The Summer Star: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas (Legends of Scotland Book 2)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  She’d heard of tribesmen stealing women to subjugate as wives. But this buffoon didn’t seem the least bit interested in her. Clearly, he hadn’t touched her, nor did he find her the least bit appealing. For some odd reason, that left her feeling cantankerous—only what sense did that make? She would pluck out his eyes if he dared to touch her without permission. And yet, men adored her sister Lìli. Lìli’s beauty was the muse for troubadours. They’d made an ode to her as well as a curse. So, then, was Sorcha so ill-conceived that she could be so unappealing—even to this rude barbarian?

  The man’s snores reverberated like thunder, echoing off the walls—she looked about—stone walls full of cracks and crevices. And now she inspected the gown she wore, finding it threadbare. Forsooth. Hers had been a perfectly fine gown. Dull perhaps, and sewn of Glenna’s soft brown wool, but perfectly suitable nonetheless.

  Crossing her arms against a morning chill, Sorcha rose from the chair to survey her prison. From what she could tell, she was in a tower.

  She dragged her chair over to the chamber’s only window—a long, narrow slit that could barely fit a finger, much less a person. It scarcely allowed in enough sunlight to stab a sleeper in the face, and by the by, it fell across the sleeper’s face, but he hardly seemed fazed.

  Careful not to wake the sour-tempered miscreant, Sorcha climbed atop the chair, obscuring the light from his face, although he didn’t seem to notice. He kept on snoring.

  So, then, he must have awakened to find Sorcha in his bed and he fled to his chair? Did he always sleep so heavily? Or was he drogued, as well? Certainly, Sorcha had slept through the act of being deposited there.

  Nettled over the thought, she plucked a bit of faded red cloth that had gotten stuck in a crack. It was long and ragged, and caked with something…

  She placed it to her nose and screwed her face over the scent of soured food. Disgusted, she pushed the material back out the window and let the wind catch it and fly away.

  From her vantage on the chair, she could see the entire isle from end to end. Verdant fields—all save for the precipitous coastline, formed of dark cliffs—like that stone her ancestors had hidden away for more than two centuries. The Stone from Scone that was cursed, though now it was gone. The stone her people had secreted away, and guarded to the detriment of their own well-being, only to have it swallowed by the earth. How much sense did that make? None at all. But that was neither here nor there at the instant, for clearly, she wasn’t on the Isle of Skye. Though, perhaps she was somewhere else along the way?

  Once again, she contemplated the possibility of a wreck at sea.

  Forsooth, back on the mainland, none of those other boatmen had seemed the least bit inclined to press their fortunes, though of course, Sorcha would be the one to ignore Cailleach’s warnings. She had been so intent upon following Una. And now… look what she’d gone and done.

  High, up in the sky, at such an odd angle that she could barely spy it—she had to tip her head back, and nearly toppled off the chair—that strange star she’d been following seemed to hover over the isle.

  Meanwhile, all about the tower, she could spy little people running about, happy as you please, seemingly unaware that Sorcha languished in their gaol.

  Or, perhaps they did know, and, like her own brethren, simply had no compunction. Disconcerted by what she’d discovered, Sorcha sank back into the chair.

  What was the point in screaming?

  What were the chances anyone would care?

  She was clearly a ward of this isle’s laird, and she and… this miscreant—the man, who cared more about his beauty sleep than he did his own freedom—were being held against their will. So, what did he do? Was he a murderer? A thief?

  One thing was certain: He wasn’t a defiler of women—thank the gods. Cailleach only knew, he was rude and ornery, and, for the first time since leaving the Vale, Sorcha sorely missed her brother. Aidan would have mopped the floor with his pretty big head. Only now, she wished she hadn’t taken so much care to cover her tracks, because no one would ever find her… unless they thought, as she had, to follow that stupid star.

  Angry and defiant, she shook her fist at the bright point of light. “I know you’re out there,” she whispered. “Why have you forsaken me, Una?”

  But the last thing Una had ever said to her suddenly popped into her head. “Seek the ones you love with all your heart,” she’d said. “Not with your head.”

  Chapter 5

  “Psst… you… sleeping beauty…”

  Sleeping beauty?

