Samantha Holt (Highland Fae Chronicles)

by To Dream of a Highlander

  To Dream of a Highlander

  Samantha Holt

  Copyright 2014 ©Samantha Holt

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  “Ye must take her place, Catriona.”

  Catriona propped her hands on her hips and tilted her head to view the large man. A breeze blew through the open windows of the solar and she shuddered. “What is yer meaning, Father?”

  Laird Malcolm swiped a hand across his damp upper lip and glanced out of the thin window. “Yer sister’s betrothed shall be sending men to fetch her.”

  “Well, they shall have a surprise when they find out she is dead,” she scoffed, immediately regretting it as he snapped his head around, expression menacing.

  Her father snatched her arm, squeezed tight. “Dinnae speak back to me, child. Much is riding on yer sister’s match to Laird Gillean. I want ye to go with the men to Kilcree. Pretend to be Katelyn.”

  Catriona stared into those dark, soulless eyes, the usual dart of dread slashing at her stomach. But still she kept her voice strong. “And what would ye have me do? Marry the laird?”

  “Nay, ‘twill not come to that. I shall have the king’s support by then and I can end the contract without fear of retribution. Ye just need to appease him for a wee while until there are enough men on Bute to see off any attack.”

  “Father, this is folly. He shall know I am not Katelyn. I am naught like her.”

  He squeezed her arm once more. “That I well know. Ye could have learned a lot from Katelyn. She had no soft notions. Ach, it vexes me that I lost my dutiful daughter only to be left with ye.”

  Catriona narrowed her eyes but said nothing, well used to her father’s complaints of her inadequacy. She was not good enough for him. Too soft, no ambition. Well, she’d rather be considered soft than a vile wretch like her sister. Though they were twins, they had never been close. Catriona tried to feel guilty for such thoughts but she failed. The lass never had a kind word to say to anyone.

  “Do ye want to see war brought to Bute?” her father pressed, running a hand through his dark grey hair.

  She sagged. “Nay, of course not.”

  “Then do this for me. Be yer sister for but a few sennights and I shall send for ye once the isle is secure. We can break off the marriage contract and ye can return. My daughters—” he sighed, “daughter was not born so beautiful to be married off to such a man. I have better plans for ye now. So what say ye? Shall ye protect this island and do yer duty?”

  Chapter One

  Battle cries and the clash of swords on armour resounded through the bailey. A burst of nerves surged through her. Catriona peered out of the window of the round castle and her stomach roiled. For three days, they’d kept the Norsemen at bay with boiling resin and molten lead but their efforts were for nothing. With strong shields, the invaders protected themselves and hacked away at the new ramparts.

  “They will break through at any moment,” Catriona whispered to herself.

  Her father had only begun erecting the keep some fifteen summers past a while after he took the isle from the Norse. But now they were back at the walls, determined to take back the land for themselves.

  Swiping clammy hands over her skirts, she inhaled slowly. Bute Keep would fall to the Norse soon enough and there would be little hope for her—a mere woman.

  A chunk of stone pinged through the open window as an arrow struck not far from her viewing point. She darted inside and scanned her sister’s chambers, nose wrinkled. The smell of death clung to the air, even though it had been four sennights since she had passed. Catriona pressed her lips together. While her sister had never been kind, Catriona would not wish the ravages of dysentery on anyone. It was a strange sight—her twin wasting away, devoured by sickness. She wrapped her arms about herself. Mayhap it was better Katelyn had died. Should the Norse have got their hands on her, she knew not what they would have done.

  A shiver tripped down her spine.

  She would fare just as badly.

  She needed to escape. But how? The keep was surrounded, the fighting fierce. She risked death by stepping outside the upper chambers. Her father had told her to remain inside. Catriona swallowed the knot in her throat. She’d heard enough tales of Norse barbarity. Rapes, pillaging. Was this what they were to expect? Would she die this day?

  With a final glance around the room, she made her decision. She would not die here, cowering and quivering, with the acrid scent of death in her nostrils as night fell around them. Hurrying to the door, she twisted the handle, grimacing as the iron squeaked. She peered through the small gap. A whistle of air. The sounds of dying men and crumbling masonry. But no enemy.

  Skirts in hand, she scurried along the corridor and followed the spiral steps down to the hall. No one paid any heed to her but Catriona saw everything she needed to. The men-at-arms had retreated into the castle and were busy shoring up the defences of the hall. Laird Malcolm, her father, directed the men to place strong wooden beams across the entrance.

  Catriona shook her head. For all the good it would do them. Those doors were not strong enough to hold back a horde of Norsemen—or Vikings as the men referred to them. Slippers crunching across the rushes, she made her way to the kitchen stairs and descended. A few men and women cowered behind the large oak table.

  “Lady Catriona,” the cook hissed, standing and weighing a cooking knife in his hand. “Come, lass, and hide.”

  “Nay, I’ll no’ stay here. The enemy will break through at any moment.”

  The big ruddy man snorted. “And where shall ye go, wee Catriona? Ye’ll no’ survive out there.” He motioned with his knife out of the small rear door.

