He was home.
Thank Christ.
George and the youths worked the oars while Rika stood on the prow and guided them into a tiny, sheltered bay. The fog was thick and deadly chill. He rowed faster, harder, putting his back into it, working to stave off frostbite and still his chattering teeth.
He caught a glimpse of the desolate shoreline as the mist swirled and eddied about them, thinning for the barest moment only to swallow them up again.
’Twas impossible to make out landmarks. While he’d ne’er journeyed this far north before, he was good with maps and remembered well the shape of the coastline from the charts he’d seen on the Wick-bound frigate.
George had directed them to put in as close to his recollection of where Gellis Bay lay as they could manage, given the fact that none of them could see a bloody thing.
“Hold!” Rika called from the prow. Through the mist he saw her peer ahead into the whiteness, a hand raised in caution.
The byrthing scraped bottom and lurched to a stop.
“Ja, this will do.” She turned and bade them disembark.
Ottar was the first ashore. He kicked at the sea-tumbled rocks peppering the beach and screwed his face into a frown. “This is it?”
George vaulted over the top rail into the shallows. “Aye, lad, this is it.” On shaking legs he waded ashore then dropped to his knees. He dug his hands into the sand, relishing the feel of it between his fingers.
Scotland.
Near enough, at any rate.
Who knew what king held these distant lands? They’d best be bloody well careful. The fog, mayhap, was a blessing after all.
Erik tossed him the end of a thick-braided rope. He and Ottar secured it around a jagged boulder halfway up the beach. “That should hold her,” he said, and the youth nodded.
“What about them?” Leif nodded at the two bound henchmen.
George waved him ashore. “Come, we shall decide who’s to stay behind and watch them. I dinna trust them on their own.”
“Since when do you give the orders?” Rika’s head popped up from the center of the cargo.
“Since we landed in my country—wife.”
Even at twenty paces, he could see her sour expression.
He waited on the beach for her, wondering why in hell he didn’t just bolt. He had Lawmaker’s fine weapon, but neither mount nor coin. Soaked to the skin and bone cold, it seemed not the best of ideas at this point.
Rika appeared at the byrthing’s prow, and George squinted through the fog to make certain he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.
Aye, he was seeing it, all right. She had donned men’s clothes—breeks, boots, and a belted tunic from which hung her brother’s sheathed sword. Her hair was swept back off her face and refashioned into two severe-looking braids. But for the lack of hauberk and helm, she looked much the same as she had the day he first laid eyes on her.
He caught himself smiling, and that troubled him.
A minute later she stood beside him on the rocky beach. “What are you staring at?”
“Your…attire.”
“This is a foreign place. We know not who or what we’ll encounter. It seemed…prudent. Besides, it’s drier than my gown.”
He could not argue with her logic, but said nothing.
“What now?” Ottar said. His face was flushed ripe as cherries from the cold.
George realized that the icy temperatures would do them all in should they not find shelter, and soon. Three days in an open ship in the dead of winter—they were lucky to have made it this far. He realized they were all looking at him, Rika too, as if he knew something they did not.
George shrugged. “Why ask me? We’re here on her account.” He arched a brow at Rika and waited to see what she would do.
She drew herself up and fixed that annoyingly authoritative expression on her face—the one that made him want to slap her, or kiss her, he was never certain which. “We shall…” She hesitated, peering into the fog up the beach, then down. “We shall find MacInnes.”
“Just like that,” he said.
“Ja.” She tipped her chin at him, but he read an uncertainty in her eyes that belied her confident exterior. Nay, ’twas more than that.
’Twas fear.
“Lead the way, then.” He swept an arm inland and waited for her to take the lead.
The three youths watched, disheartened by their lack of a better plan.
George felt rather satisfied, smug even. The woman had no idea what to do. She’d not thought this far ahead. As he strode up the beach in her wake and watched her study the elusive bits of cliff and rock peeking out of the fog, he realized just how defenseless she was.
Damn her.
“All right,” he snapped. She stopped and turned, arching a brow at him in question. “Stay here, the lot o’ ye. I’ll scale the cliff and see what’s on top.”
The youths muttered their agreement.
