19 THE LAST WORD

TORMOD HELD HER gaze for a few moments before his lips quirked. "Ye have fire in yer belly, Lady Astrid … something I like in a woman."

Astrid didn't reply. Instead, she waited for the clan-chief's response.

So much rested upon it.

"Very well," he said eventually, lifting his pewter goblet to his lips and taking a sip. "The Macleods of Dunvegan will rally on yer behalf."

Astrid's heart kicked hard against her ribs, although she throttled the urge to grin and whoop. "Thank ye, Tormod," she replied, bowing her head. Lord, she'd been ready for him to deny her, and for a fraught exchange to ensue. What a relief that he wouldn't fight her on this. The tension that had been building within her since their arrival here dissolved. Now they just had to get back to Loch fast.

"I'll provide three galleys," Tormod went on.

Astrid's elation dimmed. She'd hoped for a larger fleet than that.

"We are facing a combined force of Mackinnons, MacGregors, and MacNabs," Finn spoke up then, his voice sharp. " Three birlinns won't be enough."

Astrid tensed, irritation spearing through her. Curse it, the man's bluntness was like a mallet between the eyes. Why couldn't he leave this to her?

Tormod's mouth pursed while beside him Malcolm's smile had faded.

"If I give ye too many galleys, I will leave my castle undefended," the clan-chief replied after a pause, his gaze settling upon Finn. "We have our own enemies. The MacDonalds of Duntulm are forever baying at our borders these days … and the Mackinnons of Dunan are a thorn in my arse. I'll not make myself vulnerable to any of them."

" Five birlinns wouldn't do that, surely?" Astrid asked, deliberately softening her voice to compensate for Finn's brusqueness.

Tormod frowned.

Meanwhile, Malcolm's brow also furrowed. "Ye know the storm that brought ye to grief also destroyed two of our birlinns?"

Astrid nodded, her gaze meeting Malcolm's then. "I understand what I'm asking, Malcolm," she replied. "And I wouldn't ask unless our need was dire."

The clan-chief's son stared back at her, his smoke-grey eyes darkening to slate. His expression softened then, his brow smoothing.

Meanwhile, Tormod cleared his throat, drawing Astrid's attention once more. "My son doesn't decide such things," he said, irritation lacing his voice now. " I do."

Astrid tensed, realizing her mistake. He might be getting on in age, but Tormod wasn't yet ready to relinquish the reins of power. "Apologies," she replied, deliberately holding his gaze rather than lowering it. There was little point in feigning meekness with this man. "But I fear we may already be too late."

"We might be." Moments passed, and then Tormod sighed, leaning back in his carven chair. The great seat dwarfed his emaciated body, yet there was still a strength about him as he drummed the gnarled fingers of his right hand on the armrest. "Yet three galleys are all ye are getting, Lady Astrid," he said finally, glancing at his son then before they shared a long look. "Malcolm will lead them."

Astrid's throat tightened at these words, yet she kept her disappointment leashed. Meanwhile, Finn's face had gone taut.

There was an edge of steel in the Macleod's tone, warning both of them to insist at their peril.

But three birlinns were better than nothing. Malcolm had boasted earlier that the Macleod fleet had at least two forty-oar galleys too. With the Macleods on their side, all wasn't lost.

Malcolm rose to his feet then, his voice cutting through the rumble of conversation below the dais. "We're going to war, lads," he shouted to them. Surprised faces turned to him before the laird's son continued, "The Macleans of Mull have called for help, and we shall answer. And ye'll be pleased to hear … we'll be crossing swords with the Mackinnons this time!"

A blood-thirsty roar followed this admission, and Astrid's skin prickled.

"Get yer arses up, and ready yerselves," Malcolm boomed then. "We sail at first light tomorrow!"

Taking a large gulp of wine, Astrid glanced down at her goblet. It was nearly empty. She'd drunk more than she was used to. The evening was drawing out, and the great hall had emptied, leaving just the clan-chief's table and the minstrels playing in the gallery above.

Meanwhile, Finn had moved up the table so that he sat next to the clan-chief. He and Tormod now discussed the resources the Macleans had at their disposal. The old man peppered him with questions, and Finn answered all of them confidently. He knew the Maclean's defenses well.

But so did Astrid, and irritation coiled inside her as the men's conversation drew out. She didn't appreciate being ignored.

"Ye'll be pleased to hear that preparations are well under way, Lady Astrid."

Astrid glanced up to see Malcolm striding across the rush-strewn floor toward her, a grin upon his face. The clan-chief's son had departed the hall for a spell, to oversee his men readying for departure, but he returned now and approached the dais. Dropping onto the bench-seat next to Astrid, he reached out and poured himself a large tankard of ale.

