Ice Maiden. Debra Lee Brown

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      George settled on a bench in a corner of the village brew house and wondered how the devil to go about getting a draught of ale to slake his thirst.

      He’d been given free range of the island, much to his surprise, and since he’d been strong enough to walk he’d covered every desolate, wind-whipped inch of it. Save sprouting wings and flying off, for the life of him he couldn’t fathom any way of escape.

      Damn the bloody woman and her clan.

      All had been instructed—by her, no doubt, though she seemed to hold no great position in the eyes of her own folk—to speak nary a word to him save what was necessary to feed and shelter him.

      What little he’d been able to learn about the place and its people, he did so from his own observation and from snatches of overheard conversations.

      The village was small, housing less than a hundred folk, and sat atop a cliff on the south side of the island. Below it lay a thin strip of rocky beach, boasting a tiny inlet at one end that harbored the single craft Rika had called a ship.

      ’Twas not much of one in George’s estimation. There was no natural timber on the island. Clearly the byrthing, as the locals called it, was built of scrap wood gleaned from shipwrecks. The low-drafting vessel looked barely seaworthy, but was heavily guarded all the same—likely due to his presence. Right off he saw ’twas too large for one man to sail alone.

      Though sleet and the occasional snow flurry pummeled the surrounding moors, George was comfortable enough in the furs and woolen garments the islanders had loaned him, and with the food and shelter he’d been offered. He was neither prisoner nor guest, and felt a precariousness about his situation that was intensified by the fact that he had no weapons.

      ’Twas not the first time he’d been forced to use his wits in place of his sword to get what he wanted, though he’d feel a damn sight better about his chances with a length of Spanish steel in his hand.

      He supposed he could just wait it out. If it were spring, he’d do exactly that. But few ships dared negotiate even coastal waters in the dead of winter, let alone chanced an open sea voyage. It could be weeks, months even, before another craft lit in Fair Isle’s tiny harbor.

      The memory of the shipwreck burned fresh in his mind, though no trace of it, save scattered bits of wood, was left along the rocky shore of the island. He’d hired the vessel and its crew out of Inverness, and had taken a dozen of his own men as escort, including his brother.

      Oh, Sommerled.

      He raked a hand through his hair and blinked away the sting of tears pooling unbidden in his eyes. What had he been thinking to let the youth talk him into such a daft scheme? They should have traveled up the coast by steed, as was expected.

      Expected.

      Sweet Jesus, the Sinclairs!

      Even now, they must wonder what had become of him and his party. His wedding to Anne Sinclair, youngest daughter of their chieftain, was to take place—he mentally counted off the days—two days hence!

      He’d never get back by then. He cursed, and a dozen sets of eyes turned in his direction. Not at this rate, he wouldn’t.

      The door to the brew house banged opened, wrenching him from his thoughts. Needles of sleet blew across the threshold instantly chilling the room. On its heels drifted another frosty presence.

      Rika.

      She did not see him, half-hidden as he was in the shadowed corner, as she made her way to an empty table well within his own view. The youth, Ottar, who’d made it clear to George the previous day he styled himself Rika’s protector, settled beside her on a bench.

      The woman needed no protector. She was half man herself. Just as he decided she was, indeed, some freak of nature, Rika threw off her heavy cloak and absently brushed the snow from her hair.

      ’Twas a decidedly feminine gesture, and George found himself fascinated by the dichotomy. In fact, he could not take his eyes from her. ’Twas his first opportunity to observe her undetected, and there was something about it he enjoyed.

      She called for horns of mead and, once delivered, she chatted easily with the youth. Ottar looked on her with a kind of boyish awe. God knows why. The youth had actually warned him off her. What nonsense. He had no intention of touching her, though he didn’t like anyone—man or boy—telling him what he could or could not do.

      No matter. The youth was harmless enough. Yesterday on the cliff, George could have snapped his neck with one hand, if he’d had a mind to. At the time, he’d been more concerned with throttling the woman. Even now, as he looked at her, he could feel his hands close over her throat. The scar she bore told him he was not the only man who would see her dead.

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