Chapter 4

Chapter

Four

Warrior Weddings: How to Stay United When There's Mutual Mayhem

From A Beginner's Guide to Berserker Bliss

Author Unknown

B right morning sunlight filled the bedroom, illuminating dancing dust motes. Though my head throbbed from imbibing too much champagne last night, I moved from one piece of furniture to the next, on the hunt for Isobel's phone. For hours, I'd searched drawers, cushions, nooks, and crannies, trying not to imagine where my luggage and purse had ended up. And failing.

Either Isobel had taken over my life, soon to begin teaching my class, or she'd run away for good, and my mother believed I was missing.

A low mewl left me, and I almost broke down. Thora watched from her mound of pillows at the foot of the bed, ready to lunge if I got too close. Which I'd done. Once. Last night. The reason I'd given her the supervillain nickname Lady Thorn.

My thoughts veered to the party. Afterward, Angus had driven Callen and me back to the castle. During the drive, we'd exchanged a grand total of zero words. The trials of the day and a gallon of champagne had gotten the better of me, and I'd nodded off at some point. Callen, or more likely an employee, had carried me to the redhead's room. I'd awoken exactly as before: alone in a wedding dress and weirded out.

Now that I'd (semi) rested, fed the tiny monster, showered, and donned the most casual clothes in the closet—a loose blouse and too short skirt—I had a clearish head, a fresh swell of determination, and a plan to find Isobel, right her wrongs, and return to my life. But first, I needed that cell.

While I enjoyed mysteries and loved following clues to the priceless prize of revelation, this was ridiculous. The phone must be here. No way she'd taken it with her after purposely shedding her identity to claim mine.

Anger sparked at the reminder, only to die as an idea struck. The white purse! The one she'd carried at the hotel. I rushed into the closet and scanned. There, between two other white bags. After a swift grab and dump, I crouched on the floor to rifle through the contents. A high-end pair of sunglasses. A case for said sunglasses, stuffed with receipts. A sleek tube of lipstick with a polished gold finish. A premium pen with the initials IC stamped on the barrel. Pepper spray, three mini liquors, eight coffee spill sticks, but nothing else. I checked the purse for a side pocket. Yes! A fancy smartphone I couldn't afford.

Wasting no time, I used my fingerprint to unlock it, then punched in my own number with a shaky finger.

After the fourth ring, a ragged moan spilled over the line. "Did you really need to call me so early?"

Oh, the strangeness of hearing my own voice tinged with a Scottish accent. "What did you do to me?" I didn't mean to, but I screeched "And what do you mean early? You are five hours ahead of me."

Another moan. "Must you shout? I'm in the middle of the worst hangover. Apparently, your body isn't used to drinking as much as mine. Now I'm paying the price." Accusation spilled from her tone.

"Do you have any idea how expensive alcohol is?" I'd much rather spend my money on a book. Not having to deal with long-term regret was nice too. Something I now comprehended firsthand. Yesterday, I'd kinda sorta flirted with Callen, another woman's husband. But I wasn't going to think about that.

"Nothing is expensive when someone else buys it for you," she chided. "Did you know your home is a hovel?"

My small farmhouse might be old and in need of many, many repairs, but potential infused every corner, and it was mine. "You traded places with me. How? Is it temporary or permanent?" Please be temporary .

She acted as if I hadn't spoken, saying, "Though I suppose anything is better than living with Callen. He may be rich, titled, and easy on the eyes, but he's unbearable."

"How?" I pressed, refusing to give up.

"For starters, he doesn't ask, he commands. I'm sure you noticed within minutes of your introduction. Also, he?—"

"Not Callen!" I bellowed. "Tell me how you traded places with me and if this is permanent."

"Oh, this is indeed permanent, darling, since I'd have to come back to Scotland to undo it, and I won't. What's more, Callen will never suspect the truth. I took measures. He'll remain in the dark, no matter what you do or say or how you act. And don't try to threaten me with Thora. As long as you take care of my baby, I'll take care of yours. Yes, I know all about your love for this ridiculous coin necklace. I've read the journal entries in your digital notes."

