Highland Thief by Alyson McLayne

Twelve

Kerr grasped the end of Diabhla’s lead in one hand, his sword in the other, and heaved a frustrated sigh as he trailed behind Isobel through the woods. He couldn’t see her anymore—he’d deliberately fallen back out of sight in a failed attempt to bring her to heel—but he could still hear her as she cursed and stomped through the underbrush like an angry boar.

Occasionally, she shouted a barbed insult at him which usually involved more cursing and a fair amount of name-calling. He would have felt guilty about putting her in this situation except he could tell by the tone of her voice and the feistiness of her insults that deep down she was relishing their adventure. Only his Isobel would consider a morning of wandering aimlessly through the forest, besieged by mud, sharp twigs, and insects, in another laird’s territory—after she’d been kidnapped—a fine way to spend the day.

Although she would never tell him that. Quite the opposite.

Aye, if she were truly unhappy, she would be poking his chest in furious condemnation and yelling at him. The difference was subtle, and maybe other people wouldn’t see it, but to him it was obvious.

She was enjoying their game—except Kerr wasn’t playing.

Last night, she’d stayed with him after he’d found them shelter and built a fire to keep them warm. He’d wanted to hold her as they slept, sharing their body warmth and his spare plaid while their others dried near the fire, but she’d kept her distance—and he’d insisted she keep his plaid.

But when he’d woken briefly, as light began to creep over the horizon, he discovered she’d moved a little closer and had stretched out the plaid in the night to cover them both, giving him hope for their future. The second time he’d awoken, he’d been fully covered and she’d been pinning her now-dry arisaid in place—and then refused to wait for him as he strode out to a point to get his bearings. He was pretty sure a hunting cabin he’d been to as a young man was only a few hours’ ride away. He would have liked to take her there, but she refused to follow him in the direction he wanted to go.

Instead, she’d turned the opposite way. When the trail she’d been following petered out, she forged her own path through the woods—without any kind of sword or dagger to clear the way.

He’d tried to reason with her, to cajole her into cooperating, but she wouldn’t be swayed. He’d even tried to intimidate her with a pointed glare and growl in his voice that would have frozen the most seasoned warrior in his tracks. But not Isobel…nay, she just kept walking away from him with no purpose in mind other than to do the opposite of whatever he wanted.

And part of him rejoiced at that. Aye, he’d worried that the bond between them had been broken over the years, but he could see now that Isobel trusted him completely with her well-being. She was not afraid to stand up to him or disregard his wishes, and it was obvious she had no fear that he would abandon her, no matter how much she pushed him away. Even when she couldn’t see or hear him trailing behind her through the woods, she still believed he was there…that he would never leave her. Otherwise, what was the point of all the insults?

“God save us!” she exclaimed from the other side of the bramble bush he’d been walking quietly beside. “’Tis your changeling I’m looking at, Laird MacAlister. A knotted, wicked-looking stump that could be your brother—with your wooden heart too.”

He squinted at the bramble bush between them, but he couldn’t see her…or his stumpy likeness. A clever retort sat on the tip of his tongue, but he would not reveal himself to her until she called out for him.

If he did, his only option would be to follow docilely behind her or lift her up in front of him on Diabhla and ride away. But that was a last resort. To do so was far more of a betrayal than stealing away with her on the loch.

She’d put herself on the boat, even when she couldn’t swim. She’d trapped herself. Forcing her to ride away with him would be using his strength against her.

Besides, he’d gotten what he wanted—time alone with Isobel away from her castle and clan. He would wait her out. She’d need him soon enough. Her stubbornness was no match for her being tired, cold, and hungry.

“Did you hear me, Kerr? I said—”

She stopped talking in midsentence, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. He listened intently, his sword ready to hack through the bushes in one slice to get to her.

Her steps had also stopped, but he could hear nothing else alarming. Was she toying with him, seeing if he would reveal himself? Or was someone else there? Or something?

To hell with his plan. He dropped Diabhla’s lead and brought his great claymore down on the brambles in front of him, just as Isobel screamed—a real scream. He leapt through the gap, the prickles scratching at his plaid, but he didn’t see her.

