Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  “She was not Scottish, but Norwegian.” She looked at him, pride in her voice. “She hailed from Trondelag, and she never forgot her home. Indeed, she ached for it. It is from her that I have my love of the far north. She hailed from a family of great Viking warriors, the women as fierce as the men.”

  I am no’ surprised, lass. In truth, he’d already guessed. Who but a maid with Viking blood would feel such a powerful pull to the north that she’d climb a near-frozen, snow-and-mist-covered mountain to look for the Lord of Winter?

  She’d had that air about her. Everything she did, the things she said, and even how she moved, revealed a refreshing sense of wildness and passion. A heady frankness and earthy appreciation of life that he’d found irresistible.

  He still did.

  ~ * ~

  He watched her now, amazed he didn’t just fall into her great blue eyes, losing himself in the wonder of her. He’d carried her image with him over so many miles, across the vastness of cold, ice-coated seas. He’d kept her near always, if only in his memories, his dreams. Seeing her before him – in flesh-and-blood – was almost too much. His blood roared and his heart kicked hard against his ribs. Only his respect for her laird kept him from tossing her over his shoulder and riding off with her.

  He was tempted.

  He wanted her more than ever. But stealing her away would only bring a brief satisfaction – and cause grief to his uncle, which he couldn’t condone.

  His only option was to woo her.

  So he took a deep breath and schooled his features, hoping to tamp down the fierce need burning inside him.

  “Did your mother also give you the Thor’s hammer you wear around your neck?” He almost dreaded mentioning the amulet for doing so brought back the image of the silver hammer gleaming in the light of the winter fire. It’d caught his eye when she’d dropped her gown to stand naked before him in the snow.

  She’d been without shame, wearing nothing more than the happiness in her eyes and the amulet, tucked so provocatively into the lush swells of her breasts.

  He shifted, stepping back so she wouldn’t feel the hard ridge of his arousal for the memory sent a surge of heat straight into his loins. He didn’t want to risk losing her burgeoning trust – didn’t want her to think lust was his only reason for wanting her. It did matter, but there were many other reasons. He’d need years and a more silvered tongue to express them.

  As is, he slid a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face toward his. “Do you wear it still? The Thor’s hammer?”

  “Always.” She almost glowed, her pride again evident. “It was indeed handed down through my mother’s family. She told me it was made by a Trondelag silversmith. I never remove it.”

  “And you shouldn’t.”

  “You wear one as well.” She smiled, her words proving she, too, had forgotten nothing.

  “So I do.” He could hardly speak, his voice made husky by a fierce yearning for her, and for the distant north that he loved in a way that verged on unholy.

  He started to tell her so – to explain even more, things he hadn’t yet intended to share – but the steady approach of two sets of masculine footsteps warned that the Black Stag’s night guardsmen were making their rounds. They were just coming into view beyond the garden wall, two big burly warriors in mail and plaid, their swords glinting in the silvery mist.

  A meet interruption for, just now – damn the hot blood thundering through his veins – he wanted nothing more than Katla naked beneath him. Here, on the chilly and damp ground, or even inside the tight confines of the herbarium. He wouldn’t mind its hard-packed dirt floor, but he’d spare her, settling her above him so she could ride him in comfort, the dark, herb-hung rafters looking down on them. He would find an occupation for her dog, not wanting the wee beastie to chomp down on his bared arse, or worse, his cock!

  But such concerns scarce mattered.

  Not now.

  The MacKenzie patrol was almost upon them. So he bent his head and dropped a kiss on Katla’s brow. He released her quickly, stepping back before the two men could see their embrace and make trouble for her.

  He’d speak with the Black Stag another day – declaring for her properly.

  “Ho – MacLeod!” The guardsmen drew up before the garden gate, looking in at them. “Still here, are ye? Our lord thought you left for Druimbegan?”

  “I’m on my way, lads.” Gunnar raised a hand in greeting, his tone friendly. “Our Druimbegan hen-wife wanted a report on the medicinal herbs in your garden,” he improvised, not knowing what else to say without compromising Katla.