“You will not,” Rika said. “Think you I’m that big a fool?”
“What, d’ye think I’d leave ye here in this—”
“In a second.”
The thought had crossed his mind, in fact.
“I will go with you,” she said.
“Fine.” He turned to the youths. “Go back to the ship and wait for us there. Mind ye keep a watchful eye on the other two. We willna be long.”
Ottar protested, but Rika waved him off.
“Come on,” Leif said to him. “I’m not at ease leaving Ingolf and Rasmus so long on their own. Someone should go back.”
Ottar frowned, resigned, and followed Erik and Leif back to the byrthing.
“Shall we?” George said, and nodded toward the cliff.
Rika strode off ahead of him.
An hour later they were still wandering on the moor above the beach, no wiser about their location than they’d been when first they landed. There was not a soul in sight—nor was there any evidence of habitation. Neither sheep, nor croft. Not so much as a wagon track or a hoofprint. The only sounds they heard were the wind and the sea, and the occasional cawing of a tern.
George noted a marked change in Rika’s behavior since leaving the ship. She was wary, almost fearful, and had stuck uncharacteristically close to him on their reconnaissance, venturing no farther than a few paces from his side.
There was something about this last bit he liked.
A frigid wind gusted through them and his teeth began to chatter. His hands and feet were ice. He looked at Rika and realized she, too, was shivering. “Here,” he said, and opened his cloak to her. A second later she was clinging to him.
He reminded himself that she was far out of her element here. The landscape was not so unlike Fair Isle’s, but this was a foreign land, and she, a woman alone.
How could he leave her?
How could he not?
’Twas madness. He was, what, a two-day ride from Wick? Barely a sennight’s walk. As he held Rika in his arms, warming in her embrace, he thought of Anne Sinclair.
His bride.
Och, what did it matter? He was already a fortnight late for the wedding. What was another sennight?
“Come on,” he said, and took her hand. “Let’s go back to the ship. When this damnable fog lifts, we’ll find this MacInnes and go from there.”
She looked up at him, her face ruddy from the icy wind, her eyes vitreous. “Truly? You will keep your word?”
He met her gaze, but didn’t answer. “Come on,” he said finally. “Let’s go.”
They could hear Erik’s shouts long before they reached the cliff’s edge. Tiny alarms went off in George’s head.
“Something’s happened!” Rika scrambled down the rocky slope and took off at a run.
George sprinted ahead, drawing his sword as he ran.
“Rika! Grant!” Leif’s shrill voice carried through the mist. “Here! We’re he—”
George collided with the youth and nearly lost his footing. “Bloody Hell! What—”
“Ingolf and…and Rasmus,” Leif said, trying to catch his breath.
Rika skidded to a stop on the flat, slick rock beside them. “Where are they? Where?”
George spun right then left, brandishing Gunnlogi, peering into the whiteness.
“Gone,” Leif said. “Long gone.”
“Oh God, we must find them!” Rika started forward, and George grabbed her arm. “Let go of me!”
“It’s m-my fault.”
“Ottar!” Rika stiffened in George’s grip as Ottar staggered out of the mist, grasping his bloodied thigh. Erik was right behind him. Both youths collapsed at their feet, gasping for air.
Panic shone in Rika’s eyes as she took in the blood dripping from their wounds and weapons.
“It’s…it’s nothing,” Ottar said. “A flesh wound.”
“Here, let me see.” Rika knelt before him. Ottar grimaced as she tore away the fabric of his breeks and inspected the wound.
Leif sheathed his weapon, and Erik followed suit.
“Are ye hurt?” George spared a quick glance at both lads. They seemed fit enough if a bit bloodied.
“Fine,” Leif said. “Just scratches really.”
“Me, as well.” Erik scrambled to his feet.
“What happened?” George lowered his sword and watched as Rika finished bandaging Ottar’s wound with a strip of cloth torn from her tunic. “Tell me.”
Ottar looked up at him. “Erik and…and Leif were on the beach, scavenging a bit of driftwood for a—a fire. I—was supposed to be watching I-Ingolf, but…” The lad gritted his teeth and looked away. George recognized too well the pain of self-reproach in his eyes.
