Highland Warrior Page 7

  “Kára,” he said, walking closer, swaying slightly to keep the gifts from tumbling to the stone floor. “We must talk.”

  “I told you it would not work,” her brother, Osk, said, a sneer on his face. “He is too selfish to help even children.”

  “How is leading children into battle against a royal-backed army helping them?”

  “Coward,” Osk murmured.

  At the same time that Osk chose to risk his life by taunting him, Joshua noticed his stolen boots were on the man’s feet. The combination lit the inferno that had been subdued long enough to allow the children’s words. Taking the time to crouch low, setting his pile carefully on the floor of the main room, Joshua straightened. Without warning, he plowed forward, grabbing Osk off the floor before he could yelp. Joshua threw him through the doorway into the bedroom and onto the bed, grabbing his foot in one hand as he yanked the laces on the boot.

  “What the hell, you bacraut!” Osk yelled, his other foot trying to kick Joshua with awkward thrashing that he easily dodged.

  “Ye stole my bloody boots,” he gritted out. With a yank, the boot came off, obviously too big for the boy. Joshua dropped Osk’s stockinged foot and grabbed the other boot, yanking it off. Scooping them up, he strode to the other side of the room to jam his numb toes into his fur-lined boots. The lad had already warmed them up, and Joshua grunted at the relief, quickly donning the second one.

  Joshua turned in a circle. “Where is my kilt?”

  The pregnant woman, Brenna, stood in the doorway to the room, holding his familiar wrap. “She slept with it last night.” She tipped her head toward Kára.

  “Brenna,” Kára said, the name a snap of rebuke.

  Brenna shrugged. “Well, you did,” she answered, her eyes wide with feigned innocence.

  He looked back at Kára, ignoring her brother rooting around under the bed, probably for another pair of boots.

  “Ye slept with my kilt?”

  She didn’t answer, turning away, but he held it to his nose where the fragrance of her on the wool confirmed her friend’s comment. It shouldn’t matter, but somehow it did, and the fact melted some of his anger.

  “And my tunic,” he demanded, looking at Osk.

  Osk held his hands up and then plucked at his shirt. “This is mine.”

  Brenna shook out his shirt. “Your furs and wool blanket are back in my dwelling where Kára slept.” She tossed it to him.

  Joshua looked back at Kára. “Ye poisoned me, stripped me naked, and stole my clothes and sword.”

  Kára met his gaze with strength and conviction. “You said you were leaving at dawn.” She shook her head. “I could not let you walk away.”

  “So ye poisoned me?” he asked, trying to keep his voice lower than a roar.

  “It was a sleeping draught that we use here,” she answered. “Not poison. A mix of herbs that go well in honey mead.”

  “A sleeping draught powerful enough to prevent me from waking, as ye pulled my clothes and boots off, is a poison.” He jabbed a finger at her. “Never do that to me again.”

  “Pull your clothes and boots off?” she asked, baiting him, and her brother made a gagging noise from the bed.

  With a tug, the flowered quilt unraveled from Joshua’s body. He heard Brenna’s intake of breath but didn’t bother to react. Let her leave if she found his nakedness unnerving. She had obviously seen a naked man before, no matter that she lied about being a maid.

  “What the bloody hell?” Her…whatever he was, Calder, yelled from the doorway, but Joshua ignored him, too, as he threw his tunic on over his head.

  Torben was close on his heels and followed Calder inside the cramped room. “’Tis not civilized to walk around naked before ladies.” His words had a nasal quality, his nose being stuffed with wool. Black circles colored the skin under his eyes, showing that Joshua had broken his nose the day before. “You bloody Scot,” he said.

  “Those offended should leave,” Joshua said, his words low. Was the fool willing to risk more pain? Did he love Kára that much? “And last I checked,” Joshua said, “Orkney Isle was part of Scotland.” His gaze pierced Torben. “Ye bloody Scot.” Hopefully, the idiot heard the warning in his growl, because he had only so much restraint. Joshua let out the long piece of plaid wool, pleating it quickly as he stood to wrap it around his waist, belting it in place.