There! The bottom of her skirts, almost camouflaged by the underbrush, poked out from behind the trunk of a large Scots pine. He raced to her in several strides, faster than he’d ever run before. The dead leaves and twigs scattered under his feet. More of her became visible as he drew near. Her plaid was open, the hood hanging down her back and her hair loosely braided over one shoulder. Her hand covered her mouth while the other gripped the tree beside her.

Grasping her arm, he pulled her behind him and scanned the small clearing in front of them for danger—his sword raised and his weight balanced perfectly on his feet. A man about Kerr’s age sat in front of a small fire, eating his meal of what looked like roasted rabbit. A huge battle axe—as big as Kerr had ever seen—rested beside him against a fallen log.

He was as dark as a MacAlister but for his eyes, which even from this distance Kerr could see were a bright blue. And even though he was sitting down, the man was obviously larger than him, which was surprising because Kerr had outgrown the biggest man he’d ever met—Gregor—by the time he was sixteen years old.

A veritable giant, the stranger looked as unconcerned to see a hardened and skilled warrior raise his sword to him as he might if a cook in the MacKinnon kitchens had swung a carrot with deadly purpose.

“Kerr,” Isobel squeaked from behind his shoulder. “The wolf!”

The gigantic man glanced behind the log to where a patch of sunlight shone through the trees. Kerr followed his gaze, and his eyes widened at seeing the tip of a gray tail poking out from behind one end of the log and the tops of two soft-looking white ears poking out from the other end. A wolf, indeed. And a large one, if the length from tip to tail was any indication.

“She sleeps,” the man said, reaching behind the log to pat what apparently was a monster wolf. “She brought me one rabbit and ate the remaining five. She’s mad at me.”

The man spoke with an unusual accent, which sounded like it had a Norse influence. A sell-sword, perhaps? His clothing was not typical of a Scot—he wore leather braies and a fur vest, with golden arm bands around massive biceps. Light glinted off a gold pendant that rested in the hollow of his throat.

His dark hair hung to his waist, braided at the sides and tied back—neat and clean without the tangles or mats common for a lone male traveler. His clothing was neat and clean too, with signs of repair rather than thread worn and ripped.

Kerr lowered his sword to waist-level and scanned the glen. When he saw no sign of other men, or worse, other wolves, he returned his gaze to the stranger, who now gnawed on a bone.

The man dropped his hand to his leg and grunted in frustration. “She gave me the skinniest one, too, greedy female.” He tossed the small bone over the log and a soft growl emerged from behind it, the ears twitching.

Isobel pressed closer to Kerr’s back, her hands clenching his waist and her body shuddering. It felt good to have her leaning on him—both physically and emotionally—and for a moment, he considered what he could say or do to make her press even closer. The man grinned at Kerr, revealing straight, well-cared-for teeth, and Kerr was suddenly reminded of his foster brothers—especially when the stranger lifted a brow and tossed another bone at the wolf, who growled again and then yawned. She emitted a funny little squeak at the end of the yawn, and sat up on her elbows to stare at them over the log.

A chill ran down Kerr’s spine when he saw the she-wolf, yet at the same time he couldn’t help admiring her beauty, even with blood still crusted on her white muzzle. The light-gray markings around her blue eyes were perfectly symmetrical, and her ears looked soft enough to touch. Her head, however, was so large that Kerr worried about the size of her body. If she attacked, would he be able to stop her?

Behind him Diabhla let out an agitated huff. Kerr was glad to have the big stallion at his back, but at the same time, he worried about him. Would the wolf try to take him down?

“A magnificent creature,” the other man said, referring to Diabhla. “He is safe. You are all safe. We do not hunt humans or working animals.”

When the wolf flopped back down out of sight, Kerr slowly lowered his weapon. “Where are you from, outlander? I canna place your accent, although it has certain peculiarities of Norse travelers I have met.”

“My mother was born in that place, but I was raised farther south on the mainland. I travelled to Orkney several years ago, and I’ve slowly been making my way south to Cambria. I like the legends I’ve heard about that land—of kings, wizards, and magical swords.”

