by Jaid Black
“I give ye tae ten,” the commanding voice shouted. “One, tae, three…”
Lucia swallowed around the knot of fear in her throat. She felt ready to faint. Those pikes were coming a lot sooner than anticipated, she thought grimly.
Rummaging through her Halloween things, she found two Cleopatra bangles and quickly put them on. It was as close to Viking as she had on hand.
“Five, six…”
She could only pray the owner of the voice proved as cowardly as those before him. She grabbed a severed head in one hand, her Jedi knight wand thingamajig in the other, and ran toward the curtain.
“Eight, nine…”
Lucia shoved the curtain to the side and stepped in front of it. “Ten!” she growled.
Her green gaze clashed with a formidable gray one. His eyes homed in on her like a predator stalking prey. Her body began to tremble in unadulterated fear, but she knew he wasn’t close enough to see her reaction.
Holy shit, the man was huge—even from her vantage point from well above. Accompanied by what looked like an endless sea of black-plaid-wearing savages on horseback, the owner of the voice still appeared deadlier than all of them combined. His dark Celtic hair was braided, the plaits falling to mid-back. His musculature was heavy and defined in a way men from her world couldn’t accomplish without steroids. She wanted to faint. It didn’t take a witch to understand just how formidable this opponent was.
“Dinna lower the bridge, milady Lucia!” Gabhran bellowed. “Dinna think tae save me or they’ll kill ye tae!”
Lucia’s eyes widened as her gaze found Gabhran’s. One of the men who’d captured him, a warrior who looked similar to their leader, held a knife to his young throat.
“Do not dare touch him!” Lucia raged. She didn’t know what to do, but conceded she had to do something. “Or this will be your fate!”
Discarding the wand, she held up one of the severed heads in both hands, earning her gasps. When the head began to float and moan, one of the myriad men fell from his horse mid-faint. Good. She hoped he broke his fucking neck in the process.
“I dinna barter, witch,” the leader said in a chillingly calm tone. “I claim this stronghold in the name of Scotland and King Alaxandair III.” His gaze was intense, his jaw unyielding. “’Tis Viking land nae more. Ye will surrender peacefully or ye will surrender dead, but ye will surrender.”
Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead despite the frigid cold wafting in from the window. She didn’t know what to do. She was incredibly out of her league and terrified beyond reason.
“Will you spare the boy?” Lucia yelled down. “If I surrender this castle to you?”
She must have surprised him for his eyes widened a bit. “What boy?” he asked.
“The boy whose neck your idiot friend is holding a knife to!” Great. She was obviously dealing with someone who’d sustained memory loss from battle-induced brain damage. “Gabhran!”
“The boy is a mon,” he shouted back. Was that amusement in his voice? “And the idiot is my brother.”
Lucia couldn’t have cared less! “The boy you captured is like a brother to me. Will you spare him and let him leave with me or not?”
His gaze was far too assessing, studying her like a puzzle he was slowly unraveling. She didn’t like it.
“Aye,” the warrior returned. “He will be spared.”
Lucia released a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“Ye dinna.”
She grunted. How completely uncomforting.
“Lower the bridge, surrender tae me, and ye both shall live. No harm will come tae either of ye. Ye have my word and a Highlander is no’ a mon if he does no’ stay true tae his word.”
Lucia swallowed. That was a bit more comforting, assuming it was true. Her gaze flew to Gabhran. His mouth had been covered so she couldn’t even look to him for guidance. Her pulse soared and her breathing labored. She’d never felt so close to fainting in her life.
“I will even permit ye tae keep yer noble status rather than enslave ye, Lady Lucia.”
She gasped. That thought hadn’t even crossed her mind until now. Could this day get any worse?!
“I will give ye tae ten tae say yer aye or the mon Gabhran is no more.”
Apparently the day could get worse.
“One, tae—”
“Yes—aye!” Lucia sputtered out. Good lord she wished a bottle of Vodka had been in her desk when she’d slipped into this ass crack of a time. “I will lower the bridge.” Her green gaze narrowed. “But if any harm or foul comes to Gabhran or myself I will haunt every last one of you from my grave!” They thought she was a witch so she might as well go with it. Setting down the severed head, she picked up her wand and it lit up, earning her more gasps and another faint. Good. “The spell has been cast and cannot be broken!”