  “Joshua,” Kára said, stepping before him, “we have lost our chief, my uncle, Erik Flett, which leaves me in charge of our dwindling numbers. We are persecuted here on Orkney, our home. Anyone with strength is forced to build Robert’s palaces. His newest project is at Kirkwall for his son, Henry.”

  Joshua had known Robert was building another castle, but not that the Orkney people were being forced to work on it. “Without pay?” he asked.

  “Of course without pay,” Osk said. “And he runs us off lands that we used to hunt on. His soldiers harass our women and capture our men to work, children too. Our healer is still held captive in his damn palace to tend only him, his children, and grandchildren.”

  “He uses our people and then throws them away,” Torben said.

  Joshua had never seen a healer or nursemaid at Robert’s fortress, but that did not mean she wasn’t held above in the nursery down the hall from Jean’s bedchamber.

  “And we need her back very soon,” Calder said, his gaze falling pointedly to Brenna, who stood with him in the doorway.

  She slapped his arm and frowned. “There are no babes here for you to be glancing at,” Brenna said. She crossed her arms to rest on top of her disputed middle. “We hide from Robert’s men,” she said, “but even when his men do not take our people, cold, poor nutrition, and then disease take many.” Her hands slid over her belly.

  “The Horseman of War does not care,” Torben said. Would the man die if Joshua ripped out his tongue? Would Kára frown upon that or be relieved?

  Osk stood with his hands fisted. “Our mother and father and—”

  Kára held up her hand, cutting him off. “We have all suffered loss at the hands of Robert Stuart, his sons, and the men who work in his employ.” She caught Joshua’s arm. “With you leading us, we could break through his tyranny.”

  “Kill him then?” he asked, trying to comprehend her vision for her people. Joshua understood blind vengeance, had fallen prey to it before, and this request held the stench of it.

  “Aye, and free our people from his rule,” she said.

  He leaned closer. “He is an acknowledged uncle of the king of Scotland, bastard or not. Whoever kills him will be marked as a traitor to the crown.”

  “It can be done without witnesses,” she said in a false whisper that was easy for everyone to hear.

  “Aye, but then his son will be in power. Have ye met Henry Stuart?”

  Her lips pursed tightly together. “Aye.” The one word was filled with bitterness. Joshua knew Robert’s eldest son. Strong, entitled, and confident, he acted much like his father. The glint in her eyes spurred more questions, questions he knew she wouldn’t answer before everyone.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Then we quietly kill Henry, and then Robert’s second son, Patrick, takes over.” He shook his head. “They are all very much like their father. Once word gets to Edinburgh that all the Stuarts are mysteriously disappearing, James will send his army to quell the hostilities he will judge to be here. And King James is not one to side with the common man.”

  Kára crossed her arms, too. In the blue woolen dress, her long hair partly pulled up on top of her head, she looked like a simple country lass. But the strength in her face, the conviction there, made her a warrior, a warrior who would surrender to nothing except death. The realization that she would rather die than surrender to Robert tightened his gut. “I would speak to Chief Flett without so many ears about,” he said.

  Kára glanced past hi
m to the door and tipped her head in a silent order. Her brother, still barefoot, came to stand next to her as if he were her guard. “You too, Osk,” she said. “And you, Torben. Out.”

  The Torben arse blocked Joshua and rounded on Kára, grabbing her shoulders to look down into her face. I’ll cut his hands off along with his tongue, Joshua thought, his teeth clenched.

  “Kára, I will not leave you alone—”

  “Go,” she ordered and stepped out from under his grasp. Torben cut Joshua a glare as he walked around him. Either Joshua was losing his intimidating look, or the idiot had more courage than intelligence.

  Kára and Joshua stared at each other as the sounds of others’ footsteps on the stone floor of the main room faded, the outer door closing. They stood in heavy silence.

