by Mary McCall
"Tap her senseless so she ceases her struggles, Askel,” a man's voice whispered in a gruff Viking accent.
She knew that voice. Alera's heart slammed in her throat. Her demon rage churned.
Her world went black.
She would kill the snake as soon as she arrived home.
Alera ignored the frigid winds whipping against her and huddled close to the ship's side. She focused her furious thoughts on sawing the ropes that bound her wrists in front of her and held her captive at the ship's rail. Thank Almighty God she always carried a dagger concealed on her thigh, and Torgeir had stopped them from stripping her naked. She would send Uncle Mortimer's bloody carcass to hell before this was over. Sell her to Viking slavers, would he?
"No-good viper,” she muttered, still tasting and smelling the foul rag Torgeir had finally removed.
The ropes eventually tore free. A hiss escaped her as hundreds of tiny pins stabbed her frozen flesh. She rubbed her hands together, then flexed and extended her fingers, directing her rage on regaining control over her deadened digits.
Grunts and snores from the slumbering Vikings mingled with the howling wind. Alera blinked a few times, fighting the sluggishness induced by the sailors’ drunken lullaby, lack of sleep, and the penetrating cold.
At least a day had passed since her capture. Rage toward these brutes had become secondary to the fury that roiled within her gut and demanded the death of her uncle. When she came out of her daze, tied to the ship's side, they bragged of their feats on behalf of her uncle and taunted her with threats of her fate.
Discovering Uncle Mortimer was behind her mother's death, her father's disappearance, and her capture sent pure unmitigated fury blazing through her veins. Her demon unleashed. She had struggled and contained her fiery rage, nurturing the embers.
The time for escape had come, and the strength of her demon would serve her now.
A gusty spray rained over the ship's side, drenching away her languor. Alera looked around at the sailors sprawled about the deck. She released a mocking snort. Drunken fools.
Alera rubbed her stinging hands harder. She wasn't about to go to the Orkney Isles to be sold into bondage and spend the rest of her life as some man's concubine. She would commit the world's greatest sacrilege and kill herself first.
Her fingers soon flexed and followed her commands. Alera heaved herself upward and used the ship's side for support while she balanced herself upon wobbly legs. Her drenched kirtle and shift seemed to weigh a hundred stones. She glanced at the furious waves thrashing against the boat as the craft surged ever northward. Her gowns would surely drag her to the sea floor, and the coast appeared naught but a distant line on dawn's horizon.
She refused to allow despair to crash upon her. Alera summoned a bit of her rage. The wild emotion sent blood bounding through her veins, waking dormant pain throughout her body. She swallowed a groan that threatened to burst from her lips and summoned more fury to combat the pain. Mastering her body, she focused on the task at hand.
"Do not think, Alera. Just do,” she muttered. She removed her girdle and gown then pleated her shift front, closing the rent the Vikings had torn when they decided to view her assets before Torgeir could stop them. She re-cinched her girdle at her waist and cut off her shift hem with her dagger so the skirt fell to mid-thigh. After re-sheathing her dagger, she grabbed a Viking short sword from the deck and secured the weapon at her waist.
Taking a deep breath, she ran her fingers through her soggy hip-length curls and grimaced. The tangles would become an obstacle in the water. She would cut her hair if her papa had not declared long, silken tresses were the mark of a lady.
"Men expect too much from us sometimes, Henry.” She tore a strip from her discarded gown, bound her hair, and stuffed the tresses down the back of her shift.
She looked toward the tiller. Torgeir, the ship's captain, locked gazes with her for a moment before turning his back. He had been furious with his brother, Askel, for bringing her aboard. When she first saw him, she suspected he had decided to steal her after her father's refusal of his suit the previous year. Alera wiped a hand over her brow. Torgeir must have cared for her more than she realized to dare the wrath of his brother and crew. What would her life be like had her father ignored the promise he made to her mother and accepted this Viking's offer? He certainly would have prevented the others from taking her father.
She had no time to ponder what would never be, and she knew what his turning away meant. He had gotten his men drunk and was letting her escape. Survival was up to her.
