Read Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05] for Free Online Page A

burst out laughing.
    “Females cannot be chieftains of our particular clan,” Old John explained, “though Lady Maire has done a fine job of holding all together till the laird can take over.”
    Rurik was weary of all this vague talk and innuendo. With impatience, he demanded, “Then who in bloody hell
is
laird?”
    The Campbell horsemen moved aside, right and left, leaving a path through their group. Riding up on a dappled gray mare was a fat monk with tonsured head and an enormous belly. Sitting in front of him on the horse was a filthy, ill-garbed, barefooted boy of little more than four winters. He was black-haired and green-eyed and soon demonstrated that he had the tongue of a seasoned seaman.
    With a compelling bravado for one so young, the child proclaimed in a shrill voice, “I am the
bloody hell
laird.”
    “Bhroinn, rachadh, gleede, chunnaic
. Nay, that’s not it.
Rachadh, gleede, bhroinn, bhroinn.”
Maire exhaled loudly with frustration. “Why, oh, why can’t I remember the words of the spell? If only Cailleach were still here! I would have been out of this cage the first day.”
    For the past two hours, ever since Nessa had left, Maire had been trying one witchly device after another … spells, curses, centering, circling, wind riding, visualizing, grounding, even body raising. Noneof them had worked… not even in the backward way they were wont to do sometimes when she got the rituals wrong.
    Now she was left with her final alternative. Putting her palms together, she looked out at the gray skies. “Dearest God, please help me in my dire need.”
    It was then that Maire saw the six Vikings. They were turning the bend at the bottom of the small mountain she called home,
Beinne Breagha
. Most alarming was the fact that her very own clansmen led the way.
    Could this possibly be the answer to her prayer? If so, she was going to give up her witchly attempts and spend lots more time on her knees.
    She thought of something else. So, this was Old John’s
plan
… the one Nessa had referred to. Her mouth thinned with displeasure. Well, she could not be angry with her loyal retainer. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Old John must have believed there was hope with the Vikings. She had to trust in Old John. What else could she do?
    A quick scan of the approaching group showed that her son was not with them… nor his monk caretaker. Maire breathed a sigh of relief. Thank the heavens that Old John had exercised the good sense to keep young Jamie hidden in the woods, out of danger, and the Viking’s presence.
    Even as she noticed the Vikings in the distance, she saw a battered and bloody messenger rush up to the dozen or so MacNab men who’d been left to guard her keep. Almost immediately, the men gathered their weapons and other belongings and, cursing loudly and shaking their fists at her, scattered in thedirection of the MacNab lands, like chaff in the wind. Duncan MacNab was a brave man when his opponents were weaker than he. At the least prospect of an equal adversary, however, he would scoot off, waiting for the chance to pounce when a back was turned or chicanery could be practiced.
    She was not deceived by their hasty retreat, though. They would return … in greater numbers.
    But, oh, it grated her pride sorely that it was this man, above all others—Rurik—who came to rescue her from the MacNabs … even if only temporarily. The callous brute had beaten her pride to the ground once before. She would not let him do it again… despite her ignominious position.
    Maire sighed deeply, wondering if her lot would be any better with the Vikings than the MacNabs. She stood and held on to the cage bars, staring out over the Campbell land she loved so much. She tried to imagine seeing her home through the much-traveled Vikings’ eyes.
    There were Campbells in Scotland who were rich and powerful. Maire’s family was of the poorer branch. Though built on stone foundations, her keep, which