Hidden in the Mists

by Christina Courtenay

Genres: Romantic Fantasy; Action & Adventure; Viking Romance

Synopsis

A stunning and evocative new dual-time standalone epic novel from the bestselling author of Echoes of the Runes.

Brimming with romance, adventure and vivid historical detail, Christina Courtenay does for the Vikings what Diana Gabaldon's Outlander and Clanlans does for Scottish history.
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A love forged in fire lives on through the ages . . .

Skye Logan has been struggling to run her remote farm on Scotland's west coast alone ever since her marriage fell apart. When a handsome stranger turns up looking for work, it seems that her wish for help has been granted.

Rafe Carlisle is searching for peace and somewhere he can forget about the last few years. But echoes of the distant past won't leave Skye and Rafe alone, and they begin to experience vivid dreams which appear to be linked to the Viking jewellery they each wear.

It seems that the ghosts of the past have secrets . . . and they have something that they want Skye and Rafe to know.
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Just some of the rich praise for Christina Courtenay's pacy, evocative and romantic novels including Echoes of the Runes and The Runes of Destiny, out now:

'Seals Christina Courtenay's crown as the Queen of Viking Romance' CATHERINE MILLER

'This epic romance is sure to sweep you off your feet!' TAKE A BREAK

'An absorbing story, fast-paced and vividly imagined' PAMELA HARTSHORNE

'A love story and an adventure, all rolled up inside a huge amount of intricately-detailed, well-researched history. Thoroughly enjoyable' KATHLEEN MCGURL

'Christina Courtenay is guaranteed to carry me off to another place and time in a way that no other author succeeds in doing' SUE MOORCROFT

(P) 2022 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: August 18, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 368

Sample

‘Damn it all, move, you stupid thing!’

Skye heaved with all her might, but succeeded only in shifting her rowing boat a couple of inches. It had been placed upside down on trestles the previous autumn and covered with a tarpaulin, but she’d recently made sure it was watertight by painting the hull with water-resistant paint. However, all that work would be for nothing if she couldn’t get the annoying thing into the sea.

‘Come on!’ She tried one more time and managed to lift one end. If she couldn’t set it down carefully, though, chances were she’d smash all the bones in one or both of her feet, and then where would she be? This was useless. ‘There’s got to be a way,’ she muttered.

She could try to push the trestles over with a broom handle, but what if the boat crashed to the ground too heavily? It would break, and she couldn’t afford to lose it. Either way, it was upside down and she still wouldn’t be able to turn it over. She needed it in one piece. Fishing was a great way to supplement her diet and keep her food spending to a minimum. Plus, fish was nutritious and tasty, and she adored all seafood.

‘Would you like a hand with that?’ The deep voice came from right behind her, and Skye jumped and swivelled around, her heart turning somersaults inside her chest.

‘Jesus! Where did you spring from?’ She brought up a hand to push against her ribcage, where her heartbeat was going nineteen to the dozen.

A man stood a few metres away, glancing from her to the boat and back again. His expression wasn’t threatening, but he was tall, and the tight T-shirt he wore emphasised a powerful torso as well as muscular arms and shoulders. She swallowed hard.

Calm down. Breathe! Visitors to her remote place were few and far between, but she had prepared herself for this eventuality. In an outside pocket of her combat trousers she carried a switchblade, in case someone arrived who wasn’t friendly. And she knew how to use the weapon; a former boyfriend had seen to that. He’d wanted her to be able to defend herself, should the need arise. Still, the reality of being confronted by an intruder was a lot scarier in real life than in theory only.

He held up his hands in a peace gesture, calming her a fraction. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I parked my van down the lane and walked the last bit. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your potholes are more like small craters.’ He gave her a disarming smile. ‘Wasn’t sure it was worth the risk to my tyres. Thought you heard me coming, but I guess you were busy.’

Down the lane? He must mean the rough mile-long track that led to her remote cottage. If he’d walked along that, his footsteps should have been clearly audible on the crunchy gravel. Where the heck were her guard dogs, and why hadn’t they barked to let her know someone was approaching? This was the second time in as many days they’d failed her, which was unheard of. Although she couldn’t really expect them to hear a ghost . . . She pushed that thought aside and whistled for them. They came bounding over, wagging their tails at the stranger, who stooped to pat them both in turn. The sight shook her, as it had never happened before. The traitors! They were normally wary of visitors, but this guy had them enthralled. Perhaps they had barked initially, but she’d been so focused on the boat she hadn’t noticed.

Still, they shouldn’t be so friendly with anyone unless she told them to. This was worrying.

She stared at the man again. Was he real? Her mind returned – as it had done several times today – to the ghostly figure by the shore, and to her strange dream. No, he was not a figment of her imagination. For one thing, he was too good-looking. Long golden-brown hair twisted into a messy man bun, big blue eyes under arched dark brows, a perfectly proportioned nose and a mouth surrounded by at least a week’s worth of stubble. The fact that his long-sleeved T-shirt was faded and his jeans ripped and worn didn’t matter – he’d have rocked any outfit, she was sure. The point was that he wasn’t dressed as a Viking, nor was he as insubstantial and shadowy as that woman had been. He couldn’t possibly be a ghost.