First, I really disliked this woman. Second, the procedure could be reversed. Third, I would be reading her notes and texts the moment we hung up. Fourth, what measures had she taken to guarantee Callen's continued ignorance? Did it have something to do with his comment about my accents, plural?

It's worse than the others.

I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth. How many accents had she butchered on purpose? How long had she planned to dupe some poor, unsuspecting woman?

"You have a deal," I grated. Why not tackle this from another direction? "But what makes you think I won't convince Callen of the truth, then fly to Oklahoma to handle you?"

She laughed. Actually laughed. "Now you're just being silly. You can't mention soul switching without earning a death sentence."

"I know!" As if I'd ever forget the threat of execution. At least I had a name for what we'd done. "You're going to pay for this."

"Hardly. He won't let you leave Scotland without him, and he won't leave Scotland, period. I tried and tried to convince him to use an alternate dimension, but he's stubborn. Also, I burned all my identification and bridges to make it more difficult for you to travel. No one there will help you."

My hand flew to my—nothing. I closed my eyes and breathed deep. "I get why everyone hates you so much, but why does Callen?" And what did she mean, an alternate dimension?

"Oh. That. Well, there's a slight possibility it might have something to do with his brother."

I glared at one of her portraits. How dismissive she sounded.

Hmm. Could the brother be that Roderick guy I'd heard about?

When Isobel said nothing more, I prompted, "Go on. You owe me this, at least. I'll even up the ante and pamper your hobgoblin with a treat."

She gave a little huff. "Is my Thora despondent without me? She is, isn't she? I knew she'd sense the switch. She's brilliant."

My gaze slid to the fluff ball, who had all but folded in two to lick her own butt. Thora sensed the attention and stopped to intimidate me with a snarl.

"Just spill what I want to know, Isobel. You didn't even leave me a list of who's who." Hope sparked. "Or did you?" Had I missed it?

"Of course I didn't. Risk being found out before I escaped? No. Your new life, your problem."

Argh! "Tell me something before I…I…"

"No need to throw a tantrum. I'll give you the information you seek." She paused, as if bracing herself. "See, Callen believes fate picked me as his firebrand. I was to be his exclusive property, but then I met his only sibling, Roderick. To claim me as his own, Roddie needed to become king. With no other option, he challenged his brother to a death match. Which Callen accepted just to spite me, I'm sure. Aye, the law states he cannot refuse a challenge without losing his crown but come on! Roddie was more than his brother. They were best friends, too. The least Callen could've done was step aside and let the man have his heart's desire."

King. Death match. Crown. "Stop! Just stop. No one engages in death matches anymore." I pinched the bridge of my nose. That was seriously my first response? "What's a firebrand?"

"Guess I began my story in the wrong spot," she said with a little laugh. "I should've mentioned Callen is immortal and king of berserkers. Well, Scotland's berserkers. Congrats! You are now the only person in the world able to soothe him from the worst of his fiery rages. Maybe. It depends on whether the body or soul is responsible for said soothing. Time will tell. I suggest you do your best to keep him calm."

What the— what? I squeezed the phone, fighting the urge to hurl it across the room. She had not just thrown out words like ‘immortal' and ‘berserkers,' ancient warriors known to slip into a violence-fueled trance during battle. Callen, some mythological ruler? Hardly. For starters, no one had called him by a royal title. But they had treated him with reverence. And some of the servants had curtseyed.

"You're lying." Had to be. Outside of myths, movies, and books, there was no such thing as berserkers. Although, granted, before yesterday, I hadn't known souls could switch bodies, either.

"Usually I am, but not today."

Panic brewed, preparing to fill a pot with trouble. What if she had told the truth? Callen considered Isobel— me—the catalyst for his brother's death. He must long for my misery. And I couldn't blame him. Considering Isobel's callous attitude, he probably harbored all kinds of pain and resentment over the incident .

I massaged an ache in my sternum. Sadly, things might get worse for me if he learned my real identity. Isobel claimed soul switching was a death sentence; even Callen had hinted at it.

He was a man who might have fought to the death with his brother, simply over a challenge. What wouldn't he do to me?

