Highlander’s Viking Seductress: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance Page 5

Gavin did not have long to watch. Another Norse warrior had caught his attention, and he was quickly drawn back into battle.

  Idunn ignored the strange behavior of the Highlander soldier and moved onto her next opponent.

  Já. The Highlander is weak. He cannot strike a woman.

  It was clear the Norse were losing, and the thought drove her mad with fury as she tussled with her new opponent. The Norse had never lost to the Scots before.

  I will not give up.

  She repeated this mantra in her head as she fought. Her mind drew to where Einarr was and if he were safe, but she could not see him. The fight had grown too messy, and there were too many Highland helmets in the crowd for her to discern the Viking warriors. She darted between sword blows, searching the crowd for any sign of her betrothed. A momentary glance away from her opponent was enough for him to take advantage.

  His sword struck her thigh – the iron was cold.

  She cursed herself at her lack of attention, but it was too late for regret. The damage was done.

  The sword cut deep, slicing through the leather covering on her leg and through her skin with ease. She growled in the back of her throat and bit her tongue so hard to prevent herself from screaming that she could taste blood. Spitting the blood away, she stumbled back a step, pulling her leg free from chance of further injury; her opponent too busy in delighting in his blow to take advantage of her retreat.

  He followed her with a swagger in his step, his chain mail swinging with the action. He enjoyed the splash of his boots in the sea, making a performance as he built up to the fatal strike. He was hunting her, as though she were an animal, not a warrior.

  He made another swipe, but she dodged out of the way, hissing as the splash of salty seawater splattered against her thigh. The dodge was sluggish, hindered by her wound, forcing her to hop in the water and remove her weight from the injured leg. Her opponent laughed and pointed to her thigh.

  “That could be fatal. Ye ken that. Ye cannae fight on. Surrender!” he called to her, holding his sword back.

  She had one chance left. The blood was now pouring down her thigh in streams, the liquid turning the shallows red. The blood echoed in her ears, furious at herself for meeting her comeuppance against a Scottish soldier. She had to take the one chance she had. It was her only option to survive. Even if it meant staying alive only a few more minutes before the next Highlander found her.

  She faked a loosening hold on her sword and let the tip drop down to the sea, offering the smallest of nods to her opponent, pretending to surrender as she slackened her shoulders.

  The soldier stepped forward and lowered his own sword with a nod, preparing to take her prisoner. As he moved, she lifted her sword sharply – he was caught off guard. She sliced his wrist, forcing him to drop his weapon as he bellowed in agony, allowing her to deliver a lethal blow to his chest. Pulling the sword away, she backed away from his falling body.

  Her wound was too great for her to move very fast. She staggered through the shallows, fighting against the injured leg that was weighing her down. She stumbled from the battle between the Norse and the Scots, further down the beach, hoping for safety as she clutched her thigh, the blood seeping through the lines of her palms.

  Idunn was losing too much blood. She had seen it enough times in battle to know the end result.

  She tried to walk out of the sea, but her leg capitulated under her. She collapsed into the water, biting her lip again at the sensation of the salty water drenching her wound. Burying the fingers of one hand in the wet sand, she dragged herself forward, holding her sword close to her chest. Crawling forward, only her feet were left in the sea with the waves bobbing to her knees.

  The pain in her leg tore through her body, forming a knot in her chest. Her hands began to tremble as dark spots grew in her vision. She fell forward onto her elbows and turned her head back to the fray, squinting to try to see what was happening.

  In the shadows that danced in front of her eyes, she thought she saw Norse warriors running back into the ocean, as though they were retreating, but she couldn’t be sure. One shadow passed over her, as though someone had come to look at her. It bent down briefly. She tried to open her eyes wide to see the face of the stranger, but with a flicker of eyelids, the task was too great. The figure stood and moved on quickly, leaving her fading gaze to stare at the grey clouds above.

  A world of black enveloped her as she sank into the wet sand, sensing the scratch of the grains against her cheek as she lost consciousness.

  Chapter Six

  Gavin watched the retreating Vikings with exhilaration, removing his helmet to see each Norse warrior stagger away through the sea and swim out to the few remaining longboats.

  He watched one Norse warrior look over the dead. He ruffled his light brown hair below his helmet as he wandered through the casualties, and apparently finding none, he followed the other men through the water.

  As the last warrior left the scene, Findlay moved to Gavin’s side with a roar of victory.

  “We have done it, me friend.” He thumped him on the back with delight.

  “Aye,” Gavin could not stop the laugh that escaped him, “So, we have.” His eyes scanned the scene as the remaining longboats pulled the swimmers into the safety of their hulls. The trebuchets had halted their fire, allowing the invaders to retreat. “Let us hope this is a lastin’ warnin’ to the Vikin’s nae to return.”

  “Aye, let us hope so.”

