Chapter 2
MacGregor Keep, Glenorchy, Scotland
Torstein Hagansson was restless.
He had been restless since the moment he arrived in Glenorchy and no amount of mead or good company had managed to shake it. He and his men, Njal the giant, Mathias and Leif had come to deliver gifts to the MacGregor clan and specifically Zala Fletcher due to their familial ties.
He sat in the Great Hall of MacGregor Keep beside men he respected well, such as Beiste MacGregor and Dalziel Robertson, yet still his fur-lined boot tapped beneath the table, the only outlet he allowed the urge to stand and walk until the feeling passed.
He longed to be outdoors on the open sea and moving.
The restlessness had become a permanent resident in his chest, like a thirst he could not quench.
A longing for something more he could not quite name.
And all around him, drawn to his side of the table, were the women.
They passed with jugs of mead and lingered a moment longer than duty required, their glances warm and inviting.
Torstein was courteous to all yet remained distant.
He was a natural charmer, with a grin here and a jest there, but most of it was performative.
Deep down, he had no interest in what they had to offer.
He was not a vain creature, but he was also not oblivious to the fact he had been blessed with fine looks.
Attracting women had never been a hardship.
That did not mean he always welcomed the attention.
He knew what they saw. A powerful man with land and a respected name, broad shoulders, golden-haired, skilled in battle and commanding a healthy fortune in land and coin.
He did not fault them for wanting it. But this endless procession of women who fell at his feet before he'd so much as spoken.
There was no sport in it. No challenge, and a man valued what he had to fight for, yet in thirty summers, he had never come across a woman who made him want to fight for her.
Yet, he longed for it. So much so, it had been so long since he'd shared his bed with anyone because he craved a woman he had yet to meet and wondered if she even existed at all.
It was a curse dressed as a blessing, being appealing to the eye yet stirred by none.
Torstein sighed. What he needed was an outlet.
He looked about the great hall hoping to find something to distract his thoughts. Truth be told, he was itching for a good fight to burn away the feeling.
As if summoned by fate itself, his arch nemesis appeared in the doorway.
Brodie 'the Bear' Fletcher. A man Torstein loved to rile on any given day, walked in.
"What the devil are ye doing here, ye blonde sponge cake?" Brodie growled.
Torstein gave him a leisurely grin. "I've come to swive your wife, Highlander. Show her what a real man feels like between her thighs."
That was all it took for all hell to break loose.
Brodie roared and launched himself across the hall and knocked Torstein clean off his chair.
Bystanders scrambled out of the way as the two men hit the rug grappling.
Fists flew. Insults were shouted, mainly from Brodie, who bellowed with the full-throated outrage of a man who was about to turn berserker.
Torstein dodged most of the blows, laughing the whole while, as though he were not one hit away from a broken nose.
Torstein had never understood men who grew more possessive of their wives with every passing year, more easily provoked, more willing to brawl over a jest they both knew was only a jest. He could not imagine being so thoroughly claimed by a woman that a man would fly into a fit of rage if anyone insulted her.
They broke apart. Torstein got to his feet and thumped a fist against his chest. "Come on then! Let's see what you're made of, baby's breath!"
"Why, ye ingrate!" Brodie roared.
They came together again in a clattering tangle of arms and curses, and the watching men roared their approval, taking sides, spilling more mead than they drank.
Then the axes came out.
It happened the way it always happened. A weapon appeared in Brodie's hand from nowhere a man could name, and the crowd that had pressed close now pressed back, though none of them looked away.
"Brodie Fletcher, put that axe down and step away from Torstein right now!
" Zala Fletcher pushed between her husband and her childhood friend with exasperation.
"You ken full well Tor's only trying to rile you.
I am not running off with him, for the love of all that's holy.
If I wanted to, I would have done it years ago. "
Brodie lowered the axe, growling, glaring at Torstein over his wife's shoulder. Torstein mockingly mimed a wailing infant behind Zala's back.
