Isle of Mull 03 - To Love a Warrior (5 page)

“I’m not entirely certain. There is that part of me that still holds on to my childish dream of valor I suppose. Do not think me ungrateful, Bridget, because I ken my life is blessed, and I love this island. The forests, the moors, the cliffs, the waves—they are a part of me. But there are times I wish to leave. I wish to be with Da and Logan and Garik. I wish to join up and fight for Scotland.”

“Do you ken what you would risk?” Bridget asked.

She felt the sting of tears, and she turned away from Bridget’s knowing silver eyes to stare back out to sea. “Aye, I ken, and mayhap my courage would fail me, but…” Her voice trailed off. She shook her head, dismissing her own foolishness.

“Speak your mind, Nellore. ‘Tis I. Ye’re one of the few in this world to ken all my secrets.” This was true. The clan believed Bridget was a healer from Skye who had come to Mull as a young woman and won the heart of Ronan, their future chieftain. In truth, Bridget’s real name was Shoney, and she had never lived anywhere except Mull.

Before Ronan stumbled upon her by chance in the woods, Shoney had lived in isolation, disguised as the fearsome Witch of Dervaig. It was with a heavy heart that Shoney had worn the tattered cloak of the Witch, but it was all she had ever known. Her mother had worn the very same cloak and her mother’s mother, going back centuries, all to escape harassment from the clan, for there was another little known fact about the clan’s lady: she was a pagan. The women of Shoney’s descent had suffered through prejudice and persecution for their continued belief in the gods of the land, sea, and sky. It was only when they began donning the terrific cloak of the Witch that the clan had let them be. Over time, the legend of the Witch of Dervaig was born. The clan had feared her above all else, and the explanation given to her longevity—that she had sold her soul to Satan.

When Shoney’s mother lived, she and her mother would take turns walking the moors beneath the cloak, scaring every clansman, woman, and child who passed by, but life took a very different turn when Ronan saw the young Shoney cast off the hood of her cloak to take aim at a deer in the woods. He fell in love with the mysterious silver-eyed lass. It was Ronan who convinced Shoney to take on a new identity so that she might be welcomed by the clan. And so Shoney became Bridget, the lady of the Mull MacKinnon, loved by all. Only Ronan; Nellore’s mother, Brenna; and Anna, who was one of Bridget’s daughters, knew Bridget’s true past. Even Bridget’s other children remained ignorant of the truth. Bridget had confided in her daughter, Anna, only because Anna had inherited Bridget’s gift of sight. Like her mother before her, Bridget had visions of the future.

Nellore pulled Bridget to a halt and looked down into her silver eyes. “Why must ye continue to deny who ye really are? So many years have passed, a lifetime of years. I believe the clan is ready to embrace the truth.”

“Bless ye,” Bridget said as she reached out to grasp Nellore’s hand. “Ye’re young and full of conviction. Whereas, I am old and still unconvinced the clan is ready to embrace a pagan woman with the gift of sight who used to masquerade as a terrible witch, believed to have sold her soul to Satan.”

“Och, Shoney, when ye put it like that it does seem impossible.”

“That is the truth. That is how the clan will see me if ever they learn who I really am, and call me, Bridget. Secrets are best kept when they are kept all the time.”

Nellore nodded and pressed a kiss to Bridget’s cheek. “Can I ask ye something?”

Bridget smiled her consent.

“Was it hard to leave your old life behind?”

Bridget turned her gaze out to the churning sea. “Three years before Ronan and I fell in love my mother passed away. I was alone in a way ye could never understand. ‘Twas as though I did not even exist. Nay, in the end it was not hard to give up my old life. Now, giving up my name—that was an altogether different matter. That was hard. Shoney was the name my mother gave me. I felt as though I had betrayed her when I gave it up.”

“Do ye still feel that way?” Nellore asked.

Bridget shrugged. “My mother would be proud of my life. That is all that matters. Now, enough talk about me. I am old. My life holds few questions these days. But what of ye? Out with it, lass. Speak to me.”

“Oh, Bridget, why must ye always see straight into my soul? Is it your gift?”