Unable to mask the tremor in my voice, I asked, "You never told me what a firebrand is."

" You'd probably say fated mate. Which reminds me. Berserkers are warring extra hard with wolf-shifters, so Callen is gonna be super protective of you, which means he'll hate you more than ever. Oh, and he knows your scent, so even if you run away, he'll find you in a matter of hours. Okay, tootles." Click .

Grrr. I jabbed my finger at the phone, doing an online search about berserkers. Verification I'd gotten their traits right. Thought to be fictional, with stories of near feral, frenzied, undying warriors running into battle naked and leaving mass destruction in their wake, unable to stop themselves. Thought to be possessed by the spirit of the bear, wolf, or boar. The most famous were Norse, possibly Vikings, with a few mentions of Scottish and Gaelic settlements thrown in. To relocate and rebrand to hide their otherworldly origins?

I tried to check for information about Callen Bruce, but a block prevented any pages from opening.

Acid burned my throat. I checked Isobel's notes and messages. I pursed my lips. All deleted.

What should I do? Continue to tear her room apart in hopes of finding money and the identification she allegedly torched? Or gather my courage and speak with Callen ?

Yes. That. He should be here, right? We were only two days into our honeymoon.

I cackled a humorless laugh. Might as well track him down. He had answers, I had questions. Besides, I couldn't stay holed up in this room forever.

Determined, I power walked to the closet to select shoes. Ugh. Stilettos galore, no sneakers in sight. Not even measly house slippers. Whatever. I grabbed the fanciest pair of heels, hopefully the most expensive, and hammered them into the floor until the heels broke off.

"Wish me all the best, Lady Thorn," I said, slipping the new flats on my feet and striding past the bed.

In response, she hopped to the floor and trotted off, shaking an admittedly adorable tush. A huge improvement in our relationship, if I did say so myself.

With my head high and my shoulders squared, I soared into the hall, abandoning the anonymity of the bedroom. Buzz and Ponytail waited outside the door. No reason to acknowledge them. I kept going, faking Isobel's confidence. The musclemen followed me.

Doing my best to ignore them, I catalogued my surroundings. Wow! The vaulted ceiling was painted to resemble the sky, with all its many nuances. Stained glass windows in shades of cerulean, indigo, and cobalt dazzled. So did the stone walls covered with gilt framed artwork, ten of which depicted ten blood-soaked warriors being crowned.

I licked my lips and moved my gaze from the savagery to lovely light fixtures made of azure crystals. Man, they really dug the color blue here. But it worked, creating a space of breathtaking beauty when you factored out the gruesomeness of the portraits. Like that one. A massive, ten-foot canvas caught my attention. In it, warriors who possessed characteristics of different wild beasts ripped out the hearts of their foes.

I gawked at the brutality, and it cost me. Boom! I smacked into a maid cleaning an ornate side table. We both scrambled to save a teetering vase.

"I'm so sorry," I said, backing off when she clutched the embellished glass to her chest. My nearness had caused enough chaos. I shot a swift, pointed glare to Buzz and Ponytail over my shoulder. They didn't even pretend to help us. Thanks for nothing, guys.

"Oh nay, ma'am. I mean, nay, Mrs. Bruce. The fault is mine." The twenty-something cutie executed a stiff curtsy, keeping her eyes downcast, which immediately filled me with guilt. "I shouldna' have stood in your path."

Well. It was clear she'd dealt with the redhead before and expected the worst. As if she were at fault for taking up her own personal space. I opened my mouth to reassure her, but the words stalled on my tongue. She'd called me ma'am . Not majesty . No title, no royalty. See? Isobel lied.

Unless there was a reason for the lack? Like, say, hiding one's immortality from mortals.

Gah! What did I know? "Have you seen Callen? Mr. Bruce?" I'd rather get directions from her than from my shadows.

Frowning, she pointed. "Down the steps, take two rights and a left."

"Thank you." Off I went, descending the vast wooden staircase. This time, I kept my gaze straight ahead, not letting myself study the glorious furnishings and stained-glass windows. I was a woman on a mission.

