Winter Fire

By Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Journey with USA Today bestselling author Sue-Ellen Welfonder (aka Allie Mackay) to a magical world of Highland romance: medieval Scotland where honor was everything and no sacrifice too great for love.

Flames of winter burn the hottest...

Katla MacKenzie is fascinated by the legends and lore of the Vikings, her mother’s people. When she meets a dashing stranger in an enchanted place known to be a haunt of Norse deities, she gladly gives her heart – and her passion – to the lover she only knows as the Lord of Winter.

Secretly flattered when a bonnie lass believes him a god, Gunnar MacLeod can’t resist her and seduces Katla atop the mountain known as Odin’s Flame. In truth, he is the one seduced. But when he learns her name, he must let her go - and not just because their clans are warring.

When a clan tragedy forces Gunnar to leave Skye, he’ll sacrifice everything before he can return to Katla. When he does, a bitter enemy is waiting. But a heart that loves is powerful, and Gunnar will do whatever he must to claim Katla as his own.

Enjoy this story filled with Highland magic, Nordic legend, and the wonder of Scotland!

“Welfonder weaves magical tales of redemption, love, and loyalty in glorious, perilous medieval Scotland.” ~ Booklist

Stand-Alone Read ... Full-length Novel ... HEA ... No Cliffhangers

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sue-Ellen Welfonder
• Release date: Oct 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005155483

Book preview

Prologue

Eilean Creag Castle

The Western Highlands, Winter 1352

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I dinnae believe my eyes! Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail, leapt from his bed, his much-deserved sleep forgotten as he stared at the little red fox drinking from the water bowl in a corner of his laird’s chamber.

A carefully chosen spot near the hearth, meant to offer warmth and comfort to any castle dog who deigned to visit the chiefly room. The good folk of Clan MacKenzie were dog lovers, especially their proud chieftain.

Even so, his affection for animals didn’t extend to foxes in his privy quarters.

He especially didn’t care for this one.

Thon beastie is Somerled! He swung round to glare at his lady wife, Linnet, already up and dressed. He’s Devorgilla’s witchy helpmate.

She isn’t a witch, Linnet countered, just as he’d known she would. She’s a cailleach, a wise woman.

She’s here, is what she is.

Linnet smiled. So it would seem.

So it will be! Where that cheeky creature is, she’s never far behind. Duncan glowered at the fox as he finished drinking and left the room, exiting through a door that stood suspiciously ajar.

His lady wife had surely let him in.

More likely, the fiendish fox blinked and the door swung open magically.

It wouldn’t surprise him.

For sure, Somerled cast him a superior look over his furry-red shoulder just before he disappeared into the shadows of the dimly-lit passage.

Whirling back to his lady wife, Duncan frowned to see the calm look on her face. You knew this!

He was sure she did. As the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, she was a born seeress, and highly gifted. Even after many long years of marriage, her uncanny abilities could still startle him, however much he loved her.

I suspected they’d visit us, aye. She didn’t deny it.

Instead, she went to the nearest window, opening the shutters to let in the chill morning air. Beyond the arched opening, the cold waters of Loch Duich glittered and Odin’s Flame rose in the distance, its frozen peak wearing a wreath of mist. For a beat, Duncan wished himself on the great mountain’s summit, so its icy breath could chase the heat beginning to throb at the back his neck, between his shoulders.

But some of his irritation faded as he watched Linnet fasten the shutters.

Her still-glorious hair, so thick and glossy-red, hung to her hips in a single braid. Any other time he would’ve been tempted to reach for her and undo the plait, fond as he was of seeing her tresses spilled across their bed pillows.

He enjoyed much more. But he pushed those thoughts from his mind and snatched up his plaid, eager to be dressed and down to his great hall or solar, wherever the formidable Devorgilla of Doon waited to regale him with tidings of doom that he didn’t wish to hear. Whenever she appeared, trouble came in her wake. His territory was in a blissful state of peace, and had been for a good while. He wasn’t of a mind for that to change.

Why didn’t you tell me? He glanced at Linnet a few moments later as they descended the turnpike stair, making for the great hall, which – by the sounds reaching them – was already astir with the bustle of the day.

She isn’t here with ill tidings. Linnet’s answer proved how well she knew him.

Bah! Is there another reason she goes anywhere?

Duncan, please… Linnet put her hand on his arm as they rounded the last few steps. Her ears are sharp. She will hear you and then-

What? He stopped just inside the hall’s entry arch. I’ll waken as a toad? Greet the morrow’s dawn with warty skin and great buggy eyes?

Sir, sir – my lady - a good morrow to you! A young clanswoman hurried over to them, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. She clutched an empty serving tray and used her free hand to push back the shiny black curls tumbling about her shoulders. As so often, Katla MacKenzie had forgotten to braid her hair. There was also a smudge of flour on her face, for she worked in the castle kitchens – a duty she’d sought, claiming joy in baking bread and, most especially, the delicacies of her late mother’s homeland in the distant north.

And to you, lass, Duncan returned her smile for he was mightily fond of the girl, as was Linnet.

Herself is here! Katla gushed, almost shimmering with excitement. The great Devorgilla of Doon in our own hall.

