Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  Chapter 1

  Eilean Creag Castle

  The kitchens, a short while later…

  Katla hurried into the morning shadows of her favorite place, scarce able to tamp down an overwhelming urge to twirl in a circle. Truth be told, she wanted to shout her happiness to the kitchens’ thick, black-glistening rafters, but she restrained herself. It wouldn’t do to make a ruckus and risk half the castle running to see why she’d caused such a stir.

  Some secrets were better kept.

  No one needed to know that she sometimes pressed an ear to the castle’s scattering of laird’s lugs – nearly invisible, well-hidden slits cut into the walls. Spy holes that allowed a chieftain to glean information otherwise kept from him.

  They served the same purpose for her.

  How else would she know that Duncan had sent his captain of the guard to find a husband for her?

  “I wouldn’t know, would I, my darling?” She knelt on the stone-flagged floor, opening her arms to the small, brown-and-white dog bounding over to her from his napping place beside the massive double-arched hearth. The dog – older, but lively - gave a few excited barks as he came, earning his name of Glaum, an ancient Norse word for ‘Noisemaker.’

  “You should’ve heard Sir Marmaduke!” She clutched Glaum to her, loving his doggy smell, the soft warmth of his little body. “He found no one willing to wed me.” She nuzzled her pet’s ears, excitement flickering through her. “I am free, my sweet! We both are.

  “Praise the gods,” she enthused, kissing the top of Glaum’s head. “Hopefully Sir Mamaduke’s next journey will prove as unsuccessful. No one will want me, tainted as I am. We shall be left in peace.”

  Glaum barked agreement, and then wriggled round to give her a sloppy wet cheek-kiss.

  Laughing, Katla released him and stood. “So it will be,” she said, touching the Thor’s hammer amulet that hung from her neck. “The old ones love us still.”

  Scarce believing her luck, she glanced around the vast, empty kitchen. She loved spending time within its thick, smoke-darkened walls, but these early morning hours really made her heart swell. Her mother had worked here, and she felt closest to her when the day was so young. It was then that the silence echoed Astrid MacKenzie’s songs in her native Nordic tongue. Now and then, Katla believed she caught glimpses of her as well. Either way, she cherished the precious memories.

  Cook and the others allowed her a few quiet moments each morning. Their eyes revealing that they understood, they’d slip away to attend other chores.

  Katla appreciated the aloneness. But she used the time for more than honoring her late mother.

  It was then, too, that she remembered him.

  The Lord of Winter.

  ~ * ~

  “I will never forget – or love another,” she vowed, speaking to Glaum’s small, white-tufted hindquarters as he toddled away, returning to his blanket-of-plaid before the hearth.

  In truth, she said the words aloud to keep them etched across her heart. A small ritual she did each morn, clinging to its comfort even if she couldn’t embrace her lover.

  She had once.

  And their passion had been glorious enough to sustain her all her days.

  She felt a stirring now, a quickening in her blood that heated her womanly places and made her tingle. A pang of loneliness shot through her as well, a fierce yearning she knew could never again be slaked. She welcomed the bittersweet ache.

  Suffering the Lord of Winter’s loss meant she hadn’t imagined him – and that knowledge buoyed her spirits, reassuring her that the tongue-waggers erred.

  She wasn’t daft.

  She’d been blessed. Chosen and granted pleasure few women would ever know.

  Even two years later, she could taste the Nordic god’s kisses, the languorous bliss of their swirling tongues and shared breath, their powerful desire. Her pulse leapt as if the masterful glide of his hands over her naked skin was happening now, as if she could again slide her arms around his broad, powerfully muscled shoulders, twine her fingers in the heavy silk of his raven hair. She recalled the sizzling awareness she’d felt when he’d cupped her face to look deep into her eyes, his expression fierce.

  The night had been cold, the world frozen, snow and mist blowing around them. Yet she’d burned – lit by a flame that still raged inside her.

  “My beloved…” Katla closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her heart, aching for him.

