“He should’ve brought Bergthora here, making her his lady. Everyone knew they were lovers. Though…” Gunnar paused to rub the back of his neck, remembering talks with his father in Iceland. The things they’d discussed pinched his heart, and not just because he loved and missed Ambrose. “Nae, he was wise to go to her home in Fljotshlid. They are happy there, as I told you.”
“Then all is good.” John nodded, smiling.
But then he leaned forward, wagging a finger. “Thon pair wouldnae lasted here. Nae matter how in love they were. I ken fine that Bergthora vowed she’d leave her beloved home to remain with Ambrose at Druimbegan. But he has a sharp mind, my brother. He knew she’d wither away once taken from the frozen wilds of the far north. Thon land of ice bred her and the roots are deep.
“She’d have come to resent Druimbegan, and him.” John nodded again, this time sagely. “Now-”
“It is my father doing the missing.”
“Aye, but men are stronger than women that way. He’ll be needing her womanly warmth of a night more than walking across Druimbegan’s heather and watching our Highland mist swirl across the moors. I dinnae think he’s sorry.”
“He isnae.” Gunnar knew it.
But he also knew that, like him, his father had always been drawn to colder climes – the Viking blood that ran so hot in their veins, calling always, the lure of the North.
“And I cannae find my sleeping shoes,” John announced, leaning down to thrust a hand beneath his chair, patting across the fur rug it stood upon.
Glancing up at Gunnar, he frowned. “I aye keep ‘em under this chair. They’re gone.”
Gunnar saw that, too.
He knew the sleeping shoes his uncle meant. Buttery-soft leather brogues made especially for John as his feet were always cold. The special slippers had a fur lining.
John couldn’t sleep without them.
“I will fetch you a warmed stone wrapped in wool to warm your feet this night,” Gunnar suggested, starting for the door.
“Pah!” John waved off the offer, for a beat looking not frail and forgetful, but his old, ever good-humored self. “I dinnae need your pampering, lad.
“I’d rather hear how you discovered I didnae push your da o’er that cliff!” He pinned Gunnar with a stare, looking more awake than Gunnar felt at this late hour. “You havenae yet told me.”
But I have, Uncle. At least a dozen times.
Keeping the truth to himself, Gunnar took his seat again, once more stretching his legs to the fire.
“It is a simple tale,” he began. “I knew Bergthora loved him and didn’t want her left alone, wondering about his fate. You already ken that I sailed to Orkney after leaving here. I waited until I was settled there and could afford my own ship, and then I set sail for Iceland to tell her the sad news.”
As he did every time Gunnar told him the story, John laughed and slapped his knee.
“Heigh-ho!” he cried, his eyes twinkling. “‘Twill have been a great surprise when Ambrose opened the door of her farmhouse, eh?”
“So it was.” Gunnar smiled, remembering.
But even as he went on, retelling the details of his shock and great joy, how his father and his new lady wife had welcomed him – how he’d stayed there for months, their guest and loving every moment – his mind raced ahead to his own troubles.
To the lass he wanted so badly he could ‘scarce breathe’ when she wasn’t near.
The truth was he’d inherited his father’s poet’s heart.
He didn’t much care about might and power, being a laird, and commanding men. He only wanted happiness and peace, someday a wife who loved him, was loyal, and would bear him strong sons and daughters. A spot of earth to till, the vigor and health to look after those he loved.
He wanted Katla.
He might not love her – no’ yet, anyway.
But he’d ached for her two years now, and he needed to bring an end to that torment. Thinking of his father and his beloved Bergthora had given him ideas.
His only problem was how to convince her that she felt the same. He didn’t believe for a heartbeat that she didn’t want to see him again. He’d seen her face flush when their gazes had met in Kyleakin. There’d been a flare of joy in her eyes, however quickly it’d vanished.
He’d seen it, and that gave him hope.
He also didn’t think he could wait to see if she would join him when the winter fire again lit Odin’s Flame. There had to be a way to meet her sooner.
Indeed, he would.
He hadn’t been so determined about anything in a very long time.
