Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Outsider
Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas
Natasha S Brown
Future Impressions
Copyright © 2017 Natasha Brown
Edited by Amanda Sumner and Scott Andrews
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.
www.natashasbrown.com
Contents
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
More from the Time of Myths
Research Notes
Also by Natasha S Brown
About the Author
Chapter 1
Bitter winds blew against the Highlands, whistling louder than any banshee ever could. Kristie’s woolen plaid was wrapped around her body and pinned at her chest. The weather tried to pry through her clothing to reach her flesh and succeeded. A fold of the fabric was tossed over her shoulder, exposing her skin. But she didn’t care, for it had been a long time since she’d concerned herself with her own well-being.
She plucked out another handful of straw from beneath the covered pile that lay beside her on the roof. Kristie was careful to rest her weight on the wooden beams beneath her as she worked to patch the weak spots. The rains were often lighter in the early spring, but they’d dragged on this year. Water had leaked through during last night’s storm, keeping her damp while she lay awake.
Kristie worked near the peak of the roof. She stared out at the steel-gray loch at the bottom of the hill. The trees lining the rocky shore twisted and shook in the gale. Dark clouds filled the sky like freshly shorn wool and threatened to release more rain. She’d climbed to this height not only to make the much-needed repairs, but to see if she could spot Domnall returning with Hendrie in the currach. She hoped her brother’s hide-wrapped boat would return soon.
“Do ye see him?” Jean called from the ground.
Kristie turned around to glance down at her sister-in-law, shielding her face from the wind with her hand. Jean’s golden braids reached down her back, and her dark eyes squinted up toward the roof. Her belly plumped out from between the folds of her dark-blue plaid as Jean held it protectively like she often did.
“Not since I last looked,” Kristie answered with a shake of the head.
Neither of them had slept well through the night, not only because of the leaks and the sounds of the storm but because Domnall hadn’t returned. Dark circles hung beneath Jean’s eyes, aging her more than her twenty-four years.
Jean crossed her arms and made a face. “I should not have complained about the pottage. Ye know yer brother. He takes any excuse and turns it into a fishing trip. Do ye think him well?”
Kristie returned her gaze to the dark waters of the loch and rubbed her cheek. The roof creaked beneath her weight, and the fresh aroma of hay filled her nostrils. When Domnall went out to cast his line for a catch, he often returned by nightfall. It didn’t bode well that he wasn’t back.
Ignoring the heavy feeling in her gut, Kristie answered, “When the storm drew over the loch, they might have tucked in for the night. If I took a walk on the shore to look for them, would it make ye feel better?”
“My mind would be set right. It will nay be long before Eileanor sends Jock in search of Hendrie, and I have no news to share,” Jean said with a frown. She sighed. “Well, I best keep my mind busy with the spinning, or I be sure to go mad with worry.”
Kristie watched Jean disappear into the home, then glanced over her shoulder at the hills at her back. Deep trenches lined the length of the land, all pointed down the slope toward her brother’s home. Half of the fields had been plowed. The remainder had been left to be finished when the weather wasn’t against them, as it often was. From her viewpoint on the roof, she could see the neighboring farm. Kristie knew Jean’s assumption was right. It wouldn’t reach midday before Jock would be sent to ask after his uncle.
She quickly finished securing the extra layers of straw to the roof before climbing down and jumping to the ground. She landed heavily with a groan. Securely back on the earth, she brushed the stray yellow stalks from the hem of her saffron skirt. The top half of her full-length tunic dress was obscured by her plaid, which wrapped her shoulders and arms. The end of her braid fell over her shoulder. Stray reddish-blonde strands had pulled free, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about much anymore except getting her chores done.
Kristie’s sudden appearance startled one of the ponies. She ignored the animals as she wandered around the home’s stone exterior to the back side and to the ponies’ pen. Many of the farm’s tools were kept under the sagging roof. She collected a basket to take on her walk. There was no excuse not to forage, even if she was off to search for her kin.
She left the fenced-in yard with the woven basket tucked under her arm. The walk down to the loch was wooded and rocky, but her leather shoes had recently been repaired and were up to the task. She often ventured down to the waters when she was feeling lonely. Not that her brother and his wife weren’t good company; it was the emptiness she felt inside that left her barren of joy.
Countless stories about widowed women had flooded her ears in the months following her husband’s death. The day she’d arrived at her brother’s door, tales from well-intentioned neighbors were told into the night.
The wind whistled across the water and up to her ears while she stepped carefully over the rocks that littered the shore. A cool mist touched her cheeks and eyelashes. A row of slippery stones had an array of pointed shells affixed to them, and she bent over to pluck the shells off, placing them in her basket. They would make a good meal later if her brother showed up hungry without fish.
