The Savage Laird (Preview)
Chapter One
Inner Minch on the way tae Skye, two months later
“If ye could stop heavin’ yer guts over the side, me lady, we’d make better time.”
Claricia MacKenzie’s knuckles had gone bone-white against the weathered rail, her grip so tight she half-expected splinters to embed themselves under her nails. The ship pitched beneath her feet, and her stomach lurched in violent protest. Bile teased the back of her throat, mingling with the taste of salt spray until she couldn’t tell where the sea ended and her misery began.
“I’m tryin’, Henry,” she managed through clenched teeth, her voice barely audible over the crash of waves against the hull. The guard stood beside her as steady as the mountains of Kintail, one scarred hand braced against the mast while she swayed like a newborn foal. “The sea doesnae seem tae care fer me cooperation.”
Henry’s chuckle rumbled warm in his chest despite the bitter October wind cutting across the deck. “Aye, the Inner Minch has nay manners. First time at sea is always the worst of it, me lady.”
First and last, if the gods have any mercy left fer me.
The thought brought no comfort. Claricia forced herself upright, using every scrap of MacKenzie pride to keep from crumpling. Her father’s daughter did not break. Not from a rebellious stomach, not from wind that smelled of brine and kelp, and certainly not from water that stretched endlessly toward a horizon she couldn’t see—dark, hungry, and utterly unforgiving beneath the steel-gray sky.
Even if that water made her heart race and her palms sweat with a terror she’d carried since childhood.
“Tell me again,” she said, desperate for any distraction from the churning in her belly and the dread coiling tighter around her ribs, “why the Wolf couldnae simply come tae Kintail? Why must I be the one sailin’ tae me own execution while he sits warm in his hall, countin’ his loot and sharpenin’ his claws?”
“Because King Alexander commands it, me lady.” Henry’s expression softened with something that might have been pity. “The Lairds’ Pact requires the brides tae come tae the Isles. Proof of Highland submission, they’re callin’ it.”
“Submission.” The word tasted fouler than the bile she’d been spitting into the waves. “Me faither yields his daughter tae a Norse savage who probably eats with his hands and sleeps with his boots on, and the crown has the gall tae call it diplomacy.”
“‘Tis another word fer survival, me lady.” Henry’s voice dropped low enough that only she could hear it over the groan of timber and sail. “Five Viking lairds wed tae five Highland brides within the next years. Kinship instead of raids. Blood ties instead of bloodshed.” He paused, glancing around before adding, “Though between ye and me, I’d bet the king’s countin’ on at least two of these marriages endin’ in murder before Yuletide is upon us.”
Despite everything, a sharp laugh escaped her. Leave it to Henry to find the dark humor in her nightmare.
“Well, at least Duncan MacRae willnae be one of them” she muttered, surprised by the bitterness in her own voice.
Henry’s expression flickered—something between sympathy and concern. “Aye, me lady. Apparently, he took the annulment hard—harder than most expected.”
“That’s only because Duncan takes everythin’ hard when it daesnae go his way.” Claricia gripped the rail tighter as another wave made her stomach lurch. She’d known Duncan since they were children—had watched him grow from a sweet boy into a man whose pride had curdled into something uglier. “He’ll have nay trouble findin’ another bride. Soon enough there’ll be a lass who actually wants tae marry him.”
“Maybe,” Henry didn’t sound convinced. “Though I heard he made quite the scene at yer faither’s hall when the decree arrived. Threatened tae appeal tae the king himself.”
“And how has that worked out fer him?”
“Och, about as well as ye’d expect. The Crown daesnae take kindly tae havin’ its commands questioned.” Henry paused, then added quietly, “Just… keep yer wits about ye, me lady. A man like Duncan MacRae daesnae easily forget bein’ humiliated… especially nae in front of half the Highland chiefs.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the spray from the sea ran down her spine. But before she could respond, Henry’s attention shifted to the horizon, his face creasing in concern.
Claricia knew the logic well enough—had it beaten into her head by her father, the king’s envoy, even the village priest. The Lairds’ Pact. A royal decree that had shattered her perfectly adequate betrothal to Duncan MacRae—a man she tolerated, if not actually liked—and bound her instead to Erik Thorsen.
The Wolf of Skye.
The man whose raids had killed her brother.
Logan. His name was a wound that never healed, a scar that pulled tight with every breath. She could still see his face the morning he’d ridden out three years past, so proud in his first real command, his MacKenzie plaid bright against his shoulder. Twenty years old and convinced he was invincible. She could still see her father’s face when they’d brought Logan home. Wrapped in that same plaid, stained rust-brown. His eyes closed. His skin gray. His blood long since cold.
All because of Norse raids. All because of men like Erik Thorsen.
