Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  Worse – and this was entirely selfish – he worried the truth might render her too fearful to come to him in the winter fire. He knew with his Northlands experience that the night flames would blaze soon.

  Like as not, within the next few nights.

  If she refused to join him on Odin’s Flame, all wouldn’t be ruined. But their path, the triumph of their reunion, would not be half as spectacular as he’d planned.

  Still, he had to take the risk.

  He’d promised the gods he’d never keep anything from her if only he could recapture her heart. He didn’t want their aid in doing so. A Highlander asked no one for such help, not even the gods. But he had spent hours on his knees, asking them to at least not put any obstacles in his path.

  The ancients – especially Norse ones – were known for such mischief.

  It amused them to meddle with mortals.

  So he pulled on his beard, using the gesture to touch the Thor’s hammer at his throat. Leave me be, all of ye, he silently beseeched them. Katla is mine.

  I’ve waited long enough to claim her.

  Striding back to her now, he took her hands in his, gripping tight. “I will allow nae man to endanger the truce, Katla.” He laced their fingers, kept his gaze steady on hers. “My uncle is a good man. He’s auld and growing feeble. He deserves peace in his lifetime. Duncan MacKenzie no less, though I vow that one could live a hundred summers and no’ weaken. Your chief is a robust man and a strong leader. I like him, and have aye thought well of him.” I also mean to ask him for your hand, and I’ll no’ allow anything to stop me from doing so – if that happens, I’ll kidnap ye.

  He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.

  So he released Katla’s hands and gripped her by the waist, not caring if she saw the fierceness he knew must be blazing in his eyes. “The truce is safe, lass. All men want it – the MacKenzies of Kintail, and the Skye MacLeods.

  “My greater concern is that you’ll no’ be troubled when you set out to meet me atop Odin’s Flame,” he said, deliberately speaking as if their tryst was writ in stone.

  To him it was, and he hoped she felt the same.

  This night, he wasn’t so sure.

  “I’ve taken measures to keep you safe along the way.” He drew her close, pulling her against him so she could feel the thundering of his heart, the strength of his arms. “The men I’ve brought to Kintail are my most trusted guardsmen. They are oarsmen from the Solan, men I trust with my life. They are no’ blood kin, but Northmen - Orcadian friends who share my love of good ships, steep, cold seas, and clouded skies. They are fanning out across your chief’s hills, lining the path you’ll follow to Odin’s Flame.

  “They wear the white robes of wandering druids,” he told her, not wanting her startled if she saw them. “Beneath their hooded cloaks, they are armed – and these are men who can cleave a man in twain with one sword swing, if need be.”

  Katla’s eyes widened. “You’ve sent them to guard me?”

  “Aye.” He nodded. “And no’ just from Ross, for he may no’ even be aware of your journey. ‘Tis a precaution only – should he appear. If he does, he’ll no’ live long enough to accost you, or any other woman e’er again. My men will see to that, as they will do with any craven who might seek to bother you.”

  “Then I am grateful.” She nodded, but her brow remained pleated. “Not that I was afraid of climbing Odin’s Flame. I have done so many times, and without hazard.

  “That I ken.” Gunnar felt a corner of his mouth hitch upward. Her affinity for the great, snowbound peak was just one of the things he admired about her. “You are a braw lassie – a tribute to your ancestral shield maidens.

  “For sure, you are fearless.” His smile broadened. “Viking maids are aye courageous. Even so, this time you’ll no’ climb thon mountain alone.”

  “If you are so worried, why don’t you meet me at its base?” She angled her chin, her eyes again sparking. “Why send men when I’d feel entirely safe with you.”

  Because if Ross does appear, he will come for me first, not touching you until he’s captured me. He’ll do that so he can force me to watch what he does to you.

  He’s done so before – long ago and in a way so heinous, I’ll no’ speak of it. If he seeks to repeat the deed, and with you, he’ll no’ have a chance for he’d be dead before he can whip out his sword.

  “You are aye safe with me, sweetness. My men will watch o’er you because Ross hates me so fiercely that he’d follow me, no’ you.” He gave her a watered down version of the truth. “We’d then fight, I’d kill him, and I’d no’ have you near when that happens.”