  But Viking blood ran in her veins, the strength of her mother’s people. So she stood taller and straightened her back, grateful for her blessings. She had a roof over her head, food to fill her belly, warmth when she desired it for Eilean Creag boasted many hearths, each one with the comfort of a log-and-peat fire. Above all, she had a family to love. Her Norse heritage gave her courage, faith in the ancient ways, and her love of wild weather and places.

  She also had Glaum.

  There were many with less. Her lot was good.

  So she smiled as she crossed the kitchens, drawn by the cold, wet air at the windows. She stopped before them, indulging another favorite pastime – peering across Loch Duich to the mountains on the far shore, especially Odin’s Flame.

  This morn she couldn’t fully enjoy the view - Glaum was living up to his name, scampering about behind her, barking at air.

  Worse, he was about to tear after one of the castle moggies, the sweet cats who hung around the kitchens and were too fat to run fast. Glaum loved to chase them. Hoping to avert trouble, she turned from the window.

  Her eyes rounded for Glaum wasn’t pestering a cat.

  Nor was he barking at air.

  He was running back and forth before the cook-fire, agitated by a whirl of blue sparkles rising from the cauldron. Bright as stars, the twinkles cast a bluish glow across the hearth and colored the cauldron’s steam.

  Glaum yapped so hard that his wee body shook, lifting off the ground with each bark.

  Katla just stared, her heart galloping.

  Then the light flickered and began to shift, quivering like winter fire over snow.

  ~ * ~

  “Devorgilla did this!” Katla glanced at her dog, sure of it.

  Her pulse raced and excitement beat through her. She pressed a hand to her lips, half afraid the twinkly light would vanish if she so much as blinked.

  “This is her magic.” She leaned down to stroke Glaum’s head, hoping to soothe him. “Come, my darling, there is nothing to fear. I promise.”

  Glaum spun in a circle, barking louder.

  Knowing he’d keep on until she’d discovered Devorgilla’s message, she hitched up her skirts and hurried to the big iron kettle on its chain above the cook-fire. The blue swirls eddied at her approach, the light seeming to reach for her, beckoning.

  Curious, she quickened her step.

  Then she was there and the glitter-cloud slid around her, whirling ever faster as she peered into the cauldron. Not surprisingly, it no longer held savory beef broth. All she saw was a shining circle of clear, deep blue water.

  It reminded her of cold northern seas.

  Then the water stirred, rippling as it turned white, showing her the summit of Odin’s Flame…

  ~ * ~

  Katla jolted. Her breath left her in a whoosh, and the floor tilted beneath her. Leastways, she thought so. It was hard to tell because she could only stare into the cauldron. Her past unfurled there, taking on shapes, coming to life.

  “By the gods!” She shook her head, half wondering if she still slept, was dreaming.

  She knew she wasn’t.

  Yet how could she look back through time, see the night two years ago when she’d braved brittle air and icy winds to seek the Lord of Winter?

  She didn’t know.

  But her eyes weren’t lying.

  In the depth of the cauldron, framed by twinkling mist, a tiny version of herself stamped back and forth in the snow. Katla recalled her pacing of Odin’s Flame’s summit. As her likeness was now doing, she’d
kept rubbing her hands, blowing on her fingers. At the time, she’d been sure they were frozen. Her feet had been worse, turning into ice blocks long before she’d reached the storied peak. She’d been numb with the cold, but she hadn’t cared. The wintry night had dazzled her, enchanting her so thoroughly that she’d happily climbed the mountain’s steep blue-white slopes.

  A smile curved her lips, remembering.

  She hadn’t truly expected the Norse god to come to her, but she had wanted to dance in the winter fire. The lights-in-the-sky had been magnificent that night. Towering curtains of blue, green, and red, they’d shimmered and whirled, leaping like the wild-hearted dancers she secretly believed the lights were – ancient gods of the north, showing the world that they ruled, still.

  And so they did, her heart agreed.

  She just wished…

  Dare she hope that the great Devorgilla’s magic might give her a glimpse of the Lord of Winter?

  Willing it so, she edged closer to the cauldron and leaned down to peer through the glittery mist. Chills raced across her skin as she did so, her heart beating so fast that she could feel its pounding in her throat. The light-cloud spun faster, forming a ‘wall’ around her, blocking all else from view.

