Unwilling (Highland Historical #2)

as he
reached out to clap Rory on the shoulder.  “I have a brother of my own,” he
said.  “I’d die for him.”
    Rory nodded his head in
appreciation, his jaw working back strong emotion.  “Actually, I thought it
would be Roderick who answered my missive, what with you being Laird and all. 
Oh, and a Baron now, besides.”
    “My brother is newly married.  He
promised his bride he’d build her an apothecary in Strathlachlan.  There’s no
tearing him away from her side for the time being.”  Connor huffed out a
chuckle at the memory of his brother following his wee curvy mate about the
Keep like an addled puppy, a load of planks on his broad back.  God save him
from the same fate.  Roderick was patient and steady as the day was long.  Connor
didn’t have the temperament to deal with a wife.  
    Besides, courting a Berserker could
be deadly.  And he had enough blood on his hands already.  Better not to risk
it. 
    “I see,” Rory let his mouth relax
into a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes.  “There’s another conundrum of
mine.  The next Laird of our clan is betrothed to Lindsay Ross.”
    “The Regent’s niece?”
    “Aye.  I’d not see her in the arms
of my brother, royal beauty that she is.”
    “I heard she’s also a royal pain in
the arse.” 
    Rory shrugged.  “I’ve never met
her.  But I wouldn’t give an animal I liked to Angus, let alone a noble
lassie."
    “Right.”  Connor turned his
attention back to the road.  The Mackay had almost reached the foot of the
loch.  They would angle southwest, then, following the road along the river. 
    “They mustn’t reach Loch Lomond.” 
Rory pulled a heavy purse out of his saddlebag and handed it to Connor, who
nodded. 
    “I’ll get them at Benmore.  There’s
forest for ambush and caves where I can camp for the night.  Besides, Lomond’s
too close to MacLauchlan land for my comfort.  I’ll no’ let him get close to my
clan.”
    Pulling his hood up against the
rain, Rory turned his horse. 
    “Go to a busy tavern tonight,”
Connor ordered.  “Buy everyone there a pint and maybe tumble a lass or two. 
Make sure you’re seen.”
    “All right,” Rory nodded.  “And…
Godspeed Connor MacLauchlan.”
    “I doona need yer God’s blessing,”
the berserker murmured as the other man rode off into the rain.  “I have a
Goddess to keep me.”
    When the berserker rage took him,
he became lost in it.  It was as though another beast lived dormant inside of
him and burst free at the sight of blood.  Only, Connor never disappeared into
the grey oblivion.  Nor was he merely a spectator.  He became a mass of rage
and wrath and indiscriminate destruction.  Every man possessed some part of the
spirit of the berserker.  For some it was a whisper.  For others a roar.  But
the nature of humanity tempered the beast with reason, logic, fear, love, and
ambition. 
    For a few ancient blood lines,
Freya, the Norse Goddess of war, unchained the beast within chosen warriors of the
line and gifted them with unnatural strength and speed.  The part of the mind
that processed logic, consequence, and emotion became chained but never
completely dormant. 
    Connor turned and watched the heavy
coach make its unhurried pace through the late afternoon.  Closing his eyes he
waited to feel the requisite thrill before a good battle.  God help the
marauding tyrant within.  For once his Berserker beheld the first hint of
blood, there would be no survivors. 
    ***
    Endless hours in the stuffy coach
made Lindsay Ross squirm with restlessness.  She couldn’t read to pass the
time, for within minutes of bouncing through the mud-rutted roads she’d be
green as Irish moss and her afternoon meal would make an unwelcome reappearance.
    She’d rather have ridden out in the
fresh autumn air with her vanguard, but her uncle forbade it.  In fact, he’d
been quite forbidding since taking her father’s place as Regent of
Scotland.  Every time their last discussion ran through her head, she could
feel the embers of her temper ignite all over again.
    “There’s nothing I can do to help
ye, Lindsay,” he’d said with a dismissive wave.  “The betrothal contract was
signed between yer father and the senior Angus MacKay in agreement for a trade
of MacKay lands and their swords against the Donald.  Both men who signed the
contract are dead now.  I canna go against yer departed father’s wishes.  Ye’re
Laird has sent for ye.