“Nay, my love. Ye wear your heart and soul on your sleeve, Nellore.”

Nellore took a deep breath. Then she blurted, “Do ye see my hands?” She thrust them out in front of her. Like the rest of her, they were large and powerful. She towered above the other women in the clan and several of the men. Her shoulders tightened, pulling the fabric of her tunic taut around the muscles in her arms.

“This body was not made to tend fires and mend tunics. Do not misunderstand me. I am honored to be a woman of my clan, to aid my mother in these ways. ‘Tis just that when my hands grip the hilt of a sword it feels like destiny. My body comes alive.”

Bridget nodded and a slight smile curved her lips. “’Tis true. Ye’re taller and broader than other lasses. Ye’ve always been. The last time I didn’t have to crane my neck back to see ye, I think ye were ten,” Bridget said as she stood on her tiptoes and reached up to tuck a wayward black curl behind Nellore’s ear. “But then, I am small, even for a woman.”

Nellore closed her hand around Bridget’s and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “We are a funny pair. Are we not?” Then she pressed her lady’s tiny hand against her own heartbeat as her words spilled out with a fervor she could no longer contain.

“There is valor inside of me. I want to fight. I am not afraid to die. Death comes to us all. ‘Tis inescapable. If I must die, I would rather do so fighting for my family, for freedom. My da and Logan and Garik do not fight because they are men. If that were true, then all men would be warriors, but they are not. Some are not suited for battle while others are cowards. MacKinnon warriors follow Angus Og and our king because they have defiant spirits. Because they will not stay behind and contribute naught when they can go and fight for what is right, and they are willing to die to defend this country and its people from tyranny. This too is my calling, but instead I remain behind. My strength dwindles and so do my skills.”

“Nellore, I ken ye train before first light every day just as ye did with Logan as a child. For five years now the men have been gone, and in all that time, I doubt ye’ve lived a single day without climbing a cliff wall or swinging your sword.”

“But I am seventeen. I ken now what in youth is impossible to know—futility. As a child I clung to my dreams, yearning for what I know now to be impossible. ‘Tis folly to keep pouring my soul into the hopes of one day being a warrior, but what terrifies me more than anything else is complacency. Now that I am a woman, I have striven to put aside my warrior’s heart, but alas, I find without that dream my heart is empty.” A sad smile curved her lips as she continued. “I feel like a fool.”

“Your heart will be full once more,” Bridget said. “Never forget that in my youth I was an outcast. The clan that loves me this day, feared and hated me. My life was defined by isolation and anger.” Her tone changed and a warmth entered her eyes. “And now I am the lady of this clan, beloved by all.” She gave Nellore a wry smile. “Stranger things than ye finding fulfillment have happened, my dear.”

Nellore nodded as she stared at the ground.

“Need I remind ye that your story is already touched by magic. I found ye abandoned on the moors only days old, and against all odds ye survived.”

Nellore nodded once more but still did not look up. She had often listened to Bridget recount the tale of how she had been found, nearly dead and alone as a babe on the moors. At the time, Brenna had been childless, unable to conceive—or so everyone had thought. Nellore became the babe Brenna had prayed for, and then not three years later Brenna was blessed with another child. Only Rose had grown in Brenna’s womb and not upon the moors.

Bridget continued with her tale. “I picked up your tiny body and touched a kiss to your forehead and was struck by a vision. In my ears thundered the battle cry of this clan, and I saw the badge of the MacKinnon, a Scottish pine, burst into flames. I knew then what I still believe to this day. Your fate and the fate of our clan are somehow crossed. A time will come when you will have to raise your sword and your valor will be tested. Hold tight to your purpose and courage lest you defy your destiny and find yourself ill-prepared.”

“I have the skill and the strength,” Nellore said with conviction. “Even Garik commended my ability with a sword.”

Bridget grew quiet and eyed her for several moments. Then she appeared to give her attention over to the belt at her tunic as she said absently. “Ye seem to remember Garik fondly enough. Ye speak of him almost as much as your da and Logan.”

A flash of surprise coursed through Nellore. Then she sighed and smiled down at Bridget. “Ye can cease the appearance of casual observance,” she said. Bridget dropped the ends of her belt as a mischievous smile spread across her face.

