“Damn snow. Bloody damn wind,” he murmured, glancing up at the snowflakes swirling down to pock his bare arms. His feet were like ice in his boots. Yet he walked forward with only a sash from the end of his kilt over his bare chest so Robert’s people could see and remember the tattoos around his muscular arms and across his back. The dark swirls on his arm in the shape of a horse, along with the massive sword strapped across his back, reminded them that Joshua was War incarnate, the second Horseman of the Apocalypse, sent from God, to rage and win against his foes. At least that was what his father had told him every day of his life. Maintaining an outward appearance that promised death, to intimidate Sinclair enemies, was an act that Joshua had honed until it became who he truly was.

He nodded to a small group of the earl’s warriors whom he’d been training, some of them good men. They nodded back, a few raising an arm in response. He stopped before his handsome, muscular warhorse. Fuil’s bay coat shined red, which was why Joshua had named him the Gaelic word for blood. His black tail swooshed with a need to be off on whatever adventure was next.

“Angus,” he said, his brow rising. “Watch your woman well.” He let his gaze slide to Mathias Campbell, the unscarred lad who’d been attracting all the lasses living in the village north of the castle where the soldiers resided when off duty. He was a rogue with honor, which made him a very poor scoundrel.

“What is that?” Angus asked, frowning at Mathias. “What about my woman?”

“Bloody hell, Joshua,” Mathias yelled, his smile broad. “Even leaving ye cause trouble.”

Joshua laughed. “To keep ye all alert!”

Angus grumbled a curse but grinned. “Stay alive, Horseman of War.”

Joshua nodded to him. “I always do.” Several of the men he’d been training laughed.

It was a shame the Scotsmen hired by Robert to live and work for him could not easily leave Orkney. But Joshua was a free man, and he’d had enough of Robert’s elitist ways. Nay, it was time to head home to Caithness and Girnigoe Castle on the mainland of Scotland, in time for the Samhain festival.

Liam, another warrior, gave him a wry grin through his thick beard where he stood by the gate of the half-finished outer wall, another of Joshua’s recommended improvements. “I am surprised that Jean unleashed you from her bed,” he said, keeping his voice low. Jean Stuart, Robert’s second eldest daughter, was voluptuous and territorial, not to mention spoiled. The lass was as prickly as her brothers but had enjoyed sparring with Joshua. And tumbling in her luxurious bed.