“He…drifted off,” Erik said. “And…”
Ottar waved Rika away and struggled to his feet, swearing when she tried to help him.
“We were close by, thank God, when they slipped their bonds.” George read fear in Leif’s tight expression. “Ottar wounded Rasmus, but we couldn’t overcome them, even three against two.” All three youths looked away, shamed.
George’s heart went out to them. Christ, they were barely men. Against seasoned killers the likes of Ingolf and Rasmus they’d stood not a chance, and were probably lucky to be alive.
’Twas his fault, not the youths’.
He cursed himself twice—once for leaving them alone, and again for not having killed Brodir’s men when he’d had the chance. He clapped a firm hand on Ottar’s shoulder. “It might have happened to any of us, lad. God knows we’ve had damned little sleep these last days.”
Ottar shrugged his hand away.
“You’ll be fine,” Rika said. “A bit sore, perhaps. As for Ingolf and Rasmus…we must go after them, find them.”
Surely she wasn’t serious?
“Ja,” Leif said. “They can’t have gotten far.”
“Hang on.” George sheathed his weapon as he considered their options, and following two murderers into the mist in a strange land was not one of them. “The fog’s too thick. We’ll ne’er find them. Besides, ’tis of no great import now. We’ve other problems to deal wi—”
“You don’t understand!” Rika spun toward him, her face white with alarm. Never had he seen her so distressed.
Regardless, his decision was made. “It matters not. So they’re gone. No harm done. We’ll get your coin, and ye shall return home.”
“Nay, nay.” Her eyes glassed, and she bit her lip so hard it raised a droplet of blood.
There was more here than met the eye. If anything, she should be glad to be rid of them. “What d’ye fear? Retribution?”
She strode off toward the cliff, but kept changing direction. ’Twas plain she had no idea what to do next.
George caught her up. “Dinna fash. As long as I’m with ye, I’ll see ye come to no harm.”
As soon as the words left his lips, he wondered why he’d said them. He was daft—gone soft in the head over this whole affair. If he were smart, he’d leave them now and get on with his life.
Rika stopped short as a spray of rocks tumbled onto the beach from the cliff just above them. George glanced up, and froze dead in his tracks.
“Thor’s blood,” she breathed.
A good-sized man dressed in breacon and boots and a fur-lined cloak stood on the rocky promontory above them, mist swirling around his bonneted head. A broadsword swung from his beefy hand.
George slipped Gunnlogi from his shoulder baldric.
“Who are ye, and from whence d’ye come?” the man called down to them.
Rika backed against George. Unconsciously, he wrapped a protective arm around her waist.
“We…we hail from Fair Isle,” she called up to the man. “I am Ulrika, daughter of Fritha.”
“Fritha, ye say?” The burly man squinted at her through the mist.
“Ja. And this is—”
George squeezed her, hard. “What, d’ye intend to introduce us all?” He stepped in front of her, brandishing Gunnlogi. “And who might ye be?” he called out to the man.
He was a Scot, surely—clothed in the fashion of a Highlander, his speech thick with a comforting brogue. And yet…George tensed as two other similarly garbed men stepped out of the mist and flanked the stranger. One whispered something in his ear.
Here it comes. Scots they may be, but these men were no friends. He cast cautionary glances to Ottar and Erik and Leif, who’d fanned out beside him and Rika. They nodded, weapons at the ready.
Rika inched forward and clumsily drew her brother’s sword. Damn her! He scanned their surroundings for a suitable place to safeguard her. All hell was about to break loose. The last thing he needed was a headstrong woman on his ha—
“I am MacInnes!” the stranger called down to them.
What? George swapped wide-eyed looks with Rika.
The stranger sheathed his weapon, and his companions did the same. “Come, Ulrika, daughter of Fritha—” he beckoned her scale the cliff “—ye are welcome here.”
“You are Thomas MacInnes?” Rika stared at the craggy faced Scot. Up close, he looked older than first she’d thought him to be.
“Aye, but most call me Tom.” He nodded at Grant and the others. “We saw your ship early this morn, off St. John’s point, and figured ye’d make for the bay.”
“Ye sought us out then.” Grant stood between her and MacInnes, eyeing the stranger and his kinsmen, his weapon still in his hand. “Why?”