Kristie gazed across the water toward the bend in the channel that led out to the sea. She remembered the excitement in Domnall’s eyes when he’d voiced the opinion that larger fish were likely to be found in the open ocean. His boat was ideal to use in the protected loch, but she didn’t like the thought of him riding the leather-bound hull in the rough sea waves. When her brother wasn’t working hard maintaining the farm, he was thinking about his next fishing hole and trying to lure Hendrie into a day-long fishing trip.
She hoped he would arrive back soon because Eileanor would send her nephew to their door looking for his uncle, and ever since that woman had suggested that Duncan and Seonaid’s deaths might be considered a blessing, Kristie didn’t care to sit and listen to her opinions. And she didn’t like the thought of Jean worrying about Domnall any longer. Not when she was so close to birthing her
bairn.
Kristie had just stepped over a waterlogged tree trunk that stretched from the loch onto the shore when she spotted him. His lower body was submerged, but his chest and head rested on the gravelly beach. Her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of him lying there.
“Domnall?” she called and hurried forward, nearly losing her balance on the slippery rocks.
After his name left her mouth, she realized he was naked, which she thought strange. She couldn’t see the man’s face, but the dark hair and his muscular back and arms didn’t match her brother’s fair locks and stocky build. Kristie stopped in place, her breath once again caught in her throat.
She held still for a moment, waiting for the man to move. When he didn’t, she craned her neck to get a better look. Kristie was certain this body was not Hendrie either. Although she’d never spied his naked form since he’d reached manhood, she’d witnessed his freckled arms during harvest, and there wasn’t a spot on this man’s pale skin.
Kristie had seen many a soul with flesh as white as the foam on the sea. It wasn’t such an oddity. She thought she saw a tinge of pink. Maybe he was still alive, whoever he was. The water in the spring could chill you to the bone if you remained too long, stilling the warm pulse of life in your chest.
This fellow could have had an encounter with a reiver, violent thieves after cattle or livestock, though this spot was far from the border. Or maybe he’d met last night’s storm while on the sea. He could be a no-good bampot out to take advantage of honest folk. Nonetheless, she was unwilling to turn a blind eye to a soul in need. She was no fool either. If he were the dangerous sort, she’d be ready. Kristie reached in her basket and pulled out her shiny dirk.
Her leather shoes crunched on the gravelly beach until she stopped by his side and squatted down, holding her dagger’s blade before her. His back rose and sank in a shallow breathing pattern. He was alive—for now, at least.
Kristie took a closer look at his face. His eyes were shut, and mucky sand clung to his dark, wet hair. She thought the fellow might be in his twenties, for if he were older he’d have more lines and spots. He’d been walloped hard by something. A large bloodied bump marked his forehead. Scratches traced his skin from his face down to his arm, making her wonder if he had more injuries beyond those she could see.
Kristie glanced up the loch’s shoreline, searching for anything amiss, and found nothing. This man seemed to be alone, leaving her with a big decision. She sighed and shook his shoulder. “Will ye wake?”
Again, he made no answer, so Kristie stood up and mumbled, “Stay put, then.”
It was a quick walk back to the farm. Kristie let herself in through the gate, rushed around the side of the home and opened the front door. Dim light filtered through the threshold into the long shadowy room. Arched timbers rose up to make the high roof. In the rafters, an upper level padded with hay was used for storage and her private sleeping area, which was only accessible by ladder. The porous walls were smoothed with wattle and clay, though the materials had begun to erode, leaving cracks and holes. Various pegs holding some of Jean’s household tools stuck out beside the door. A wooden partition set off the other end of the space, blocking off Domnall and his wife’s sleeping area.
Sitting on her wooden stool, Jean was busy spinning wool with her spindle and whorl. She lowered her arm when Kristie entered and cast her an inquisitive look. Kristie set down her basket of winkles and said breathlessly, “There be a man on the shore.”
Jean frowned and set her spinning in her lap. “No sign of Domnall then?”
Kristie shook her head. “Not a thing but the fellow looking like he took a beating from a washing bat and thistles. He still draws breath for now.”
“If he be baptized then his soul is safe,” Jean answered.
“Aye, as safe as yers or mine,” Kristie retorted and waved her hand. “What should we do?”
Her sister-in-law set her spindle and whorl in the basket beside her. She stood up. “I will have a look myself. I would want Domnall to be looked after if he were set adrift. This fellow is sure to have a family.”
Kristie led her down to the loch, careful to walk slowly. Jean might be young, but she was becoming unsteady the closer she came to the birth of her first child. Kristie knew her sister-in-law wouldn’t be much help when it came to tending to the stranger, but she was unwilling to stir up their neighbors until she knew more about him.
