by Jaid Black
Season of the Witch
Jaid Black
December 1265 A.D.
The king is furious when word reaches him Eilean Donnain was conquered by Vikings. He dispatches the ruthless Highland warlord Cainnech MacKenzie to lay siege. If Cainnech can recapture the island by year’s end, the land, castle and title will all belong to him. Cainnech expects to make war against a Viking jarl, but is shocked to discover the current Viking master of Eilean Donnain is a woman…who is rumored to be a witch.
Lucia Ingegärd is an American of Italian and Nordic descent. Or at least she was an American until she was transported to a time long before her country existed. Desperate to return to the future before Christmas, Lucia puts her engineer’s mind to the singular focus of going home. Her work is stalled when a huge, fierce-looking warrior besieges her temporary home and gives her an ultimatum—surrender herself or be shown no mercy.
Reader Advisory: This story has graphic sexual language and scenes—no closed bedroom doors (or other rooms) here!
An adult time travel romance from Ellora’s Cave
Season of the Witch
Jaid Black
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my family, friends and fans whose unwavering support and encouragement helped me fall back in love with writing. (Only the best Christmas present ever!) An extra-special thank you goes out to:
* Dr. Richard Stansbury and Amy Leora Gonzales-Stansbury…for being the best friends this chica could ask for.
* William Christian Boeving…for never letting me feel like a burden when my agoraphobia acts up, for making time to help me with “the little things” despite your hectic schedule, and for the innumerable laughs and inside jokes we’ve shared over the years. (“Am I pretty?” :P)
* Courtney Thomas, Tara Nina and Susan Edwards…for staying true when many abandoned, for knowing better and saying so, and for being pillars of courage amongst gossips and cowards.
* Patty Robb Marks, my mother…for your strength in the face of adversity, for working your ass off to enrich the lives of even the most thankless of people, and for never giving up. #NSBA ;)
Prologue
Kinghorn Ness, Fife, Scotland
December 10, 1265 A.D.
“Return the stronghold tae Scotland afore the year passes. Seize it from the bluidy Viking bastards and ye become her laird.”
Sir Cainnech MacKenzie nigh unto choked on the mead he’d been drinking. Sitting across from King Alaxandair III of Scotland at the great hall’s dining table, his gray eyes rounded and his jaw went slack before he schooled his features into their usual unreadable mask. This was a development the newly knighted Highlander hadn’t seen coming.
Cainnech had battled the Vikings in the name of Alaxandair III for nigh unto ten years, even afore the monarch had decided the Hebrides were worth fighting for. He had laid siege and won back much of the Western Isles from the Norwegian King Håkon. His calculating tactics and skill on the battlefield had become legendary. Coupled with his huge height, unyielding musculature and dark, Celtic hair plaited to the middle of his back, he had gained a severe reputation.
Those clashes, fought more for the Gaelic Highlanders desirous of autonomy from Norway than for Scotland, were the reason he’d been obliged to travel to Kinghorn Ness at Alaxandair’s decree a sennight ago. The king wanted to ensure the Highlanders stayed true to Scotland. Knighting the Hebrides’ most formidable warrior would do much toward advancing that cause.
In truth, Cainnech wasn’t certain how he felt about being knighted. ’Twas a title customarily bestowed upon the sons of noblemen. Born a bastard, Cainnech could claim no birthright and therefore hadn’t given such frivolities as a title any thought. But this…
“’Tis Eilean Donnain yer wantin’?” Cainnech asked.
“Aye.” The king frowned. “I canna say what became of the mon I gave it tae, but I suspect he met a bad end at the hands of Håkon’s successor.”
“King Magnús?”
“Aye. Bluidy Vikings.”
“I dinna realize the stronghold had been besieged let alone fell.” Cainnech had heard rumors this past sennight whilst in Kinghorn Ness, but this was the first time the gossip had been confirmed as truth. Such news was unsettling, for the island’s castle had been built a’purpose where the three lochs met. “’Tis a formidable stronghold for any mon who possesses it.”
