Her only option was to help Lorna escape.All her attempts to force them together had been met with failure and ensuring he heard the men’s laughter to alert him of Lorna’s getaway had been a mistake.She should have let the woman go and thought of some other way of bringing them together.The problem was, once war was upon them, she’d have little control.By the stars, Logan might even die in battle, and where would that leave them?Either way, fate was way off course, and the fae council would scold her heartily.Any freedoms she’d enjoyed from being known as a master matchmaker would vanish in a puff of faery dust.
Tèile drew in a long breath and stretched out her wings.On the morrow, she concluded.On the morrow Lorna must be assisted in her escape.She only hoped there was some way of persuading Logan to join her before the eve of battle.Even a faery had little power against the bloodshed humans wrought.
A tingle ran through her wings and she smiled to herself.At least she could have a little fun with that bad Viking in the meantime.Logan’s actions had placed him in danger and regardless of what she thought of the man’s foolish behaviour toward Lorna, she could not allow him to be harmed in any way.
Rising up, she studied the pacing man for a moment and gave a roll of her eyes.Willing to face punishment for her, yet unable to see the truth behind Lorna’s words.Men were indeed fools.Giving a dismissive sniff, she went in search of the Viking.
Tèile found him in the armoury, passed out with his head on the small table at the centre of the room.By the looks of it he had decided to cure the pain from his likely broken nose with a vast quantity of wine.She dabbed a finger in the goblet of red liquid and licked it.
She grimaced.Not even good wine.The man might have knocked himself senseless for the moment but he’d awaken with a mighty fine headache to match his throbbing nose.Not that he deserved anything less.
Perching by his shoulder, she flicked a finger his way.A few dreams and some whispered words, and mayhap he’d believe it was all a dream.A grin flew across her face.Oh!She could even have some words with his companions.By morning, the tales of his drunken state and the way he’d stumbled and broken his nose would be all about the keep and Ivar would think he’d simply been a great big fool.
Tèile chuckled silently to herself.This was what she enjoyed the most.Meddling with silly human men.If only Logan was as easily dealt with.So twisted and confused was he, she feared even a bucketful of faery magic would have no effect.
Nay, only Lorna’s love could fix him, she suspected.And Tèile had no power over human emotions.Which was a mighty shame.What fun it would be if she did.
***
Logan paced until sunrise.His body ached and his finger throbbed in silent agony, but he barely heeded it.His neck often twinged and he was sure his body remembered everything it had suffered at times.Pain had become commonplace.
As had confusion and conflict.
How could a man with no memory be any other way?Yet he had never beenthisconflicted.He used his fingers to run furrows through his hair and gripped the back of his neck with one hand as he paused to watch the orange sunrise drip through the rear windows of the hall.It spilled onto main table and dappled across the bottom of the wooden stairs.It even trickled into the shadowy arches surrounding doorways, erasing the lingering gloom from the hall like liquid gold.For many, a day like today would bring promise.For him, it only brought dread—a deep heavy weight drawing his heart down into his gut.
Another day spent watching Lorna suffer the attentions of Ivar, of every man in the keep eyeing her as if they hoped she would deign to send even just a smile their way.Endless hours of preparations for a war he no longer knew if he even wanted a part of.If the Norsemen thought so little of Scotswomen as to force themselves upon one, did he want a part in that?Would he witness further savagery in the midst of battle as he fought his own people?Men waged war, that was their nature and as such, bloodshed did not send a whirl of tightness into his muscles, but the innocent lasses and children...He hardly thought Gillean would care for their fate at the hands of the Norse.
He scuffed his hands across his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to erase the gritty, itching sensation brought on from exhaustion.He often functioned off little sleep but since taking Lorna captive, he didn’t think he’d had more than a few hours a night.Of course, he hadn’t wanted to leave his post outside her door in case Ivar returned, but the Norseman had slunk off and was likely nursing his wounds.Who knew what wrath he might have to face this day, but he cared little what revenge the man had in mind.
Nay, a certain golden-haired, fiery lass plagued his thoughts.Did she really think he would believe such tales?A son?He snorted to himself.As if a lass so fine would ever lie with a man like himself.But the distressed noises he’d heard coming from her chamber echoed through his mind.Small sobs, great gasping sounds of pain.Even now, they made his heart pull.The lass had a son, that much had been true, or else she was even more accomplished at lying than he had realised.He supposed desperation drove a person to do many things—even make up ludicrous tales.A mother would likely do anything for a child.
