by Allie Mackay
He didn’t moan, but his eyes met Magnus’s, pleading for that mercy.
Northmen dreaded nothing more than dying without a weapon in their hand. If they did, the way to Valhalla and the glories of Odin’s feasting hall was barred to them. Instead they fell straight to Niflheim, the Norse hell where such ill-fated men shivered in endless cold and dark while Nidhogg, the Corpse-Tearer, a huge scaly-backed dragon, gnawed on their bones as they wailed and writhed in eternal agony.
Magnus relished the thought.
Skull-Splitter’s eyes were beginning to glaze, the plea in them fading.
The man had fought hard. He’d been fierce, braver than many men Magnus knew.
He deserved to die well.
His eyelids fluttered, drifting shut.
“God’s curse!” Magnus ignored the fighting around him and bent, snatching up the Viking warlord’s ax and thrusting the weapon into the man’s hand. He dropped to one knee beside the bastard, curling his trembling fingers around the hilt and holding them there until Skull-Splitter gave a last gurgling sigh, shuddered, and fell still.
The Norseman’s soul had fled.
And—Magnus stood—Skull-Splitter would already be taking his place at Odin’s table. No doubt reaching for a brimming horn of ale and grinning broadly at the plump, half-naked beauties eager to wriggle onto his lap. Life for Harald Skull-Splitter just became paradise.
Magnus was still cursed.
The Vikings’ taunts filled his mind again, clear as the clashing of swords and axes, the grunts, shouts, and curses of the men fighting across the red-streaming sand. A chill tore through him and he dragged his sleeve over his brow, wiping away blood and sweat.
He could almost feel darkness swirling around him, drawing nearer and searching for him.
He looked for Arnor Song-Bringer.
Then—at last—the killing slowed and the insults, screams, and yells lessened, the battle drawing to an end. Only Magnus’s warriors stood on the sullied, smoke-hazed strand. But one Viking yet lived, just as he’d ordered. Calum and another older warrior held the youth at the tide line, Frodi sitting guard before them.
“Ewan!” Magnus glanced at his friend, and then nodded toward the end of the cove where a small two-man skiff was beached near a pile of drying seaweed.
“Ready that boat for Arnor Song-Bringer.”
“With pleasure.” Ewan sheathed his bloodred sword and sprinted along the strand, quickly dragging the little boat to the water’s edge.
Magnus then narrowed his eyes at Sigurd Sword Breaker’s nephew. “Calum and his cousin are about to put you in thon skiff.” Magnus remained where he was, arms folded. The insult would be greater if his men, not him, put the messenger in the boat and shoved him off. “You’ll go naked and stripped of weapons. Nor will you have oars. Your own gods and the sea will determine where to take you. If they’re kind, you’ll reach your northern shores, or a Viking ship, before you die of cold or thirst.
“If you make it to your uncle”—Magnus did come forward now, for Calum and the other warrior had tossed the bare-bottomed Norseman into the skiff and were already shoving the boat into the waves—“tell Sword Breaker what happens to raiders who dare set foot on my shores. If he and his ilk wish to land at the bottom of the sea, their ships’ ashes soiling the strand as at Gairloch, they can come.
“Tell him”—Magnus raised his own foot, kicking the skiff deeper into the surf—“Magnus MacBride, Viking Slayer, is waiting. And that I’m eager to feed every last one of you to Corpse-Tearer. I showed mercy to Harald Skull-Splitter. I have none for your uncle or his followers.”
“My uncle doesn’t need your mercy.” Arnor Song-Bringer sat ramrod straight in the tiny boat, his chin raised defiantly. “He shows quarter to no man and will cut out my tongue for delivering your message.”
“But you will.” Magnus lifted his voice above the rising wind.
“I shall.” The young warrior’s blue gaze bit deep into Magnus’s own. “For I am as brave as you, MacBride, and fear no man. Not even—”
The rest of his words were carried away by a gust of whirling smoke from the burning dragon ships. And when the soot-filled air cleared, the little skiff was much farther out to sea, a black speck bobbing wildly in the foaming, red-glinting waves.
