Chapter 1

Chapter

One

E sme saw the longboat bobbing a good many yards offshore. She would walk along the beach early in the mornings whenever she could, hoping to catch limpets and crabs to eat before the gulls did. Her hunger was constant, but so were her memories.

Stripping down to her shift, she waded out into the water and then started to swim to the boat. It did not take her long, she was as good at swimming as any other island lassie raised within walking distance of the craggy beaches. Nor did the freezing temperatures bother her, because she was used to hardship and sudden shocks. None of it mattered anymore.

Gripping the side of the boat, she pulled herself up into it. Esme bit her lower lip when she saw the body. The man was pale, but he looked so rugged and healthy that it was hard to believe he was dead. As lowborn and uncultured as she was, even Esme had heard of the great statues carved out of white marble in the faraway lands in the south. He reminded her of them; huge, hard, and awesome.

Then, the sun rose in the east, painting his high cheekbones with a blush of color. Leaning forward and kneeling in the hull, Esme placed one slender finger under the man’s nostrils. He was breathing. Startled, she jumped back, waiting for him to open his eyes and pounce on her. But the man continued to sleep. Grateful that she had the chance to paddle one of the oars and bring the boat to the shore, Esme set her eyes on the small bundle of clothes waiting for her on the pebble beach where she had dropped them into a ragged pile.

She had to leave the boat half in the water because it was too heavy for her to drag onto the beach. Climbing out of the boat, she waded to her clothes and pulled the bedraggled kirtle over her thin body. With this scanty garment to protect her modesty, Esme waded back out to the boat, the hem of her undershift clutched in one hand and her small leather flask of weak ale in the other.

The sun was well above the end of the sea now. Fascinated, she began to tend to the man as best she could. He must have weighed twice as much as the frail girl; no one would have known it to look at her, but the peasant girl was nearly eight and ten years of age.

Carefully inspecting the swords, the girl looked for runes to tell her the man’s story. There were none. The pommel of the sword in the back scabbard was a snarling bear, the same totem as the animal on his silver crest. As starving and penniless as she was, the girl did not steal from the man. That was not her way.

Esme enjoyed caring for him. He was the first man she had touched in such an intimate way, using her woolen kirtle to wipe him dry, lifting his heavy limbs off the bottom of the boat and making them more comfortable. He was huge, but he was not threatening. His pale forehead was noble and his handsome features were almost peaceful, except for the crease of a frown between his dark brows.

“Let’s get ye warm and dry, Dark Highlander, and then ye might wake.” His plaid was woven from black wool, so she called him by that name. For some weird reason, he did not feel like a stranger to her so she did not want to treat him like one.

The man stirred and groaned. Fighting her impulse to run away, Esme uncorked her flask and held it to his mouth. She slipped her thin arm under his thick neck to lift his head. “Here, ye braw duin, take a wee sup.” Like the rest of her appearance, Esme’s voice was as sweet and soft as honey. In the old days, in the happy days, she would sing and dance to delight her clan—but that was a long time ago.

“Come, master. Wake up. The world waits for ye.”

He drank down all of her precious ale, swallowing it with big, thirsty gulps. Esme did not begrudge the stranger one drop. His eyelids flickered open and his eyes glazed over as he tried to focus on her.

“I thank ye, bonny lass. Ye are me dream come true.”

She smiled, wiping a damp strand of black hair off his face with a light finger. “Me life is a nightmare, master, but I dinnae mind being yer sweet dream.”

He seemed to frown. His voice was gruff and harsh. “Are ye a Selkie, lassie? Have ye come to drag me doon under the water?”

That made Esme laugh out loud. When he heard the very real human sound of her laughter, the man settled down and closed his eyes. Soon, he was back fast asleep. He held her hand fast in his great paw, but she had no trouble wiggling it out as he slept.

Covering him with the scrap of arisaid to protect him from the October winds, Esme climbed out of the boat, promising herself that she would come back and fetch the woolen rag the next day.

When Bruce woke up, he was alone and very uncomfortable after lying on the hard hull floor for so long. Looking down at the tight pack of muscles on his taut stomach, he smiled to see he was as good as new. But when he ran the palm of his hand over the area, he could feel some hair was missing from the wound site, where the thin line of dark hair descended from his midriff down to his groin.

He saw a small woolen rag lying on the floor of the longboat and wondered if it had been there when he left Scotland.

The longboat had banked close to a pebble beach. Vaulting out of the vessel and pulling the prow onto the sand, Bruce scouted the land looking for signs of inhabitants. It was then he noticed the tracks leading down to the waterline. Someone must have come upon him when he was sleeping.

He did not like the idea of that at all and began to don his cast-off weapons hastily; back scabbard, sword sheath, and dirk. Before the healing sleep knocked him senseless, he always tried to lock himself away or hide in a cave. But when he saw the light tread of his timid visitor, he saw that she must be a girl. A very dainty, petite girl by the size of her footprint. One thing made him frown. It was nearly winter and the footprint showed no sign of a shoe.

