Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  He’d fallen in love with Orkney.

  He loved other things as well. Salt air and strong winds, winter nights and roaring fires, the legend and lore of times long past. Those things mattered to him, and he honored them all, and more.

  A man’s honor, after all, was everything.

  It was also the reason he stood here now, his legs apart, his back straight, as he looked out on the territory he knew every MacLeod would die for.

  Gunnar felt a prickle of heat at the back of his throat, the passion of his race stirring his blood.

  He turned again to the Solan, his beloved ship. Built in Orkney by a man named Olaf the Wanderer who’d sworn he’d learned his craft from his father and his father before him, an unbroken lineage of shipbuilders back to the Vikings of yore. Gunnar believed him, for the Solan was extraordinary, not just capable of plying the seas, but almost flying across the waves.

  Named for his favorite seabird, the gannet or ‘solan goose,’ the boat’s high prow bore a gannet’s head carved so beautifully many of his men swore the bird lived and breathed. Painted white with golden head-feathers, the gannet’s startling blue eyes shone in the starlight. The beloved ship ‘mascot’ also seemed to stare up at him, as if resentful to find herself tethered fast in a sea loch rather than out in the open water, riding the strong currents that raced past this rugged, sea-lashed corner of Skye.

  Stepping closer to the wall, he felt a powerful urge to summon his men, all Orcadians for he’d left Druimbegan on his own, and lead them through the sea gate and down the stony steps to the shore and the Solan, spending the night under the stars, on the ship’s cold, empty deck so she wasn’t alone.

  For reasons he couldn’t explain, he’d sleep easier there.

  Much as it pained him to admit, something at Druimbegan had changed. And the stronghold’s ancient walls weren’t revealing their secrets.

  ~ * ~

  “Cousin!”

  Gunnar drew a tight breath at the greeting, bit back a curse. He wasn’t of a mood to face his chief’s son. He and Ross MacLeod had aye been at odds, more than ever since the unholy – and false – accusations Gunnar had hurled at his uncle on the announcement of his father’s tragic death, a plunge from a cliff that Gunnar had been so sure hadn’t been an accident, but murder.

  Reluctantly, he turned to find his cousin almost upon him. “Ross,” he greeted him, nodding once.

  “I did no’ think to e’er see you again.” His cousin drew up before him, his gaze hard, unwelcoming.

  “Nor did I expect to return.” Gunnar kept his tone even, not rising to the provocation. “It is good to be home,” he added, just as a skirl of pipes drifted up to the battlements from somewhere inside the castle, most likely the great hall.

  He glanced toward the sound, pausing to listen. In earlier days, Druimbegan nights would’ve been filled with pipe and fiddle music, the hall noisy with raucous shouts and laughter. Since his arrival yestere’en, an odd stillness had prevailed.

  Perhaps his presence brought the silence?

  His gut told him that wasn’t so.

  Almost sure of it, he turned back to his cousin. “Two years is a long time.”

  “No’ long enough.”

  “I made my peace with your father.” Gunnar saw no need to mince words. “He accepted my apologies.”

  Ross’s face remained cold. “You think others will?”

  “I would no’ blame them if they dinnae.” Gunnar turned back to the wall, returning his gaze to his ship. “I’m no’ sure I would in their place.”

  “At least you admit you’re an arse.” Ross joined him at the wall, the exotically scented oil he used in his hair and on his beard spoiling the freshness of the cold sea air. “A shame it took you so long to-”

  “Have a care, cousin.” Gunnar gripped his arm, his own face darkening now. “You dinnae ken where I was and what I was about – I came as soon as I was able.” Releasing Ross, he stepped back, wiping his hand on his silver wolf cloak as if he’d soiled his palm. “Be glad my uncle yet lives or I’d pitch you oe’er this wall for more than calling me an arse.”

  I’m already tempted to beat you to a pulp for being the reason I walked away from the only lass I ever came close to falling in love with – you ne’er could see me enjoy anything of value without taking and breaking it.

  Katla MacKenzie deserved better than to have you crush her.