The leader inclined his head. “So it be. Now lower the bridge.”
Cainnech watched with grim satisfaction as the bridge began to lower. His men hooted and hollered their victory, but he betrayed no emotion. ’Twas nigh unto finished. When he rode his mount o’er the bridge and seized the fortress, he was officially the laird of Clan MacKenzie and baron to the whole of Eilean Donnain.
His steady gaze flicked to Gabhran who was staring at the bridge with trepidation. If the rumors Cainnech’d heard in the village were true, he could understand why the mon feared he would not keep his word. Laird Adaidh was no’ a Highlander and had a reputation for swindling. ’Twould mayhap take time, but Gabhran would soon know the difference a’tween a mon of honor and a mon of disgrace.
A hot chill of victory surged through Cainnech’s very blood as the bridge finished its descent and dropped to the grassy bank. ’Twas done. Eilean Donnain and the Viking within her was his. Witch or no’, what little he’d seen of her was enough to make his cock painfully hard. If she looked even a wee bit as good from the neck down as she did from the neck up, he was keeping her. Truth be told, he was keeping her anyway. Cainnech was no’ a mon who would ever kill a wench, regardless to what he’d said to the king. Still, there would be no more spells and witchery once he took her to wife; his word to Alaxandair would remain intact.
Cainnech raised his sword and charged forward on a triumphant war cry, his men following suit behind him. He rode his steed under the portcullis and through the gate, continuing onward into the bailey. The Viking wench stood stoically—and damn nigh unto nakedly!—in front of the castle’s main doors. He brought his mount to a halt near to her and stared like a lackwit at the most beautiful woman he’d ever afore seen.
His men brought their warhorses to a stop. They gaped at Cainnech’s intended much the way he found himself doing. He wanted to shout at them to look away from her, but his tongue couldn’t seem to work. The rumors were true. Her beauty was beyond the ken of any mon.
Like a true Viking noblewoman of legend, the gown she wore was fashioned from a fine material in a hue he’d never afore seen. Golden snakes wound around each of her biceps. Her hair, the color of honey and gold, was untamed, curls cascading around her shoulders and down her back. Her skin was darker than Cainnech had expected, only adding to her foreign appeal. Her gown clung to wide hips made for bearing his bairns. The garment did nothing to conceal the Viking sorceress’s ample breasts or the stiff nipples that poked against it.
“Ye are tae lucky a mon,” Niall thickly rasped. His brother’s voice was low enough that only Cainnech could hear him. “The lands and titles be damned. Yer witch is the prize any mon would most covet.”
Cainnech agreed, as did his cock. It was so erect he could feel his seed dripping from the tip. When at last the conquered Viking turned her head and met his gaze, it was all he could do to not fall from his horse. Her light green eyes were unlike any other wench’s, her tan complexion drawing attention to their ethereal color. He swallowed roughly. ’Twas nigh impossible to believe she belonged to him.
He cleared his
throat and dismounted.
Lucia’s heart rate was alarmingly high. It would have been wiser had she thrown on a cloak before running out the doors and into the bailey, but her mind could only think of getting to poor, sweet Gabhran. Now here she stood, at the mercy of a group of men whose eyes were glazed over with lust, praying their leader kept his side of the bargain.
“Milady,” the warlord said after dismounting, “I am Sir Cainnech MacKenzie, now Laird MacKenzie and Baron of Eilean Donnain.”
She trembled but held his gaze. “I am Lady Lucia Ingegärd of…” She swallowed. “Oz.”
He nodded. “Lucia is an odd name for a Viking lady.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, but then she hadn’t expected the Highlander to be quite this big. Or this handsome, she glumly conceded. Between those two surprises and the sheer terror of this entire ordeal, the powers of speech seemed to elude her.