  Even the scene in the cauldron was disappearing, hidden by swirling snow.

  The blazing winter fire swept lower, almost touching the ground. Then the light-curtain split, its edges parting as a rich, deep voice rumbled at her ear…

  You are everything I have sought in a woman, desirous, passionate, and wild. I know that you were made for me – and that I shall never want another.

  Even though we must part, I will carry you with me always, deep within my heart.

  Katla swayed, the well-remembered words making her chest tighten. Her body trembled as the curtain of light drew back even more and the cauldron’s belly again filled with images of her wondrous night with the Lord of Winter.

  He was there now…

  She could see him striding through the rippling light, so tall and proud, so heartbreakingly handsome. His raven hair blew in the wind and his eyes were deepest blue. Frost clung to his silver wolf cloak, and his mail shirt shone so bright that it could’ve been made of stars fallen from the heavens.

  He was as awe-inspiring as legend claimed.

  So magnificent the mead halls of Valhalla surely praised him in a thousand songs, his male beauty fired Katla’s blood, but it’d been his smile that won her heart.

  The way he’d looked at her as if he’d waited all his godly existence to find her.

  Now peering into the cauldron, she wrapped her arms about her body, watched as his likeness took the hands of her own mirror-image. The pair then whirled across the snow, the curtain of light shimmering around them as they danced.

  They’d done more that night, and Katla’s breath caught as she waited, wondering if the cauldron magic would reflect their lovemaking as well.

  At last, the Lord of Winter dropped to his knees, and she looked on as he tugged her down with him. As Katla had done that night, the image-girl tossed back her hair and flung aside her skirts to straddle him. Katla leaned over the cauldron, feeling icy wind rather than the cook-fire’s heat. Her heart raced as memories played out before her, showing her the passion that had flared between them, how she’d ridden him so blissfully.

  He’d crushed her to him, his powerful arms holding her tight as he’d kissed her so roughly, ravenous as if he could never have enough of her. She’d kissed him as hungrily, returning his passion with the same unbridled need. He’d ignited a firestorm inside her and she craved his bold, openmouthed kisses so badly now that tears stung her eyes. She could hardly breathe past the heat swelling in her throat. She knew she was seeing her own younger self in the cauldron, but a stab of jealousy pierced her soul.

  Then the scene shifted again as the winter fire began to dim. The snow also darkened, looking less and less like the summit of Odin’s Flame. Gradually, the cook-fire’s warmth returned, bringing a whiff of beef broth.

  “Nae!” Katla shook her head, not wanting the magic to end.

  But it did.

  Only a few blue sparkles remained, and Glaum had stopped barking. The kitchens were quiet, save for the lapping of the loch against the shore beneath the windows.

  Dashing at her cheek, Katla felt both blessed and bereft.

  She could still see the image-pair – faintly.

  Then, before they disappeared entirely, the Lord of Winter leapt to his feet and hoisted the girl into the air. He spun her round and round, and the two of them threw back their heads and laughed, just as Katla remembered.

  Only this time, they stopped abruptly, turning to look up at her from the cauldron’s depths. When they did, shock so great slammed into her that she nearly fell to her knees.

  There could be no mistaking who they were. But they looked slightly different.

  Their faces were older.

  The Lord of Winter had grown even more darkly handsome than she remembered. And her face was the one she wore now – the image she saw whenever she caught her reflection in a tide pool or Lady Linnet’s prized mirror.

  In a beat, Katla decided what that meant, the message in Devorgilla’s magic.

  She needed to watch for the winter fire.

  Her lover was returning.

  Chapter 2

  Druimbegan Castle

  The Isle of Skye, a few nights later…

  She thought he was a god.

  Gunnar MacLeod paced the battlements of his clan’s formidable ancestral seat, Druimbegan Castle, and didn’t know which sin shamed him more…

  Allowing Katla MacKenzie to think he was the legendary Lord of Winter and then leaving her to believe such foolery for two years – or wrongly accusing his uncle of seizing lairdship by murdering his brother, Gunnar’s father.