“Me lady?” Henry’s voice cut through the memory like a blade through silk. “Ye’ve gone pale as fresh snow.”
Claricia swallowed hard, tasting copper. “The seasickness. How much longer?”
“We should sight Skye within the hour, weather holdin’.” He turned his gaze toward the expanse of water surrounding them, his weathered face creasing with concern. “Though I’ll admit, I dinnae like how empty these waters are. Usually more vessels about.”
She followed his stare. Nothing but gray waves rolling endlessly toward a gray sky, broken only by distant formations of black rock jutting from the sea like rotted teeth. The royal galley cut through the water with steady purpose, its sail pregnant with wind, but they were utterly, completely alone on that vast and unforgiving surface.
A cold shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the spray misting her face and dampening her cloak.
“Henry—”
“Sail ahoy!” The shout cracked down from the crow’s nest, sharp with alarm that made her pulse spike. “Approachin’ fast!”
Claricia’s head whipped toward the sound. There—emerging from behind a craggy outcrop like a predator from its den—came another vessel. Smaller than theirs. Faster. And flying no colors whatsoever from its mast.
Nay clan markers. Nay identification. Naethin’.
“That’s nae right.” Henry’s hand dropped to his sword hilt with the practiced ease of a man who’d drawn that blade in anger more times than he could count. “Every ship flies colors in these waters. Laws of the Pact demand it.”
The approaching vessel adjusted its course, turning toward them with the kind of predatory speed that made Claricia’s mouth go dry. More figures appeared on its deck—armed men gathering at the rails, their weapons catching what little light broke through the clouds.
“Me lady, we need tae get ye safe. Now.” All the warmth had drained from Henry’s voice, leaving only iron command. “Royal Guard! Defensive positions!”
“I’ll nae cower while—”
“Now!” His grip closed around her arm, already pulling her toward the cabin entrance even as chaos erupted across the deck. The crew scrambled into formation, boots thundering on wood, steel singing as swords cleared their scabbards, shields rising in a defensive wall.
But the attacking ship was already too close, cutting through the water like a knife through butter.
Grappling hooks flew through the air with vicious accuracy, iron claws biting deep into the galley’s rail with sounds like breaking bones. The ships collided with a grinding, splintering crash that sent Claricia stumbling hard into Henry’s chest, his armor cold even through her cloak.
Then they came.
Armored men vaulted over the rails like demons from a nightmare, their faces hidden behind dark scarves, their blades already wet and singing. The first guard to meet them went down before he could even raise his shield, his throat opened in a spray of hot crimson that painted the deck and splattered warm across Claricia’s cheek.
She tasted copper. Smelled iron and salt and fear.
“Keep her alive!” someone roared over the clash of steel and screaming.
Her mind reeled even as Henry shoved her behind him.
Alive? Why would raiders want me alive?
Chapter Two
Three attackers rushed them in a coordinated strike. Henry met them with the kind of brutal efficiency that came from thirty years of violence. Steel met steel with sounds like thunder breaking, sparks flying as blades scraped and shrieked. Blood sprayed. A man’s scream cut short as Henry’s sword found the gap between helmet and gorge, severing a vital artery.
The man dropped like a sack of grain.
Claricia’s heart hammered against her ribs so hard she thought they might crack. She pressed her back flat against the mast, eyes darting desperately for anything she could use as a weapon. Her fingers closed around a belaying pin—solid oak, heavy as a small club—just as one of the masked attackers broke through Henry’s defense and lunged straight for her.
She swung with everything she had.
The pin cracked across his jaw with a sound like splitting wood. Bone crunched. He staggered, spitting blood and what might have been a tooth, cursing in guttural Gaelic. She didn’t give him time to recover. The second swing caught him across the temple. His eyes rolled white and he dropped like a stone at her feet.
If I’m goin’ tae die on this wretched boat, I’m takin’ at least three of these bastards with me!
But even as the fierce thought burned through her, Claricia’s stomach dropped. There were too many. The royal guards fought with desperate, doomed courage—she could see it in their faces, in the way they pressed together, trying to form a defensive circle around her even as they fell. Bodies littered the deck, blood running between the boards in dark rivulets that made her boots slip.
Henry still fought like a demon, his sword a blur of deadly motion, but crimson soaked his side where a blade had found the gap in his mail. His movements were slowing. Weakening.
We’re all goin’ tae die here.
One of the attackers grabbed her arm with bruising force. “Got ye, ye wee—”
Claricia drove her elbow into his throat with every ounce of strength and rage she possessed. Cartilage crunched. He released her, gagging, but another set of arms locked around her waist from behind, lifting her clear off her feet.
“I’ve got her!” the man bellowed. “Take her tae the ship! Kill the rest!”