Maybe the girl who found him was a fisherman’s little daughter. He had a vague memory of a sweet dream, about a beautiful mermaid who touched his wound when he was asleep, stroking his hair off his face as she sat in her damp rag of a shift gown beside him.

It was the first time in his long life that Bruce became aroused while the web of sleep was still wrapped tightly around him. Then a movement caught his eye. Someone had been walking down to the beach over the gritty dunes but ducked behind one of the rocks when they saw him standing alert on the sand.

He knew it was the young lass from his dreams. Every one of his senses told him that. He could smell her musky scent and hear her frightened breathing. “Come oot, lassie!” he shouted over to where she crouched. “I will nae hurt ye, wee yin. Come and prove to me that ye are human!”

Striding to the boat, Bruce grabbed a scrap of woven wool. Waving it in what he hoped was a tempting manner, he beckoned her forward. “Come closer, lassie. I dinnae bite.”

Waiting impatiently, he did not know what else to do to make the girl trust him. That was always how it was before he was able to cast his glamor on a woman; she would back away from his brutish height and huge muscles with fear.

Risking the possibility of her fleeing from him, Bruce began to climb the dune holding the scrap of woolen arisaid in one large hand. “See, sweetheart,” when he saw she was hiding and not running, he smiled. “I wish to return yer cloth to ye.” Pointing to the scabbard hanging behind him, he gave a deep laugh. “Dinnae fash aboot me swords either. They stay sheathed until battle.”

The cheekbones of her face were sharply etched from hunger. Her green eyes were huge in her face, but not big enough to detract from the blooming fullness of her pink lips. A girl on the cusp of womanhood, but none could compare to her unique beauty.

Stopping ten yards away from her hiding place, Bruce decided to coax her to come to him. “Are ye sure ye are nae a Selkie, lass? I swear there are sirens less tempting than ye.”

His remark made her blink with shyness and then a ghost of a smile flickered over her lips. The hair was scraped back off her face and hidden behind a tight, dirty rag, but when she raised her hand and threw something at him, the fingers were clean.

It was the heel from a loaf of black bread. When Bruce saw the color of the bread and stopped to look around at the miles of barren grassland on the slopes surrounding him, he knew where he was; the north islands. Those lonely isles in the North Sea; those chunks of rock and sand dotting the waves, halfway between the lands of the Norse and the Scots.

The cries of gulls and the loud flapping of wings as the birds wheeled overhead almost drowned out his words.

Politely picking up the heel of bread he ripped the hard crust with strong, white teeth. “I thank ye, lassie,” he growled, licking the corners of his mouth with his tongue, “D’ye ken where can I get more of this?”

She was still too shy to reveal all of herself to him. Bruce was under no illusion that the bonny maiden was a fisherman’s daughter who had found him while out searching for shellfish to use as bait. The lass must be a lowly servant girl or even a beggar maid. His cold, hard, battle-driven heart melted for her.

Throwing caution to the winds, Bruce advanced on the rock where the girl was hiding. She turned tail and ran like the wind, her dirty bare feet kicking up sand as she sprinted away from him. But it was not Bruce who had scared the wee beauty away. The thumping sound of trotting horse hooves could be heard coming over the slope, where the hills turned into dunes.

Six riders thundered along the brow of the hill. A scouting party would have been his first guess, but then he changed his mind when he saw they were dressed in finery. The riders wore shining breastplates and leatherbound trews. Some of the men’s hair was braided and tied back. Others had adorned their full beards by forking the thick growth and fastening the tufts with gold beads. Their round shields had large bosses in the middle, and the men carried spears in addition to the axes hanging from their belts.

At the head of the riders rode a young woman. Her blonde hair was tightly braided and held in place with a thick golden circlet. Her willowy body sat proudly sideways in the saddle, her torso moving with the rhythm of the animal underneath her with a sinewy motion.

She looked down at the beach and saw him. Shouting over her shoulder to the men, the woman turned her horse to trot down the dune, leaning back in the saddle so far that her head touched the saddle. It was a superb display of horsemanship considering the woman was riding sidesaddle.

Bruce, however, remained unimpressed. He kept his wits about him and loosened the sword in the sheath hanging from his belt.

Seeing that he carried no crossbow or spear, the woman reined in her horse and dismounted a few yards away from him, stroking her thighs to smooth the velvet fabric straight and looking at him with curiosity in her languorous blue eyes. “Stranger, what dangerous waves lapped you this far? Did you not know this is the lion’s den?”

The other riders had caught up to the young woman by now. They circled Bruce, still astride their horses with their spearheads pointing down at him. He was not bothered and kept his attention on the young woman. “Och, Mistress, dinnae ye fash noo,” Bruce flashed her his most charming smile. “The lion is me brither.”

This made the girl laugh. “You make a bold claim, stranger. And how do you know my father?”

Bruce bowed. A simple nod of the head, but it was enough to let her know he acknowledged her father’s title. “I dinnae ken yer faither, Mistress. I spoke of me own brethren. They are all famous warriors. As am I.”

