The Forbidden Highlands

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Ah! How fortunate I am to find ye alone,” a deep rumbling voice intoned.

  Her heart leapt, but it wasn’t Alexander who’d come after her.

  “Ranald?” She spun with a gasp. “Did ye follow me?”

  “Didn’t ye want me to?” He flashed a wolfish smile and moved in closer.

  She immediately regretted flirting with him. He was not a man to toy with, yet she had done so in a childish attempt to make Alex jealous.

  “I only came for some fresh air.” She sensed danger but tried not to show her unease. “I think I’m ready to go back now.”

  “So soon?” he asked. Her pulse sped as he moved closer, reaching out a hand to skirt up her arm. His light touch made her shiver but it wasn’t pleasure that made her body react to him as he moved in to trap her against the wall. She was beginning to fear.

  In other times, there might have been a sentry on these walls, but men were in short supply. If she cried out, it was unlikely anyone would hear her.

  “I will soon be missed,” she replied tightly.

  “Aye,” he said. “Ye will be missed, but not until the feast ends. I came to negotiate with your brother, but having seen his sister, I am tempted to bind this alliance myself.”

  “W-what do ye mean?”

  He wrapped a stray curl around his finger. “Surely ye understand how these things are arranged? Shall we seal the bargain?”

  “But I’m already pledged to another,” she lied.

  He pulled back with a frown. “Aye? Then I would know my rival’s name.”

  Sibylla opened her mouth to answer but promptly realized she’d trapped herself.

  “Ah,” he laughed. “’Tis but virginly qualms. It only hurts the first time,” he assured her as he pressed his hardness against her. “You will soon come to enjoy it.”

  His mouth came down on hers. Unlike Alex, there was no hesitancy or tenderness. He had come to plunder and pillage, and Sibylla was powerless. She tried to scream but she could barely breathe.

  In seconds, he’d freed himself from his leather trews. She squeezed her eyes shut on a whimper. There was no use fighting him. He would effortlessly overcome her. Please, God, let it be quick.

  Alex went first to Sibylla’s room, but just as he’d feared, she didn’t answer his knock. He then began a frantic search of the castle. He found them on the ramparts with their bodies joined in a kiss. Jealous rage raced through his blood and pounded in his ears. Had she met him here by design? Sibylla’s whimper told him otherwise.

  Alex was on them in three strides, sgian-dubh in one hand, and her assailant’s ballocks in the other. “Release her, or I’ll slice them off. Nod if ye understand me.”

  Ranald’s head bobbed vigorously.

  He let her go so abruptly that Sibylla collapsed against the wall. Alex suddenly understood the meaning of blood lust. He shook with it. It was all he could do to refrain from emasculating her would-be rapist.

  “Sibylla? Would ye care to do the honors?” Alex asked. “Or would ye have me take care of it?”

  “’Tis a misunderstanding,” Ranald said. “I would have taken her to wife.”

  “Let him go,” Sibylla responded in a choked whisper.

  Ranald eyed Alex with disdain as he jerked up his trews. “Did ye think she’d choose ye over me?”

  Was it true? He’d come thinking to protect her, but had he just made a great ass of himself? Alex stepped away but kept his weapon at the ready. He looked from one to the other. “Is it so, Sibylla? Do ye intend to have him?”

  “Nae.” “I would never have such a man. I don’t care if he were king of the world.” She gazed up at Alex with plaintive eyes. “If given a choice, I would choose ye.”

  Alex’s heart pounded in anticipation of a fight, but Ranald had the good sense to back off.

  “Your brother will feel quite differently,” Ranald said.

  “My brother is not here,” Sibylla said. “But feel free to appeal to my uncle. I will be certain to inform him how eagerly ye wooed me.”

  “Touch her again,” Alex threatened, “and I swear I will kill ye.” He realized he meant it. He never would have believed himself capable of taking a life, but he would not have hesitated. Nor would he have grieved his actions.