Panic flooded her veins like ice water, sharp and chemical.
Nae, nae, NAE—
The ship lurched.
Not the usual pitch and roll of the waves, but a massive, violent shudder that sent everyone—attackers, guards, Claricia herself—stumbling across the blood-slick deck. Wood screamed in protest. Something massive had struck them, the impact reverberating through the hull like a death knell.
And then she saw it.
A third vessel bearing down on them like vengeance itself. Sleeker than the others. Faster. A longship with a dragon’s head carved into its prow, painted in faded colors that had seen years of salt and storm. Warriors crowded its rails—not armored like knights, but wild-looking men in leather and mail, their weapons raised, their faces fierce with battle-hunger.
Vikings!
“Brace fer impact!”
The warning came too late. The longship slammed into the attacking vessel with a bone-jarring crunch of splintering wood. The collision vibrated through her bones.
At their head stood a man who made something in Claricia’s chest twist despite her terror.
“With me!” he roared with a Norse accent, and his warriors answered in howls that had terrorized these waters for generations.
He was tall—taller than any man she’d ever seen—and broad through the shoulders in a way that spoke of brutal strength. Long blond hair whipped around his face in the wind like a lion’s mane. His eyes, even at that distance, burned cold and gray-blue as winter ice. And in his hand, he held a sword that caught the dying light like frozen lightning.
Och fer the love of… now’s nay the time tae be noticin’ how bonnie he is!
He raised that blade high, roared something in old Norse that made his warriors howl like wolves, and the longship crashed into them with the force of divine wrath.
Viking warriors poured across the gap in a living tide of violence and fury. Their war cries split the air—guttural, inhuman sounds that raised every hair on Claricia’s body. The man holding her released his grip, shouting orders to his comrades, trying desperately to rally them against this new and overwhelming threat.
It was chaos. Pure, bloody chaos.
Steel rang against steel in a chorus of death. Men screamed—some in rage, some in agony, some with their last breath gurgling through cut throats. The smell of blood grew thick enough to choke on, mixing with brine and sweat and the acrid stench of fear.
Claricia backed toward the rail, trying to escape the carnage, her mind spinning.
Friend or foe? Because at this point, me luck with ships is spectacularly terrible.
The blond warrior moved like death given form. He cut through the attackers with brutal, efficient precision—no wasted motion, no hesitation, just pure and deadly purpose. His blade opened throats. Shattered bones. Painted the deck in fresh crimson with every swing. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t understand how something so violent could be so terrifyingly graceful.
Then his eyes found hers across that blood-soaked deck. Gray-blue, storm-cold, and utterly inhuman in their focus.
For one single heartbeat, the world narrowed to just that gaze. Everything else faded to nothing.
Then the ship tilted again, harder this time, groaning like a dying animal. Claricia felt the rail press hard against her back, felt the entire vessel listing dangerously as water rushed through the breach in the hull.
One of the attackers saw his chance. He broke free from the melee and rushed straight for her, desperation written in every line of his blood-splattered face.
Claricia had nowhere to go but up.
She grabbed the rail and hauled herself onto it, balancing precariously above the churning water that looked black and hungry and utterly lethal. Her eyes darted frantically. There—a smaller boat tied to the attacking vessel, just a few feet away. If she could jump, if she could just—
The ship lurched violently.
Her foot slipped on wood made treacherous with blood and spray.
Time seemed to slow as she fell. The cold autumn air rushed past her face. The dark water rose up to meet her like an open mouth. And in that frozen moment, every childhood nightmare came roaring back—the fear that had lived in her bones since the day she’d seen a village child pulled from the loch, blue and lifeless. The terror that had kept her from ever learning to swim, kept her from the water’s edge, made her freeze at the sight of deep water.
This is how I die.
The thought came with crystalline clarity even as the cold struck her like a fist.
Nae by Norse steel or royal decree, but drowned like a kitten in a sack. At least it’s bloody original.
The freezing water of the Inner Minch closed over her head like a grave.
It filled her nose, her mouth, her lungs as she gasped in shock. The cold was so intense it felt like burning, like every nerve in her body was being flayed. She couldn’t tell which way was up. Couldn’t see through the murky darkness. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t—
The current grabbed her with invisible, inexorable hands and pulled her down into the black.
Logan… Da… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—
Something broke the surface above her.
Through the murk and her fading vision, she saw a shape diving toward her. Large. Fast. Cutting through the water like a blade through silk.
A Viking!
Terror flickered through her dying thoughts.
His hand closed around her wrist with crushing strength, fingers like iron bands, and even as the darkness swallowed her whole, even as consciousness fled, one last thought whispered through her mind:
He’s come tae kill me too…
Then nothing… nothing but black water and the cold, cold deep pressing down on her.
If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here