Isobel relaxed her grip on his waist, and he knew she was listening, her curiosity piqued. He hadn’t known she was so frightened of wolves, but he suspected that she had seen the animal before it lay down—and it was indeed a giant.

“And how did you meet your travelling companion? Did you raise her as a pup?” He’d heard of a few other men, loners mostly, who had taken in wolf pups and lived with them like they were dogs. “Is she your pet?”

The traveler barked out a laugh. The sound boomed across the glen, and Kerr actually felt it vibrate through his body.

“Já, she’s my pet. She comes when I call her and chases her tail when I command it!” He patted the wolf behind the log again—loud whacks with the flat of his hand. “Sit up, puppy! Roll over, puppy!”

“Not so rough! You’ll hurt her,” Isobel commanded, sounding like herself again. Kerr doubted she was right; the wolf had several layers of thick fur over bone and muscle. Still, he couldn’t help smiling at the tone of her voice as she spoke to this giant, dangerous-looking Norseman.

The wolf sat up again, a blur of movement, and clenched the man’s hand in her jaws. Just as quickly, the man grabbed her head behind her ears with his other hand and they tussled for a moment before the man leaned over and kissed the wolf’s forehead. His fingers dug into the side of her neck and kneaded deeply. The wolf released the man’s hand, closed her eyes with a groan and leaned into his fingers.

After one final scratch, the man let go and straightened in his seat. The wolf shook her head and rested her chin on the log, this time watching them with ice-blue eyes.

The man stood, rising about a half foot taller than Kerr, and bowed his head in greeting. “I am Eirik Kron. Come, sit with us.” He waved them toward the fire, and then tossed the remains of the rabbit from the spit to the wolf. She caught the carcass in her mouth and crunched down. “We have guests, Siv, and little to feed them. Bring back more rabbits, and don’t eat them all this time.”

The she-wolf’s name was Siv? It sounded familiar to him—like he’d read it during his youth at Gregor’s keep. Master MacBean, their tutor, had made him and his foster brothers study Norse mythology as well as other tales and legends. He was certain Siv was someone’s wife. Or Sif, maybe.

“What a bonnie name,” Isobel said, stepping out from behind him. She hesitated for a moment before walking toward the giant man and his pet wolf. Kerr switched his weapon to his other hand, so his sword arm was on the opposite side of Isobel, and then stayed half a step ahead of her.

“’Twas Thor’s wife’s name, correct?” Isobel asked.

“Já.” A pleased smile crossed Eirik’s face. He stepped toward the edge of the glen, and with one hand, he lifted a huge log from the brush, dragged it to the fire as if it weighed no more than a spindly branch, and laid it down for them to sit upon. “You’ve read the stories, then?” he asked, brushing off the dirt and removing any twigs that stuck up from the bark. “Siv is a common name for females among my people.”

“Aye,” Isobel said excitedly. “I read the Poetic Edda over and over when I was younger—it is a much cherished addition to our library. My ancestors are Norse. ’Tis said my grandfather, many generations back, crossed the sea and conquered this land. The story goes that his wife, Hilde, was a Shield Maiden who fought by his side. They named their first daughter Siv.”

“Are you a Shield Maiden too, then?” Eirik asked her, without a hint of surprise in his voice.

Isobel slowed, and Kerr was surprised to see a faint blush steal over her skin. “Nay, I have ne’er been in battle. Sword fighting is not a skill my family taught me.” But then her eyes lit up and a smile formed perfect dimples in her cheeks. “But I can set traps for deserving people, which takes much planning and physical labor. They ne’er see it coming.” She stole a sideways glance at him, and Kerr quirked a brow. He didn’t need to remind her that he had seen it coming—on several occasions. She shrugged and turned her attention back to Eirik. “My clan come to me if they feel they or someone else have been wronged—a slight of a personal nature that is too small an offense for my brother’s attention. I set things right, balance the scales, so to speak. I doona hurt anyone. Only their dignity.”

Eirik nodded. “It is an important role to play within the community. Otherwise, resentments fester and boil over.”

The wolf, finished now with the rabbit carcass Eirik had tossed to her, lifted her haunches in the air and stretched out her back. When she rose to her full height, Isobel froze. Kerr stepped fully in front of her again, his weapon at the ready as the blood pounded in his veins.