  He waited. She was the one asking for his help, arranging this whole trickery to win his agreement, so she should be the one to start. As it was, he didn’t know what to say. Arms crossing again under her full breasts, she looked like she was readying for battle. He would rather kiss her, but to tell her that might get him stabbed. And he was angry at her. Aye, furious. Why was it so hard to hold on to that? Back home he was known for his bad temper and had been compared to his warring father.

  Her lips opened, and for a moment nothing came out. She dropped her arms. “What do I say?” She shook her head. “You know firsthand of what Robert and his sons, The Brute, and all their men are capable. You trained them.”

  Remorse made Joshua’s jaw ache, but he kept his silence. He’d already explained that he taught them only defensive measures and common-sense strategies to fortify their palace. Although there was often a fine line between defense and offense.

  “My people have been here on Orkney since it was ruled by Norway,” she said. “In fact, we are more of that country than of your Scotia, Highlander.”

  “Ye are not the first people to be subdued by conquerors,” he said. She needed to understand truths without the affliction of emotion. “Being persecuted and run off one’s land has been happening since the beginning of time, Kára. History is full of unfair and murderous conquest.” Damn him. He’d certainly participated and won many of those back home. Sinclairs were slowly taking over the northern territory of Scotland.

  She took a step closer. “You have never been on the side of the conquered, have you?”

  He breathed in through his nose. Had she heard of the disaster on South Ronaldsay down at the southern tip of Orkney? Heard how the Horseman of War had led common people to a slaughter?

  “I have, and I have no intention of repeating it.” It was why he had begun reading his small translation of The Art of War again. It gave clear instructions on when not to fight. Instructions he had been too arrogant to follow, and those who had trusted him had paid the price.

  “Have you witnessed the horrors of watching your family thrown from their home, falling onto the frozen ground, or your horses stolen before your eyes by smiling bandits who say that they are more worthy of your mount than you?” Her eyes narrowed. “Mighty Horseman of War…have you been told you cannot find food to stay alive because it has hopped onto someone else’s land? That you must starve and hope the animal comes back to your little square of turf?”

  How could he make her understand? “In my experience, of which I have much—”

  “Which, I am thinking, does not include living in the aftermath of losing a war,” she said.

  “In my vast experience in war,” he continued, “I have learned that to fight endlessly against a bigger army leads only to more and more death and misery for the smaller. Surrender is the best option for the masses when the alternative is complete extinction. Either learning to work within the new system, or moving to a new location to start anew, saves lives and can bring a sense of peace back to your people.” He reached forward, resting his hands on her straight shoulders. He dropped them when he realized he was reenacting what Torben had done, but he remained close, looking down into her face.

  “Be the chief of your people, Kára,” he said, his voice low. “Lead them to a better life away from this misery. Your family can come join ours on the mainland. Become part of the Sinclair clan.” The thought had been growing in his mind, ever since that first tug inside at the thought of sailing away from Kára.

  “And leave Orkney behind?”

  A slight smile relaxed across his mouth. “We have trees.”

  But she did not smile back or soften. “The truth,” she said, “is that you do not wish to help us, because you may lose.”

  His eyes closed for a moment as frustration burned inside him. Joshua inhaled, meeting Kára’s steely gaze. “If we fight Robert, we will lose, your people will lose, and you will lead them to their deaths.”

  “Is dying for something that is right and just better than living under tyranny?”

  “That is a question for each person to decide on their own,” he said. “And again, ye can come to northern Scotland, to Caithness. Your people could blend in with ours. Ye could have many horses.” He knew his brother, Cain, who was the chief of the Sinclairs and conquered Mackays, would take her people in.

  She turned away. “Bribery does not sway me.”

  Joshua’s hands fisted at his sides. “How about common sense? Does common sense sway ye at all, or are ye as blind as priests standing before the doors of their churches when soldiers come to burn them down, praying God will deliver them and strike down their foes?”