  “I’ll seek shelter with the villagers.”

  “If ye can even reach them. Ye’ll be spotted by a Viking for sure. Dinnae be foolish. A lass like ye is a fine prize for a lusty Viking.”

  She stiffened at this, aware her looks had brought her much unwanted attention over the years. Since she had come of age many men had tried to sway her into bed. While her sister relished the attention, she did not. She would not give herself up so readily to a Norseman.

  “Pray come with me,” she implored as crashing sounded above and several women released sounds of distress.

  “Nay. ‘Tis guaranteed death to go out there. Here, we stand a chance.”

  Catriona suppressed a frustrated curse. Did they not see it was better to at least try? Mayhap they would be well, she told herself as she spun away.

  “Good luck to ye, lass,” Cook murmured behind her.

  Pressing through the door, she blew out a heavy breath. She refused to cower and await death. The men-at-arms had been talking of what might happen should the Norse break through—some of them cruelly teasing her with tales. A few whom she had declined took particular delight in describing how a Viking planned to take his pleasure with her.

  Ca
triona closed the door and flattened her back against it, willing her imaginings away. Hopefully the servants would remain unharmed but a lass like herself… she'd had troubles enough over her years. She would not stay to discover if the tales were true.

  Her father would be furious to find her gone, but she cared little what he thought. He only wanted her to continue their ruse. The household knew of their plan and she had been playing at being Lady Katelyn for any visitors to Bute since her sister’s death, while they waited for word from Katelyn’s betrothed. Until the Norse landed on their shores, that was.

  Breath held, the clatter of swords and footsteps grew close. The stickiness on her palms increased and she smoothed them over her gown. Her chest constricted. Someone approached down the narrow corridor leading out of the kitchen and to the rear of the keep. Her escape was blocked.

  She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a cry. Shouts sent a shiver through her, the fear clawing up her throat making it almost impossible to breathe. Shadows slithered across the walls, distorted by the few lit torches. How had the Norsemen found the secret passage? Should she go back into the kitchen? Nay, if she did, she would lead them directly to the rest of the household. Her only choice was to confront the invaders.

  Trembling, she edged away from the door and followed the curve of the passageway. It seemed to Catriona that a wild, brawling mass of limbs and armour had plunged into the small space. She no longer had trouble breathing but her body failed her—left her frozen. She stood as still as prey beneath a hawk while the stench of sweat and blood assaulted her.

  His foreign appearance, the long hair and unusual clothing startled her and a hand clenched around her arm, snapping her out of her daze. A squeak escaped her, a noise that should have been a scream should her throat have cooperated. Body shaking, she dragged her gaze fearfully up to meet the cold blue of the Norseman’s eyes. Was it horror playing with her mind or was he truly the size of a giant?

  He thrust her against the wall, causing her head to crack against the stone while he muttered something in his foreign tongue. Catriona noted the blood on his hands had transferred to her gown. The blood of the soldiers of Bute. How bad had the slaughter been?

  His blood slickened hand travelled up to her face to curl around her cheek. A cry threatened to spill from her mouth but she held it at bay. She failed to supress her shudder as his rancid breath washed over her. Reluctantly, she dragged her gaze to his. Mayhap if she begged…? But, nay, the frigidness still lingered in his eyes. She only hoped he ravished her and left her be. She steeled her resolve. The sea of nausea in her stomach ebbed.

  “Do what ye will,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

  The clang of his sword on stone rang in her ears, the rattle echoing against the walls—and through her mind. The Norseman rubbed his thumb over her cheek. Catriona felt the smear of blood from his hand and whimpered. He thrust his other hand under her hair and held it tight, forcing her head back and sending shooting pains through her scalp.

  “Du er vakker,” he growled and she drew open her lids.

  Her breaths grew ragged as her mind whirled. Was there any way to get away from the huge man? She had no weapons, no great fighting skill. If she could just catch him at a vulnerable moment, could she escape? She wriggled against the hold on her hair and winced as he yanked it harder. Nay, there was no escaping him now. She had to wait. The attention she garnered had always made her uncomfortable but she knew well how to fend off advances with teasing and bold words. If she played the temptress, mayhap there would be opportunity for escape.

  This thought—this idea that she could be in control—sent up a wall around her heart, but would it give way as softly as the stone of Bute Keep? Her fear drained away. Was this what warriors felt before war? Warmth entered her limbs, her bones may have been made of steel. She stood strong and met his gaze.

  A grin twitched on his lips. “You would like a Viking between your thighs, nei?”

  Catriona only managed to nod slowly, not trusting her voice to work. She clenched her hands into fists, barely concealing a tremor, as he pressed his lips to her neck. Dampness trailed over her skin, unwelcome hands clutched her gown, the odour of sweat and pungent breath reeled about her.

  In and out. She focused on breathing. In and out. Coarse fingers came to the neckline of her gown and tugged. When the Norseman kissed the curve of her breast, her breaths quickened. The brush of prickly beard and the sight of his fair head upon her chest began to chip away at the wall. Slowly her defences were crumbling—like that of the castle. The realisation that she could not survive this raider invading her body made her palms damp, her blood soar through her veins. The pounding of alarm through her urged her to flee or fight.

