She didn’t finish, spinning about to blink hard, hopefully curbing the tears she knew were about to spill down her bluidy, hot-as-Hades cheeks.
“I wasn’t hiding, lass.” He stepped up behind her, sliding his arms around her to draw her close, holding her against him as he lowered his head to nuzzle her neck. “All this time,” he used her own words, “I wasnae in Scotland. I was away. Far, far from here, but you were with me, every day and every hour.
“I carried you in my heart, always.” He kissed the top of her head and then stepped back, no longer touching her, but so close that his nearness sent shivers of sensation rippling all through her. “I ached for you, Katla. The whole time, I swear it.”
She whirled to face him, dashed at her cheek. “I do not believe you.”
Hardly seeing him for the tears glazing her eyes, she again poked a finger at his chest. “Do you know my clan thinks I’m addled? They do” – she took a deep, angry breath – “because I told them I danced with the Lord of Winter! That he took my innocence on Odin’s Flame, beneath a whirling curtain of winter fire.
“And you – you were ‘away?’” She clenched her fists, balling them so she wouldn’t slap him. “Where were you, then?”
“I cannae tell you – no’ here, anyway.”
“To be sure.” She wasn’t surprised.
“I will – soon.” He took her herring basket from her and set it on a rock. “The winter fire will return by a sennight, no less than seven days. Meet me-”
“How would you know when the sky will ignite again?” She set her hands on her hips, challenging him. “If you aren’t a god, would you now tell me you have their ear? Do they tell you when they think to send their fire into the night?”
“I am a man, Katla, no god.”
“And I am not dumb.”
“I ne’er said you were, lass.” He reached to smooth back her hair, his eyes darkening. “You are…” he didn’t finish, stepping back to lock his gaze on hers.
Katla didn’t blink, fury strengthening her. “I know what I am – a ruined fool!”
“Nae, you are not.”
“Don’t say anymore. I’ll not listen.”
“Katla, please…” Something flashed in his eyes, a flicker of emotion so intense, so fierce, that her own eyes began to prickle again. “Meet me at Odin’s Flame when the night sky blazes and I’ll explain everything.” He seized her hands, lacing their fingers, squeezing hers. “Say you will be there. I will wait-”
“Katla, Katlaaa…” Sir Lachlan’s voice drifted on the wind, coming from close by, likely the road just beyond the thicket. “I have Elspeth and Fergus! Katla…”
“I must go,” she cried, breaking free. “Don’t ever come near me again!” She whirled away from him, snatching her basket from the stone and hooking it on her arm. “Don’t look for me on Odin’s Flame. You’ll freeze before you’ll see me there.”
“Nae, wait!” He started toward her, frowning now. “I must speak with you-”
“Seek another,” she called over her shoulder, already running back to the road. I don’t want you.
But she did, damn her needy soul.
Her whole body trembled with wanting him. Her heart ached to trust him. Even though she knew that every beautiful moment they’d shared, each blessed memory that had sustained her, was nothing more than a MacLeod’s lies.
And not just any MacLeod - hers was the worst of the whole black-hearted, brine-swigging lot.
She wouldn’t see him again.
So why did her gaze seek Odin’s Flame’s snow-bright summit just as she burst onto the road, nearly hurtling into Sir Lachan, and Elspeth and Fergus?
Katla forced a smile as she greeted her family, sure she didn’t want to know.
Chapter 4
“Did we forget to say we were off to meet with Alpin MacKinnon?”
Elspeth’s brow pleated as she peered at Katla across the sacks and crates of goods that filled the hull of the Puffin, the small craft Clan MacKenzie used to journey back and forth between Eilean Creag and the Isle of Skye.
“‘Tis up in his years, he is.” Elspeth glanced back toward Kyleakin where the tower of the MacKinnon stronghold was almost all that could be seen through the blowing mist. “We wanted to offer our assistance readying Dunakaid for the truce gathering. Extra hands will be welcome in that household.
“I did think we mentioned it?” She scratched her chin, her gnarled fingers deftly missing a sprouty-haired wart.
