Unspoken
Unspoken
By: Kerrigan Byrne
AMAZON KDP EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
N. Ainge
Unspoken © 2012 Kerrigan Byrne
All rights reserved
This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not
purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com
and purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a
copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or stored
in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form
or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter
invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except
in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This ebook is a work of fiction. The names,
characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or
have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations
is entirely coincidental.
Cover
Art © 2012 Kelli Ann Morgan
Dedication
To my love.
Your belief in me means everything.
You are my world.
Thank you to be the best
critique partners a writer could hope to have.
The Writer’s of Imminent
Death: Mikki Kells, Heather Wallace, and Heidi Turner. A special thanks to fellow
author, Tiffinie Helmer. Your instruction, your time, your friendship, and
your talent are an inspiration to me always.
To Lynne Harter: To call
you friend is a pleasure. To call you family is a privilege.
In appreciation: Cynthia
St. Aubin, Lucy Darrows, Julie Pullman, and Dawn Winter.
This ebook would not have
been possible without Cindy Stark. Thank you for your patience and kindness.
*Kerrigan donates a
percentage of all book sales to
www.womenforwomen.com
to help the innocent survivors of global war and oppression.
Chapter One
Aberdeen,
Scotland: July 23
rd
, 1411
Death shrouded everything. Not even the horses
were spared. Blue tabards, stained crimson, adorned hundreds of scattered,
broken bodies.
She frantically searched the carnage. His body
was not among the fallen. She must find him. Must warn him! So much blood. Had
one man shed all this blood?
Evelyn Woodhouse shivered despite the close, heavy
air. Still unable to shake the residuals of last night’s violent dream, she did
her best to block the visions and images barraging her mind’s eye.
Beware the Blue.
Her brow wrinkled again at the divination that had
whispered through her thoughts all day, leaving shadows of dread in its wake. The
dead men in her dream, they
all
wore blue. What did it mean? Oh, why
did she never know until it was too late?
Dropping her forehead against the common room window,
Evelyn welcomed the chill of the glass against her feverish skin as she stared
out into the night. Occasionally, the shadow of a man or gleam of a weapon crossed
the flames of distant fires that winked like fallen stars across the
mist-shrouded fields of Aberdeen. Foreboding wound through her along with the certainty
of the poor fellow’s fate. She possessed “the sight.” At least, that’s what
people called it before she learned to keep it to herself.
Before she’d been abducted by those who would call
themselves righteous.
Closing her eyes against the sting caused by stale
peat smoke and utter exhaustion, she hissed in a fortifying breath and hefted
the supper tray to her aching shoulders. A reference to Atlas came to mind as
she picked her way through the crowded kitchen. She didn’t carry the world on
her shoulders, only a soldier’s supper, but the load compounded the tension of
the inner burdens she stored there.
She shouldn’t be focused on such heavy thoughts
now, not when there was work to be done. Scotland had become her refuge and
managed to keep her relatively safe if one didn’t count the constant barrage of
clan wars… like the imminent one brewing just outside the city.
Stealing among the crowd as a wary thief might, a
whispered word rose above the muted rumble of terse male conversation.
Berserker…
Evelyn glanced to the doorway where a dark mass
filled the space to overflowing. In the dim shadows of the common room she
couldn’t make out any features, just the suggestion of a man swathed in black
and the size of a small mountain. The tension hovering like a sword over Moorland’s
Inn and Tavern spiked palpably higher at the curious arrival, but Evelyn wisely
retreated to the kitchens.
“What’s a Berserker?” she asked aloud, and
instantly berated herself for not thinking the better of it.
“A breed wot’s killed plenty of ye bloody
English, that’s
who
,” growled Robert Moorland, the proprietor. He plunked
a tankard and pitcher of ale onto her tray hard enough to make her flinch.
Evelyn swallowed a defensive retort. Back in
London, she’d arduously learned to bite her unruly tongue courtesy of the rod wielded
by Sister Mary Ida in the convent where she’d spent her tender years.
“I ‘eard the black-hearted warrior was
commissioned from the great MacLauchlan clan to help the Stewart defeat the Donald.
Only the blood of a Gael or Northman can hold the Berserker, so the likes of
ye’ve
no’ seen such a lethal creature.” Despite his cantankerous words he lowered his
voice to a confiding tone. “It’s said that Roderick MacLauchlan is the fiercest
warrior wot’s ever been seen on the battlefield.”
