A Warrior's Passion

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

A Warrior’s Passion

Margaret Moore

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

MARGARET MOORE

confesses that her first “crush” was Errol Flynn. The second was “Mr. Spock.” She thinks that explains why her heroes tend to be either charming rogues or lean, inscrutable tough guys.

Margaret lives in Scarborough, Ontario, with her husband, two children and two cats. She used to sew and read for reasons other than research.

Chapter One (#ulink_20a12b29-56ba-52ae-87f0-9f722c7937e0)

Seona MacMurdoch sniffled and wiped her dripping nose with the back of her hand. Clutching her thin woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders, she raised her head, squinting in the drizzle, and looked up at the slate-gray sky.

No sign of sunlight and, inside the stone hall beside her, not a sound that would give any notion of why her father had summoned her.

Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done but wait until the chieftain called for her or sent one of his men to fetch her inside, provided he even remembered that, at one time this morning, he had wanted her.

Breathing in the scent of the wet earth beneath her leather-covered feet and the soaked thatch above her head, she wiped her damp face again and sighed with resignation. Then she leaned back against the wall, the movement setting the iron keys tied to the plain belt around her thin waist jangling. Her gaze roved over the wooden wall of her father’s fortress to the scraggy hills surrounding the bay, the thin, dark green of them obscured by the rain. From where she stood, she could look out the open gate of the fortress to the harbor, where the trading ships of her father’s fleet rocked in the bay.

Although these were heavier, larger vessels than longships, the sleek hulls and curved prows gave evidence of Diarmad MacMurdoch’s Norse heritage. He and his people were Gall-Gaidheal whose forebears were both Scots and Norsemen here on the northwest coast of Britain.

His other ships—his longships—were moored elsewhere, out of sight of the village and any traders who might come to visit Dunloch.

“Seona!”

She jumped at the sound of her father’s bellowing voice. It echoed off the stone walls of the hall as if he had called from inside a cave.

Before she could obey her father’s order, however, the warriors of Diarmad MacMurdoch’s council filled the entrance, then filed out past her.

This was to be a private meeting? She shivered and told herself it was from the damp chill of the air of late spring, not the fear that she had done something wrong.

Clad in their voluminous yellow shirts called leine chroich whose color showed their wealth and status, cloaked against the cold and wet by brats, long, woven pieces of cloth they tucked into wide leather belts so that they hung to their naked knees like skirts, their shins wrapped with cuarans of deerskin held in place by thongs, the warriors paid little heed to their chieftain’s daughter as they passed her.

It was not that they didn’t notice her, standing there holding her cloak closed over her loose woolen gown without so much as a bronze pin for adornment, or would not be aware that the chieftain was awaiting her entrance. By their aloof behavior, they only emulated Diarmad MacMurdoch. He often went weeks without speaking one word to Seona, or seeming to realize she still lived and breathed.

Not that Seona wanted any of her father’s warriors to pay her particular notice. Around the time she had come of an age to be married, she had decided she would prefer to be ignored by the lot of them.

Nor had she any wish to see the dread in their eyes should fierce Diarmad MacMurdoch take it into his head to forge a family tie with one of them. She would rather remain a useless spinster, as her father so often described her.

Did any one of them ever wonder how she felt about the prospect of becoming his wife? Did they believe her blind to the curl of their lips when they glanced at her? Did they think her blushing face and awkward manner born in her, rather than engendered by the knowledge that all men thought her ugly and graceless?

“Seona!” her father bellowed again.

She obediently entered the cavernous hall. There were no windows, and the only ventilation came from the covered door and a hole in the thatched roof. A peat fire smoldered in the central hearth, and its lingering smoke added to the obscurity.

Despite the lack of light, she knew where her father would be, so she advanced confidently, as a blind person does in a familiar room.

Wrapped in his black bear robe, the chieftain of Dunloch sat on a bench at the far end of the hall, his back against the wall. A neck band of silver glinted dully as he stared at her with stern disapproval, his dark eyes glaring beneath brows as black as the fur surrounding him. His beard and hair, now shot through with gray, had once been that dark, too. Nevertheless, he was a dangerous man yet, despite his age, as his enemies would aver, whether in combat or in trade.

“You wanted me, Father?” Seona asked as she took off her cloak and shook out what water she could.

“I never wanted a daughter,” her father growled.

Seona made no answer as she folded her wet garment over her arm. This announcement did not surprise her; indeed, she had heard the same sentiment expressed many times before.

Her father leaned forward with a grunt. “You are the scrawniest woman I have ever seen.”

Seona carefully laid her cloak on a nearby bench. “I know,” she answered evenly, wondering how long this preliminary criticism would last.

Many a time he chided her for her pale face, oddcolored hair, staring eyes, too-large mouth, too thin body and too full lips. He claimed that she took after her mother’s family, which had only ever produced one woman worth looking at, the one Diarmad had taken for wife.

“Lucky for you, I may have use for you yet.”

“What task would you set me?” Seona inquired, thinking he was going to speak to her regarding provisions for his ships or food for his men.

His scowl deepened as he leaned forward again and fixed his beady black eyes on her. “We’re going to have an important visitor. From Wales he is, the son of a very powerful, rich baron. He’s coming to conclude a trade agreement.”

Seona nodded, thinking she knew what her father wanted. “I will see that quarters are prepared for him and his men.”

“He brings no men.”

Seona’s eyes widened a little, and then she smiled. Her chores would be much easier if the man came without a band of warriors.

“I’ve sent one of my ships to bring him here, and his father sends him alone to show his trust in me.”

Seona fought hard to keep any skepticism from her face. Her father’s reputation was not one to generate much trust among his trading partners.

Not that Diarmad MacMurdoch ever broke his word or harmed any ally. No, he was trustworthy as far as that went. But no one who made a bargain with him ever felt they got quite a fair deal, and in that, they were absolutely right.

“Very well, Father,” Seona said, turning to leave. “I will insure that all is ready.”

“There is more!”

Seona turned back to face her stern parent again. “Yes, Father?”

“You are to see that he is kept…happy…while he is with us.”

Her eyes narrowed as she regarded her father with a shrewdness his allies would have recognized. It did not ease her suspicions that her father did not meet her gaze. “What is it you would have me do?”

As the silence stretched between them, her instinct became a certainty and anger began to build in her breast.

“What would you have me do?” she repeated.

When he still did not answer, she squared her slender shoulders. “You would pander your own daughter for the sake of trade? I suppose I should be surprised that you have never made such a proposal before. However, I am not so ugly or desperate for a man’s touch that I will act a whore!”