  Caden nearly choked on startled laughter. Of course, he didn’t answer, though he wasn’t sleeping. Who could sleep with that woman yammering?

  For months on end, he’d preferred a useless stupor to the truth, that he slew his own brother. He took Wee Davie’s head. And now, he couldn’t even find his own mouth with a spoon. Stinking and covered with sour victuals, he’d torn his tunic to shreds and hurled it out the window. He was a waste of human flesh—a sorry bag of bones, destined to live out his life on his back, lest he bruise himself simply attempting to walk through a door. Yesterday alone, he’d smacked his forehead on the doorframe half a dozen times and he’d taken his anger out on the door. For two long months, he’d suffered a fever of his wounds, never sure he would wake to see another day. Five months later, he was no less a burden to his clan.

  Hoping to drink himself into oblivion, he had fallen asleep yester eve, with a jug of uisge at the tip of his fingers—a gift from Alec, though it only figured. Only now did he understand that Alec must have had a reason to put him out of his gourd. Bastard. He hadn’t offered him the jug out of any sense of concern for his wellbeing or to improve his disposition, he’d merely intended to drogue Caden out of his mind so he wouldn’t feel them dumping some puir lass into his bed.

  And who the devil was she? She wasn’t anyone from the isle, this much was certain. Caden knew every man, woman and child. On this wee slip of land, it was impossible to know a stranger, and yet a stranger she was.

  And yet, he knew this: Her hair was soft. He’d woken up beside her, feeling her silken tresses tickling his arm, and he’d flown from the bed at once, afeared to frighten her with the potency of his arousal—quite unexpected, given his current condition. In fact, Caden couldn’t remember the last time he’d lain with a woman, or even cared to.

  She smelled of junipers and sunshine, and her hair was soft, but this was all he knew for sure. She could be fat or skinny, pale haired or brunette. He could tell none of these things merely by the sound of her voice—sweet, despite the furor in her tone. But Caden didn’t blame her. If it were he who’d been dragged away and deposited here, against his will, he would have awakened with a roar so loud even the storm kelpies would have shivered in their berths. But he gave her this credit: She wasn’t afeared of him. There didn’t appear to be a fearful bone in her body, and even without knowing Caden’s condition, she wasn’t cowed by him, which was rather remarkable.

  Even so, Caden had no interest in wetting his wick simply because she was here. He was not a mindless creature, ready to rut at a moment’s notice, and neither did he care to father bairns he might not be around to rear.

  What in God’s name was Alec thinking? Was he so desperate to lift Caden’s spirits that he would steal a bride only to appease him? Had he not learned his lessons from Caden’s father and Auld MacLeod?

  One night, in a drunken stupor, Auld Macleod took Caden’s mother to the Isle of Skye. As for her return to Rònaigh, Caden had heard more than a few variations of that tale. For one, ’twas said the minute Auld MacLeod realized Mary Mac Swein was heavy with child, he’d shipped her back forthwith to Caden’s sire. But, in another version of this tale, his mother stole away in the middle of the night, and Wee Davie might have, or might not have been, his father’s issue. Though for Caden, there was never any doubt: Wee Davie was his blood, and he would have put a sword through any mon who—

  As ucht Dé, what need had he fo
r heirs, when he couldna fight to keep them safe?

  Nay, it was best that his people find a way to live without him, even if it meant they should abandon Rònaigh and plead their cases with Auld MacLeod. Rònaigh was ill fated, and were it not, why else would the gods see fit to dispose of four capable heirs, and leave a blind man to rule instead?

  “Psst… you… psst…”

  Caden steadfastly ignored the stubborn lass, pretending again to snore, which earned him yet another interim of silence. He wondered why she simply didn’t try the door. He knew beyond a shadow of doubt Alec would never bar it, because it was Caden’s door, and he wouldn’t dare.

  At any rate, why would he bother, unless the girl was dangerous? And then, perhaps, at last, he meant to dispose of Caden. Because there was no place to go. Not without a boat.

  “Psst… you… psst… psst…”

  “Ach, lass, what d’ ye want? Can’t ye see I’m sleeping?”

  “Nay. Ye are no’.”

