The Forbidden Highlands

by Kathryn Le Veque

  When a large man tugged her protective covering off, Elle pretended to be unconscious. The stranger cupped her cheek, then felt for a pulse in her neck. Once he confirmed she was alive, he called out to someone. Now she sensed the presence of many people—the weight of their stares making it difficult to continue feigning sleep.

  “The lass is verra young,” a male observed in her mother’s native tongue.

  “I will take her home,” another said. “After we burn the bodies and ship. Salvage what ye can first.”

  Someone lifted Elle from the depth, carefully tucking her against his broad chest. The temptation to open her eyes and gaze at the strong man who smelled like smoke and leather gnawed at her gut. She wanted off the ship before she risked her life by communicating with these people. She’d overheard many insults about the Norse. Though Elle was born in the Trondelag, Elle’s mother had been taken captive from a Scotian village. It gave Elle every right to be here.

  But her captors might disagree—especially when they were getting ready to destroy all traces from whence she came.

  As the stranger lowered her to the ground, she cracked her eyes open. He placed her in front of a fire.

  “I know yer awake, lass.”

  Elle gasped and looked up at him. As fierce as any man she’d ever seen, for some reason, she couldn’t escape his stare. Tall and proud, he wore full-length, leather trews, a woolen leine, and length of brown cloth pinned at his right shoulder. His unbound dark hair lifted in the wind, making him look as savage as any wild beast. His eyes were green and solemn, but she recognized a touch of compassion in them. His jawline was prominent, his nose thin and straight. But what struck her the most, frightening yet igniting a spark of excitement within her, was the sound of his deep voice.

  “Where do ye come from?” he asked.

  Should she reveal the truth, that she understood him? Twas one of the reasons the deposed chieftain had purchased her freedom. Few people in Norway spoke Gaelic. And though Elle had never set eyes on a Scott, she admired the warrior before her, and felt as if she knew him—if only through the stories her mother shared with her growing up. And the land around her . . . This shore could be the very one her beloved mother had described—the wind-beaten cliffs of Strathnaver, crowned by fertile hills and mountains. The most glorious of places.

  There will be no mistaking it, her mother had said. For it bleeds milk and honey, as the Lord promised his chosen people it would.

  “Jeg er Norse,” she said. I am Norse.

  He scratched his chin. “Yer ship.” He pointed to the grounded vessel where his men were unloading the crates she had hidden between. He used his hands to show a ship sailing. “Where were ye going?”

  “Scotia,” she answered, seeing no harm in demonstrating that she could understand his simple hand gestures. The point of keeping her knowledge of his language a secret was to give him a reason to let her live.

  He nodded. “Well, lass, ye’re here.”

  Elle closed her eyes, silently praising her good fortune. Their original destination had been Orkeneyjar, where the reigning nobles would have determined her fate. The storm must have blown the ship well off course. She opened her eyes again and gave the man a searching look. “Elle.” She patted her chest, introducing herself.

  “Elle,” he repeated her name with a heavy accent. “I am Darach, son of Aodh.”

  “Dar-ach,” she struggled to pronounce his name properly. “Darach.”

  “Aye.” He nodded his approval. “Tis a pity we can’t understand each other fully, for I wish to speak with ye, lass. To hear yer story.”

  Dizziness overcame her and she turned away, vomiting whatever was left in her sour stomach on the ground. She made the worst kind of Norsewoman, for her father’s people were fishermen and explorers—seasoned sailors. The blood of her mother inarguably dominated her being. She’d never developed sea legs like her sisters and brothers, and even favored her mother in looks and manner. Not that her sire minded overmuch, for he’d fallen in love with her mother the moment he saw her in one of the Scot villages he’d pillaged, taking her to wife that night and carrying her across the great sea.

  Embarrassed by her present state, she kept her back to Darach, hoping he’d leave her in peace to recover. Instead, she felt him kneel beside her, thrusting a wineskin under her nose.

  “Drink,” he commanded.

