Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

T hree years later…

Three years had passed since the great warrior came to live on the faraway Scottish isle, and the new McFletcher clan had grown in both wealth and power. Every year, for the past three years, Esme McKenzie had walked down to the shore where the longboat lay keeled over on the wet sands. And every month before snowfall she would find a gift waiting for her there.

The gunny sack hidden beneath the rotting boards would always contain the same items; a woolen tunic, a pretty lawn chemise, a finely woven woolen shawl, a pair of leather short boots, and a small pouch of gold. There was always the same sign to let her know who left her the gifts—a tiny scrap of ragged wool. It was the last remnants of McKenzie clan plaid from the old arisaid she had accidentally left next to the warrior when he lay in the boat.

What had drawn her to visit the boat in the first place? Esme had no fond feelings for the man she had once helped. It was like Bruce was dead to her now, and there was a reason for this. He had begun fighting for the people she would always call the Fluga; they were no clan or kin of hers! The invaders could claim to have changed their tribe name to McFletcher as much as they liked, but they had not even used the dyes of the land to craft themselves a special plaid weave yet.

The first time Esme had returned to the boat, it was to see if there was a chance to leave the island in it. Esme wanted to row far away from this wretched place until her old homeland was no more than a dot on the horizon. But the longboat was far too wide for her to operate on her own, and Esme could never find anyone else who was brave enough to leave with her.

They were all mired in their subservience, too afraid to rebel. And she would have needed at least seven others besides herself if she wanted to navigate the northern waters and row over the sea to Scotland. After one harsh winter storm, the boat had drifted onto the rocks and smashed there, smashing all of Esme’s hopes for escape along with it. But the skeleton of the boat still remained, as if it wanted to tease her how easy it had once been to sail away.

But she could not say no to the gifts the warrior left for her. Even though she had no family left alive, Esme was happy to share the clothes with others who needed them. Her gold went towards buying hearty root vegetables from the markets at Thurso whenever the merchant boats passed the island with a hull full of produce.

When the weather was fine, the warrior would sometimes ride to her side of the island, stopping to ask neighbors and friends if they knew where he could find a wee slip of a lass with green eyes that beckoned like a Selkie song. But they would turn him away with a frown. For no amount of gold would they betray Esme.

The fisherman tried to warn her. “I ken when a man is obsessed with ye, Esme, and he is it! It is time for ye to get married before yon Dark Berserker Bear locates ye.”

“I have seen only one score of summers, William,” Esme scoffed as she helped the man lift the heavy twine nets. “I dinnae want to risk me life in childbirth just yet.”

Personally, Esme had a suspicious feeling that if the dark man found out she was married, he might set about turning her into a widow in the fastest time. There was a predatory expression on his face when he made his inquiries about her as if he already considered her to be his property. Esme knew this because she would watch him from behind one of the smoking sheds or stables as he stalked from cottage to cottage looking for her.

His eyes would rake across the road, searching for her face. Esme would swear to her friends that the man could smell her and hear her breath too! He was relentless and kept coming back. And yet, Esme never felt hunted by the tall warrior. She was too busy trying to survive to think too hard about why he looked for her.

His gifts were thanks enough, and she learned his name was Bruce of Sterling. Rumors circled that he was one of the Immortal Warriors, but Esme was too young to have heard those old wives’ tales about the Eternal Brethren cursed to walk the earth in search of salvation.

Sometimes, Esme would smile to herself after she retrieved the rough parcel he left for her. The tunics would have fitted her when she was a young maiden of seven and ten years old, but she was a woman now. Her body had filled out in all the right places, with wide, curved hips, voluptuous breasts, and a waist any large man could span with two hands. But her neighbors would always receive the tunics with open arms, thanking Esme for her generosity and begging her to take from their small supply of food in exchange.

Until one day, disaster struck. The Laird’s comptroller was aboard one of the merchants’ ships, commanded to guard the latest cord of timber ferried from the mainland. The conquered people ran to the beach, clustering on the shore so they could barter fish and mead for barley wheat when the boats came. Bored of the ship, the comptroller climbed down the rope ladder and sat in the prow as it headed ashore.

One villager caught his eye. She was a maiden, of that there was no doubt. Her soft, brown hair hung down to the back of her waist and her heart-shaped face was as pretty as a picture. But it was the girl’s eyes that made the comptroller sit up.

“Hoy! Merchant. Who is that wench with the hair like clouds?”

The merchant shrugged. “A beggar girl, like most of the others ’round these parts. Too comely to work over the hill at the great hall. Too stubborn to wed. I dinnae blame the poor wretch. Wives have it tough here on the island.”

The comptroller nodded understandingly. He could not have summed it up better himself. “Tell two of your sailors to bring her to me.”

And so, when Esme stepped forward to buy apples from one of the baskets inside the boat, she found herself grabbed by two men from the ship and taken to stand in front of the comptroller. “I am the laird’s majordomo, girl,” the man informed her, “I run the laird’s household affairs. Be not afraid. I am here to offer you work.”

Esme hung her head. She knew the Norse folk had peculiar customs when it came to food production. Some of the pagan practices they had not given up required maidens to harvest honey for mead and make the yeast for bread. Virgins were also needed to light the candles on feast days and serve warriors strong brews before battle.