  “How can ye know?”

  “Because your wee commander is standing at attention. I can see him twitching.”

  Caden blinked. For a moment, he didn’t believe his ears.

  Naturally, he didn’t immediately understand what it was the girl was saying, and then, once he did, he slid a hand down to be sure. And, yes, indeed, his “wee commander” was dancing like an eegit. However, it was her description of his todger that made him bark with laughter.

  “Ach, now! I’m so pleased you think ’tis amusing,” she said sarcastically, and then, after a moment, once Caden’s laughter subsided, she asked, “How long have you been imprisoned in this filthy-god-forsaken place?”

  Filthy, is it? And still, Caden was careful about his answer. “Not long enough,” he said, his mood only momentarily improved. He hid a fledgling smile.

  “Well, ye must ha’e done something terrible,” she surmised.

  “Quite,” he agreed, for, yes, he had. The Christian priest had said his blindness was a penance from God… and, in truth, there had been no injury to explain his loss of sight. He’d simply had it one instant, the next it was gone… like Wee Davie.

  “Hmm… well… if we’re to be cell mates, I suppose you should know my name.”

  Silence.

  “I am Sorcha. And you?”

  “Caden,” he said, after a moment, and felt a prick of guilt for misleading her.

  “So, tell me… Caden, what did you do to deserve such a fate?”

  The tent on Caden’s lap collapsed. “I killed a boy,” he said.

  “On purpose?”

  “Nay.”

  “So, ye’re saying it was an accident?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Forsooth! Who’s the laird of this wretched caisteal?”

  There was pure hatred in Caden’s answer. “An odious man, to be sure.”

  “But, of course,” she returned. “Who would lock away an innocent in a tower?”

  Silence.

  “That’s me, if ye ken. I don’t know about you, but I did naught to deserve this treatment. I merely hired a ship to take me to the Isle of Skye, and instead, they brought me here to lock me up against my will. An’ ye know, they locked away my sister once—verra nearly hung her on a gibbet. She might have deserved it, though I’m glad they didn’t. And now, ye wadna e’er know it by the sight of her—bairns runnin’ all aboot…”

  She was silent a moment, though she wasn’t through.

  “I assume they mean to have me wed their laird, but I dinna, for the life of me, understand why. He must have mistaken me for another.”

  He, meaning Alec no doubt.

  “I bring little of value.”

  Silence again, for Caden didn’t wish to scare her. She held more value than she realized.

  For years now, Alec had been joking about stealing brides, and with all her mettle, she’d make a fine wife—unless she was ugly as a mud fence.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “Aye, lass. Ye wadna wish to see your sister hanging on a gibbet.”

  “I am nobody,” she persisted. “I am merely Sorcha.”

  “Aye, well, you must be someone,” Caden argued, enjoying the fire in her voice. “Everybody is somebody.”

  “Hmm,” she said, with the ease of a prisoner who’d found in her cellmate a fellow conspirator. “In any case, I will never wed that odious laird. He is probably a mealy-mouthed toad, with six fingers and toes, and warts at the end of his nose. Only a mon such as that would feel the need to steal himself a bride…”

  Caden wholeheartedly agreed. “No mon worthy of the name should e’er take a lass against her will.”

  “Says you!” She returned. “Then look at ye. Ye’re a fine, braw mon, and if ye wadna be locked away in this tower, ye’d ha’e your pick of any woman, I would say. Look at ye—and lusty to boot.” She laughed softly, the sound musical. “I don’t suppose any mon would e’er accuse ye of biting pillows. Or, mayhap, you do prefer men, though, I dinna think so.”

  Caden did not prefer men. He had never heard such a word before, and in fact, he’d never met a pillow biter, per se, although he supposed it was a far better thing to shag a man than goats. Forsooth, he’d had to fine a mon all his livestock once, and send him away to a monastery. He’d taken pity on the man, only because he knew how difficult it was to live on this remote isle with such a dearth of maids—a simple fact that was no longer true. In a short turn of fate, they now had far more women than men, and it was the women who would do the choosing, even beyond May Day. One single battle, and all their fates were changed. And, nevertheless, until now—unlike Alec—Caden had been far too busy with the defense of this land to obsess over womenfolk. Although, suddenly, inexplicably, he felt the full weight of his filth. After slopping so much food on his clothing, he no longer bothered to dress. Half the time, Moira put his plate on his chair, and then rushed out the door, with nary a word, as though she feared he would rattle her skull. To Caden’s way of thinking, it was a favor he did them, for who in their right minds would wish to sit at table and watch a grown man shovel peas up his nose?