Creature?
“It’s good that he’s here then, I suppose.” She
offered him a smile, encouraged by his rare dialog.
“Ye, suppose…” Moorland sneered at her as he
thrust another bowl her way. “I’m no’ payin’ ye to
suppose
ye daft woman,
I’m payin’ ye to
work!
” He punctuated with a shove to the shoulder, nearly
upsetting the balance of her tray. “Get yer lazy English arse out there and
doona let them see the bottoms of their tankards.”
“Yes sir,” she mumbled.
Steeling herself for the long and miserable night
ahead, she made her way into the common room with shuffling steps to avoid the
tangle of chair legs and male feet. Adept at deciphering importance from the
various plaids and bejeweled adornments on their tartans, she was careful to
set fare before nobles and clan leaders first.
As she approached the table, the smile she
attempted felt brittle and tight, the muscles in her face heavy with
apprehension. Stewart nobles were deep in speculative conversation, ignoring
her as she squeezed through their hunched shoulders to place dishes in front of
them. Praise be for small blessings. Snippets of their whispered conversation
burned her ears.
“I ‘eard he killed more than a hundred men by
himself when the McHughes battled the Brayden last spring.”
“It is said that he has to drink the blood of wee
babes to maintain his strength.”
“He’s a servant of the devil and ought to be
burned!”
“Bah! Doona be ridiculous, he’s blessed by the
old North Gods, and we’re lucky he’s here! I’ll no’ be having ye anger him
with yer talk! No’ with the Donald’s bearing down upon us with his ten thousand
men.”
Clutching the now empty tray to her chest, she
scanned the torch lit room, her gaze skipping past woven kilts of many colors.
Men from clans Burgess, MacKintosh, Stewart and a few others unfamiliar to her,
assembled to Aberdeen from surrounding lowlands to protect the bustling seaside
town from the advancing clan Donald of Islay. The Donald’s determination to
lay claim to the Earldom of Ross meant tearing it from the hands of Robert Stewart,
the Duke of Albany and Regent of Scotland. Tomorrow, the outskirts of their
home would become a battleground.
Following the furtive glances stolen by the
surrounding crowd, Evelyn peered into the nook where
he
sprawled
comfortably, farthest from the glow of the fire. Flickering light rimmed his
silhouette, yet it seemed he conjured the darkness to cloak himself.
Evelyn caught her breath. If she lived a hundred
years she would likely never see a man so large again. Shadows obscured his
visage. She could see naught but impossibly thick, long legs which splayed at
the knees, encased within heavy, tall black boots.
Involuntarily swallowing her surprise, she knew
his relaxed posture was utterly deceptive.
She also knew the Berserker, Roderick MacLauchlan,
would die tomorrow.
Chapter Two
“Make ‘Evy do it, Moorland, I’m no’ goin’ near the
man!” Abby McFayden made a rude gesture to the innkeeper, and then crossed
herself against evil.
Evelyn bristled at Abby’s insolence, knowing that Moorland’s
acquiescence followed. If she’d never stumbled upon them in the kitchen that
day, her life would be much easier now. Evelyn suppressed a shudder at the
vision of Abby’s legs braced against the counter of the island and Moorland’s
pants around his ankles.
“There ye are!” Abby’s dirty hazel eyes glittered
with malevolence. “Be a dear, and take this to the black knight in the corner,
would ye?” She yanked away Evelyn’s empty tray and shoved a large bowl of stew
into her hands.
Moorland jerked a finger in her direction. “And
doona be bothering him with yer senseless chatter. I’ve been told that the man
is mute and I doona want you to be angering ‘im. You hear me girl?”
“Yes, sir.” She nodded and turned back to the din
of the common room. Unable to keep her shoulders from sagging, she moved
whisper-quiet, avoiding contact with the rowdy crowd.
The atmosphere felt as grim as the faces circling
the wooden tables. Clan Donald outnumbered the Stewart’s strength of three
thousand more than three fold. As they scowled and talked, men knocked back
ale with single-minded determination as though fortifying themselves against
the inevitable. Amidst such pessimism, Robert Stewart and his son, Alexander, did
their best to recruit whom they could to hold Ross land that spread from Skye
all the way to Inverness.
