Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

E sme was shown to the kitchens and told to take her orders from the cook. “What can I do with an untrained girl?” the cook shouted after the comptroller as he departed through the scullery door.

“I can gut fish and brew ale,” Esme volunteered this information. The further away she was from the training grounds at the barracks, the happier she would be. The berserker warrior from the boat had recognized her. She had to keep away from him at all costs. If the man singled her out from all the other slaves, it would draw the attention of the laird and his children onto her. Esme looked too much like her mother for those barbarians not to make the connection between them in their beastly minds—and then the chance of vengeance would be gone.

“Well, at least you are not completely useless,” the cook grunted when Esme listed her skills, “the laird does not allow slaves to touch his food or prepare it, but if you can clean fish and remove bones from the smoked haddock, you cannot get up to too much mischief down here.”

“Why dinnae he let us touch his food?” Esme was curious to know. “Viking food cannae be so different from the Scots.”

Cook stared at Esme as if she thought the girl was stupid. “He does not want to be poisoned, of course! Slaves can hold all kinds of bitter resentment to their captors. Put them unsupervised and close enough to a pitcher of wine or a bowl of soup, and they can cause all kinds of trouble. Now, go and tidy yourself up and find a pinafore to cover those raggedy clothes of yours. Wash your face and neck too, girl. You are a dirty wretch!”

Esme did not have a spirited reply to give after that bit of information. If anything, it had planted an idea in her mind. After making herself presentable and hauling several wooden pails of water from the well to the scullery, she was allowed to sit on a low stool by the fire pit and turn the handle for the spit. The smell of roasting fowl made her mouth water, but she was too scared to sample a morsel.

As the crispy meats turned over the flames, Esme allowed herself to dream of revenge. She loathed the bloodthirsty Norse men who had slaughtered her family with all her heart. And now that she was a grown woman, brave enough to plot and plan, nothing could stop her from imagining the sweet sounds of the Fluga tribe’s dying screams.

Dinner was set to be served when the sun was straight overhead in the sky—or at least when it felt as if the sun was overhead—the clouds were gray and hung low over the island all day. The smell of thick sea mist blew rankly over the tall grass and gulls cried and wheeled over the cliffs. Already, Esme missed her side of the island. The beachside might have been more prone to attacks from the Scottish seafaring clans, but it was a lot more picturesque.

“Girltraighten the scarf covering your hair! You must help us serve the food!” Esme would do better than setting her hair scarf straight. She wanted to make a veil to hide her face too. Wrapping the dun cloth once over her hair, she used the rest of the length to fashion a veil over the lower part of her face. Many poor souls from the mainland used this style if they had traces of disease on their faces. Esme hoped all the diners in the great hall would be too focused on their dinners to worry too much about the facial deformities of the woman serving them.

The hall was packed with men when Esme shuffled in carrying a basket woven from grass in her hands. One of the men beckoned her over. “Bring the bread basket here, wench! Make it quick.”

Keeping her head down, Esme ran from the kitchen to the great hall with platter after platter of food. All the servants were female. Not even Mackenzie McFletcher was allowed to drink or eat until the laird allowed her to. It was a woman’s duty to serve.

When the trenchers were full, Esme was allowed to lean against one of the dark corners of the halls and watch the men stuffing their faces. Her eyes darted along the high table on the dais. Those were the men who interested her. When she got the chance, that was the place she should strike first.

Laird McFletcher and his enormous oaf of a son, Clyde, were quaffing and scoffing as if their lives depended on it. Big gulps of ale and huge chunks of meat disappeared from their plates and Esme stood and watched them silently. But then one of the men seated closest to Esme stood up and walked out of the hall, giving the slave girl an unobstructed view of the high table on this dais.

The Dark Bear was watching her. Indeed, he was watching her through all the other male diners with a quizzical expression on his handsome face. It seemed like he could read the thoughts going on in her mind. It was uncanny. How could he know it was she?

Since he had taken the side of those who had ripped everything away from her, Esme was sure she hated him the same as she hated all the others. He could leave hundreds of gifts for her at the boat, but now that she was on the northern cliffside of the island, Esme wanted nothing whatsoever to do with Bruce of Sterling. In the boat, he had been her ally and her friend, free as he was from the corrupting influence of the Fluga. But now that he fought alongside them and recognized the laird as his master, he was dead to her like all the others.

“Hoy, you old gremlin! Bring us more ale!” One of the men called out to Esme, convinced that her face must have been destroyed by leprosy or a plague for her to cover her lower face the way she had done. But another soldier had keener eyes. “That’s no elder, you fool. No pox-scarred slave has a fine figure like that. Woman! Take off that scarf. Let us see if you are worth touching our food.”

