Giving up on her happy memories, Elle concentrated on finding a clean gown to put on. She opened her trunk and selected a heavy wool dress. With no privacy, she turned her back to the men working in the distance and slowly stripped her soiled clothing off.
“Am I dreaming, lass?”
Darach’s voice sliced through her and she froze, her gown hanging from her hips.
“Cover yerself quickly,” he warned. “Tis hard enough to convince my men ye aren’t some kind of witch.”
Elle despised that word. She whirled about, glaring at him. “Perhaps if you educated your men, taught them that as long as their faith was strong, they’d have nothing to fear—especially from me.”
Darach didn’t move. Instead, his gaze wandered shamelessly up her body, stopping on her breasts. The thin material of her shift did little to hide her soft flesh. “I will not be ashamed of changing my clothes in the open. I was left with no choice.”
“No?” He shook his head, then stepped closer, meeting her gaze. “What kind of woman are ye, then? A pretender of virtue or a brazen harlot fleeing a world that cast ye out?”
She gave a mirthless laugh, then finished dressing, tying the laces at the front of her gown. “That question doesn’t deserve an answer.”
“Maybe not,” he said, widening his stance and crossing his arms over his chest. “But I have a dozen more questions that ye will answer.”
“I have nothing to hide.” And she didn’t. Elle was no liar. She’d find peace in the truth. Perhaps enough sympathy for Darach to aid her search for her mother’s family. If she could find them, convince them of her kinship, she might gain a new home.
“Set aside our differences for now,” he said. “It is time to honor yer friends.”
She nodded, sadness flooding her heart. She’d lived a privileged life growing up in a secure household filled with love and joy, shielded from the outside world. The Norse were the heralds of violence and death, and after her home was attacked and overtaken by a powerful jarl, she never thought she’d feel that much fear and pain again. But she did now, following Darach to the place where the bodies of her voyage companions had been stacked carefully in a hole in the ground twenty yards away from the beach.
Darach’s men surrounded the pit, looking as solemn as she felt.
“Can ye speak their names aloud, lass?” Darach whispered to her. “So we can recognize them as individual men.”
“Y-yes,” she answered reluctantly, shifting on her feet, the all too familiar feeling of nausea overtaking her again. She swayed, but Darach reached out and steadied her.
“Be brave,” he said.
“Gudbrand,” she said, pointing to the first body, “He was my intended.” Again, she felt queasy, but she fought against the sickness, wanting to remember these men for what they were—fellow Norsemen, connected to her through blood and faith. “Audun the baker, Skule and Reynard—brothers . . .” Thirteen names crossed her lips, followed by thirteen painful stabs to her gut. “All faced the same challenges—finding a place in the world that would accept Northmen who worshipped God. I, too, face this great trial.” She raised her head and eyed each of Darach’s warriors.
Gathered together at the graveside seemed to have a humbling effect on them. The insults had stopped completely. In fact, several men bowed their heads reverently.
“I ask only what any man would wish of you, Lord,” she continued, “To welcome these men into your heavenly kingdom. Grant their souls everlasting salvation and peace.” Out of strength and words to say, Elle retreated a few feet, ready to turn away from the sight and stench of death. She’d reached her limit, God forgive her weakness, but nothing could have prepared her for this. Nothing.
“Well said, lass,” Darach approved. He knelt and scooped up a fistful of sandy dirt, then tossed it into the pit. “By the sweat of yer face ye will eat bread, till ye return to the ground, because from it ye were taken. For ye are dust, and to dust ye shall return.”
She marveled at his words. Then closed her eyes, breathing in the salt air—wishing beyond all hope that she could just lie down and die. Better a swift death than suffering. Better to die with pride and honor than grovel and slowly waste away from a broken heart and inconsolable spirit.
She opened her eyes after someone gripped her shoulder. “It is time to go,” Darach said.
“Go?” She didn’t understand at first. “Where?”
“Do ye wish to stay here, Elle?”