Then Arnor Song-Bringer was gone.
He was vanished, off on his way to whatever end the fate spinners planned for him.
Magnus felt a bump against his leg and looked down, seeing Frodi leaning hard into him. “You did well, lad.” He rubbed the dog’s ears, and then took a twist of dried meat from a pouch on his belt, giving Frodi the treat he loved best before sending him to gather the six cattle from wherever they’d wandered beyond the dunes.
The cattle would make a fine gift to the fisherfolk here and at Badachro.
As would the watch Magnus intended to place on the cliffs above both bays. A deterrent should the Norsemen ignore his warning.
He just wished he knew what to do about the warning bells in his head. They rang loudly now. And even this day’s good work couldn’t dispell them. Worst of all, he couldn’t shake the ghastly suspicion that his ill ease had more to do with Margo than with him.
Donata might’ve cursed him. But he shook off her threats as a seabird repels water.
It was Margo who was vulnerable.
Donata would be after Margo’s soul, trying to use her to crush him. Especially if she guessed how deeply Magnus was coming to care for Margo.
Women were aye more cruel to their own kind.
And that knowledge sent him sprinting across the strand, away from his men, racing for the cliff track and the thicket of whin and broom bushes waiting above.
He tore up the path, his legs pumping, only one thought on his mind.
Margo.
Chapter 18
Two weeks later, Margo stood on a high crag above Badcall Castle, staring out at the rolling sea. A brisk northern wind blew past her, tossing her hair and tearing at her clothes. She didn’t mind the afternoon’s rawness. Far from it. She turned her face to the gusts, enjoying a rush of pure, undiluted pleasure. She lived for such weather, always had. Her woolen cloak kept her warm, anyway, though she appreciated the additional comfort of the light linen shawl draped across her shoulders.
Given to her by Magnus’s aunt Agnes, who had claimed she stitched the shawl’s age-faded thistle border when she was just a lass, the offering did more than keep the cold off Margo’s neck.
The gift made her feel welcome.
Accepted, and at home at Badcall.
At least, as far as that was possible.
As she touched the shawl’s soft linen folds, hoping she’d never have to leave here, she deeply wished the cloth held the same powerful magic as the Highland Cursing Stone.
But the shawl was just that, a length of linen, however old and precious.
So Margo pushed away any overly sentimental thoughts that would lead her down roads she didn’t want to travel, and simply watched the long Atlantic rollers crashing onto the jagged, black rocks. It was an awe-inspiring sight, and the booming of the waves echoed down the coast.
It was also a vista she allowed herself to enjoy every afternoon, just before the gloaming began to close in, making it too treacherous to be on the bluff.
Public footpaths and guardrails hadn’t yet been invented, after all.
Not that she’d have it any other way.
Or any other place.
She could breathe here. She’d never felt more vital, so alive, almost intoxicated. The landscape’s beauty drenched her senses. Everywhere she looked, there was wonder and heart-wrenching splendor. Clouds raced across the sky, their hurrying shadows painting the moorland and hills. Seabirds wheeled above her and wind sighed through the pines.
She couldn’t imagine a place more perfect.
So she closed her eyes and breathed deep, seeking connection with her surroundings.
A waft of heather rewarded her. Then a hint of c
old, clean air, kissed with the tang of the sea. Her heart began to pound, slow and hard. A wonderful sense of contentedness spread through her.
Until a cough from somewhere to her left reminded her that she wasn’t alone.
As they did every day, Dugan and his brawny, oversized friend Brodie accompanied her, never letting her from their sight. They trailed her like faithful hounds, watching over her whenever she ventured anywhere outside Badcall’s castle gates without Magnus at her side. Just now Magnus was overseeing the sword and ax practice of some of his younger warriors, so Dugan and Brodie were with her.
They were her medieval bodyguards, following Magnus’s orders.
Margo knew Dugan performed the task gladly.
