“Nay.”
“Not jarl. Chief.”
“That is my father. Come in.”
Borald stood at the door, fully armed, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head.
“Let us in, man,” Quarrie told him. “And watch the shore. The lady has come to talk.”
“Lady?” Borald’s eyes flew to their visitor and narrowed. His face lit with astonishment. Aye, her disguise was very good.
If it was a disguise.
The hall stood dim and empty. Someone had lit a fire that morning, Ma most likely, but it had nearly gone out now. The servants would light it again before supper.
Quarrie’s steps sounded loud, his companion’s a bit lighter. Her weapons jingled. He saw her look around, but she did not comment.
When they reached the hearth, Quarrie turned to her. “Now, what is all this about? Ye maun admit ’tis an unusual—”
She pulled off her helmet. Quarrie lost all his breath.
Her hair, pale, ashen blonde, fell all around her face. It had been braided tightly to fit beneath the helm. It had to be, for there was a lot of it. The plaits came down like golden rain.
It changed her astonishingly, turned her in a wink to pure woman. Quarrie felt precisely like he’d been thumped hard in the chest.
He knew her, surely? As she turned to him with the helmet in her hands, there was something so familiar about her…
But nay. He had never seen this woman before.
“Pray, sit,” he invited her, treating her, aye, like a guest because he did not know how else to treat her. “Will ye tak’ ale?” Did a man offer a female warrior ale? “I will call the server.”
He did so, signaling to Seonad, who stood concealed in the door that led to the rear alcove. Behind her, he could see a guard lurking.
They thought he was likely to have his throat cut.
Mayhap he was.
But when he turned back, Hulda Elvarsdottir was taking a turn on her heel, staring about the room as if fascinated. Surely they had such large halls where she dwelt.
“Please, mistress,” he said, “let us sit. Say wha’ ye will to me.”
Chapter Nine
The hall waslarge and dim, and it felt oddly familiar, as if Hulda had been here before.
Only she had not.
To be sure, she had set foot upon Scottish soil elsewhere. Had fought and held the longboat off other shores. She had even been in the halls of other chiefs, helping Faðir to sack them.
Not like this one.
A sharp little shiver traced its way down her body. She told herself it came only of being so daring, taking this mad step alone with no men at her back.
Mad, ja.
But it was not just that. In some curious way, she knew this place. The very air smelled familiar. And even while walking up from the shore, the path lined by foreign faces, the ground beneath her feet had felt…well, as if she’d trodden it before.
And this man, this Quarrie MacMurtray…