Esme began to back out of the doorway to the hall, staring at the floor and pretending she could not understand what the men were saying. She did not stop backing away until she felt something hard and solid behind her.

“Ye cannae leave me again, bonny mermaid. I remember those green eyes as if they were imprinted on me soul.”

It was the dark warrior. He must have leapt up from the high table the moment she left and run around the side door to stop her escape. But Esme refused to give up her disguise. Holding the scarf over her nose and mouth, she continued to back towards the kitchen. “Ye have the wrong person, master,” she whispered as she bobbed curtsy after curtsy, “I am a humble slave.”

He halted her by grabbing her wrist. “Those eyes, lassie, they give ye away.”

Wrenching her hand out of his hold, she spat the muffled words at him. “Leave me be, ye traitor! Ye lickspittle, life o’ ease lovin’ piece o’ shite!”

It was an astonishing lack of respect. Esme quailed at her cheekiness but was not afraid of taking the consequences. She hated the Fluga and everyone allied with them, and that included this man. He frowned but did not try touching her again.

The man’s eyes turned black with disapproval. “Why d’ye take names to me, Siren?”

Shaking her head to show him fake contrition, Esme curtsied and began to back away. She had nothing more to say to him, nor to anyone else inside that great hall.

“If ye go back in there, sweetheart, the men will remove yer veil and see yer beauty. Is that what ye want?”

Everything Esme wanted to say bubbled up inside her, bursting to get out. She had to make him understand. The Highlander deserved that much if nothing else. “They should worry more aboot the content of me heart instead of judging me face, dinnae ye agree, master?”

All he said was, “Come,” before beckoning her down the entrance stairs. It was said as an order, not a request. The yard outside was deserted of men, with each one busy dining. A lazy page boy sat in the lookout tower, but he paid them no mind, his focus being on the ocean. The man patted the place on the stone stairs next to him as he sat down. They had a good while before they were interrupted. The clan took their feasting seriously.

Esme seated herself daintily beside him, more aware than ever before of his enormous physical presence. He shifted his body so that he could look down at her. His dark eyes locked on her green ones.

“I have been searching for ye for a long time, lassie,” he growled the words, allowing Esme to see the air of possession he held towards her. “Why did ye nae seek me oot to thank me for the presents I left ye every All Hallow’s Eve?”

Shrugging, she replied. “’Tis a strange day for ye to celebrate the first time we met, Highlander.”

He was not put off by the dismissive tone she used. “It is close enough to the day ye rescued me as I can remember. By what name may I call ye?”

“Wretch. Wench. Girl. Take yer pick.” Esme was startled when the man took her hand in his own.

“No one would dare call you that in me presence again, lassie. Yer life will get better noo that I have found ye.”

Esme withdrew her hand from his as if it were too hot. “Are ye raving mad, Highlander? Please dinnae single me oot for yer special attention. It will only get me into trouble.”

The deep line between his brows intensified at her reaction. But he was not put off. In fact, it seemed to make the Highlander want her smiles even more.

Moving closer to her, the dark warrior stared deep into her eyes with a mesmerizing smoldering gaze. “Dinnae be scared o’ me, maiden. I will be gentle with ye. I believe it was Fate that brought us together.”

Before she could hide her hand behind her back, he gripped it again and laid it on his leg. For one delightful moment, Esme imagined sliding her fingers along his muscular thigh and not stopping until it lay on the bulge of his crotch. To Esme, it felt as if the Highlander was trying to throw a glamor over her, but it had no effect. That he fought on the side of her enemies was enough for her to be able to push him away.

“Then I spit on Fate the same as I spit on ye!” Bouncing up off the step, Esme let her wrath run free. “I would sooner let the north winter winds blow on me bare skin than allow ye to touch me under me shift!”

She ran back inside, desperately trying to shake off the effects of the sensual glamor spell his touch had cast on her. For one wild moment, Esme had fantasized about lifting her kirtle and straddling him as he sat there! Her mind leapt at the thought of unlacing the front of his breeks and releasing the hard monster he kept restrained in there. Would she bend before him and allow him to mount her, waiting for him to pleasure himself inside her body the way she had been craving for so long? Something writhed and jumped deep inside Esme’s belly when the image of the man flashed in front of her.

Although it had cost her every last ounce of discipline, she had managed to get away from the man before his will dominated hers. Let him prowl at the soft entrance between me legs like a hungry bear if he likes! I will never succumb to him. He works for me enemies, therefore, he is me enemy.

The dark warrior did not follow her. His pride must be smarting from her rejection, but he was too canny to chase after a woman after such a defiant refusal. Esme shuddered as her mind and heart reverted to belonging to her. His allure was so strong, that she knew she would have jumped into bed with him if her revulsion at their opposing loyalties had not made her run away.

