Highland Warrior by Heather McCollum (the rosie project TXT) 📗

are riding toward the chapel.” He shook his head. “Bloody plague on this isle,” he said, not looking away.

“Perhaps it is time to live somewhere else,” Joshua said, his gaze fastened to hers. “Somewhere fresh and bountiful.”

“You make Scotia sound like Eden,” Kára whispered.

Joshua shrugged, the fury cut into the lines of his face softening. “’Tis close, but colder. And no one runs around naked.”

“I heard reports that you practically did,” she said, noting his previous lack of tunic when he left Robert’s, his tattoos shown off to all who laid eyes on him.

“We should get ye to Hilda,” Joshua said, not commenting.

She looked to Asmund. “After a cup of mead. I am in need of your sweet brew, and I would give Patrick time to ride off.” She pushed onto a stool. Joshua came over, sitting next to her.

She touched his tunic where blood lay across it. “Ye are stained by Henry’s death,” she whispered.

He leaned toward her, not seeming to care that Asmund stood across from them pouring mead into tankards. Joshua brushed her hair back from her cheek and softly pressed his lips to hers. “’Tis your blood, lass, from the wound on your bonny head.” His gaze lifted as if to see it, and she touched the back where the unbound poultice was hardly noticeable, forgotten with Patrick’s visit.

“It will be well,” she said. He leaned down, inspecting her throat. “So will that,” she said and glanced toward Asmund. Her old friend had walked back to the window, to peer out to watch for Stuarts or give them privacy, she wasn’t sure.

Kára held her hand out over the bar where it still shook. “It is this that needs to go away as fast as possible,” she said, balling her hand into a fist and pulling it back to her lap.

Joshua’s warm hand found it there and encased it, squeezing gently. “’Tis warrior energy that feeds the muscles, Kára. Not fear. Fear would have made ye crumple in the churchyard, not fight. ’Tis nothing to worry over.”

She looked into his eyes, marveling once again at the calm wisdom she saw. There were so many sides to Joshua Sinclair. Earlier, his face had contorted with the promise of death. When he’d jumped across the wall, his sword poised to inflict not only death but immense pain on Henry, he had looked like an avenging angel truly sent from a wrathful God. And now he exuded encouragement and light.

Wetting her lips, she exhaled, ignoring the pain in her throat. “Worry, I fear, will never be over,” she whispered. “For my people, my son.” She shook her head. “’Tis something that nags my soul. The only time I am free of it”—she touched the side of his face, running her finger across his lips—“is when you fly me away from it on passion.”

He kissed her fingers, keeping her gaze. “I would fly ye away every day, but to save your people and your son, I need to take ye away from this isle.”

Kára released her breath, letting her gaze drop to the stone floor. She nodded and raised her eyes back to Joshua’s patient gaze. “Let us talk to the council.”

Stepping into the late afternoon, the familiar wash of wind filled Kára’s inhale. Down in the bay, Lamont and Langston worked to get their sails raised. They would sail out to sea until Orkney was barely visible and dump Henry and his two guards who had attacked her. It was a shame for the guards’ families not to know what had become of them, but perhaps it was better they did not know the black hearts within them.

Joshua walked beside her, the two of them scanning the surrounding hills for more of Robert’s men. “If John Dishington rides up, he will try to kill us,” Joshua said, glancing at her.

“Patrick said his father wants you dead for taking Hilda and Broch.”

Joshua snorted. “Freeing them.” He exhaled. “Dishington wants me dead even without Robert’s order because I knocked him unconscious.”

“I have my mattucashlass and short sword and brooches,” she said, patting her shoulders. With Joshua beside her, courage prevailed over the fear, making her stride more direct. But she still felt exposed on the landscape of grasses. She’d hidden in them before, but Joshua’s bulk would be hard to hide. What would it be like to be surrounded by thick trees with branches to climb and trunks behind which to hide?

“What do you miss about Scotia?” she asked, their walk turning brisk.

They continued across the rocky ground and onto a length of spongy peat until she thought he might not answer. Surely he must miss something. She looked sideways and saw him inhale fully.

“I could say the trees and plentiful food, the loud laughter at the festivals that comes from not hiding, since we are the strongest clan in Scotland.” He glanced at her before looking back out before him. “But ’tis the people that I miss most.” He cursed softly. “Being away from my older brother for these months makes me think that he might actually know a thing or two about leading our clan. And peace with our neighbors might be better than crushing them so they cannot war back.”

“Would you have crushed us?” she asked.

His brows lowered. “Nay, not unless ye tried to kill my clan, the people or horses. It is those in power who are the problem in most instances. The local people just want to keep food in their bellies and grow their children without fear.”

“We have neither here on Orkney.”

He said nothing, but she knew he agreed. It was why he wanted them to return to Scotia with him. “You live on the sea, there in Caithness?”

“Aye, with wicked wind like here. But if ye travel inland a bit, the bite of the wind fades, stills.”

She pushed her hair out of her eyes. What would that be like? To have no wind trying to shove her every time she stepped outside?

“I would still rule