"He's making faces at me!" Brodie protested.
Zala whipped her head around.
Torstein's expression changed immediately to a picture of angelic innocence when she glared at him. "I did nae do anything. I was just standing here minding my own matters," he said.
Zala turned back to her husband, laid a hand flat over his chest, and rose on her toes to kiss him. Right there. In front of Torstein.
Brodie's whole body unclenched at once. He kissed her back without a trace of his earlier temper.
"Husband," she murmured against his mouth, "after five healthy bairns and all these years, do ye truly believe I would leave ye for Tor?" She drew back just enough to give him a slow, knowing smile. "He may look like an angel from heaven. But I prefer my wicked, sinful Highlander to any other."
Brodie's jealousy dissolved into a grin that made him look ten years younger.
Which was, of course, the exact moment Torstein decided to ruin it. "I too can be sinfully wicked for you, Peedie Bird," he said, low and amused. "Give me just one night, Zala, and ye'll be screaming my name for the whole clan to hear."
Peedie Bird. The name he'd called her since they were children.
One moment Zala was gazing up at Brodie with open adoration. The next she was gently shoved aside as Brodie roared and launched himself at Torstein for the second time that evening.
It took four grown men to finally separate them.
They sported bruises and split lips and bloodied knuckles. But Torstein roared with laughter and could not help grinning from ear to ear. For the moment at least, the restlessness had eased.
***
LATER IN THE QUIET of their own chamber, after several vigorous rounds of lovemaking, Zala lay naked across Brodie's chest as they both tried to catch their breath.
Zala studied her husband with suspicion until it dawned on her.
"Brodie Fletcher! You fought Tor on purpose, didn't you?"
Brodie was grinning outright. "Aye, every time I launch myself at that golden oaf, ye spend the rest of the night proving your love to me until my pecker nearly breaks. Why would I not?"
"You lying wretch!" She swatted his arm and gave up the argument. Then she sighed.
"What are ye sighing about?"
"I'm worried about Tor. His easy smiles are all appearance. Did ye see him turn away every woman in the hall? I think he's lonely, or lovesick, or both."
Brodie snorted. "That fool kens nothing about love to be afflicted by it."
"I'm going to ask Ma to have a word with him. She may help with his malady."
"Wife." Brodie hauled her against him. "Ye are spending far too much time thinking on another man while in our bed. Cease at once."
***
Morag's Healer Cottage, MacGregor Land
THE ANCIENT DOOR CREAKED as Torstein ducked beneath the low frame, his shoulders nearly spanning its width.
Herbs hung from the rafters in neat, fragrant bundles, their bitter green smell mixing with peat smoke.
Morag sat hunched at her table, sorting dried roots into small piles, and did not turn at the sound of the door.
Morag was Zala Fletcher's adoptive mother. Torstein’s parents had rescued Zala when she was a babe and sent her to Morag for protection.
Zala ended up being raised amongst the MacGregor clan.
"Welcome, Golden Hair," she said. "I have been expecting you."
"Greetings, Morag. Zala sent me. She said you wanted a word, and she threatened to take away my manhood if I did nae visit in person."
Morag chuckled. "Aye, I raised a stubborn lass who can grapple with the best."
Torstein handed over a parcel and left it on the table. "'Tis a gift from my mother."
Morag glanced at the wrapped package and replied, "Och, just what I need to guard against the cold. Thank her for me."
Torstein was stunned because Morag had not even opened the parcel, and only he knew there was a new stitched fur-lined coat inside. "How did ye ken what she gifted ye?"
"I may be ancient, but my senses remain sharp, Viking.
I saw it before ye stepped through the door.
" She turned at last, eyes pale as morning mist, and gestured at the stool across from her.
"Sit. Close the door behind ye, mind. ''Tis a cold draught for these old bones, and I've had my fill of grandbairns running me ragged all sennight. "
She grumbled it, but something in the set of her mouth told him she would not trade the chaos caused by Brodie and Zala Fletcher's rambunctious children for anything quieter.