  She managed to rein in her terror long enough for him to drop to his knees and hoist her skirts. Those blood-tinged fingers pinched the flesh of her thighs as they slithered their way to her juncture. Unable to bear it any longer—and silently praying this moment would be her salvation—she brought her knee up into his face with all the strength her panic-ridden limbs could muster.

  A sharp shout came from the man—a word that sounded like a curse, and he dropped back and clutched his nose. Catriona flitted her gaze desperately around while blood seeped from between his fingers and his eyes hardened. She could not flee until the man was rendered senseless. He still stood between herself and escape. But she had nothing with which to defend herself.

  She tried to press past him but strong hands wrapped around her waist and hauled her back against the wall. A fist to her face sent the world spinning and fiery pain flared through her cheek.

  His leather armour squeaked while he positioned himself, forcing her thighs apart with a painful grip. Somehow Catriona muffled her scream while she fought and thrashed against the giant. Tears dripped freely down the sides of her face. Rape—maybe death—was all that awaited her now.

  One hand pinned her wrists above her head, while the other concentrated on yanking up her heavy skirts. Still she whipped about. Whatever he took, he would not take easily. Defeat beat heavily in her breast but she refused to give up yet.

  Her attacker pressed back briefly to free himself and something warm splattered across her chest. The grip on her wrists loosened and Catriona blinked as the Viking’s wrathful expression turned to one of confusion. He made a gargling sound as more liquid spilled onto her and the tip of a sword burst from his chest. Holding back the scream that tore from her throat proved impossible this time as the point hovered close to her own chest. The Viking fell away and clutched the wound as the blade withdrew. Scrabbling away, she looked on in horror as his head dropped and he collapsed to the floor. Any relief she may have felt was replaced with shaking terror when a larger Viking took his place. He sheathed his sword and eyed her.

  “Who are ye?” he demanded.

  His brogue confused her. A native of one of the western isles perhaps?

  “I-I am Lady Katelyn.” The words tumbled out before she considered it. Why keep up the lie for this Viking? Yet, she could not let the truth out, not even to her enemy. Not when Gillean, Katelyn’s betrothed, might add to Bute’s troubles.

  Catriona tried not to sob. All her fighting had been for nothing. She would never hold off this man. His blue gaze flicked over her and he lunged forward and snatched her into his hold.

  “Come with me,” he ordered before throwing her over his shoulder.

  The pain in her cheek muddled her thoughts but she still fought his grip. Catriona clawed at his back, fingernails cracking against his leather armour. His shoulder winded her as he hefted her into a firmer hold, strong arm clamped tightly around her. Desperation seared through her while her kicks weakened. The blow to her face must have done more damage than she thought. Vision blurred, her stomach lurched and blood pounded into her face. She was weakening. Who knew what would happen now? The Viking was already carrying her out of the rear of the castle. Everything passed in a haze. Shouts and the scrape of swords were di
stant now and she realised she was losing her senses. Where was he taking her?

  Time slipped by in ebbs. It seemed that suddenly they were far from the keep, the lush green of the island grass shooting past her. Her kidnapper’s gait was fast and sure but at times it felt as if she were suspended in time, her thoughts growing more confused, limbs becoming weak. If she could only fight the brute of a man. Grey rocks appeared to come too close to her head as he descended the slowly rolling hills. Catriona suspected they were headed toward the coast.

  To return to Norway?

  Once, a long time ago, the Norsemen kidnapped Scots women and took them to their homeland, never to be seen again. Mayhap she was to be a prize of war.

  Shingle crunched under his boots. They were by the sea. The man stopped and her heart tripped. Suddenly the arm around her loosened and she plummeted down. Rough wood met her rear and she scrabbled to right herself. Sitting in the damp bottom of a small boat, Catriona glanced fearfully around at the men surrounding her, all sat on benches and ready to row. Her throat grew dry and tight, and she considered screaming. For what though? No aid would come.

  He climbed into the boat and Catriona blinked up at him. The huge fair warrior barely glanced at her as he stepped over the benches and shouted to the men in his unusually fluent Gaelic.

  “We must away—with haste. Dusk will be upon us soon.”

  When he faced her, Catriona was unable to prevent herself from scurrying back, nearly knocking into one of the other men’s bare leg. But instead of grabbing her or threatening her, he simply smiled. His strong features lit with the grin.

  Gaze skipping from man to man as the grey light of dusk settled over them, she rose and peered over the edge of the boat. They were not yet away from the beach. Another man had jumped out to push the boat from the shoal. There was still a chance for escape.

  Catriona stood abruptly, making the vessel rock and prepared to jump overboard.

  ***

  Finn glanced behind him, noting the hazy flicker of light on the hills. Either a fire had been lit in an attempt to burn out the defenders or the Norse had taken the keep and were in full command now, lighting the torches and readying to claim the island as theirs.