Two galleys, if he wasn’t mistaken.
And they were coming from different directions.
Intrigued, and eager to welcome action, if the truth were told, the warrior left the shelter of the standing stones and went to the bluff’s far edge.
He saw the ships at once, recognizing them as Norse longships. Serpent heads topped their prows and the oar blades flashed, rising and falling at speed as they shot across the moon-washed sea. Even at a distance, mail glinted at the chests of the rowers, showing that they were prepared for battle. Or perhaps they simply wished to defend a precious cargo if another ship challenged them.
Still, in the cold wind on his craggy bluff, the MacDonald warrior frowned.
The Viking ships were gaining on each other fast, their long strakes sending up fans of white-glistening spray. And as always when he spied such mastery, the MacDonald’s heart pounded, his pulse quickening. He missed the company of warriors. And even if the Norsemen had been his foes, he’d always admired their seamanship.
Yet something was different about these longships.
A peculiarity that chilled his blood.
If such a thing were possible, that was.
Still, he trusted his warrior’s instinct now as ever. Though it pained him to know he’d have to unsettle the other MacDonald look-outs Alasdair kept posted on the cliffs. Those two men would have their eyes trained in a different direction than the racing longships. And something told the warrior it was important for them to see the ships’ oddities.
Sadly, there was only one way to drive the men along the cliffs to where they’d spot the longships before they sped from view.
The warrior frowned, regretting what he must do.
Then he turned and made his way along the edge of the cliffs, his path taking him past the Warrior Stones. Only rather than the skirt them as he usually did, in his haste, he strode right through them.
The passage made his proud warrior’s body shimmer. He had a deep connection to the stones, after all. The Old Ones might’ve placed them on the headland ions before his time, but he’d known the stone circle in days before most of the monoliths had toppled to the grass. He’d looked on them in wonder before the first lichen had dared mar their surface.
He’d carved their runes with his own hand.
He was Drangar the Strong, a warrior whose fame had once reached to every corner of the Highlands and beyond.
Even if some of his descendants, including the present chieftain, Alasdair, doubted he’d ever existed, he certainly had.
In truth, he still did.
He was as real as he’d ever been, excepting certain annoying limitations.
Dismissing them, for he had no time for weaknesses, Drangar hurried on. With the exceptional senses of the deceased, he could already hear the low voices of the two MacDonald lookouts he planned to frighten into leaving their posts and hurrying farther along the cliffs.
He wished there was another way.
But at least he’d be making himself useful. Even if Alasdair scoffed at his existence, the lad had been right in one thing.
Drangar did have better to do in the Otherworld than float about like a curl of mist.
He was about to prove it.
Chapter 4
Much later and far from Blackshore’s Drangar Point, Marjory stood alone on the strand of a narrow, deep-sided inlet. Sheer, wave-beaten cliffs edged the bay and mist curled across the cold, gray water. A bitter wind came out of the north, stirring her hair and cloak. Mist swirled everywhere, trapping her between the plunging headland and the angry, white-capped sea. She was a prisoner to the darkness. A bleak, malevolent place where low clouds hid the horizon and even the cries of seabirds rang with malice.
“You should be honored to sail into the Otherworld.”
Marjory started, hearing the older woman’s words as clearly as if they’d been spoken in her ear. Both near and distant, the voice was strong and lightly accented. It also held a hollowed edge. Each word echoed in the chill air, at one with the menace.
Yet she was alone.
Sure of it, she looked around, listened for a presence she might’ve missed. Winter-born and raised on legends, she couldn’t discount the passage of a ghost. Such beings would favor a place so forbidding.
She’d heard something.
Yet no stern matron leaned near, speaking of the Otherworld. She blinked then, her breath catching as a strange luminance spread over the rock-walls of the jutting headland. Waves battered the strand, and the air felt thin, so chilled, each breath burned her lungs.
Gooseflesh rose on her arms. Her nape also prickled. Almost as if cold, unseen fingers had slid down her neck.