“You surely did.” Katla agreed, not wanting to tell her that neither she nor her equally aged husband, Fergus, had said a word about visiting Dunakaid. She especially wouldn’t mention that, though a greybeard himself, Laird MacKinnon was young enough to be their son.
Instead, she smiled and tucked her skirts more snugly about her knees. “Sir Lachlan and I were so busy arguing prices that we must’ve forgotten.”
That was true.
They had haggled with the market day stall holders, as fine but costly wares were on offer.
Katla sat atop them now: bolts of linen and wool, jugs of precious oil from Galicia, barrels of salt meat, smoked herring and cod, sacks of oats, a wonderful selection of exotic spices, a generous supply of dried meadowsweet – Lady Linnet’s favorite herb to scatter across the floor rushes - and several barrels of birch wine, supposedly all the way from Finland.
The laird and lady would be pleased.
Katla’s back ached.
She didn’t often help load supplies, but she’d insisted this trip. She’d felt a need to weary her bones. Otherwise she might have run back to the market stalls, seeking the MacLeod who’d let her believe he was the Lord of Winter. Not because she wanted to see him, but to pummel his mail-covered, plaid-draped chest until he admitted he was a fork-tongued, skirt-lifting scoundrel.
He hadn’t even told her his name.
A slight that shouldn’t bother her, yet she found herself wanting to know so badly that she could hardly sit still. How could she curse him each night without it?
Annoyance making her eyes burn, she fixed her gaze on Eilean Creag, just coming into view. Frothy, wind-whipped waves crashed over the rocks at the stronghold’s base and spray fanned across the ancient walls, darkening the stone. Sea-mist stung her cheeks as well, also dampening her cloak as she nestled deeper into the leather-wrapped rolls of wool and linen. Shivering, she curled her fingers around the ropes that secured their purchases. The weather had turned raw, wind and sleet roughening the journey.
She didn’t care.
Far from it, she found the wind-tossed seas exhilarating. She didn’t suffer a fragile stomach, and the boat’s wild leaps and plunges suited her mood.
Despite the shock of coming face-to-face with him, her ‘god,’ – a MacLeod, by the devil’s ring-tailed minions – the sight of him had almost stopped her heart. He’d aged well, as she’d seen through Devorgilla’s cauldron magic. His mail shirt had shone brightly beneath his plaid and he’d worn a sword strapped at his side. He made a magnificent warrior, and she’d scarce been able to breathe. Indeed, she would’ve sworn she’d caught a fever. How sad that the only thing to ail her was a lout!
He surely seduced anything that moved.
Yet there’d been something in his eyes that made her want to trust him.
Determined not to be so foolish, she drew her hood lower and looked about, trying to think of other things. Huge, black seas towered around them, white foam flying in the air. Water hissed past the Puffin’s hull, almost screaming, and so loud that she couldn’t hear the oar-lashes striking the surface.
How odd that she did hear Fergus mention the MacLeods.
She twisted round to face him, for he’d taken shelter farther back in the Puffin.
“What did you say, Fergus?” She lifted her voice above the sea and wind, very aware of his proclamation – she’d not missed a word and it’d struck her as if she’d been kicked in the gut.
Still, she needed to hear it again. “Somethin
g about the MacLeods?”
“Aye!” The gnomelike man leaned forward, cupping his mouth. “‘Twas the talk of Dunakaid! My lovely lady wife and I heard it from a witness, so we ken it to be true,” he declared, importantly. “The late laird’s son is returned. Gunnar MacLeod, him what accused his uncle o’ murder.”
“Gunnar MacLeod?” Katla didn’t recognize the name.
It didn’t matter – the racing of her heart didn’t lie.
Her soul knew.
She could see him before her. In his silver wolf cloak high atop Odin’s Flame; and in the gorse thicket, wearing his clan’s plaid and mail. Taller, broader, more muscled, and more devastatingly attractive than ever.
If he’d been godlike before, he was now a man of strength and hard, iron-hewn will.
“Gunnar…” She repeated his name, testing it on her tongue before she could catch herself.
“That be him!” Fergus confirmed, nodding.
Katla gripped her hood, leaving her hand curled behind her ear. “Did anyone say why he returned?”
