Chapter Nine
Ilisa eyed Alrek through a mist of tears. Funny how perfect he looked in his foreign clothing. He suited his Viking garments far better than the Pictish ones. He had been right. They were not destined to stay together. By asking him to stay, she was asking him to forget his culture and put himself in danger. So she remained quiet and they watched the horizon for a sign of the ship. Red sails broke the rainy haze that drifted over the sea shortly before supper time. Though the grey clouds darkened the sky, nightfall remained a few hours away so she imagined the ship would land without any problems.
He straightened his jerkin and faced her. Breathing became impossible. Her fractured heart had shattered in her chest and destroyed her. It was for the best but her mind raged and pleaded with her to tell him to stay, to be selfish. Ilisa said nothing as he stepped forward and took her face in his hands. They engulfed her, rough and warm. She closed her eyes to fend off the tears. Alrek placed the sweetest kiss to her lips—so tender for a man so big.
“Hjarta mitt,” he murmured.
Ilisa kept her eyes shut and tamped down the bubble of despair in her chest. His lips left her, his hands were gone. The door opened and closed and a sob escaped her. Ilisa dropped to the floor and clutched her hands around her legs, bent double, and cried until her throat was raw and her chest in agony. Should she have asked him to come back for her? But the idea of watching the horizon forever and hoping tore her apart.
Eventually she swiped her eyes and pulled herself to standing. “You survived before him,” she reminded herself. “You’ll survive again.”
Had the ship landed yet? She peered outside and saw the night had not yet come. If she stood on the headland she’d probably be able to see the ship leave but would that make it worse? Mayhap it was better this way.
A knock on the door made her jolt. A burst of excitement made her heart race. She ran to it and flung it open. Her stomach sank. “Galan.”
“The Viking is gone.” He stepped into the hut and surveyed the place.
“Aye, he is gone. I hope you are happy now.”
“Not yet, and neither are the villagers.” He curled a hand around her arm and tugged her out of the house. The pressure from his fingers made her arm tingle as she fought against his hold.
“Galan, release me,” she demanded. Ilisa gaped when she spied much of the village men surrounding her house. “I told you, he has gone!”
Galan’s lips twisted and his dark eyes took on a black, bottomless look. Ilisa shuddered. “Do it,” he ordered.
Before she realised what he meant, several lit torches were flung onto the roof of her home. Straw crackled and flames raced quickly across it in spite of the damp weather. The skies seemed to protest the villagers’ actions, grumbling and unleashing more water but the flames had taken hold.
“Nay,” she cried and tried again to pull away from Galan.
“This is what we do to traitors. You took in the enemy. If I let them, they will burn you too.”
Ilisa stared around at her countrymen. It was true. Anger and hatred had eaten into them and now she was no better than a Viking in their eyes. “You would not let them!”
Galan’s grin stretched. “If you were my wife, you would have protection.”
“I have no farm now, why would you want me?” She twisted her arm and bit back a cry of pain as he squeezed tighter.
“I do not need your little cottage. I want your land and you, Ilisa. It shouldn’t have had to come to this.”
Under the grey, rolling skies, his expression grew savage. To think she’d once thought Alrek like that. Whatever Alrek had done in the past, there was not a chance he had the same deep-seated greed and anger that Galan did. Why had she given that up so easily?
Because if he’d have stayed, he would have been killed, she reminded herself. They would have burned him too. Alrek might have thought himself invincible but he would have stood no chance against a mob.
“I do not want you. I’d rather burn.” She lifted her chin. She didn’t want to die but a life without Alrek wasn’t worth much and she couldn’t give herself to Galan.
“You would prefer to betray your people, is that it?” he spat. “Prefer a barbaric Viking between your thighs?”
“Look around you, Galan, and tell me who the barbarians are? The time of the Picts is coming to an end. We should be trying to salvage what we can for the future generations, not fighting amongst each other.”
“You are no better than the other traitorous Pictish women,” Galan sneered. He released her arm and shoved her back toward the villagers. “They too have fled into the arms of Vikings, have left our lands and abandoned our people.”