24 NO PLACE FOR A LADY

"I WON'T BE a burden." Facing Malcolm and Finn on the beach, as the sun kissed the hills to the east, Astrid nodded to the warrior who'd just laced the bracer onto her forearm. The armguards fitted snugly. Once he moved away, she then patted the belt of blades at her hip. "These aren't for show … I know how to use them."

Malcolm's eyes widened at this assertion, for this was the first time he'd seen Astrid wearing her throwing knives, although Finn's expression merely turned grim. Of course, he knew she wasn't lying. Nonetheless, her words didn't reassure him.

"I'll keep out of yer way, if that's what ye are worried about," she assured them as she put on a thick leather vest over the bodice of her kirtle and began to deftly lace it up. It was made of tough leather and would provide a little protection in battle.

Astrid was halfway through lacing herself up when she glanced over at Finn once more.

He was scowling at her. "I was more concerned about yer safety actually," he growled. "That vest won't prevent a pike from skewering ye."

"Well, then it's fortunate that I'm nimble and quick," she replied, raising her chin. "I'll ensure no schiltron finds its mark."

Her boast made Malcolm's mouth curve, although Finn's jaw now flexed. "Loch won't like it."

"Well, he's not here to voice his opinion, is he?"

Her words were deliberately flippant, and anger flickered to life in Finn's eyes. "Things will get brutal when we reach Dounarwyse." His voice roughened then. "Are ye ready to see blood gush from a man's throat, to see his entrails spill from his belly? "

The words were harsh, and Astrid's heart slammed hard against her ribs as she imagined such a scene.

However, she wouldn't back down. Over the past week, she'd been shipwrecked and marooned on a barren island, dealt with pirates, convinced a clan-chief against his will—and been humiliated by her lover. But she'd weathered it all. She was still standing. No, her spirit would prevail. It was time to step into the breach.

Finn would never know how his words the night before had wounded her. She'd not let on that she retreated to her tent and wept bitter tears, all the while railing at herself for succumbing to girlish fancies.

Where were her wits?

She'd made a stuttering fool of herself and misjudged Finn's attitude toward her, but she couldn't crawl away and hide.

Not from him. Not from anyone.

"Listen to me, Astrid." Finn moved close now. "Battle is no place for a lady. Malcolm has already agreed to make a detour south … and to provide two of his men as an escort to ensure ye make it safely back to Duart."

"No!" Anger flared hot in Astrid's belly. How dare they discuss this without consulting her first? "There won't be time … we risk being too late to help them as it is."

"Yer brother will be furious if we drag ye into the midst of a melee," Finn countered, bringing up Loch once more.

"MacDonald has raised some worthy points," Malcolm said then, folding his muscular arms across his chest. "Once we engage the enemy, things will get messy … and bloody." He pulled a face. "I wouldn't want my sister thrust into the midst of a battle either."

"I repeat, I can fight," Astrid cut in.

"That's not enough." Finn's lean frame vibrated with anger now. "And although ye don't think ye'll be a burden, ye will be. Ye will also be a distraction … something none of us need."

A chill silence fell then, and Astrid was aware of the stares of the men surrounding them. They were all waiting for the command to haul the birlinns into the water and resume their journey.

This argument was holding them up.

But Astrid wouldn't be moved. "Ye're not dropping me off, MacDonald." She bit out the words, enunciating each one carefully. "If ye want me to return to Duart, ye'll have to tie me up and drag me kicking and screaming back there yerself."

Moments passed, and then Malcolm cleared his throat. "Well, MacDonald … the lady has made her feelings plain." He paused then, his gaze flicking between where Finn and Astrid were glaring at each other. "And Lady Astrid is right … time is against us."

The dark smoke rising into the sky was an ill sign.

Sitting at the bow, Astrid narrowed her gaze, craning her neck forward to see into the distance.

Ahead, a smudge of green was visible. And as the moments passed, she realized she was looking at a windswept headland.

Her heart swooped. Mull!

The small fleet had cut across the water, a brisk wind filling their sails and pushing them on faster than expected. It was only mid-afternoon, yet the Isle of Mull was in sight.

However, the smoke that stained the blue sky throttled her joy.

Casting a glance over her shoulder, her gaze settled upon Finn's face. It was difficult to look his way, as she'd done her best to avoid him all day. Likewise, he hadn't spoken a word to her since their argument at dawn.

Fortunately, Finn wasn't focused on her at present. He'd moved up from amidships and was also staring southwest. "I hope that smoke isn't coming from the broch," he muttered, voicing her own fears.

"We'll see soon enough," Malcolm called from behind him. "Are ye ready for battle, lads?" His voice rose to a roar then, carrying across the water. And the cry that answered him was equally thunderous.

Astrid's skin prickled, her breathing growing shallow.