“Och, aye,” Elspeth chimed in, always one for gossip. “Tell her, Fergus.”
“Sailed home for a reason, he did,” Fergus obliged, sitting back against the birch wine barrels. “Word is,” – he shouted – “he’s come back to Druimbegan to finish what he didn’t do afore he left – kill his uncle.”
~ * ~
“Caused a stir down in Kyleakin, did ye?”
John MacLeod, laird of Clan MacLeod stood at the windows of his chiefly bedchamber at Druimbegan Castle, his hands clasped over the bejeweled head of his crummock, a fine hazel walking stick. “Is it true?” He kept his gaze on the rainy night, not looking at Gunnar.
There wasn’t a need.
Gunnar would’ve given him the same answer meeting his eyes.
“We had words, aye.” Gunnar nodded respectfully – even though his uncle couldn’t see. “There was a scuffle.”
John leaned a shoulder against the window arch, waiting as a gust of wind rattled the shutters. “Ross said you threatened to dirk him, gutting him where he stood.”
“So I did, aye.”
“Are there no’ enough women on Skye?” John turned, looking weary, aged beyond his years. “Ross’s men claimed the tavern lass approached them, loosening her bodice ties, seeking trade-”
“That wasnae the way of it,” Gunnar said, wishing his words wouldn’t add to his chief’s burdens. He couldn’t believe how gray he’d gone in two years, how frail and gaunt. “She didnae seek the attention of your son and his men. Her bodice was hidden for she wore a cloak, fastened to her chin.”
Gunnar felt his hands clenching, anger sluicing him. “She was no’ a joy woman.”
John’s shoulders slumped. “I didnae think so.”
“She only crossed their path, a herring basket on her arm.” Gunnar kept his tone even, aware that his uncle would respect the truth. “She was a MacKenzie, there for the market day.”
“A MacKenzie?” John’s eyes flew wide, his knuckles whitening on his crummock.
Gunnar went over to him, taking his elbow and helping him into a chair. “From what I saw, she was there with a guardsman and the seneschal pair who run Eilean Creag, Fergus and Elspeth, are their names.”
“A MacKenzie,” John repeated, shaking his head, fretting. “We have a truce-meeting near Yule. Nae good will come of it if the Black Stag hears of this.”
“He willnae.” Gunnar lifted a folded plaid off a stool and, shaking it out, spread it across the laird’s knees. “I ken the maid, and spoke with her afterward. She’d doesnae want trouble, and would sooner the matter be forgotten.”
“Praise the gods.” John leaned back in his chair, pulling a hand down over his face.
It twisted Gunnar’s heart to see that his uncle’s fingers shook.
John MacLeod was younger than his father.
“There will be nae problems with MacKenzie,” Gunnar assured him, willing it so. “The Black Stag is a strong, respected leader, and he’s nae fool. He’ll appreciate having his back freed, will be glad to know he has only allies behind him, here on Skye. He’s already enjoyed years of peace with the MacKinnons, and even the MacDonalds, rascally bastards as they are.
“His wishes for his people will be no different than yours.” Gunnar knelt before his uncle’s chair, set a hand on John’s shoulder. “He’ll want the weal and love of his people, food in his larder, good ale and laughter in his hall, his walls secure, enough wealth to keep it that way, and peace – an end to the feuding.”
John smiled. “You speak like a laird. In truth, you should’ve been one. Now…” His voice trailed away, his smile fading. “Folk whisper that you returned to dirk me in my sleep.”
“There was a time I might’ve done so!” Gunnar stood, taking the sting out of his words by turning to the nearby table and pouring his uncle a cup of ale. “Indeed, I almost did,” he admitted, placing the cup in the old man’s hands, closing his fingers around it. “Let us be glad I left instead.”
“Aye, I lived on to have my beard turn gray and my mind go fuzzy!” Smiling again, John pushed up from his chair. With the aid of his crummock, he went to his bed where he fumbled about, searching beneath the cushions. “We’ll have some uisge beatha – fine Highland spirits – to celebrate my good fortune.”
But after peering beneath every pillow and even the covers, he sat on the bed and frowned.