  “I have seen men cross swords.” She stood tall again, her MacKenzie pride glowing about her. “Over the years, some have tried to take Eilean Creag. My laird and his men have aye repelled them, shedding enemy blood often enough.”

  “So I have heard.” Gunnar cradled her face, dropped a fast kiss to her brow. “I’d still spare you.”

  “Indeed?” She smiled.

  “So it is, aye.”

  “Can it be that you do care for me?” She lifted a brow, the twinkle in her eyes making his heart split wide.

  “It can.” He wouldn’t say more now, saving the rest for Odin’s Flame.

  Even if he’d wanted to reveal his feelings for her, his ears caught the chink of mail. The soft leathery sound of swords slapping men’s thighs, the pebbly crunch of male footsteps approaching – Eilean Creag’s guardsmen on shore patrol, about to swing round the curtain wall’s corner….

  “We will speak of such matters soon, my heart,” he promised, allowing her a hint in the endearment. “Your chief’s guards are coming.”

  She glanced that way, frowning. “Wait! Don’t go without-”

  “A kiss? I willnae!” He pulled her to him, almost crushing her as he thrust a hand into her hair and kissed her long and deep, his mouth plundering hers.

  When he broke away, he gripped her arms. “We’ll set things right at the winter fire. I will await you there, and” – he leaned in, kissing her again – “all will be well, I promise.”

  She stepped back when he released her, touched a hand to her kiss-swollen lips.

  “I believe you.” She gave him a tremulous smile.

  “I will ne’er give you reason no’ to.” He nodded once, and then reached inside his plaid to retrieve one last beef twist, which he tossed to Glaum.

  That done, pressed his hand to Katla’s cheek and then wheeled about, striding back to the Solan’s coracle. He flipped the little boat upright and then drew it into the water, vaulting over the side and grabbing the oars to row away before all good sense fled and he hastened back to her, declaring himself too soon.

  It was enough that he’d called her ‘his heart.’ Smart as she was, that would keep her until Odin’s Flame.

  And then…

  He’d share the last of his secrets with her.

  Chapter 12

  Loch Druimbegan

  Later that night, aboard the Solan…

  Gunnar stood at the Solan’s steering-oar, waiting for his pulse to quicken as his ship slid quietly into Druimbegan’s night-darkened loch. Only half of the longship’s eighteen double-banked rowing benches were occupied because of the men who’d remained in Kintail to watch over Katla. Good Orcadian oarsmen who surely now slept on cold hard ground, wrapped snugly in white druids’ robes. Their strong arms and muscle had been missed on the voyage from Eilean Creag, but a brisk wind had filled the Solan’s great square sail, so they’d made fair time all the same.

  Now the wind had stilled and his lengthy home loch – reckoned at ten miles long – gleamed silver, while the enclosing hills loomed black against the starlit sky.

  At the loch’s head, Druimbegan and its harbor awaited them, yet rather than urging his men to row harder and faster through the cold Highland night, he had to tamp down the urge to order them to slew the ship around. He burned to speed back to Kintail and the beautiful, spirited lass h
e couldn’t put from his mind – not even for a few scant hours, it would seem.

  He should be glad to be home.

  Instead, the oar-splashes, creaking wood, and the water hissing along the hull only minded him of every lonesome sea mile that separated him from Katla.

  Lonesome sea mile?

  Frowning, he bore down on the steering-oar to steady the ship against the sea-loch’s strong current, and wondered when he’d become a poet. He reckoned it was the night he’d donned his silver wolf cloak and made the long journey to Odin’s Flame, following an ancient pulling, a deep yearning in his soul.

  Yet rather than meeting Northern gods as he’d halfway thought to do, he’d found love.

  He’d no longer deny his feelings – knew now that they were so much more than fondness and attraction, certainly more than lust. She’d claimed the center of his heart. No, she’d filled it, and she’d done so from the moment he’d first set eyes on her. He’d come over Odin’s Flame’s crest, and his world shook, his life irrevocably changed. Their night together had been magical, an enchantment forever branded on his soul, a gift from the gods.

  And what had he done…

  He’d disappeared for two years.