In recent days, Brodie was also warming to her.
She’d taught him some easy Luna weather lore. So when, last week, a large halo shone around the moon, two stars glimmering within, Brodie proudly warned several friends not to make a planned journey because a bad storm would descend before two days had passed.
Brodie claimed an “ache in his bones” told him so.
Margo didn’t mind.
It was reward enough to see Brodie’s eyes light when the predicted storm did break, just when he’d declared it would happen.
Men were awed by the accuracy of his “aching bones.”
And Margo gained a new champion.
She looked for the two men now, the clean brightness of Dugan’s lucky shirt making it easy to spot them against the dark edge of the pines. They kept a discreet distance, allowing her a degree of privacy. Both men sat on large rocks, their drawn swords resting across their knees.
Catching her glance, they stopped talking and looked her way. Each man nodded politely and lifted a hand in acknowledgment.
Margo did the same, enjoying the warm, wonderful sense of belonging that filled her as she turned back to the sea. Soon evening dark would draw in and she’d return to the hall. But for the moment, she needed to be outside.
This was the Scotland that had always called to her.
And she was here at last.
Her beloved Highlands.
A wild and rugged landscape that so appealed to those who loved solitude and thrilled to cold brooding days full of mist, wind, and drizzle. People like her, who’d rather hear the nightly weather report announce dipping temperatures and rain than heat and fry-your-eyeballs sunshine.
She didn’t do summer.
And if she was still here in another month or so, she’d excel at Scottish winters.
Too bad she wasn’t very good at Highland magic.
The one time she’d had a brush with true Celtic legend and lore, she’d lost her wits and let the Cursing Stone slip from her fingers.
Everything had gone so horribly wrong that day.
Just remembering Donata with her glowing black cloak and silver-disk eyes damped her palms and made her stomach queasy.
Yet without that nightmare, she wouldn’t have Magnus. She knew well that nothing worth having came easily. She had Magnus, and Donata was no more than a small annoyance in the great scheme of things.
Not that she really had him ...
They enjoyed a powerful physical attraction and he was beyond incredible in bed. But he meant so much more to her than the great sex and even his irresistible burr. She’d fallen desperately in love with him. And she wanted him to feel the same.
She needed his assurance so that if she was whisked back to her time, she could wrap herself in the comfort of knowing he’d loved her.
Not knowing how he truly felt was ripping at her.
Yet the closest he’d come to any verbal declaration was to call her mo ghaoil.
Margo frowned, ducking when two swooping gulls sped right past her head, almost clipping her ear. It was when she straightened, brushing at her hair, that she saw Magnus. He stood farther along the cliff, his position a good distance from her two protectors.
Margo’s breath hitched, her heart thundering. As always when she caught her first glimpse of him, she came alive, her skin tingling with awareness. The most delicious warmth began flowing through her body. Sinuous, needy heat started pulsing deep between her thighs.
She swallowed, her gaze locked with his.
How long had he been there?
She flicked a glance to Dugan and Brodie, surprised they hadn’t called a greeting to their lord, alerting her that he’d arrived. But seeing their master, they’d gone, circumspect as always. They’d left her alone to brave the desire simmering in Magnus’s eyes.
As she didn’t hide her feelings, she was sure they knew she welcomed every private moment that she and Magnus could spend together.
Anticipation beat inside her, hot and thrilling. He still hadn’t left the trees, where he leaned against a tall Scots pine, the tree’s red bark glowing softly in the fading light. He’d crossed his legs at the ankles and fading light. He’d crossed his legs at the ankles and his arms were folded, his head slightly angled as he watched her.
But then his eyes darkened and he gave her a slow, knowing smile. His gaze not leaving hers, he pushed away from the tree and strolled toward her. Even at a distance, she could see how much taller and larger he was than most men. He was definitely more magnificent, with his plaid slung proudly over one shoulder and his arms bright with rings of silver and gold. His gaze was focused, his jaw set. The fierce determination on his face excited her because she guessed the reason behind his appearance.