MacInnes shrugged. “To find out who ye were and what ye were about. We get few visitors here. Most ships put in at Wick, or around the head to the west.”
“Dunnet Head?” Rika held her breath.
“Aye. D’ye know it?”
She shook her head with far too much vigor. “Nay, I do not.”
MacInnes cocked his head to see past Grant and looked her up and down. “Ye dinna look much like your dame. More like your sire, methinks.”
Rika shivered, stunned—less from the cold than from MacInnes’s words. “You knew them?” When first she’d called her name out, she’d read the surprise in his face. It was as if he already knew her. “But…how?”
“Och, we met years ago on Fair Isle, long before ye were born.”
“You’ve been there?” Ottar ignored Grant’s look of caution, and sheathed his sword. “To Fair Isle?”
“Aye, many times, but no since I was a young buck. There is a man there who was once like a brother to me. He was the law speaker.” He eyed the weapon in Grant’s hand, then arched a brow. “Lawmaker, we called him. Surely ye know him.”
Rika nodded, her belly tightening. “He is my guardian.”
“Aye, he spoke of ye often in the many letters I received from him over the years. How fares he?”
“He is dead,” Grant said. “Lost at sea in a storm, two nights past.”
Rika fought to keep her composure as the dark memory gripped her. She stepped out from behind the protection of Grant’s body in time to see the two Scots lock eyes.
For a moment no one spoke. The wind rushed up and over the cliff, chilling her to the bone. She staved off a shiver. “May he go with God,” MacInnes whispered.
“There were two others in our party,” Grant said, ignoring the sentiment. “Have ye seen them?”
“Nay, we’ve not.” MacInnes glanced at his kinsmen, and they shrugged. “They’d be fools to slog off in this soup—” he nodded at the mist-shrouded moors behind him “—without a local guide.”
“They…escaped,” Rika said, nearly biting her tongue. How much should they tell him? He was most certainly the friend of whom Lawmaker spoke. Still…
MacInnes frowned.
“One was responsible for Lawmaker’s death,” Grant said. At last, to her relief, he sheathed Gunnlogi. “They were our prisoners.”
“I see.” MacInnes pulled the edges of his breacon tighter about him, and shivered. “Come on, we’ll catch our death out here. My house lies less than a furlong east. What say we continue our talk over a hogshead and a hot meal?” He turned and she started after him.
Grant grabbed her arm. “What about the ship?”
“We’ve a full load of cargo,” Erik said, nodding down to the beach. “Homespun, grain, and kegs of mead.”
MacInnes’s brows shot up. “Mead, ye say?”
She nodded.
It was clear from Grant’s expression he was not pleased with Erik revealing so much. But what did it matter now? They were only five, and this MacInnes, friend or foe, surely had enough kinsmen at home to overtake them and the ship should he wish to.
“We thought to trade the homespun and grain for horses,” she said, thinking that confidence might serve them well in this situation. “And the mead.”
“I’ve not had a decent draught o’ the stuff since last I visited your fair island.”
“Will you trade with us then?” Erik said. “For horses?”
MacInnes looked at her, and she held her breath. “’Tis a bold proposition, lad. D’ye ken how rare a good mount is in these parts?”
Grant had warned her of this, but she’d not listened.
“I’d first hear more about why ye’ve come, and about these…prisoners.” MacInnes started east, and she followed, wrenching herself free from Grant. “Mayhap we could manage an agreeable trade, though I canna say as I’d be willing to part with my bonny steeds.” He shot a shrewd look back at her. “I’ll send some men for the cargo.”
Rika exhaled. Though it was not the promise she’d hoped for, it was a start. She jogged ahead and caught him up. “And the ship—can you mind it for us for a time?”
MacInnes’s brows shot up. “Mayhap.” He glanced back at Grant. “If ye tell me why ye travel with a Scot, and why he bears Lawmaker’s weapon.”
She tripped, stunned by MacInnes’s canny recognition of Gunnlogi. Grant rushed up behind her and saved her from a fall. There seemed no sense in hiding the truth. MacInnes obviously knew Lawmaker well. “Grant is my…husband,” she said. “Lawmaker made him a gift of the sword.”
