Page 17 of Highland Warlord
“I’ve come to strike a bargain with you, Berserker,” she said with mysterious stoicism. “Take me home to Dun Moray, and I vow on the Goddess that if you still want to die in battle, my brother, Malcolm will gladly put you in the ground.”
Chapter 9
Morgana could think of nothing more exhilarating than traveling in the arms of a sprinting Berserker. It truly did resemble flying. By the time the sun disappeared, they’d reached Hadrian’s Wall.
“I’d thought we’d traveled forty miles or so at most,” Morgana marveled. “You had to have taken me at least a hundred and forty since Yorkshire in one night.”
“At least,” he mumbled, as they ventured into the wilderness beyond the wall.
Now, hours later, stars pricked the sky with pinpoints of light. Clouds gathered in the distance to the west, rolling with an approaching thunderstorm, and the moon glowed as a waning orb in the east.
“At this speed, you could have me to Loch Fyne by tomorrow night,” she calculated, enjoying the moist, chilly air contrasting with the warmth of his chest against her body.
“I will have to stop and rest, eventually.”
“Of course,” she said quickly, feeling a little foolish that she hadn’t really considered the mythical Berserker to be a beast of finite stamina. “How long can one such as you run?”
Her curiosity seemed to irritate him. “I told you I’d get you home as fast as I can. I’ll only stop long enough to eat and regain my strength.”
They’d had speared fish before leaving the side of the loch where they’d made love. Morgana looked up at the hard jaw of the man who carried her through the night. He’d been inside her only hours ago, caressing her skin as though it was the most precious thing he’d ever put his hands on. She wanted that back. Gods help her, now was not the time for such concerns, not with so much hanging in the balance, but all she seemed to be able to think about was the possessive worship in the Berserker’s eyes. And the steely disdain in the eyes of the man now carrying her toward home.
“I wasn’t questioning your word,” she clarified gently, though she had to speak with a little more force to counteract the rush of the air around them. “I’m merely curious. Exactly how fast and far can Berserkers run? I can’t say I’ve met one before.”
Her words seemed to mollify him enough to answer her question. “Most Berserkers move with supernatural speed, but usually in short bursts for battle or pursuit. We all have a specific strength that sets us apart from the others. Mine is speed and endurance.”
“Luckily for me.” Morgana beamed up at him with her most charming smile.
He didn’t answer.
Sighing, Morgana burrowed a little deeper into the warmth of his chest. She thought she felt a tightening of his hold around her legs and ribs, but wondered if she only imagined it. He was too surly a man to be the cuddling kind.
“For what it’s worth, I wanted to thank you for taking me home,” she offered, hoping to warm the ever-present chill of his company.
“I didn’t have much of a choice,” he mumbled.
“I suppose not,” she conceded. “But it’s important that you know I appreciate it, all the same.”
He didn’t look down at her, keeping his eyes affixed on some distant point in the darkness that only he could see, but she had the sense that she’d surprised him. No. Astonished him was more like it.
What a curious creature he was, to say nothing of the gentle, deadly beast that lived inside him. He was her lover. Her mate. And yet Morgana realized she knew nothing about him.
“What is your name, warrior?”
“Bael. Bael Bloodborn.”
“Bloodborn,” she echoed. “A…Berserker family name?”
He shook his head, leaping over a fallen tree and jarring her a bit with the landing. “Nie,” he answered. “I am the Bastard of Sigard Fjordson and his Persian slave. At the temple of Freya, we bastards have to earn our names through our deeds.”
“Bloodborn,” she whispered again, the name holding a more sinister meaning now. “I like the name Bael. It’s strong and bold. It suits you.”
“It’d be my name whether it suited me or not,” he said gruffly, but a small prick of awareness skittered along the fine hairs of her skin, telling her she’d alternately pleased and discomfited him.
“I think I like the name Bloodborn better than Fjordson,” she continued, enjoying the bit of warmth flowing between them. “It’s more, um, evocative, surely. And, er, I’m certain well-deserved. Also, there’s something to be said about being the first of your name, isn’t there? For example, you can forge your own legacy, that is, if you wanted to live long enough to do such a thing.” Morgana furrowed her brow, she’d taken a conversational turn there she hadn’t meant to.
“Bastards don’t leave legacies.”
“I don’t know about that,” she gently argued. “There’s a rather dangerous one bearing down on England as we speak.” She, of course, referred to William the Bastard, of Normandy.