I passed several other housekeepers dusting and opening curtains to welcome in the morning sun. Each one curtsied deeper than the last. But did this prove Isobel right?

Uncertain of protocol, I simply smiled and nodded a greeting. Not that it won me any fans. Everyone raced away immediately afterward.

Finally, I reached the end of her directions and used open a door, entering a formal dining room. My shoes pushed into thick carpet as the door snickered shut behind me. Buzz and Ponytail faded into the background, leaving me alone with Callen, who occupied the head of a long, rectangular table bare but for the plate from which he ate, and a floral centerpiece made of delphinium, thistle and forget-me-nots in the most vibrant shades of blue. He was reading something tucked inside a discreet navy folder. If he noticed me, he didn't reveal it.

My heartbeat sped up. He looked good. Really good. Really, really, really good. Black hair brushed back, not a strand out of place. Face straight out of a romance novel with thick brows, heavily lashed eyes and sharp cheekbones. A thicker shadow dusted his strong jaw, proving he hadn't shaved this morning. Another tailored suit displayed his broad shoulders. Today he wore a silk tie in a subdued shade of sapphire. No telltale battle scars decorated his hands.

Was he a berserker known for savagery in combat or not? He couldn't be.

Could he?

Unease rippled through me. I shifted from one foot to the other, only then realizing I'd been stroking my fingertips over a coin necklace I no longer wore.

Without glancing up, he intoned, "I thought we agreed. I eat at seven, you eat at eight. "

Yikes. He'd noticed me right from the start, hadn't he? What else had "we" agreed upon?

"Perhaps we could make an exception today? I'm starved." When dealing with an errant husband, a girl should keep up her strength.

Rather than waiting for permission, I plopped into the chair at the opposite end of the table. Because that's what Isobel would do, one hundred percent. My motives had nothing to do with the way his presence unbalanced me.

"I'll be so quiet you'll forget I'm here," I added, continuing my covert study of him for signs of whatever traits berserkers might have. A prominent brow ridge? Nope. A forward-projecting midface? No again. A stubborn chin? Well, yes.

"Isobel," he said, and I heard the warning note in his tone.

Oh, how I hated that name. "Please, call me—Elle." Yes! Perfect. The name fit both Isobel and Elizabeth. "And that's definitely the last thing I'll say. Unless you invite a few questions?" As a teacher, I'd learned sweeter wording increased learning. "I'm wondering why your decorator selected certain pieces of art."

A muscle jumped beneath his eye. He twisted the signet ring around his finger. An action I now suspected pointed to a questioning mind. "Bring her a plate," he called.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you—apologies! Being quiet now." I mimed zipping my lips, then rubbed my hands together with triumph. Finally I'd won a battle.

An ancient man in a starched black-and-white uniform marched through a door hidden in the wall behind Callen, carrying a plate piled high with eggs, sausage, bread, and several dishes I couldn't identify .

My mouth watered. "Thank you very much," I said as the newcomer arranged the buffet of delights before me.

He humphed before striding away. No matter. I dove in with gusto. Mmm. My eyes closed as I savored the first bite. So, so good! Better than the salmon scones.

Only after I'd devoured half the food did I remember Callen and glance up. He'd set his folder aside in favor of watching me.

"What?" I asked, a fork halfway to my mouth. His brusque expression could mean anything. Because in every other way, he appeared relaxed. He reclined in his seat, with an elbow resting on the carved arm of the chair. Was he softening toward me? At least a little? "I wasn't speaking, exactly as advertised."

"What game are you playing? Yesterday, you acted as if you were my captive. Today, you pretend you're thrilled to be here." The twisting stopped. Decision made?

"Definitely not thrilled," I admitted with a shrug. "You're not the warmest of guys. And you aren't even wearing a kilt."

He tapped a finger against the tabletop. Didn't care to hear he was as much a problem as his hated wife? Too bad. Truth was truth. Although, I had to walk a fine line with my honesty. If he truly were a berserker and he raged, I'd have no defense.

I shuddered. "Since you initiated a conversation, I can only assume you wish it to continue." With barely a breath, I added, "You obviously dislike me. Why not divorce me?" Might as well feel him out and compare his answers to Isobel's.

