Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vrogul
In an effort to quiet my Kteer, on the third morning after that disastrous—miraculous?—sparring session, I hoisted a tairsgeir peat spade over my shoulder and headed for the distant moors.
Our island is barren and windswept, with our share of standing stones from the ancients, and more sheep than any clan needed—there were some winters I got positively sick of mutton.
Most of our once-mighty forests were depleted, but we still put together hunts for the mighty red stags each autumn. We had fish, shellfish, cows…and peat.
So much peat.
I’d grown up with the smoky scent and found it comforting when our bonfires reminded me of home, and I was proud of my clan for figuring out how to make the best use of this resource.
And cutting peat was a convenient way to work out aggression, if need be.
This morning, my Kteer wasn’t falling for it. No matter how hard I slammed the tairsgeir into the compacted plant matter, how neatly my bricks came out, it still buzzed in irritation in my chest.
‘Twas as if it urged me to do something, something I didn’t understand.
I wasn’t in danger, not here at home. I had no need for my Kteer’s instincts to keep me alive. The only explanation was Rowena.
My Kteer, that primitive part of me, was as frustrated with my body’s response to Rowena as I was.
Soon, I had a tall stack of peat bricks piled along a furrow in the ground, and I dropped the spade to begin scooping them up and laying them out to dry. All kitlings born on Islay learned this skill young. If the peat didn’t dry—even in the damp air—then it wouldn’t burn.
And I prided myself on the fact that all members of my clan had enough to burn through the long winter.
Even the stooping, bending, squatting didn’t distract me—or my Kteer—from thoughts of Rowena.
Rowena, her fingers pressed to her lips to hide her laughter as I teased her. Rowena, her temples sweaty as she bent over the hearth to redistribute coals atop the bread that was perfuming my cottage with delicious scents. Rowena, hair rumpled and eyes sleepy when she woke in the morning.
Rowena, lips bruised from my kisses, gasping as pleasure coursed through her.
With a growl, I stood and grabbed the tairsgeir once more, desperate to work out more of this…hunger.
The gods below knew, in the three days since I’d felt Rowena come against my leg, I hadn’t felt at ease.
We continued to share the bed, and she didn’t mind when I reached for her, needing to hold her in a way I’d never needed aught before.
And I slept well with her in my arms, my Kteer finally quiet…
But I woke unsatisfied.
I’d been walking around for three days and two nights with a cockstand which could cut this peat.
And there wasn’t a fooking thing I could do about it.
No matter how many times I stroked myself, no matter how many cold dunks I took in the loch, my cock wouldn’t cease its frustrating attempts to get me to notice it.
Och, I’ve noticed ye, ye arsehole! I cannae help but notice ye. The whole godsdamned clan has noticed ye—Maardok keeps teasing me about ye. Go the fook away!
My motivational speeches needed some work, it seemed.
After an hour of backbreaking work, I had an impressive pile of peat—I made a mental note to have some of the kitlings stack it beneath one of the sheds—a persistent cockstand, and a Kteer that still buzzed in irritation.
Mayhap time for another cold dunk.
Or mayhap I could head to the inlet and see if any of the birlinns needed their bottoms scraped. Anything to distract me from thoughts of Rowena. The sight of her pleasure, the scent of her arousal.
In the last three days, I’d smelled it more than once, and I wasn’t sure how to handle it. She hadn’t referenced her pleasure, hadn’t asked to repeat it. Aye, she’d begged for a kiss that day, but not since then.
What was I supposed to do with that, except conclude she wanted naught else from me?
I was halfway back to the village when Jean stopped me. The stooped human woman had been Mated for years to one of my father’s lieutenants, birthed many fine sons and even two prized daughters, and now kept the Battleborn history. I slowed my steps so we could walk back together.
“I’ve been cataloging the seeds for spring planting,” she said. “We’ll have enough for the barley and wheat, but after the failure of the leeks last year, our gardens might be a little sparse.”
I hummed in understanding and switched the peat spade to my other shoulder, resisting the urge to bend to speak with her. She must’ve been on the short side of humans even before age made her stooped.
“Have ye included what we brought from the humans?”
“Aye, and I wish ye’d grabbed more.” She shuffled beside me, her face pinched in annoyance. “Ye werenae greedy enough, were ye, laddie?”
“I suppose no’. I told myself they needed the seed too.”
She nodded, then nudged me.
“Yer father was like that. He always said, if we steal too much from the humans, their village will die, and we willnae have anyone for our sons to steal from.”
Aye, he had said that. I forced a smile.