MacInnes stopped short, and eyed Grant with new appreciation. For some unfathomable reason, Rika felt her chest swell with pride. MacInnes’s blue eyes flicked to the sword. “Such a gift is no made lightly,” he said. “I’d know more of ye, Grant.”
“Aye,” Grant said, his expression stone. “And I’d know more of ye.”
They trudged for nearly an hour across the wet, windswept moor, mist swirling about them. She could barely see a half-dozen paces ahead, but MacInnes seemed to know exactly where he was going.
More of his kinsmen joined them along the way. Grant had been right about that. Earlier, he’d whispered to her that it seemed damned unlikely MacInnes would approach a strange ship with but two men as escort. Nearly a score accompanied them now, along what looked to be a footpath, running up over craggy ridges then down again.
The wind burned her face and breached her garments. She wiggled her toes in Gunnar’s oversized boots and realized she couldn’t feel them anymore. When would they get there?
MacInnes’s men looked at her strangely, whispering among themselves. A few made rude comments. Some of the words she didn’t understand, but she could well imagine their meaning. Absently she traced the line of her scar from ear to throat.
“Ignore them,” Grant said, watching the strangers with eagle’s eyes. He’d strayed not two paces from her the whole long walk, and once rested his broad hand on the small of her back as they trudged over some uneven ground.
For years she’d relied on no man for protection. But today she found herself comforted by Grant’s presence, and more than a little thrilled by his cavalier and possessive behavior.
Because MacInnes had been Lawmaker’s friend, she was tempted to give him her trust. But a dozen years had passed since the two had last seen each other, and Rika knew that much could change a man’s loyalties in that amount of time.
Ottar and Erik and Leif took to the burly Scot immediately. She reminded herself they were young and out of their element, and looked for any anchorage on which to ground themselves.
Grant was wary, and that wariness caused her to reserve a final judgment of the strangers.
As if he’d read her mind, Grant took her arm and said, “If he offers more than a sway-backed nag for the whole of the cargo, he’s either a fool or he’s what he says he is—a friend.”
“Were he truly a friend, would that surprise you?”
He shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. But beware. Stay close by me when we reach his demesne.”
She smiled inwardly, and trudged on.
A short time later, through the thinning mist, she saw it. A great house of timber and stone surrounded by a low wall.
“My home,” MacInnes said, looking back at her. They stopped outside the wall. “Wait here, whilst I confer with my wife.”
Most of MacInnes’s men disappeared into a low building flanking the main house. Rika guessed it was a barracks of sorts or a stable. Six stayed with them, finding seats on the low wall. Grant continued to watch them.
Moments after MacInnes entered the house, the door swung wide again and a woman, his wife, no doubt, strode into the courtyard to bid them welcome.
“My dear,” the bright-eyed woman said, extending a long white hand to her. There was no hint of disapproval or even amusement in her expression as she surveyed Rika’s bedraggled garments and weapons. “Ye look wet to the skin. Aye, and ye’re surely exhausted.”
Until this moment, Rika hadn’t allowed herself to recognize the magnitude of her fatigue, but the woman’s warm demeanor and sympathetic smile breached the last of her defenses. Rika took her hand. “I am, on both counts, if truth be told.”
“Come inside, then,” the woman said. “A chamber is being prepared for ye and your husband.” She flashed her eyes at Grant, and beckoned him follow.
Husband.
Rika risked a backward glance at him. Grant arched a brow at her, then followed them inside.
After an uncomfortable night sleeping on the floor of the tiny bedchamber he shared with Rika, George spent the day helping MacInnes’s men relieve the byrthing of its cargo.
Rika seemed safe enough in the house with MacInnes’s wife. The couple had no children of their own, and the mistress fawned over her as one would a daughter.
George suspected Rika was unused to such attention. He took pleasure in seeing her doted upon. ’Twas a small thing, but to Rika he knew it meant much.
Late in the day, five mounts were brought from the stable for his inspection. He could not believe MacInnes’s generosity. The steeds were loaned, not given, but the gesture was still no small thing. It seemed they owed much to the Scot’s friendship with Lawmaker.
