Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses

by Ceci Giltenan et al.

  With their arrival, there could be no doubt…

  The night of the winter fire had ended.

  Chapter 17

  Druimbegan Castle, Skye

  Two nights later

  Gunnar tossed and turned in his bed, his much-needed sleep robbed by the rattling of his bedchamber’s window shutters – an annoying clatter that had him grinding his teeth. Annoyed, he opened his eyes to glower at the dark ceiling of his curtained bed.

  “Odin’s danglers,” he snarled, sure the heavily-carved oak glared back at him.

  He was bone tired.

  He’d spent two days traipsing all over Skye searching for Ross. Yet his cousin was nowhere to be found. The last two nights, he’d lain awake in his bed, going over every possible hidey hole the wretch could have sought.

  This night he’d just wanted to sleep.

  Regrettably, he couldn’t.

  He missed Katla. With Ross’s whereabouts unknown, he also worried for her safety.

  Skye’s ever-present wind bedeviled him, knocking his shutters hither and thither. The resulting noise plagued him worse than a midge buzzing in his ear. Half ready to tear the shutters off their hinges and hurl them into Loch Druimbegan, he threw back the covers and leapt from his bed to stalk across the room. If a chamber without shuttered windows proved the only way to enjoy a good night’s sleep in a quiet room, so be it.

  The shutters were doomed.

  To his amazement, when he reached the window arch, he found that they were also tightly shut.

  Indeed, they weren’t rattling at all.

  The wind had stilled. And although the shutters were closed, he could see through the slats that night blackness lurked beyond them. The first hint of morning hadn’t yet tinged the heavens. Gunnar rubbed the back of his neck, his frown deepening. He should be abed now, asleep, warm, and dreaming of Katla.

  Instead, he stood naked in the middle of his cold and dark room, his mood formidable.

  Then, of a sudden…

  He became aware of the cause of the rattling.

  Someone was tapping at his door.

  “By all the Valkyries!” He strode to the door and yanked it open. “If the keep’s no’ caught fire and my uncle yet breathes-” He snapped his mouth shut at the sight before him.

  A spindly-legged lad stood on the threshold, his hand poised to knock.

  “A good e’en, sir,” he piped, peering up at Gunnar. “I’ve seen you before, but was told to make sure. You are the laird’s son, aren’t you? The auld laird?”

  “I am.” His annoyance evaporating, Gunnar snatched a plaid off a hook by the door and slung it about his hips.

  “Why do you care, lad?” He dropped to one knee before the boy, guessing him to be no more than seven or eight summers. He knew he didn’t recall him.

  “Who are you?”

  “Folk call me Jings, but my name is Patrick – Patrick MacLeod.” He stood a bit straighter. “My da is one of your cattle herders. We have a cot-house down by the loch, no’ too far.”

  Gunnar nodded.

  “So, Jings, why are you here?” He used his easiest tone, set a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Is there trouble at your home? Were you sent to fetch help?”

  “Nae, sir.” The boy looked down, shuffled his feet. When he glanced up again, he said, “I’m supposed to be sleeping in the shed, because of our cow, Aggie. She’s ailing and my ma thinks faeries cast an evil eye on her, souring her milk. It was the men who sent me here.”

  Gunnar’s nape pricked. “Men?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Did you ken them?”

  Jings shook his head.

  “Nae matter, laddie. ‘Tis good you came.” Gunnar kept his voice as level as he could.

  He’d needed less than a heartbeat to grasp why Jings was here. The truth hit him like a punch to his chest. No good came of sending weans through the cold night-dark, charging them with delivering messages from those who hid in shadow.

  Furious, but trying not to show it lest he frighten the child, he opened his door wide, and led Jings into his bedchamber. The sprite shivered and felt like he was made of ice, so before Gunnar questioned him, he gathered him up in his arms and carried him to the bed, tucking him beneath the still-warm covers. Then he sat beside the boy, and hoped he didn’t look fierce.

  “So, Jings…” he began. “How many men were there?

  “Two, sir. They were big men with beards, and wearing dark robes, or maybe plaids.” The boy worried his lower lip. “It was hard to tell, the night black as-”

  “What did they want?” Gunnar suspected he already knew and the bile was rising in his throat. “Why did they send you here?”

