“Better than a Dublin slave mart, eh?” Blackie clapped a hand on Callum’s shoulder, his dark eyes twinkling as he smiled at Alanna. “You have the rights of it, lass,” he agreed. “There is no finer place than the far North, especially on nights of thick fog, the sea angry, churning, and so magnificent, a man can only thank the gods for giving us such grandeur.”
“And I thank you.” Alanna went back to Callum, her breath hitching when he slid an arm around her – until his splayed hand touched the place on her back that kept pinching. “All of you, as I know now that you spared me much grief. Even my life, it seems.”
“Och, none o’ that, lassie.” Blackie slung his arm around Ula, drew her close. “That is what Skerrymen do, see you? We’re a wild, easily pleased bunch, wanting only our mead, hearty food, our women and song, and a good fight now and then. But…” He tailed off, glanced at his people. “We dinnae hold with anyone being treated poorly. You are much welcomed here and shall be our guest until your beloved Seacliffe is safe again.
“Longer if it pleases you!” he added, flashing a grin at Callum.
“Aye, well.” Callum looked at her. “If she doesn’t soon get something more to eat than stale oatcakes and a few bits of cheese, she may change her mind about staying with us.”
He turned again to Blackie. “Ula said she can have one of the sheltered beds in the longhouse. Is that still so?”
“Nae.” Blackie shook his head. “Take her to Rock-pool Cottage. It’s clean-swept and readied for her.”
“She’ll be well placed there,” Callum agreed. “Thank you. I’ll see her there now.”
“Do that.” Blackie inclined his head, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You rest yourself there, as well, laddie. Just have her at the longhouse for the feasting tonight.” Glancing at Alanna, he added, “Nigh every winter night is Yule on Skerray. You may grow tired of our merrymaking before you leave.”
Never.Surety swept Alanna, surprising her that she didn’t even miss Seacliffe.
“I will look forward to your Yule feast,” she told Blackie. “It will be my first one in a longhouse.”
“Truly?” Ula lifted a brow, her dimple deepening as she smiled. “Perhaps you’ve just forgotten?”
“Could be,” Alanna admitted, an odd chill slipping through her as Callum led her through the welcoming crowd and then down the beach, toward the cottage.
Built of thick, whitewashed stone walls, the cottage boasted a blue-painted door and two deep-set windows. Turf-roofed like the other cottages, this one enjoyed the shelter of the sheer black cliff that marked the end of Skerray’s beach.
“You made a grand impression, sweeting,” Callum told her as they neared the cottage. “Rock-pool is reserved for very special guests, usually Stewarts and now and again some Norse lordling or suchlike who chances this way.”
“Then I am honored.” Alanna glanced at Callum, then blinked for in the thick sea mist, he again looked slightly different. “Ahhh…” She stared, wondering how his eyes looked light blue, not green. But then the cottage loomed before them and he glanced at her, his eyes once more green as grass.
“Why is this Rock-pool Cottage?” She grasped at the first thing to say, before she could blurt something about his eyes, how his entire face had changed. Or worse, admit how hard her heart was beating – and the shocking reason she suspected it did so.
“The beach is sandy.” She hoped he didn’t hear her breathlessness. “I don’t see any tide pools.”
“They’re on the cottage’s far side, beneath the cliff. Sometimes at night, they seem to capture the stars.” He opened the door. “Gubbie should like it here, too,” he added, standing back so she could enter the spotlessly clean cottage.
“It’s perfect.” Ridiculously, her throat thickened and she couldn’t say more.
Instead, she looked around, took in the well-swept wood-planked floor made homey with a few colorfully woven rugs, a small hearth with driftwood neatly stacked on the grate, ready to burn. She also noted the carefully scrubbed table with two matching chairs. Nearby, a rough-hewn shelf held wooden plates and bowls, a few dented pewter cups, and an earthen jug. A woven basket hung from a nail on the wall, handy storage for a long-handled ladle and a motley collection of eating knives and spoons.
Beside her, Callum cleared his throat. “’Tis no’ so fine as Seacliffe, but Ula tries to-”
“She succeeds.” Alanna hoped he didn’t hear the catch in her throat.
“Aye, well,” he said, his own voice a bit gruff. “The cliff staves off the worst North Sea wind. Nights can be colder in Blackie’s longhouse.”
“It’s snug here,” Alanna agreed, turning in a slow circle.
Across the main room, an arched opening led into a tiny kitchen, and then –her pulse fluttered – another arch waited at the cottage’s rear, this one half-covered by a looped spill of shimmering blue cloth clearly meant to lend privacy to the sleeping area.
A few oil lamps sat on the table, and the broad window ledges each held a candle, ready to be lit.
Best of all, and now her eyes misted…
Someone must’ve raced down the beach to place a soft bed of furs before the little hearth – a courtesy that provided the ideal place for Gubbie to rest.
A creel stood near the door, filled with clothes – lovely women’s goods, pretty much all she’d need, at a glance.