~ * ~
Eilean Creag Castle, Kintail
Late the next day
If Gunnar had any doubts about visiting the Black Stag’s lair, they were banished by the warmth shown to him by Duncan MacKenzie’s wife, Lady Linnet.
Knowing she must be older than his own mother would’ve been, and that she had the sight – her fame was widespread throughout the Highlands – he’d expected…
He felt his lips curving, for he wasn’t sure.
He just knew that he’d been surprised to find her so lovely. Silver did streak her shining bronze hair and faint lines fanned from the corners of her gold-flecked eyes, but her youthful grace remained. Above all, her kindness struck him. It crossed his mind that if the Black Stag of Kintail would send out his lady wife at the head of his warring parties, his enemies would all capitulate before they’d had time to shout their battle slogans.
“Lady, you have been a gracious hostess,” Gunnar said, bending his knee to her. “I will give your felicitations to my uncle.”
“You must stay the night with us.” Lady Linnet gestured to encompass the great hall where they stood, the many linen-covered tables already being set for the evening meal.
“My lady has the right of it,” Duncan agreed, circling a proud arm around his wife’s waist. “You’ll no’ leave without enjoying our fullest hospitality. Most especially after you’ve brought us such fine gifts,” he added, glancing at the gleaming silver-and-gold Viking arm ring that he’d already donned, and then the thick leather-bound book in Lady Linnet’s hands.
Pre-truce ‘offerings’ suggested by Gunnar, the gifts themselves chosen by John. The precious volume was especially fine, with a garnet-studded cover and clasp. Its pages held herbal and medicinal lore, knowledge gathered and penned by a great Hebridean healer of the previous century. The book had been one of John’s prized possessions, but he’d sworn Lady Linnet would value it as highly – and she had, her face lighting when she’d seen it.
“The book was meant to be yours, lady.” Gunnar glanced around the hall, seeking a glimpse of shining black hair, a smooth, flushed cheek, or the flash of sapphire eyes. Seeing only burly, ale-swigging MacKenzie clansmen, he tried to hide his disappointment as he turned back to his hosts.
“May the tome bring you hours of pleasure,” he said to Lady Linnet.
“Did John tell you of my herbarium?” She clutched the book to her heart, smiling at him. “I spend many hours there, making potions and unguents, salves and tinctures. Please tell him that I shall be ever thankful for the book.
“I am sure it contains much I will be glad to learn.” She touched his arm, lightly. “It would please me as well if you’ll accept a bed for the night. Frost has turned the ground white since you arrived and my bones tell me it will only get colder. It is a long journey back to Skye, and across water.”
I would gladly stay, my lady – if only long enough to speak with Katla.
But she wasn’t anywhere in the vast, torch-lit hall. Nor had he seen her in the Black Stag’s privy solar, or on the way to and from that vaunted chamber.
As a MacLeod, he couldn’t impose by asking if he could visit the castle kitchens.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think Katla was hiding from him.
Like as not, she was.
“Lady, you are kind, but I must go.” Gunnar found it easy to return her smile, but
he hoped his frustration didn’t show. “I dinnae mind the journey and will enjoy every mile, especially by moonlight.”
He turned to Duncan. “You, sir, will understand, loving Kintail as you do. I was away for two years. Each night at Druimbegan is a blessing.” He paused, and then decided to speak true. “Perhaps I am needed as well, for my uncle is ailing.”
Duncan frowned. “He was fit when I last saw him, no’ long ago. We met by chance in Inverness, discovering we use the same shipbuilder.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Gunnar was.
He also wanted to leave.
He could almost sense Katla’s presence. Feeling her nearness so powerfully, yet not being able to see and speak with her, was making his heart lurch.
If he stayed any longer, his hosts would notice his discomfiture.
“Tell John I will see him at Dunakaid.” Duncan walked with him toward the door, Lady Linnet staying behind, near the hall’s high table. “A truce betwixt our clans is welcome. Have a good journey home, lad.”