Placing both hands on the ship's side, Alera scrutinized the torrential waters. She took a deep breath to slow her racing heart and closed her eyes. “Almighty God, please let me miss the craft's undertow and please make all the serpents and sea monsters sleep until I reach the shore. And, Henry, please forgive all my years of mischief. Wrap your wings around me if I start to sink."
Alera heaved herself over the side, took a deep breath, and jumped into the turbulent sea. Icy tongues licked every inch of her flesh. Burning pain surged through her body. The sting of the icy-hot water fed her rage, lending her strength and endurance. She forced her agonized limbs into a battle for survival against the powerful swells. Numbness soon claimed her, and she no longer felt the water's cold fire.
Her furious demon would fight these high waters. And if she had to war her way through Hell, by all that's holy, she was going home.
Marriage had turned his brother into a milquetoast.
Duncan Ranald halted his roan near the summit of the wooded bluff. Dismounting, he studied the spacing and varied depths of two sets of tracks he had first spotted a few stone throws back down the trail. He had set out that morning with his brother, Logan, and his second commander, Kevin, on a futile journey to the coast to hunt up some maorachs. Logan's mischievous wife had claimed a craving for the tiny shellfish at the wrong time of the year. He would roast Logan later for being so besotted that he took her bait. But the clan had to eat, so Duncan had come along for the hunt.
Praise the Almighty for mating season. ‘Twas definitely a pair of wild swine tracks. From the depth of one set, the boar weighed at least twenty stones.
A squeal carried in the wind. Duncan glanced down the eighty-foot bluff across a stretch of beach. His prey disappeared into the lower woods. He grinned and released a satisfied chuckle. “You'll not save yourselves by running, you beasties. The Ranalds will be feasting well this fine night."
The zest of the salty air and the roar of crashing waves further lifted his spirits. He enjoyed the calls of the seagulls harmonizing with the sea's savage song. The melody always fed his determination to rebuild his clan. He often visited the sandy beach below when he needed to reinvigorate his outlook and harness the rage that festered within him. A rage born of an unbiased hatred against an entire nation.
The English had come close to destroying his clan over the last two decades. Both his father and uncle had fallen under English blades while defending Scottish soil. Now he meant to regenerate his clan in both wealth and numbers.
He could almost mourn for the English bride King Edgar had foisted upon him—a token from the English King Henry as part of a very temporary a truce. Lessa had been young, naive, and afraid of him when they had married. She hadn't changed much before her tragic death the year before. He might have developed some affection for the lass if she had been anything but English. Though he had never harmed her, he could admit to himself he hadn't been a good husband. Their union had been doomed from the start.
Duncan released a sigh and raked his fingers through his unruly mane. What was done was done, and he had a couple of pigs to catch. He whistled to his mount and turned toward the sound of approaching hooves.
A movement at the shoreline caught his eye. His breath hitched. The most exquisite woman he had ever seen staggered from the water, her meager garment clinging to sensuous curves. Lust flowed through him in a primal blaze. Venus. Could the Roman goddes
s possess even half the allure of the water nymph on the shore below?
The woman stumbled to her knees. With an enraged cry, she slung sea kelp from her neck and shoulders then fell face down upon the sand. Duncan released his breath as her shoulders jerked and she retched seawater.
Thank the Almighty, she was human. He half-feared she might have been a kelpie sent to entice him to a drowning death. Without a doubt, he would have followed her into the sea had she crooked her finger in his direction.
The lass pushed herself up on her forearms and surveyed the forest before her. Then she stood on shaky legs and dusted the sand from her chest. After adjusting the front of her scant attire sinfully covering her breasts, she pulled a short sword from her belt and staggered into the forest.
Duncan leapt upon his mount and urged the stallion down the bluff. The lassie was heading straight for his quarry. The thought of feasting upon the swine somehow lost its appeal at the possibility that the pigs might feast upon such bonnie flesh first.
After entering the woods, Alera retched again and feared her gullet would surely come out. When the violent heaves subsided, she glanced around. Praise be to Almighty God, she had made it to shore.
