She turned her head to look at him as he returned from instructing the servant. He, too, felt—
Ach, but she was overwrought. This step she took—this bid to have her way without bloodshed—played with her senses.
What sort of Norsewoman was she, to want victory without bloodshed?
He was tall, with a lithe yet powerful build. Wide in the shoulders and fluid in his movements. She would bet he might be quick in battle. A worthy opponent.
He had a mane of red-brown hair that had gleamed like fire in the sun outside and was now muted to something far more ordinary. A face strong in the brow and cheekbones, sharp at the jaw. He was curiously pleasing to look upon.
His eyes, out in the light, had looked green, and that was a magical thing. The elves, so the sagas told, often had eyes of green, as did those who carried elven blood.
This man, this Gael, could not possibly have elven blood.
She had not expected to be attracted to the man who had killed her brother, and she did not like it. But ja, as she figured, it must have been this man or his father that he said was chief, who had slain Jute. For Jute’s men had told her it had been the leader here who had done the deed.
A man with a fiery-brown tail of hair, they’d said.
She sat next to the hearth and set her helmet beside her. Quarrie MacMurtray sat opposite her, both of them still heavily armed.
If it came to blows, if he betrayed his implied vow of safe conduct, could she best him? Mayhap, but then she would have to fight her way out of here.
If his honor broke, she was lost. Curious to rely upon the honor of an enemy.
“Mistress, why do ye no’ tell me—”
The servant hurried in with the ale. Hulda felt glad. She needed the moment to gather her wits. His voice was like…
Music. Light and strong, and he sang the words she’d only learned to speak with difficulty. A beautiful language, his was.
“Thank ye, Seonad. Ye may go.”
The woman scuttled off as if pursued by a monster. Hulda raised her cup and smelled the ale. Poisoned?
“Why do ye no’ state wha’ ye want o’ me?”
“Ja.” That she needed to do. Before coming ashore, she’d had the words all lined up in her mind. A challenge, she would makeof it. A bid to persuade him. The sacrifice of one against the lives of many.
But this place played with her mind, scattered her thoughts. As did this man.
“Near the end of the last raiding season,” she began, “we came here. My faðir’s crews did. There was an attack. A battle down there on the shore.”
“I remember.” A curious look came into his eyes. His steady gaze did not waver.
“You were there? You fought in that battle?” She had been right. He was the man. That must be why she had these strong feelings toward him. Her inner self knew he had killed Jute.
“I was there.”
“I was not. I was fighting with my faðir elsewhere.”
“The women o’ yer clan fight?”
She hesitated to answer that. She owed him no explanations. Yet she held his gaze and said, “I do. I fight my own battles. Always.”
Thoughts flickered like light in his eyes. Again, she failed to identify them.
“I was not there,” she emphasized. “My brother led that attack. He was killed there on your shore.”
The very place where she had landed, mayhap. She might have walked across the spot where his blood flowed over the stones.
