He looked into her eyes and fell more deeply in love if that was possible, her beautiful smile lighting his heart as she whispered, “Come to me. I’m yours.”
Royden woke with a start, jolting up in bed angry to wake from the dream he’d had often in the past five years. Five long years of thinking, dreaming, fighting to get home to Oria, the woman he’d loved since he’d been young and who had loved him—always.
He didn’t know if she had survived the attack on their wedding day that had torn not only them apart but his whole family, his whole clan. The last time he had seen her, she was helping women and children into the safety of the keep. Her fate was unknown to him and he ached to know what had happened to her. He had no idea if his da had died or survived. He and his brother Arran had spent about a year together before they’d been separated. He had no knowledge of what happened to him. And there was his sister, Raven, a handful of a lass. If anyone could survive, she could and he hoped she had since he had learned that she’d never been found.
From the moment he’d been captured, he and Arran had talked of escaping and returning home, finding their family and seeking revenge on whoever was responsible for the devastation to their clan. They’d been taken to the most barren part of Scotland where few men braved to go, the land desolate and unforgiving. At times they’d been transported on ships to fight on foreign soil, though they were always returned home to Scotland. They weren’t given a chance once dumped in a battle. It was fight or die.
He ran his right hand through his dark hair that barely touched his shoulders. He swung his legs off the edge of the rumpled bed and grabbed the black leather cuff off the low chest next to the bed. He slipped it on the stub of where his left hand should have been and used his teeth to help tighten the leather strips that kept it securely in place. It had taken time for him to get used to having only one hand and it hadn’t been easy. The day of the attack had been seared into his memory. How could he forget it? It was meant to be his wedding day.
He stood and reached for his shirt. He had grown more thick with muscle over the last few years, his chest and arms heavy with it and his legs as well. Muscle wasn’t the only thing he had gained. He also had gained scars, some small ones and others large, from all the battles. None, though, were as deep as the scar on his heart. It tormented him that he had failed not only to protect Oria, but to wed her, make her his wife, seal their union. That chance had passed him by and was no more.
Not that he didn’t dream or hope that by some miracle Oria had survived and when he would finally return home, she’d be there waiting for him.
He turned at the rustle of blankets and shook his head at the woman sleeping in his bed. He hated that after a while he couldn’t deny himself the pleasures of a willing woman. He had a need, especially after battle, and women were supplied to the men in abundance. He never paired with the same woman. There were no feelings when he coupled just a need that had to be satisfied. Still, his need troubled him and when he saw that some women had more need than he had known, he wondered, with him gone, what Oria might have done to assuage her need. Not that he would blame her. If anyone was to blame, it was he himself.
It was a deep source of anger and guilt, failing to keep her from harm, that he harbored. One that would not leave him soon, if ever.
He added a few logs to the fire pit in the middle of the hut after he finished dressing and without a word to the woman he had been so intimate with last night, whose name he did not know, he left.
Royden bundled his wool cloak around him, the pre-dawn day cold. While spring was close it was still cold this high in the Highlands. His breath came out in large puffs and his stump ached as was its way when too cold. He walked through the village, if it could be called that, the area comprised of several huts, a few storage sheds, and a longhouse.
The amount of warriors that occupied the area had thinned of late and there was talk the few who remained were to be dispersed to other groups. He and Arran’s plans to attempt to escape had quickly been brought to an end when all the captives were told the rules.
Attempt to escape and one of your clansmen will suffer for it, attempt again and your clansmen will die, succeed at escaping and you will be hunted down and you and a family member will die. It wasn’t until one brave captive attempted an escape that he and Arran knew escape wasn’t a viable option. The man was found and returned and all watched as he’d been forced to pick who in his clan that had been taken captive with him would be punished. The man chosen was left chained outside for two days and nights in the cold without food, given only a hot brew. He survived, though barely.
The captives had been given an offer of freedom. They would join the band of mercenaries and fight, earning their freedom, but that would take years. Or they could remain with the group and share in its wealth. Sometimes if one was lucky a captive was released without explanation, though that was a seldom occurrence.
That’s when Royden had begun to discover the power and influence of the person who had forged a band of unwanted warriors into highly-skilled mercenaries for hire.
He entered the longhouse to find Platt there. He didn’t like the man. He had been the one who led the attack on Royden’s clan, leaving several of his clansmen dead or wounded. He had discovered that Platt owed some kind of allegiance to the overall leader of the mercenaries and followed his command without question.
“I will miss our morning talks,” Platt said with a snarling grin.
Royden sat on the bench opposite Platt at one of the many tables, not because he wanted to, but because it was closest to the fire pit. He didn’t acknowledge his humor, he and Platt having shared no morning talks only silence when they had eaten.
“Where am I to be sent this time?” Royden asked.
“You’re not going to miss me?” Platt asked, retaining his grin.
“You’re not going with me?” Royden asked.
Platt laughed, a seldom heard sound from him. “You really want to take me home with you?”
Royden wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly or if he misunderstood. He eyed Platt skeptically, but said nothing.
“He has no use for you anymore. You are free to return home,” Platt said, raising his tankard as if in a toast to his good fortune.
Royden was still skeptical, Platt not always truthful, and he also wondered if he was possibly dreaming and yet to wake.
“Can’t spare you a horse, but I can see you have food for a while, since it will take you a good month or more to reach home.” Platt shook his head at Royden’s skeptical glare. “It’s the truth and I’m glad to be rid of you.”
“My brother, Arran?”
“I don’t know about him, but with you being set free I don’t see why he wouldn’t be as well, but then again he could be dead for all I know.”
“That’s an outright lie,” Royden challenged. “You know more than you ever say.”
“The reason I’ve survived all this time. I keep my mouth shut.”
Royden stood. He didn’t care if his belly was growling. If he was free, he wanted to leave now. He wanted to get home.
“I’ll get that food and leave now,” Royden said and went to turn.
“Royden.”
He stopped.
“A price was paid for your release. A steep one that few if any would pay. You’ll need to remember that one day.”