Firm, strong fingers, as would belong to a sharp-voiced older woman.
She frowned, refusing to acknowledge that the touch also minded her of the cold, bony hand of a harbinger of death. Such creatures were known to possess inhuman strength.
“You should rejoice for the privilege.” The voice came again, stronger now and seemingly closer. “‘Tis an honor without parallel.”
Marjory’s pulse quickened. Something dreadful was near, however unseen. She felt it and that was enough.
Her amber necklace was on fire.
Searing heat flashed around her neck and pierced deep inside her. A sharp, insistent pulsing that spread through her entire body like tendrils of flame. Oddly, the sensation wasn’t unpleasant.
The heat didn’t burn, only made itself known.
A rustle of movement came from somewhere. In that moment, the ambers’ humming ceased. The stones cooled, stilling as if they’d done all they could and now held their breath, waiting.
Marjory peered into the gloom. Her eyes widened as a stout, hard-featured woman stepped out of the shadows to loom before her.
The look she gave Marjory was as icy as the wind.
“An honor, I said.” The woman came closer, her voice as stern as before. “Your time of glory, do you not understand?” She gave Marjory the flicker of a smile. But it was the kind that didn’t reach the eyes. “It will happen whether the act pleases you or not. To go unwillingly” – she paused, the smile gone - “will shame your name.”
A band of women joined her. Younger, but each one looked as unfriendly as their leader. Big-boned and sturdy, they stayed together, moving forward as one. Still more came out of the fog that rolled off the sea to drift along the strand. A few arrived from knife-edged paths cut into the cliff face, their steps as measured as the other women’s.
They kept their gazes leveled on Marjory as they approached.
Soon, they’d surround her. Their intent stood clear on their faces.
They meant her ill.
Marjory met their stares. She kept her chin raised, refusing to run.
The women – and some girls - were tall and fair, with high cheekbones and startling blue eyes. Their hair hung in thick, looped braids. And they wore brightly colored gowns with flashes of blue and red showing beneath long woolen cloaks fastened by large, oval brooches. The brooches were worked with interlocking designs Marjory knew.
The women were Viking.
And although handsome in a fierce, stark manner, no smiles lit their faces. Not a trace of warmth or welcome shone in their eyes.
They walked forward slowly, taking their places alongside the matron.
Marjory met their stares, challenging them. “What do you want?”
“You will meet the gods for our lady.” The older woman turned her head to look down the strand. “You’ll take her place at our lord’s side in the Otherworld.”
Following her gaze, Marjory saw nothing.
Only sheets of blowing mist, the dark cliffs beyond, and a glint of pewter-gray sea. To her relief, she didn’t glimpse a deceased lord or any hint of the realm of the dead.
Still, the older woman’s deep-set eyes glittered menacingly. She didn’t look like someone to be thwarted. “You have been chosen.” Her tone was matter of fact. “Your fate is writ.”
; “I think not-” Marjory broke off when the mist parted to reveal a slim young woman at the far end of the strand. No more than a wisp, she wouldn’t reach Marjory’s chin if they stood side by side. She had a regal air, her back as straight as if she’d swallowed a spear. A high lady, indeed, she clearly knew her status.
She wasn’t Viking.
Her skin was a beautiful dusky shade. And her long ebony hair flowed free. The glistening strands rippled in the wind, the ends swinging about her hips. She wore a gown of cream linen and a blood-red cloak, edged with rich embroidery. Two large oval brooches winked from beneath her cape, each one glittering with inset gemstones. A golden torque gleamed at her neck, its ends shaped like serpent heads. Bands of bright silver and gold arm-rings lined her wrists and jeweled rings flashed on her fingers.
She was the most elegant woman Marjory had ever seen.
She supposed she was a Saracen.
Whoever she was, her grace was spoiled by arrogance.
It poured off her, thick as the sea mist drifting along the strand. Marjory couldn’t tear her gaze from the tiny, raven-haired beauty. The kind of female her grandfather used to say should never have been born, for all the torment they caused good men. Until this moment, Marjory had never truly believed such she-devils existed.
