Chapter 5

Chapter

Five

I t was the last boat crossing for the year. After this, the North Sea would be too unpredictable to risk sailing on. Laird McFletcher had a deal with a merchant on the mainland. The merchant would navigate his carrack a few miles offshore the Scandinavian coastline and then lower the clan’s longboats onto the water before sailing on to trade peacefully with the inhabitants further east.

The two McFletcher longboats would slide along the rugged coastline under the cover of darkness, looking for the familiar natural harbors where they would pull ashore. Clyde was in charge of one boat and Bruce had the other.

Since gaining adult status and a wife, the laird’s eldest son was eager to prove his worth—and take his rightful place as the warriors’ leader. Unlike the other lairds on the mainland, Laird Alfred McFletcher was content to keep a circle of chiefs and war-like friends around him instead of paying for a standing army. And now it was time for Clyde to prove his merit by leading those men on a foray.

This was very necessary. One whiff of weakness from the conquerors of MacKenzie land, and hordes of Norsemen would head south and west, eager to supplant the Flugas with sword and fire. Those tribes that did not have children on the island as hostages would not hesitate to set sail when it was least expected, to rape, pillage, and plunder the winter stores, maybe even returning to the Scandinavian lands with hostages of their own.

Bruce blended into the dark night like a shadow. He had blackened his face with lamp soot and covered his coat with the plaid. He was pleased to be on the move and busy. It took his mind off Esme’s stubborn refusal to give him the time of day. One sword was in his back scabbard and another was in the sheath on his side. A long knife hung from his belt and two more had been slid down the side of his boots.

On this occasion, he used no bow. He needed to get up close to his foes and look them in the eye. It was the only way he could forget how Esme rebuffed him. Turning his bitterness into anger, Bruce moved away from the group of men so he could feel the battlelust rising inside him without interruption. He knew where he was going; the day before, they had seen smoke rising out of a vast forest that swept along the coast. It was a sign of an encampment.

This raid was done as a request. The merchant had reported to Laird McFletcher about a poor clan of peninsula islanders who had been set upon by an aggressive tribe of wandering warriors. The men would move south for the winter, taking what they wanted from the local people and leaving the survivors without food or warmth. Those who had not died from the sword or fire perished from the cold.

“My father’s orders are clear.” Clyde McFletcher was relishing being in control. His shield hung behind his back and his sword was already in his hand. Like most men dedicated to war, he would not sheath his weapon again until it had been fed blood. “Slay all the invaders if they are men. Capture any women. Ransom those too young to wear a beard or bleed on their lunar cycle.”

Bruce’s eyes glowed in the light coming from the moon. After checking Clyde had no more orders, the Highlander began to trek inland. One of the men offered him a large pinch of dried mushrooms to consume as he passed by, but Bruce shook his head in rejection.

He needed no stimulation to enjoy his work. Also, it concerned him that after a man ate the potent dried mushrooms, the toxic properties within them made a man lose control over his ability to feel pity or remorse. Those emotions linked Bruce to the world, and he would feel even more like an animal without them.

He could hear Clyde trying to overtake him on the trail, but this only made Bruce pace faster. It must be he who bore the brunt of their first attack. He was one of the Immortal Brethren, doomed to roam, doomed to fight, fated to seek some sort of closure to the endless cycle of blood and gore.

Spotting the invaders’ lookout scout easily, Bruce ducked out of sight and threw a stone to one side. He had to be quick before Clyde caught up to him. True enough, the scout moved to see what the noise was. He understood the language of the Norsemen well enough to understand what the lookout shouted to the camp.

“Beware of the bear, lads!”

Hoots and jeers came from the camp. “More like a reindeer coming to graze on the last of the berries.” The lookout grumbled, telling the men to guard the meat. Bruce smiled to himself. The scout was more accurate than the men would ever know! Moving behind the lookout, he clamped his hand over the man’s mouth and dispatched him with a dirk stab to the neck.

The rusty smell of blood flooded his nostrils and the thrill of combat rose inside him. This was what he had been born to do. Hefting the sword in his hand, Bruce rushed towards the campfire as deadly as an arrow loosed from the bow.

The McFletcher warriors stampeded behind him, yelling their battle cries as they breached the camp. It was a particular fighting technique used by the Norsemen called ‘storm and stress’, and it aimed to shock those who had to defend themselves, effectively making them useless from fright.

This was a good thing because there were many invaders. Still, the skirmish was over quickly. No man could withstand such a powerful onslaught. Bruce’s black plaid absorbed all traces of blood. As for the splatters on his skin, he went to wash it off in the sea before going back to see to the prisoners.