  She turned back to him. “You are the foking Horseman of War from God, are you not? If you fight for us, train us, lead us, we may win.”

  “If God refuses to interfere even with his priests praying for earthly salvation, He is not going to send lightning bolts down to strike Robert Stuart, his sheriff, and his sons.”

  She jabbed him in the chest over his heart. “You are the lightning bolt, Joshua. You strike them down, and my people will handle the rest.”

  Joshua’s hands went to his face, sliding down. “Kára…” Her name trailed off, because honestly he did not know what to say. She was so determined that she wasn’t letting his words or logic sink in. “Have ye ever read The Art of War? ’Tis a book from China, translated into French.”

  Her brows drew together in angry confusion, as if he’d just asked her if she would like to go on holiday to visit the queen of England. Her mouth opened and then snapped shut.

  The front door of the underground cottage opened, and Calder barreled into the back room, out of breath. Kára’s hand went to the six-inch dagger she had at her side as if she were used to having to draw it. She’d grown up in war, but then so had he. But she’d grown up on the weaker side. He had never really known those on the weaker side until he’d come to Orkney.

  “’Tis Brenna,” Calder said. “Her waters… She is soaked. She needs a healer. Now.”

  “I told ye she was about to drop a bairn from between her—”

  “I will be right there,” Kára said. “Get her into bed and send my amma to be with her.”

  He nodded and shot back out. Kára ran for a set of shelves to grab some linens. “I must go help,” she said.

  “Aye. Her bairn is—”

  “We do not mention it,” Kára said. “’Tis superstition, but with death hunting our people, we do nothing to bring the wrath of the fae or trolls or whatever Brenna might believe in.”

  “So ye cannot mention the bairn?”

  She shook her head. “Not until it is born and healthy, and then it is guarded for days before anyone can see it.” She grabbed up two smocks, shoving them into a bag with some jars.

  “There is food in the main room,” she said. He pulled back the question about it being tainted with more sleeping poison.

  She stopped her frantic packing, meeting his gaze. “Will you leave then? Now that you have your clothing?”

  “Ye still have my sword.”


  “Aye, I do,” she said. “Although, I am sure ye have more in your castle with hundreds of horses about,” she said, slanting her northern accent more toward his own.

  “We are not done talking,” he said, frowning over her notion of how he lived. “And it is my favorite sword.” He also wasn’t ready to abandon her yet. Maybe he could still talk some sense into her and her people.

  “I may be gone for days if things are difficult,” she said. She shifted, and the jars knocked softly in the satchel when she lifted it over her shoulder.

  He caught her chin, letting her see the truth in his eyes. “I will be here,” he said, giving up the idea of making it home in time for Samhain. “I have decided that I want ye to live.”

  Her brows rose with hope, and he shook his head. “By making ye see reason why ye cannot attack Robert Stuart.”

  She huffed, gave him one last piercing gaze, and dodged around him. Joshua turned in time to see her disappear, the flap of the animal skin door slapping back into place.

  Chapter Seven

  “Rapidity is the essence of war: take advantage of the enemy’s unreadiness, make your way by unexpected routes, and attack unguarded spots.”

  Sun Tzu – The Art of War

  The sun had dropped below the horizon by the time Joshua stepped out of the underground house. As winter came, the sun would sit lower and lower in the sky until it was up for only five hours a day.

  A breeze lifted his kilt. What the bloody hell am I doing here? He knew the answer even if he did not want to admit it. Kára was like no other woman he’d ever met. She was fiercely determined to succeed. In different circumstances, and with a larger army, she could be another Boudica trying to take back Britain from the Roman Empire. But she didn’t have a powerful army or even enough Orkney inhabitants to raise one. If she stayed on the isle, she would likely die, if not by a soldier’s hand in battle, then by the noose after she was declared a traitor to Scotland. The thought twisted inside his gut. Even though her quarrel was justified, she couldn’t win this game against the royal uncle of the king.