  As the ship set sail, Gavin turned his gaze to the beach. It was littered with injured and dead mean. Amongst them were Scottish soldiers, but most of the casualties were Norse.

  “We must see to the injured,” Gavin gestured to his friend. “Before we lose another man. Ye, there?” he called to a young soldier who stood beside one of the dead, his face a picture of sorrow for having lost a friend.

  “Aye, sir?”

  “Go to the castle immediately. Tell them the good news that the Scots have won, and the Vikin’s have fled. Tell them physicians and any help that can be spared must be sent here at once, on me orders.”

  “Aye, sir.” The boy hurried away, sprinting up the hill. Gavin turned his attention to the fallen soldier the boy had been mourning and checked for a pulse.

  “Any sign of life?” Findlay stood beside him, waiting for a response.

  “Nay.” Gavin let his gaze wander up and down the beach. This was a part of the battle he did not like. It was the knowledge that his men had made the ultimate sacrifice. “Gather the injured and the dead. Each fallen man will receive an honorable funeral that every livin’ soldier will attend.”

  He would give each man honor in death; it was the very least he could do to show them his gratitude.

  “And the injured Norse? If they are nae dead?”

  “Are there any still alive?” Gavin’s question was met by a roar from one of his men. His head flicked around to the far end of the beach to see three of his men gather around a body lying on the shingle. He sprinted across the fallen bodies and rock pools with Findlay close behind him, determined to find the source of the commotion. “What is happenin’?”

  “David?” Findlay looked to the man who had roared. “Ye alright?”

  “There is one still breathin’.” He pointed down at the Norse warrior lying at his feet.

  Gavin felt his stomach tighten as he realized who it was. The warrior woman he had so admired in battle. Her eyes were flickering open as though she was recovering consciousness. Her leg was soaked in blood, and as each wave drifted in towards her, the green swell tinged red.

  “I saw her in the battle,” David said with seething rage, “She killed more of our men than I can tell ye. She was ferocious.”

  “Aye, I saw her too,” Gavin confirmed with a nod, “I’ve seen few people that can match her in skill.” He kneeled down beside her, looking at her face. She appeared suddenly awake and turned her eyes to him. The orbs of blue and green watching him, wide with wonder. “How bad is the in
jury?” He did not look away from her, though his question was directed elsewhere.

  Findlay stepped forward, bending down to look at her wounded leg.

  “She could survive it.” He nodded, tilting his head to the side.

  “Nay,” David snapped with rage at his side, pulling his sword suddenly from his belt, “She is a lethal warrior. She came to our land to kill us all. Ye think I will let her live?”

  The woman turned her eyes away from Gavin resting on David as she breathed slowly.

  “That is nae yer decision to make.” Findlay was firm as he stood to his feet.

  “It is what is done in battle!” David was furious as he tossed the sword between his hands. “Beheadin’. That is what she deserves. It is what all of these Norse dogs deserve.”

  “Kill me if you wish,” she spoke. Her voice was calm, perfectly serene despite the situation, making Gavin lean towards her to hear her. “Kill me, and I shall go to Valhalla with my kin.” The pride with which she spoke fascinated Gavin.

  “Valhalla? What is that?” David was moving around to her head, still tossing the sword.

  “Lower yer sword, David,” Gavin ordered with an outstretched arm. David looked between Gavin and Findlay with anger but eventually conceded and lowered it to his side.

  “What is Valhalla?” Gavin turned his eyes back to the warrior woman.

  She twisted to look at him again. There was pride on her face.

  “Our slain warriors go to Valhalla in the afterlife. There we will be protected by Odin.”

  Gavin admired the honor in the myth. His eyes lifted from hers to the other bodies scattered across the beach. There was something comforting in the idea that these fallen men would go onto something greater.

  “Then to Odin, ye shall go,” David declared loudly, raising his sword again.

  She looked up towards David defiantly without a flinch of fear – Gavin saw it all but could not let it happen.

  “David!”

  David was already bringing down the sword, but Gavin blocked the blow with his blade.

  “Ye are disobeyin’ a direct order? I said ye shall nae harm her!” Gavin was furious. The woman had come so close to death.

  “What does it matter? She is half dead anyway.” With clear bafflement on his face, David looked up at him as he wiped the sand from his eyes. “She murdered our men.”

  “And we murdered hers. The battle is over now.” Gavin looked away from David, back down to the warrior woman.

  She was frowning up at him like the goddess he had seen in battle. Her blonde braid was splayed next to her, wild and frayed from the fight. Her leg was bleeding heavily, and her hand clutched it tightly, trying to stop the blood from flowing.

  He was bewitched by her and shifted his feet as the thought dawned on him. He could not let David behead her - he could not bear to see her die. That was the truth.

  He lifted his eyes from her to see Findlay watching him, also frowning in confusion.

  “We need her,” Gavin tried to explain, pointing his sword down at her, “We can ask her about the Vikin’s. Learn more of their tactics and if they plan to attack us again.”