“I cannae find the flagon,” he said, his brow creasing. “I aye keep it close by, under my pillow. Leastways, I thought I did. These days, I forget so much.”
“Perhaps someone took it for polishing?” Gunnar knew the flask was silver. It’d been a gift from John’s late wife. “That will be it, surely. No’ your memory. Nae respectable MacLeod would allow his chief’s flagon to tarnish.”
“It is good to have you home, lad.” John’s eyes glistened in the firelight, his voice thickening. “I missed you, I did!”
“No more than I missed you, Uncle.” Gunnar spoke true for he loved John greatly.
He glanced about the spacious, high-beamed chamber – once the bedroom of his parents - and was glad that John could enjoy such sumptuous quarters. Heavily tapestried walls kept out the castle din and a fat birch log always crackled in the hearth, ensuring the room stayed warm even in deepest winter. Furs piled high on the bed and placed over chair backs did the same. Instead of the usual rushes, furs were also strewn across the floor. Iron-bound chests set along one wall held John’s coin and other treasures, while a screened bath, as well as a small garderobe in the thickness of a corner wall, allowed comfort and ease at all times.
“I didnae think to e’er see you again.” John stood, leaned on his walking stick. “No’ after what happened with your da.”
“No’ too long ago, I would have said the same.”
“The gods were good to us.” John glanced at him as he carefully picked his way across the room, returning to his laird’s chair. “Now, laddie, seeing as I’m so forgetful, I’d hear again how you learned the truth.
“I was going to tell you myself.” He sat heavily, took a long sip from his ale cup. “You sailed before I could.”
“It is as well.” Gunnar dropped onto a chair near John’s, stretched his legs toward the fire. “I wouldn’t have believed you.”
“Hah!” His uncle laughed, slapping his knee. “So your father said. He warned me that you’d be having nary a word of such an outlandish tale.”
Chapter 5
“Twas all for love then, eh?”
John spoke the words with wonder, just as he’d done each time he’d made the pronouncement – again and again – over that last few hours, as the night lengthened around them.
Gunnar understood.
He shared his uncle’s awe at the sacrifice made by his father, Ambrose MacLeod. He admired how the two men had worked together to stage Ambrose’s fall-from-a-cliff death so that he could sail away to wed the woman of his heart, the sister of an Icelandic sea
trader. The pair had been lovers for years, having met long after the passing of Gunnar’s mother.
But they’d only seen each other when the trading ship called at Skye.
The times between had tormented them, apparently more than anyone had known.
Ambrose’s secret flight – and the handing over of his lairdship to his brother – was the result.
The only out they’d seen.
“I dinnae think a man could love a woman more than my brother loves his Bergthora.” John’s expression turned wistful, his gaze distant, as if he could see the pair. “He once told me he didnae even ken his name when he wasnae with her, said his body hurt from aching for her, that his every breath called for her. He’d pace nightly, running his hands through his hair, or standing all forlorn at the windows in this room, aye looking off to the north.
“He missed her that much.” Sitting back in his chair, John heaved a great sigh. “Ambrose gave up everything for her.”
“So he did.” Gunnar stood and stretched, love for his father, and his uncle, swelling his heart. “And for more than the love between a man and a woman,” he said, taking a poker to jab at the new birch log he’d placed on the fire an hour ago. “Love of clan also spurred him. When I was with him in Iceland, I saw how deeply he misses our people, and Druimbegan.
“He regrets the truth has to remain secret,” Gunnar shared, shifting the log and stirring up a flurry of sparks. “He still feels strongly about that,” he added, remembering the sadness in his father’s eyes when they’d discussed his decision not to let the people of Druimbegan know that he yet lived.
It was a choice Gunnar didn’t fully agree with, but he respected his father’s wishes.
Straightening, he propped the poker against the wall and dusted his hands. “He wanted the best for the clan,” he said, voicing what his uncle already knew. “Many would have followed him out of love and loyalty, leaving Skye to settle with him in Fljotshlid - if he had sailed openly for Iceland and a new life with Bergthora. He suspects some would sail to him, still.”
“He worried that could happen, aye,” John agreed, drawing an extra fur across his knees. “He didn’t want the clan split in two – or worse, he said.”
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 49