God’s blood! The creature is almost double the size of a normal wolf. How can I protect Isobel if they both attack at once?

Eirik noted their concern and whistled. Siv jumped in the air and bounded toward the brush behind her, disappearing within it. “And bring plump ones this time!” he yelled after her.

When he glanced back at them, he smiled and lifted a placating hand. “She would never hurt you. Nor would I. You are safe here with us. She wants to feed you, not eat you.”

“How can you be certain?” Isobel asked, her voice cracking as she poked her head out again from behind Kerr. “She’s an animal. A wild animal.”

“She’s not an animal to me, Lady MacKinnon. She’s my beloved companion.”

Lady MacKinnon?

Every muscle in Kerr’s body loosed and hardened at the same time, ready to protect Isobel at all cost. He searched the glen again for any threats he may have missed. Had he led her into a trap?

“How do you know the lady’s name?” he asked, his voice low and deadly. He would kill the man first and then take out the wolf when it came to protect him.

Eirik sat down, grinning, and rummaged through his pack. He brought out some bread, broke it into pieces, and then stretched his arms out to them. A peace offering. “You are a big man, Laird MacAlister, and yet you walk as quietly as a mouse through the woods. But I am even bigger and quieter. And I was listening. Your lady is quite inventive.”

Isobel turned a brighter shade of red this time, her eyes widening. Most likely, she was thinking over every insult she’d thrown at Kerr today, making Eirik laugh again.

The man liked to laugh.

“We saw you land last night,” he said, when he’d caught his breath. “And then we watched you for much of today to make sure the lady was safe.” He nodded at Kerr. “’Tis apparent she’s not the one in trouble.”

Isobel started giggling, and soon she moved out from behind him and took the final steps toward the fire, Kerr hot on her heels. After taking the bread from Eirik, she sat on the seat he’d made for them.

“Thank you. I’m starving,” she said, and then winked. “Kerr preferred to walk aimlessly through the woods today rather than feed me.”

More laughter, then the man grabbed the blade of his axe, which was leaning against the log beside him, and held the handle out to Kerr. “Take it,” he said. “I would ease your mind about my intentions. But if we’re attacked, you’ll have to save me too, and I warn you that I will squeal like a lad upon seeing his first Valkyrie.”

Isobel snorted. Kerr could tell she was looking at him, and he wondered if she remembered how he’d compared their first kiss to a Valkyrie. He wanted to look at her, to peer into her face, but he didn’t dare take his gaze from Eirik. Not yet, anyway.

“Throw it to me, instead,” he said. If the man had ulterior motives, he could pull Kerr off balance when he grasped the handle.

Eirik nodded and tossed the axe to Kerr effortlessly. He grabbed it out of the air without taking his eyes off the other man. The huge, heavy weapon felt good in his hand, perfectly balanced. He would have liked to examine it, but that could wait. It was likely the man had other weapons hidden on his body—the same as Kerr did.

He laid the axe down and then sat beside Isobel on the log, his sword across his knees and still in his grip.

When Eirik threw him a hunk of bread, he caught it easily with his other hand and devoured it. All he’d had since waking was an apple taken from a tree when he was trailing behind Isobel. He lowered his guard a little as he ate, knowing that if the wolf approached from behind, Diabhla would warn him. And if Eirik attacked from the front, Kerr would be ready.

The stranger lifted a leather flask to his lips and swallowed before passing it to Isobel. Kerr tensed, but she received it without incident and took a drink.

“Is it mead?” she asked as she blotted the excess from her lips with her plaid.

“Já, honey mead. My grandmother’s recipe.”

“It’s good. Different than I’ve tasted before.” She took another swig and then passed it to Kerr.

He looked directly at Eirik as he drank, and then lobbed the flask back to him with a grateful nod. “’Tis verra good. My foster father, Gregor MacLeod, has a love of mead. I’ll endeavor to describe it to him. Mayhap one day you’ll meet him and he can taste it himself.”

“It would be an honor. I’ve heard much about Laird MacLeod and his five foster sons. The people I’ve met speak of your alliance with hope in their voices. They say you are men of principle and justice.”

