Haunting Warrior (24 page)

“Because Stephen stole it from my brother,” she answered. “This is Pooka. I helped raise him.”

Pooka breathed deeply, and Rory felt the recognition of Saraid’s scent register with the animal. It calmed instantly and nuzzled her ear with a soft grunt. Another besotted male. Just what they needed.

Rory took a step forward, placing a hand gingerly on the horse’s haunches. The skin beneath his palm gathered in tension and the big stallion turned and looked at him, assessing. Rory stared back, feeling a queer sense of communication passing between him and the animal. It tingled over all his senses and left him charged with static electricity. After a long moment, the horse gave him a dismissive grunt and went back to nuzzling Saraid. The two were engrossed in their happy little reunion and neither seemed to care whether he stayed or left. Well that was fine. It solved a big problem.

“Can you ride?” he asked, and Saraid gave him a distracted nod as she rubbed Pooka’s long nose.

“And you know where your brothers will go? You know where to meet them?”

Another nod, this one with some hesitation, as if she knew what was coming. He checked the saddlebags on the horse, found a leather pouch filled with water, took a drink, offered some to Saraid.

There was hardtack in the bags, a blanket tied to the back of the saddle.
She will be okay
, he told himself. This was her world and she’d survived the last twenty-five years without him.

“Then it’s here we go our separate ways, princess,” he said.

Her startled gaze snapped to his face, those eyes big and clear. “And which way will y’ be going?” she asked calmly.

“South,” he said, and turned to face that way.

“Alone?” she asked, her voice curiously light and unconcerned.

“That’s right. You’ll be better off without me. You can ride back to . . . to where you came from in half the time it will take if there’s two of us. And I’ve got business of my own to take of.”

“Aye. Of course.”

He took his first step away from her, then another, finding it harder than he’d imagined to keep going. All those nights of chasing Saraid and here he was walking away.

“Fool,” he muttered to himself, but what else should he do? If the Book had brought him here, it had to be the way to get back home. And getting back was more important then staying with this woman who obviously didn’t want him . . . wasn’t it?

She said nothing until he was several feet gone, and then she asked, “Is that where y’ think ye’ll find it?”

He turned. “What did you say?”

“I said, is that where y’ think ye’ll find it?”

“Find what?”

“The Book of course. Is it not why ye’ve come?”

He stared at her in silent surprise, feeling again that she’d cast a spell on him, because he wanted to say
no
. No, he hadn’t come for anything but her—a woman he’d thought a dream until just that morning.

She crossed the distance that separated them and looked deeply into his eyes. Hers were a dark glimmer surrounded by thick black lashes. He couldn’t read what was in them, but she seemed to have no difficulties seeing what was in his own.

“Do y’ think it will give y’ what yer looking for?” she asked softly.

“What do you mean? I’m not looking for anything but a way home. I don’t belong here.”

“Are y’ sure about that, Ruairi?”

Perplexed, he shook his head, wondering why he didn’t just laugh. Wondering why he felt he
needed
to hear her next words.

“I only ask because it seems to me that y’ are here for a reason. Perhaps yer not meant to leave.”

He wanted to say something sharp and smart, but he could only watch as she took another step closer. A shaft of moonlight caught her unaware, and now he saw something in her eyes that set off a small jangling alarm in his head. Her hands settled on his chest, and he felt a tremor go through her.

“Have y’ thought,” she said, and she licked her lips, glancing up and quickly away as she did. Gauging his reaction. “Have y’ thought that maybe y’ were meant to be with me?”

She came up on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his. For a moment, that light touch was the answer to every question he’d ever had. Maybe he
was
meant to be here, with her. Then it hit him, what had started that alarm inside him. Colleen had told Saraid that he would save her people, and she wasn’t about to let him walk away if there was a chance it was true.

She was playing him.

She didn’t care about Rory. Hell, until a few hours ago, she’d thought him a bloodthirsty killer. He was someone she’d hated for years. The duplicity in her kiss hit him harder than it should have. He grabbed her arms and backed her up, torn between the desire to kiss her until she forgot about everything but him or push her away and turn his back forever. It seemed she saw the flash of hurt, of anger in his eyes, and she couldn’t hold his gaze. Flushing, she looked down, her shoulders hunched in defeat.