Creeping along the back wall, Evelyn made her way
towards the large leather chair in which
he
sat. Quelling the shiver of
apprehension that coursed down her spine, she squinted at him through the
dimness. Perhaps, if she looked hard enough, the intangible element of
unnatural darkness that seemed to emanate from him would reveal its secrets.
She instinctively knew the moment he noticed her.
He became more still, if possible. His muscles rigid with a tension that instantly
vibrated in the air between them. Feeling like a rabbit exposed to a hungry
predator, Evelyn froze as unfamiliar awareness washed over her. It pinned her
where she stood, and stunned her with its intensity.
Vibrant green eyes momentarily glowed with an
unnatural light as they regarded her from the shadows.
She swallowed and quickly averted her gaze.
‘Tis
only a trick of firelight’
, she told herself.
Attempting a casual approach, she couldn’t bring
herself to lift her eyes above the table before him. “I’ve brought you supper,
milord, if you’re inclined to dine,” she told his knees.
Silence.
She tightened her grip on the bowl to still the
tremor that threatened to slosh its contents into his lap.
“I—its Moorland’s specialty of mutton and potato
stew.” Why couldn’t her eyes seem to find a place to rest? Table. Large
hands. Sword. Thighs the size of boulders. Fireplace! Stew. Yes, the
stew.
“It’s quite good, and… important for building your
strength for the morrow.” She winced, cursing her need to fill the deafening silence.
Heaven help her if Moorland was watching.
Evelyn couldn’t stop a startled glance as his
upper torso and face slowly emerged from the shadow of the wall.
He was terrifying.
He was beautiful.
The loose-fitting black tunic did nothing to
diminish his shoulders, which were easily twice as broad as hers. Evelyn
wondered if his skin struggled to contain the sheer mass of him.
Long ebony hair spilled to the middle of his
chest, the forward locks pulled away from his face and secured at the back of
his head.
The glittering green eyes held her captive from
features so powerfully masculine it almost hurt to look at him. A broad
forehead and thick, even brows offset a roman nose. The skin of his face and
hands tanned to a gleaming bronze, his stark jaw made darker by the threatening
shadow of a beard.
Don’t be a fool,
she admonished herself,
unable to swallow around a dry tongue.
Nothing about him is blue. You
should be safe.
Evelyn’s eyes dropped to his mouth out of habit,
waiting for his response in the loud din of the room.
In all of her life she’d never seen such
perfection, such sensual beauty on the face of a man. Tan and lush, his lips
twitched with the slight movement of his jaw.
He gently took the bowl from her hand instead;
startling her so much that the stew would have sloshed all over him had he not
a firm grip.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, horrified. How could
she have so quickly forgotten the innkeeper’s warning? Of
course
he
wouldn’t reply.
One ebony brow lifted.
Dangerous. This man was dangerous. He had killed
many and would do so again before his death on the morrow.
Those compelling green eyes held her prisoner.
“Would you like me to bring you some ale?” she
asked, desperate to shake the yawning darkness that unexpectedly accompanied
the idea of his inevitable demise. The least she could do was offer the man a
drink. “’Tis a lovely summer brew, light and malty and it goes well with the
stew. Uh, I don’t drink it much, only because I’m not allowed without it being
taken from my pay, oh, and because I can’t be inebriated while I serve,
besides. But, I snuck a tip from the cask once, and I thought it quite
refreshing.” She flinched and bit her tongue to halt any further inane speech
from leaving her fool mouth. He must think her dull witted and awkward indeed,
which apparently, wasn’t a stone’s throw from the truth.
His jaw dipped in a nearly imperceptible nod.
“Right then.” Flashing him a nervous smile, she
adjusted her itchy cap and escaped back to the kitchen.
If only she could catch her breath! All but throwing
her tray to the counter, she rushed to the pantry, flinging herself against the
door, heedless of the darkness. Bending at the waist, she clutched at her
apron and panted as though she’d run a league.
What was happening to her? It had ceased to be
this difficult so long ago. Not since London had she so battled with her
conscience. Instead, she’d struggled to accept what knowledge she had, to do
what she must to
survive
. Nothing should be asked of her beyond that. She
didn’t choose this curse, this
sight
; it’d beset her at birth. And,
unfortunately for the wicked and beautiful Berserker, she’d never been able to
alter the fate of another, no matter how urgently she desired it.