  “Ye have nothing to fear,” Ranald retorted. “She’s not worth the trouble.”

  “Thank ye, Alexander,” Sibylla whispered. “I begin to think ye my guardian angel. ’Tis the third time ye saved me.”

  He took her face in his hands and titled her chin upward. “Because ye canna be trusted to take care of yourself. I begin to think ye need looking after.”

  “Aye? But who is there to do it?” she asked. “Ye said you are leaving.”

  “Aye,” he said, “But then I heard something that made me think twice on it—Ailis says ye think yourself in love with me. But how can I know ’tis true and not just a passing fancy?”

  “Ye need proof?” She reached down for his hand and placed it on her left breast. “It aches here since ye said ye were leaving.”

  “Aye?” Mirroring her actions, he reached for her other hand, and placed it over his own heart. “Mine began aching almost the moment I laid eyes on ye.”

  It only took a moment for Alex to realize their hearts were beating in synchrony.

  Her widened gaze said she felt it too.

  “Do ye believe in fate, Alexander?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I believe in Providence,” he replied. “I believe in the Divine will of God. And I now believe He sent me here for a purpose, Sibylla. ’Twas not for your brother that I came. He sent me for ye.”

  Even as he spoke, Sibylla’s grandmother’s prophetic words echoed in his mind. From your loins will spring two sons and many daughters. They will sire two great clans that will spread over the Highlands from east to west…but with this blessing also comes a curse—for your son’s sons will ever be at odds. Relentlessly, they will make war upon one another—until the very last drop of blood is shed.

  Could it all be true? Was it not madness, after all? Did it matter? Did knowledge of the future change how he felt? No, it did not. He’d lived the past sixteen years isolated and sheltered from emotional turmoil. But passion rarely existed without pain. He would accept the one in order to embrace the other.

  She reached up and entwined her arms around his neck. “Are ye saying ye’ve changed your mind about leaving?”

  “Aye.” He tilted her head to place a long and lingering kiss on her sweet, supple lips. “I’ve found my heart and my home, and that is with ye.”

  The End

  If ye enjoyed this story, please look for my upcoming SONS OF SCOTLAND series coming summer of 2017

  VIRTUE

  VALOR

  VENGEANCE

  About the Author

  Victoria Vane is a bestselling author of smart and sexy romance and an award-winning author of historical romance. Her books have received more than twenty awards and nominations to include the 2015 Red Carpet Award for JEWEL OF THE EAST, 2014 RONE Award for TREACHEROUS TEMPTATIONS and Library Journal Best E-Book romance of 2012 for The Devil DeVere series.

  She also writes epic Scottish romance under the pseudonym EMERY LEE. Look for the SONS OF SCOTLAND SERIES coming summer of 2017.

  Connect with Victoria:

  Email:

  victoria.vane@hotmail.com

  Web:

  www.victoriavane.com

  www.authoremerylee.com

  FB:

  Author Victoria Vane

  Between a Scot and his Lady

  Violetta Rand

  Dearest Readers,

  Between a Scot and his Lady: the meeting, is the start to a new story that will be published in its entirety in 2017. I hope you enjoy Darach and Elle’s tumultuous beginning. Would you expect anything less when a Scot falls in love with a Viking woman?

  Sincerely,

  Violetta Rand

  Chapter One

  Am Parph, Scotia—late tenth ce
ntury

  Darach, son of the chieftain of Clan Dùnan Mòr, heard the mournful call of the war horns and stopped dead in his tracks. Days of peace in the northern reaches of his beloved homeland were rare as of late. By God’s grace alone and the challenging landscape, the clan’s lands situated along the most northwestern point of the coast were left untouched by the Norse invaders.

  Many longships had met a violent end, blown into the ragged inlets that shaped the coastline and smashed to pieces against the cliffs. As if the Almighty himself wished to remind Darach of his good fortune, a gale howled across the grasslands. What else would the Lord’s voice sound like if not a raging wind or the crack of thunder? He stared southward a last time, visually confirming that his sire’s largest herd of sheep were safe in the meadow before he headed in the direction from whence the horns sounded.

