Highland Warrior Heather McCollum (always you kirsty moseley TXT) 📖

two men following them as if eager to leave Joshua behind. The barn was empty like that morning, and Joshua returned Fuil to the large stall that they had shared overnight. Joshua made certain there were oats and fresh hay, as well as unfettered water, in the stall. “I am Joshua,” he said. “What is your name?”

“Geir Flett, son of Geir Spence of Birsay and Hillside, grandson of King Zaire.”

“King? The king I know is James. Are ye related to King Frederick or King Christian of Norway?” The king of Norway had recently died, and his eldest son, Christian, had taken over, even though he was only a lad of eleven. Since Kára’s family had been occupying Orkney for generations, they could not be of Norwegian royal blood unless it was from long ago, with the line having been abandoned to Scotland.

Geir narrowed his eyes. “You know a lot about Norway.”

“I know a lot about a lot of things,” he answered. Even though his father had spent most of his waking hours training his sons in war, leadership, and conquest, he had hired a tutor for his children. An ignorant man was as weak as a child.

“Like war and battle?” Geir asked, looking at him sideways with one eye squinted.

“Aye,” Joshua answered. “Among other things.”

Geir held his palm up to Fuil, who sniffed it. If there was a chance of another treat, his mighty warhorse was willing to forgive Geir’s involvement the other night.

Joshua studied the lad. He would be taller than most when he aged. He had the slender look of several of the Hillside men on the hill. His hair was a light brown, shorn short, and his nose was straight, his jaw well formed. “So are ye all related to some long-ago king of Norway?” Joshua asked.

They walked out of the barn together. “I do not know. The elders say so.” He shrugged. “Since we are ruled by Scotia, my grandfather was only our chief, but we called him konungr or king, like my mother is now dróttning, the queen. But she wants only to be called chief like Chief Erik.”

Joshua’s steps stilled, the boy taking several forward before stopping to look back at him. There was a resemblance. Angular features and large eyes, although his coloring was darker. “Kára Flett is your mother?” Joshua said.

“Aye.”

“Where is your father?” He held his inhale.

“Dead when I was not yet born. Struck down by Henry Stuart.”

Joshua exhaled. Was that the source of the edge to Kára when he’d asked if she knew Robert’s son? Had she loved her husband? The boy looked to be about nine or ten years old, so it had been some time. But did the loss still pain her? Make her seek revenge even at the cost of her people? His own father had taken the pain of losing his wife out on every enemy until he was killed.

“’Tis why I will kill him some day,” Geir said, his face deadly serious.

Joshua’s hand wiped over his mouth to rub his chin. Lord help them. Vengeance lay thick in Hillside from years of loss and abuse. Joshua began to walk with Geir again toward a roll of hay in a field. He dropped his arms. “Well then, son of the dróttning or chief,” Joshua said, “I will teach ye how to throw a sgian dubh so that next time ye throw, ye do more than graze your opponent.”

…

“I cannot,” Brenna wailed, sinking back as the contraction ebbed.

“Aye. You. Can.” Kára wiped a damp cloth over Brenna’s sweaty forehead, her stomach twisting with worry. The babe was not coming as it should.

Brenna rolled her head side to side on the pillows that propped her into a sitting position, her knees bent with a sheet over them. Amma lifted her face from where she’d checked her progress to meet Kára’s questioning gaze. The worry in the wise woman’s eyes cut like the sharpest of knives through Kára. Her breath stopped until Brenna began to pant again like she had for the last day. Wave after wave of pain had been robbing her of strength, and still the babe had not come.

Kára called Fiona over to hold Brenna through the pain while she beckoned Amma to the corner with her. “What is wrong?”

Amma shook her head. “The babe may be coming feet first. I am not as talented with birthing as Hilda.” Kára’s great-aunt, her amma’s sister, was a renowned healer and midwife on Orkney. Because of that, Lord Robert had taken her to tend his own wife, mistresses, and children, nine legitimate and numerous bastards. Instead of hiring Hilda and sending for her when needed, he stole her away from her family to keep her at his palace. She’d been a prisoner there since spring when Robert and Henry had burned the small village on the bay, killing those Kára loved.

The worry gnawing inside Kára would turn her useless. It wouldn’t abate, not with prayers or tears. The restlessness beat within her, this absolute need to help her best friend survive.

“I will bring Hilda,” Kára said.

Amma caught her arm before she could turn away. “No good will come of you being captured by Robert. And his son—”

“Will feel my blade between his ribs if he tries to touch me again.” Kára shook her head. “Nothing will stop me from finding help for Brenna.” She looked over at her straining friend. “We know there is a back way in and out of the palace,” Kára said. “I will find it if it is my only way in.” Although that might require a swim in the icy sea to reach the side facing it.

“Erik said it was too dangerous to go anywhere near the palace,” Amma said.

“Erik’s capture proves it is too dangerous everywhere, but I cannot sit here,” she lowered her voice, “and watch her die.” Behind Amma, Brenna panted. “I will bring Hilda,” Kára said. Torben’s mother, Fiona, and the two other helpers turned wide eyes toward her.

“’Tis