Free The Warrior by Margaret Mallory Page B

blood. If ye have a wound, we should bind it.”
    He had checked her for fresh bleeding as best he could in the night and found none,
     but he needed to be sure.
    “The blood is his,” she said. “The blade I was holding must have gone into him when
     he knocked me over and fell on top of me.”
    Duncan had fought all kinds of men, good and bad, and he had seen plenty of evil.
     Still, it shocked him how any man could violently attack a woman.
    “Had he hurt ye before?” he asked.
    “Not like this,” she said.
    He swallowed. “What happened?”
    Moira pulled away from him and drew the blanket tightly around her. “Sean saw how
     ye looked at me, that’s what happened,” she said in a hard voice.
    She blamed him.
    “Sean was always getting jealous for no cause,” she snapped.
    Duncan let that sink in. “I’ll get ye another blanket, then ye should try to rest
     some more.”
    “I must bring my son home to Dunscaith,” she said as she stared out to sea.
    “I’m sure the lad is safe,” Duncan said. “Even the MacLeod would not harm a child
     he had agreed to foster.”
    That was the only reassurance he could give her. Even if there were not such animosity
     between the MacDonalds and the MacLeods—and there was soon to be more—a boy belonged
     to his father’s clan. The MacQuillans were unlikely to agree to let Moira have their
     chieftain’s son, especially when they believed that she, or the man she left with,
     had murdered their chieftain.
    “Duncan!” Niall called from the front of the boat. “They’re following us.”

Chapter 11
    E rik MacLeod narrowed his eyes as he watched his chieftain’s guards escort the visitor
     into the Great Hall of Dunvegan Castle. The guards brought him to a halt a respectful
     distance from the dais, where Alastair Crotach MacLeod sat looking every inch the
     great chieftain he was, despite his hunched shoulder.
    It was unusual, to say the least, to see a MacDonald of Sleat in Dunvegan Castle,
     except in the dungeon. If the chieftain was surprised, he did not show it.
    The visitor was a big, fair-haired man in his midthirties who had earned the name
     Hugh Dubh, Black Hugh, for his black heart. If rumors were to be believed, Hugh had
     a hand in the deaths of his former chieftain and the chieftain’s eldest son, who were
     his half brother and nephew.
    Erik admired the man’s ruthlessness in pursuing his ambitions. Erik’s chieftain disapproved
     of Hugh, but then, Alastair MacLeod had never had to fight for his place in this world.
     He was born to be a chieftain and would die one. Of course, the MacLeod’s dislike
     of Hugh would not prevent him from using the man to benefit his clan.
    “My nephew Connor is scheming to take the Trotternish Peninsula from ye,” Hugh said
     after the formal greetings. “If I were the chieftain of the MacDonalds of Sleat, as
     I ought to be, I’d be content with the lands we have.”
    “As the keeper of Trotternish Castle,” the chieftain said, turning his gaze to Erik,
     “are ye worried about this pup Connor taking Trotternish from us?”
    Erik had worked single-mindedly for years to earn his chieftain’s trust and respect.
     He’d had much to overcome. His father had been a warrior better known for his drinking
     than for his skill with a sword, and his mother was a woman of no consequence at all.
     After Erik had led the attack when they took Trotternish Castle from the MacDonalds,
     his chieftain had finally given him his just reward.
    There was nothing Erik would not do to retain the castle and his position as its keeper.
    “I haven’t lost a wink of sleep over it,” Erik lied and forced a laugh. “From what
     I hear, the new MacDonald chieftain has so few men and war galleys that he’d be a
     fool to launch an attack against us.”
    Erik knew his chieftain was pleased with his response, though the MacLeod’s face remained
     expressionless. His chieftain did not want Hugh to believe he had anything of