The forest surrounded her like a mocking foe, another obstacle to overcome. How far north had the Viking ship carried her? Surely she was in the Highlands of Scotland somewhere. How long would the journey home take? And how many more problems would she encounter?
"Henry, this is not what I meant when I said I wanted more time to think. I did not mean that Thorn insult, either. You are a wonderful angel guardian."
Saints above, could she make it at all? She had never been so alone in such a wild setting. She glanced at her hands, blue from the icy waters. If she didn't push onward, her blood would surely freeze in her veins.
The wind whipping through the branches suddenly sounded like Uncle Mortimer's gloating laughter. Run, Alera. Run fast. The quicker you flee, the quicker I win.
Alera narrowed her eyes, allowing her demon rage that had won her battle against the tides to resurface. “The game is not won yet, you slimy snake. I am going home, and by all that's holy, you will char from the singe of my wrath."
A strained tremor passed through her arms. She clenched her jaw and hobbled on unsteady legs. Wiping at the itchy sand on her body, she noticed an abrasion and bruise on her left breast she hadn't realized was there. The freezing water had stolen her ability to feel pain. And if she didn't find fresh water and bathe away the harsh sea salts soon, all her flesh would peel off.
"Oh, Henry, please guide me safely home.” She tightened her grip on the Viking short sword, which seemed to grow heavier with each step.
She would survive, damn it. Alera squared her shoulders and swallowed against more rising bile. She struggled for each breath, still spitting sea grit. She longed for even the smallest taste of fresh water to rinse away the salty sand. Thirst began to plague her. Every muscle strained to the point of exhaustion, and a weighty numbness extended throughout her limbs.
She had always wanted to visit the Highlands and see Mama's homeland, but not like this. At least Mama had taught her the language. Hopefully, she would find someone to help her return home, or at least help her reach her mother's clan.
She had only met Uncle Julien MacKay one time. He'd been grumpy as a contrary old bull and none too fond of her. But he was laird of Mama's clan, so he would surely help. He'd approve her decision to kill Uncle Mortimer, though the barbaric Highland chieftain she remembered might try to steal the pleasure of the reptile's death and kill Uncle Mortimer for her. She couldn't allow that. ‘Twould be her blade in her hand that avenged her parents.
Though, there was a certain irony to the uplifting thought. Pit mean Uncle Julien against evil Uncle Mortimer. She would have to think on this more.
"Just keep walking, Alera,” she ordered herself aloud. “Just stay riled and keep putting one foot in front of the other. ‘Tis the only way you will make it home to kill the viper."
She focused her wits on finding fresh water and a trail that might lend her some sense of direction. The farther she progressed into the dense woods, the more she worried. She should be shivering, but her body felt strangely detached. “I will not allow death to claim me from this frigid climate! I have a snake to kill!"
She raised the sword and hacked at the thicket before her. A shallow stream meandered through the trees just ahead. With a prayer of thanksgiving, she trudged to the water's edge and dropped her sword, girdle, and dagger upon the dead earth. Then she waded into the gentle currents. Finding no salt to taint the freshness, she cupped her hands and raised the icy water to her lips.
After a cursory glance about, she determined she was too deep in the woods to encounter anyone. She'd make haste here so she could find help.
The water rose only to her hips at mid-stream. She doffed her shredded shift, rinsed the salt from the fabric, and squeezed out as much of the excess water as she could. She tossed the garment on the ground by her meager possessions. Then she reached behind her head and found her hair already hanging free.
She rinsed the salt, sand, and grit from her body and hair, frowning over the many bruises and scrapes marring her flesh. One would expect the Vikings to be more careful with their merchandise. How many times had they bumped her into the side of the boat when they hoisted her up? The journey to the ship was a blur in her mind.
"Papa was right, Henry. I should have killed the no-good snake the moment he arrived at Arundrydge. His intent all along must have been to steal the holding.” After wringing the water from her hair, she tied the hip-length mane into a simple knot and vigorously rubbed her flesh with the damp, gauzy shift. Her numbness receded. She winced as dull, throbbing and burning pain crept through her limbs.
