Highland Thief Read online

  “Are you a Shield Maiden too, then?” Eirik asked her, without a hint of surprise in his voice.

  Isobel slowed, and Kerr was surprised to see a faint blush steal over her skin. “Nay, I have ne’er been in battle. Sword fighting is not a skill my family taught me.” But then her eyes lit up and a smile formed perfect dimples in her cheeks. “But I can set traps for deserving people, which takes much planning and physical labor. They ne’er see it coming.” She stole a sideways glance at him, and Kerr quirked a brow. He didn’t need to remind her that he had seen it coming—on several occasions. She shrugged and turned her attention back to Eirik. “My clan come to me if they feel they or someone else have been wronged—a slight of a personal nature that is too small an offense for my brother’s attention. I set things right, balance the scales, so to speak. I doona hurt anyone. Only their dignity.”

  Eirik nodded. “It is an important role to play within the community. Otherwise, resentments fester and boil over.”

  The wolf, finished now with the rabbit carcass Eirik had tossed to her, lifted her haunches in the air and stretched out her back. When she rose to her full height, Isobel froze. Kerr stepped fully in front of her again, his weapon at the ready as the blood pounded in his veins.

  God’s blood! The creature is almost double the size of a normal wolf. How can I protect Isobel if they both attack at once?

  Eirik noted their concern and whistled. Siv jumped in the air and bounded toward the brush behind her, disappearing within it. “And bring plump ones this time!” he yelled after her.

  When he glanced back at them, he smiled and lifted a placating hand. “She would never hurt you. Nor would I. You are safe here with us. She wants to feed you, not eat you.”

  “How can you be certain?” Isobel asked, her voice cracking as she poked her head out again from behind Kerr. “She’s an animal. A wild animal.”

  “She’s not an animal to me, Lady MacKinnon. She’s my beloved companion.”

  Lady MacKinnon?

  Every muscle in Kerr’s body loosed and hardened at the same time, ready to protect Isobel at all cost. He searched the glen again for any threats he may have missed. Had he led her into a trap?

  “How do you know the lady’s name?” he asked, his voice low and deadly. He would kill the man first and then take out the wolf when it came to protect him.

  Eirik sat down, grinning, and rummaged through his pack. He brought out some bread, broke it into pieces, and then stretched his arms out to them. A peace offering. “You are a big man, Laird MacAlister, and yet you walk as quietly as a mouse through the woods. But I am even bigger and quieter. And I was listening. Your lady is quite inventive.”

  Isobel turned a brighter shade of red this time, her eyes widening. Most likely, she was thinking over every insult she’d thrown at Kerr today, making Eirik laugh again.

  The man liked to laugh.

  “We saw you land last night,” he said, when he’d caught his breath. “And then we watched you for much of today to make sure the lady was safe.” He nodded at Kerr. “’Tis apparent she’s not the one in trouble.”

  Isobel started giggling, and soon she moved out from behind him and took the final steps toward the fire, Kerr hot on her heels. After taking the bread from Eirik, she sat on the seat he’d made for them.

  “Thank you. I’m starving,” she said, and then winked. “Kerr preferred to walk aimlessly through the woods today rather than feed me.”

  More laughter, then the man grabbed the blade of his axe, which was leaning against the log beside him, and held the handle out to Kerr. “Take it,” he said. “I would ease your mind about my intentions. But if we’re attacked, you’ll have to save me too, and I warn you that I will squeal like a lad upon seeing his first Valkyrie.”

  Isobel snorted. Kerr could tell she was looking at him, and he wondered if she remembered how he’d compared their first kiss to a Valkyrie. He wanted to look at her, to peer into her face, but he didn’t dare take his gaze from Eirik. Not yet, anyway.

  “Throw it to me, instead,” he said. If the man had ulterior motives, he could pull Kerr off balance when he grasped the handle.

  Eirik nodded and tossed the axe to Kerr effortlessly. He grabbed it out of the air without taking his eyes off the other man. The huge, heavy weapon felt good in his hand, perfectly balanced. He would have liked to examine it, but that could wait. It was likely the man had other weapons hidden on his body—the same as Kerr did.