Gunnar started toward the keep’s arched entry, the looming door, but…
Some of his uncle’s forgetfulness must’ve worn off on him because rather than stepping out into the chill wind, he found himself on the far side of the hall. A shadowy area where, surprisingly, the only soul about was a tiny black-garbed woman. She carried a basket on her arm and was strewing dried meadowsweet on the floor rushes. Apparently hearing his approach, she turned and beamed at him, as if they were old friends.
Gunnar frowned. He couldn’t help himself.
Something about her was odd – perhaps the red plaid laces she used to tie her small black boots.
“Lost are ye?” She set down her herb basket and came over to him, her bright blue eyes twinkling in a way that raised the fine hairs on his nape. “‘Tis easy enough to do in such a great, echoing stronghold as this, eh?”
Gunnar had the strangest feeling that he wasn’t in Eilean Creag’s great hall at all, but somewhere else entirely – almost as if he’d stepped into a dream.
“I was just leaving,” he said, his voice sounding distant, as if he’d spoken from a well.
“So you were!” The crone came closer, the wicker basket in her hands again, but empty. “You’ll have time to fetch a poor auld woman a bit more meadowsweet, I’m thinking?”
“To be sure,” Gunnar agreed, feeling cornered. “Where is it?”
“Och, just through there!” She thrust her basket into his hands and pointed to a shadowed door he hadn’t yet noticed. It stood open to the gloaming, the castle courtyard beyond. “‘Tis only a few steps to the herbarium. You’ll find all you need there.”
“Your meadowsweet?”
She leaned in, gripping his arm. “Listen for the dog.”
Gunnar decided she was in a worse state than his uncle. At least John made sense.
“His name is Glaum,” the crone told him, looking him up and down, almost appraisingly.
Then she appeared to wriggle her fingers, producing a few twists of dried beef. Gunnar was sure she’d plucked them from a fold in her skirts, but he wasn’t about to ask.
“Here, he’s fond of these.” She dropped the twists into the basket.
“I shall remember.”
“Then go.” She put her small hand on his back, urging him toward the door and then out into the cold. “If you wait too long, you’ll miss her!”
Chapter 6
Katla stood in the middle of Eilean Creag’s herbarium, gazing at her handiwork. She’d been tasked with watching over Lady Linnet’s special bogbean tonic, a highly valued concoction guaranteed to strengthen body and soul, ensure good health, and even cure coughs. Just now, the brew simmered in a stone jar placed carefully atop the herbarium’s peat-burning brazier.
Gloaming was nigh. The soft, shadowed time when she most loved to visit the little stone workshop built against the seaward wall of the castle herb garden.
Still…
Something wasn’t right. She felt it deep in her soul, but couldn’t think what troubled her.
She’d always viewed the herbarium as a refuge, gladly working here when needed. It was a place for quiet moments, even if wee Glaum disagreed. Just now he was running circles around the brazier, barking at the gurgling of the bogbean tonic. Not that she minded his ruckus. If Glaum was robust, full of himself and happy, all was right in her world.
So why did the air quiver around her?
What was making her skin prickle?
She glanced about, rubbing her arms. The chills remained, but she saw no reason for her ill ease.
As always, the dimly-lit herbarium felt like a sanctuary: thick-walled, low-ceilinged, and filled with the heady scents of peat, old stone, herbs, and the sea. Smoke-blackened rafters added to the coziness, each beam crowded with bunches of dried herbs. Beyond the door, open to let in the evening air, tidy rows of raised, winter-hardened earth and clusters of clipped pot-and-strewing herbs caught her eye. Earlier, she’d spent an hour on her knees, cutting back the herbs’ winter-dried stems, readying them for the long dark months when the ground froze and snow blanketed the enclosed garden.
She inhaled deeply, seeking the calm that filled her when working in the garden. She loved the feel of damp earth beneath her fingers, the smell of growing things.
Come spring, she’d know that joy again.
Just now, the only thing ‘growing’ was her urge to leave the herbarium.
But the bogbean tonic wasn’t ready. She’d promised Lady Linnet that she’d remain until it simmered to perfection.
It needed more gurgling.