The captives were kept in wooden cages on carts. They cried pitifully when they saw the bloodied barbarians stalking towards them. Bruce was the first to comfort them. “Dinnae nap yer shirt fronts, lads. Wheesht, ye wee lassies. I’m here to set ye free and take ye back to yer families.”

Clyde was nearby to hear this. “No. My father’s orders were for us to bring them back to the island with us. As slaves.”

Bruce stood his ground. “Nay right back at ye, lad. Yer faither’s orders were for ye to ransom or capture the invaders ’ kin if the men were traveling with them. These poor weans are nae kin to those slain men—they are prisoners and they are going back home to the island where they came from.”

A few weak cheers came from the young children and maidens in the cages, but this only made Clyde more stubborn. “No! Why must you always seek to undermine me, Highlander? I want my pick of the maidens at least.”

This battle frenzy was still high in Clyde’s blood and his eyes were wide and crazed from the mushrooms. But Bruce was not intimidated. He was confident he would always have the last word.

Shrugging off the plaid around his shoulders, he flexed his bare shoulders and loosened the sinews in his neck, never taking his glaring eyes off Clyde. Withdrawing both swords and swinging them in a lethal circle around him, Bruce seemed to grow taller in firelight.

“Ye have the most precious slave already working for ye! Must I teach ye a lesson on how to be satisfied?” Bruce’s voice echoed through the forest, waking the woodland creatures from their sleep. Birds flew out of the branches and wolves howled on the hills.

A small boy in one of the cages was amazed by this display of shock and awe. “Woo! He’s bigger than a bear!”

One of the McFletcher chiefs began to laugh, and then another one. Soon, the whole contingent of men were holding their sides and howling with laughter. It diffused the situation immediately. “You don’t want to fight your father’s favorite berserker, Clyde,” one of the older chiefs patted the laird’s son’s shoulder. “Sheath your swords and return the children to their families. We have plenty of hostages and slaves already.”

Bruce did not back down until Clyde dropped his sword arm and mooched off to break the cages open. The Highlander was panting from having to restrain his black mood. There, he had said it out loud. And everyone had heard him. Bruce Sterling believed the latest addition to Clyde’s household to be precious.

Esme was precious, but she was especially precious to Bruce. He was fuming at the thought that she was willingly living under Clyde’s roof. His exposure could not have happened at a worse time. The last thing he wanted was for the laird’s son’s attention to whip back to the bonny young lass with the green eyes who now lived within an arm’s reach away.

Fretting and cursing under his breath, Bruce went back to the boats for a lantern. He must signal to the merchant ship to come back around the harbor. He could not wait to get back to the island—and to Esme McKenzie.

Her heart sank when she saw the merchant ship on the horizon. The mission to help the Scandinavian isle hostages must have been successful. And Clyde Fluga McFletcher would be coming back with good news.

His wife, Anna, was pregnant. She had not bled for three months and her belly was swelling. A few of the slaves from the household went down to the shore with their mistress to be there when the master received the announcement. There would be lots of work, enough to keep Esme busy for hours. A great feast was to be held in honor of the possibility of a son and Clyde’s heir, and to celebrate the completion of the rescue mission.

The island dwellers knew the raid had been successful because of the flag flying from the ship’s mast. Esme was in two minds about it; happy that the hostages were safely home, and deeply concern that she had chosen to work in this household. With his wife pregnant and off limits for the next six months, Clyde would be free to choose a mistress.

Clinging to the faint hope Master Clyde would respect her fake wifely status, Esme hid her mass of thick brown hair behind her scarf and kept her head down.

But her plain disguise was not enough. When she looked up as the welcoming party breezed through the entrance, she caught Clyde staring at her with hungry eyes. Fleeing to the great hall, Esme offered to fill the pitchers of wine and ale from the caskets in the cellar during the feast. She could hide in the dark and pray he did not come looking for her.

That was where Bruce found her. She heard his heavy tread and looked up, the fear and disgust clear to see. But when she saw it was the Highlander, her face broke into smiles of relief.

“Gods be praised! I thought ye were the laird’s son.” They both knew why she was afraid it would be Clyde. Esme saw the Highlander’s eye glitter with humor from the light of the lantern.

“And what do I owe to this change of opinion, Esme?” moving towards her, he took one of her cold hands in his own, brought it to his mouth, and kissed it. His touch was warm. Without even being aware of it, Esme’s body bloomed under his caress.

“Och,” her nervous hands pleated the hem of her apron, “me tongue was rough on ye when last we met, Highlander. Ye saved those poor islanders, and for that I am grateful.”

“News travels fast,” he remarked in a casual tone, “but I have a name, ye ken. Why dinnae ye call me Bruce? We are nae longer strangers, bonny lassie, and in truth, we never were.”

