.”

“They’re dead?” Bridget called out, wincing as her brother tightened the wrapping around the wound on her arm. “Both of them?”

“Torquil has been taken by the sea, and Fenrir is back in the prison where he belongs.” Hall held up the bag Eric had handed him as proof before shoving it into the sporran he carried at his waist.

“Then feed the Beast to the sea as well,” Bridget demanded, her eyes bright with tears. “Prison is not punishment enough for all the evil he brought into our world.”

“Fenrir cannot be destroyed by plunging the scrolls into the sea. They would simply be tossed around by the waves until someday some poor innocent soul would rescue them from their watery home and start the process all over again.”

They couldn’t so easily pluck Fenrir’s thread from the tapestry of the Future. That was why the Elves had imprisoned him to begin with. The ancient gods of Asgard refused to order his destruction.

“You will not destroy the Beast?”

Her gaze bore into his very heart, forcing him to steel himself against the pain in her eyes. It wasn’t his place to defy the will of Asgard.

“No. This is how it must be.”

“Then we are done here,” she replied, turning away from him. “And all I fought for is truly lost.”

Lost, indeed. Clearly, in that moment, anything that might have been between him and Bridget was lost as well.

The Beast, it seemed, had won after all.

B
RIDGET
’
S ARM HURT
like hell; not even the honey ale she’d poured over the wound had helped. Maybe, as Hall had once claimed, she should simply drink the contents of the flask and be done with it.

Hall.

Would she ever be able to pass a day, even an hour, without having him invade her thoughts?

She groaned and scrubbed her hands over her face, thankful she was alone here by the river while all the men gathered in their camp.

After a day and a half on the trail, their little group had met up with Malcolm and Patrick and a company of men from Castle MacGahan. For the past hour, they’d been presenting their arguments as to what should be done next.

She couldn’t care less what they decided. It meant nothing to her. All she wanted was to be left alone to wallow in her misery.

She’d taken her revenge on Torquil MacDowylt, and instead of the satisfaction she’d expected, she felt only a great, gnawing emptiness. Orabilis had
been right. Revenge wasn’t enough to give her life meaning. She wanted . . .

What she wanted didn’t matter.

She’d spent her life doing what she wanted, and what did she have to show for it? The Beast still lived, so even in her quest for revenge she hadn’t succeeded. The wound on her arm would be long in healing, and if not for Hall she’d likely have met her own end on the jagged rocks of the North Sea, along with the MacDowylt laird.

And as a bonus? Useless blue symbols stained the whole of her body. Symbols that Orabilis had warned her she’d regret.

All she’d managed so far was to prove that everyone else in her life was right. Orabilis, her brother, even Hall.

Her thoughts always managed to circle back to him. Hall, the thing she wanted most. The thing she could never have.

She reached for her bag and dug around until her hand closed over the flask of honey ale. After removing the stopper, she tipped back her head and let the brown liquid burn a trail down her throat.

The beverage flowed down into her empty stomach, lurching and sloshing around, creating havoc that she chose to ignore, following the first drink with a second.

She had a vague memory of an old man her father had pointed out to her once when they’d
traveled to Inverness. A drunkard whose mind was long gone, his days spent sitting by a fire, drinking tankard after tankard of strong ale. It was his escape, her father had told her, from the pain of losing his wife and children.

Escape sounded more than a little attractive to her, and she downed another large swallow of ale.

But where was this lovely escape her father had claimed the liquor brought? Though her head felt heavy and her stomach churned, her memories of Hall hadn’t diminished in the least.

She tipped back the bottle for a fourth time, emptying it, just as her brother pushed through the brush to join her.

“Here you are. I wondered what happened to you that you didn’t stay to hear Malcolm’s decisions.”

She shrugged and stuffed the empty bottle into her bag. “Makes no never-mind to me. The laird will do what he will do, and I will do . . . nothing.”

“With Torquil dead, Patrick will take a contingent of men and lay claim to Tordenet.”
Jamesy sat down across from her and scratched his stubbled chin. “Would you want to return there to live, do you think? It was our home as children.”

“No.” She didn’t need to think about that one at all. She’d been but a small child when she’d lived there. Her only memories of Tordenet were more recent, and all of them involved Hall. “Never.”

“Our uncle predicted you would say as much.” Jamesy nodded thoughtfully, focusing his gaze in the distance. “He also says it’s time we settle on the question of yer future.”

“My future?”

Her future was black. Black, nasty, and empty, like looking down into a well with no bottom. Why would anyone want to talk about the big, black, empty hole that lay in store for her?

“Aye, yer future.” Jamesy stood to pace back and forth. “I’d hope that after everything that’s happened, you’ve had yer fill of adventure. That you’ll be ready to settle down to a normal life like other women.”

“Normal life?”