  He laid the axe down and then sat beside Isobel on the log, his sword across his knees and still in his grip.

  When Eirik threw him a hunk of bread, he caught it easily with his other hand and devoured it. All he’d had since waking was an apple taken from a tree when he was trailing behind Isobel. He lowered his guard a little as he ate, knowing that if the wolf approached from behind, Diabhla would warn him. And if Eirik attacked from the front, Kerr would be ready.

  The stranger lifted a leather flask to his lips and swallowed before passing it to Isobel. Kerr tensed, but she received it without incident and took a drink.

  “Is it mead?” she asked as she blotted the excess from her lips with her plaid.

  “Já, honey mead. My grandmother’s recipe.”

  “It’s good. Different than I’ve tasted before.” She took another swig and then passed it to Kerr.

  He looked directly at Eirik as he drank, and then lobbed the flask back to him with a grateful nod. “’Tis verra good. My foster father, Gregor MacLeod, has a love of mead. I’ll endeavor to describe it to him. Mayhap one day you’ll meet him and he can taste it himself.”

  “It would be an honor. I’ve heard much about Laird MacLeod and his five foster sons. The people I’ve met speak of your alliance with hope in their voices. They say you are men of principle and justice.”

  “Aye, it is our intent to bring peace to the Highlands, but ’tis not always easy.”

  Isobel made a scoffing sound in the back of her throat. “’Twas not peace you were bringing to our clans last ni—”

  “Isobel,” he warned. It was one thing to speak of their conflict amongst their family, but not with strangers—even friendly ones.

  Eirik glanced from Kerr to Isobel and back again. “The mead is strong. Even a small amount can loosen your tongue.”

  Kerr nodded, but he suspected Isobel was overly excited—giddy almost—and had forgotten herself. She’d seldom travelled from MacKinnon land…and certainly not since Ewan had been taken from them several years ago. It must feel like a newfound freedom—once she’d gotten over the fear of drowning in the loch.

  Aye, she wasn’t lady here. She had no guards, no rules, no responsibilities. Only her own inner compass to keep her in check—and he’d seen how well that had gone over this morning.

  He sometimes thought she had a far ways to go before she grew into the lady he knew she could be. But other times he would see the way she cared for her people, or how, as Eirik said, the clan responded positively when she “caught” someone in one of her traps, and he knew she was born to lead by his side.

  Lady MacAlister.

  Eirik leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The gold pendant around his neck swung away from the hollow at the base of his throat, and Kerr was close enough to see that it was an intricately carved Viking longship. The sail was billowed, and a dragon’s head adorned the prow.

  “Oh, how magnificent,” Isobel said, her rapt gaze on the pendant.

  Eirik cupped the pendant in his hand. “Thank you. It has been in my family for generations. It is said Odin himself gave it to the first Fyrstr of the Varda, my namesake.”

  “Fyrstr of the Varda?” Isobel asked.

  Eirik paused, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance as if remembering. “In my native language it means…leader of the family…or clan. The Fyrstr was usually a warrior, like one of the great Scottish
lairds, and the Varda was like Laird MacAlister and his allies, watching and protecting good people while fighting against evil.”

  “Is there a female equivalent of the Fyrstr?” Isobel asked.

  “Já, she is called the Fyrsta, and she’s often a warrior too.” Then he sighed and released the pendant. “But those days are nei more. The Varda was scattered to the winds hundreds of years ago. It has only been me and Siv for more moons than I can count.”

  Isobel reached out her hand to the big man. Kerr tensed, but he did not demand she keep her distance. He felt the great sadness in their Norse companion and knew there was much more to the story than he was telling. What had happened to his people?

  After a moment, Eirik lifted his hand too, and Isobel squeezed it. “You and Siv are welcome anytime at my keep.”

  “Our keep,” Kerr corrected, “at Clan MacAlister. And as Isobel said, her brother’s keep too, once he’s met you.”

  Isobel gave him such a look, her eyes wide with disbelief and her mouth pursed in an offended moue at his presumptuousness, that Eirik’s laughter boomed once more through the glen.