  Ross brushed at his plaid. “Perhaps you tossed your father to his death?” he snapped, flicking his gaze over Gunnar. “Can it be you’ve returned to rid yourself of my father as well? A knife thrust through his ribs as he sleeps – and mine – would leave the road clear for you to be laird.”

  I wasn’t made to be chief. Some men have other wishes. Gunnar didn’t blink, revulsion at his cousin’s slurs sending bile to his throat. “My father aye wanted his brother to laird it at Druimbegan, once he was no longer here,” he said, hearing his sire’s words in his heart, as clearly as if he’d spoken an hour ago. “He knew John would lead the clan well. I would ne’er disrespect my father’s wishes, especially when I agree so strongly.”

  “You felt differently two years ago.”

  “So I did.”

  “Now you return and expect to be welcomed? I say you cannae be trusted.” Ross made the sign against evil. “Many here would doubt you.”

  Gunnar shrugged. “I’ll no’ be blaming them if they do.”

  “My father isn’t well.” Ross gave him a dark look. “The blame will be yours if your presence grates so sorely on him that he worsens. You should leave anon if you’ve any honor at all.”

  “It was honor that brought me here.” Gunnar held his cousin’s gaze, keeping the peace for his uncle’s sake.

  If they were anywhere else, he’d gladly cross swords with Ross. Well matched in size, they’d fought often in younger years, and they each carried a few scars from their skirmishes. Many said they resembled each other, both having raven hair and deep blue eyes. But Ross’s face was hard, his ever-simmering temper marking him. His looks ruined by scowling so much.

  He only smiled when he thought to charm a woman, seducing her and casting her aside.

  As you did with Katla, his guilt reminded him, making his innards knot. Where was your honor then?

  Gunnar frowned, rubbed the back of his neck. “Druimbegan is still my home. Your father is my chief – I wished to see him.”

  “You’re no’ wanted,” Ross snarled, stepping closer to crowd him.

  “I dinnae need to be liked.” I came here for the peace of my soul, nae more.

  “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.” Ross paused, tossing a nod at two guardsmen who strolled past on their nightly round of the battlements. When they disappeared around the far corner, he leaned in, his eyes glinting in the darkness. “Father worked hard to gain a truce with the MacKenzies. He wants no more trouble with the Black Stag of Kintail and his howling henchmen. The long months of haggling terms have taking a toll on my father. I’ll no’ stand by and see you ruin everything he’s accomplished.

  “He’s frail,” he said, straightening. “It would break him if our feud with those devils isn’t ended.”

  “We agree on that!” Gunnar glanced out across the loch, his gaze going farther, to the distant spot where he knew Odin’s Flame would be brushing the night sky.

  “We shall see,” Ross snapped, giving him another heated look before stalking away.

  “Indeed. I’ll be here that long, at least.” Gunnar stared after him, his words hanging in the cold night air.

  To his surprise, once his cousin disappeared, he found himself smiling, his blood quickening again. But it wasn’t a storied mountain that lifted his mood, or even how good it was to set foot on MacLeod land.

  If he stayed at Druimvegan until the planned truce-meeting at Clan MacKinnon’s Dunakaid Castle, he’d have every right to be present at the festivities.

  Katla might also be there.

  Chapter 3

  Severa
l days later, Katla hurried along Kyleakin’s waterfront, silently asking Odin, Thor, Freya, and any other Norse gods who’d listen, to set wings to her ankles and give her the sharp eyes of a raven.

  She’d never seen such a throng.

  Surely all of Skye had descended on the fishing village. So many ships clogged the harbor that she could hardly see the water. The crowds in the road were so thick that the fishmongers stood ankle-deep in the mud of the foreshore. Others had fled the quayside, dragging their stalls and cook-kettles around the bay to hawk their wares in the shadow of Dunakaid’s tower, high atop its knoll and seemingly untroubled by the bustle at its feet.

  She’d not be bothered either if she hadn’t lost Elspeth and Fergus, the older-than-stone pair who served as seneschals at Eilean Creag Castle. Every market day, she accompanied them to Kyleakin on the guise of learning how to run a large household – in particular, selecting and purchasing provender.