“Exactly.” Jamesy seemed to be warming to his subject, his face alight with excitement.

She remembered that look. It was the one he’d worn when he’d convinced her she wanted to stay home with her aunt instead of going hunting with him and Da. It had been what he wanted, not what she wanted. But with his enthusiasm, he’d convinced her to spend the most miserable week of her life.

“Give up this ridiculous warrior notion of yers. Take a husband and make me an uncle. Be normal, Brie.”

So they’d planned it all out for her, Jamesy and Uncle Harald, sitting in the circle of men deciding who would go to Tordenet, who would return to Castle MacGahan, and, likely, what poor fool would take on the burden of wedding Bridget MacCulloch.

She reached again for her bag, remembering as her hand closed around the bottle that it was already empty.

Too damn bad, that.

“So, we’re in agreement, then?” Jamesy reached for her hand to help her to her feet, drawing back as she stood up beside him. “You smell like a draughthouse. What’s wrong with you?”

“I hurt,” she confessed simply.

Her body, her mind, her heart. They all hurt. And of the three, she was sure that only her body had a chance of recovering.

“Och, Bridget.” Jamesy tried to pull her close but she pushed away.

His pity only made it worse. Especially since he had no idea what he pitied her for.

“As to any agreement—” She stopped, feeling the tears welling up from deep inside, waiting until she could force them back down. “Decide what you will for me. I no longer have any care how I spend my days.”

Without Hall at her side, one day would be no better than another anyway.

C
ASTLE
M
AC
G
AHAN LOOMED
ahead of them, the portcullis lifted in welcome so that the gates resembled a great mouth opened wide, waiting to swallow them at their journey’s end.

“It’s good to be home,” Eric laughed as he rode next to Hall, his eyes shining with his excitement. “I feel as though I’ve been gone for a year.”

Considering how short a time Eric had been wed, Hall understood why his friend was so eager to return.

For him, though, it was the beginning of an end he didn’t relish.

His work here was done. There was no more reason for him to remain at Castle MacGahan. Chase Noble was settled, so he’d paid back his debt to his Faerie friend to see after his son’s welfare. Fenrir was safely returned to his prison, and Torquil MacDowylt no longer threatened the future of Mankind. The task set him by Thor was all but complete. Once a place of safekeeping was decided upon for the
scrolls, all that had brought Hall here would be finished.

All his missions completed, and what did he have to show for it? Indebtedness to two Faeries, and a broken heart. Little wonder his father had refused to carry the mantle of Thor’s Rock.

Days like this, he’d gladly have given it up himself.

“I hope you’ll no take personally my leaving you behind?” Eric’s wide grin spoke of his excitement.

“Go. Else we’re likely to have your fair Jeanne running out to meet us.”

Eric’s horse broke into a gallop and within minutes several other men, including their good laird, Malcolm, spurred their mounts to follow suit.

Off to one side, Hall spotted Bridget riding alone. He’d worried over her health for the past two days, though Jamesy had assured him she was recovering. It was only that, even from a distance, she seemed different. Her silence, the way she carried herself; nothing spoke of the vibrant, untamed warrior he’d come to know.

He turned his horse toward hers. Thanks to her brother’s constant hovering, this was the first chance he’d had to speak to her alone. Yet as he drew his horse up next to hers, he floundered for something to say.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice flat and dull.

Under any other circumstances, he’d have described her as defeated.

“What’s next in your life, Bridget MacCulloch? Now that your revenge is complete.”

“Is it?”

Of course it was. She’d done what she set out to do. “Torquil MacDowylt is dead.”

She sighed deeply, staring into the distance. “So he is. But was it truly he who killed my father? Or was it the Beast? The Beast that still lives, there in the bag that you carry at your side.” Bridget lifted a hand to brush her hair back from her brow, a movement that carried the frustration she obviously felt. “Once again I came so close, and once again I failed. In so many ways.”

They rode into the gate, traversing the tunnel in silence to reach the castle bailey, teeming with excited, happy people.

“But you didn’t fail. Fenrir is imprisoned.”

“It’s of no matter. Jamesy was right. I’m no warrior if I canna defeat even one enemy. Both he and my uncle Harald are determined that all I need to complete my days is a husband of their choosing to settle me down. So, in answer to yer question, I suppose that’s what’s to become of my life.” She wiped the back of her hand over her eyes and turned her face away from him.

A husband of
their
choosing? For his Bridget?

Not likely.

Not while he breathed air.

If anyone was going to choose a husband for Bridget, it should be he who did the choosing.

He couldn’t stand to see her spirit broken like this. The fire, the passion for life, was gone from her eyes. They would not do this to her.

He
would not do this to her.

As they brought their horses to a stop in front of the stables, he quickly dismounted and reached up to help her down, fastening his hand tightly around hers.