4 HER SHADOW

PULLING HER CLOAK tightly about her, Astrid trudged through the sand to where the Sea Eagle awaited. A few yards back, above the tideline, four other birlinns perched, waiting to depart for Dounarwyse.

Astrid's escort—a crew of fourteen warriors—clustered around the birlinn at the water's edge, their figures ghostly in the mist and drizzle that blanketed the world this morning, while the galley's single mast pierced the fog.

The sun had recently risen, although its friendly face was nowhere to be seen. And the chill air that stung Astrid's face made it difficult to believe it was May. Summer was nearly upon them, yet it was hard not to shiver.

Captain MacDonald's gaze pierced Astrid's as she approached, sweeping over her cloaked form. The wind snagged at her mantle then, pulling it aside for a moment, and Finn's eyes narrowed. Aye, he'd seen the dirk she carried at her hip, and the belt of throwing knives she'd strapped around her waist too.

Astrid raised her chin, daring him to challenge her.

This was her mission, and these were dangerous times. As such, she'd travel armed.

Finn's gaze narrowed further, yet he held his tongue.

Usually, it would be the leader of her escort who'd help her onto the ship—not so today though. Finn knew that Astrid would rather touch a leper than take his hand, and so he stepped back when she reached the galley, allowing Dougie, one of his men, to move to Astrid's side.

Finn's behavior didn't surprise her. It seemed that he was as reluctant to touch her as she was him.

Seated at the stern, only a couple of feet from the steering oar, Astrid waited while her escort heaved the galley properly into the water. The warriors then clambered onboard and took their places. Moments later, they were off, churning through the surf as the oarsmen propelled them out into Duart Bay itself.

Spindrift and misty rain coated Astrid's face, and the briny scent of the sea filled her lungs as she gripped onto the sides. She'd accompanied her father on many journeys over the years and usually found the trips exhilarating. Nonetheless, rough seas tended to make her a little nervous.

They moved out into the bay, and Astrid craned her neck to look up at the cliffs above. The wreathing mist nearly obscured the castle this morning, its high curtain wall disappearing into the murk.

Astrid's belly clenched as worry about what the future held swept over her, and she whispered a prayer. The outer courtyard had already been full of men and horses when they'd departed—Loch in the midst of it all, organizing last-minute details.

Astrid wasn't the only one leaving this morning. Her brother was about to lead his force of sixty warriors north, to join the Macleans of Dounarwyse. Some would travel by birlinn, while others would make the journey on horseback. Loch had already sent out riders to Moy and Croggan, and a boat to Breachacha. More of their clansmen would shortly be on their way, but in the meantime, Dounarwyse couldn't stand alone.

Misgiving stole over Astrid then.

Despite that her brother was a warrior of renown, who'd led men into battle countless times against the English, a tight knot formed in her belly.

It wasn't just the upcoming conflict that worried her, but something else.

When Finn had returned from Dounarwyse back in March, with the news that he'd left Jack and Tara there—he'd also brought stranger, more discomforting news.

It seemed that while Jack had been dragging his captive across the isle, he'd spied a specter in the shadow of the great mountain Ben More.

The Headless Horseman had galloped across his path—a man dressed in flowing black upon a black steed, a bloody stump where his head should have been.

Of course, like everyone who'd grown up on Mull, Astrid knew the tale of the warrior who'd lost his head during battle and now roamed the area west of Ben More, seeking his rightful place as chieftain—but secretly, she'd thought it was just a tale.

According to her cousin, it wasn't. Legend had it that if a Maclean witnessed The Headless Horseman, it was an omen that one of his family would shortly die.

A chill prickled Astrid's skin. The Macleans of Duart and Dounarwyse were blood kin. Loch and Astrid were cousins to Rae and Jack. She'd worried about Loch ever since. Of course, it could have been any of the four of them, but for some reason, her mind had seized on her brother, and it wouldn't let go.

All the more reason why she had to make haste to Skye and ensure that the Macleans of Mull didn't stand alone against their foe.

She couldn't let her brother, or her clan, down.