The very idea that Alaxandair meant for him, the bastard of a tavern wench, to be her laird…’twas nigh unto impossible to fathom. And yet here Cainnech sat at the right hand of the king being told to fathom it. At thirty and six years, the jaded warrior was more than eager to call one place home.
“Aye. I canna allow this,” Alaxandair growled. “If Eilean Donnain remains in Viking hands, ’twill be a matter of time afore the whole of the Hebrides is once again in their pagan clutches.”
Cainnech would never allow the Isles to fall, but he said nothing.
“’Tis a rumor aboot Eilean Donnain ye should know of,” one of Alaxandair’s personal guards interjected.
“Bah!” The king took a swig of mead before continuing. “Dinna listen tae Sir Aedan. He’s taken tae many hits tae the head.”
The great hall burst into raucous laughter. Even Cainnech had to smile.
“I’ve been trying tae tell ye!” Aedan insisted, slamming his cup on the table. The mon was clearly drunk. “I heard it meself from Old Grelly!”
Alaxandair rolled his eyes. “Was Old Grelly mayhap as drunk as ye?”
“Mayhap. But he dinna lie.”
Cainnech joined in on the second bout of laughter. ’Twas amusing to watch the men squabble. He presumed Aedan could get away with it because he had grown up with the king and was one of Alaxandair’s childhood friends. Still, friend or no, Cainnech never would have put a mon who drank so heavily in charge of his personal guard.
“May I ask what rumor ye heard?” Cainnech questioned. The knight made a habit of acquiring as much information as possible afore laying siege to any stronghold. Even mayhap irrelevant information. “My interest is piqued.”
The usually boisterous great hall grew quiet. King Alaxandair hesitated for a moment, but answered. “Some say Eilean Donnain’s new master is no’ a mon at all, but a wench.”
“A wench.” Cainnech was impressed. “Unmarried? Old?”
“Unwed, aye, but not old. ’Tis said she is of breedable years and quite pleasing tae look upon. Yet she is the property of no mon,” Aedan informed him. His features were grim. “There is a reason for this.”
Cainnech raised an eyebrow.
“The wench,” Aedan decreed in a tone reminiscent of a storytelling minstrel, “is a witch.”
Cainnech blinked. The mon couldn’t be serious. He shook his head a bit, as if to clear it. ’Twas no mystery why the king hadn’t wanted to tell him of such fanciful gossip. Cainnech was about to laugh when he noticed no mon in the great hall appeared less than convinced the tale was real. He held his mirth. Had the lot of them gone daft?
“’Tis said she’s a Viking sorceress,” the king grumbled. “I admit I’ve heard these rumors from more men than Aedan.”
Cainnech’s gray eyes widened. It almost sounded as if Alaxandair was nigh unto convinced of this himself—even if he wouldn’t admit as much. “A witch? A Viking sorceress?”
A clansman whose name Cainnech didn’t know stood up. “Me father saw her himself. ’Tis more than gossip, that.”
“And what did yer father say aboot her?”
“She’s fair of hair and green of eyes. Her body bespeaks of fertility—curvy and a bit fleshy.”
The great hall broke into murmurs and hushed whispers. ’Twas all Cainnech could do to not roll his eyes.
“
Me father is convinced she was fashioned from the devil’s own hands for her beauty is tae beguiling tae belong tae a mortal wench.”
“Yer sire believes her tae be a sorceress because she’s comely tae look upon?”
“Nay. Well aye, but ’tis more.”
Cainnech was too amused to put an end to this conversation just yet. By the saints, if such a wench was real he’d conquer the stronghold just to own her and fuck her, lairdship be damned. “What is yer name, lad?”
“Eonan, me lord.”
“I’m no lord.”
“Yet,” the king said pointedly. “Bring Eilean Donnain back tae Scotland and ye will be titled well beyond the station of a knight. Ye will be her laird and her baron.”
The murmurs in the great hall grew until they reached nigh unto a deafening level. Cainnech’s most trusted warriors were amongst them. He exhaled slowly. For them as much as himself he would do this.
“Yer sire said what else, Eonan?” Cainnech inquired, causing the great hall to quiet again.
