Chapter 1
Isle of Skerray
The North Sea, Winter 1399
Callum MacCulloch didn’t have anything against Yule.
He just wasn’t in the mood.
Leastways not for the merrymaking awaiting him on the far side of Skerray village, beside a great and blazing fire. Ale would flow there, the air reeking of burning driftwood, brine, roasting fish, the stale perfume of joy-women brought over from Aberdeen’s dockside taverns, and just enough peat to remind the Skerraymen that mainland Scotland was out there somewhere, beyond the chill wind and across the cold, night-darkened sea.
He glanced that way now, shuddering. For reasons as deep as the marrow of his bones, he didn’t set foot gladly on thon distant coast. What he would enjoy was a good night’s sleep on his pallet in Skerray’s longhouse, a low-slung, thick-walled remnant of the island’s Viking past – an unfortunate connection that never failed to remind him of his equally strong ties to the rockbound shore of northern Scotland where sheer, black cliffs supported the ruined shell of his ancestral home, Draugar Hall.
“Bluidy, ghost-ridden pile o’ rubble,” he snarled, the ruin’s image rearing up in his memory, the roofless, crumbling walls glaring at him, accusatory as ever.
As if he bore the weight of Draugar’s fall.
A centuries-old tragedy so dusty its tellings were less than the faintest echoes.
So why couldn’t he forget?
Because he wouldn’t have any peace until the last of his g-g-g-g-great grandfather’s treasure hoard had been hauled away from the cave set deep into the cliffs beneath Draugar’s crumbling walls. He’d already found and retrieved a small portion, enough to pay a few longstanding debts. What remained, if anything, would restore his family’s honor and – he hoped - return his ancestral seat to its erstwhile glory. At the least, he’d do enough to give the old stones some dignity.
If a few ghosts could then find peace, all the better.
If not…
He frowned, pulled a hand down over his beard. He wouldn’t consider failure. Giving up had brought the downfall of those who’d gone before him and he’d not repeat their mistakes. He’d studied each one and learned from them. If his goals required a bit more toil, he had the backbone and brawn to succeed.
And so he put back his shoulders, quickened his pace down a road edged on one side by low stone cottages and racks of fishing nets, a sandy beach on the other, a handful of tide pools glinting in the moonlight. He scarce noticed, the phantom of Draugar Hall spoiling the night’s beauty.
“Freyja’s bosom!” came a clear, feminine voice. “Such a dark face at Yule?”
“Perhaps you should look again?” Callum turned, flashed a smile as Ula, Skerray’s sole female occupant, caught up to him, her sea-green eyes shining. Mistress of Blackie Bain, Pirate King of the Skerries, she was – as Blackie loved to say – more than enough woman to make up for the lack of others.
“Perhaps you do not fool me.” She laughed, shifted the basket of mistletoe clutched at her hip.
“I would no’ even try.”
“You just did.”
“Ah, well.” He raised his hands, palms outward. “I should’ve known better.”
“True enough,” Ula agreed, her tone husky, everything about her full of warmth and vigor.
Callum lowered his hands, sure she could charm anyone. Indeed, many whispered that she, not Blackie, ran the windswept cluster of seafarer-populated islets, many little more than a jagged spit of foam-washed rock.
“You’ll be joining us at the fire?” She lifted a brow, something in her eyes making him want to run a finger beneath the neck opening of his tunic.
“I was heading to the longhouse.”
“You were, aye,” she declared. “And now you’re heading to the shore. ’Tis a night of mischief and mayhem, dancing round the fire, and kisses.” She lifted a bit of mistletoe from her basket, twirled it in the air. “More, as the night lengthens.”
“That I know.”
Ula smiled and took a swat at him with the mistletoe. “’Tis Yule.”
“Aye, and Blackie’s been celebrating every e’en since the nights started drawing in again.” Callum took the mistletoe from her hand, dropped it back in her basket. “Midwinter is a good fortnight away, mayhap longer. With all the mayhem and merriment, a man loses track of days.”
