The big Norseman shook his head woefully. “Many more weeks of this and I’ll have to propose.” The men chuckled. Practicality borne of necessity. War and moving around so much sometimes made women scarce for weeks. “As soon as we finish here, I’ll be making a quick stop on Mull where I’ve got a lusty, wee lass with the biggest, sweetest pair of breasts just waiting for me. Creamy, flawless skin. Nipples the lightest pink and the size of two tiny pearls.” He sighed longingly. “A strong wind, a full belly, and a comely lass. It doesn’t take much to make me a happy man.”
MacSorley wore his devil-may-care attitude well—it was part of what made him so popular and good at defusing tension in the ranks. It even followed him on the battlefield. Tor remembered how shocked he’d been to see the big Viking smiling as he wielded his fearsome battle-axe in the heat of battle.
But Tor didn’t mistake MacSorley’s affability for weakness or softness. Beneath that smile was a core of steel. Only once had Tor seen him lose that roguish grin, but it had been a memorable sight. And people said he was cold and ruthless.
“You going to marry this lass, MacSorley?” Seton asked.
The Viking practically choked on hiscuirm. “God’s blood! Why the hell would I do that, lad? Unlike our patron saint over there,” he motioned to MacKay, “one pair of breasts, no matter how fine, for the rest of my life?” He shuddered. “Besides, wouldn’t want to deprive the rest of the lasses of my expertise.”
“Bugger off, MacSorley,” the surly Highlander growled.
MacKay never talked about women, not like the rest of them. This earned him MacSorley’s curiosity, which when he failed to satisfy, inevitably led to more prodding.
“That’s the most romantic thing I’ve heard you say the entire time you’ve been here,” MacSorley mocked. “Between you and MacLean, it’s hard to say who’s more of a monk.”
MacLean was newly married, though he became silent when the subject arose. For good reason: He’d married a MacDowell—kin to the MacDougalls and Comyns.
“You don’t talk much about your betrothed, Gordon,” Seton said, diverting the attention from MacLean.
Gordon shrugged. “Not much to say, I barely know her.”
“Who is she?” Seton asked.
Gordon hesitated. “Helen, the daughter of William of Moray, Earl of Sutherland.”
Tor happened to be looking at MacKay when Gordon made his pronouncement and saw the flicker of shock and pain that was quickly masked. Gordon must have caught the look in his friend’s face, too, because Tor saw the look of silent apology that he shot him.
Tor understood why Gordon hadn’t said anything before. The MacKays’ bitter feud with the Sutherland clan was well known. But he wondered whether there was more to it.
The talk returned to politics and the speculation on when they would be called to arms. He was grateful for the change of subject, knowing it wouldn’t be long before the Viking turned his prodding in his direction. The last thing Tor wanted to talk about was his wife. He had a job to do, and only when it was complete could he set things right. It would do no good to brood over things he could not change. But the way he’d left her bothered him. He vowed to make it up to her when he returned.
His thoughts turned back to what had happened earlier on the mountain. MacRuairi was seated at the edge of the group, shrouded in darkness, running a sharpening stone over the blade of one of his swords.
Tor got to his feet and walked over to sit beside him. After a moment he said, “It wasn’t you—the recent raids on Skye.”
MacRuairi didn’t bother to look up, but continued running the stone along the blade. “I was under the impression we’d agreed to a truce.”
“I’ve been on the other side of one of your ‘truces’ before.”
If MacRuairi took offense he didn’t show it, but he did set aside his stone. “Aye, but now we are family.” He smiled at Tor’s scowl. “Who else do you think it might be?”
Tor’s expression was grim. “I don’t know. Perhaps Nicolson, but MacDonald assures me he’s been appeased.”
“Perhaps they were not aimed at you, but you were merely a convenient target.”
Tor frowned. “Aye, it’s possible.”
But the attacks didn’t feel opportunistic; they felt personal. It hadn’t just been reiving cattle and stealing crops; his people had been targeted as well. That was one of the reasons he’d suspected MacRuairi.
“When did the last one occur?”
“While I was at Finlaggan.”
“And the one before? Were you gone for that as well?”
Tor shook his head but then remembered. “I was supposed to be, but at the last minute I changed my plans.”
MacRuairi eyed him thoughtfully. “Without time for someone to receive word of the change?”
