Then she saw Quarrie standing at the gate waiting to greet them, and she forgot everything else.
Ach, but he looked fine. Dressed richly, as she was not, in a grand cloak that swirled around his tall, lean form, his hair flowing upon his shoulders.
She had buried her face in that hair. Breathed its essence while he came inside her.
She needed to touch him, a desire so intense it near overwhelmed her. She could not, but had to act composed and dignified, as if he meant naught to her beyond a fellow leader.
Quarrie stood where he was till her small band reached him, an undeniable advantage in position. She could feel the uneasiness of her men shifting behind her. It would not take much to cause a massacre here. Just one man drawing his weapon.
Only she—and possibly Quarrie—could prevent such a disaster.
She lifted her head high and said clearly, in Gaelic, “Chief Murtray, thank you for calling us here to feast. We are honored.”
He nodded in a very formal, lordly fashion. “We welcome ye here in peace.”
No one smiled. The faces of the people grouped around Quarrie, a woman close beside him and an elder who might be an advisor, remained wooden. A veritable cluster of guards.
Hulda could feel her men vibrating with tension. But Quarrie held out his hand to her.
That hand—broad and callused in the palm with long, supple fingers—had touched her breast. Had slid up the inside of her thigh. Ach, how was she to behave like a sane woman?
She took his hand, and his fingers tightened on hers in a sudden squeeze. Did he seek to lend her reassurance?
They entered the keep. She could hear her men chattering behind her, no more than a few muffled words. Usually when they entered such a place it was with weapons raised and throats howling.
The great hall lay directly ahead, and it had been prepared lavishly for them. Torches flared on every hand, and the tables had been laid with food and drink.
“Mistress Hulda, I hope ye and your principals will sit at the high table wi’ me and my lady mother.”
He indicated the woman who had kept pace on his other side. Clad well if somberly, she had the look of him about the eyes. She nodded at Hulda, but still gave no hint of a smile.
“Ja,” Hulda responded. “Garik, Helje, with me.”
“The rest of your men may have the first of the side tables. I thought they would be most comfortable together.”
“That is considerate.” And wise. Why strain tensions to the point where something had to break?
Quarrie escorted her to the high table. Her men all rolled their eyes at her as they filed past.
She sat with Quarrie on one side of her and his mother on her other. Garik sat beyond that lady and Helje beside a younger woman, farther on.
Hulda looked out upon a sea, a veritable ocean, of hostile faces, wondering what she had done.
If they got out of this alive, it would be by the grace of Father Odin, alone.
Chapter Forty
The great hallfairly vibrated with tension, as if the very stones of the place strained to cast out the unwanted intruders. Quarrie, gazing about with a sudden rush of misgiving, wondered if everyone who had opposed this move on his part had been right, and he had been terribly wrong.
Yet…Hulda sat beside him, so near he could reach out and touch her any time he chose. He dared not do so, but the certainty that he could provided some satisfaction.
The table set aside for her crew lay to their right as they faced the room. Turning his gaze there, Quarrie could see that her men looked dangerously on edge, repeatedly putting their heads together and talking in their own tongue.
Quarrie calculated it would take naught more than a disdainful look to set them off. The place was filled to the rafters with disdain.
Servers began hurrying about pouring ale and passing loaded platters. Quarrie had himself chosen the individuals to serve at the Norse table. Intrepid fellows, the both of them. No lasses.
Ma, seated on Hulda’s far side, gave him a desperate look. He rose.
