Katrin had argued with Da about that, before ever he sent for these men. He believed he owed a duty of loyalty and fealty to Randolph, even if it beggared them.
It just might.
Eyeing the soldiers, she wondered what it would take to keep them fed. At the same time, something in her soul responded to the sight of them. She’d always had an attraction to a man fitted for war. And these were definitely warriors, flagrant males to the core. What woman could keep from responding to that?
The officers—three of them, to her understanding—would require separate accommodation. She would put two of them together. The captain in the harper’s former hut.
As the daughter of the house, she needed to go forward, speak to the men and determine which of them was, in fact, the captain.
Unless she could pick him out.
Da had already gone rushing forth greeting the men and providing a hearty welcome. Katrin narrowed her eyes as she watched him. The men all moved with a certain amount of authority. One of them…
He was tall, as were they all, his fair hair long and braided, carrying a touch of red. He wore two long mustaches framing a generous mouth and was clad in armor of leather and mail that fit him like a second skin. He fair bristled with weapons, including a great claymore worn across his back. Pure masculinity, in fact, on the hoof.
Indeed, for an instant Katrin lost her breath. Who was he? He had to be their leader, such a man.
It seemed so, for Da had fallen in at his side. Together they moved toward her.
She went down the steps, paused on the bottom one so that when the men reached her, they were all of a height.
“Katrin, this is Reagan O’Hanlon.”
Irish.He was an Irish warrior.
For an instant, there in the sun of the yard, Katin’s vision blurred.She saw another man, one with a mane of auburn hair and a steady, hazel gaze. Foremost among the warriors.
She saw him with his sword in hand aboard a chariot, riding away to battle. Away from her.
This man’s sword remained strapped across his back, and at his belt he wore a war axe such as the Norse had been want to carry—or so the old stories such as Finlay gave them told. A knife strapped to one shin. The man was a walking arsenal.
Och, was this what they had come to?
“Master O’Hanlon,” she said.
He focused on her, and it felt like being pinned by a wildcat. Tawny eyes he had, with a feline intensity of attention. A cat, tracking its dinner.
“Mistress.” A deep, gravelly voice that caused the skin on the back of her neck to prickle.
Refusing to be intimidated by him or anyone, Katrin drew herself up and met his gaze. “I understand your men will bivouac in the bailey.”
“That is so. From what I have seen, they should be comfortable enough.” The wings of his mustache wiggled as his wide lips curved. “They are not accustomed, ye understand, to soft beds.”
“Aye, so. I ha’ other accommodations for yoursel’ and your commanders. If ye will come wi’ me.”
He turned and bellowed over his shoulder, “William! Conyer.”
Two other men peeled off from the group and, with a certain gravity, O’Hanlon introduced them. William was dark with the devil in his eyes and Conyer brown as a bear.
Sweet heaven, the women of the settlement were going to lose their heads over this lot.
“This is the chief’s daughter,” O’Hanlon informed the pair, “and mistress o’ the house. Ye will make sure the men treat her accordingly.”
A surprising thing to say. Did he imagine otherwise?
“Do your men tend to grow impolite, Master O’Hanlon?” she inquired with weighty calm. “We have young lasses about, and children.”
His gaze did not flicker from her face. “My men know their jobs and are very good at them. But they do get bored when idle, and therein lies the danger. ’Tis my understanding we will need to tarry here till your father’s lord calls us up.”