  Nervously, she accepted the skin, uncorked it, and drank greedily, the warm liquid purging the sour taste from her mouth. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, recapped the skin, and braved a peek at Darach.

  He chuckled and took the skin back, then stood. “The sickness will pass,” he assured her. “Ye were meant to keep yer feet firmly planted on dry land.”

  She repositioned herself, sitting on her knees, gathering her long red hair to one side, and raised her chin proudly. “How do you know what I was meant to do?”

  If he was surprised to learn that she could speak his language, he didn’t show it. Instead, he simply said, “Judging by yer current condition, I’d say this is yer first voyage. And perhaps yer last.”

  The finality of his words didn’t disturb her half as much as his hungry stare. Elle knew she was pleasing to look upon. From an early age, her father and brothers had told her so. The boys in her village often followed her about, offering to help complete whatever tasks her mother had assigned. But to some people, her coloring represented something much darker than beauty—some Norse considered her a völur—witch. Not the kind that healed people, but a witch that caused mischief and misery.

  Would Darach feel the same? Did her mother’s people believe in such things?

  “You are right, sir.” She stood then, the nausea almost completely gone. “I am not accustomed to sea travel. But I was left with little choice.”

  “Are ye a slave?”

  “Nay,” she said. “I am the daughter of a minor chieftain, born and raised in the countryside of the Trondelag.”

  He gave her a sideways look, perhaps judging her appearance against who she claimed to be.

  “There is a trunk on the ship that contains all of my earthly possessions. In it, you will find evidence of my birthright. I am what I claim to be, sir.”

  Darach nodded, then turned around and addressed the man standing closest to him. “Bearnard, I have a task for ye.”

  The man was dressed in the same fashion as Darach, only shorter and stouter. “Aye?”

  Darach gazed at her again. “What does yer case look like?”

  “Tis smaller than most, has a single latch, and a raven engraved on it.”

  “Bring the lady’s trunk.”

  “Aye.” Bearnard departed.

  “Are ye hungry, lass?”

  Elle didn’t know what to say. Yes, pangs of hunger were beginning to set in, but she feared if she ate anything it would only make her ill again. Her belly still churned like the ocean waves.

  “How long has it been since ye last ate?”

  “Days.”

  “Tis by the Lord’s grace ye’re still standing. Sit down, lass, I’ll fetch ye something to eat—something that will no upset yer stomach.”

  More than grateful for his kindness, Elle did as he bid her, finding a comfortable spot in front of the fire. It felt good to stretch out on solid ground again. That storm . . . had tested her faith. And her sanity. But none of that mattered anymore. She was in Scotia, in the company of people who might know her mother’s clan. Forbidden people, according to her father. Whenever she’d asked after her mother’s kinsmen, he’d always admonished her, severely.

  Tis not for you to know, girl. The same response every time. But why? Elle never understood, but she was determined to find out.

  Chapter Three

  Darach had expected to be firm with the lass—he wanted answers. Women were often the victims of men’s folly, and he didn’t consider her an enemy, yet. But once he’d seen the look of uncertainty in her eyes, and found himself able to take a full brea
th after realizing how beautiful she was, the plan of questioning her rigorously had simply faded.

  At first, he thought her a slave, but she claimed noble birth. That alone could be worth something to his family. Use her as a means to bargain with the Norse—her life in exchange for peace. Until he fully understood her circumstances, he’d be kind and patient, as long as she did as she was told.

  “The lass is a dangerous distraction,” Cameron said as he approached. “She belongs in a cell, far away from yer admiring eyes.”

  Darach frowned at the captain. “Ye think me incapable of keeping a clear mind around her?”

  “I think ye’re as susceptible to feminine charms as any lad yer age. Tis difficult to stay focused when yer pikk is clouding yer judgement.”

  “She’s not the first beautiful lass I’ve ever seen.”

  Ten years his senior, Cameron had always acted older than he truly was. “Tell me the last time ye’ve talked with a girl that had hair the color of fire, lavender eyes, and a smile so beguiling she could trick the devil himself.”