Hades, this was really happening. She was about to dive into the midst of chaos.

And as they sailed closer still, and the high walls of Dounarwyse became visible against the sky, her pulse sprang into a gallop .

At least her worst fears hadn't been realized—the broch hadn't already fallen. She remembered Loch saying that sieges could last a long while, as the attackers hurled themselves against the defenses before withdrawing, rallying themselves, and trying again.

Dounarwyse had never been an easy fortress to take, and it was proving so again now.

A sea of men swarmed around the base of the castle walls, and even from this distance, it looked as if they were taking a battering ram to the gate. Arrows and crossbow bolts flew from the ramparts. Dounarwyse's curtain wall had a battered look, with chunks of stone missing, and dark smears of soot, as if flaming projectiles had been hurled at the fortress. However, the smoke wasn't rising from the broch, at present, but from the water below.

And as they approached, Astrid's heart started to race so violently that it felt as if it would lurch from her chest. Another battle was unfolding upon the sea, and one of the birlinns, a large galley, was in flames. Men screamed and leaped into the water, while others remained onboard and still fired arrows at the cog that bore down upon them.

Astrid's breathing caught then, and she murmured an oath.

She recognized the cog with its distinctive black-and-white-striped sail.

Logan Black, the chieftain of Croggan, was here—which meant that the burning birlinn belonged to the attackers. That was a good sign indeed, one which took the edge off her mounting panic.

Keep yer wits about ye, woman , she counseled herself. Ye asked for this. Now prove that ye will be a help, not a hindrance.

Finn hadn't exaggerated. The fighting was brutal indeed. There was a tangle of birlinns that rocked precariously as men fought with pikes and dirks. Some fell into the water, yet they continued to flail at each other even then.

And as they drew nearer still, Astrid marked the dark-red patches that spread out across the water around the fighting, staining it.

"I'd say we're in time for the final battle," Malcolm announced. He'd moved up to the bow too, his auburn eyebrows knitted as he surveyed the melee .

"Aye," Finn agreed. "Although Astrid had a point yesterday … it's going to be difficult to separate our allies from our enemies amongst this mess." He cut Malcolm a look then. "The cog is one of ours though."

Malcolm's attention shifted to the Revenge Tide , which, despite having set a foe's ship alight, was now beset by three other smaller birlinns. Men scrambled up, over the railings of the cog, and a violent skirmish was taking place on the deck. "Right," he murmured. "Then we shall begin there … they look as if they could do with help."

He turned back to his men then. "Ready yerselves!" he bellowed. "We're defending the cog. Make sure ye are engaging a Mackinnon, MacGregor, or MacNab before ye drive yer blade into anyone's chest. Is that clear?"

"Aye!"

All three birlinns were sailing close now, in a tightly packed vee that reminded Astrid of a diving swallow.

"Astrid." Finn caught her arm then, focusing on her for the first time since their argument earlier in the day. His features were tight as he drew her up from her perch at the bow. "Ye're too vulnerable up here … move to amidships and stay there."

The glint in his eyes warned that he wouldn't be argued with—not that Astrid intended to defy him. There were arrows and flaming projectiles hurtling around out there. As such, she gave a nod and turned, scrambling back, between where many of the warriors had abandoned their oars and were now drawing their weapons. The ring of steel, the rasp of iron against leather, filled the air.

And then, as Astrid drew the dirk at her hip and crouched next to the mast, they sailed into the midst of the sea battle, and the roar of men's voices, yells, and the clash of weapons filled the air.

Her heart quailed at the sight of the savagery unfolding around her. On the deck of the cog, a man had just driven his dirk through another's throat. As she looked on, aghast, he pushed his opponent overboard.

And then Astrid recognized the man who'd just killed his opponent.

It was Loch.

Clad in chainmail and leather, his long dark hair tied back with a thong at his nape, her brother whipped around to face his next attacker .

Astrid's lips parted as she watched him fight, her breathing stilling.

Aye, she'd seen her brother handle himself in the practice yard, but never in real combat.

Lord, he was vicious, and he wielded a dirk without mercy—stabbing and twisting, the long narrow blade glinting in the sunlight.

Moments later, the man he'd just engaged fell, howling, into the water.

Loch's gaze cut right then, toward her, and Astrid ducked her head. She didn't want him to spy her, for it would distract him. Distractions were deadly in battle.

Astrid clutched at the mast with her free hand as dizziness assailed her. Curse it, she needed to remember to breathe.

Her fingers gripped the bone hilt of her dirk so tightly, they started to ache.

More screams ripped through the late afternoon air, anguished and full of pain.

Astrid swallowed hard, even as bile stung the back of her throat. During the journey from Sanna, she'd tried to prepare herself for this, but there was no getting ready for the viciousness unfolding around her.

She was in the midst of hell.