She shook out the shift and eyed the tattered garment with a rueful snort. “Do not look now, Henry, but the lofty Lady Alera is reduced to wearing rags. Papa would be so disappointed."
She donned the shift, wished Uncle Mortimer to perdition, and rekindled her rage. With her dagger at her thigh, she cinched her girdle at her waist with a jerk. Then she picked up the sword and turned to follow the stream in what she hoped was a southeasterly direction.
An enraged snort and squeal behind her alerted her to danger. Whirling around, she faced a charging wild sow. All her fury toward Uncle Mortimer over her predicament surged upward until the raw curse of her demon rage unleashed.
Raising the sword above her head, she yelled, “Move a little faster, you rotten pig!"
The sow closed in. Alera slammed the sword downward with all her strength, splitting the creature's skull. The rush of conquest following her fury after her vigorous rubdown combined to send blood pounding through her limbs along with an agony of torment. A shudder wracked through her. Fatigue, pain, and cold converged. Her demon retreated. She fell to her knees, exhausted, and stared at the sword in the pig's head.
A furious squeal resounded, followed by thundering hooves upon turf. She raised her gaze and froze. A gigantic boar charged toward her.
"Henry, help me. I am staring at death and cannot move."
A ferocious battle cry drowned out the thunder of the charge. Out of nowhere, a giant warrior appeared like an avenging angel. He leapt from his mount and pierced the beast's neck barely an arm's reach away from her.
Alera gaped at the gargantuan Highlander as he wrestled the massive beast. Considering the fierce expression on the warrior's face, she couldn't decide who she wanted to win. Fleeing was definitely the safest option.
She snapped out of her petrified daze and jerked her sword from the sow's skull. She tried to run but stumbled after a few steps. Now that she could feel pain, she couldn't abide the jabs that shot up her legs from her injured feet. She rolled over into a half-reclining position, crouched against a tree, and watched the battle.
Fire seemed to shoot from the warrior's long auburn mane that fell several inches below massive shoulders. Alera swallowed hard. His c
hiseled face appeared unusually sun-bronzed for the season and his clean-shaven square jaw strained with determination. She lowered her gaze. The savage was only half-dressed, for Heaven's sake. Lord, how had she forgotten Mama's people were barbarians?
A crisp mat of burnished hair covered his chest and tapered off over his rippled abdomen somewhere below the waistband of his plaid. She couldn't help but gasp as she beheld his naked legs. His thighs were as big as the tree trunk she leaned upon.
Big. The word stuck in her mind and refused to budge. Mayhap bigger was more appropriate.
She forced a swallow as she moved her gaze all the way down to the toes of his hide boots. Her mind was in an uproar. He was the most handsome giant mass of barbaric muscles she had ever seen. He could probably snap her in twain without much effort. What an appalling notion!
Her eyes fixed on the sinewy flesh bulging in his arms. Raw power created an aura about him as he fought the angry monster for what seemed an eternity. Then the boar ceased his struggle and lay dead beside his mate.
Duncan, not even winded, released the spear and turned. He stared in disbelief at the daft lassie. He had heard stories of the gifted Lady MacPherson baiting wild animals in her youth. But he never thought to see any other woman brave enough or idiotic enough to actually do it.
He walked toward her. The lass cowered against the tree, her eyes clouded with fear. Well-arched brows were drawn with worry, and her dangerously blue lips quivered. He halted a few feet away, giving her a chance to gain composure.
The ashen pallor of her complexion bespoke fatigue. She had grit, though. He could see the trait not only in her actions, but also in her slightly pointed chin. She was probably contrary, too. The two attributes seemed to go together in women.
The rag she wore did nothing to conceal her other charms, and he certainly appreciated those breasts. A rainbow of bruises mottled her alabaster flesh, and he clenched his jaw. Some bastard had abused this beauty. A primal urge to kill the scoundrel ignited in his gut. ‘Twas dishonorable to prey upon the weak and he never abided those who did.