Is she, indeed? Duncan feigned surprise, not wanting to dampen her pleasure at being the ‘first’ to tell him.

His own delight grew because as he swept his hall with a suitably impressed glance, he saw only men. They crowded the long tables, bleary-eyed and drinking their morning ale. Scarce awake, they tucked into heaped plates of buttered bannocks and cold, sliced meat.

Nothing else stirred in the vast vaulted space.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. Smoke haze hung in the air and the castle dogs begged, hoping for a hand-out.

Still…

Nowhere did he see the tiny, black-garbed crone with her wizened face, whir of white-gray hair, and twinkly blue eyes.

The only bright blue eyes peering at him were Katla’s.

Perhaps the gods were good and Devorgilla had left?

She was known for her ability to vanish in a blink, along with a plethora of other unsettling tricks.

I dinnae see the great lady. Duncan turned to Katla, trying to look and sound disappointed. Can it be she has gone?

Oh, she’ll be back anon. Katla beamed, dashing his hopes. She just nipped into the kitchens with Somerled. She wanted him fed something proper, not scraps tossed from the tables.

Indeed? Duncan did his best not to scowl.

Eilean Creag’s table scraps were good enough for his dogs.

Somerled is particular. Devorgilla proved her wily ways by appearing out of nowhere, her small black boots with their silly red plaid laces having made no sound to herald her approach. She just loomed up out of the dark kitchen passage, her grizzled chin thrust forward as if she sought to challenge him.

Which, he knew was so.

Great lady, Duncan allowed her the greeting she expected – anything else wasn’t wise. He had, after all, the weal of his clan to consider. What brings you to Kintail? No good, I’ll wager.

You are always welcome. Linnet took Devorgilla’s arm, flashed a warning glance at Duncan as if she’d heard his silent grumble. Not giving him a chance to say more, she led the crone through the hall, guiding her toward the high table.

Are you here because of the MacLeods? She helped Devorgilla up the dais steps and then pulled back Duncan’s laird’s chair for the far-famed cailleach.

We have a truce with them, he reminded his wife as he dropped onto the table’s trestle bench harder than he should have. "We’ll be allies by Yule, after we celebrate the ending of our feud at Dunakaid Castle.

That’s Alpin MacKinnon’s holding over on Skye, he added for Devorgilla’s benefit, though he was sure she already knew. He’s offered his hall as neutral ground.

So John MacLeod told me. Devorgilla sipped the heather ale that Duncan was certain hadn’t been on his table a moment before. I visited his clan’s Druimbegan Castle before I came here. There will aye be a bad one in the lot, she said, something in her tone lifting the fine hairs on Duncan’s nape. "John is a good man. The folk on Skye respect him, even his enemies.

He’s as fine a Highland chieftain as any, she added, lifting her ale cup at Duncan.

So he is. Linnet raised her own cup, tapping it lightly to the crone’s. Under the table, she pressed her foot down onto Duncan’s, keeping it there.

As if he’d risk her wrath by saying otherwise.

He knew when he was outnumbered. He also knew the pointlessness of arguing with women – especially these two. So he grabbed a fresh-baked bannock, slathering it with too much butter before he caught himself. He ate it anyway, washing it down with a good swig of the heather ale.

To his annoyance it was delicious.

Slapping his empty cup on the table, he fixed a look on the cailleach. You didnae come here to sing the praises of my erstwhile foe, he said, speaking in his most lairdly tone – he did have his chiefly dignity to uphold.

This was his hall, after all.

So he leaned forward, ready for answers. Why are you here?

Why… Devorgilla’s ancient face lit with a smile. ’Tis a Yule log I be wanting, she chirped, carefully refilling her ale cup. "I have one from the MacLeods, the MacKinnons, the Ravenscraig MacDougalls down Oban way, and even the great Barra MacNeils. That’s just the beginning!

I’m lighting a balefire this Yule and I want a log from every clan I’ve helped oe’er the years. She shrugged, flicked at her sleeve. A small vanity, I’ll own. You will grant me such a boon? ’Tis my only wish from you – a small bit of Kintail wood to toss into the fire on Midwinter’s Eve.

You shall have it. A boatload drawn by sea-dragons to your bluidy Isle of Doon. Duncan kept the sentiment to himself, sure that a stick of wood wasn’t her only reason for darkening his door.

I will see it done, a deep Sassunach voice heralded the arrival of a tall, scar-faced knight. Sir Marmaduke Strongbow, Duncan’s longtime friend and brother-in-law by marriage, strode up to the high table.

I’ll toss in a log from my own Balkenzie Castle, Sir Marmaduke offered as he claimed his seat. I’ve just returned from traveling about – he flashed a glance at Duncan – but I’ll be away again shortly, and close enough to Doon to deliver the wood and anything else you require.

You are a fine man. Devorgilla nodded, looking pleased.

Duncan’s heart sank. His friend’s words were coded, the message clear: His secret journey to find a husband for Katla had met with failure. Her beauty and vibrancy hadn’t mattered. Nor the goodly sum Duncan had sent along to sweeten the deal. Too many tales circulated about the girl, and it would seem that the stories had reached ears far outside Kintail.