Before he could even think of what to say, he felt a hint of fear sparking against his senses.

Not his fear, not even hers.

He looked around just as the horse raised its head and swiveled its ears. A fine shiver of alarm ran through its thoughts and broadcasted out like a radio signal to Rory.

“Shit,” he muttered, shaken by the realization that he’d somehow heard the horse’s thoughts. “They’re coming.”

T
HE night was sharp and crisp as Tiarnan and his brothers left Cathán Half-Beard’s keep. Above them a hard, flat moon bore down from a speckled sky, both witness and illuminator of the tragedy that was sure to come. As they moved through the still and silent compound, Tiarnan tried not to think of the songs the bards would sing of this night, or the fool’s part he played in it. But he could hear the notes, tittering with the forest sounds, taunting, jeering . . . truthful. He had no one to blame but himself. From the moment Cathán had sent Ruairi the Bloodletter with his proposal for peace, Tiarnan had played the ultimate fool.

Cathán was not a man to make peace when he could take control. Nor did he ever forgive and forget. There was always a plan. Always a step and counterstep. Always an outcome in his favor. The old ones—those who’d survived Cathán’s first attacks and the years of flight that followed—had warned Tiarnan. But he hadn’t listened. He’d wanted to believe the unbelievable, and when word had reached him that Cathán would meet in a public place, a neutral place, Tiarnan had gone with hope building in his chest.

They’d come together at the keep of Big Calhoun, an honest man who believed as Tiarnan did that peace could be made. Calhoun was a shared ally, someone Tiarnan had known since he was a babe, someone so powerful that Cathán had not dared raid him. In front of Calhoun himself, Cathán had gifted Tiarnan with food, cattle, supplies that they desperately needed and proposed the match between Saraid and the Bloodletter. The offer had seemed sincere, heartfelt even, and both he and Calhoun had taken it for truth.

They’d both been fools.

Now Tiarnan looked around him with despair that bordered on complete desolation. Cathán Half-Beard’s men rode three in front, with a point man centered in the lead. To the right and left of Tiarnan and Mauri, two more guards made brackets, holding them in formation. Four others hemmed Eamonn and Michael in just as completely. And following behind, the last three. Tiarnan noted that the rear guard was composed of the biggest men, and they rode straight and silent. Alert to every shift, every thought that might flit through their doomed hostages’ heads. Of the dozen guards, only a few were worse for the wear of too much drink and food—something Tiarnan had counted on afflicting them all. The rest were ready for battle.

No, the rest were hoping for it. He could see it in their eager eyes. In the casual caress of their weapons, in the tight clench of their fists.

“This is very exciting, isn’t it, Tiarnan?” Mauri said, mounted on a docile white mare beside him. She spoke in the same refined manner as her father, reminding him of the vast differences between them. “First Saraid and Ruairi . . . I confess I did not know such a match had hope, but to look at them this eve, they seemed happy, did they not?”

Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, and the brisk night air had made her cheeks rosy. The smile she gave him was open and without guile, and his heart crumbled beneath the weight of it. She had no idea her father had used her in his deceit, used them all. There was no happiness in the match of Saraid and Ruairi just as there was no desire to please in his offer to allow Mauri a journey with Tiarnan.

“Must we go far to reach your people?” she asked. “I do hope so. I hope we will ride for the entire night. I feel more alive here and now than I have for all of my life.”

The blurted declaration ended with a shy giggle, but she looked deeply into Tiarnan’s eyes as she spoke, and he felt the passion behind her words. If only this crossing was what it appeared to be. A token of acceptance for both their people. Cathán, allowing his daughter to accompany them. Tiarnan, bringing his lambs into the pen, not the slaughter.

“It will take us some time to reach them,” he said softly.

“I was surprised when my father suggested I come, Tiarnan. But I am filled with hope now. He would not have sent me if he didn’t trust you. If he did not believe that perhaps there might be another union between our families.”

