The Warrior by Margaret Mallory

throat at the sight of the torn flesh.
    “We need to stop the bleeding,” Duncan said, glancing down at Niall’s leg. “Take my
     dirk and cut a strip of cloth for a bandage.”
    She reached over Niall’s prone body to take the dirk from Duncan’s hand, then quickly
     cut two long strips of cloth from the hem of her gown. When she had them ready, Duncan
     dropped to his knee to help her wrap the makeshift bandage around Niall’s thigh.
    “We’re past the worst of the storm,” Duncan said. “With luck and God’s grace, we’ll
     ride out the rest of it.”
    When Moira glanced up, she saw that it was true. The swells were not so high, and
     the sky was light up ahead. She had been certain they would all die. Her hands shook
     as she wrapped the second strip around Niall’s leg and tied a knot to bind it.
    Niall groaned as Duncan helped her tug the knot tight.
    “You’ll be all right,” she told Niall, and prayed it was true.
    She stole another look at Duncan. It was thanks to his skill with the boat, his exceptional
     strength, and the force of his will that they had survived.
    Moira lifted Niall’s head onto her lap and wiped the blood and vomit from his face.
     “He’s still so cold,” she said.
    Duncan fetched a blanket and gently tucked it around Niall. Then he snapped his fingers
     at Sàr and the wolfhound lay down beside Niall. “The dog will help keep him warm.”
    Niall opened his eyes and gave Duncan a faint smile. “Ye looked like Cúchulainn himself
     when ye were pulling me in on that rope.”
    “Lie still and rest.” Duncan spoke in a soft voice as if he were putting a wee bairn
     to bed. He smoothed the wet hair back from Niall’s face until Niall closed his eyes
     again.
    Niall’s comparison of Duncan to the mythical Celtic warrior of legend was apt. His
     powerful build and indomitable will were what had drawn Moira to him and stirred her
     blood when she was seventeen.
    But it was this gentle side of Duncan that had stolen her heart.
     
    * * *
    Duncan bailed the boat with one hand while steering as best he could with a broken
     rudder. The little galley, as fine a boat as he had ever sailed, was holding together
     with spit and a prayer. At least the sea was calm now. If they hit another squall,
     he feared the galley would break into pieces.
    Duncan took a deep breath. That had been far too close. God help him, he had almost
     lost Ian’s brother. And Niall was not out of danger yet. The wound in his leg was
     deep, and he had lost a lot of blood.
    Moira hovered over Niall, who was moaning in his sleep. Her brows were pinched together
     with worry, and her beautiful face looked painful. The swelling had gone down a bit,
     but the bruises would color her skin for a long time.
    “We stole this little galley from Shaggy Maclean when we escaped from his dungeon,”
     Duncan said in an attempt to take her mind off Niall and their precarious situation.
     “The four of us had a long-running argument over who had the better right to it.”
    “How did ye end up in Shaggy’s dungeon?” she asked.
    “We left France as soon as we heard about the disastrous battle against the English
     at Flodden.” Duncan looked off at the horizon, remembering it all. “We didn’t know
     that your father and brother Ragnall were dead or that your uncle Hugh Dubh had taken
     control of Dunscaith Castle and proclaimed himself the new chieftain.”
    “I did not hear of it myself until afterward,” Moira said.
    “Hugh feared the clan would choose Connor as chieftain if he returned,” Duncan continued.
     “He knew we would have to sail past the Maclean fortress on our way home, so he asked
     Shaggy to keep watch for us and see that we never made it to Skye.”
    “My uncle wanted Connor murdered?” she asked.
    “He still does.” Duncan continued bailing as they talked, but the water was seeping
     in through the cracks almost as fast as he scooped it out. “We managed to toss Hugh
     out of