  His entire body shook with it, and it was so loud Kerr could barely hear himself think. Fortunately, he also couldn’t hear Isobel scolding him—saving him from her sharp tongue and drowning out any additional refusals from her to marry him.

  When Eirik toppled backward over the log, his legs as big as tree trunks and pointing straight up into the air, Kerr burst into laughter too. Isobel maintained her scowl for as long as she could, before finally shaking her head and joining in.

  Their eyes met, and she was so lovely, so filled with joy, that he took his gaze from Eirik—for a second—and lost himself in her.

  It was a moment cut from time. Perfect in its beauty and clarity, and he felt so much love for the woman sitting next to him, it seemed like his chest might burst from the pressure.

  Then the huge wolf, Siv, appeared at her side, dwarfing her, with a mouth full of torn carcasses and her teeth dripping with blood. Siv turned her head and stared directly at him, the ice-blue of her eyes chilling.

  Kerr stilled—other than to grip the hilt of his sword and wrap his other hand around Isobel’s arm, ready to pull her from harm. His laughter died abruptly, and when Isobel saw his expression, hers did too. She whipped her head around and let out a startled squeak.

  He waited, not wanting to spook the animal or drive its instinct to attack.

  Then the wolf dropped five plump dead rabbits at Isobel’s feet, threw back her head, and howled.

  Thirteen

  Kerr stretched his legs out on the ground in front of him as he studied Eirik’s battle axe, his back against the log he’d been sitting on earlier. It was a beast of a weapon, with double-sided blades, an extra-long wooden haft wrapped in leather and then reinforced with langets, and an edge so sharp he’d cut his skin just by resting his thumb upon it. And it was heavy, heavier than any other axe he’d hefted. Few men could wield such a weapon, and he suspected if Eirik ever used it against him, he’d slice Kerr in two and send him straight across Bifröst and into Valhalla.

  “Do not touch the blade,” Eirik said from where he stretched out on the other side of the fire, his head resting comfortably against the fallen tree, his eyes closed. They’d eaten their fill of roasted rabbit, greens, and barley that Eirik had thrown in a pot and cooked over the fire, before finishing with apples and cheese. Eirik, like Gregor, carried his own container of spices with which to season the meat.

  It had been delicious.

  “Too late,” Kerr said. “If Isobel asks, I’ll say you threw the weapon at me and I caught it in my bare hands—with only the smallest of scratches.”

  Eirik grinned, his eyes still closed. “A worthy warrior for such a fine lady.”

  “Now you say that…when she’s not here,” Kerr chastised—much to Eirik’s amusement.

  He looked toward the woods where Isobel had taken an adoring Siv to wash her muzzle a few minutes ago. The two females had become fast friends when Siv had laid her head on Isobel’s lap after presenting the rabbits to her, and then fallen asleep as Isobel had stroked her ears, twirling her fingers through the thick, soft fur, a look of wonder on her face.

  He felt strangely at ease with the outlander, strange because he hadn’t known Eirik long, and lowering his guard could put Isobel at risk, especially with a dangerous predator in their midst. But Kerr had had no indication—either by their actions or his own intuition—that the huge man or the wolf meant them harm.

  Nay, it was the opposite. He felt with a certitude, deep down in his bones, that they were safe.

  Still, that didn’t mean someone else couldn’t do them harm. And Isobel and Siv were well and truly out of sight. He couldn’t even hear Isobel anymore, talking to the wolf as they walked away, her hand resting on the animal’s flank.

  “Doona worry, Laird MacAlister,” Eirik said. “No harm will come to your woman. Siv would alert me if someone else approached. And if we were taken by surprise, she would protect Isobel with her life.” He opened his eyes and looked straight at Kerr. “Trust me.”

  “I do.” He looked back down at the huge axe and shook his head. “I doona understand it, but I do.”

  Eirik grinned. “It is because of Siv. Everyone is enamored with her.”

  Kerr snorted. “Aye, the giant wolf with the giant bloody fangs put me right at ease.”

  The big man barked out a laugh. “But she brought back all those plump rabbits—filled your belly. She’ll return Isobel safe and sound so you can play more games with your beloved.”

