Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  His gaze smoldered, was so heated she wondered she didn’t catch fire. Just the smooth deepness of his voice melted her. The brazen upturn at the corner of his mouth drew her eye, making her want his kisses.

  He scattered her wits that easily.

  So she tore her gaze from him, and frowned at her dog.

  Glaum had apparently lost his ability to judge character for he was standing with his front legs braced against Gunnar’s knees as he gobbled treats from the lout’s hand.

  Katla’s annoyance deepened.

  Now she knew why Glaum had stopped barking.

  The world forgotten for a twist of dried beef.

  “Glaum – have done!” she scolded him. “You just ate, and a full bowl.”

  Glaum didn’t even glance at her.

  Instead, her beloved pet began bouncing on his back legs, his furry face beseeching as he used his front right foot to paw Gunnar’s thigh. She might’ve ceased to exist, for Glaum completely ignored her, seeing only the beef twists.

  “Where did you get those?” Her gaze snapped back to Gunnar. “Did you bring them here to quiet my dog?”

  “One of your castle servants gave me the beef twists,” he said, tossing the remaining few onto the hard-packed earthen floor. When Glaum pounced on them, he closed the short space between them in two quick strides. “An old woman told me where I’d find you. I am grateful to her.”

  “Elspeth.” Katla would have to warn her not to help him again.

  “Nae, she was no’ the seneschal’s wife.” He glanced out the window for a moment, his brows drawing together. “She was ancient. A crone garbed all in black and with red plaid laces in her boots. She was spreading meadowsweet across the rushes, her eyes twinkling as if the task amused her.”

  Devorgilla!

  Katla bit her tongue before she could gasp the cailleach’s name.

  “She lives in her own world,” she said instead, coming as close to the truth as she dared. “Many things delight her. If they don’t, she leaves them to her enemies. Or so she says, claiming onerous folk deserve less than pleasurable tasks.”

  “A wise woman,” Gunnar said, and Katla almost choked.

  “So she is.” In more ways than you meant!

  “She desired extra meadowsweet for the hall rushes.”

  “Then she must’ve had a bit more of her famed heather ale than she should’ve. We brought whole crates of the strewing herb back from Kyleakin.

  “All of it was stored in the great hall, not a handful here in my lady’s herbarium,” she added, not surprised by the crone’s trickery. “Lady Linnet wished the floor redressed as quickly as possible. She favors the scent of meadowsweet and insists a fresh batch is aye blended into the rushes.”

  Gunnar lifted a brow. “So the crone was mistaken?”

  “About the meadowsweet, aye.”

  Katla lowered her lashes, slid a secret glance at the man standing so closely beside her, the darkly rugged face she’d carried in her heart for so long. If Devorgilla had schemed to send him to her, perhaps there was some good in him?

  ~ * ~

  Could it be?

  For the briefest of moments, she wanted to believe.

  A shame, she guessed the way of it.

  Devorgilla knew she’d spent two years longing for her Lord of Winter – yearnings that surely did fill her heart, but that also included pure, hot-blooded female desire. With her Viking lineage, she’d been born uninhibited. As her Nordic ancestors, she feared nothing and even craved danger, death itself no threat to her as she saw it as the natural end of a cycle, the beginning of a new one. Daring and passion ran in her blood, making her earthy and unashamed of her sensuality. For all her great age, Devorgilla understood.

  Like as not she’d sent Gunnar to her in the hope of helping her soothe an itch!

  Indeed, just sharing the air with him was making her female parts tingle.

  Clenching her thighs as discreetly as she could, she tried to ignore the sensations. Sensually inclined as she was, she knew very well how to tend such aches on her own, after all. It wasn’t as good, of course, but relief all the same.

  So she stood a bit straighter, determined to be rid of him.

  It was for the best.

  If she granted him so much as one kiss, he’d do as he’d done before: Afterward he’d ride off into the heather or sail away again, nevermore to be seen.