Katla wasn’t a virgin.

Worse than that, many whispered that she was addled.

Duncan frowned. To his great regret, he couldn’t blame anyone who thought so. How could he when the lass swore she’d never wed, vowing that she’d given her love to another?

And not just any man.

Katla claimed the impossible: that she’d danced atop Odin’s Flame and then succumbed to a god.

Chapter 1

Eilean Creag Castle

The kitchens, a short while later…

---

Katla hurried into the morning shadows of her favorite place, scarce able to tamp down an overwhelming urge to twirl in a circle. Truth be told, she wanted to shout her happiness to the kitchens’ thick, black-glistening rafters, but she restrained herself. It wouldn’t do to make a ruckus and risk half the castle running to see why she’d caused such a stir.

Some secrets were better kept.

No one needed to know that she sometimes pressed an ear to the castle’s scattering of laird’s lugs – nearly invisible, well-hidden slits cut into the walls. Spy holes that allowed a chieftain to glean information otherwise kept from him.

They served the same purpose for her.

How else would she know that Duncan had sent his captain of the guard to find a husband for her?

I wouldn’t know, would I, my darling? She knelt on the stone-flagged floor, opening her arms to the small, brown-and-white dog bounding over to her from his napping place beside the massive double-arched hearth. The dog – older, but lively - gave a few excited barks as he came, earning his name of Glaum, an ancient Norse word for ‘Noisemaker.’

You should’ve heard Sir Marmaduke! She clutched Glaum to her, loving his doggy smell, the soft warmth of his little body. He found no one willing to wed me. She nuzzled her pet’s ears, excitement flickering through her. "I am free, my sweet! We both are.

Praise the gods, she enthused, kissing the top of Glaum’s head. Hopefully Sir Marmaduke’s next journey will prove as unsuccessful. No one will want me, tainted as I am. We shall be left in peace.

Glaum barked agreement, and then wriggled round to give her a sloppy wet cheek-kiss.

Laughing, Katla released him and stood. So it will be, she said, touching the Thor’s hammer amulet that hung from her neck. The old ones love us still.

Scarce believing her luck, she glanced around the vast, empty kitchen. She loved spending time within its thick, smoke-darkened walls, but these early morning hours really made her heart swell. Her mother had worked here, and she felt closest to her when the day was so young. It was then that the silence echoed Astrid MacKenzie’s songs in her native Nordic tongue. Now and then, Katla believed she caught glimpses of her as well. Either way, she cherished the precious memories.

Cook and the others allowed her a few quiet moments each morning. Their eyes revealing that they understood, they’d slip away to attend other chores.

Katla appreciated the aloneness. But she used the time for more than honoring her late mother.

It was then, too, that she remembered him.

The Lord of Winter.

I will never forget – or love another, she vowed, speaking to Glaum’s small, white-tufted hindquarters as he toddled away, returning to his blanket-of-plaid before the hearth.

In truth, she said the words aloud to keep them etched across her heart. A small ritual she did each morn, clinging to its comfort even if she couldn’t embrace her lover.

She had once.

And their passion had been glorious enough to sustain her all her days.

She felt a stirring now, a quickening in her blood that heated her womanly places and made her tingle. A pang of loneliness shot through her as well, a fierce yearning she knew could never again be slaked. She welcomed the bittersweet ache.

Suffering the Lord of Winter’s loss meant she hadn’t imagined him. And that knowledge that buoyed her spirits, reassuring her that the tongue-waggers erred.

She wasn’t daft.

She’d been blessed. Honored and granted pleasure few women would ever know.

Even two years later, she could taste the Nordic god’s kisses, the languorous bliss of their swirling tongues and shared breath, their powerful desire. Her pulse leapt as if the masterful glide of his hands over her naked skin was happening now, as if she could again slide her arms around his broad, powerfully muscled shoulders, twine her fingers in the heavy silk of his raven hair. She recalled the sizzling awareness she’d felt when he’d cupped her face to look deep into her eyes, his expression fierce.

The night had been cold, the world frozen, snow and mist blowing around them. Yet she’d burned – lit by a flame that still raged inside her.

My beloved… Katla closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her heart, aching for him.

But Viking blood ran in her veins, the strength of her mother’s people. So she stood taller and straightened her back, grateful for her blessings. She had a roof over her head, food to fill her belly, warmth when she desired it for Eilean Creag boasted many hearths, each one with the comfort of a log-and-peat fire. Above all, she had a family to love. Her Norse heritage gave her courage, faith in the ancient ways, and her love of wild weather and places.

She also had Glaum.

There were many with less. Her lot was good.

So she smiled as she crossed the kitchens, drawn by the cold, wet air at the windows. She stopped before them, indulging another favorite pastime – peering across Loch Duich to the mountains on the far shore, especially Odin’s Flame.

This morn she couldn’t fully enjoy the view. Glaum was living up to his name, scampering about behind her, barking at air.

Worse, he was about to tear after one of the castle moggies, the sweet cats who hung around the kitchens and were too fat to run fast. Glaum loved to chase