It wasn’t long before she rounded the shore and spotted him. He was in the same position he’d been in when she’d left him. Kristie pointed to the body, and Jean stopped.
“He be without a stich,” she commented, glancing away. “Ye did not say he was as raw as a bairn entering the world.”
Kristie tried not to stare at his buttocks exposed in the shallows and shrugged. “It be a curious thing, that.”
“What would Eileanor say if she were here?”
Kristie was unwilling to make choices based on that woman’s opinion. She was pleasant and hardworking enough to be sure, but she was as overbearing as the day was long. “I would not make my choices based off what that woman thinks.”
Jean sniffed and said, “He should be covered so I can think.”
Kristie sighed, reached for her brooch and unfastened it, taking her green-checkered cloak from her shoulders. She held her dagger in her hand as she set the fabric over the man. She glanced at her sister-in-law, wondering what to do next.
Jean crossed her arms and muttered, “How are we to help a strapping fellow his size?”
“How are we to help him? Ye are with child and I”—Kristie waved her hand in the air—“I dinnae know if I wish to touch the fellow. What if he wakes to attack us?”
“That be no blade of straw.” Jean pointed to Kristie’s weapon. “Ye know how to use it, and just because I be pregnant does not mean I have lost all my strength. Plus, he does not seem in the state to give us trouble.”
“I say we leave him be. If someone else comes along, he can be their problem,” Kristie said with a sigh.
“If Domnall washed up on someone else’s shore, I would hope they would have the kindness in their soul to tend to him. I cannae, in good conscience, leave him.”
Kristie protested. “But what if—”
“While Domnall is away, it is my place to make these hard choices, and I say we should take him in.”
“Very well,” Kristie grumbled.
The cold winds pressed against Kristie’s belted, ankle-length tunic. She stared down at the partially covered man and grimaced. She shrugged off the chill and leaned down to shake his shoulder. “Up with ye! Yer kin are waiting for ye. Time to go.”
Unlike the last time she’d tried to wake him, his head adjusted slightly, and he moaned. Kristie held the dagger close, ready for any sudden movement. She knew it would be easier to get him up if he helped. “Time to rise to yer feet.”
Jean watched from a stride away as Kristie hooked her hand under the stranger’s armpit. With his eyes still shut, he reflexively pushed his palms against the gravelly shore and rose onto his hands and knees. She tried to help guide him up the beach and out of the water. He went far enough onto the gravel to pull himself from the water before he groaned and collapsed on his left side, rolling onto his back and tangling himself in Kristie’s plaid.
“Oh, Mary!” Jean exclaimed with a smile, putting her hand to her mouth and shifting her widened eyes in another direction.
It was nothing Kristie hadn’t already seen. She’d been married for a spell before her husband passed from this earth fighting for their freedom, but her cheeks still flushed in embarrassment as she observed the stranger’s uncovered form. She quickly grabbed hold of the end of her plaid and threw it over his abdomen.
“That be better,” she muttered aloud. “Let me try once more. He may wake and be on his way.”
Kristie took a breath and hunched as she called out to the man, “Will ye wake?”
There was no response. If they wanted
to get him to the farm, they’d have to do all of the hard work. She gave her sister-in-law a frown before tucking her dagger’s blade under her belt at the low of her back with a sigh. She positioned herself at his head, slipped her hands under his armpits and lifted his shoulders off the ground. Then she directed her attention to Jean. “Grab the other end.”
Her sister-in-law blinked at her before walking slowly to his pale wrinkly feet and lifting them up. Kristie took the lead, going backward. He was heavy, but she was used to hard work on the farm. She found it easier to raise him up against her belly so both of her hands could clasp together, locking him in place. Jean followed after, casting glances from his face to her hillside farm.
They had to pause multiple times so Kristie could readjust her hold or to allow Jean to take a break. At one point Kristie nearly let him tumble from her arms, and his unfocused eyes opened as he muttered, “I could nay save him…”
The women stopped to stare down at him, but he’d already fallen back into his strange sleeplike state. Kristie looked up at Jean and asked, “Did ye hear that?”
“To be sure,” Jean responded and cocked her head. “Least he is not an Englishman.”
“That not be my meaning.” Kristie shook her head, panting. “Who do ye reckon he speaks of?”
“Only the fairies know.”
Jean’s forehead wrinkled with worry, and Kristie noticed her cast several glances toward the loch, no doubt searching for Domnall’s boat. They hurried the last length once the fence was in sight, both of them panting loudly. Jean let go of his feet to unlatch the gate, and Kristie dragged him the final distance to the covered animal shed. The byre’s roof sloped low at one end, for the bracing had rotted, so she had to duck down as she laid him on a patch of earth covered with straw.
Outsider (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 4) Page 1