  “We ken their tactics!” David cried, jumping to his feet, “We have just seen them off in battle.”

  “We can always learn more. Next time we might nae be so lucky as to win again. They will have learned our own tactics from this battle.”

  “I cannae allow this. She murdered our friends!”

  “David!” Findlay interjected with a bark, “Ye are disobeyin’ an order from yer future Laird. Leave it.”

  “But…” David was running his hands through his hair in frustration. “Ye cannae seriously intend to let such a killer live. What will ye do with her?”

  Gavin looked down at her again.

  It is a good question. What do we do with her?

  She was watching him, her red-stained fingers still clutching her wound.

  “Kill her.”

  “David,” Findlay grabbed David’s arm and dragged him away, “Ye must stop this impertinence. He has given ye an order, obey it.”

  “What will he do with her, then?”

  “He probably intends to keep her as a slave, after an interrogation into Norse affairs. Aye?” Findlay turned to Gavin, with clear hope in his eyes.

  “Aye, that is right. She will nae be free.” Gavin shook his head; it was the only way the warrior woman could survive. He could not watch her die. She was too beguiling. At least this way, she would be safe. Even if it was difficult to imagine such a woman taking orders from anyone.

  “This is wrong.” David tried to stamp away, but Findlay held him in place. “We have just killed these Norse warriors; what harm is one more?”

  “The battle is over, David,” Gavin turned his voice so sharply that it made David recoil, “Killin’ her now wouldnae be the work of a soldier. It would be the work of a murderer. Is that what ye want to be? Hmm? Then ye’re no better than the men we hang for such a crime.”

  David flinched at the accusation, turning his eyes away.

  “Aye, I thought not.” Gavin nodded, showing the discussion was at an end. “See to our injured, David. I will see to her.”

  David offered one last dark look at Gavin and the warrior woman before turning away to the other men. Findlay moved to Gavin’s side, whispering in his ear so that no-one else could hear him.

  “I am nae questionin’ yer orders, ye ken I never would. But are ye sure about this, me friend?” It was a genuine concern, not blind rage like the kind David had displayed.

  “Aye, me friend.” Gavin nodded and patted his hand on Findlay’s arm in reassurance. “The ways of battle are changin’, the only way to stay ahead of their attacks is to have an insight into them. She can provide that.”

  “Aye, I cannae argue with that.”

  The pain in Idunn’s leg was almost blinding. Still, she tried to ignore it and concentrate on the conversation between the Highlanders. Some of the words were difficult to understand, the accent still a little strange, but she managed to decipher most of it.

  They were going to keep her alive. Interrogate her and then force her to be a slave. The thought disgusted her. She wished the angry soldier had beheaded her. She would have had the honor of ascending to Valhalla’s palace and sitting at banquets with other fallen warriors. Now her future consisted of pandering to the will of the Scots.

  “Findlay? Keep an eye on David. Let me ken if there are any other survivors and if he tries to kill them.” The soldier with the dark auburn hair gave an order to the friend at his side.

  He had defended her, kept her alive. The other soldier, Findlay, had referred to him as the heir to the Lairdship, a great position indeed – he had to be the leader of these Highland soldiers. Though shorter than the one beside him, he was still tall. He bore a few scratches from the battle but had escaped largely uninjured, proving his skill.

  As Findlay walked away, the Highlander knelt down at her side. He saw the sword that lay in the sand beside her and lifted it away from her grasp. Her hand clenched as she watched him move – it was her sword. Her mother’s sword- bestowed on her as a gift. She watched as the Highlander added the sword to his own belt.

  “Do ye think ye can stand, laoch?”

  She could not understand the word; it was Gaelic.

  “Já.” Her reply was automatic; she would not show weakness. He frowned at the word, unfamiliar with its meaning. “Já means ‘aye.” He nodded in response.

  “Would ye like some help?”

  “Nei. Not from you.”

  He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to make a move and to stand.

  She looked away from his face, stirring her body to rise. The Highlander was handsome. His face was structured with a prominent jawline and tall cheekbones. He was almost regal – but the eyes, basil green, were something much softer.

  She tensed her stomach and placed her hands into the wet sand, pulling herself into a seated position. The Highl
ander did not move away. He continued to watch her, making her feel self-conscious. She urged her feet to plant themselves into the sand and tried to stand, but the pain ricocheted through her leg and up into her hip. She growled in frustration through gritted teeth, furious at her body’s weakness as she fell back onto the shingle. Clutching the wound with both hands, she urged the blood to stop, but it continued to flow past her fingers.

  “Ye’re losin’ a lot of blood.” The Highlander looked away from her to a nearby body. A fallen Norse warrior. He made quick work of removing the warrior’s belt and moved back to her. As he reached for her leg, she recoiled away, sliding across the sand. At her startled movement, he merely raised his eyebrows again. “Do ye want to bleed to death?”