Lavender Blue
Ravished (A Novella)
Kingdom Come ~ Trespass #1
Kingdom Come ~ Temptation #2
Kingdom Come Box Set
Dream Time
Dream Keeper
Never Never Box Set
For All Time
Blue Bayou ~ Book I: Fleur de Lis
Blue Bayou ~ Book II: Lions and Ramparts
Blue Bayou Box Set
Midsummer Midnight
Man for Hire
Wanted Woman
Midsummer Madness Box Set
Extraordinary!
Deep Purple
Sweet Enchantress
Tame the Wildest Heart
No Telling
The Latest and Greatest (Short Story)
Snow and Ice
Enchantment
Will-O-the Wisp
Star Dust
The Arrangement
At First Sight
The Captive
The Calling of the Clan
The Clan Box Set
Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves
Winter Fire
A Return to Kintail Romance
USA Today bestselling author, Sue-Ellen Welfonder
Copyright 2015 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder
E-book Edition Copyright 2019 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder
www.welfonder.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior permission of the Author/Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
Dedication
For my wee darling Em – Life may end, love never.
As well for my dear friend Leah Weller’s beloved Scooter, who I believe would agree.
Acknowledgment
My life is blessed by so many Katla-like friends. Strong and daring women who love life, laugh often, embrace passion, have wild hearts, and definitely believe in magic. One is also an angel on earth and though she denies it, I know the truth. Susan Cusack, when we someday meet on a heavenly cloud, you’ll have to admit it. For now, I hope you also know how much I love you.
As always, for my very handsome husband, Manfred, and my precious Snuggles, writer cat extraordinaire.
A Personal Note to Readers…
Please note this is a work of fiction and not meant to reflect cold, hard reality. The following pages contain elements of fantasy such as myth and legend, curses, magic, Norse gods and mythology, enchanted beasties, a mysterious old woman who wears red plaid shoelaces and practices the old ways, etc. A suspension of belief is therefore required. As this is a romance novel, there is also explicit sex. As a romance novel written by me, it does not contain the F-word or other profanity. It does include proud Highland warriors, Vikings, bloody medieval battles, bold lasses, and places in Scotland that are dear to my heart. Some of those places are written as enchanted, locations where unusual things can happen. That’s because I perceive them so. Above all, this story is filled with love for winter and all its glory, the far north and the powerful pull it exerts on some, the Highlands, the long-ago, and animals, too. The real world won’t be found in this book’s pages, only a reflection of how I wish the world could be. I hope you’ll enjoy spending time there.
Wishing you Highland magic,
Sue-Ellen Welfonder
(aka Allie Mackay)
A Determined Hero
He turned to her, his expression unreadable. “Do you believe all you hear?”
“Nae.” She didn’t. “But I know the way of things well enough to know that a laird’s son is ever a laird’s son.”
“Do not speak of that which you know naught.”
“All the land speaks of you.”
“So they may until the end of days.” He gripped her chin and leaned close. “I walk my own path. That’s why I’m here, to prove it to you.”
“Once a heart is on fire, no power on earth can douse the flames.”
~ Katla MacKenzie, wild of heart, free of spirit, believer in magic
The Flames of Winter
Once, in a long ago time, and in a place so far removed from the rest of the world that only the moon lit the frozen landscape, the gods of the North held great feasts in their mead halls, making mayhem and merry, and not much caring what happened elsewhere, in the less grand lives of mortal men.
For these were the coldest days of winter, when mist and darkness held sway. Good and wise folk kept behind closed doors, warmed by thick stews and roaring fires.
But not all men are so prudent.
Some have wild hearts. Their spirits are untamed.
Such souls will always be tempted by the howl of chill wind, lured by the promise of glittering, snow-cast mountains and deep ice-bound lochs. They heed this call, the fire in the sky lighting their way, drawing and seducing them.
Adventurous gods do not have it so easy.
Blood-and-thunder may run in their veins, their wanderlust sending them afar, but the pull of Valhalla is stronger, bringing them home even if they lose their hearts to some fair and distant place, or – it has been known to happen – to a mortal maid.
Such was the fate of the Lord of Winter himself when he rode a great shimmering light-curtain across the sky to a land of such grandeur he almost wished he could stay. Never before had he seen such wild and unspoiled beauty. The great hills and glens, the seas and lochs, and the rugged cliffs, cast a spell on him, claiming his soul and binding him, even though he knew he had to leave this wondrous realm known as Scotland.
Before he went, he chose Kintail on Scotland’s western coast as the most splendiferous corner of this special place, bestowing it with a boon only he could grant…
He swept down on his dazzling curtain-of-light to one of Kintail’s highest and fairest peaks, there to dance with a beautiful local maid who, like him, had a wild and untamed heart – her fiery spirit letting her appreciate freezing gales and the icy breath of snow. Together, they twirled and leapt, the Lord of Winter’s light-curtain whirling around them. At last they stilled, giving heed to their passion as the snow fell upon them.
When the lass awoke at dawn, she was alone.
And so was the Lord of Winter, so far away in the mead halls of Valhalla.