  “Your mistress here gave me a wee tour.” He glanced her way, flashing a smile. “‘Tis a fine and worthy garden, even now. I would see it gladly after the spring thaw.”

  “Indeed!” The guardsmen dipped their heads, answering in unison. “Have a safe journey home then,” they added, already striding away into the mist.

  As soon as they disappeared, Gunnar grabbed Katla’s hand and pulled her to him, giving her a hard, swift kiss. “You are the treasure,” he vowed, tearing his mouth from hers. “Be at Odin’s Flame when the night sky lights the way. There is much we must speak of – and this is no’ the time or place.”

  “I will try.” She didn’t sound certain.

  He took her hand again, this time kissing her fingers. “If you’re no’ there, I shall come for you.”

  Before she could argue, he touched her cheek and strode from the garden. The knowledge that he wouldn’t sleep a wink that night – or any night until the winter fire – only made him all the more determined to claim her.

  Besotted fool that he was, he couldn’t live without her.

  Chapter 8

  Several nights later, in a little known corner of Skye, a place of cold, swirling mist; strange, jutting rocks; and rushing burns, a dark-cloaked figure approached a huddle of low, stone cottages that crouched against a towering cliff. Inhospitable and bleak, it wasn’t a destination that drew visitors. Icy wind swept down from the high peaks that guarded it, and sounds echoed off the rocks. Weird cries that could’ve been animals or perhaps mythical beasts waiting to pounce on those who dared to walk here.

  Men like the dark-cloaked figure who sought the vale for purposes not quite noble.

  Indeed, it was known as the Vale of Thieves.

  So named because long ago, in the dimmest shadows of time, a few dark-hearted souls envied Skye’s beauty, and set out to soil it. But no mortal man can damage a blessed place.

  All the same, the malcontents tried.

  Their actions drew the wrath of the gods and ancients who loved Skye.

  These mighty ones determined to smite the evil-doers, crushing them before they could continue their villainy. And so it came that the mighty hand of Thor, the thunder god, crashed down into the mountains of Skye, breaking stone and gouging out the deep, rock-sided gorge known as the Vale of Thieves.

  But thieves being thieves, the cravens escaped. They disappeared into Skye’s famous mists, vanishing with the speed of the weasels that they were.

  Their fate is unknown, for the ancients used magic to strike their names from history.

  But no one doubts that they’d lived.

  Or that, because of them, the hauntingly beautiful Isle of Skye does have a hidden corner of darkness.

  Good men do not go there.

  That served Ross MacLeod well.

  An ambitious man, crafty and arrogant, he welcomed the night’s chill wind and sleety rain as he neared the settlement’s largest ‘cottage.’ Not a cottage at all, but an inn. More specifically, the establishment was the Toothless Hag, affectionately called after the wife of the inn’s original proprietor.

  It was at the inn, this very e’en, that Ross would honor the vale’s legend of origin.

  He’d arranged to meet two men there.

  Of course, they were thieves.

  ~ * ~

  Hoping Borg and Munch were as ‘good’ as he’d been told, Ross paused
before the door of the Toothless Hag and – for caution’s sake – glanced back the way he’d come. A strong sense of self-preservation served him well, saving his neck more times than he could count when other, less careful men tried to run him to ground.

  Always, he kept his lead, staying steps ahead of his foes.

  So he peered into the blowing mist, glad that the wind was rising, pleased by the distant rumbles of thunder. It was a night when most men would stay in their halls, enjoying the warmth of a roaring fire.

  Even so, he cast a look in the opposite direction.

  Beneath his cloak, he carried a pouch of silver coins, and he’d donned a few extra silver arm rings. Their adornment was a boast, signaling that he was a fierce, highly-skilled warrior. More importantly this night, the additional arm rings could be used as further incentives if needed. Sometimes men such as Borg and Munch surprised him by balking at less-than-savory deeds – leastways, until he flashed a bit more silver.

  Every man had a price.

  Especially those like these two, who hailed from one of the nameless robbers’ islets, just off the coast of Skye. But if they thought to outfox him, bringing along friends to fall upon him after their tryst, he saw no one.