When the Saracen turned her way, she knew her grandfather had spoken true. The woman’s jet eyes could’ve been shards of frozen ice. More than a glacial stare, the look she gave Marjory was one of triumph.
And she was sure, pure unadulterated meanness.
Bristling, Marjory narrowed her own eyes, aware that her blue stare could frost the wintriest glare the Saracen might turn on her.
She wasn’t called Lady Norn for naught.
So she straightened her shoulders, embraced the hint of color she felt blooming on her cheeks. She looked the other woman up and down, appraising her openly.
“Thon woman is capable of meeting the gods herself.” Marjory turned back to the matron, making her tone as cold as the day.
The older woman’s lips tightened.
“You speak of Lady Sarina.” She put a hand on Marjory’s arm, gripping. “She is the second wife of our much-mourned lord, Rorik the Generous, who you will accompany into the Otherworld. Lady Sarina loved him greatly.”
“Then why doesn’t she go with him?” Marjory jerked free of the woman’s grasp. She saw no need for tact. “I have no love for your lord.”
The matron ignored her, looking past her to the siren in her cream-colored gown and blood-red cape. “Lord Rorik prized Lady Sarina above all else, even his fame and riches. As great-hearted as his name, he wished to spare her an end of cinder and ash, however noble.”
Marjory didn’t curb her tongue. “She looks most grateful.”
Lady Sarina did appear appreciative. But in a wickedly feral way, as if she were a sleek black feline who’d just savored a bowl of cream.
Or – Marjory shuddered – as if she’d just been pleasured by a strapping, well-lusted man who cared only for seeing to her carnal needs.
The woman was a wanton.
Marjory was sure of it.
And she wasn’t of a mind to journey anywhere with the vixen’s departed husband.
“Lady Sarina is grateful,” the matron hissed. “She’s prepared a basket of finest grave goods for you. You’ll have bolts of wool, silk, and linen, along with finely patterned belts and furred rugs to warm you. She also selected richest-woven eiderdown and feather pillows, combs, trinkets, and silver rings and brooches, even a jewel-rimmed drinking horn. You will enter the Otherworld with everything a lady-”
Marjory tossed back her hair. “I have no need of Lady Sarina’s gifts.”
The older woman sniffed. “The gods do not like mortals who scoff at honors bestowed on them.”
“Then they must despise your lady.” Annoyance began to pump in Marjory’s blood.
The tall, large-boned matron glared at her. Marjory returned the woman’s stare, refusing to be harassed.
“You speak of gods.” She used her iciest tone. “I believe they do not know this place.”
“Spleen will serve you naught. Destiny cannot be changed.” The words spoken, the matron again looked to the Saracen. This time when their gazes met, Lady Sarina inclined her head ever so slightly.
The approaching women surged forward then, circling Marjory and the older woman. They pressed near, joining hands to form a ring of cold-eyed foes.
Marjory ignored their hostility.
But for all her bravura, threads of fear were beginning to coil deep inside her. They unfurled and spread, snaking round her chest and squeezing ever tighter until even the simplest breath burned her lungs.
Despite the pain, she inhaled deeply of the cold, salt-laced air.
Mackintoshes quaked before no man.
They certainly wouldn’t quiver in the face of jeering women and girls.
Unfortunately, the band of women weren’t the reason for Marjory’s growing ill ease.
It was how the swirling mist parted just enough for her to catch glimpses of grim-faced Norsemen advancing out of the fog. Huge, bearded spearmen, they also wore swords or axes at their hips and carried colorfully painted shields. Behind them, fires burned bright, showers of sparks leaping high to turn the day red.
Marjory swallowed, her heart hammering even more when the fog shifted again, this time revealing the burning mast of a Viking longship.
Her eyes rounded and a bead of moisture trickled between her breasts.
Everyone at Nought – loving Norse heritage and tradition as Mackintoshes did – knew the meaning of a torched Viking ship.