  “They want to see you,” Jings said, looking up at him. “They’re down on the rocks near the sea gate. I’m to tell you it’s about your lady.”

  Gunnar’s blood iced, his worst dread confirmed.

  “Did they name her?” He prayed to all the gods Jings had somehow misunderstood.

  “Katla,” the lad declared, upending his world. “They said she’s a MacKenzie.”

  “Is that all?” He didn’t want to hear more, but had to ask. Few men can besiege a faceless devil. “Did they say anything else?”

  “Aye, sir.” Jings bobbed his head.

  “Go on.”

  “They told me to give you this.” Jings fumbled beneath the covers, retrieving a small leather pouch. “They said if you didn’t believe me, this would make you run to them.

  “I am sorry, sir.” Looking miserable, he handed the bag to Gunnar.

  “You’re a good lad, Jings.” Gunnar tightened his fingers over the bag, but didn’t yet open it.

  Instead, he ran a hand over Jings’ hair. “Sleep now. Later, after you’ve had enough rest, a few of my guards will come for you. They’ll take you down to the hall for some food and then they’ll see you home. While there, they’ll look in on Aggie. One of my men kens all about milk cows and their ailments.

  “Tell your da I said no’ to be fashed – ‘twas right for you to come to me.”

  “I thank ye, sir.” Jings’ eyes were already falling shut.

  Gunnar drew the bedcovers more snugly around him. “Tell your parents I’ll send them two more milk cows soon, so Aggie can have a rest.”

  He would, but he didn’t think Jings heard him.

  In truth, he scarce heard himself.

  His pulse hammered so loud in his ears he wouldn’t have heard a hundred pipers blaring away beside him. He could feel the object in the pouch and if his guess was right, Katla was in mortal danger. He wouldn’t think beyond that – though he did have to make sure he’d guessed rightly.

  So he threw one more glance at the sleeping lad and then ran from his room, sprinting down the passage, and then taking the tower steps two at a time.

  He didn’t stop until reached the sea gate. There, paused beneath a flickering wall torch – just long enough to untie the pouch string and glance inside.

  His world slammed to halt when he did.

  The pouch held a dirk, its hilt banded by a red ribbon. It was the ‘Blade of Red’ from the Toothless Hag, and its message chilled him to the roots of his soul.

  If Katla wasn’t dead, she soon would be.

  ~ * ~

  Gunnar burst through Druimbegan’s sea gate and almost flew down the stone steps to the rocks below. It was cold, the darkest hour of the night, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was confronting the two men standing in deep shadow farther along the shore. He could see them for although they were swathed in dark cloaks, starlight shone on their hard, unsmiling faces. Silvery light also glinted off the swords they’d propped against the rocks.

  They were big men, heavily bearded, and Gunnar knew one of them.

  Hurrying to them, he held out the leather bag, not bothering to remove the red-banded dirk. The man he drew up before knew what was in the pouch, and the Blade of Red’s significance.

  “Squall.” Gunnar thrust the bag into his
friend’s hand, searching the harsh features of Skye’s self-appointed sheriff for a sign – any hint – that his news wouldn’t be as dire as he feared.

  “Dinnae tell me aught has happened to Katla,” Gunnar said, willing her safe. “I ken you wouldn’t be here without reason.”

  For sure, he wouldn’t have sent the signal blade – a secret code Squall used to alert Skye chieftains and friends of the gravest matters. Once a royal guard, a betrayal in his own ranks cost him the family he’d loved even more than the crown. A slip of tongue, and a palm filled with silver, allowed the English enemy to win the day in a skirmish that unfolded along the path his wife and only daughter followed to reach the Stirling market.

  His trust forever damaged, he’d returned home to Skye where, as proprietor of the Toothless Hag, he held his tongue when ‘lost’ men hatched plans to lift cattle from a tight-fisted laird and deliver the beast to hungry families in the hills. He also kept silent if a harsher blow was dealt to any who behaved dishonorably, engaging in treachery against friends or kin.

  Squall only broke his silence when a truly deplorable act came to his ever-listening ears.