  Both deeds had nigh maddened him.

  The first weighed him down with so much remorse he wondered he could walk upright. His second transgression had sent him sailing away from Druimbegan in fury, vowing to never again set foot on MacLeod lands.

  He’d only learned later how greatly he’d erred - leastways about his family.

  Now he’d returned, and was stunned to find that his uncle had done more than assume leadership of their clan. John MacLeod had also aged, his chiefly duties apparently having caused him to grow old, gray, and stooped.

  Gunnar scarce recognized him.

  Something told him he’d have no such trouble with Katla.

  Indeed, he was certain she’d now be even more beautiful. Her spirit and passion, her wildness, would have ripened her into such a desirable woman that she was surely wed – perhaps the mother of a fine, bouncing bairn, possibly two.

  “Bluidy hell,” he snarled, the notion tightening his gut.

  Katla was his.

  Nae, you arse – she should have been.

  That she wasn’t felt like a kick in the ribs. He knew fine why he hadn’t told her his name, why he’d let her go. If he could turn back time and do it all again, he’d handle the same. But that truth didn’t rid him of the regret twisting inside him.

  He’d wanted her even if she was a MacKenzie.

  He hadn’t cared that a centuries old feud raged between their clans. What spurred him – the only thing that mattered - was that claiming her would’ve meant her doom.

  Even so, he’d lost his heart, leaving it in the snow of Odin’s Flame.

  He couldn’t have done otherwise if someone had set a blade to his throat.

  No other lass had ever affected him so powerfully. He’d lost his wits that night, forgetting all good sense even when he’d known their few hours in the winter fire would be all the bliss they’d ever have. He hadn’t wanted to touch her, tried not to even look at her. Hadn’t he attempted to leave before she’d noticed him? He had, but his feet had refused to carry him away.

  The wonder in her eyes and the shining joy of her smile had done more than turn his head. For a short while,
she’d even made him almost believe he was the fabled Nordic hero she’d claimed to have sought that night.

  It’d been madness.

  Crazed, heady, and wholly inexcusable.

  He’d known better, and yet…

  She’d been so tempting beneath the sky’s colorful, dancing flames that he hadn’t been able to resist her.

  And so he hadn’t.

  He’d paid the price later, and still did.

  She was worth the guilt that had followed him across cold, dark seas; the sharp, lancing ache that stayed with him even as he slept, often invading his dreams.

  If she thought of him, she’d imagine him feasting in Valhalla.

  He had only himself to blame.

  ~ * ~

  Gunnar suspected he was also the only one to sense that something was wrong at Druimbegan.

  Sure of it, he strode to the battlement wall and braced his hands on the cold, damp stone. The night was dark, cold, and moonless. Only a few wispy clouds stretched across the heavens so that a sea of stars glittered over his ancestral home, secure as always on its jutting mass of rock above Loch Druimbegan. Below him, his ship, the Solan, rocked in the sea loch’s black-glistening waters.

  Other galleys were moored there as well.

  His uncle’s warships, their number and might a warning to any who’d dare to challenge Clan MacLeod.

  So it’d been since his Viking ancestors first claimed this wild and rugged northwestern corner of Skye – and so it would remain, for all time coming.

  Gunnar let his gaze drift over the loch to the great dark hills beyond. Inhaling deeply of the chill night air, he savored the familiar tang of home, a heady blend of tar and oil, peat smoke, wet rocks and damp, loamy earth, heather, and the sea. To him an elixir that swelled his heart with love and pride.

  Druimbegan’s glory never failed to steal his breath. His chest tightened now, filled with a soul-deep longing bred in his blood. The two years he’d been away felt like a thousand days, and a mere eye-blink. Either way, he was here again, and a strong enough man not to shame his emotions.

  He did splay his fingers across the ancient stone of the wall, his thoughts, his heart and soul, also drawn to another place. The one he’d left behind – the distant Orkney Isles so far across the cold northern seas. Windswept, rock-hewn, and so steeped in Norse heritage that, to him, each and every isle and islet felt as much a legacy of his clan’s past as Druimbegan.