The two were never to meet again, but neither forgot the other, their time together remaining a precious memory.
But all wasn’t lost because the snowy peak where they’d trysted came to be known as Odin’s Flame. And in the legends of the local people, a great race of men known as the MacKenzies of Kintail, it is believed that on certain winter nights when icy winds blow and the air turns cold enough to burn, the Lord of Winter returns – He rides in on his shimmering light-curtain to look for his long lost love, the beautiful wild-hearted maid.
No one knows if he will ever find her.
And perhaps she searches as desperately for him. What is certain is that if a high-spirited Kintail lass visits Odin’s Flame when the winter skies catch fire, her chances are good.
Prologue
Eilean Creag Castle
The Western Highlands, Winter 1352
“I dinnae believe my eyes!” Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail, leapt from his bed, his much-deserved sleep forgotten as he stared at the little red fox drinking from the water bowl in a corner of his laird’s chamber.
A carefully chosen spot near the hearth, meant to offer warmth and comfort to any castle dog who deigned to visit the chiefly room. The good folk of Clan MacKenzie were dog lovers, especially their proud chieftain.
Even so, his affection for animals didn’t extend to foxes
in his privy quarters.
He especially didn’t care for this one.
“Thon beastie is Somerled!” He swung round to glare at his lady wife, Linnet, already up and dressed. “He’s Devorgilla’s witchy helpmate.”
“She isn’t a witch,” Linnet countered, just as he’d known she would. “She’s a cailleach, a wise woman.”
“She’s here, is what she is.”
Linnet smiled. “So it would seem.”
“So it will be! Where that cheeky creature is, she’s never far behind.” Duncan glowered at the fox as he finished drinking and left the room, exiting through a door that stood suspiciously ajar.
His lady wife had surely let him in.
More likely, the fiendish fox had blinked and the door had swung open magically.
It wouldn’t surprise him.
For sure, Somerled cast him a superior look over his furry-red shoulder just before he disappeared into the shadows of the dimly-lit passage.
Whirling back to his wife, Duncan frowned to see the calm look on his lady wife’s face. “You knew this!”
He was sure she did. As the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, she was a born seeress, and highly gifted. Even after many long years of marriage, her uncanny abilities could still startle him, however much he loved her.
“I suspected they’d visit us, aye.” She didn’t deny it.
Instead, she went to the nearest window, opening the shutters to let in the chill morning air. Beyond the arched opening, the cold waters of Loch Duich glittered and Odin’s Flame rose in the distance, its frozen peak wearing a wreath of mist. For a beat, Duncan wished himself on the great mountain’s summit, so its icy breath could chase the heat beginning to throb at the back his neck, between his shoulders. But some of his irritation faded as he watched Linnet fasten the shutters. Her still-glorious hair, so thick and glossy-red, hung to her hips in a single braid. Any other time he would’ve been tempted to reach for her and undo the braid, fond as he was of seeing her tresses spilled across their bed pillows.
He enjoyed much more, but he pushed those thoughts from his mind and snatched up his plaid, eager to be dressed and down to his great hall or solar, wherever the formidable Devorgilla of Doon waited to regale him with tidings of doom that he didn’t wish to hear. Whenever she appeared, trouble came in her wake. His territory was in a blissful state of peace, and had been for a good while. He wasn’t of a mind for that to change.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He glanced at Linnet a few moments later as they descended the turnpike stair, making for the great hall, which – by the sounds reaching them – was already astir with the bustle of the day.
“She isn’t here with ill tidings.” Linnet’s answer proved how well she knew him.
“Bah! Is there another reason she goes anywhere?”
“Duncan, please…” Linnet put her hand on his arm as they rounded the last few steps. “Her ears are sharp. She will hear you and then-”
“What?” He stopped just inside the hall’s entry arch. “I’ll waken as a toad – greet the morrow’s dawn with warty skin and great buggy eyes?”
“Sir, sir – my lady - a good morrow to you!” A young clanswoman hurried over to them, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. She clutched an empty serving tray and used her free hand to push back the shiny black curls tumbling about her shoulders. As so often, Katla MacKenzie had forgotten to braid her hair. There was also a smudge of flour on her face, for she worked in the castle kitchens – a duty she’d sought, claiming joy in baking bread and, most especially, the delicacies of her late mother’s homeland in the distant north.
“And to you, lass,” Duncan returned her smile for he was mightily fond of the girl, as was Linnet.
“Herself is here!” Katla gushed, almost shimmering with excitement. “The great Devorgilla of Doon in our own hall.”
“Is she, indeed?” Duncan feigned surprise, not wanting to dampen her pleasure at being the ‘first’ to tell him.
His own delight grew because as he swept his hall with a suitably impressed glance, he saw only men. They crowded the long tables, bleary-eyed and drinking their morning ale. Scarce awake, they tucked into heaped plates of buttered bannocks and cold, sliced meat. Nothing else stirred in the vast vaulted space. Well, smoke haze hung in the air and the castle dogs begged, hoping for a hand-out. Nowhere did he see the tiny, black-garbed crone with her wizened face, whir of white-gray hair, and twinkly blue eyes.