“Aye, it is our intent to bring peace to the Highlands, but ’tis not always easy.”

Isobel made a scoffing sound in the back of her throat. “’Twas not peace you were bringing to our clans last ni—”

“Isobel,” he warned. It was one thing to speak of their conflict amongst their family, but not with strangers—even friendly ones.

Eirik glanced from Kerr to Isobel and back again. “The mead is strong. Even a small amount can loosen your tongue.”

Kerr nodded, but he suspected Isobel was overly excited—giddy almost—and had forgotten herself. She’d seldom travelled from MacKinnon land…and certainly not since Ewan had been taken from them several years ago. It must feel like a newfound freedom—once she’d gotten over the fear of drowning in the loch.

Aye, she wasn’t lady here. She had no guards, no rules, no responsibilities. Only her own inner compass to keep her in check—and he’d seen how well that had gone over this morning.

He sometimes thought she had a far ways to go before she grew into the lady he knew she could be. But other times he would see the way she cared for her people, or how, as Eirik said, the clan responded positively when she “caught” someone in one of her traps, and he knew she was born to lead by his side.

Lady MacAlister.

Eirik leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The gold pendant around his neck swung away from the hollow at the base of his throat, and Kerr was close enough to see that it was an intricately carved Viking longship. The sail was billowed, and a dragon’s head adorned the prow.

“Oh, how magnificent,” Isobel said, her rapt gaze on the pendant.

Eirik cupped the pendant in his hand. “Thank you. It has been in my family for generations. It is said Odin himself gave it to the first Fyrstr of the Varda, my namesake.”

“Fyrstr of the Varda?” Isobel asked.

Eirik paused, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance as if remembering. “In my native language it means…leader of the family…or clan. The Fyrstr was usually a warrior, like one of the great Scottish lairds, and the Varda was like Laird MacAlister and his allies, watching and protecting good people while fighting against evil.”

“Is there a female equivalent of the Fyrstr?” Isobel asked.

“Já, she is called the Fyrsta, and she’s often a warrior too.” Then he sighed and released the pendant. “But those days are nei more. The Varda was scattered to the winds hundreds of years ago. It has only been me and Siv for more moons than I can count.”

Isobel reached out her hand to the big man. Kerr tensed, but he did not demand she keep her distance. He felt the great sadness in their Norse companion and knew there was much more to the story than he was telling. What had happened to his people?

After a moment, Eirik lifted his hand too, and Isobel squeezed it. “You and Siv are welcome anytime at my keep.”

“Our keep,” Kerr corrected, “at Clan MacAlister. And as Isobel said, her brother’s keep too, once he’s met you.”

Isobel gave him such a look, her eyes wide with disbelief and her mouth pursed in an offended moue at his presumptuousness, that Eirik’s laughter boomed once more through the glen.

His entire body shook with it, and it was so loud Kerr could barely hear himself think. Fortunately, he also couldn’t hear Isobel scolding him—saving him from her sharp tongue and drowning out any additional refusals from her to marry him.

When Eirik toppled backward over the log, his legs as big as tree trunks and pointing straight up into the air, Kerr burst into laughter too. Isobel maintained her scowl for as long as she could, before finally shaking her head and joining in.

Their eyes met, and she was so lovely, so filled with joy, that he took his gaze from Eirik—for a second—and lost himself in her.

It was a moment cut from time. Perfect in its beauty and clarity, and he felt so much love for the woman sitting next to him, it seemed like his chest might burst from the pressure.

Then the huge wolf, Siv, appeared at her side, dwarfing her, with a mouth full of torn carcasses and her teeth dripping with blood. Siv turned her head and stared directly at him, the ice-blue of her eyes chilling.

Kerr stilled—other than to grip the hilt of his sword and wrap his other hand around Isobel’s arm, ready to pull her from harm. His laughter died abruptly, and when Isobel saw his expression, hers did too. She whipped her head around and let out a startled squeak.

He waited, not wanting to spook the animal or drive its instinct to attack.

Then the wolf dropped five plump dead rabbits at Isobel’s feet, threw back her head, and howled.