Such burnings had one purpose.
They were funeral pyres.
Steeling herself, Marjory took a long, deep breath. Pride alone kept her from struggling against the matron’s grasp, bursting through the crush of women, and sprinting down the beach. The approaching warriors were now calling on Odin and Thor, urging the gods to speed their lord’s journey to the Otherworld.
As one, they chanted, beating their spear-shafts against their shields as they came closer. Marjory knew with sickening surety that they were coming for her. As she stared, they formed two flanking lines, standing just far enough apart so the women could drag her past their ranks to the burning ship and the fate they’d planned for her.
She blinked hard, fisted her hands against her hips.
She would not show fear.
But her palms were dampening and she was fairly sure her knees shook. She couldn’t tell because her pulse drummed so loudly, dulling her perception.
Or maybe she was just hearing the din of so many spears clashing on shields.
“See you” – the matron nodded once, her voice full of satisfaction – “even our hardest warriors do you honor this day.”
A strange silence fell across the strand as the ranks of spear-carrying warriors parted to allow one tall, stern-faced man to stride into view.
It was Alasdair.
Marjory’s breath caught, her heart slamming against her ribs. Not since the Glen of Many Legend’s trial by combat had he looked so fierce. Every inch a great warlord and hero, his hand rested on his sword hilt and he scowled his displeasure as he looked up and down the lines of Northmen. He’d clearly come to challenge them.
He’d slung his plaid over his broad, muscled shoulders and the day’s pale light glanced off the amber pommel stone of his sword. He appeared as much a lover of battle as Kendrew, his cold eyes and hard-set jaw warning he wasn’t a man to show mercy if pushed too far.
And this appeared to be such a time.
“Erred a bit far from your Highlands, eh?” One of the spearman stepped forward, pointing at Alasdair with the tip of his spear.
“Or” – the man tossed a grin at the other warriors – “are you wishing to visit Valhalla?”
“Neither.” Alasdair drew his sword with terrible scrape of steel, thrusting her high so the blade flashed bright. “If one hair on my lad
y’s head is harmed, I own your souls.”
Then he brought Mist-Chaser down, thrusting her sword point deep into the sand.
“Blood-letting as you have ne’er seen will turn this land red.” He grabbed the other man’s spear shaft, gripping tight as his voice hardened. “Eternity wouldn’t be long enough to still your screams.”
Jerking the spear from the Norseman’s grasp, he swung it round, leveling the spear-head at the two lines of warriors. “That I swear to you, in the name of my God and yours.”
Beside Marjory, the matron sneered. “Scots bastard.”
The other women and girls muttered their own curses and crowded around her, pressing in until she could no longer see Alasdair.
“Norn!” His voice swelled, ringing clear.
Marjory blinked. His words came from a great distance, hollow and fading away as the beating of spear-shafts against shields resumed. And now another, more terrifying sound filled her ears.
It was the roar of a great, raging fire, its heat scorching the air.
The women began cheering, drawing back to again reveal the two rows of warriors, their spearheads and mail glittering red in the firelight. They raised the spears as Marjory looked on, thrusting the shafts point-to-point to form a long, deathly tunnel.
Lady Sarina waited at its end, her raven tresses lifting in the wind.
Marjory drew a breath, her gaze going past the Saracen to the circle of fire burning so bright behind her. The blaze was almost blinding, its leaping flares shooting heavenward, turning the sky a horrible flaming orange. Showers of soot and ash swirled everywhere, adding a pall of eerie blackness to the scene.
Alasdair was gone.
At the far end of the warrior line, Lady Sarina began working a silver arm-ring from her wrist. The sight made Marjory’s stomach clench, for she knew the bangle was meant as a parting gift.
Token thanks for taking the beauty’s place on the burning longship.
The death pyre.
Marjory shivered. “No.” She shook her head, vowing to shove the silver ring back on the Saracen’s wrist if she dared thrust it at her.
Seduction of a Highland Warrior (Highland Warriors Book 4) Page 7