"So what did ye need to see me about?"
A strange light came into her face, not quite of this world. "I sense your restlessness, son of Hagan. Your soul still seeks its other half."
Torstein stiffened. The words ripped open something old and tender, a memory he'd buried over time.
"What do you speak of?" His voice came out sharper than he intended.
"I speak of land that lies south, where your destiny awaits." Morag's gaze did not waver. "Your inner spirit paces your hall like a wolf in a cage, because the time draws near when you cannot refuse the path set before you."
"Did my men put you up to this? Have Leif and Njal been running their tongues again?"
"I have spoken to neither. Your heart still beats incomplete, warrior, and so does hers."
"I thought you needed to speak to me about Zala or the jarl," Torstein said. "Not tales of love."
"Did ye now." Her face creased with amusement. "Then why does your pulse quicken at my words?" She did not wait for an answer. "The woman you seek, she exists, Torstein."
He stilled for a moment at those words then shook his head. "Any fool can spin a tale of a mysterious maiden," he replied, though he did not move from the stool.
"Her eyes you will remember first," Morag continued, as if she had not heard him. "Dark, and ancient beyond her years. She will challenge everything ye believe about the world. And you will treasure her for it."
Torstein's skin prickled. It was as if Brynhild's voice was coming back from the dead just to haunt him once more. He had told himself for years that the fever he had when he was young had conjured her words. That a boy half out of his mind with sickness might imagine anything.
But Morag had never heard Brynhild's prophecy. Yet here she sat, resurrecting a similar vision.
"And what," he said, in a mocking tone, "will this woman give me? Sons, I suppose. Every prophecy promises sons."
Morag's eyes glazed over, her hand reached out and gripped his forearm, when she replied in an ethereal voice, "Four sons and two daughters. One with a touch of the sight like her mother's mother before her. But only if ye are willing to endure what comes before."
The moment those words left her, Morag seemed to come out of her trance-like state and released his arm as if she hadn't just shaken his very foundation.
He stood abruptly, needing the outdoors, needing air.
"You spin a fine tale, old mother. You missed your calling as a skald."
"Mock if it eases ye." Morag had already turned back to her herbs, unbothered. "But mark my words, your jarl will summon ye early, so your journey can begin."
Torstein left a silver coin on her table and was about to duck out into the cold, when she stopped him and handed him a small parcel.
"What is this?"
"For your wedding. Ye'll ken when ye have need of it."
Torstein snorted at the notion of a wedding but tucked it inside his vest pocket regardless.
Not wanting to argue with the woman any longer, he took his leave.
He made his way back to the Keep and scoffed at her last words.
Jarl Thorfinn was not going to summon him to return to Orkney early in this weather.
And sons and daughters? He shook his head in disbelief.
Perhaps the woman had inhaled far too many healing herbs.
***
LATER, AS HE AND HIS men took their ease in the Great Hall with the MacGregors, a rider came in on a lathered horse a little before midday. Torstein knew him. Ketil, one of the jarl's own household men, not the sort sent with idle words.
"Ye're a hard man to run down, Torstein Hagansson," Ketil said, swinging down. "The jarl wants ye home at once, and no later."
"Did he say why?"
"I am only to tell you, you are needed for a journey to the southlands."
Torstein stilled for a moment as Morag's words came back to haunt him and he understood the message. The jarl was sending him on a long voyage.
"South?" Torstein replied with a rasp.
"Aye," Ketil replied.
Torstein did not answer. The restlessness that had ridden him for months had gone very still, all at once. He felt his heart begin to race with anticipation. He could hear the pounding in his ears.
"Rest the horse and take a meal," he said. "We'll leave first thing in the morning."
Ketil nodded and let a stable lad lead the animal away. Torstein stood a moment in the cold yard and allowed everything that had just transpired to settle into his bones.
***