“N-no.”
“We will ride to my home. My father will want to meet ye.”
“Ride?”
“Our horses are waiting above.” Darach pointed to a specific cliff.
“You expect me to climb those rocks?”
“Aye,” he said, taking her by the elbow and steering her in the direction of the edifice. “It will be a difficult climb, but if ye trust me and follow my directions, ye might make it without breaking any bones.”
Elle swallowed hard as one of Darach’s men tied a rope about her waist, knotting it several times. The warrior offered Darach the other end of the twine. He secured it about his own hips.
“I’m yer anchor, Elle,” he offered. “If ye fall, I’ll catch ye.”
Chapter Five
Just as Darach pulled Elle up and over the edge of the cliff, he caught sight of the black smoke rising from the burning long ship. He’d ordered four of his men to stay behind and burn the vessel. After seriously considering its value, the possibility of adding it to his father’s own fleet, or selling it, he knew the only answer was to destroy it. Nothing was worth risking his clan’s welfare. There’d be no evidence left behind that a Northmen vessel had strayed into his lands.
Elle wiped her hands on the side of her gown, untied the rope from her waist, then stared in the same direction as him. “Twas a perfectly sound vessel.”
“To a Norseman.”
“Aye.” She held his gaze then. “Only to a Norseman.”
He nodded. “Tis a short walk to where the horses are waiting.”
“What about my trunk? The goods from the ship?”
“Do not concern yerself with such matters. My men will see to yer belongings. Until then . . .” He signaled for her to twirl around. “There are several lasses who are similar in size and shape at home. Ye will have whatever ye need.” Of course, he didn’t mean a word of it—Darach had never beheld a lovelier woman. But he’d never say it aloud. Elle was prideful, overly confident, and obviously knew how beautiful she was. And he had a well-known weakness for comely lasses—something Cameron had reminded him about. He couldn’t hide his admiration much longer. Elle made his body want things he couldn’t have, like carnal knowledge of the sweet, soft flesh he’d caught a glimpse of when she’d dared to strip her gown off in the open. Groaning, he scrubbed his chin.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I am tired, lass. Hungry. And deeply curious about where ye came from.”
“You still doubt my story?”
“I will question everything about ye a dozen times until I’m sure ye are telling the whole truth. We are born enemies.”
“I do not see you as such. We are strangers,” she remarked. “And I am no liar. I have never failed to admit to my sins. A characteristic that often got me into trouble as a child.”
Darach snorted. Honesty shouldn’t be seen as a flaw. But her rare beauty—that alone was a fault he blamed on the Almighty. A temptation put in front of him to see if he could resist. Darach cared little about his mortal soul, he’d already sinned enough in his lifetime to assure his place in Hades. “Honesty is a chaste trait any father should be proud of.”
“I agree,” she said, walking side-by-side with him.
“How old are ye, lass?”
“Eighteen seasons,” she said. “I came of age in captivity—promised to a man I neither loved nor wanted.”
“Our worlds are not so different,” he said. “Only, I’ve never been a slave.”
She stopped abru
ptly. “Did I not make it clear before, sir? I am no thrall. I am the daughter of a chieftain, born a freewoman. And so, I will die one. Though my sire was stripped of his title and lands, his misfortune cannot change the circumstances of my birthright.”
If Darach doubted her story before, he no longer had a reason to. Her tone and the earnest look upon her face convinced him otherwise. Not to mention the way she carried herself. Elle was every bit the lady. “I believe ye.”
She arched a fine brow. “One less worry for me, then?”
“Aye,” he agreed, then chuckled. She was much too practical for such a young woman. Much too even-tempered, much too witty, and much too beautiful . . . His mind always seemed to trip over that last fact.
Just then, the clouds cleared and sunshine exploded around them, casting her in brilliant light. There was never a harsher judge of natural beauty than daylight. Darach remembered all-to-well bedding a woman under the cover of night, only to wake in the morn and regret how too much ale had affected his eyesight. The memory deepened . . . He’d crawled out of bed and slunk away like a beaten dog.