  “Your lass is at Eilean Creag,” he said now. “Though for how long…” He let the words trail away, a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. “The Black Stag is a strong chieftain. Still-”

  “I had to leave her.” Gunnar’s innards twisted, his blood colder than the night air. “I trusted she’d be safe within his walls.”

  He glanced in that direction now, wishing he could see beyond the mist curling across the sea-loch, peer through the dark bulk of the hills and mountains that separated Druimbegan from the MacKenzie stronghold.

  He turned back to Squall. “My best men escorted her there. They’re scattered throughout Kintail now, watching-”

  “She is unharmed, my friend.” Squall tucked the leather bag inside his cloak. “But she is in danger. So are you and your men, the whole of your clan.”

  Gunnar’s gut clenched. Squall never erred or exaggerated. Not about such matters, not about anything.

  “You’re certain?” He asked anyway – his last sliver of hope.

  His friend just lifted a brow.

  Gunnar looked again across the water, to the distant hills, the night sky so filled with stars. He drew a long breath, releasing it slowly, seeking the calm he needed to think.

  To plan.

  “This will be about Ross.” Gunnar knew it. “What has he done? How do you know?”

  In answer, Squall glanced at his companion, a great bear of a man with a bushy red beard.

  “He’s Munch,” Squall said, and the big man nodded once. “Your cousin killed his friend and threatened his lady and weans o’er on the Isle of Lewis.”

  “The bastard used a trick to fell Borg.” Munch stepped out of the shadows, his eyes glittering in the darkness. “We’d left the Hag when he pretended to slip on the mud, falling to his knees. Borg rushed to help him, and he whirled like a lightning bolt, nigh cutting him in two at the knees!

  “He called my friend ‘a nothing,’” he told Gunnar, his anger and resentment heavy in the air. “He killed him to show me what I’d face if I didnae do as he bid. He wanted to hire us to have done with your lady – after we’d attacked you, sinking your ship and sending you and your crew to the devil.”

  “After?”

  “Aye. He figured you’d hie yourself back north to Orkney, or where’er,” Munch said. “He wanted nae reason for you to return to Skye – if we failed.”

  “So Katla was to be killed?” Gunnar could hardly see for a moment, the world tingeing red.

  “Paid us for seeing to her, he did.” Munch scowled. “ ‘Twas to look like a mishap.”

  Squall’s strong face wore an even greater frown. “Tell him what you told me,” he prompted.

  “Aye, well!” Munch swelled his chest, his eyes narrowing. “Borg and I might be broken men, or Borg might have been one as he’s now cold and dead. The truth is, we might’ve attacked your ship for enough silver, anyway.

  “But we dinnae hurt women.” He spat on the rocks, dragged the back of his hand over his mouth. “Even thieves and cutthroats have their honor, sir.”

  “You went back to the Hag?” Gunnar guessed. “Told Squall what happened?”

  “I did.” Munch stood straighter. “For yer lass, and for my own Annie on Lewis, our bairns.”

  Gunnar’s mind raced. “What of my people?”

  “The best will die,” Squall said. “Your uncle, as laird. His elders and most favored guards, those he holds in highest esteem.” He glanced toward Druimbegan’s sea gate, lowering his voice. “Munch went along with Ross’s orders, meeting him at the Hag a few nights later. Silver flowed into Munch’s palm – coin we’ve since distributed amongst some of Skye’s neediest families, with a portion going to Lewis for Munch’s lady and weans. The rest, the largest sum, went to Borg’s widow.”

  “So he paid well to stain his hands with clan blood.” Gunnar’s foul mood turned thunderous.

  “No’ just your people,” Squall said. “In return for so much silver, Ross wanted Munch to lead an attack on the MacKenzies, as they approached the MacKinnon’s Dunakaid Castle for a truce gathering at Yule. He figured your clan and the Black Stag’s would head to Kyleakin at the same hour, and so-”

  “He thought to strike both.” Gunnar could hardly speak.