She tried to get a grip. She was clearly overreacting a wee bit here. Yes, understatement!

But handsome or not, he was big and male, and she was all alone with him. Ghosts were one thing, they couldn’t hurt her, but this man most certainly could if he wanted to. Her hand hovered over the pocket that held the switchblade. The knowledge that it was there calmed her.

She cleared her throat. ‘Why are you here?’

His mouth twitched up further into a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle attractively. ‘Someone in the village said you might be wanting to hire some help for the summer months. I’m looking for a temporary job. Thought I’d come and ask in person.’

‘Oh. Who said that?’ She’d been careful not to tell anyone that Craig no longer lived here. It was safer that way. People talked, and it was a small community where everyone liked to know everyone else’s business

The guy shrugged. ‘The owner of the village store.’

That made sense. Mr Fraser must have remembered that they’d hired someone last year to help out for a couple of weeks. God knew she could do with an extra pair of hands, but she couldn’t afford it.

‘This is Auchenbeag, right?’ he added. ‘Whatever that means. And I probably didn’t pronounce it correctly either.’

He hadn’t, and the way he’d massacred the Gaelic word made her want to smile, but she resisted the urge. She shouldn’t find anything about him charming. He was a stranger. Potentially dangerous . . . She shook her head.

‘Yes. It means “little field”, but sorry, I don’t—’

As if he’d read her mind, the man interrupted her. ‘I’m happy to work for nothing but food and free Wi-Fi. No salary necessary. And I brought my own accommodation, a camper van. That is, if I can get it down that bumpy track. But perhaps you need to consult with your husband? Or should I go talk to him myself?’

‘Um, no, that’s not . . . I mean, he’s not here right now. Family emergency. He might be a while.’

Yes, like for ever. But she couldn’t tell him that. And she shouldn’t have mentioned that Craig wasn’t here – now he’d know for sure she was all alone. What was wrong with her today?

‘Right. Well, would you like a hand with that boat, and then maybe we can talk some more? I’m Rafe, by the way. Rafe Carlisle.’ He came closer and stuck out a hand, and Skye was forced to shake it. The touch of his skin on hers was disconcerting.

How long had it been since she’d touched another human being? Months, probably. More like half a year – be honest. No one since Craig left. This was not the time to think about that, though.

‘Skye Logan.’

‘Oh?’ His expression grew puzzled. ‘I was told a Mr and Mrs Baillie lived here.’

Damn. She’d forgotten to use her married name. As soon as Craig had left, she’d no longer considered herself as Mrs anything and reverted to her own surname, although technically the divorce hadn’t gone through yet. ‘Um, yes, but I usually go by my maiden name. It’s to do with business,’ she prevaricated.

‘Ah, I see. Right.’

‘And yes, please, I could definitely do with some help here.’ She’d be stupid not to accept his offer, because there was no way she’d ever get this boat off the trestles and into the water by herself.

They took their positions at either end, and Rafe said, ‘OK, on the count of three? One, two, three, hup!’

Somehow she managed to lift her end this time, and only narrowly missed her toes when she lowered the boat’s rear to the ground.

‘Whoa, that really is heavy, huh?’ His eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘What’s it made of – concrete?’ The grin that accompanied this statement should have put her at ease, but it had quite the opposite effect. Butterflies danced in her stomach and she forced herself to look away.

‘Oak. It’s one of the heaviest timbers there is.’

They turned it over on another count of three, although she suspected he was doing most of the lifting single-handedly. She caught a glimpse of bulging biceps but told herself they were nothing special. Acquired in a gym, just for show, most likely. Then together they pushed the boat along the grass, across the thin strip of sandy beach and into the sea. ‘Thank God for that,’ she muttered. ‘I mean, thank you, Mr Carlisle.’

‘Rafe, please, and it was nothing. My pleasure.’

When she’d tied the mooring rope securely to an old iron ring set into a rocky outcrop by the beach, she took a deep breath and tried to make up her mind. It sounded too good to be true – a worker who didn’t need either a salary or a bed, only food and Wi-Fi. She could provide both, no problem, unless he ate like a horse. But there had to be a catch. And it would be nerve-racking having a big man like him around the place – well, any man she didn’t know really – and sooner or later she’d have to confess that she had no husband. Not any more.

‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’ she found herself asking as they made their way back up the hill towards her cottage. It was the standard offer whenever anyone visited around here – hospitality was the norm. And it would give her time to consider her options.

‘A coffee would be great, thanks. Black, three sugars, please.’

‘OK, coming up. Er, perhaps you’d like to take a seat out here while you wait?’ She pointed to a rickety garden bench set under an apple tree. There was no way she’d let him in the house. She didn’t know the first thing about him.

‘Sure, will do.’

She watched him surreptitiously through the kitchen window while making the drinks. Pepsi and Cola had ambled after him, and Cola, always the needier of the two, was leaning his head against Rafe’s knee. The expression on his doggie face turned to bliss when the guy scratched him behind the ears. Traitor indeed. It still bothered her that they hadn’t barked. Was Rafe a dog whisperer in his spare time?