  It was the best time of the year to graze sheep in the open—the heather and grass was sweet to taste and plentiful. One of the shepherds tending the flock waved, and Darach signaled back before he turned northward, knowing what he’d find once he ascended the hill that opened to the cliffs overlooking Am Parph—a place the Norse called Vrede, or in Darach’s language, God’s Wrath. An appropriate name considering he believed the Almighty often directed that vengeance at the savages invading Scotia.

  The bearded bastards worshipped ancient pagan gods that demanded the blood of their enemies in exchange for wealth and land. It was Darach’s duty, and that of his captains, to safeguard his people.

  He gripped the intricately carved cross that hung about his neck on a leather chord. It was a gift from his youngest sister before she’d died two seasons ago. Moving surefooted through the bogs he knew so well, he reached the footpath that would take him to the vantage point where he could survey the vast ocean. If a ship came within fifty miles, he’d see it long before it anchored.

  Another horn sounded, raising gooseflesh all over his body. That noise always unsettled him, for it promised one thing . . . But it was the only way for his people to know danger approached.

  As he’d suspected, a longship had strayed into one of the narrow inlets. He could make out the color of the single sail—red as blood with a black symbol embroidered in the center, likely a raven or dragon’s head, both meant to intimidate the innocents those heathens intended to attack. Not today, not while there was breath left in his body.

  Darach scanned the pebbled beach for the warriors who had sounded the warning, finally picking them out hidden among the boulders below. He ambled down the familiar cliff, knowing exactly where to place his feet and hands so he wouldn’t fall to his death. This part of the northlands was remote and sparsely populated. Darach preferred it that way.

  His home might not be the wealthiest, but their quality wool was known throughout the country. The profit made off the exceptional material spun by his kinswomen and the lambs they sold each year, provided a comfortable living for his people. And he’d be damned if the bloody Norse were going to take it away.

  Reaching the beach, he motioned to Cameron. “How many men are here?”

  “Ten,” his most trusted captain said, indicating the three with him, then gesturing in the direction of where the others must be awaiting orders. “Earvin and Hamish are in charge of the rest. I don’t believe that ship is a real threat. After last night’s storm, I’m surprised the vessel is still afloat.”

  Darach rubbed his stubbled chin and gazed across the water. How different the ship looked from here compared to how it appeared from the cliffs. “Twill make landfall within an hour. There’s nothing more we can do to prepare. Tell the men to stand down.”

  A few minutes later, a roaring fire was built and the soldiers huddled close for warmth. Though it was late spring, the wind off the water always made it feel like winter.

  “How many men on a longship?” one of the warriors asked.

  “As many as they can squeeze aboard,” Cameron said. “The heathens don’t think about comfort or cleanliness, they shite where they sleep, like cattle. Can ye imagine the condition of the wee hovels they live in?”

  The captain’s words elicited grimaces from the men. But Darach knew the truth. Vikings lived better than most, benefitting from what they stole from the people on this side of the North Sea. The very thought made Darach sick to his stomach and he spat on the ground. “I don’t care if they’re covered in filth and stink to high heaven, not one of them steps off this beach alive.”

  “Aye . . .” the men chorused, ready to fight and die.

  Darach rose from the ground then, edging close to the water, watching the longship weave and wobble on the waves. Once caught by the tide, not even the grandest of ships could withstand the invisible hand that slowly pulled any vessel to shore. He took a deep breath, feeling uneasy. Something about that ship didn’t make sense. There were no signs of life, no one manning the oars or working the rigging.

  Dismissing his concern, he continued to observe the trajectory of the longship, until it finally hit the shallows. He unsheathed his sword, raised his fist to signal his men to follow, and then rushed into the water, unwilling to give his enemies the chance to disembark. Let them die without setting foot on hallowed ground. The only piece of Scotia they’d get would be his fist and blade.