His height was that of a basketball player, at least six feet and seven inches, but his musculature was that of a body builder. The black plaid and boots he wore did nothing to conceal his powerful build. His face was ruggedly masculine, all angles and five o’clock shadow. His gray eyes were at once commanding and mesmerizing. She blew out a breath. Under any other circumstance she likely would have developed an instant crush on the laird. But under this circumstance? All she could concentrate on was leaving the castle with her head still attached to her neck.
“My mother was a Roman lady,” Lucia managed to say. “My father was—” She thought quickly. “He was a Viking jarl.”
“Was?”
Her nostrils flared. “They are dead.”
His steely gaze softened. “’Tis sorry I am aboot yer loss.”
The sincerity in his voice was unexpected, catching her off guard. Lucia didn’t want to get misty, which she knew would happen if they continued down this road. She switched the topic immediately. “Where is Gabhran?” She splayed her hands. “I kept my part of the bargain so please keep yours.”
The Highlander studied her for a protracted moment. At his nod, the man he’d said was his brother dismounted and fetched her giant from the sea of titans.
Lucia slowly exhaled. She was so relieved he was alive and in one piece that she could have cried. “Gabhran,” she breathed out, “you are all right?”
“For the moment, aye,” he said quietly. “Ye should no’ have risked yer neck for me though.”
She threw her arms around him. “Staying alive at the expense of your life would make me a coward. I’m many things perhaps, but I don’t betray those who don’t betray me.”
Gabhran awkwardly patted her on the back. “I ken ye are tae good tae me.”
Lucia broke the embrace and smiled up at him. “Let’s go pack our things and leave.” She glanced over to the fortress’s new laird. “Thank you for keeping your word. Now I shall keep mine and we’ll leave.”
“I thought ye said this mon was like a brother tae ye.”
Lucia blinked at his gruff tone. “He is.”
Laird Cainnech MacKenzie grunted. “I have yet tae see a sister embrace her brother as ye embraced Gabhran.”
He sounded jealous, which made no sense, so she ignored that. “Then you have never been to Rome,” Lucia returned, frowning. “We are an affectionate people.”
“Tae affectionate, I’m thinkin’.”
Had she ever thought him handsome? More like aggravating. “It’s a relief to know you are capable of higher thought,” she grit out. “Gabhran is my brother—not that our relationship is any concern of yours!” She wanted to smack the appeased look off his face. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we have packing to do.”
“Nay, ye dinna.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ye dinna have packing tae do.”
Lucia’s eyes widened. “But I’ll freeze to death if I leave without warmer clothes.”
“Mayhap so. If ye were takin’ yer leave, ’twould be a worry.”
It took a moment for the gravity of the situation to sink in. Her breathing grew labored as she fought to keep the horror she felt subdued. “You lied?” she rasped, her breasts heaving up and down. “You are going to kill me?”
The warlord’s eyebrows rose. “Nay. I am no’ going tae kill ye. Just wed ye, fuck ye and breed ye.”
Lucia’s jaw dropped. The world began to spin. He’d for sure never write Hallmark cards because he had less a way with words than even Gabhran. She stumbled backward, feeling dizzier than a drunk at an Irish pub. She wanted to scream, or run, or run while screaming, but instead her eyes rolled back into her head.
Lucia Ingegärd, the Great and Powerful Viking of Oz, gasped for air. Right before she fainted.
Chapter Four
“Canna ye ken tae be less blunt?” Niall asked. He threw his hands up in the air. “Ye dinna just come out with it and tell a wench of noble birth such things!”
Cainnech frowned, but didn’t look away from the wee, limp body he’d placed on this contraption Gabhran had called her bed. “’Tis wenches who whore I’m used tae.” He grunted. “Ye tell ’em what yer wantin’, they give ye a price, ye toss ’em a few coins, and she takes ye tae the bed.”
“When yer intended bride wakes up she will like as naught turn us all intae toads! Think ye her witchery is a lie when the castle is warm and there be no’ a single hearth afire?”
“I will no’ permit her tae turn us intae toads.” He finally looked up and threw a pointed glance toward the bedchamber’s unlit hearth. “And I dinna mind witchery that makes for a life with comforts.” He turned back to Lucia. “Besides,” he grumbled, “she would have turned us tae toads long ago did she ken how tae.”