“I caused enough death that day, Jean. I didnae need to be the cause of more suffering.”
When she tipped her head back to peer up at me, her eyes glinted knowingly among the wrinkles.
“That too. Ye’re a good lad. But ‘twould be nice to have more leeks.”
I had to chuckle.
“I should have grabbed two handfuls of the seed, although ‘tis no’ my favorite vegetable.”
“‘Tis mine, which is why I’m so concerned.” She grinned, showing off her half-dozen teeth. “A handful of each kind of seed will be enough, but the leeks will be dear. Only the more attentive gardeners should be given it.”
I could see the village now, and I nodded in understanding.
“Ye’ll arrange it, Jean? I trust yer judgement.”
She poked me again.
“Aye, ye do. Which is why ye’ll listen to me when I tell ye to put us all out of our misery and claim the lassie.”
I pulled up short and stared down at her in surprise.
“What?”
“Yer prisoner of war, or whatever she is. Yer Mate. Just claim her, so the rest of us dinnae have to live in fear of having that mighty weapon pointed at us all day.”
She cackled when she gestured to my crotch—and my persistent cockstand—leaving no question what she meant. But even if I might have been embarrassed by such a joke, I wasn’t paying attention, because…
Mate?
Mate.
Is that why I felt this way? Rowena was my Mate?
‘Twas not the first time I’d wondered such a thing, wondered if that was why my Kteer was reacting so strongly to her, how I always seemed to know where she was, even if I couldn’t see her.
Even now, the irritated buzz in my chest settled to a contented hum at the mere thought of claiming Rowena as my own.
My Mate.
At my side, the little old woman snorted and poked me in the arm.
“Surely ye’ve guessed?”
“I’d…hoped.”
The truth. I’d desperately hoped.
“Aye, well, dinnae allow a little thing like prisoner or enemy to stand in yer way. Convince her, laddie. Yer father broke from tradition when he refused to claim yer mother with an audience—I always kenned he was a jealous sort—and we’re a small enough, new enough clan that it willnae matter.”
She poked me again. “But claim her, ye must, if ye want to have any sort of peace in yer own mind and heart.”
Claim her. Mate.
My heart began to pound. I was staring down at Jean, but I wasn’t seeing her.
I was seeing a set of flashing blue eyes, daring me to do something about this desperation I was feeling.
“Aye,” I whispered, and knew I was answering myself as well as Jean.
If Rowena was my Mate, I needed to claim her. I needed to be certain.
“Vrogul!”
The call—my brother’s voice—jerked my attention toward the village where Maardok was hurrying toward me, one hand waving over his head to catch my attention.
The old woman at my side sighed and poked me a third time.
“Yer chiefly duties await, D’malk. But dinnae forget what I said. No’ about the leeks—I’ll handle that. About yer lass.”
I gave her a brief smile.
“Jean, I doubt I’ll think of aught else.”
With a cackle, she stepped back and shooed me onward.
“Go on, then. I’ll get there eventually.”
With a grateful nod, I shifted the tairsgeir over my shoulder and broke into a trot to meet my brother. He was looking worried.
“What is it?” I asked. “No’ Issa, is it?” Her time was still weeks away, Matthias had assured us.
But Maardok shook his head.
“Callor has sent a messenger, one of his grandsons. He’s here about the ore.”
“Fook me,” I muttered, scrubbing my hand down my face. “Where did ye leave him?”
“He and both his men are in the village. Issa was arranging food and drink for them while their horses are tended.”
Well, that was good, anyhow. With a sigh, I swung the spade from my shoulder and handed it to my brother.
“I’ll meet with him. After, I’ll need to think.”
Because there was something coming, I could feel it.
When I strode into the center of the village, three strangers waited for me.
Two were hulking warriors, none I recognized, but that was no surprise; the Battleborn clan was big, and getting bigger with each of Callor’s conquests.
The male in the middle—still young enough that his beard was scraggly—I did recognize.
“Dallin,” I acknowledged with as regal a nod as I could manage. “Well met.”
The lad sneered as he looked me up and down, and I was aware of the peat on my knees and under my claws. I resisted the urge to straighten my kilt or wipe off my hands. I was a chief of a struggling clan, and I looked it. Let Callor’s grandson remember that.
Callor was old now, but I remembered him as looking regal and powerful at all times.
He surrounded himself with strength even now, and took pride in trotting out his young Mate.
The pair of them were exhibitionists, and I wasn’t the only one who’d turned away when he’d taken her in public, as proof of his virility and might.