But still, more rumors rippled around the island about how a beautiful maiden would be sent offshore in the chief’s longboat after he died—after the vessel had been set alight!

The comptroller could see her hesitation and it made him angry. “Come, girl! Get in the boat. Don’t waste my time. When are you people going to learn you are subject to the laird’s will?”

Esme’s fisherman friend stepped forward. “If the laird’s will wants to pluck a bonny lass’s maidenhead awa’ from her, yer great cockerel, then I have nay doubt Esme will be better off here with us!”

One motion of the comptroller’s finger and the fisherman got punched in the stomach by one of the sailors. Splashing into the shallow water, Esme got into the boat and sat next to the man. As the oars dipped and splashed, she watched as her people got further away and the carrack ship got closer. She should have agreed to marry, and then this would never have happened to her. But Esme could not shake the feeling that she was heading in the right direction.

Towards those villains who had murdered her folk and pillaged their land…

Bruce felt restless and bored. The leaf fall was ending—not that anyone would notice on this barren rocky outcrop full of grass in the middle of the ocean—and then he would have an entire winter to wait before the spring campaigns began again. Only then did he feel halfway to being alive.

The moment the snowfall and iced-in harbors started to melt, the Norse chief who now called himself Laird McFletcher would send Bruce and a cohort of his best warriors over the water to the north. There, they would demand the annual weregild from the Norse chieftains or harry coastal villages for booty. Most of the servants on the island were nothing more than bonded slaves. They were a motley scattering of the conquered islanders and some wealthy Norse farmers’ kidnapped families, held for an annual ransom.

The McFletcher raiding army never sailed south. Scotland was seen as an ally against the men of the north, a place where timber and fresh food could be bought and transported back to the island. But as hard as the laird tried to distance himself from the customs and tribes of Norse men, he could not change the blood flowing in his veins. At the end of the day, the McFletcher clan was nothing more than a tribe of sea-raiding Norse folk called Fluga.

Only one thing kept Bruce bound here. Or rather, one burning question did. How could a wee slip of a lass evade his notice for three years on a small isle? Sometimes, the warrior thought his bonny rescuer might have been created in his imagination after all, but his gifts left at the boat were always taken, along with the tatter of wool from the ragged arisaid he always kept rolled up in his sporran.

Anyone else would have tossed the wool away or left it hanging from the splintered boat wood, but not the Sylph-like girl. She took the wool with her, as if she wanted to weave it into a spell to entrap his heart.

Mackenzie stirred beside him. “Are you awake already? It’s not like you, Bruce, to sit and watch the sunrise.”

The laird was happy for his daughter to satisfy the warrior’s physical appetites and allowed the couple to share a bedchamber. When it came to worth, Bruce was a greater prize than Mackenzie McFletcher. Now that the kirk had outlawed women from fighting in battles, females were no longer valued alongside men. All the priests who followed the teachings of Saint Paulus insisted that women fulfill their roles as mothers and wives only.

Mackenzie rolled out of bed and went to the dressing room to prettify herself. Bruce found that endearing in her. She tried so hard to please him, and yet his heart remained untouched. Not that he would have noticed if love came close enough to bite him on the nose! He believed himself to be immune to the slim arrows from Cupid’s bow.

As one of the Immortal Brethren, Bruce took his work seriously. If a laird was willing to entrust him with winning his battles for him and kind enough to give him a woman to warm his bed in addition to the spoils of war, then Bruce was happy to fight for him. He did not overthink it.

And yet his food did not taste as good as it could, nor did his couplings with Mackenzie fulfill him in any way. He would release his seed with her assistance in a way that would never result in a child, making the act a simple spasming of his muscles. Truth to tell, Bruce no longer knew what he wanted, but he was quite sure this was not it.

He would have never told any of this to Mackenzie, of course. He was not a brute when it came to women, at least he believed himself not to be. He would smile and thank her for everything she did and treat her kindly.

So, when Mackenzie came out of the dressing room in her diaphanous linen night shift dress and showed herself willing and eager to please him, Bruce let her think that he was looking forward to it.

“Come, Bruce, let me help you ease yourself into the day with a smile,” Mackenzie had a healthy appetite for his body and loved to pleasure him in such a way that would get her juices flowing warm and wet inside her cranny. Bruce smiled slightly and kicked off the covers so he could watch her.

Like every other time when she would caress his chest and lick his midriff all the way down to his groin, he would tell her how good it felt and run his fingers through her long blonde hair to guide her mouth.

She would go through the same motions; complimenting his size before fitting as much of him into her mouth as she could. But to Bruce, it could only ever seem like a hollow act. Still, he enjoyed his release the same as any other man would do so, and in that moment believed himself to be content.

Mackenzie had no idea about the restless thoughts in her lover’s mind. She would tease him into returning the favor and make the most of whichever way he chose to give it. Bruce was as talented with his mouth and fingers as he was with his sword, and on those days when they knew it was safe for them to join their bodies together, he would plow her field until she saw stars bursting in front of her eyes.

