Page 12 of Highland Secret (The Highland Magic #1)

R oderick adjusted the grip on his weapon as he waited in the shadows of the forest.

The lovely lass had been right.

The Stewart army boasted more mounted knights, but the sheer number advantage belonged to the enemy.

And here, three acres of forest away from the battlefield, maybe two hundred and fifty horsemen awaited their signal to attack in the unlikely case that the battle turned against the Donald.

Their colors and language branded them Northern mercenaries, paid per battle to fight for the highest bidder.

He bared his teeth in half a wicked smile, half derisive sneer. They wouldn’t get the chance. Not today.

Watching them mill about their crude camp, preparing their horses as stealthily as possible, he knew it would be easier to start taking them out before they mounted and stood at the ready.

Her name floated to him on the breeze that noisily disturbed the heavy leaves of the oak in which he perched. Looking toward the city of Aberdeen he breathed deeply as if he could find her scent on the wind and take it inside of him.

Evelyn … The most beautiful woman he’d ever encountered with her thick, honeyed hair and shy, whiskey colored eyes.

And that arse.

He’d meant to possess her for a night, to shelter her from the cruel MacKay and give and take pleasure from her body. It did him good to spend his seed before a battle. For then the rage did not take him as entirely. He was less likely to slaughter his allies.

But she’d been a virgin. A bloody virgin !

He should have known. He should have read the signs; her trembling, her shyness, her unpracticed guileless passion. It wasn’t unusual for him to encounter difficulty with a woman who was unaccustomed to a man of his size and girth. He’d thought her tense and nervous, maybe in need of coaxing.

Kiss me… Please. Closing his eyes, he relished the sweet memory of his own surrender.

Och, but she’d been tighter, sweeter than any woman before and now that she’d tamed his beast, there could never be another woman after.

‘Twas the way of his Berserker bloodline.

Once sworn and mated to a lass, the bond was eternal.

Roderick cringed at the danger he’d inadvertently put her in.

What if his berserker had rejected her as his mate?

She would have been killed! But, nay, magic lay behind the lass’ warm eyes and an innate knowledge and acceptance of the truth of things.

Any man or beast would have to be insane not to want her, to do anything to possess her, to protect her.

To love her.

He would return to Aberdeen and claim her. Take her to his family home in the highlands. Just as soon as he dispensed with his contracted charge.

Taking in another deep breath of briny ocean air tinged with heather, he silently drew his blade from the scabbard, taking care not to let the sun glint off the weapon and alert his prey.

Slicing the blade across his left palm he embraced the familiar white-hot rage that surged at the sight of blood.

Yes …

This caused the Beast to rise within him, filling him with the power of Freya, passed down to some clans through a Northern ancestor.

His vision honed to shades of grey, but sharp as that of a predatory bird. Colors would not distract him, only movement. And the beast, once unleashed, indiscriminately destroyed anything that moved.

Painful breaths exploded from her chest as Evelyn raced through the forest, hands fisted in skirts to hold them above her knees.

The blue berserker. He would kill Roderick. He lurked, waiting to strike, to kill.

Could she warn Roderick in time? She’d been in his thoughts the night before! Why hadn’t she known who his quarry had been then? Clenching her teeth and calling herself nine kinds of idiot, she crashed through the brush, ignoring the burning in her lungs.

The wind held a metallic trace, all her senses alert to the deadly stillness of the forest permeated only by the sound of the leaves.

Breaking from a line of trees, she couldn’t hold back a cry of dismay at the staggering carnage that lay before her. Panting frantically, she cringed at the scent of blood invading her nostrils and mouth.

She knew what had happened here. Not because of any ability of hers, but because of what she’d told the man with whom she’d shared a bed the previous night.

Hundreds of slaughtered knights lay strewn about the clearing; their limbs sprawled at incomprehensible angles, if they even remained attached.

Not even the horses were spared. Just like in her dream.

Frantically searching for black armor among the blood-stained tunics, she skirted the clearing, swallowing convulsively against the bile crawling up the back of her throat. She let out a trembling breath. He wasn’t there.

Horrific sounds of violence filtered through the morning. He would be at the battlefield, but it seemed foolhardy to follow there.

It didn’t matter, did it? She had to find Roderick. Warn him. Save him.

Her legs threatened to buckle as she forged on toward the battlefield. Uncertain of what she could do to reach him, but desperate to change his fate.

Sometimes berserkergang made him mindless, and he barely registered the destruction he wrought.