Magic aside, the Highlander had only gotten more attractive since the time she nursed him in the boat. The high bridged brow and firmly etched jawline were unchanged over the years. Try as she might, Esme could not shake the feeling that some strange connection had happened to them on the boat and the beach.

“What are you doing lazing out here?” The kitchen cook shouted at Esme, using the plaited grass basket she was carrying to hit the young woman around the head. “If I ever catch you shirking your duties again, Wench, I will send you to the barracks to become a pleasure girl. Do you understand?”

Crying out because of the belting, Esme said she understood. Still fuming, the cook gave her the basket. “Go gather up the trenchers in the hall, you lazy good-for-nothing.”

Running back to the hall, only stopping at the doorway to wrap the scarf around her lower face, Esme sneaked inside and began collecting the discarded trenchers. The hard black rye bread had been her staple diet when she had been living at the beach village, where most folks were happy to live on leftover scraps and fish.

The chief of the Fluga tribe stood up on the dais. Esme was glad the veil hid the sneer on her face as the man began his speech. “Here’s to the mighty clan of the Fletchers, whom the local people would call ‘McFletcher’ in their own tongue! My son returns from Scotland with good news. The Highland Council acknowledges our name! For this day forth, we will be known as the McFletchers and I will be called Laird Alfred McFletcher. We can use the local plants to dye our wool and weave our own cloth with it.”

The laird’s comptroller leaned across and whispered something in the laird’s ear. The laird nodded. “Our woolen plaids must reflect the colors of the seasons. Bright colors for feast days and dun colors for hunting and war. Tell your womenfolk to begin work right away.”

One of the pages pushed Esme towards the high table. “Remove the trenchers, Wench! The fruits and nuts must go out next.”

Fruit and nuts; what luxuries. Esme had been enslaved for ten years, but not even when she was a happy child playing in her family’s barn had she ever tasted a nut. Her mind on food, she stepped up onto the dais and leaned forward to remove the laird’s son’s trencher.

Clyde gripped her wrist like a vice. The two chieftains seated next to him shot her disapproving looks. “Are you a saucy minx or do you have a death wish?” Clyde hissed at her through bared teeth. “I swear to you now, woman, that if you are hideous under that mask, I will lop off your head for this rude infraction.”

Esme was close to fainting from fear. “I… I am nae cheeky, master. Cook told me to take all the trenchers from the t-tables.”

“You can only step up to the dais if you are invited, you silly woman,” the comptroller jeered. “You have to move along the floor in front of the table and reach up to take the trenchers from below. Were you born in a gutter?” Then he recognized Esme’s green eyes. “Hang about, Master Clyde. I can vouch for the girl’s ignorance. And I am happy to say that I can also vouch for her beauty under that mask she is wearing.”

At these words, Clyde reached over, pulling off Esme’s veil with one jerk. A few of the men rose off their benches to get a better look. For one awkward moment, complete silence settled over the hall.

The lust was easy to read in the laird’s son’s eyes. “Remind me to award you with a gold coin, Comptroller,” Clyde said, not taking his greedy gaze off Esme’s face, “you have exquisite taste in young maidens.”

The comptroller looked very pleased with himself. “That’s what I thought so too, master. Life is sweet when slaves are so comely.”

Laird McFletcher raised his cup carved from horn. “ Sk?l ! I mean, Slàinte ! I drink to your good health, Son. But we cannot pluck the girl from her village without finding out if she is married first. You never know when the woman is so young, there might be a young husband out there also. And the last thing I need on such a small island is the Kirk getting involved with an illegal ravishing.”

Clyde sulked. He was a big man with an even larger appetite, and he wanted this serving wench with the green eyes.

There was something very beguiling about Esme’s face and figure. The more he looked at her, the more Clyde could imagine bedding the maid, sleeping soundly with her next to him in bed, and toasting their firstborn when it turned out to be a boy.

“I can see our future in those green eyes of yours, Wench,” Clyde muttered in Esme’s ear, getting great enjoyment out of the way she cringed away from him as she sat on his lap so unwillingly. “Tell me that you are not married.”

Overwhelmed with ardor, the laird’s son caressed Esme’s bosom as she shook with misery on his lap. “Don’t bruise those luscious breasts of hers, Clyde,” one of the chieftains said jokingly, “her husband will want her back in one piece before the day is much older. There is no way the woman is unmarried with the full ripeness of her comeliness so evident.”

Clyde pretended to like the joke, but when the man looked away he was frowning.

Jumping off his lap like a disgusted cat, Esme ran along the dais removing the broken trenchers before running out of the hall as if a rabid dog was chasing her—too distraught to notice the thunderous look on the Bear warrior’s face in the darkened corner of the room.