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.
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.