  Kerr grunted, and then hefted the axe in his hand and swung it down in an arc—right to left, left to right, over his head—as if he were fighting someone. He dropped his arm back down, the muscles strained from maneuvering the heavy weapon so quickly. “I doona want to play games anymore. I want to call Isobel my own.”

  Eirik nodded. “You were right to bring her here. She leans toward you, seeks you out, but she pushes you away at the same time. Something needs to shift between the two of you.”

  “I hope her brother sees it that way. I could lose her and my closest friend…and cause a rift within our alliance for stealing her away—even if she did set it in motion.”

  “Marry her, and I am sure Laird MacKinnon will forgive you—if he believes she is happy.”

  “I’m trying, but she makes it difficult.”

  “Nei, she is already halfway there.”

  Kerr lowered the axe and raised his brows. “Truly?”

  “Já. But what do I know about women? I bungled everything with my vif. It is only by Odin’s grace she agreed to be mine.”

  Kerr’s eyes widened. “You’re married?”

  “Já.”

  “But you’re…you’re…”

  “A lone wolf?” The big man burst into laughter again at his jest. When it died down, he said, “I will see her soon. She is with a friend now.”

  “She’s travelling with you?”

  “Já. You do not think I would look this good without a vif, do you?”

  Kerr grinned. “Nay, I doona suppose you would.” He dropped his gaze back down to the weapon in his lap and traced his fingers over the intricate gold inlay along the blade—in the shape of Norse runes, wolves, the sun, and the moon. “It’s beautiful,” he said.

  “Thank you. It was my father’s blade, and my grandfather’s before that.”

  “Have you had to use it much?”

  He nodded. “There is much evil in this world. I do as you and your brothers do—try to bring peace where I can. Sometimes that peace comes with a swing of my blade.”

  Kerr studied the other man. “What happened to your people? Did you lead them? Or your father?”

  “Not in recent years, nei, but before we left our homeland, my ancestors did. Over time, my people have scatt
ered, searching for a new home, but I am happy as long as I have Siv by my side…and my vif, of course.”

  Kerr snorted. “Of course.” He heard a bark in the distance and the familiar sound of Isobel’s laughter. It made him smile; Eirik, too. “How are you getting around?” Kerr asked. “I doona see any horses. Are you travelling on foot?”

  “We have a longship—small enough that I can handle it myself. I built it when we first crossed the sea to Orkney. It is hidden in a cove north of here.”

  Kerr leaned forward. “Eirik, you can make your home with us. If you want to settle, I would be happy to have you at Clan MacAlister. Or at the homes of any of my brothers and our foster father, Gregor MacLeod. I would vouch for you. Isobel would too.”

  Eirik sat up and stretched his arm out to Kerr. The men clasped arms over the fire in the way of warriors and brothers. “Thank you. It is an honor you have bestowed upon us. I will speak to my vif about a short stay, but I doona think our home is in the Highlands, as much as I like it here.”

  Kerr nodded, squeezed Eirik’s arm, and sat back. He could hear Siv and Isobel approaching through the brush. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Diabhla stayed calm, and was amazed to see him standing at ease, munching on some grass on the other side of the glen—the same as when Siv first brought back the rabbits. The stallion wasn’t bothered by the giant predator at all. Maybe the beast smelled domesticated to the horse, like one of Darach’s hounds.

  “Laird MacAlis—”

  “Please, call me Kerr,” he interrupted. He wasn’t much for formality—none of the brothers were.

  Eirik nodded. “What are your plans? If you want some time alone with Lady Isobel, there is an abandoned cabin a half day’s ride from here. I stayed there with Siv for a few nights when we first arrived. We followed the creek inland from the beach. The bed is in decent condition, and we left firewood and kindling in the basket by the hearth.”

  “Sounds ideal,” Kerr said, returning his gaze to watch for Isobel and Siv at the edge of the glen. “I stayed in a hunting cabin out this way when I was younger. It could be the same place—inland from a long promontory. The creek widens and churns over the rocks a few miles farther east.”