George caught himself thinking of the elder more than once that day. He missed him. ’Twas as simple as that. But he knew he could not dwell on such thoughts. He had plans of his own to carry out.
Now that Rika was safe and apparently among friends, George thought for the hundredth time about leaving. After supper, when all but a few had retired, he had a look at MacInnes’s charts.
Wick was no more than a day’s hard ride from there—two, mayhap, given the inclement weather. ’Twould take him a minute at most to saddle a mount and be gone. ’Twas a fine, clear night. Why not?
He rose and made a show of stretching sleepily. Ottar sat by the hearth fire with two of MacInnes’s men, swapping lies and fantastical tales. They paid him no mind as he slipped from the great hall into the corridor.
A handful of short tapers lit the passageway. Instead of making for the chamber he shared with Rika, he turned toward the unguarded entry of the fortified house.
“Grant.” MacInnes’s voice stopped him dead. He turned and saw their host leaning against a far doorway.
“Come and share a pint with me. It’s no often I get the chance to mingle with men from the south.”
What else could he do? A few minutes later George was settled by the fire in the kitchen, a cup of mead in his hand.
“Your wife should be in bed,” MacInnes said.
“What?” He shot to his feet. “Where is she?”
“Sit down, man, she’s well.” He nodded toward a window draped in deerskin. “She’s outside is all—in my wife’s garden. ’Tis bitter out, though, and I fear she’ll catch her death.”
He strode to the window, lifted the covering and peered into the night. Rika sat with her back to him on a crudely hewn bench amidst the frozen remains of last season’s vegetables. The moon cast a pale light upon her. She seemed well enough.
George let the window cover drop and took his place by the fire. “She has a mind of her own.”
MacInnes laughed. “Aye, I can see that.”
George swilled his mead in silence while MacInnes openly studied him. With their host yet awake, ’twould be hours before he might make his escape. So be it. He was enjoying the warmth of the fire and the sweetness of his drink.
“Ye are a laird, so the lads tell me.” MacInnes’s directness did not surprise him.
“Aye.”
“What takes ye so far afield? Fair Isle is a strange destination for a lone Scot.”
George met the man’s gaze, and wondered how much Ottar and the others had told him. MacInnes was no fool. George weighed how much of the truth he’d be obliged to impart. “I…I am newly wed.”
“That much is evident.”
George arched a brow at him.
“There is a sweet tension yet between ye.” MacInnes nodded toward the garden where Rika sat. “And a newness that canna be hid.”
The man’s perception unnerved him and he knew it showed on his face.
MacInnes smiled. “Enjoy it, son.” He drained his cup and set it on the raised hearth, then drew himself up, as if he were about to say something of import. “So ye go to claim her dowry.”
George stiffened.
“When women get together, they talk.” MacInnes shot him a wry glance.
George shrugged, trying to remain casual. “Aye, that’s our plan.”
“And a fine one it is. There’s just one thing about it that doesna make sense.” MacInnes willed George to his gaze. “Why now? In the dead o’ winter? Why no wait till spring?”
He couldn’t think of a good answer for MacInnes’s question, so he said nothing.
“Och, no matter. ’Tis none of my concern. I was just curious, is all.” MacInnes swept a flagon off the kitchen’s massive wooden table and refilled George’s cup. “I know him, ye know—Rika’s father.”
“Rollo? Aye, ye said as much yesterday.”
“He’s a strange one, and none too friendly.”
“So I’ve been told.”
MacInnes rubbed a hand over his short, thick whiskers. “His place is no far from here. Mey Loch—to the southwest, barely a half day’s ride.”
George stared into the fire, sipping his mead, trying to quell his curiosity. He could not. Finally he said, “Tell me about him. About Rollo.” He looked at MacInnes. “What kind of man abandons his own children?”
MacInnes’s brows shot up at George’s question. “Why, a man who thinks they’re no his.”
George’s mouth gaped. He started to speak, but MacInnes cut him off.
“Ye didna know?”
He shook his head. “I’ll be damned. Ye mean to tell me Rika and her brother are…” So Lawmaker was her father, after all.
“Och, nay.” MacInnes waved a hand in dismissal. “They’re Rollo’s spawn all right. He just would ne’er believe it.”