“Ye see too much with those silver eyes,” Nellore said.

“Then ye admit it. Ye’re fond of our young Viking,” Bridget said.

“I truly do not ken, Bridget. I suppose Garik does come often to mind, but ‘twas five long years since I last saw him. No doubt he has forgotten all about the dirty, feckless lass that I was.”

“Ye’re not dirty anymore. Perhaps, occasionally a wee bit feckless, but then aren’t we all,” she said with a wink. “Wait until he sees ye now. Look at how fine and lovely ye’ve grown,” Bridget said.

“Nay. I am neither fine nor lovely, but grown I have—too much in fact,” she said with a sigh as she stared out to sea once more. Longing still ate at her heart. “I do think of Garik, and so what does that mean? I will tell ye what it means. It means I’ve traded one impossible dream for another.”

“Why should thoughts of Garik seem beyond the realm of possibility?” Bridget asked.

“The last time I saw him I was twelve and holding a sword to a man’s neck—not the sort of behavior a man looks for in a wife. He is also not of Mull. Doubtless, when our men are at last released from battle, he will journey home to the Orkney Islands. Chances are I will never see Garik again.”

“Well, ye seem to have worked out the mysteries of fate for yourself, and here I thought the future was unknown,” Bridget said, dryly.

“I am simply trying to be realistic. I care not to lose myself once again to childish whimsies.”

“And I am simply reminding ye that stranger things have happened,” Bridget said with a knowing smile.

Nellore watched the surf rise up and crash against unyielding rocks. “I can see them now, brandishing their swords, charging into battle atop fine steeds,” she said with a sigh. “Were that it were me, Bridget. If only it were me.”

Nellore stood at the end of the dock at the small port of Gribun. Anticipation coursed through her. She felt overwhelmed with joy as a ship in the distance drew closer.

“Can ye see anyone yet?” Rose asked as she squinted her eyes. Like Rose, Nellore was straining to make out the figures moving about the deck. A few men lumbered between those rowing to reach for the sail, which they in turn began to pull down.

“I see Da,” Rose shouted, her sky blue eyes alight with joy. “And Logan. Oh, Nellore, they’re coming home. Da is coming home.” Rose flung her arms around Nellore’s waist.

Nellore squeezed her sister’s petite frame as she stared at the one man on board not clad in the MacKinnon plaid. A black leather jerkin and black trousers set him apart, allowing her to fixate on his every move. Even from the distance she could see his black hair and white skin.

“Oh, saints above,” she whispered. “’Tis Garik.”

“What did ye say?” Rose asked.

“Nothing,” she said, peering down into Rose’s expectant eyes. “Now, off ye go. Tell our mother that Da’s ship approaches.”

Rose’s smile vanished. Nellore knew it was because Rose assumed she would have to race the distance to their home, which was situated beyond the outskirts of Gribun.

“But it will take me so long. I will miss their arrival,” Rose said.

“Wheesht, Rose. Mum is at the keep with Lady Bridget. Hurry now,” she said, using a stern voice to urge her sister into a run.

Nellore turned back to watch the approaching ship. Her heart pounded as it drew alongside the dock.

Her father, Duncan, was the first to leap from the railing. He called out her name and rushed to her side.

“Nellore,” Duncan said again as he pulled her close. She laughed and squeezed him as hard as she could. “Too tight,” Duncan said, pretending he could not breathe.

Then another pair of arms enclosed them both, and she squealed with delight when she smiled up into Logan’s bright, silver eyes. “Welcome home,” she said.

“Get off, ye big lout,” Duncan said to Logan. “I wish to see my girl.” Logan pressed a hard kiss to her cheek. Then he backed away. Duncan smiled down at her.

“Ye’ve become a woman in my absence,” he said. “A beautiful and tall woman.” Surprise colored his voice as his eyes swept from her toes back to her smiling face. “Ye aren’t that much shorter than me now, love.”

Logan chimed in behind them. “Aye, I cannot tease ye and call ye my little sister, for there is nothing little about ye now.”

“I’m a sight I know,” she said as she blushed.