The woman signaled to one of the riders, making the man dismount from his horse and hand the reins to Bruce. The Highlander could see that the rider was fuming mad to have to give his horse over to Bruce for him to ride, but he dared not disobey the blonde girl’s command.

“My father is as strong and fierce as one of those great beasts the English claim as their animal totem, stranger. He reigns as the laird here, having conquered the local Scots people with sword and fear.”

This told Bruce everything he needed to know. They were Norse folk, those savage fighters from across the water.

“Why does he nae call himself the Thain, yer faither?” Bruce vaulted onto the horse, his heavyweight making the animal sidle and snort as he settled himself into the saddle.

“We embrace the local ways,” the young woman told him in a light tone. “I suppose it is to try and make the local folk like us better.”

Muttering under his breath, Bruce could not help saying, “Good luck with that, hen. Ye will nae make many friends if yer servants are walking on the freezing sands in bare feet.”

He still clutched the scrap of wool in his hand as he followed the woman’s horseback up the hill. For the first time in his long life, Bruce looked back as he rode. It was not because he worried about the men with spears riding close behind him—he wanted to see the girl with the green eyes.

But she was long gone.

Following the track of trampled grass soon brought them to the coastal village. The cottages overlooked the steep cliffs and crashing waves underneath. It was a dismal place this close to winter. The smell of smoking fish was everywhere. Some of the villagers looked at him with suspicion when they saw his black plaid. There was no display of plaid anywhere to be seen which was a sure sign of a conquered people.

Bruce dismounted and threw the reins to one of the riders, following the blonde girl into the great hall with a casual, heavy gait. The only concession the hall had made to its Scottish heritage was the slate roof tiles. Everything else was decorated with Norse wood carvings. This was considered to be the height of luxury on an island where the tallest tree could only be described as a scrubby windswept bush.

The villagers’ cottages had been built from stone and thatched with grass. Every home was buried half underground to hide as much of the walls from the harsh seasonal elements as possible. The main source of fuel was dried cattle pats and the thick black flammable substance that washed up on the beach sands.

A man sat on a richly carved wooden chair on the stone dais at the top of the hall as thin wisps of smoke curled around the ceiling above him.

The blonde girl curtsied. “Father, we found this man on the beach. He claims kinship with all warriors.”

The Norse laird leaned forward in the chair, looking at Bruce from head to toe. “I am not blind, Mackenzie,” the laird said, “I can see the man is a warrior without you telling me. How did you get here?” He addressed the question to Bruce.

After bowing, the warrior introduced himself. “I am Bruce of Sterling, Laird. Got me heid knocked aboot a wee bit during a battle and must have collapsed in the boat.”

The Norse laird did look a bit like a lion. Bruce had heard of the practices of the Northern tribes but thought them to have been long forgotten. Apparently, some tribes still liked to spread their influence and conquer other lands despite it being an ancient and heavily critisized practice dating some centuries back. He had a thick head of blond hair and a round, wide face with the same slanting blue eyes as his daughter. “Battle, hey?”

Bruce bowed again. “Aye, I can smell blood in the air before it is spilled and I make sure to go there. Forgive me asking ye a question, Laird, but did I hear ye correctly when ye called yer daughter ‘Mackenzie’?”

The Laird was dismissive. “Yes. The clan who lived on this isle before I conquered it was mainly descended from the McKenzie clan, so I named my daughter after it. We have even turned our own names to reflect the native tongue. We were of the Fluga tribe, ‘arrow’ in our land. But now we call ourselves the conquering clan of ‘Fletcher’.”

Bruce looked around the hall and noticed some of the servants had downcast faces. He made his own assessment of how the Fluga tribe had forced the villagers to accept their rule. He did not say anything out loud. He was a battle-hardened warrior after all, and he was used to seeing people live in bondage. He had no problem with that so long as they were treated fairly.

“So, do I have yer leave to bide here for a wee while?” the warrior shrugged his massive shoulders around while gesturing at the men in the hall. “Ye live on an island, Laird. Yer borders are at risk from both the north and the south.”

“Why should I trust a man who gets washed up on my shores?” The new Laird McFletcher sat back in his chair, waiting for the warrior to beg him for refuge.

Bruce had never been the kind of man to rely on brags. Stepping over to one of the guards so quickly that the man was taken unawares, Bruce wrested the spear out of the guard’s hand and broke the shaft in two. It was such a shockingly awesome show of strength and speed and, for a long moment, no one in the hall reacted. Then Laird McFletcher stood up.

“Do you eat the soft spores that grow in the dark woods of our mountains?”

The laird was referring to the bright toadstools and mushroom fungi that the Norsemen consumed before battle to give them superhuman capabilities, turning them from cautious soldiers into battle-enraged berserkers.

Bruce grinned. “I dinnae need to. I am the Bear. One o’ the Immortal Brethren from the myths of auld! I am the original berserker, dedicated to blooding me sword until the last foe falls.”

The laird whispered. “Of that I have no doubt. Mackenzie! Show this great warrior to our best bedchamber, and make sure he is comfortable. This man is going to make our island famous.”