  Worse, he’d reclaim his place as future laird of Druimbegan, marry a suitable bride. He’d wed a lady. Not someone with red, work-calloused hands who baked Norse bread and watched over bogbean brews. The chosen mother of his bairns would be a noblewoman of equal station, her title of greater worth than her kisses.

  Katla’s heart began to dip, a terrible cold sluicing her.

  Gunnar MacLeod might love airing her skirts. But he wouldn’t ask for her hand.

  Sure of it, she lifted her chin. “You, sir, are a laird’s son.”

  “I was a laird’s son.” He glanced again at the window, the view now hidden by dark, swirling mist. “My father is gone. My uncle is clan chief.”

  “So I have heard.”

  He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “Do you believe all you hear, lass?”

  “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, even when his father is no more.”

  “Do not speak of that which you know naught.”

  “All the land speaks of you.”

  “So they may until the end of all days.” He gripped her chin and leaned close, so near that his breath brushed her cheek. “I walk my own path. That’s why I’m here, to prove it to you.”

  Chapter 7

  “You already taught me everything I need to know about you.”

  Katla broke away from Gunnar, furious at her quickening pulse, the shivers that rippled through her just because his soft, warm breath whispered across her cheek. She felt a rush of hot and heady female need. It swept through her like a storm, almost uncontrollable, the thrill of it warning that she’d throw her arms around his neck, press into him, and kiss him most wickedly if she didn’t put a buffering of safety between them.

  He still fired her passion, even now making her burn with desire.

  “You know far too little of me.” He took a step toward her, but stopped when she raised a hand. “I would’ve explained then. After a time, anyway.”

  “Your abandonment made words unnecessary.” She was sure her eyes glittered, sparking with anger, frustration, and – damn her greedy soul – excitement that seemed to live and breathe on its own, not caring for her wishes.

  Her need to protect herself from the one man who could destroy her with a single touch, a kiss – if he did more…

  The damage was unthinkable.

  So she hurried past him to where Glaum gnawed on the last beef twist. Bending, she scooped him up into her arms and carried him outside. She hoped that having scarfed down so many beef twists, he’d gladly occupy himself in a certain corner of the garden. She needed time to shoo Gunnar on his way without her traitorous dog taking the lout’s side.

  Unfortunately, as soon as she lowered Glaum to one of the pebbled paths between the herb beds, he immediately spun in a circle, barking as only he could.

  “I’ll no’ let it end this way, lass.”

  With a startled gasp, Katla also spun, wheeling about to see her ‘Lord of Winter’ loom up out of the chill mist, his dark hair blowing in the wind, his expression fierce. He reminded her of the Highlanders of yore, the bold warriors of the Bruce’s day. The fearsome ones who swooped down out of the hills, yelling their war slogans and swinging their swords, as they cut a proud swath across the Highlands, making themselves legends.

  A shame the man before her wasn’t worthy of such fame.

  She looked at him now, striving to see past his powerful appeal to the scoundrel within. She also silently cursed herself because she failed, miserably.

  She did mana
ge to lift her chin. “Something that never started requires no end.”

  “Magic neither begins nor ends.” He came closer, reached to touch her cheek. “It simply is.”

  Katla frowned, stepping back. “So you are now a wizard as well as a false god?”

  “I am a man.” He dropped to one knee and spoke to Glaum, calming him with words she didn’t understand, but that sounded oddly familiar. “A man besotted with you,” he said, glancing up at her as he rubbed her dog’s ears. “I am nae spellcaster and ne’er claimed to be. But I’ll no’ deny the wonder of Odin’s Flame. The night was enchanted, blessed with the greatest magic.”

  “So it was – lust!”

  “There was that, aye.” He stood, dusted his hands. “I’ll no’ deny that. I wanted you so badly I can still taste the desire on the back of my throat. It has ne’er left me, ne’er diminished. In all this time, lass, I couldnae forget you.”

  “Then try harder.”

  “I shall.” He had the nerve to smile. “But no’ to forget you. I wish to win your heart.”