Exhaling slowly, Astrid pushed worries about Loch aside and tore her gaze from her beloved castle. Her attention slid over the twelve oarsmen who moved in unison, to two men, Finn and another, unfurling the sail.

Out here on the water, a breeze picked up. The Sea Eagle was a swift craft, built for speed, unlike some of the bigger galleys. The heavy woven wool sail snapped and then billowed, catching the wind, and, rigging creaking, the birlinn lurched forward. Keeping a tight hold on the railing, Astrid watched as Finn left his companion to trim the sail while he picked his way down, between the oarsmen, to the stern.

Astrid's mouth thinned as he approached. She'd hoped he'd keep his distance during the journey, yet it seemed he wouldn't.

However, the captain didn't acknowledge her. Indeed, his gaze moved right past Astrid, as if she weren't even there, as he squeezed by and took his place at the steering oar.

And as he moved past her—closer to her than he'd ever been—Astrid inhaled his scent: leather with a woodsy, sharp undertone that reminded her of a pinewood in summer. And despite herself, Astrid had to admit that it was a pleasant smell, one that calmed her breathing and eased her nerves. It certainly wasn't what she'd have expected of her enemy.

Her mouth compressed as she inwardly chastised herself. What did ye expect, lass? For him to smell of iron and sulfur like the devil ?

Finn shifted the steering oar slightly, angling the birlinn farther east than he usually would as they traveled up the Sound of Mull. The last time they'd sailed north, they'd hugged the eastern coast of the Isle of Mull and watched the wind-blasted cliffs slide by before Dounarwyse broch itself hove into view.

However, it was risky to go anywhere near the coast this morning. The Mackinnons and their allies would be there—and it was imperative that the enemy didn't spot the Sea Eagle . Finn had been vexed at dawn, upon spying the mist, although in many ways it was their ally. It had masked their departure, and now that it was clearing slightly, he was able to navigate the birlinn without worrying that he'd accidentally run the vessel aground.

His early years amongst his kin, on the Isle of Islay, had taught Finn much about the sea. All his family were seafarers; his uncle was a merchant who'd sailed the entire coast of Scotland, and he always returned with exciting tales.

Finn's jaw tightened at the thought of his childhood on Islay, bitterness souring his mouth. His parents had sent him away when he was seven, and he'd never been home since. He hadn't had any contact with his parents or his elder brothers over the years. None of his family had visited him at Duart, or sent word, in the years he fostered there, and in response, he'd turned his back on them.

Islay hadn't been his home for a long while.

Finn's mouth thinned. These days, he wasn't sure where he belonged.

Aye, he served Loch now, but he was a MacDonald of Dunnyveg, not a Maclean of Duart. Blood was blood, after all. It didn't matter how many years he lived on Mull, he'd always be the lad who'd fostered at Duart and never left.

Finn cut a glance to the woman seated just a foot from him—so close he could have reached out and touched her. It surprised him she'd defied her brother and turned up this morning with enough steel on her to bring down a charging boar. However, Loch was too preoccupied with war to worry about his sister bearing weapons.

Pulling a face, Finn looked away from Astrid.

No, Duart wasn't home either, especially since he wasn't well-liked there, but his loyalty to Loch and Jack was everything to him. His two friends were the only people in this cesspit of a world he really cared about, but even they couldn't erase the past.

The reality was that Maggie's death had left a lasting scar upon Duart and Craignure, and he'd forever be known as ‘the beast who drowned that poor lass'.

Finn's grip tightened upon the steering oar, and despite himself, he glanced Astrid's way once more. She was staring north, her chin held high, her gaze slightly narrowed. Her profile was both delicate and proud. Strands of pale-blonde hair had come free of her braid and stuck to her cheeks, for the rain continued to fall in a silent mist.

It was hard to believe such a lovely creature had become his archenemy. This woman made it impossible for him to move forward with his life. Wherever he went, she was always there, her peat-brown eyes damning him. And thanks to the vicious harpy, the locals would never let the past go. Many of the fisherfolk still muttered under their breaths and cast him dark looks whenever he ventured into Craignure.

It was as if Astrid had made it her mission to never let him forget Maggie.

As if he ever could.

