23 I MISJUDGED YE

"ARE YE NOT hungry, Lady Astrid?"

Glancing up from where she'd been gazing down at the bread, cheese, and dried sausage on her lap, Astrid met Malcolm's eye. They were seated in front of a fire upon the beach, the ruddy flames and sprays of sparks kissing the night.

As always, the young warrior watched her with keen interest—far too much interest, in fact.

"I'm not a big eater," she replied with a shrug. That was true enough, although after a day at sea, breathing in the fresh sea air, she should have been famished. However, worry about what was happening on Mull had robbed her of appetite.

"Ye should eat more," Malcolm said, raising an auburn eyebrow. "No man wants a lass who's as tiny as a sparrow."

Astrid stiffened, her face warming. "Do ye speak for all men then, Malcolm?" she said, her tone clipped now. "I thought their tastes vary, as do women's."

She, for one, preferred men with more manners.

Malcolm snorted as if the very idea was preposterous. "Aye, well … tastes aside, a lass has to be sturdy enough to carry a bairn, at least. Ye look as if giving birth would rip ye asunder."

An awkward silence fell then, and heat bloomed across Astrid's face. "Slender women can carry bairns as well as any other," she ground out finally, anger rising under her embarrassment. "And believe it or not, a woman has a worth beyond swiving and producing bairns."

Malcolm's smirk dissolved, his grey eyes snapping wide. Across the fire, Finn wore a slight, smug, smile.

She expected the clan-chief's son to make a scathing reply to that, yet he now looked as if he'd swallowed his tongue. Silence fell at their fire once more, while around them, the rumble of men's voices traveled down the beach, punctuated by the odd burst of laughter. The sea of individual hearths lit up the night like glowing fireflies.

"Ye told us last night about the defenses around Dounarwyse … but does the fortress have any weaknesses we don't know about?" Malcolm asked eventually, his voice a touch surly.

Astrid's brow furrowed at this question, her already tense stomach twisting tight. For once, she didn't know how to answer, and she glanced over at Finn, hoping he did.

His smile slipped, a frown replacing it. "The broch itself would be hard to breach," he admitted hesitantly. "It sits upon a steep motte and has high walls that will be difficult to scale." He paused then, his frown deepening. "Its weakness, I suppose, is that it can be approached with relative ease from both land and sea."

"That'll also work in our favor," Malcolm reminded him.

"True enough." Finn brushed the crumbs of his supper off his lap. Unlike Astrid, he'd wolfed his meal down. "I just hope the Mackinnon fleet hasn't made short work of our sea defenses in the meantime."

Astrid's breathing grew shallow. That was her fear too. The battle might well be over. Her brother might be dead.

With difficulty, she pushed the chilling thought aside.

No, she wouldn't entertain the possibility. She had to believe that Dounarwyse's defenses had held and that Loch was still fighting.

"And what of Kendric Mackinnon's battle style?" Malcolm's brow furrowed. "Is he an aggressor or one to draw his enemy close before striking?"

"Both, when needs be," Finn replied. "I've only fought in one skirmish against the Mackinnons … years ago now, before I left Mull to follow The Bruce. The Mackinnons were sly on that occasion, waiting to ambush a group of us patrolling our northern borders."

"Aye, he earned his name, ‘The Butcher of Dùn Ara'," Astrid pointed out. "Mackinnon is ruthless, vicious, and cleverer than a fox." She paused then, the back of her nape prickling. "And he's incensed too … which makes him even more dangerous."

Malcolm's mouth pursed. "His rage may be his weakness too though," he pointed out .

"Aye," Finn murmured. "Vengeance has a way of addling a man's wits."

Astrid nodded, in full agreement with them both. They'd both seen what a lust for revenge had done to Loch's cousin. Jack had slid into a kind of madness until Tara had pulled him free. "This attack, although not unexpected, is bold." She paused then, her mind working. "And his alliance with the MacGregors and MacNabs is new, untested. If we come in aggressively tomorrow, it might be enough to make them waver. They'll be exhausted, after days of fighting, after all … but we won't be."

" We? " Finn asked, a challenge in his voice. " Ye won't be going anywhere near the battle, Astrid."

Astrid stilled, heat flooding over. "I have to be there," she replied, cutting Finn a baleful look.

"No, ye don't," he shot back.

Malcolm cleared his throat. "Back to the Mackinnons," he said pointedly. "I suggest that we don't announce our arrival."

"Aye, the element of surprise is our greatest ally," Finn agreed.

Astrid's brow furrowed. "How will we discern friend from foe?"

The clan-chief's son flashed her a reckless grin. "Do ye want me to ask before I stick my dirk into anyone, lass?"

Astrid frowned. She wasn't in the mood to be teased, and didn't like not knowing what lay ahead either. She wished they could have sent a scout ahead to bring word back on the situation, yet they had neither the time nor the resources. As such, they'd go in blind.