  You already did, you devil. Katla kept the words to herself, knowing fine what the admission would gain her. He’d snatch her to him and kiss her, plundering her lips so boldly she’d forget everything except how he made her feel. How much she wanted him. Not just for the mastery of his lovemaking, but because her soul yearned for him. Because each time he looked at her she felt as if he were peering deep inside her, making her glow within.

  “My heart belongs to Glaum,” she said, the only truth she was willing to share.

  “We are no’ speaking of a dog’s love – as well you ken.”

  “We shouldn’t be talking at all.”

  “I’m no’ leaving until we do.” He folded his arms, looking as immoveable as the stone wall that enclosed the herbarium garden. “I want you, lass. I came here with a purpose, to put things right between us.”

  “There is no need.” She stood straighter, hoped he couldn’t hear the thundering of her heart. “I forgot you ages ago.”

  “I dinnae believe you.”

  “It is true,” she lied. “I’ve no wish to be bound to any man and there isn’t one who wants me. You can ask my laird and he will tell you. He has tried to find a husband for me. Every would-be consort has refused his offers.

  “They have done so because I am soiled.” And I have rejoiced each time a new one declines. Keeping that revelation to herself as well, she gave him her coolest smile. “They also believe I am addled. How could they think otherwise when all the land knows I claim to have lain with a Norse god?”

  “That night I was a god.” He came toward her again, gripped her by the arms. “You made me feel like one,” he said, his voice roughening. “Even greater if that’s possible.”

  “Legend says anything is possible on Odin’s Flame - even meeting the devil.”

  “Lass…” He cradled her face, locking his gaze on hers. “I didnae come here to fight with you. I will say you this – nae few men in these heather-kissed hills curse your laird for a hard, black-hearted devil. Yet to others, he is as a god, loved and revered. Will you no’ accept that all isnae as it seems?

  “Or” – he skimmed his thumb over her lips – “that there is aye another side to any story?”

  Katla held his gaze, but his words were getting to her, fuzzing her wits. His touch, the way he put a finger to her cheek, tracing its curve, sent so many pleasurable tingles through her that she could hardly stand without swaying.

  “Well?”

  “I am aware that is so,” she admitted, hoping only she heard her breathlessness. “I also know you are a scoundrel.”

  “All men are – at times.” He flashed a smile, proving it.

  “You are a rogue always.” She was sure of it.

  His smile didn’t fade. “I am relentless in pursuing what I want, that is true.”

  “So am I.” She stood straighter, holding her ground. “Why did you ask me to meet you on Odin’s Flame when the winter fire returns within a sennight?”

  “I thought – I hoped – the magic of the whirling light curtain would aid my cause.” His answer speared her heart, undermining her defenses. “I knew winning you back wouldn’t be easy.”

  You needn’t for I never stopped wanting you. I lost my heart to you that night. You stole it, taking it away with you.

  Her breath caught. Did she love him?

  She didn’t know.

  Suspecting she did, she stared at him, something inside her fluttering much like a small bird beating its wings against a cage. Tucking her hair behind an ear, she readied herself to ask another question. One that troubled her for it posed a mystery.

  “How can you know when the winter fire will next blaze?” She hesitated, aware that his answer mattered greatly. That it would unravel his secrets. “Is that not the knowledge of the gods? Yet you are a mortal man.”

  ~ * ~

  “To be sure, such a wonder lies in the realm of the gods, and perhaps the ancients who serve them.” Gunnar answered as he saw it, secretly pleased by her spirit.

  He admired her backbone, something he’d found lacking in many of the women who’d pursued him in earlier years – the days when he’d been heir to a great chiefdom. His status as someday-laird had spurred their fawning, he’d aye believed. He’d also resented it. False adoration and simpering might be the way of things, how those of noble blood sought titled, even wealthier husbands for their daughters, but he’d not liked the game.

  Katla hadn’t played it.

  She’d come to him of her own free will, guileless and enchanting, the light of all the heavens making her shine.