  And he knew all the hiding places such varlets would seek.

  Nothing stirred anywhere – almost as if the gods were smiling on him, even in this dark, forsaken place. They’d thickened the mist, letting it roll down from the high peaks to hang heavily in the vale. Nigh impenetrable, such fog made the perfect cloak for his plans, better yet a shroud.

  Smiling at his wit, Ross threw open the door and strode into the Toothless Hag. Cold, damp wind gusted in with him, rattling shutters and causing the wall torches to splutter as sparks whirled in the ale-scented air.

  Ross scarce noticed, his sharp gaze already moving about the inn’s public room. Long and narrow, its low ceiling was raftered by ancient black beams wreathed in haze from a peat fire at the tavern’s far end. A few braziers also burned, and the rough-planked tables boasted one tallow candle each. But the room still proved too murky to distinguish the patrons.

  Not that spotting Borg and Munch was necessary.

  Ross could feel their stares, their excitement at the promise of MacLeod riches.

  So he threw back his cloak’s hood and crossed the room to the corner table beside the peat fire.

  At last his plans were coming together and he couldn’t be more pleased.

  ~ * ~

  “Your sire is a good man, MacLeod,” said Borg an hour later, frowning at Ross across the table. A big, bulky brute, his bushy black beard made up for his shining pate, while his eyes were hard, evidence of life lived rough. A broken nose and two missing fingers on his left hand said the same.

  “He is respected,” Munch added, speaking despite the hard bread he chewed, ignoring the crumbs dropping onto his full, flame-red beard. “Folk hereabouts like him. He isnae a great warrior, but nae man seems to care.”

  He glanced at his companion. “I’m no’ sure I want-”

  “You’ll want this.” Ross reached beneath his cloak, retrieving the coins. He plunked the pouch on the table, shoving it to the middle.

  The thieves exchanged glances.

  Munch spoke first. “Surt lies mighty close to Skye’s shores. A man could row there in the night, sneaking onto our wee isle and poking a dirk betwixt our ribs as we sleep – minding our own business, harming nae man.”

  “That is so.” Borg nodded, agreeing with his friend.

  Ross struggled against the urge to scowl. Rarely had such varlets dared to cross him and he didn’t like it. But he held his tongue, tamping down his temper.

  He needed the men.

  So he signaled to Maili, the comeliest tavern maid. When she beamed at him, he lifted the ale jug so she’d know to fetch more. As she hurried away, dark curls bouncing and hips a-sway, he turned back to Borg and Munch.

  “Thon lass is a beauty, isn’t she?” he said, secretly proud of his ability to think ahead and make such excellent plans to avert possible setbacks. “She’ll keep you warm this night if you’re no’ in a hurry to sail back to your Isle of Surt.”

  Munch shook his head. “We didnae come here for a wench, lord.”

  Borg flashed him a look. “To be sure we didnae,” he snapped. “But I’ll no’ refuse such an offer.”

  Ross leaned back, slowly sipping his ale. “You’re a wise man, Borg. Maili will treat you well.”

  It wasn’t a lie.

  She was a temptress, and a most satisfying bedmate.

  She’d pleasured Ross often. She also owed him, stood in his debt for many things – including the money and food he delivered to her ailing mother once every new moon.

  She’d not betray him.

  “I’ve already paid her,” he said, sure of victory. “She keeps a room abovestairs.”

  Munch slapped down his ale cup. “I dinnae need-”

  “Speak for yourself, you he-goat!” Borg glowered at his friend.

  “I just did.” Munch thrust out his bearded chin. “If you’re-”

  “A fine e’en to ye, good sirs.” Maili appeared at their table, bringing a fresh ale jug. She leaned in to fill their empty cups, allowing a look at her full, round breasts as they pressed against her low-cut bodice. “If you’re travel weary, I’ll be happy to refresh you later tonight, after the inn settles.”

  Straightening, she smiled at Borg. “I’ve many ways to relax ye, help ye sleep well.”

  “That I believe!” Borg’s gaze flicked over her, his eyes glinting with appreciation.