  Sir Lachlan, one of Duncan’s younger knights came along as well. His ‘duty’ was to keep them safe from brigands and robbers on the journey to and from Skye. Not that many blackguards would harass anyone in Duncan MacKenzie’s territory.

  But those reasons salved the elderly pair’s pride.

  In truth, Katla and Sir Lachlan went along should either of them fall, or worse.

  Now they were gone.

  Worry flooding her, Katla dodged a chicken and then skirted her favorite food stall where she usually enjoyed a bowl of savory fish stew. The young lad stirring the stewpot lifted his ladle to wave at her and his grandfather smiled up from where he knelt beside skewered conger eel steaks broiling over a bed of fired stones.

  Katla returned their smiles, but darted past without stopping.

  “Holy Odin – they have to be somewhere!” She yanked her skirts higher to leap over a puddle, not bothering to retrieve the two herrings that flew from the basket she carried.

  She’d only glanced aside for a moment, her attention caught by a cluster of shrieking children playing with fat-bellied puppies. When she’d looked again, it’d been too late. The ancients had vanished into the throng. Up ahead of her, she caught a glimpse of Lachlan sprinting toward Dunakaid. His sword wasn’t drawn, so she hoped that he’d seen them and was on their trail – for their age, Elspeth and Fergus could move at an amazing pace, as everyone at Eilean Creag knew. The pair was well-loved, and revered.

  If anything had happened...

  “Ach, dia!” She stopped to press a hand to the stitch in her side and settle her herring basket more snugly against her hip. “Elspeth, Fergus – where are you?” Breathing hard, she turned in a slow circle, hoping to spot them.

  Perhaps they’d stopped at a food stall. Elspeth favored one that offered fresh-baked cheese pasties. But when she glanced that way, she only saw a young mother purchasing the treats from her children, and a bent old man who wasn’t Fergus. She hurried on, wondering if they’d headed over to the row of low stone cottages along the road, thinking to visit a friend?

  Except she came here with them every week and they’d never mentioned anyone.

  For sure, she didn’t see them.

  What she did see worried her.

  MacLeods were everywhere.

  ~ * ~

  Wishing she hadn’t noticed, Katla lifted a hand to shield her eyes as she looked out at the scores of galleys in the harbor. The two largest were MacLeod vessels – warships, naturally. Only her clan’s most reviled foes would use heavy, many-oared dragonships to visit market day at a wee fishing hamlet.

  The ships were empty save a few mailed, weapon-hung men left aboard to guard them.

  She’d already seen the others.

  Big, bearded brutes with swords at their sides and whose arms were thick with warrior rings, they pushed their way through the crowd, rudely knocking aside anyone who blocked their path. Wind tossed their wild hair and plaids, and their faces were hard, their eyes glinting with defiance – an unspoken challenge to the many Skye MacDonalds also milling about the market stalls.

  MacLeods feuded with everyone.

  They were also the greatest swellheads in the land.

  Katla shuddered and adjusted her cloak, feeling chilled just to be so near her enemies.

  She still couldn’t believe her laird meant to make peace with them. Duncan had surely cursed them as fork-tongued, cloven-footed bastards more times than she could count. She’d even seen his face turn purple when speaking of them.

  Yet by Yule, he thought to feast with them, making peace at old Alpin MacKinnon’s Dunakaid Castle.

  Katla glanced that way now, glad she was only a kitchen lass at Eilean Creag.

  Her presence wouldn’t be necessary at such a shameful spectacle.

  “Praise the ancients!” She shivered again and reached to touch her Thor’s hammer amulet – just to ward off the unpleasantness of sharing air with MacLeods.

  “So fetching a lass should ne’er carry so heavy a load,” a deep, rich voice declared from behind her as a muscled, ring-lined arm reached to snatch her herring basket.

  A MacLeod!

  Whirling about, she opened her mouth to demand the return of her basket. But she found herself glaring into amused midnight blue eyes that were shockingly familiar.