Niall hesitantly conceded that point. “Mayhap so.”
“Go fetch me Gabhran from yon great hall,” Cainnech instructed. “I’ve questions tae put tae the mon.” He’d already surmised from earlier conversation with the soldier-in-training whose former laird had done naught to train him that Lucia had never taken him to her bed. Mayhap Romans truly were an affectionate lot. Now he had to determine how to turn her affections toward him. “I would ken as much aboot the Roman Viking as he has tae tell.”
Cainnech fully turned his attention back to Lucia as Niall made his way from the bedchamber. In truth, he was more than a wee bit concerned about his intended and hoped Gabhran would be able to help rouse her. ’Twas no’ the first time Cainnech had caused a wench to faint, but ’twas the first occasion a wench had ever been unconscious this long in the doing.
“Dinna think tae die on me, lass.” He placed a calloused palm above her breasts to check her breathing. ’Twas slow, but steady. He lingered over long, her skin like silk to the touch. He allowed his hand to stray over the swell of her breasts, his index finger rubbing one of her stiff nipples. He blew out a breath as he removed his wayward hand. “I dinna ken the why of it no more than I ken yer witchery, yet have I known since departin’ Kinghorn Ness that ’twas ye I came for and no’ the lands.”
Cainnech would never have said those words to her if she were awake so ’twas difficult to say why he was speaking them now. He frowned. He’d known her for an hour and already she was driving him daft.
When Niall returned with Gabhran, Cainnech was grateful for the distraction. He put the question to him.
“Nay, Laird MacKenzie,” Gabhran answered, “she is no’ dying. Milady is but sleeping.”
“How can ye be certain?”
“She awoke from her faint whilst ye were in the great hall instructin’ yer brother tae send a rider tae the king informin’ him of yer possession of the island.”
Cainnech’s gaze narrowed. “She fainted tae times? She does this often?”
“Nay.” Gabhran shook his head. “If I may show ye her herbs…?”
“Aye.”
Gabhran walked to Lucia’s desk and picked up a glass bottle. “I dinna ken how she concocted this brew, yet ’tis used tae calm ye when ye have a fright.” At Cainnech’s raised eyebrows, he shrugged. “
She will sleep mayhap another hour or tae, but she will awake.”
“I assume I am the fright?” Cainnech asked drolly.
“Aye.”
Niall’s chuckle annoyed him. He shot him a pointed look and grunted. “Is she betrothed tae another?” Cainnech inquired as evenly as possible. The mere thought filled him with rage, but he glanced stoically at Gabhran. He was keeping her no matter his answer. “’Tis why she had a fright?”
“Nay, milady is no’ wed and claims no betrothed.”
Cainnech released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “So ’tis just the look of me that sends a Viking sorceress intae a fright then?”
“Tae be fair,” Niall interjected with a smile, “’tis the reaction any wench would have tae ye.”
Cainnech frowned. “Why are ye still in this chamber, Niall? If ye think tae annoy me, ’tis no’ the time.”
“Sorry aboot that,” Niall grinned. “Ye are still my brother even if ye be my laird.”
“Hmmph.”
“Laird MacKenzie,” Gabhran said, apparently uncomfortable witnessing the deuce of them parry with words. What had the old laird done to this mon to make him so quick to rattle? “’Tis no’ the look of ye that frightens her,” he quickly assured him. “Truly, ’tis no’ that.”
“Then?”
“Mayhap just be patient with Lady Lucia for she is no’ accustomed tae the ways of our world.”
“The ways of our world?” Niall asked. “’Tis no’ that different from the ways of Vikings.”
Gabhran’s face colored. He looked flustered. As if he’d said something he shouldn’t have. Cainnech watched as he began to stutter and backtrack.
“Aye, ’t-tis no’ s-so different.” Gabhran bowed to Cainnech. “Is there aught else, laird, or m-may…” He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. “Or may I take me leave?”
“Why did ye take tae stutterin’?” Cainnech’s gray eyes acutely assessed him, homing in and taking note of the slightest telltale twitch. “What are ye no’ tellin’ me?”
“I am no’ possessed of demons!” Gabhran announced. “I swear it!”