Chapter One
The Isle of Mull, December 1316
Brynja Nyberg sprinted toward the cliff edge, boots sliding on rain-slicked grass as she tracked the boat rounding the point. For one heart-stopping moment, the vessel’s bow swung toward shore—toward her.
Her pulse hammered.
Then the wind shifted, catching the sail wrong, and the ship heeled away behind the rocky promontory.
Gone.
She reached the cliff edge panting, wild strands of hair whipping across her face. The bastard was still hunting her. She was certain of it now.
“May your boat become grounded on hidden rocks,” she screamed in Norse, the curse rolling off her tongue as naturally as breathing. “May crabs feast on your drowned eyes and your soul wander the cold depths forever!”
“Still cursing boats?”
Brynja didn’t turn. She’d heard Hildi’s approach because her cousin moved with the unconscious grace of someone who’d left the past behind. How Brynja envied her that.
But she could not do the same.
“It’s him,” Brynja said, still staring at the empty water where the boat had vanished. “The man who came for Sheona. I know it.”
Hildi hung back, waiting for Brynja’s temper to cool, but it wouldn’t. Not today. Her Norse blood demanded she throw every curse in her mother’s tongue at the fools, hoping to change their luck.
“May a tern bleed and shite all over your hair until each strand fell from your head,” she yelled toward the empty sea.“May your boat run into a sea of swordfish that will punch holes in your hull, you ugly trolls!”
She glanced back at her friend, unable to suppress a smile despite her anger. Hildi’s presence always pulled her back from the edge. “I’m coming. I know you’re hungry.”
“I am hungry,” Hildi said, her mouth quirking. “But I’ll never stop enjoying your Norse insults. Your mama would be proud.”
The words hit harder than Hildi intended. Their mothers, Norsewomen abandoned by Scottish fathers who never returned, had raised them together on Tiree. That isle had been paradise until men came and murdered them for the cottages they wanted.
Four months. It had been only four months since Brynja held her mother’s hand as life drained from her body, yet it felt like an eternity.
Brynja had never recovered from the shock of holding her mother while she took her last breath. She could still feel the weight of that cooling hand in hers. Could still hear the man who’d grabbed her braid afterward, saying,“Aye, we’ll get a pretty price for you with those golden braids and blue eyes.”
She and Hildi had escaped from the small cottage down the isle where the bairns were held. Had rowed a tiny boat until fishermen found them and delivered them to the nunnery on Iona.
Their new home. Their sanctuary.
At least, it had been until the bastards came for Sheona a fortnight ago.
They’d come in the middle of the night, but one of Brynja’s dreams had woken her, drawn her to the coastline before the fools could land. She’d been waiting when their boat appeared, black against the pewter sky. Her first dagger buried itself in one man’s shoulder. Her second found another’s leg.
Sheona, now happily married and living on Mull, had told her later that Clyde was dead, the one who took the blade in his shoulder.
The other still lived.
And ever since, a particular boat had been patrolling near the isle. Sometimes twice a day.
Brynja came to the coast every time she spotted it. She vowed to be there when the fool dared step foot on Iona’s sand again. She’d be waiting with spear in one hand and dagger in the other. This time, she’d aim for his heart.
She turned toward the nunnery, Hildi falling into step beside her. “Mayhap on the morrow I’ll visit Simone, see if she’s noticed anything.”
“Aye, and I’d like to visit Magni again.” Hildi glanced up at the fast-moving gray clouds. “We don’t have much food to share, though.”
“Ionaland always has food to share. The monks bring us so much bread we can spare some.” Ionaland was the area of the isle where four women lived and cared for the orphans of the world—children rescued from twisted criminals who stole and sold bairns for coin.