She needed…
Nothing I should want! Wishing it weren’t so, she went to the herbarium’s single, deep-set window and gazed out at Loch Duich. She inhaled deeply of the cold, damp air, but peace still eluded her. Soft mists floated across the loch and the hills on the far shore were darkening into shadow. The beauty and softness of gloaming made her heart ache.
Nae, that wasn’t quite true.
A large part of the longing that pierced her was because of him.
Gunnar MacLeod.
Would-be Lord of Winter, laird’s son, and scoundrel – a dastard who should be hung by his toes until his best piece fell off, thus rendering him useless as a black-hearted skirt-lifter.
“Brine-drinking barnacle-beast!” She grumbled to the mist swirling past the window, borrowing one of her chief’s scold-names for pestiferous MacLeods.
Her MacLeod was worse. He was a flat-footed, ring-tailed, sent-straight-from-the-devil fiend.
She should forget him.
Absorb the silence and solitude of the herbarium, so quiet save for the gurgle of bogbean tonic.
Unnaturally still for Glaum had stopped barking.
That wasn’t good.
Katla’s prickles increased, turning into a ribbon of chills that raced all through her. Her breath snagged and she tightened her grip on the window ledge, not ready to turn and see why she just knew she was no longer alone.
In truth, she needn’t wonder – she recognized the energy charging the air.
Gunnar was here.
She was already whipping about as his deep voice greeted her, “Can it be, lass, that you’re hiding from me?”
~ * ~
“A MacKenzie hides from nae man.” Katla set her hands on her hips. “I am working, Gunnar MacLeod. See the brew on thon brazier?” She watched as he flicked a glance at the stone jar of bogbean tonic, not seeming at all interested in Lady Linnet’s special concoction. “I’m here to tend it.”
One corner of his mouth tilted up slightly. “You ken my name.”
“So I do.” She gave him what she hoped was a stern look. “What are you doing here?”
“Seeking you,” he said, his words – and the way he said them, the warmth in his eyes - stripping away every reason she should keep scowling. “I couldn’t wait until the winter fire to see you again.”
“Now you have.” She kept her tone cool. “There
is no reason for you to stay.”
“Lass, I ken you’re fashed-”
“Do you?” She straightened her shoulders, wished her heart wasn’t beating so rapidly. That his nearness didn’t fuzz her mind so badly that she couldn’t recall all the terrible things she’d practiced to say to him if ever they should meet again.
Instead she thought of the thrill of dancing with him, how he’d held her in his arms, whirling her across the frozen ground, snow blowing all around them as the curtain of light hummed and crackled above them. In her mind, she saw how he’d whipped off his silver wolf cloak, tossing it down to make a soft, warm bed. Such comfort wasn’t necessary for she hadn’t felt the cold, only his touch. His kisses and loving, the joy that had flowed through her, seeping into her bones, her soul, everything she was and ever would be.
Then…
He was gone.
“You are not welcome here.” She folded her arms, looked at him through narrowed eyes.
“And you are a sight to behold, so beautiful in a temper.” His gaze slid over her, unsettling and intimate – embarrassing because she knew he was recalling when his hands followed the same path, his masterful fingers gliding all over her.
Shivering, she fought the urge to grab her cloak and swirl it around her.
“You haunted my dreams, Katla.”
“You ruined mine.”
“That wasnae my intent – no’ for a moment,” he said, his voice low, seductive. “I wanted-”
“I know what you wanted.” She did, beyond a doubt.
He’d showed her, hadn’t he? Introducing her to carnal pleasures so scorching, so pleasurable, she couldn’t have resisted if she’d wanted, and she hadn’t.
But that was then.
Now she knew better.
“What I still want.” He took a step closer, his gaze locked on hers. “And no’ just in the way you think.”
Katla only glared at him.
She recognized him for what he was: heartless and too well-lusted for his own good.
She also resented how his towering presence filled the herbarium. His boldness annoyed her, his dark virility pouring off him to singe the cold, herb-scented air. The shelves and worktables seemed to shrink away from him, each flagon, jar, or earthenware pot pulling back into the shadows. Every pestle, mortar, and wooden mixing bowl dwindled until she saw only him, as he seemed only aware of her.
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 50