No. He was definitely no longer a stranger to her. Esme had dreamed about him every night since the broodingly handsome warrior had sailed north. Dreams? Not exactly. They were as close to fantasies as a woman could get without climbing into an actual bed with a man. Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered them.

They were on the boat, rocking on the waves of a dark sea and, willingly, she had parted her legs for him. Looking down at her splayed knees, Esme saw she was wearing her ragged shift. The material was wet and clung to her body like a second skin. Her nipples pressed against the linen, peaked to tight points by the cool air and the man kneeling in the boat in front of her. The Highlander was wearing his black plaid, but when she beckoned him to come closer, he cast the plaid aside with one careless throw.

Her mind had imagined him to be the most braw man, and she was not afraid at how much she yearned for him inside her. Nor was she afraid of his impressive size. Her body ached for him, becoming soaked with anticipation the longer she watched him. Too impatient for his touch, she sat up and pulled him down onto her, feeding him into that part of her that craved him the most.

Something was building inside her. It felt huge, monumental. Why did it not hurt when he thrust into her? Was it because she had wanted this so badly that his powerful manhood had not torn her maidenhood away from her, but eased it away from her gently? Had the barrier yielded before him like everything else did?

Opening her eyes in the dream, Esme had looked down. A dark shadow had covered her and was eating her soft mound with hungry growls.

“I like the way ye are looking at me, lassie,” Bruce broke in on her turbulent thoughts. “Might I ken what ye are thinking?”

Whispering softly, hoping the darkness of the cellar hid her blushes, Esme shook her head. “Nay, Bruce. Ye may not.”

“Then I will share my thoughts with ye,” the warrior countered. “Come awa’ with me to a more private place so that we are nae interrupted. Surely I have earned the right to whisper secrets to ye withoot a troupe o’ servants bothering us?”

Esme allowed him to lead her to the brewery. It was her fate and her dearest wish to give her maidenhead to the Highlander.

It was a warm space that smelt of barley. The sound of bubbling wort was all around them. There was a bench against the wall with a table for the brewer to sample the ales. Gesturing with his hand, Bruce signaled for Esme to sit down first. “A hard bench is all I can offer ye, lass, because ye cruelly sent me awa’ with me kind offer o’ refuge rejected.”

This time, Esme could tell that he was teasing her. He had a very sardonic sense of humor, and she had to search for the glint of merriment in his eye before she could tell if he was being serious or not.

“A bench is fine, I thank ye. But I will catch the cook’s fury if she finds out that I have abandoned me post.”

Bruce waved a lazy hand in the kitchen’s direction. “Let them swelter. It’s their choice to celebrate every swelling belly with a feast. As if it were nae the most natural thing in the world.”

Esme was feeling very comfortable sitting next to Bruce on the bench. He had stuck out his long legs under the table and had broached a flask of wine, pulling out the cork with his teeth. He took a hearty pull from the mouth of the bottle and then handed it to her. She did not hesitate, taking the flagon and tilting a large dollop of wine down her throat.

It was her first taste of strong wine. Spluttering and coughing, Esme laughed. “Are ye trying to kill me, Bruce? That stuff tastes like the black ooze that washes up on oor northern shores! We use it to help us light the fires.”

Taking her by the hand, he grew serious. “Does it feel as if a fire has been lit inside yer belly?”

“Aye,” Esme wiped her streaming eyes, removing her head scarf to use as a kerchief. Her hair tumbled down like a cascading waterfall. “I feel hot.”

When he did not reply, she turned her head to look at him. It was then she knew why she had agreed to follow the Highlander to the brewery—she wanted those exquisite dreams of hers to come true. Reaching out her hand, she caressed the side of his face. “I feel hot. The words bear repeating.” A smile flickered across her lips. Bruce had sailed north to save a clan of islanders. Too bad he had come here too late to save her island and family, but her heart had thawed because of that good deed.

“I will stoke that fire inside ye, sweet lassie.” His voice rumbled, so close they were to each other. “And ye will love the stiff poker I use to do it.”

He used his fingers to trace the passage of the wine down her throat. Esme had never been touched so gently by a man before. His stroke moved over her neck until he reached the deep cleavage of her bosom. Hardly daring to linger, his fingers traced down her belly, stopping at the girdle of her kirtle. “I will make ye hotter than a midsummer day at noon if ye let me,” the way he growled his gruff promise thrilled Esme to the core. “I will sink deeper inside ye than any wine could ever do, me bonny Selkie.”

His voice, the masculine scent rising from his body, his darkly handsome face; all of these things made Esme’s heart skip and beat and then continue to beat a little faster.

“Aye, Bruce. I give ye permission to take from me the only thing I have to give.”