  Wanting another look at the temptress his friend described, Darach peered over his shoulder, finding Elle warming her hands over the fire. Aye, everything Cameron suggested was true. What man could resist that face or form if he was exposed to her for too long? The lass should wear a veil to keep herself safe and his men as well.

  “Would ye punish the lass for something she’s not to blame for? If the Almighty—”

  “The Almighty has nothing to do with it. She’s a bloody heathen, crossed the North Sea on a ship bearing two dozen Norsemen who wouldn’t hesitate to slit yer throat, rape yer sisters, and take yer family’s lands. If ye think upon her that way, it might keep yer wee head in line.”

  “Bread, Cameron, that’s all I need from ye right now.”

  The captain blew out a frustrated breath and walked a few feet away to where their supply bags were located. He returned with a small wrap of cloth. “Feed her, don’t talk with her. Words are the first trap beautiful women set.”

  Darach couldn’t resist laughing. “And I suppose ye speak from experience?”

  “I’ve had my share of women, lad. Big and small, horse faced and lovely.”

  “Thank ye for this.” Darach accepted the bundle of bread. “If I treat her as a prisoner, I won’t get the answers I seek. Instruct the men to show her the same courtesy we would any woman.” Cameron would simply have to trust him. He’d never endangered his men before and wouldn’t do so now just because an attractive lass had been found.

  Returning to the fire, he sat down next to Elle and presented her with the fresh bread. “This will settle yer stomach. Once ye feel better, I will give ye some dried meat. Ye must slowly train yer gut to accept sustenance again, lass. Otherwise, ye will get sick again.”

  Elle gazed at him for a long moment, then took the loaf and tore it in half. She offered him the larger portion, waited for him to bite into it, then did the same.

  Her lack of trust with the food told him more about her than she would know. The lass thought he might poison her. “Tell me,” he said between bites, “why were ye the only woman on the ship?”

  Her contented look faded. “A powerful jarl swept the countryside a couple of months ago, confiscated our lands, took our slaves, and imprisoned my sire and brothers.”

  “I am sorry, lass.”

  She shook her head. “There is nothing to be done. Christian jarls and chieftains live in constant danger in my country. Christ’s message threatens the very existence of the pagan gods.”

  The lass was a Christian? “Ye are baptized?”

  “Aye. Does it surprise you?”

  He rubbed his chin, knowing their common faith would save her life. Even his father, known for his harsh dealings with the Norse, would never harm a Christian woman, regardless of where she was born. “I must confess, lass, I dinna know Vikings worshipped God. How is it ye were converted?”

  “Converted?” Elle gave a wary look. “You cast a wide net, sir. Not every Norseman is pagan—as I’m sure not every Scot is Christian.”

  Not wanting to endanger the honesty they’d established, he changed the subject. “Did yer father and brothers survive?”

  “I know not.” She swallowed her last bite of bread. “I also have three sisters and a mother. I pray for their mortal souls.”

  “There is a small kirk at my home. Ye are welcome to seek comfort there.”

  “And a priest?”

  “Aye.”

  “Darach,” one of his men called.

  Darach sighed and climbed to his feet, not wanting to leave her yet. “Aye?”

  “We are ready to burn the ship and bodies.”

  Darach turned to Elle. “Can I trust ye to stay here?”

  Elle shot up. “Burn the bodies? You can’t. Please.”

  “Why not, lass?”

  Several of his men had gathered about them now, obviously curious to hear what she had to say.

  “Although those men were Norse, all of them were bound for Orkeneyjar to answer to the nobles who rule those islands. Tis one of the only places where Christians are welcomed from Norway. It was a chance at a new life if we were willing to work hard and farm the land. Otherwise, they would have been put to the sword or sold into slavery. You cannot burn Christian bodies, they must be buried in consecrated ground.”

  “How can ye trust her words?” one of the men asked.