Fatigue pressed down upon her then. She'd slept little the night before and was now desperate for rest. She had to be fresh for the dawn.

Wrapping up the remains of her supper in an oiled cloth, for she'd try to eat the rest in the morning, Astrid rose to her feet.

Her tent was just a few yards distant, and she longed to stretch out on a sheepskin. However, her attention shifted to Finn.

They'd barely spoken directly all day, and apart from their exchange first thing when she'd panicked upon stepping onto the birlinn, their interactions had been formal, stilted .

It was awkward, and as their gazes met now, something twisted deep in Astrid's chest.

No, she couldn't retire for the eve quite yet.

"MacDonald," she said, deliberately keeping her voice neutral with Malcolm looking on. "Can I have a word … in private?"

Finn's shoulders tensed at the request. But after a moment, he unfolded his long body and rose to his feet. Nodding to Malcolm, who was watching them both closely, he moved toward Astrid.

Without another word, she turned and walked away, leading him down the beach, to where no one would be able to overhear them. As she walked, Astrid squared her shoulders and steeled herself.

There was unfinished business between them, and she couldn't go into battle tomorrow without speaking of it. Even so, her heart was now pounding like a hunting drum.

Once she was far enough away that the rumble of the surf drowned out the men's voices farther up the beach, she turned to Finn. He stopped a yard from her, his sharp-featured face frosted by moonlight, his gaze wary.

"What is it?" he asked tersely.

Astrid heaved in a deep breath and took a step closer to him. "Is this how we are to behave now, Finn?" She paused then, her throat tightening, before she forced herself on. "Are we to pretend that last night never happened?"

He stared back at her a moment before clearing his throat. "Aye."

God's teeth, her heart now felt as if it were about to explode from her breast. She wanted to flee from him, but her feet wouldn't move. "Why?"

A nerve flickered in his cheek. "It's easier that way."

Astrid's breathing caught, an ache rising under her ribs. "Perhaps … but it would be a lie, wouldn't it?"

A beat of silence followed before Finn replied, a rasp in his voice. "I can't give ye what ye want, lass."

Astrid flinched as if he'd struck her. Heat flushed over her face then, and she was glad the night hid her embarrassment. "And what do ye b … believe I want?" Lord, now she was stuttering like a fool.

His face went taut at this question. "Things I'm not prepared to give … to anyone. "

Silence fell between them, stretching out, before Astrid finally forced herself to answer. "I'm as s … scared as ye are." Her voice faltered once more.

Aye, she was terrified, yet there had been too much left unsaid over the years. So much misunderstanding. At the very least, on the eve of battle, there would be honesty between them.

Finn reached up and dragged a hand down his face. His mouth then twisted. "I don't want to talk about this." The brittle edge to his voice made Astrid still. The man looked ready to bolt.

"I misjudged ye, Finn," she gasped out the words. "I understand now that ye weren't to blame for Maggie's death … no one was. It was a tragic accident."

Astrid stopped abruptly, shocked by her admission. It wasn't a lie though. Initially, she'd denied his tale about Maggie, yet underneath, she'd known he'd told her the truth. "And I'm sorry for whipping the fishermen in Craignure into a frenzy after Maggie died … and for every piece of hate that I have flung yer way over the years." She swallowed. "I wish I could take it all back."

Something that looked a bit like panic rippled over his face. "Then ye are a better person than me," he replied with a shake of his head. "If only I could cast aside the past … but I can't."

"Why not?"

He remained stonily silent.

A sickly sensation washed over Astrid. She needed to let this be, but her tongue wouldn't still itself. "Speak to me, Finn … let me in."

He shook his head, stubbornness filtering over his face.

"So, ye regret what happened between us?" Curse her, she wished her eyes weren't starting to prickle, that her throat didn't feel so tight. She was just moments away from weeping.

Finn stared back at her, a muscle feathering in his jaw. Silence swelled between them before he answered her, his voice low and rough. "Aye."

Astrid flinched.

Heart pounding, she stepped back from him and furiously tried to bank the tears that now stung her eyes. "At least ye are sincere," she managed, her voice choked. "I should thank ye for that. "

"Astrid," he ground out. "Please, don't make this harder than it has to be. I can't—"

"Fear not," she cut him off as she continued to back away, mortification sweeping over her in a hot rush. "I shall not bring this up again."

Something gave way inside her then. She had to get away from him, had to gather what shreds of dignity she had left. Suddenly, she was fifteen summers old again, watching as the lad she pined for flirted with her best friend. His rejection ripped her asunder.

God help her, she thought she'd never be so foolish as to long for Finn MacDonald again, but she had.

Picking up her skirts with one hand and still clutching her parcel of food with the other, Astrid fled back up the beach toward the sanctuary of her tent.