She looked away, and Tiarnan watched with fascination as she caught her lip with her teeth and waited for what he would say.

“Y’ know I would do anything to make that so, Mauri.”

She nudged her horse closer to his and touched his arm, her hand featherlight, her skin warm and silken. “You must ask him again, Tiarnan. He will say yes this time. I know it.”

Tiarnan swallowed the hot ball of fury and shame that lodged in his throat. Cathán would not say yes, even if Tiarnan lived long enough to ask, which was highly doubtful.

Eamonn chose that moment to spur his horse forward so that he rode on the other side of Tiarnan. “What now?” he asked beneath his breath.

Tiarnan glanced at their flanking guard, noting the one to his right had fallen into a limber sway that matched the horse’s gait. He’d seen that rhythmic motion before, ridden in the same unbroken patter. That guard dozed in the saddle. The one behind him was alert, yet Tiarnan sensed he was more attuned to the forest surrounding them than the three men they escorted. These woods were filled with deer and boar, rabbit and quail. He’d hunted them as a youth, depended on them now for the livelihood of his people.

“Does Eamonn not know where the others are?” Mauri asked innocently, leaning forward to smile at Tiarnan’s brother.

Disconcerted by the angelic look she gave him, Eamonn blushed and scowled at the same time. “I know,” he said gruffly.

Eamonn nudged his horse closer and lowered his voice more so that Mauri couldn’t hear. Hurt at being excluded, she looked away.

“Well? What now?” Eamonn urged again.

Tiarnan had no answer. What could they do? Make a run for it? Hope that at least one of them survived? Stand and fight, knowing they would surely die? Tiarnan was a warrior, fierce and feared on the open battlefield. He could draw his sword and be done with the two on his right before the men even knew he’d armed himself. He could whirl and take out the next two or three that came at him. But could his brothers do the same? Eamonn, yes, but Michael? Michael would be cut down before he could fumble his sword free. And what of Mauri? How could he protect both his younger brother and her at the same time?

Mauri touched his arm again, drawing his attention back to her. “Will you dance with me when we return, Tiarnan?”

He felt like bait dangling between two fish, each jerking him to their side as they nibbled, devouring the bits and pieces of him they tore free, both just short of swallowing him whole.

“I would love it so if we danced,” Mauri went on.

“If your father will allow it, that would make me happy as well,” he said woodenly.

In his head, he played out every possible scenario that might result with the two of them dancing. But it was no use. In all likelihood, he would die tonight. It was a truth that could not be denied.

So that left one option. Fight. To the death if necessary.

He sat straighter, putting shoulders back. Throwing off that weight of inevitability that had near crippled him since he’d seen his sister emerge in her gown of blue, eyes wide and brave. Facing the fate he’d brought her without tears, without recrimination. He could do the same. He
would
do the same.

It would be crucial that he get to the three men in the back first. But to do that, he would have to spin and cut a swath through the guards on the left. If Eamonn could be counted on to move right and take out that flank, it just might work. That would leave both Mauri and Michael in the middle where they might be caught in the cross fire, though. But if Cathán’s men tried to defend Mauri, she might be just as much a liability to them as she was to Tiarnan. He nodded to himself, working out how that could be used to his advantage.

Then another thought came as he remembered the words Saraid had spoken inside his head. Cathán had already tried to kill his son. What if, like Ruairi the Bloodletter, Mauri was expendable to her father? What if Cathán had plotted this whole night with the cold-blooded brutality he had his own son’s murder? If Cathán was willing to sacrifice his son, why not his daughter as well?

Had he given instructions to his guards to kill her? Make it appear that Tiarnan and his brothers had slain the girl?

Could anyone be that ruthless?

Tiarnan was not one for strategy—he knew this. Knew he was out of his depths trying to guess what a man like Cathán Half-Beard would do. It would only tie him in knots trying to unravel the long rope of his plan. All he could do was act on what his instincts told him to be true. Mauri being here was an impulsive decision on Cathán’s part. He had not been prepared for the Bloodletter to emerge from the curtained chamber, not been prepared to let Tiarnan and his brothers go, and so he had improvised and thrown his daughter into the mix of his deceit.