  A dance in the winter fire had satisfied her – their almost mythic coupling a glory she’d embraced as wholly as he had, holding back nothing, giving her all.

  As he’d done as well, save for sharing his name.

  To his relief, he had asked her once that night if she’d desire him if he wasn’t the famed Lord of Winter. She’d thrown back her head and laughed. Then she’d dropped her cloak with equal speed, shedding her clothes and launching herself into his arms where she’d grabbed his face, kissing him boldly in answer. Her lush nakedness pressed against him, she’d swept her tongue into his mouth, rendering him helpless to resist her as they lost themselves in hot, openmouthed kisses full of shared breath and passion.

  Burning need so desperate that just remembering hardened him now, setting him like granite.

  Praise Odin, he didn’t think she’d noticed – or would.

  Anger had her standing so tall and straight he’d almost believe she’d swallowed a spear. Her eyes glittered, sparking like twin sapphire flames.

  She’d fixed her gaze on his, wasn’t looking lower.

  Even so, he adjusted his plaid, wished he’d worn his silver wolf cloak which would’ve better concealed his swelling desire. A torment that was nigh unbearable as he’d not taken his ease with another woman since he’d lain with her.

  She’d consumed him that greatly.

  “So we agree about the gods and the ancients.” Her words drew him back from their night atop Odin’s Fame, and into the cold, thickening darkness of Eilean Creag’s herb garden.

  She angled her chin, studying him through suspicious eyes. “I would hear how you are privy to their secrets.”

  Gunnar smiled, he couldn’t help himself. “No’ because they whisper in my ear, sweetness. The simple truth is that most men would ken such a thing – if they spent any time in the frozen north. I have, and I learned to read the signs.”

  “You were in the north?”

  “Aye.”

  “Strathnaver?” She guessed the far north of Scotland, the slight rise in her voice hinting that she felt awe for that wild and rugged corner of the land. “‘Tis an untamed place,” she added, proving he’d guessed rightly. “Men say ancient winds blow there, that they race over nothing but rock, heather, and the sea.

  “I should like to go there someday.” She sighed, glanced abou
t the tiny walled garden, so well-tended and orderly. “I have heard tales of trolls and giants in Strathnaver, great stone circles, and standing stones that spear the sky. Some say even dragons dwell there, sleeping beneath the mountains.”

  “And I say you have a poet’s heart.” He took her hand in his, lacing their fingers. “I, too, have heard stories, even legends, of Strathnaver dragons. But that is no’ where I was,” he told her, wanting no shadows between them. “I sailed to Orkney no’ long after the night of winter fire. There were matters at Druimbegan, trouble that gave me nae choice but to leave.

  “It was in Orkney that I discovered it is possible to sense the approach of the night-flames.” He lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “The air shivers, and there’s a distant crackling on the wind. ‘Tis as if a sky-dragon wakens, stirring in his lair in the clouds, his fiery breath tingeing the horizon.”

  “Now who is the poet?”

  “No’ I, lass,” he denied, a corner of his mouth hitching upward all the same. “I but observe the world around me – and I listen to the bards.”

  “I hear well, too.” She slipped her hand from his grasp and reached to touch his beard. Her fingers came perilously close to his mouth, the gentle caress slipping deeper, right into his heart. “Were those Orcadian words you used to quiet Glaum?”

  “‘Twas old Norse.” He wrapped his arms around her, smiling in earnest now. “I learned a bit of the ancient tongue there. Did you ken Glaum’s name means ‘Noisemaker?’”

  “I did.” She slid her arms around his waist, smiled up at him. “It seemed fitting as he aye causes such a ruckus. But he can be had for a treat, as you saw.”

  She looked to where the little dog sat just inside the doorway of the dimly-lit herbarium, apparently having had enough of the cold, wet wind blowing through the garden.

  Turning back to him, she leaned into his hug and sighed. “Glaum’s mother was a gift when I was little. My mother gave her to me. The dog’s name was Hella and my mother brought her back from a visit to her family in Norway.