Now George was truly confused.
“Lawmaker didna tell ye? Hmph. That’s just like him. What about your bride? Did she no share the tale?”
He shook his head. “If indeed she knows of what ye speak, it seems not to sway her mind. She holds naught but contempt for her sire.”
MacInnes looked at him for a long moment. Finally he said, “I know not for what reason Lawmaker would withhold the truth from her, but I will tell it to ye now for methinks ye can make use of the information in your dealings with Rollo—and with Rika.”
“I would be most grateful to ye.” George slid forward on his stool, elbows braced on thighs, surprised by the magnitude of his interest. He told himself ’twas just idle curiosity. For what did it matter how much he knew or did not know? After this night he’d ne’er see Rika again.
MacInnes blew his nose into a rag, and began. “Lawmaker and Fritha were in love.”
MacInnes’s simple declaration startled him, though when he thought about it he was not entirely surprised. “Rika’s mother was Lawmaker’s lover?”
“Nay, I didna say that. They were in love, but ne’er lovers. There’s a difference.”
“Oh, aye. Go on.”
“Rollo knew it, but he thought that once he wed her, he could sway her affection away from Lawmaker and toward him.”
George nodded, understanding. “But he could not.”
“Exactly.”
“So what happened?”
MacInnes shrugged. “Rollo took his vengeance the only way he could—he treated Fritha badly. And when Rika and her brother were born, he swore the bairns werena his.”
“And he treated them ill as well,” George said.
MacInnes nodded.
“Why did Fritha no leave him? It seems a common enough custom among their folk.”
“I canna say. But after Gunnar and Rika were born, Rollo grew more violent. Lawmaker feared for their safety. He knew Fritha and the bairns would fare better were he gone. So Lawmaker came here, to Gellis Bay, to live with me and mine. When we got word that Fritha had died, Lawmaker returned to Fair Isle. By then, Rollo had gone.”
“So he took them in—Rika and Gunnar.”
“That he did. For love of Fritha, he raised them as if they were his own.”
George slipped his hand into the pouch tied at his waist and fingered the silver brooch Lawmaker had given him for Rika’s morning gift.
It’s something I’ve had for years. It was Rika’s mother’s, in fact. It’s time she had it.
MacInnes stretched and yawned. “’Tis a sad tale, but an enlightening one. I leave it to ye to decide whether to tell it to you wife or nay. With Lawmaker gone…” He brushed a gnarly hand across his eyes. “Och, mayhap ’tis of no import now.”
George rose with him. “I thank ye. And methinks ’tis of great import.” Although he knew he’d not have time to share the tale with Rika, nor did he wish to. What difference could it possibly make now?
“I leave ye to it, then,” MacInnes said, and nodded toward the garden. “I’m for bed.”
George thanked his host and watched as MacInnes ambled down the corridor toward the stairs leading up to his chamber.
The kitchen fire had died to embers. MacInnes’s small dog lay curled on a rug by the hearth twitching, dreaming. George strained his ears, listening for sounds of men still awake in the great hall. Only snores echoed down the long corridor. All were finally abed.
All save Rika.
He paused by the draped window and willed his hand stay put by his side. What purpose was there in disturbing her now? If he were smart he’d get out straight away, under the cover of night—make Wick by the day after tomorrow.
Two days hence he could sup with his new bride. Wed and bed her and get on with his life.
His loins tightened at the prospect of such an evening, but ’twas not the promise of Anne Sinclair’s delicate beauty that fired his blood. ’Twas the gritty reality of the woman sitting alone in Tom MacInnes’s dead winter garden.
Of its own accord, his hand lifted the deerskin window drape. She was still there, shivering in the cold, her cloak wrapped tight about her, her head uncovered and her hair loose, a silver fall of silk in the moon’s eerie light.
He moved silently to the door and tripped the latch, all the while telling himself he was the biggest of fools.
She turned and saw him. “Grant.” She smiled at him as if she were surprised to see him. “I thought you to be halfway to Wick by now.”
What was she, a bloody mind reader? George stepped out into the snow and shivered under her scrutiny.
“Nay,” he said. “No tonight.”