Pressure rose under Finn's breastbone then, his resentment giving way to another, more uncomfortable, emotion. The young woman's final moments would be etched on his memory until the end of his days.

Although the mist eventually cleared, the wind grew sharp and cold as the day progressed. Astrid was grateful for the thick fur cloak she'd donned for the journey. It cocooned her from the worst of the chill. However, by the time they reached Sanna—a hamlet perched upon the far western tip of the Ardnamurchan peninsula, where they'd stay overnight—her fingers were numb and her face chapped.

It was a relief when the men angled the birlinn for the shore, their oars cutting through the surf toward a wide sandy beach. Above, a collection of crofts perched on the emerald-green headland—a welcoming sight indeed.

Once they reached the shallows, Finn and his men leaped over the side of the galley and pushed it onto the beach. And there, once again, the captain stepped aside, to let one of his men—a warrior named Colin, this time—help Astrid down from the birlinn .

Ever since departing Duart, neither Astrid nor Finn had acknowledged each other—and if Astrid had her way, she wouldn't speak to him during the entire journey.

Even so, to her annoyance, Astrid was always aware of his presence. He'd taken the steering oar at the stern a few times during the day, often brushing close to her to sit down, for the space was narrow. And each time, the scent of leather and pine filled her nostrils. And now, as she picked up her skirts and trudged up onto the sand, Astrid knew without looking over her shoulder that Finn was just a couple of strides behind her.

Loch had charged him with her protection, and he'd do as ordered.

Astrid clenched her jaw, bristling at his proximity. God's teeth, how would she weather having this man as her shadow over the coming days?

The warriors heaved the birlinn above the tideline and tied down the sail before the party of fifteen climbed the hill to the tiny hamlet. Astrid had done her best to pack as little as possible to bring with her—nonetheless, two of the men carried her leather satchels slung across their fronts. Dusk was settling now, turning the already grey day darker still.

On the outskirts of the village, a woman of middling age with a careworn face and a warm smile met the newcomers as they approached.

"Welcome, travelers," she greeted them, her gaze roaming over the party before coming to rest on Astrid. "Are ye looking for lodgings for the night?"

"Aye, can ye provide some?" Finn asked before Astrid could answer.

The woman nodded. "As ye can see, our village is too small for an inn … however, I have a barn behind my cottage that will keep ye warm and dry overnight." She paused then, her gaze never leaving Astrid. Curiosity gleamed in her eyes.

"Apologies, Captain MacDonald has forgotten his manners," Astrid murmured, ignoring the glare Finn cut her as she stepped forward. "I'm Lady Astrid Maclean, sister to the clan-chief of the Macleans of Duart." She gestured to the men surrounding her then. "My men and I are bound for Skye and would indeed appreciate yer lodgings."

The woman's smile widened. "Four silver pennies will give ye a bed each and a meal of roast mutton and ale," she replied .

"Agreed." Astrid nodded before digging into the purse she wore upon her belt and extracting the fee.

Their hostess beamed at her, tucked the coins into her bodice, and then stepped back, motioning for them to follow. "This way."

She led them around her stone cottage, with its rambling garden encircled by a moss-encrusted wall, to where a stone and timber barn had been built into the lee of the hill. Inside, lanterns burned on the walls and a lump of peat glowed upon a central fire pit. The ruddy light revealed a small platform, nestled under heavy crisscrossing beams. "That space is reserved for our lady guests," the woman informed Astrid, motioning to the ladder that led up to the platform. "It's only fitting that ye have a bower of yer own, Lady Astrid."

Astrid smiled at this, relief flooding through her. Indeed, she'd been a little concerned that she wouldn't have much privacy tonight.

"I will return shortly with yer suppers," their hostess said as she bustled toward the door.

Astrid watched her go and then turned to Dougie and Norris, the warriors who carried her bags, favoring them with a smile. "Ye can take them upstairs."

The men nodded and moved to obey. However, to her annoyance, Finn stepped forward as the two warriors climbed the ladder to the platform. "Ye should have let me deal with that." His hazel eyes pinned her to the spot, his lip curling. "That woman fleeced ye."