Was it regret that kept them silent? The fact that they thought her three parts mad?
As mayhap she was.
She had not been quite right in her head since Jute fell. It was as if, upon his death, a force had been set loose inside her, one that insisted she seek justice. Now that she had seen the place where he had died, her tall, bold brother—when she’d beheld the very gate where his severed head had been displayed until the crows finished with it—she lusted even more strongly after that justice.
It would not be easy to attain. The settlement was a strong one. She should have begged more ships from Faðir, at least two, and more likely the six she’d told Quarrie MacMurtray she had.
Quarrie MacMurtray.What to make of him?
An attractive man, and no mistake. She had not expected, nei, to feel drawn to him, one of these folk responsible for the death of someone dear to her heart. The very man responsible.
Having battled all her life for a place of honor, of legitimacy among men, she did not waste much time desiring them. Ja, there had been Haakon. And only look how that had ended. She had sworn never, never again.
Just as she would ask no man to fight her battles for her, she would trust no man ever again with her heart.
Yet there was something about Quarrie MacMurtray. What was it?
As they rowed steadily and strongly to the longboat, she pondered it. Was it his appearance?
No question but that his appearance was pleasing, in an odd and foreign kind of way. All that copper-brown hair, and those eyes, glinting with green. But more, much more than anything about his appearance, it was thefeelof him. A certain steadiness. A strength. A familiarity…
Butnei. It could not be so. A man from outside her world. Beyond her blood and her understanding. It could not be.
He it was who had taken her brother’s life. The brother who had known her best. Who had indulged her, who had trained her when no one else would.
For this man, she could afford no feelings besides hate.
Then why did he pull at her so? Was it, after all, because she wanted revenge upon him? Had her mind twisted it into something more?
So it must be, for she could not want the man who had quite likely killed her brother.
The færing bumped gently up against the side of the longboat and ready arms helped her aboard, even as the smaller craft was drawn behind. Anxious faces met her gaze, and she wished—ach, by Odin’s eye she wished—she might have just a moment to settle her mind before having to make explanations to them all.
“Wait,” she told Ivor, who had been hanging over the side as they came up, his expression hard as flint. He did not agree with this scheme of hers. He had made that much clear. “Let us return to the island before we speak.”
He ignored that. “Where is the captive?” he called almost before her feet hit the planking of the deck. His voice held a sharp edge of sarcasm. “Has your great plan gone awry?”
“Not yet.” She hated having to explain herself to any man, and Ivor more than most. “It is called negotiation, Ivor, because it is not accomplished all at once.”
He nearly spat with derision. “And so we are left languishing here? Waiting again?”
“How long?” asked another of the men, and Hulda realized how edgy they all were.
“I have given him—the leader there—until morning to decide whether he hands over the man who killed Jute to me.”
“Such leniency,” Ivor exclaimed. “This is what happens when a woman is put in charge. Our blades become rusty.”
“Your blades,” she retorted, “are still plenty keen. We will have our prize.”
“And if he does not hand the man over, this leader?”
“Then we will attack and your blade will no longer thirst for blood.”
They exchanged looks, this crew of hers.
Trym spoke. “I say we go ashore and explore this isle. I am tired of sitting and playing at draughts.”
“There is naught on that island,” Ivor objected, “but thistles and chiggers.”