  His scowl deepened, and he peered through the mist beginning to slide down the hills and drift across the water. He’d give just about anything to see Katla standing on the shore, stars in her eyes as she waved to him, beckoning him near.

  Instead…

  The men on the forward rowing benches leapt to their feet, shouting and pointing as their unmanned oars clattered against the wood of the oar-holes.

  “Man in the water!” one of them yelled, twisting round to gesture at Gunnar. “Straight ahead, bobbing facedown, he is!”

  “Raise the oars!” Gunnar shouted, and his men obeyed at once, the long oar-shafts snapping up to send a spray of icy water raining down on the Solan’s crew as the longship slowed, already gliding round in the current.

  Sprinting forward, Gunnar joined the men at the prow. Some were leaning over the side, using the hilt-ends of their swords to try and catch the body floating in the water.

  That the man was dead stood clear.

  Only his back broke the surface, and one arm stretched straight out at his side.

  Staring at him, Gunnar’s gut clenched for the closer the body drifted, the more apparent it became that it was a lad, not a man full grown. The poor sprig’s back wasn’t broad enough for him to be more than ten or twelve summers.

  Not wanting him to float out to sea, unnamed and surely mourned, Gunnar touched his Thor’s hammer amulet, and then bent to yank off his boots. He also removed his plaid, tossing it onto an empty oar bench as he made to vault over the side, but one of the rowers grabbed his elbow before he could…

  “‘Twas nae living man.” Oddi, a big-bearded, gruff-faced Orcadian pointed at the water. “A bog body is what he is. See his arm – ‘tis all dried up and black like ancient oak.”

  “Aye, aye,” others agreed, bobbing their heads as they peered at the body. “Must’ve been washed up from the peat hags and swept into the loch.”

  Gunnar straightened, relief sluicing him. He’d not relished carrying a dead lad into Druimbegan’s hall, upsetting the womenfolk and – the gods preserve him – going round to the settlements, asking if any of the families were missing a wean.

  Life was hard on Skye, as it was throughout the Highlands.

  But there was time enough to die once a lad was full-bearded, and of an age to have lived, at least a wee bit.

  “We’ll haul him aboard, all the same,” he told the men as he hefted a spare oar-shaft and plunged it into the loch so that its broad blade could draw the bog body closer to the ship’s hull. “We almost have him, lads! Reach down with your swords and catch him.

  “Odin only kens who he is, but we’ll give him a fair burying spot up in the hills.”

  “Aye, right so,” Oddi agreed, the words garbled for he was bent nigh double over the ship’s side. “I have him… almost- he’s close now, he is… there!”

  Lurching up, he staggered for balance, and then wheeled about, the bog body clutched in his arms.

  Except it wasn’t a body.

  It was a sopping leather pouch with a waterlogged stick raging out of it. A length of equally drenched rope dangled from its neck opening, indicating that someone had tied the pouch to a stone before tossing it into the loch.

  The stone was missing, but Gunnar was sure there’d been one.

  He knew because the ‘stick’ bore a fine, bejeweled head. Finery he recognized. As did his men, though they hadn’t been at Druimbegan all that long.

  Indeed, there could be no doubt…

  They’d just fished Uncle John’s crummock out of the loch.

  ~ * ~

  “Begads!” John MacLeod, not so mighty chieftain of the great Clan MacLeod, threw back his bedcovers and leapt to his feet. “I’ll no’ be dirked in my own bed!” he roared, snatching his sword off a chest and brandishing it wildly.

  “Come taste my steel! Ye lickspittle!” he shouted, glancing about, fire in his eye.

  “‘Tis me, Uncle!” Gunnar closed the door he’d just flung open in rage - fury so hot, the door cracked against the wall of the lairdly bedchamber. “We must speak.”

  “Just so!” John swayed, losing his balance as he lowered his sword to lean heavily on its hilt. “What devils are after you that you’d burst in here in the middle o’ the night?”

  “A snake – the vilest I ken.”

  “‘Tis sleeping, I was!” John let his sword topple to the floor as he sank onto a chair. “Thought the bluidy MacDonalds had breached our walls.