The only bright blue eyes peering at him were Katla’s.
Perhaps the gods were good and Devorgilla had left?
She was known for her ability to vanish in a blink, along with a plethora of other unsettling tricks.
“I dinnae see the great lady.” Duncan turned to Katla, trying to look and sound disappointed. “Can it be she has gone?”
“Oh, she’ll be back anon.” Katla beamed, dashing his hopes. “She just nipped into the kitchens with Somerled. She wanted him fed something proper, not scraps tossed from the tables.”
“Indeed?” Duncan did his best not to scowl.
Eilean Creag’s table scraps were good enough for his dogs.
“Somerled is particular.” Devorgilla proved her wily ways by appearing out of nowhere, her small black boots with their silly red plaid laces having made no sound to herald her approach. She just loomed up out of the dark kitchen passage, her grizzled chin thrust forward as if she sought to challenge him.
Which, he knew was so.
“Great lady,” Duncan allowed her the greeting she expected – anything else wasn’t wise. He had, after all, the weal of his clan to consider. “What brings you to Kintail?” No good, I’ll wager.
“You are always welcome.” Linnet took Devorgilla’s arm, flashed a warning glance at Duncan as if she’d heard his silent grumble. Not giving him a chance to say more, she led the crone through the hall, guiding her toward the high table.
“Are you here because of the MacLeods?” She helped Devorgilla up the dais steps and then pulled back Duncan’s laird’s chair for the far-famed cailleach.
“We have a truce with them,” he reminded his wife as he dropped onto the table’s trestle bench harder than he should have. “We’ll be allies by Yule, after we celebrate the ending of our feud at Dunakaid Castle.
“That’s Alpin MacKinnon’s holding over on Skye,” he added for Devorgilla’s benefit, though he was sure she already knew. “He’s offered his hall as neutral ground.”
“So John MacLeod told me.” Devorgilla sipped the heather ale that Duncan was certain hadn’t been on his table a moment before. “I visited his clan’s Druimbegan Castle before I came here. There will aye be a bad one in the lot,” she said, something in her tone lifting the fine hairs on Duncan’s nape. “John is a good man. The folk on Skye respect him, even his enemies.
“He’s as fine a Highland chieftain as any,” she added, lifting her ale cup at Duncan.
“So he is.” Linnet raised her own cup, tapping it lightly to the crone’s. Under the table, she pressed her foot down onto Duncan’s, keeping it there.
As if he’d risk her wrath by saying otherwise.
He knew when he was outnumbered. He also knew the pointlessness of arguing with women – especially these two. So he grabbed a fresh-baked bannock, slathering it with too much butter before he caught himself. He ate it anyway, washing it down with a good swig of the heather ale.
To his annoyance it was delicious.
Slapping his empty cup on the table, he fixed a look on the cailleach. “You didnae come here to sing the praises of my erstwhile foe,” he said, speaking in his most lairdly tone – he did have his chiefly dignity to uphold.
This was his hall, after all.
So he leaned forward, ready for answers. “Why are you here?”
“Why…” Devorgilla’s ancient face lit with a smile. “‘Tis a Yule log I be wanting,” she chirped, carefully refilling her ale cup. “I have one from the MacLeods, the MacKinnons, the Ravenscraig MacDoug
alls down Oban way, and even the great Barra MacNeils. That’s just the beginning!
“I’m lighting a balefire this Yule and I want a log from every clan I’ve helped oe’er the years.” She shrugged, flicked at her sleeve. “A small vanity, I’ll own. You will grant me such a boon? ‘Tis my only wish from you – a small bit of Kintail wood to toss into the fire on Midwinter’s Eve.”
“You shall have it.” A boatload drawn by sea-dragons to your bluidy Isle of Doon. Duncan kept the sentiment to himself, sure that a stick of wood wasn’t her only reason for darkening his door.
“I will see it done,” a deep Sassunach voice heralded the arrival of a tall, scar-faced knight. Sir Marmaduke Strongbow, Duncan’s longtime friend and brother-in-law by marriage, strode up to the high table.
“I’ll toss in a log from my own Balkenzie Castle,” Sir Marmaduke offered as he claimed his seat. “I’ve just returned from traveling about” – he flashed a glance at Duncan – “but I’ll be away again shortly, and close enough to Doon to deliver the wood and anything else you require.”
“You are a fine man.” Devorgilla nodded, looking pleased.
Duncan’s heart sank. His friend’s words were coded, the message clear: His secret journey to find a husband for Katla had met with failure. Her beauty and vibrancy hadn’t mattered. Nor the goodly sum Duncan had sent along to sweeten the deal. Too many tales circulated about the girl, and it would seem that the stories had reached ears far outside Kintail.
Katla wasn’t a virgin.
Worse than that, many whispered that she was addled.
Duncan frowned. To his great regret, he couldn’t blame anyone who thought so. How could he when the lass swore she’d never wed, vowing that she’d given her love to another?
And not just any man.
Katla claimed the impossible: that she’d danced atop Odin’s Flame and then succumbed to a god.
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 46