  “So it seems,” Squall agreed. “Ross thinks to blame the attack on old Alpin MacKinnon and his men. He’ll then take a force to Dunakaid and demand vengeance, using ‘justice’ as an excuse to wipe out the MacKinnons. With your clan leaders gone, plus the demise of the mighty MacKenzies, and the Kyleakin MacKinnons…”

  Squall spread his hands, looking disgusted. “He didn’t say, but I suspect he’d later go after the MacDonalds. Ridding Skye of them would leave the whole of this isle at his feet, his alone to claim and rule.”

  “Where did he think to get men?” Gunnar knew of no kinsman who’d join Ross.

  “On the robber isle of Surt – other such havens of broken and clanless men.” Munch looked embarrassed, twisted his hands. “Hungry men will do-”

  “That I ken.” Gunnar had seen much misery in his travels, knew what the sharp bite of an empty belly did to a man, the fear of watching one’s bairns perish.

  And so he stepped closer to Munch, held out a hand. “There’s a place for you in Druimbegan’s garrison, or on my ship as a rower, if you’re in need of wages.” He made the swift decision, knowing it was the right one when he saw the gratitude in the big man’s eyes. “Come to me at Druimbegan when this business is done.”

  “I will, sir. And I thank ye.” Munch nodded, looking much relieved. “I can tell you that your cousin already has a small group of mercenaries on the way. He’ll be meeting them at the head of the Vale of Thieves in two days.

  “He’s promised to feast them at the Hag where he’ll present his strategy for the attacks.” Munch glanced at Squall, who confirmed this with a nod.

  “But there’ll be no feast at my inn, aye, my friend?” For the first time that night – in truth, the first time in a while – Squall smiled, the uptilt of his lips transforming his face, making him look much less fierce, almost affable.

  Gunnar returned the smile, understanding. “Nae, there willnae. No’ for Ross.”

  “There can be a feasting for you – if you wish it,” Squall offered. “A celebration of the ambush we’ll set for your cousin and the worms he’s bribed to join him.”

  “Another time, perhaps.” Gunnar rolled back his sleeve, removing a silver arm ring which he gave to Munch, with gratitude. “To keep you and your family until you join my uncle’s guards – or claim an oar-bench on the Solan.”

  Turning to Squall, he gripped his old friend’s arm. “I appreciate your offer, but I’ll need the next two days to ready my men. We’ll then come to you at the Hag, but no’ for a meal. I’m thinking we’ll all then head to the rocks above the narrowest stretch of the gorge. We
’ll settle in there to wait for Ross and his cravens. Once we spot them, my cousin will learn the price of betrayal.”

  He set his hand on his sword hilt, his fingers already itching. “He and his men-”

  “They’ll no’ be long for this world,” Squall finished for him.

  “Indeed.” Gunnar stepped back, nodding as Squall and Munch slipped into the shadows without another word.

  In truth, there was no need.

  They’d brought their warning – as they’d come to do. Katla was safe, and would remain so. Nothing else mattered - until the worst was over and he hastened to Eilean Creag. Then he’d need more skill than swinging a sword.

  Duncan MacKenzie was known to be a hard man. At the moment, Gunnar was damned glad that was so.

  But later…

  If necessary, he’d be just as forceful.

  Chapter 18

  Eilean Creag Castle, Kintail

  Late the next night

  Katla wakened the moment she realized that Glaum was no longer snuggled against the backs of her knees. She missed the soft, warm press of his small furry body. The gentle weight of his head, his snores, and his cold little nose. All those comforts were gone now. Indeed, he wasn’t even on her bed. She could hear him in the darkness, wriggling and bouncing about, sniffing. And that was worrying because he never left her once they’d gone to sleep. If he needed to go out again, he whined.

  Sometimes, he’d paw at her shoulder.

  He didn’t hop off the bed to snuffle at shadows. Yet that’s what he was doing now.

  No, he was eating.

  Someone was in her room – feeding Glaum!

  “Leave him be!” She jumped from the bed, snatching her dagger and brandishing it as she peered into the darkness, half afraid that Ross MacLeod had come for her. And that he sought to poison her beloved dog.”

  So she lunged forward, jabbing at the air. “I’m armed. I will gut you-”

  “Nae you willnae,” a deep voice disagreed as a tall, plaid-draped form stepped from the shadows.

  “Gunnar!” She dropped the blade, relief – and joy – sweeping her.