  “Oh!” She blinked, unable to stop her jaw from slipping as she stared at the burly MacLeod – so handsome with his broad, plaid-draped shoulders and windblown raven hair. He was older indeed, but she knew him at once. Only his silver wolf cloak was missing. A loud buzzing started in her ears, her surprise so great that everything around them seemed to vanish.

  “I thought you were a god!” she blurted, her voice rising, shrill as any fishwife’s.

  “So say all the lasses!” The MacLeod grinned, his words breaking the spell. He was still dashing, but no longer looked at all like her beloved Lord of Winter.

  Leastways he didn’t beyond a passing resemblance.

  She’d been mistaken, thank goodness.

  Recovering, she grabbed for her basket, but he lifted it high, out of her reach. “Say me where you’re headed, sweetness, and I’ll escort you there,” he said, still smiling, seemingly unaware that his charm wasn’t working on her.

  Katla straightened, putting back her shoulders. “If the lasses are so fond of you, sirrah, they will surely be missing you. I do not wish your company.”

  To her annoyance he laughed. “Ho! So you’re a fiery one, eh?” He thrust her herring basket at one of his men and stepped closer, reaching to touch her hair. “How can you ken you’d no’ enjoy being with me? You’ve no’ yet had the pleasure.”

  Katla froze, revulsion icing her blood. “Take your hand from my hair or you’ll never please another woman again,” she hissed, bracing herself to grab his danglers and twist them until he howled. “I am not a lady, see you?”

  Her heart thundering, she edged a hair closer, ready. “I know how to protect myself and-”

  “Leave her be!” Another MacLeod shouldered his way through the crowd, his face dark as thunder as he grabbed the troublemaker and hurled him aside. Her rescuer lunged after his flailing kinsman, waiting until he righted himself before again seizing him by the collar, even lifting him off his feet. “Go from here now,” he commanded, shoving her accoster backward, into the muddy water. “Dinnae e’er come near this maid again, or you’ll ne’er walk another day in your life – if I dinnae first end it by gutting you.”

  Katla stared after them, barely noticing when her assailant’s friend returned her basket and then hurried away to join his kinsman at the water’s edge. The others went with him, the bunch of them grabbing a skiff and, shoving off. They rowed quickly into the bay, making for one of the MacLeod warships.

  Only her rescuer remained on the foreshore, his broad, plaid-hung back to her.

  She didn’t want him to turn around.

  But he did, and when he started toward her, her heart sank and she began to shake all over. She hadn’t been mistaken as she’d so hoped when he’d burst
into view. Shock hadn’t played a trick on her. Nor had her eyes – or her heart – deceived her.

  The MacLeod striding up to her was him.

  The Lord of Winter.

  ~ * ~

  “I can explain,” he said, reaching her, not even trying to deny the truth. “But this isnae the place,” he added, brushing down his plaid – his MacLeod plaid – as he glanced about the milling throng, many faces in the crowd already staring at them. “There, over by that gorse thicket is better.”

  Before Katla could argue, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her with him through the gaping crowd and into the sheltering shadows of the gorse bushes. Growing thickly, they formed a small grove beneath the cliff at the back of Kyleakin village.

  “You’re a MacLeod!” Katla jerked free, glaring at him. “How dare you! How could you put your hands on me that night, kissing me, and more?” she shouted, not caring if anyone heard. “All this time, I thought-”

  “I was a god, I ken.” He closed his eyes, for a beat looking more miserable than she felt. “I didnae mean to deceive you.” Looking at her again, he set his hands on her shoulders. “The night was enchanted, magical. You took my breath away, and when you said I was the legend come to life…”

  He released her as the words trailed away. “I was flattered, lass,” he admitted, shoving a hand through his hair. “No maid had e’er turned my head so powerfully and there you were, calling me a god. I was about to tell you the truth when-”

  “When I told you my name?” Katla guessed, furious.

  He nodded, not denying that either. “It was a shock, aye. I did what I thought-”

  “I know exactly what you did!” Katla scowled more fiercely, felt her face flaming. “I remember it well – as if it happened an hour ago. And you?” She poked his chest, jutted her chin at him. “All this time you’ve hidden away, letting me believe…”