Highland Warrior by McCollum, Heather (people reading books TXT) 📗

a perimeter with a rotation for guarding the festival,” Joshua said. The chill that Kára’s frown had brought clung to him. Damn cold. Would he never feel warm again?

Harriett, Kára’s grandmother, stood near the door with her sister. They spoke and then both looked at him. How twisted is your soul, Highlander?

The faces that appeared in his nightmares, damning eyes staring lifelessly at him, tried to push their way forward as if summoned by the old woman’s question. He walked through the room toward the cold outdoors. If Kára could see the dead stalking after him, the people who had fallen to his sword or his poor judgment, would she curse her own people with the same nightmares he battled?

…

Damn, Kára thought as she caught the toe of her slipper in the hem of her straight gown.

She should have changed into her trousers and tunic before the festival. Her face flushed as she glanced across the fire where Joshua spoke with a group of men he’d been training. She had remained in the dress because it was pretty with the embroidery on the hem and neckline. The traditional blue wool costume had been her mother’s. Amma had insisted Kára not bury her in it, but to keep it to wear and honor her memory. So Kára’s mother had been buried in an older frock, along with her scant pieces of silver jewelry and her favorite mixing bowl.

Samhain was the night when spirits could walk the earth once more, visiting those they left behind. A long table for the dead had been set up behind Asmund’s tavern, and she walked over to where Osk stood, wearing a clean tunic. He arranged the four plates and cups that represented their loss. “Da would want whisky. I have wine for Ma and Eydis,” he said and glanced at her. “What would Geir want to drink?”

What did it matter? Her husband wouldn’t come back, even on Samhain. None of them would. But the laying out of food for the dead was not for the deceased. It was for those who remained behind, surviving without them. “Ale, Geir liked ale over whisky,” she said, patting her brother’s shoulder. He had been just a lad when her husband was killed, the same age her son was now.

The pastor who had come over from Scotia spoke with some of the villagers nearby, learning of their losses. She glanced over the three plates they added this year. Last Samhain, they had only one to put out for her husband. Her parents and sister had been with her to celebrate the harvest and take the blessings of walking between the fires. Some good that did them. There had been no blessings when the village was attacked by Robert and his sons and her mother and sister were caught inside a burning building. Or when she and her father went after Robert to avenge them. Her father had been skewered by Henry Stuart, and both of their horses had been taken. Kára had been forced to hide in the tall grasses to survive, failing them all.

She felt pressure gather in her eyes, and she blinked, denying the tears that would show her to be weak when her people needed her to be strong. But they would not stay inside her. Kára took a fortifying breath and walked toward the bank where the sea beat at the rocks and seaweed spread out in the foamy water below.

Staring out at the waves turned orange with the setting sun, she let her tears slide down her cheeks unchecked. She would grieve for them here, bleed it out of her so she could stand strong tonight and try to enjoy the festival. She had not cried much for her slain husband, her world consumed with a newborn son. With her family around her, she did not have to raise him alone. But now…she must guide Osk and Geir with only her amma’s help and wisdom. Loneliness pressed inside her, filling her chest cavity until it felt difficult to inhale. Aye, she must bleed some of the sorrow away.

With the wind blowing, she did not hear anyone approach, and started as Joshua halted next to her. He looked out at the waves, too. She stopped herself from wiping her wet cheeks, giving her tears away, and breathed deeply to keep herself from sniffing. The wind dried trails of salt-sticky tears on her cheeks.

“Ye grieve for your husband,” Joshua said, his words even. “I am sorry, Kára, that ye lost him to live on alone without the comfort and help he could give in raising Geir.”

She didn’t say anything even though she opened her mouth and closed it.

Joshua stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the wind pushing against their faces as if it tried to keep them from plunging off the edge. “Ye married him young then? Ye must have loved him very much.”

She swallowed, clearing her throat. “We were young, both of us. Thrown together, really, by our parents, who wished us to have a chance to live our lives before anything could happen. I cared for him, even if we were together less than a year.”

“Ye kept his son alive,” Joshua said, his words caught by the wind, making it hard for her to hear. She moved a step closer to him. “Geir is a tribute to him,” Joshua continued.

She watched two seabirds dive down on the wind currents and wrapped her arms around herself. “I poured all my anger into keeping my babe thriving, even as he struggled at the beginning, since he was small,” she said, the words tumbling out.

Joshua stepped closer until she could feel his arm press up against hers. The warmth of his touch made more tears leak from her eyes. “It is my parents and sister…” she started and sniffed.

He glanced back toward the table. “I saw Osk setting out four plates.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak at first. “The loss of them is still