He carried a plaid draped over one arm, his intent igniting a slow burn deep inside her.
“My too-rist.” He stopped about halfway to her, wind whipping his plaid as he stood with his legs slightly spread and his hands on his hips, his gaze sweeping over her boldly.
He’d freed his long, silky black hair from its usual leather band and it streamed in the wind, a glossy skein of pure, unbound temptation.
He was magnificent.
But his use of the word tourist nibbled at the edges of Margo’s bliss.
She didn’t want to be an outsider.
She ached to belong.
To him, to the wild and spectacular land he loved so much and protected so fiercely, and—a hot pang stabbed her chest—even to the proud, superstitious people that were his blood kin and friends.
She wanted everything, most especially his love.
“Dinnae look troubled, mo ghaoil.” He was striding forward again, his expression more fierce than ever.
“It is a grand day and”—he reached her, sweeping her hard against him, holding her close—“I have loved watching you enjoy it just now.” He kissed her, crushing her mouth beneath his in a deep, ravenous claiming so hotly possessive that a flood tide of heat and desire swept her.
“It has been long since I’ve seen anyone look out across the sea with wonder on their face.” He cupped the back of her head, his fingers in her hair, gripping fast as if she’d disappear if he didn’t. “Did you know your eyes light, turning starry, when you watch cloud shadows glide across the hills?”
He leaned in, kissing her again, slow and soft this time. “It warms me inside to see you that way, Margo-lass. You remind me of the beauty I’d forgotten. The truth that for those of us who love this place, there is nowhere else in the world. You bring that peace back to me.”
“Oh!” Margo’s heart nearly split. Her eyes were more than starry now.
She blinked, glancing aside just as a whole new battalion of the cloud shadows he’d mentioned turned the hills into a shifting kaleidoscope of blue, purple, and gold. Looking back at him, she took a deep breath, hoping her words wouldn’t shock him because she so wanted him to understand her.
“I’ve always loved Scotland.” She kept her hands around his neck, her fingers clutching his plaid. “Do you know ...?” She sought the right words, and then just rushed on. “Whenever I come up here, I keep looking for some kind of enchanted portal that I can slip through and fix time, some trick or other that will let me stay here, guaranteed.
�
�Or I could rig a blockage that would seal the time rip after I popped safely back here, to you. Just anything”—her voice cracked—“to keep me with you.”
“You dinnae need the like, mo ghaoil.” His voice deepened. “You are here. I’ll no’ let anything take you away from me, no’ now.”
Her heart squeezed, but she couldn’t keep her gaze from flitting about, searching the rocks and heather for some tiny hint of unusualness.
There was nothing.
“Come, lass.” He nuzzled her neck, nipping her ear.
“I know there is Highland magic, dark and light.
Donata’s mutterings couldn’t have brought you here without the power of the Cursing Stone. Thon stone is gone now. Orosius swore it and he would know. That danger is passed and cannae touch you. But enchanted portals”—he straightened, shaking his head—“and rips in time?”
“I passed through one to get here.” Margo shivered.
Someday she’d tell him of Mindy and Bran of Barra, but she didn’t want to make this more complicated than it already was. “Magical stone or not, there had to be an opening in the veil between your world and my own. Donata used it to find me, and the Cursing Stone added a new twist, one we’ll never really understand.” He frowned then, doubt clouding his eyes even though—like her—neither one of them had a choice but to believe.
She was here, after all.
“Such things exist.” Margo slid her hands deeper into his hair, twining her fingers in the cool, silky strands. “Time gates.”
She really had hoped to find one hereabouts.
After all she’d been through, nothing surprised her anymore. So she’d wanted to try.
Unfortunately, no mysterious fairy rings had appeared in the grass, allowing her to nip inside just long enough to seal the opening and secure her place in Magnus’s time.
But it wasn’t that easy.
Such portals, though surely real, were next to impossible to locate. And they were even more difficult to use properly if she had encountered one.
Scottish romance writers used them all the time.