No such worry now. The light only heightened her allure. He swallowed back his feelings, his cock standing at full attention, his heart racing with anticipation. Did Elle prefer to be chased, or was she the kind of woman who would fall into his bed and spread her legs with enthusiasm, welcoming him?
Fool! Ye’ll never know. She isn’t for ye . . .
When he was finally able to clear his head, he noticed the shocked look on her face.
“What are ye looking at, lass?”
“The endless fields of heather.”
Though he’d been born and raised in Scotia, Darach never failed to appreciate the world around him. God was good. A rich tapestry of purple and green covered the tops of the crags and blanketed the hills. The air was fresh, scents of spring carried on the wind.
“Ye’ve been to Scotia before, then?” If so, the lass wasn’t as honest as she’d claimed to be.
“Nay,” she said. “But I’ve seen this place in my dreams, I think, for my mother described it too perfectly.” Wonderment showed on her face.
“And what connection does yer ma have to this place?”
“Did I fail to share it before?” she asked innocently. “My mother was born in Scotia, taken from her home as a young woman by my sire.”
Darach wanted to believe her story, but it seemed all too convenient. Elle had survived a deadly sea voyage, landed safely on his shores, was meant for servitude, but had been born a lady, was a Christian though her father was a Viking, and now . . . Her mother was a kinswoman? Born here? Taken against her will? Either the lass spoke truth, in which case Darach would swear the angels were with her, or she was a bold liar, more deceptive than the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
“And ye have proof of yer lineage on this side of the North Sea, too?”
“Aye,” she said.
“In what way?”
“The day my sire kidnapped my mother, she was wearing a special gift from her grandmother. A brooch and pin cast in silver with three tiny rubies—my great grandmother’s wedding gift from her husband—Bain MacAlpin.”
Once again, the lass stole his breath, only this time it wasn’t because of her beauty. The name she had spoken—MacAlpin—it changed everything. “Did I hear ye right, lass?”
“Aye,” she assured him, gazing up at him with no observable deceit on her face. “Shall I repeat the name?”
“Nay,” he said. “I will report these details to my sire.”
A short time later, they arrived at the area where the horses had been left. Darach hurried Elle to his mount and lifted her onto the saddle, determined to get her back to his keep and put under constant guard. The lass was a valuable captive. If she was indeed related to the MacAlpin’s, noble blood ran on both sides of her family, making her a true Scot.
Chapter Six
Elle didn’t know what to expect as Darach led the group of horses up a steep incline. As they reached the top, he stopped his mount and gave her waist a squeeze. “My home is before ye.”
She squirmed in the saddle, grateful her time atop his horse had come to an end—his nearness made it difficult to concentrate on anything of importance. Darach did something to her, something new and very unsettling. And though he claimed to be her enemy, judging by the way he held onto her while they galloped across the fields, she knew they shared a connection of some sort.
She admired the fortified structure. Surrounded by a stakewall, the well-built timber house demonstrated the kind of wealth Darach’s family possessed. As they rode through the gates, men and women alike greeted Darach and his warriors. The inner bailey was filled with people and animals. Not unlike her home in the Trondelag, the smells of everyday life assailed her. The scent of fresh bread baking merged with animal dung. She smiled at the memories it provoked.
Darach dismounted first, then reached for her. He gently set her on her feet. “Welcome to my home.”
Curious onlookers already surrounded them. And if she listened hard enough, Elle could understand some of their comments. Her gown stood out, and so did her red hair. Children pointed at her. The women grimaced, and many of the men leered as she walked by, Darach keeping a firm hold on her left arm.
“Ignore the talk and looks,” he advised. “Ye are like an exotic bird blown to shore by the storm.”
She stopped and looked up at him. “A caged one.”
He chuckled. “Aye, that ye are, lass.”