Astrid smiled back, even if she was aware of how close he was now sitting. Malcolm had slid along the bench so that their thighs were touching. She wanted to inch away from him yet was wary of giving offense. "That's a relief."

"Here … have some more wine," he said, reaching for the nearby ewer.

Astrid shook her head and placed a hand over her goblet. She'd had enough and didn't wish to muddle her wits. "Thank ye, but wine gives me a sore head," she lied .

Malcolm nodded, even as his gaze boldly traveled over her face, his expression sobering. And as his stare drew out, a hungry look ignited in his eyes.

His interest in her earlier had been evident enough, but there was an aggressive edge to it now. Malcolm Macleod was a young man used to getting what he wanted.

Astrid's breathing became shallow, nervousness tightening her ribs. Curse it, what had she gotten herself into? She'd thought that flattering Malcolm a little and saying a few things to make pride swell in his chest would encourage him to help her.

However, she'd given him the impression she was interested in being wooed by him—when she wasn't.

"Malcolm," Tormod interrupted them, his tone sharp now. "Instead of making calf eyes at Lady Astrid, why don't ye listen in? Captain MacDonald has news about the defenses at Dounarwyse."

Malcolm tensed, irritation flashing across his face. A faint flush stained his cheekbones as he turned and focused his attention on Tormod and Finn. "Of course," he replied, a sullen edge creeping into his voice.

Tormod shifted his focus back to Finn. "Ye were saying, MacDonald."

"The Macleans of Dounarwyse have built earthworks along their northern boundary," Finn replied. A groove had etched between his eyebrows as he spoke, and his gaze settled upon Astrid for the first time since he'd begun conversing with the clan-chief. Astrid spied censure in his eyes.

Irritation speared her then. What right did he have to give her such a look? She hadn't done anything wrong.

"Aye … but will it hold back the Mackinnons?" Malcolm asked.

"For a spell … the banks are twenty feet high with ditches and spikes on the northern side," Finn answered. "Kendric Mackinnon will have seen the earthworks though … and that's perhaps why he's chosen to attack from the sea."

"So, ye have a combined force of around two hundred warriors, ye say?" Tormod's bushy white eyebrows drew together as he regarded Finn. "I can see why ye need our help. Earthworks and sturdy walls will only protect ye up to a point … they're no substitute for steel. "

"Under normal circumstances, it would be a decent enough army," Astrid cut in, annoyed that the men continued to leave her out of the conversation. Her gaze speared the clan-chief's. "But this isn't a mere skirmish … Kendric Mackinnon intends to destroy my clan."

A brittle silence followed these ominous words. It was a dramatic thing to say, yet it was the truth, and Astrid wanted to make the situation clear for the Macleods.

Malcolm was the first to recover. Flashing her a confident smile, he reached out and placed a large hand over hers. "Not to worry, lass … we'll ensure they don't. Leave it to us to beat those Mackinnons into submission."

"Well … that could have gone better," Finn announced as he followed Astrid into the chamber. He then kicked the door shut behind them.

Astrid snorted, turning to face Finn. "It could have gone far worse … as ye well know. We should be celebrating that Tormod has agreed to help us … I feared the worst."

He pulled a face. "Aye … but three birlinns likely won't be enough to crush the Mackinnons."

Astrid frowned, folding her arms across her chest. She was aware of that; she didn't need him rubbing her face in it. "Ye were supposed to let me conduct the negotiations," she pointed out, her tone clipped.

Finn halted in front of her, his mouth thinning. "I'm not one to sit there and nod like a fool."

"No one asked ye to play the idiot," Astrid countered. "But the Macleod has to be handled carefully." A muscle flexed in Finn's jaw, yet she ignored his reaction. "If ye throw Tormod's generosity back in his face, ye risk him withdrawing his support."

"That's not what I was doing." Finn stepped closer then, and she inhaled his scent, leather and pine blended with the clean smell of his skin. Like her, he wore fresh clothes. Rather than donning his usual leathers, he'd been provided with dark-brown braies and a cream-colored lèine, which he wore open at the throat. "A man like Tormod sees capitulation as weakness. I had to challenge him."

Heat washed over Astrid. Weakness. The word cut her to the bone as if he'd suddenly unmasked her.

"I was about to challenge him," she ground out. "Until ye barged in like a ram at a gate. If ye'd let me, I might have persuaded him to give us the extra birlinns."

"I think not," he shot back. "The old man is intractable. Ye've got a persuasive tongue, lass … but even ye have yer limits."

Astrid's temper spiked, and she shifted nearer to him. His sarcasm goaded her beyond her limits. "Well, we'll never know now, will we?"

"There ye go again." Finn's mouth twisted, his gaze never leaving hers. "Always with the last word."