The boy’s blue eyes were round as full moons. “He saw the Viking sorceress do…things.” He swallowed roughly as he ran a hand through his matted red hair.
“Things?”
“She commands the sun itself,” Eonan rasped. “’Tis a vow me father saw her harness its verra light and put it intae a ball that lit the darkness during the night’s witching hour.”
The chamber was abuzz with excited commotion. The boy was so sincere in his speech that even Cainnech was starting to think this Viking wench might be real. But a sorceress? ’Twas difficult to credit.
All eyes were on the newly knighted Highlander, including King Alaxandair’s. Cainnech stood, his braids falling forward as he inclined his head. His gray eyes narrowed.
“My men and I will ride tae Eilean Donnain at first light,” he formally announced. “I will seize the stronghold and return her tae Scotland.”
“And the Viking sorceress?” the king inquired. “Assuming she exists.”
“If she has the beauty yer clansmen claim, ’twould be remiss of me not tae wed her and bed her.”
Alaxandair clapped his hands together on a laugh. The great hall followed suit. “And if she is a sorceress?”
Cainnech shrugged. “Then I shall drown her.” ’Twas the recommended method of death for the unholy as set forth by the priests. “’Tis the season of Scotland, no’ the season of the witch.”
Chapter One
Eilean Donnain (Island of Donnán)
Na h-Eileanan a-staigh (The Inner Isles) of Hebrides
Scottish Highlands, December 13, 1265 A.D.
“This. Is. Bull. Shit.”
Lucia Ingegärd—half Italian, half Nordic and 100 percent pissed-off American—bit out the only words that came to mind to describe her current predicament. She had been plucked from her oceanfront condo in the beautiful, weather-temperate city of Santa Monica, California, and thrown into this freezing, God-forsaken, snow-covered stone castle in the horrid Middle Ages. And why? Whyyyy?
Her nostrils flared as she asked herself that question for what had to be the thousandth time. She wasn’t certain she’d ever discover the answer, but she suspected it had something to do with her stupid, nerdy, geek-bait hobbies. Apparently pastimes like learning archaic languages, attending medieval fairs, and buying strange books from even stranger people were not the things to do if one preferred to live in an era where war wasn’t everywhere and women weren’t reduced to the status of chattel.
“I rue the day I decided to learn Gaelic!” she dramatically wailed to the book she just knew was responsible for this mess. The damn thing had brought her here so it needed to take her back. “Do you hear me, book? Rue it I say! Ruuuuue!”
She plopped down onto her quasi-comfortable bed with a sigh—quasi being the key word, she thought grimly. The fucking book couldn’t hear her so why she continued to yell at the thing and threaten to torture it with fire pokers eluded her. She was just frustrated, she supposed. Frustrated, agitated, helpless and growing increasingly alarmed with each passing day.
She wanted to go home.
Born in the United States to immigrant parents, Lucia had been fluent in four languages before most children could speak one. Her mother was full-blooded Italian and her father was half-Swedish and half-Norwegian. Having been raised in a loving home with both sets of grandparents present, Lucia fondly recalled one childhood friend describing their modest farmhouse in Sugar Creek, Ohio, as the Tower of Babel. Italian, Swedish and Norwegian were spoken there, while English was reserved for her friends and school.
In the ethnicity department, Lucia’s family was undeniably a European hodgepodge, but where religion was concerned the mélange merged into uniform, devout Catholicism. It was in the church, the place she attended school and nightly mass, where she learned her fifth language. By the time of her confirmation at age twelve, she could speak, read and write Latin fluently.
Acquiring fluency in new languages had always come easily to her, just as it did for many children raised to speak more than one tongue. It was that ease of assimilation that had allowed her to learn modern—and eventually ancient—Gaelic. It was a decision made three years ago, she concluded on down-turned lips, she would seemingly regret forever.
Lucia blamed her fascination with all things Celtic on the trip she’d made four years past to the Scottish Highlands. A mechanical engineer by trade who held a bachelor’s degree from MIT and a master’s degree from Caltech, Lucia was sent to the Isle of Skye for two months on a job assignment by her employer. Most of it had been spent in the district of Stafain, a territory on the island where over 60 percent of the people still spoke Gaelic as their primary, mostly singular, language.
