Da would not want him to deal with the Norse. No more than Borach or old Fergus did.
He took off walking down to the shore, moving swiftly and then heading northward. He preferred the trail to the south, a good place to be alone and gather his thoughts. Here, the sheds of the fishers and boatbuilders lined the shore along with a few huts that soon petered out into rough gorse and seagrass.
He trudged on, and the rocks lining the shingle grew larger, as if scattered by a giant’s hand.
Here, so the old stories told, the hero Adair MacMurtray—an ancestor of Quarrie’s hailing from Ireland—had come ashore with his woman to save the settlement, him being a warrior of some renown. Long, long ago that had been. He had taken over the settlement and, if one could believe the scholars and shanachies, led it well.
The man’s blood still ran through Quarrie’s veins. It made a connection. And a responsibility. Those of his blood had been protecting this place a long while.
Should he be the one to crack open the door and admit an enemy?
He rounded a jut of rock that stuck out into the quiet ocean, and stood looking. Here, around this curve of the headland, lay a narrow inlet not unlike the one on the far island toward which Hulda’s boat now headed like a homing gull. Room for one small ship, no more. A rough knoll of land that was not in use, but MacMurtray land. His to lend or gift, if he chose.
He could place them here, the Norse. House them in this wild and disused place like a hound at its master’s door.
From here, she could miss nothing that moved up or down the coast. From here she could sally out to do her marauding.
Not his folk, though. She would not harm his own.
How far would a man go to protect what he loved? To be near what he—
But nay. He did not love her. He could not possibly. He was taken by her, aye. Attracted. Fascinated. But…
Och, let him at least be honest about it. He had never wanted anything the way he wanted Hulda. Had never imagined wanting anything so much.
Must he sacrifice a desire so bright to the will of his people? Aye, so. A chief did sacrifice. He had only to look at his da to remember that.
She had been right about one thing, though. As chief, this decision was ultimately his and his alone.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Aboat, mistress!Just rounding the mouth of the inlet.”
Hulda narrowed her eyes against the light of the morning. Another glorious day it was, with pale blue skies and a sea as still as a mirror glass.
A boat approached, ja. A very small one. Only one man aboard, and her breath caught in her throat at the flash of auburn in his hair. She knew him even without seeing him clearly.
“I think it is yon chief,” Garik said. “The one with whom you went to speak.”
Of course it was. She had told him he might row out to see her here, though she had not believed he would.
He had come to her. Just as she had returned to him.
She climbed up on the rail beside Freya’s prow, the better to see. He rowed strongly, the lithe grace of his body visible in its movements. She had seen a great deal of him yesterday, when he wore naught but his rough kilt. Sinew and smooth muscle and…
Everything a woman could desire.
This man.This man.
He came alone, armed with courage. She stood and watched, barely breathing. It felt as if the whole world moved. As if she stood upon the rim of a wheel that shifted.
The craft was made of wood covered in hide. When he drew near enough, he shipped the oars.
“Mistress Hulda,” he called up to her, “come aboard. I ha’ somewhat to show ye.”
Before Hulda could move, Helje seized her arm. “You had best not go alone.”
“There is room in that boat for but two.”