Today Roderick was pleased to perceive the pained astonishment on the faces of the Mackay as they turned on their kinsman and signaled for mercenary reinforcements which never appeared.

As he plunged into the fray, already streaked in the blood of his enemies, Roderick cut a gruesome path through Donald clansmen, a singular focus causing his peripheral to haze.

The beast and the man, in union, wanted at the bastard who dare threaten his mate. Typically, the foes that fell before his sword remained a part of the faceless masses, but today he roared with pleasure as he severed the head of Angus Mackay from his body.

Roderick and the ferocious Stewart not only held the Donald at bay, but systematically drove them back. As afternoon settled upon the valley, the victorious sounds of triumph rippled through the Stewart clans and kin.

Even after the worst of the berserkergang passed, soldiers still gave Roderick a wide berth as they knew he might sever a limb for a congratulatory pat on the back.

“Wait until his eyes return to normal,” the old ones murmured while some younger men made signs of the cross against him and regarded him with both awe and antagonism.

Growling with unspent aggression, Roderick paced the battlefield.

He felt danger lurking nearby. Something lethal, familiar, tinged with—

His heightened senses perked as honey and vanilla notes caressed him over the repugnant odors of battle.

Evelyn . His mate. She drew near.

Someone would have been dispatched to the town to tell of their victory. ‘ The lands of Ross are safe.’ ‘Come and collect your dead and wounded.’ She’d come for him.

He knew it.

Feeling like an expectant boy, he wiped his bloodied sword on the grass and sheathed it.

Her scent drifted from the safety of the woods, beckoning him.

Feeling encouraged that she’d come out to meet him, he looked down at his blood-streaked armor and frowned.

How would seeing him like this affect her?

For once a Berserker chose his mate, he still had to wait for her to accept him.

Often, he was called upon to deal death in the name of Freya and the fates.

It would take a rare and exceptional lass to understand his role in the world. Could she?

Roderick long ago accepted that his inability to communicate with women, in addition to his menacing appearance and pagan reputation, would prevent him from being accepted by a mate.

How am I going to get her to understand what she is to me?

He faltered in his path, gripped by sheer indecision. It hadn’t been easy to get a woman into his bed in the last years he’d spent without a voice. How could he possibly get a woman to share his life with him?

Perhaps he should write her a letter. He wondered if she could read.

More scholars littered his bloodlines than berserkers.

If it weren't for his beast, he'd be content deciphering a scroll from ancient Rome or Greece.

If she couldn't, he'd teach her to love the written word as much as he did.

The irony didn't escape him; a man who loved language whose voice had been stolen from him.

Once they married, she would have the responsibilities of a Baroness and unofficial stewardess of the MacLauchlan clan until his brother Connor, also a berserker and the laird of the MacLauchlans, took a wife.

So, likely always. He rolled his eyes. That man was infinitely more hopeless than he. And Connor had no speech impediment.

Roderick crested the hill and plunged into the tree line. He should probably just abscond with the lass no matter her objections and lay siege to her body, spending his every night fulfilling her wildest fantasies. And creating a few that she’d never thought of.

Of course, he would spend his days satisfying her every other corporeal need whilst introducing her to the many wonders of his homeland. Her life would become so full that she couldn’t consider needing aught else.

Breaking into a jog, he tallied a list of plausible enjoyments for her: tending the extensive herb and spice garden, riding horses together from his family stables, archery, mayhap even the stag hunt if she were the out-of-door sort.

Surely, other more genteel pastimes might interest her; perhaps needlework or musical instruments, or um… beading hairnets and the like.

He mentally shrugged, if she wished it, he would gather threads of the richest colors and finest silks for her.

He would take her to exotic markets and let her have her pick of the loveliest shells, pearls, beads, and gems. His clan was prosperous, and he’d been handsomely paid as a mercenary for many years. She would want for nothing.

His blood quickened at the thought of planting babes inside of her, as many as she wanted, a half dozen at least! Another Berserker to carry the line, of course, and many doe-eyed cherubs with honey-colored hair to fill his family’s silent castle with happy chaos. Mayhap she was already—.

“Roderick!” He pivoted at her breathless cry.

Color instantly vanished from the forest, all but for the cast of blue, which meant—

Berserker.

No gradual welling of hot rage, not this time, no thrill of power coursing through his veins.

Only Icy wrath. Bleak fear. Certain and lethal retribution.