  Munch ignored him, preferring to dig under his fingernails with the tip of his dirk.

  Ross smiled as Maili bobbed a saucy farewell, leaving the table just as Squall, the proprietor, brought them more bread, salted herring, and cheese.

  Named for the weather on the day he’d been born, Squall had the uncanny ability to appear out of nowhere, and disappear as quickly, seemingly into thin air.

  Ross gave him a coin for the viands, amazed as always that such a big, warrior-like man could move so quickly. With his powerful build and hard-set face, his long hair, and proud beard, Squall looked more like he should carry a sword, rather than the trays of food and ale jugs he served in the Toothless Hag.

  But if he’d once been a fighting man, as Ross suspected, he was now a man of few words, ever tight-lipped, his past a mystery.

  The Hag’s patrons appreciated his silence.

  So Ross waited until he left their table and then helped himself to a generous serving of herring. He also broke off a chunk of fresh, oven-warm bread, the best in Skye, if the truth were known. Smearing it with heather honey, he made ready to state his business.

  “So, my friends,” he began, sliding the pouch of coins in their direction. “Divide this silver as you will. But heed one thing – you erred in thinking this is about my father. I did no’ meet you here to speak of him.”

  “John MacLeod is a good man,” Munch said anyway, echoing Borg’s earlier comment. “I’m no’ sure-”

  “You needn’t be. Just do what you’re paid for.” Ross spoke without emotion, his voice hardening. “My father is old and addled, of nae use to the clan or anyone. Even in younger years, before his wits left him, he lacked spirit.

  “He is ill.” He lifted his ale cup, draining it. “I’ve nae need to hire assailants to see him into his grave. He’s halfway there already, his hours numbered.

  “The man I want you to go after is my cousin.” Ross set down his empty cup, wiped his mouth. “Gunnar MacLeod, newly returned from the Northlands.”

  Chapter 9

  The Toothless Hag’s proprietor, Squall, stopped at Ross’s table, a tray with bowls of steaming fish stew in one hand, a dirk in the other. A red ribbon banded the dirk’s hilt, marking it as the ‘Blade of Red,’ used by patrons to nick the table edge each time a secret deal was agreed upon within the ancient inn’s walls.

  “Good sirs,” Squall greeted them, nodding
once.

  His dark gaze met the eyes of Ross, Munch, and finally Borg, as he placed the blade on the table and then moved away to serve his fish stew.

  He’d left them without a word, but speech wasn’t necessary.

  Everyone who frequented the Hag knew the meaning of the dirk - and the many notches that edged every one of the inn’s rough-planked tables.

  The marks were Squall’s assurance that whatever happened within the Hag’s smoke-darkened walls, stayed there.

  Glad of it, Ross picked up the dirk and ran his thumb along its blade, smiling when a bead of red appeared, and then trickled down onto his palm.

  “My cousin is as much a fool as my father,” he said, speaking softly, almost to himself. Borg and Munch were all ears now, their eyes glinting in the light of the table’s tallow candle. “Gunnar doesnae ken that all a man should care about is coin, power, and that his wishes are met.

  “In truth,” – he looked down, carefully making his mark on the table’s edge – “I wonder if he didnae fall on his head when he was born. He has nae interest in lairding it anywhere, wanting only to sail icy northern seas and know himself at peace and happy, or so he says.”

  Two blank stares answered him.

  For thieves lauded as competent, Borg and Munch didn’t impress him.

  “Is your cousin no’ the man who accused your uncle of killing his sire – the old laird?” Munch spoke first, proving he wasn’t dull-headed. “Be that why you want him gone?”

  Borg snorted. “The lord here wants his cousin done because folk like the man.”

  “Nae, that isnae so.” Ross tamped down his annoyance. It did worm him that his clan favored Gunnar. But he had other reasons for wishing him dead.

  “My cousin would make as poor a chief as my father,” he said, knowing it to be true. “Even if he sails away, as he claims he means to do, there are some in my clan who’d hasten after him. They’d follow him to Orkney to fetch him, offering lairdship. Soft-hearted as he is, he might heed their pleas.