  “Nae man can trust those barnacle-crusted bastards!” Scrubbing his face, he peered at Gunnar with swollen, sleep-fuzzed eyes, and his hair sticking up in tufts.

  Gunnar frowned as he strode forward, out of the shadows near the door. His mood worsened as he noted the purple flecks soiling his uncle’s bed-robe, dribbles from his late-night cup of Rhenish wine. Equally damning, John’s once-fine beard was matted, squashed on one side from sleeping. His spindly legs and thin shoulders revealed he wasn’t eating enough.

  Yet…

  A moment ago, he’d been his old self.

  His mind clear, his temper showing, and his legs holding him upright. He’d not have felled a marauding MacDonald, but neither had he looked feeble.

  He certainly hadn’t appeared addled.

  His rage heating up again, Gunnar shifted the soggy leather pouch clamped under his arm. “Uncle, Druimbegan holds a fiend worse than any MacDonald,” he said, wishing he could spare John the grief he was about to inflict on him.

  That and – he hoped – a measure of relief, as well.

  “What’d you have there?” John leaned forward, eyeing the bag. “It’s dripping water all o’er my fur rugs.”

  “So it is,” Gunnar agreed. “It’s a leather pouch plucked from the loch.”

  “Have you opened in it?” John sat back, looking amused. “‘Tis the right size for few MacDonald heads.”

  “It has naught to do with Clan Donald.”

  “A shame.” John yawned.

  “Aye, a great one.” But no’ because of any MacDonald.

  “See here, Uncle – look what I’ve brought you.” Gunnar knelt before his uncle’s chair and pulled John’s bejeweled walking stick from the bag.

  “My crummock!” John’s eyes flew wide. “By glory, where’d you find it? I’ve been searching for it for days.” He grabbed the walking stick, placing across his knees. “I couldnae remember where I’d left it, and-”

  “You didn’t lose it.”

  “Aye, I did.” John wagged a finger at him. “This crummock saw me down to the hall for dinner, it did. That I know! When I wanted to leave the dais and come up here, to sleep – it was gone.”

  “I know.”

  “Just like that, my fool head emptied.” John glanced aside, his brow furrowing. “I thought I’d propped it
against the wall behind the high table, but…” Pausing, he scratched his beard. “I must no’ have had it with me. Though how would I have made it down the tower stair without it? Fuzzes my mind, it does.”

  “Your mind is fine.” Gunnar stood, sure of it. “You didnae forget the crummock. Someone stole it. Whoe’er it was, put it in this bag and tossed it in the loch.”

  “Nae!” John waved his hand as though shooing aside the accusation. “I’ll no’ believe it.”

  “Regrettably, it is so.” And I have a good idea who did it.

  The look on John’s face said he did, too. He just didn’t want to accept such a damning truth.

  Gunnar understood.

  And seeing John’s hurt almost made him wish he’d stayed in Orkney. Or that he’d sailed straight to Eilean Creag, snatched Katla, and beat a swift path north again.

  But he’d needed to make peace with his uncle. His honor had demanded it and he now thanked the gods he’d done so. Had he not returned to Druimbegan, his uncle might’ve ended up as dead as his father was supposed to be.

  It was a danger that still existed.

  So he did the only thing he could – if he hoped to protect his uncle’s life. He lifted the remaining items from the pouch: John’s silver flask, a cherished gift from his late wife. Also John’s specially-made sleeping shoes, now ruined, but that had been buttery-soft and lined with fur because John’s feet were always cold.

  John stared at his treasures, his eyes rounder than ever. “They were in a bag, floating in the loch?”

  Gunnar nodded.

  “So I’m no’ addled?”

  “Nae, no’ a whit, I’ll wager.” Gunnar set his hand on John’s shoulder. “Your mind is as sharp as aye. You’ve no’ been misplacing things. You’re someone’s target.”

  ~ * ~

  “By all the bleeding ancients!” John picked up his flask, rubbed his thumb along its silvered edge. When he glanced again at Gunnar, his eyes narrowed. “It would take a craven to make any man think he’s gone daft. You think he’s a MacLeod?”

  I think he’s your son. Gunnar kept his suspicion to himself, even though he knew – or was fairly certain – that only Ross would stoop so low.