Envy struck sharp and deep.Did he even have a mother?Or had she abandoned him to the world long ago?Shaking away such thoughts, he made his way down the stairs and past the rousing members of the household.Ivar would not dare to do anything in the light of day, but what of the next night?Logan could not stand guard forever.Fatigue ate into every inch of him.Lorna’sliesate into him.She muddled his thoughts and confused his body.Even the few days left with her before they went to war seemed too long.The conflict raging inside had brought him to the edge and he feared if he stayed around her any longer, she might draw him over that edge like a siren, beckoning him to dash his body upon the rocks.After all, had he not defied his laird by fighting with his guests?Already, she had broken through his vow to serve his laird.What other damage could she wreak?
Logan strode out of the hall and across the courtyard.With the dry weather, the mud had become brittle and puffs of it swirled into the air as a fresh wind blew over the stone walls and surrounded the castle.He inhaled that air and felt nothing but trepidation.No thrill of impending battle surged through his muscles, no anticipation of all the glory to come made a tiny smile crease his face.His taste for it, it seemed, had vanished.
His first stop was to check on the men on the walls.He paused to speak with the guards and they confirmed all had been quiet.Then he stopped beside the gatehouse and checked the barrels of pitch.Should the MacRaes have discovered they had taken Lorna, they could expect the clan at their gate before they had a chance to ride out and meet them.As it was, he thought it strange not even a messenger had arrived yet to negotiate.
Satisfied they could withstand an attack, he took the steps down to the bailey and visited the blacksmith.The man had been working tirelessly to ensure they had sufficient arrows for the impending battle.Remorse yanked at his gut once more.No one knew of Gillean’s plans.They would come upon undefended, unprepared enemy, and Gillean would cut a swathe of blood across the country until the Western Isles and the coastline belonged to him.With the support of the Norse king, the King of Scots would be forced to surrender the land for good.
The bitter tang of the smoky air clogged his throat when he stepped into the outer building.Though the Blackie wasn’t there, Logan saw the evidence of a late night, with many arrowheads piled to one side.He released a sigh and knew he’d have to do what he didn’t want to do—return to the keep and risk meeting Lorna.
Ach, that woman dug under his skin and made him itch.Did she cry still or had she drawn herself up into that noble posture, with her pointed chin lifted, her pert nose in the air?He recalled staring down at her nose and counting the freckles as she kissed his injured hand.In his short memory no one had cared for his injuries.How different would his recovery have been with her at his side?
He stopped at the well to bathe briefly, stripping down to the waist and dashing icy water over his face and chest.His skin prickled and he shuddered, but he welcomed the bite of cold drops on his skin.It eased away any heated thoughts or wishes.If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall too easily for that lass’s lies.To believe he had lain between those creamy thighs and heard her sighs or his name on her lips, was too enticing indeed.
As he dressed, his traitorous gaze drifted to the window of her chamber.The shutters were thrown open and he could have sworn he caught sight of the swish of a chemise.He clutched his fists at his side.How easy would it be to stride up there, pretend he believed her and take her against the wall, hard and fast, like the savage peasant he was.Would she deny him?Attraction might swirl between them but there was no changing what he was—a battered, scarred nobody.Mayhap he would call her bluff and when she denied him, he would know for certain she had lied.
But he knew that already, did he not?
And, of course, the risk was she’d say aye and then he’d be lost to her.He suspected a moment of freely touching that soft skin and kissing her with abandon would be the end for him.Everything he’d worked for would be dashed by that vixen.
Logan rubbed his temples and strode to the kitchen steps.He needed to be concentrating on proving his worth to Laird Gillean,notagonising over that woman.He took the steps quickly and paused outside the door.It was ajar and the voices of several men drifted up.
Norsemen.Was Ivar amongst them?He listened hard but could not make out the sound of his voice.He had to face the Viking at some point but he’d rather not do it in the company of his companions.
Crooking his neck, he pushed through the door and took the few wooden steps down to the dark kitchen.A handful of servants and the cook scurried around the men who were clearly in the way of the morning preparations.With their boots propped on the table, they looked to be deep in their cups already.Scattered beakers and several jugs sat next to the dusty soles of their leather shoes.One—Olvir—dropped his feet from the table and lifted his beaker in greeting.It seemed none knew of his altercation with Ivar yet then.
“Good morrow, Logan, have you come in search of drink?I fear we may have emptied the stores of it already.”