  Cameron kept pace with him.

  As they swarmed the ship, hoisting themselves over the sides, several of the men cursed and stopped short. Darach landed inside on his feet, ready to kill. But violence was unnecessary, for every man aboard lay dead.

  “God Almighty . . .” He raked his hand through his hair and gazed about in shock. It took a few long seconds for him to understand exactly what he was looking at. He eyed Cameron who stood a few feet away, as surprised as he was. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” He sheathed his weapon and carefully walked to the closest body.

  “Plague?” Cameron asked, covering his nose and mouth with his hand.

  Upon closer inspection of the lad at his feet, Darach didn’t think so. There were no marks on his body—no boils or rashes—no blood. “This one is long gone,” he confirmed, “but the cause is unclear.”

  Cameron did the same, checking corpse after corpse, only to find no evidence of sickness or obvious cause of death.

  “We must ground the vessel,” Darach said. “Order the men to do so.” He straddled the side of the ship then and stared into the depths, confused by the condition of the crew, noting none of them were armed or dressed in mail. These weren’t conquerors, but ordinary men. He jumped into the waist-high water and headed back to shore.

  While waiting for his men to carry out his order, he considered why they didn’t climb inside the ship. Fear had overridden their senses. Though he well understood the suspicion of plague or even witchcraft, seasoned warriors shouldn’t falter, regardless of the danger. He’d have to discipline them later.

  Cameron finally joined him.

  “I believe that vessel was bound for a different destination. And though not a warship, it was built by the Norse, whose superior vessels are always to be admired and feared.”

  “Tis a prize to be proud of,” Cameron said. “Think how much gold it could bring at market.”

  Twenty men could carry a longship across the land until it reached the next river or lake. This gave the Vikings an absolute advantage, making inland locations as vulnerable as his seaside home.

  Once the ship was finally anchored, Darach approached the other soldiers.

  “What shall we do with the bodies?” one of the men asked.

  Darach considered it. Should they burn the bodies and vessel? Keep the ship as Cameron suggested? Or just take whatever valuables were inside?

  “Sir!” one of the men called urgently, “There’s a woman here. She’s alive.”

  Darach lost track of his thoughts. Why was she alive? There was only one way to find out. He climbed inside the ship again, determined to get answers to his questions.

  Chapter Two

  Elle held her breath for
as long as she could. The loud stomping of boots across the floorboards of the longship terrified her. She’d faced many dangers as of late; an attack on her home in the Trondelag, the threat of slavery and rape, and when the jarl who’d captured her learned she was a Christian, he’d rejected her completely, corralling her with a throng of strangers who were intended for the slave market or even death.

  Lucky for her, there was a place on the only ship bound for Orkeneyjar, where the occasional Christian was spared. For the right price, men could escape the sword and take their chances across the North Sea. One of the wealthy chieftains who had been defeated by the jarl claimed he needed a wife in his new homeland and gladly paid for Elle’s passage. A better fate than she could have hoped for.

  Days into the long sea journey, the men had fallen ill. Some had eaten rotten bread and drank from the wooden kegs of mead the jarl had provided them with. Prone to sea sickness, Elle had refused the fermented drink and only sipped from her own water skin. What small pieces of bread she’d managed to hold down hadn’t harmed her. But as the days passed, one of her traveling companions died, then another. The first four were thrown overboard, halfhearted prayers whispered on their behalf.

  The conditions worsened, several of the men accusing others of spreading disease. The fighting only lasted a couple of days and then the storm hit. Though the ship hadn’t broken apart, several more men were lost at sea.

  Weak and exhausted, Elle surrendered to the darkness, confessing her sins and begging Christ for relief. If he’d only save her . . . she’d do whatever necessary to serve him well in her new home.

  She awoke to daylight, finding no one else alive. Unable to steer the ship, she chose a corner where most of the supplies were kept and covered herself with a sailcloth. She didn’t know how long it had been, what day it was, or where she was. She only knew she was alive and now had been discovered.