They landed a short time later, Broc and Merryn heading in the direction of the cottages they were familiar with.
His father said, “Be back within the hour. We’ll plan to return by then.”
A group of fishermen gathered not far away, chatting, so his sire approached. “Greetings to you. Have you noticed a group of new islanders, the kind you don’t like to see on your isle?”
“Who is asking?” one man asked, the creases in his face evidence of years of fishing expeditions, the deep crevices unable to hide the sharpness in his brown eyes.
“Connor Grant, son of Alexander Grant, Clan Grant of Dulnain Valley of the Highlands.”
One man whistled, while a third man said, “You’re a long way from Dulnain Valley, but you’re as big as your reputation says you are, Grant.”
“I am visiting family on Mull. I was advised someone on this isle has planned an attack on my clan allies at Duart Castle.”
At the mention of Duart Castle, one man nodded to another, and they broke out in smiles. “Bastards think they’ll steal some of our bairns, but they won’t. We’ve been watching them.”
The oldest man, the first one they spoke to, nodded to his father. “You were here before, drove Kelvan off our isle. I remember you.”
“I was.”
“Welcome back.” Connor’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though his hand never strayed far from his weapon. The fisherman pointed toward the other side of the isle. “Follow that path. Fools are hiring mercenaries and bringing them here. We don’t like it.”
Another stepped forward and asked, “Brynja? Is that you?”
She stepped forward, nodding, then ran over to hug one of the men. “Och, lass. We are glad to see you are hale. Where is Hildi?”
“We found our way to Iona. Have lived there. But I wish to get rid of the scum in our old homes.”
“Go, lass. They’re evil men. We’ll follow at a distance, see if you need any help.”
Artan said, “We’ll stay back, but whistle and we’ll come running.”
Connor nodded and the four headed across the isle.
Once they were close, Brynja motioned for them to hush, moving them over to a crest as protection.
They hid and listened, pressing themselves low against the rocky crest. The wind carried voices toward them, harsh laughter and the clatter of weapons being moved. Hagen’s heart hammered in his chest as he counted the speakers. He guessed there were four men and held that number of fingers up to his father, who nodded, his jaw tight. Then Hagen caught another voice, deeper, from farther away. He held up five fingers.
A voice carried to them and Brynja said, “That’s Dugan.”
The voice was closer than the others. “Four score? I think he lied. I think they have only two score. I’ve asked, and I don’t think Granthams are that strong.”
“That’s what he said. And two score more coming.”
“It will be a long time before they can get two score here. You think they have a fleet of Norse boats for the men and their mounts? I say we go now.”
“What is your rush? I thought you were going after bairns first?”
“Nay, we don’t have anyone to care for them yet.”
“We don’t need anyone to care for young lasses.”
“I’ll care for the young lasses.”
A slap sounded. Hagen felt his father’s body go rigid beside him. The air between them crackled with barely contained rage.
Hagen caught the fury in his father’s eyes—a murderous gleam he’d only seen a handful of times in his life. He shook his head at his father, his own hand clamping down on his sire’s forearm in warning, because that was his fear.
“Da, control.” Hagen’s whisper was urgent, desperate. His father’s head was full of vengeance for what the man’s grandfather did to his mother, the beloved Madeline Grant. Connor’s breathing had gone shallow, his muscles coiled like a spring about to snap. “He’s not Niles, either. Focus.”