  The girl was silent a while as Caden contemplated the matter, and Caden wondered if she was staring out the window. Earlier, he’d heard her rake the chair across the wooden floor, and he suspected she’d moved it below the window. Dunrònaigh Keep was constructed to suit larger men—Vikings, whose stature was great. Even Caden had to stand on his tip-toes—a worthless effort anymore.

  Finally, after a long interval of silence, she asked, “So, this boy ye kilt… was he kin to the laird?”

  It hurt to even speak the word. Caden swallowed with some difficulty. “Yeah.”

  Again, she fell into silence, as though uncertain what more to say. In the meantime, Caden tried not see Wee Davie’s body teetering before him… without his head. It had taken a startling moment for his body to comprehend its own loss, as though, for the briefest instant, Caden could read his brother’s surprise in his stance…

  And then, Cailleach must have taken pity, for he remembered nothing more. The blindness had affected him suddenly, and he never saw Wee Davie’s body hit the blood-stained grass.

  For the sake of his kinsmen, Caden had hardened his heart. He’d fought with tears in his eyes and a single word on his tongue. No, no, no.

  “When I meet that man, face to face, I shall wrench out his hair,” Sorcha warned, and there was, indeed, a promise in her tone. “The laird, I mean. How dare he lock me away in this tower with a murd—”

  “Try the door,” Caden suggested, and he pulled the covers higher.

  Sorcha screwed her face at his preposterous suggestion.

  Try the door?

  It seemed inconceivable that the door should be simply unlocked, but something about the way he’d said it made her want to smack herself upside the head.

  Of course, she’d assumed the door would be locked. Why wouldn’t she? She was alone in a room with a strange man, who, by the by, appeared to have been
here a very long while. His hair was matted and all askew, as though he’d lain abed for half a year or more. Although even that didn’t detract from his good looks. His face had the look of a Viking god. He was quite large, even for a man—taller and wider than her brother Aidan, with arms and legs that looked more like tree trunks than human limbs. Nevertheless, as comely although he might be, he seemed miserable in his own skin. And there was something else about him that was odd, as well…

  In all this time since she’d been speaking to him, he had never once met Sorcha gaze, and one would think he might have done so out of curiosity?

  Without a word, Sorcha arose from the chair and did as Caden bade her. She tried the door, and found it… unlocked…

  But, how can it be?

  Holding her breath, Sorcha opened the heavy door to peek out and see who was on the other side.

  No one.

  No guards. Not the man called Alec. The antechamber was wholly abandoned. There was a small cot here, a few trunks and two braziers, not one. Sorcha assumed one had been moved out of the room she was kept in, but why? The windows in the antechamber were a bit more accessible, giving Sorcha a good view of the courtyard below. Nevertheless, she didn’t linger. Instead, she made her way quickly down the stairwell, half expecting Caden to rise and sound the alarm. But he said nothing as she left the room and closed the door, and made no move to prevent her from leaving.

  Sorcha took the stairs two at a time.

  Unlike any dwelling she had ever encountered, this house was tall and narrow. The stairwell was tight and the stairs were slippery and steep. There were few doors along the descent, but, at the bottom of the stairwell, she found herself in a circular alcove, with three doors leading out.

  Which to choose, which to choose…

  Uncharacteristically indecisive—because why shouldn’t she be? Her future depended upon her next move—Sorcha touched each door, trying to guess what she might find on the other side. Her senses, usually keen, were dulled from the drogue they had given her. Too bad her visions weren’t more easily controlled—and where the devil was her keek stane? At last, realizing she hadn’t all that much time, Sorcha chose the far-left door, opening it gently to find the adjacent room also unoccupied. It appeared to be a storage room, though it was nearly empty, with another door on the other side.