"Drop the American accent," he snapped. "It doesn't suit you."

Would he ever respond to a question outright? But okay. All right. If he wanted me to sound like the real Isobel, I'd comply. "Aye. I willna use me American accent in yer exalted presence again, yer majesty." Nope. Abort, abort! I sounded like a pirate.

He blinked at me as if I'd lost my mind.

To save my very life, I absolutely needed to go a different route with this. "Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit." I exaggerated my drawl and tossed in a wink for good measure. My version of the sassy southern wife. "I think I'll stick with being American. I kinda love it." I smiled at him, all innocence, then forked another bite of eggs into my mouth, chewed, swallowed. "Bless your heart, you'll just have to deal."

Again, he merely blinked, not realizing the utter burn I'd just leveled.

Might as well try a different tactic to angle for the trip home. "Speaking of America, I'm officially requesting permission to fly to the United States to see a friend. A quick jaunt really. Only a few days, nothing more. There and back in a jiff. You might not even know I'm gone."

"Nay." He picked up and opened his folder, an action meant to end the conversation.

"But—"

"Nay."

Wow. Not even a split second to consider. Now I almost missed the unrelated statement responses. "Aren't you curious about who my friend is and why I wish to see her?"

"Nay."

I speared a piece of sausage with more force than necessary. He would never let me leave, proving Isobel right. That might be the worst of all his crimes so far.

Without warning, he stood, gathered his things, and strode from the room .

Unwilling to give up, I abandoned my half-eaten food to chase after him and called, "Is it the cost?" Though the house was massive and filled with fabulous antiques, he might be cash poor.

"Nay."

"Then what is it?" I wanted to hear him admit it. And, okay, yeah, maybe shouting questions at a potential berserker wasn't the smartest thing I'd ever done. For my next query, I modulated my volume. "If you're unwilling to part with my magnificent presence, you could make the trip with me, I guess."

He didn't bother to respond.

If he'd been anyone else, I would've put him in time out.

The thought roused a memory, Isobel's voice filling my head.

"How do you handle emotionally unavailable males?"

"I put them in time out."

"Time out? Oh, I bet he'll love that."

What a fool I'd been. I fisted my hands, demanding, "Tell me where you're going today. You must. I'm kind of your wife."

"I'll be at the office." Not a hitch in his step. He didn't stop until he reached a smaller, second foyer, both grand and menacing. Framed, blood-stained battle axes graced a wall. The same old guy who'd brought me a plate of food waited with a wool overcoat and a briefcase.

Buzz and Ponytail sidled up behind me. I clenched my jaw and gritted out, "But it's Sunday." More importantly, no mythological berserker with rage issues would risk grinding in an office from 9 to 5. Right?

"I'll pick you up at seven," he said, heading for the door. Old Man Butler helped him don the coat. "We have a clan meeting at eight. "

"Great." But was it a clan meeting with normal people or berserkers? And oh, what a frustrating man! The unrelated statements weren't better I decided. "What am I supposed to do while you're gone?"

"Remain here, avoid trouble, and speak to no one." With that, he claimed the briefcase and stalked outside. The door closed behind him, shutting me inside.

The nerve of him! Well, good riddance. His absence was a blessing. With the big, bad king of the castle gone, the lady of the house could search it from top to bottom, on the hunt for clues about her fake husband's species, the real Isobel, and anything and everything able to aid my escape.

Mr. Butler gave me a look, lifted his nose in the air, and marched off.

I needed to get the heck out of Dodge sooner rather than later. If Callen Bruce was a berserker, a death warrant hung over my head, and there it would stay, whether or not I admitted to the soul switch. I wasn't his firebrand .

Although, there might be another means to approach this. I could try to keep him calm, as Isobel suggested, and do whatever proved necessary to win him to my side.

Gaining his affections would be a gamechanger. A way to (hopefully) walk away free and clear. As friends, I could convince him to help me snare Isobel without him ever learning the real reason why.

Yes, yes. This idea had merit. But first, my fact finding mission. The tour of the fortress.