But this morning, Bruce jumped up from the bed with unsettling speed after spilling his essence into her willing mouth. “Forgive me, sweetheart, but I must go and train. Feel free to pleasure yerself in me absence, as I ken well ye like to do.”

He gave her a wink and ducked out of the door before she could kick up a fuss, holding his plaid in front of his manhood in case one of the servants was passing by. But it was too early in the morning for the maids to start their cleaning.

Bruce insisted on paying his servants a seasonal salary, despite Mackenzie promising him that it was a waste of gold. Unlike the other warriors attached to the laird’s household, the man they all called Bear felt pity for the skinny wretches who slaved day and night to keep him warm and fed.

Free of his bedchamber obligations, Bruce went to the private parlor. He called for his squire, who was a free man, to fetch his breeks from the dressing room and then kneel to help him tie his boots under his knees. Shirtless, with only his black plaid draped over his shoulders, Bruce sauntered down to the training yard. His sword was itching in his hand as he unsheathed it. His breath formed mist in anticipation of the combat, blowing out of his flaring nostrils like warm steam. The warrior’s eyes were like black shadows, promising pain and death to those who got in his way.

But when the soldiers saw Bruce flexing his neck muscles and rolling his shoulders to loosen the sinews, they all volunteered to take a break. “Come, men!” the commander roared across the courtyard, “Time for us to break our fast.”

“What d’ye mean, lads?” Bruce scowled as the men scattered back to the barracks. “Here I am, ready and willing to spar until the sun rides over oor heids! Dinnae leave me hanging.”

The commander scoffed. “Use the training dummies, Highlander. They do not care if you shake them to the bone.”

There was a row of four stuffed mannequins at the end of the archery range. The laird would award any soldier a copper penny if he managed to hit the spot in the center with an arrow. Every soldier except Bruce that is, because the warrior was as good with a bow as he was with a sword.

A clear voice spoke behind Bruce as he opened his mouth to call the soldiers peely-wally poltroons.

“I will spar with you, Highlander. But I should warn you—my father would not take kindly to you missing the mark.”

When Bruce turned to see who it was, he saw a small entourage of men with a tall, blond man standing at the head. The blond man stepped forward. “I am Clyde, Laird McFletcher’s son. I have heard tales of you, Highlander, while I was acting as my father’s envoy on the mainland these past three years.”

Bruce bowed his head, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Clyde? I dinnae think any Norse man owned such a name.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed the blond man’s face. “I was Ulf at birth, but like everything else in the tribe, we have changed our natures to reflect our new lives closer to Scotland. Ulf means river in our tongue. And the Clyde River is the greatest waterway in all of Scotland.”

“Meaning ye think ye’re the greatest warrior?” Bruce wanted to know. He had no desire to make the laird’s son’s bones rattle if they agreed to spar with each other.

“Meaning you do not fight fair, Highlander. You are one of the Immortal Brethren. It costs you little if you make a mistake.”

Striding over to the weapon wall, Bruce lifted a wooden sword off the brass hooks stuck into the mortar. “I fight fair, Clyde. Ye can keep that sword o’ yers and use it to fight me. And we shall see who has the unfair advantage then.”

All the soldiers had given up the thought of breakfast and were moving back to the training grounds to witness the sparring session. A few of the men were making bets. The combatants were well-matched. Bruce was tall, dark, and magnificently well-muscled. He looked to be about thirty years of age, but it was hard to guess because of the glamor spell on him.

The laird’s son, Clyde McFletcher, was a great hulking brute of a man, with his blond hair and beard braided tightly and greased with animal fat. The Norseman looked to be fond of his food, but active enough to fight off the adverse effects of it because of his youth and sport. Still, his belly protruded above the belt of his tunic and the slabs of hard fat would make him slower.

The two men circled one another, getting a feeling for the other’s footing and gestures. It was a tense moment, and the soldiers whispered quietly about who would strike first. Clyde struck first, but Bruce batted the metal sword away like it was a stick. The laird’s son growled and stepped back, waiting for Bruce to make his move.

It was unfortunate for the Highlander that the comptroller came over the hill with his sailors as the two men were sparring. They had to pass by the training yard to reach the great hall, and the laird’s majordomo could not resist hailing Clyde in a loud voice. “Come see the prize I found for yer faither’s household, young master! She’s sweeter than honey.”

Both men glanced briefly at the convoy of men as it passed by. They were in a training session, after all, not a proper battle. It was not a matter of life or death.

But it turned out to be a huge disadvantage for Bruce when he saw the new slave bound for the laird’s household. One glimpse of those intoxicating green eyes, and he lost his edge. Seeing Bruce’s sword arm drop down with shock, Clyde saw his chance and took it.

“Defend yourself, Highlander!” the laird’s son swung his sword high in the air and brought it down in a curving arc towards Bruce’s sword arm. But the warrior with the strength and reflexes of a large bear did nothing. Taken off guard by his opponent’s lack of interest, Clyde tried to pull his sword stroke, but it was a fraction too late.

The sword sliced deep into Bruce’s thick forearm. And by the time the warrior had plucked the blade out of his bone and lifted his arm to stop the sluggish flow of blood, the girl with the green eyes was gone.