They entered the house through a side door, where a dark-haired woman waited. She wore a wool gown dyed deep green, suggesting she was of some importance. “Darach.” She embraced him and Elle moved aside, letting the two share an intimate moment.
Was this woman a valued servant? His wife? Sister?
“We heard the warning.” She pulled back so she could see him. “Father ordered all the livestock brought in, then we sealed the gates. It is good to see ye safe and sound.”
“Aye,” Darach said. “Twas a wayward ship, not a threat.”
The woman was his sister. Deep inside, Elle felt relieved by that fact. Why, she didn’t know.
“And what have ye here?” His sister finally noticed Elle. “Another stray?”
“A lady of noble birth we found hiding on the longship.”
His sister’s pleasant features darkened some as she studied Elle from head to toe. “Ye’ve brought a Norsewoman into our home? How could ye do such a thing, Darach? What will father say? What will our people think?” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Tis not right.”
“What would ye have me do, Lili? Leave her to die?”
“Ye’ll be taking her to a cell, then?”
“Nay. She will be treated as any other guest—given a room of her own and an escort.”
Lili clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Very well,” she said reluctant to do her brother’s bidding. “What men will ye assign to watch over her?”
“Can ye bring us some bread and ale, first? I’ll worry over such details after I’ve eaten and had time to think.”
“Father will want to see ye.”
“Aye—but not before I break bread.”
The great hall was of a respectable size, with a high table, a dozen trestle tables, a central fire pit, tapestries hanging on the walls, and skins covering a good portion of the earthen-packed floor. Sunlight filtered in through rectangular slits cut into the south-facing wall, making it a comfortable room.
Darach pulled a bench out from the closest table. “Sit and eat with me, Elle.”
She nodded and sat down, folding her hands on the tabletop. “From what I’ve seen and heard, Darach, I am an unwelcome presence here.”
“People fear what they do not know.”
She could not disagree with his way of thinking, but . . . “Is it your intention to introduce me to your people?”
He sat beside her, angling his big body so he could look at her. “Tis the only choice beyond locking
ye in a cell. If ye prefer solitude—”
“I prefer the warmth and comfort of this hall.”
“Aye.” He nodded his approval and accepted a cup of ale from the serving girl who approached the table. He took a deep drink, then set his vessel down. “Bring water, too, lass.”
After the girl placed two loaves of bread on the table, she hurried away.
Elle didn’t attempt to hide her hunger. She picked up one of the loaves and tore it in half, savoring the first taste of the warm bread as she swallowed it down, followed by a gulp of ale. Nothing had ever tasted so good.
“Ye are ravenous, lass.”
Several minutes of silence passed before she spoke again. “If your sire rejects me, what will happen to me, Darach?”
He thought on it a long moment before answering. “As long as yer claims are proven legitimate, that ye are indeed the daughter of a chieftain, and yer ma was born in Scotia, my father will have no choice but to treat ye as an honored guest. The MacAlpin’s are an ancient clan—noble born—their blood as much a part of this land as mine. Honor requires we provide ye with sanctuary, lass. But if ye lied . . .”
Elle looked deep into his eyes. “I swear upon my father’s good name—upon my mother’s very life—by everything holy—I am who I say. Tis by God’s grace I ended up here and not in the hands of the greedy lords of Orkeneyjar. Though it is rumored they care little for what gods a man worships, there is a shortage of childbearing-aged women on the islands. I might have been subjected to humiliating circumstances, my honor compromised . . .”
Darach frowned at her. “Is that what ye worry about the most, lass? Yer virginity? Is not the breath of life of more importance?”
“You misunderstood me, sir.”
“Did I now?”
“My honor includes my very life. But what would my life be worth if I didn’t possess my chastity? I would never accept a fate as a bed thrall—or be satisfied baring bastard sons for a tyrant. I share the same dreams as any young woman. I want a husband who respects and loves me, and legitimate children with a happy future.”
The Forbidden Highlands Page 57