  “They all worship false gods,” another added.

  “Tis untrue,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “Look for the crosses about their necks. We all wear one.” Determined to convince them of her trustworthiness, she opened her wool cloak and shoved her hand down the front of her smock, producing exactly what she described, a silver cross on a matching chain.

  “Shite.” Darach raked his fingers through his hair. “Even if they are as ye say, lass, I suspect a catching illness has killed them all. We can’t risk carrying that sickness home with us. The bodies must be burned.”

  “Illness?” She spun around, meeting the hard gazes of all of his men fearlessly. “Twas tainted mead and bread that killed them, and that storm. Many were lost at sea.”

  Darach considered her words very carefully. It was one thing to spare her, but his men would never understand if he demanded special treatment for the dead Norsemen. “We haven’t the time to transport those bodies to my home. And I could never force my men’s hands—demand them to dig graves for who they see as their mortal enemy. We must reach an agreement, lass, something that will satisfy both sides.”

  “What of their souls, sir? On judgement day, are you willing to face the Almighty and account for why you didn’t properly bury those men?”

  Darach fisted his hands at his sides. Her words were meant to stir emotions, to make him question his choice. The lass had a sharp wit and tongue to match. “I would face the Almighty today if given the chance.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. “I beg mercy, sir.”

  He turned away from her lavender gaze, for meeting it was as dangerous as staring at the sun for too long. “Luthais, Grim, and Kinnel—dig a mass grave. If these men are indeed Christians, we can’t burn the bodies. I won’t risk the damnation of innocent men, but nor will I risk our welfare by taking them home. The priest can travel here and consecrate the ground later. Lady Elle,” he said, looking at her again. “Will ye accept these terms?”

  “These men will haunt me the rest of my days,” she said mournfully. “But yes, I accept your terms.”

  Bearnard approached, holding her trunk. “Here it is,” he said, setting it on the ground at her feet.

  “Thank you.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “If you’ll take the time to search my belongings, you will find the evidence you need to establish my identity.”

  “There is no need,” Darach assured her. “I am sure ye’ll want to honor yer friends with prayers.”

  “They weren’t my friends, only unfortunate victims of the same violence. But yes
, I will offer prayers on their behalf. Someone needs to.” She bent at the waist and picked up her trunk, then walked away, toward the fire.

  “She already weaves her spells about ye,” Cameron whispered from behind.

  Darach spun around, angry. “Do ye know when to shut yer mouth, Cameron?” Before he said anything else he’d regret, Darach stormed off in the opposite direction of Elle. He needed time alone to think. The lass deserved his protection, but to what extent, he didn’t yet know.

  Chapter Four

  A mass grave? Could there be a greater insult? Twas little better than being heaped upon a bonfire and burned to ash. But she would have to accept the small token of Darach’s mercy. As harsh and brooding as he appeared, there was a softer side to him—one she hoped to see more of as they spent time together. Her very survival depended upon it, that much she was sure of.

  She gazed up and down the shore. Rugged and barren, she wondered how anyone could thrive in this world. The waves crashed against the rocky beach, the occasional fish jumping from the water. Behind her, white and gray cliffs loomed overhead. She hugged her middle as another cold wind assaulted her, blowing sand into her eyes. Is this how God rewarded her faithfulness, sending her to a place devoid of warmth and life?

  She imagined herself back in the Trondelag, helping her mother and sisters prepare the late day meal. There’d be much laughter in the kitchen—her sisters interacting kindly with the thralls. Twas her mother’s way, treating all people as family. Perhaps she did so because she knew the pain of being taken from her homeland. Elle’s mother had started out a slave, meant to only warm her sire’s bed. But once his first wife died of fever—leaving him with no sons, the chieftain married Elle’s mother, already heavy with child.

  She’d given him three sons before their first daughter was born. A blessing from her God. Twas the one lasting influence her mother had over her sire, the god she’d carried across the North Sea. After their fourth babe was born, Elle’s father had everyone in his household baptized.