Lucia had been fascinated by the local population and their indigenous culture from day one. She’d spent her leisure time learning their dialect, hanging out with the natives, and touring as many of the Hebrides’ relics as possible. She’d taken her love of Celtic culture with her upon returning to California, eventually going one step further by teaching herself the archaic form of their tongue as well.
At any rate, it was during one of those many sightseeing excursions while temporarily residing in the Isle of Skye that the youngest, brightest and most accomplished engineer Future Systems, Inc. had ever employed drove from the Stafain via bridge to spend a touristy day at the castle on Eilean Donnain—the Island of Donnán. Lucia had toured every inch of the medieval stronghold, which was how she recognized where she was upon arriving here again despite not knowing at first when she was.
If only I hadn’t purchased that book…
Had she limited her souvenir spending that fateful day to the castle’s gift shop and not been persuaded to buy a very old, very worn text from a strange man as weathered and wrinkled as the book he carried, she’d currently be sipping from a hot Chai tea latte while chatting with her best friend Bekah. Everything would be normal. She would still be in a world where modern conveniences abounded without her being obliged to reinvent them.
From the moment she’d laid eyes on the gilded book there was something about it that made her curious. After inspecting it closer and realizing the handwritten tome was the most unusual antiquity she’d ever encountered, Lucia had eagerly bartered with its owner until the relic belonged to her. Never before had she come across a book so old, let alone one that appeared to have been authored by at least two scribes. One inscriber had written in Latin, while the penmanship of a second was entirely in what had appeared to her then-untrained eyes to be an archaic form of Gaelic or perhaps even Old Norse.
Lucia absently ran a hand through her hair as she let the memory go. She supposed she was being too hard on herself with all the second-guessing and lamentation of past actions. It wasn’t as if anyone lucid would have believed a single word that had been hand-scrawled inside the damn thing anyway. It could have happened to anyone! Well, she conceded on a snort, it could have happened to anyone aged twelve or under who happened to be a
t a slumber party participating in a rite of adolescent passage as over-the-top as the incantation involving the words “Bloody Mary” and a mirror.
“I’m an idiot,” Lucia murmured to the stone walls. “I thought that book was full of nothing but superstition and the medieval equivalent of urban legends.”
She fully reclined on the bed and tried not to cry. The possibility of time travel had always excited her engineer’s mind in theory, but the reality of it was damned frightening. It was one thing to read about being whisked through time and space, or to watch movies on the subject as escapism from everyday pressures, but living it was another animal altogether.
Already a month and a half had gone by since that ill-fated Halloween night when she had followed the tome’s instructions to a T. Choosing one of the numerous medieval gowns she’d collected during her thirty-three years of life—and throwing the rest of them in the trunk with myriad other Halloween accessories on her oversized futon—Lucia had slipped into the costume, plopped down on the quasi-comfortable seat (which was currently doubling as her quasi-comfortable bed) and faced the prepared desk before her. On the desk sat a mirror, a blue candle, an unlit lamp and that damn book.
Feeling at the time like a giggly teenaged girl when in fact she was a grown-ass woman who’d imbibed too much sangria at Bekah’s All Hallows Eve party earlier that evening, she’d lit the blue candle as the text had instructed her to do and gazed into the mirror. The old, worn scrawling on the parchment had actually translated as reflection rather than mirror, but she’d supposed the wording fit with the engineering of the time it’d been written in. Reflection, mirror, tomato, tahmahto.
Lucia rarely gave her looks much thought, but she distinctly recalled that as she’d gazed at her image that night she’d suddenly wondered what a warlord of old might have thought about her. She’d always been told she had an exotic, pretty face, which she supposed was true. Her long cascade of curly hair was unique in color—too dark to be blonde, too light to be brown, and could best be described as golden. Her lips were naturally puffy and carried a rosy tint, her teeth were straight and gleaming white (thank you, Dr. Houseman) and her nose was the perfect fusion of Italian and Nordic genes blended together.