Perhaps it simply meant that they didn’t see him as a threat. Either way, she’d be on her guard. She stuck her hand into the pocket of her combat trousers, feeling the reassuring touch of cool metal; the switchblade was still there. Although she wasn’t normally afraid of living alone in such an isolated place, she wasn’t stupid either. Shit happened and she had to be prepared.

She too liked her coffee black with lots of sugar; she reasoned that with the amount of hard work she did, it wouldn’t affect her figure. It would be a miracle if she put on any weight at all, actually, since she was active from morning till night. With that in mind, she put some home-made flapjacks on a plate too, and brought that and the two mugs outside on a small tray, which she placed in the middle of the bench. She sat down on the other side of it and handed Rafe his coffee. ‘Here you go. Help yourself to flapjacks.’

His eyes lit up. ‘Thanks, I love those.’ He took a bite of one, and an expression of bliss crossed his features. It reminded her of how the dog had looked earlier, and she almost laughed. ‘Mmm, delicious! Did you make them?’

‘Yes. Old family recipe.’ Why she was telling him that, she had no idea. ‘Sorry about the dogs. Please, push Cola out of the way, he’ll get the message.’

‘It’s fine. I love dogs.’

And they clearly liked him, but Skye didn’t say that out loud. ‘So, um, why do you want to work here? And how long for?’

He popped the rest of the flapjack into his mouth and finished chewing before answering. ‘I got tired of the rat race and I’ve been touring Britain for the last couple of years searching for . . . I don’t know, something better? I stop wherever I feel like it. You know, in places that catch my fancy and areas I’d like to explore. I have a small income from renting out my flat down in Surrey, but I can’t just bum around all the time, so I’ve tried my hand at different jobs along the way.’

‘You got any farming experience?’

‘No, but I learn fast and I work hard. Done some fruit picking.’

She nodded. It wasn’t rocket science, and she mostly needed help with heavy stuff anyway, like digging, building work and scything. ‘What did you do before?’

‘Painting and decorating. Anything like that, I’m pretty handy.’

That could be useful. She and Craig had started work on turning part of an outbuilding into a holiday let, but it was only half finished. It might be too late to do it now – she needed the income immediately – but it would at least increase the value of the property if she could get some more done.

‘References?’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry. I was self-employed. Ran my own company.’ Looking slightly sheepish, he added, ‘Um, bit of a one-man band, actually.’

She had the feeling there was something he wasn’t telling her, but it sounded plausible. It made her hesitate, though, and he must have picked up on that.

‘You could always phone your friends around here and tell them I’m working with you. Then they’d be able to check up on you, make sure I haven’t done away with you or anything.’

The grin that accompanied that statement was obviously meant to reassure her, but his words didn’t. Because she had no friends around here, only acquaintances. She doubted any of her neighbours would be concerned about her welfare, and very few of them had set foot on her property over the last six months. All Craig’s fault. Well, mostly.

Everyone had been friendly enough when they’d first arrived, but her ex had managed to alienate the neighbours and villagers one by one. He seemed to have a knack for it, more was the pity. After he’d left, Skye had been too embarrassed to face anyone. It had seemed easier all round to avoid people as much as possible. She’d dropped out of the book group and the weekly Zumba class, and usually only nodded a greeting to people then hurried on, as if she had things to do, places to be. A few still tried from time to time, inviting her for coffee, harvest festival, a new knitting circle or a yoga class, but she always had some excuse ready. She really ought to pull herself together, become part of the community again. She should go and see her nearest neighbours, or even join that wild-swimming group she’d been tempted by last year, but at the moment, it was too daunting. And Craig’s mocking words when she’d mentioned the swimming still rang in her ears. But Rafe didn’t know any of that, and she couldn’t afford to turn down his offer. It could mean the difference between keeping this place or having to sell it in a month or two.

‘OK, fine, how about you stay for a couple of weeks on a trial basis and we see how it goes? I . . . I mean, we’ve got some building work that needs doing. And I’ll need help with shearing soon. Always better with at least two people, and Craig might not be back in time.’

‘Shearing as in sheep?’ Rafe had been about to take a sip of his coffee but stopped and stared at her over the rim of his mug, his blue eyes opened wide. Goodness, but they were stunning, the lashes around them long and dark. Skye had to make an effort to drag her gaze away.

‘Yes, but don’t worry, you’d just have to hold them for me. I’ll do the actual shearing. And there aren’t that many – half a dozen.’ She’d learned how, and although she wasn’t as fast as a professional, she got the job done neatly.

‘Oh, OK. Sure, sounds great. A trial period it is.’

Was it her imagination, or did he look relieved when they shook on it? But she pushed the thought aside. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Rafe heaved an inner sigh of relief and breathed easier as he walked back down the track to fetch his camper van. It had been touch and go for a while back there, and he hadn’t been sure Ms Logan would give him a chance. Not many people did these days. Usually when he said he couldn’t provide any references, they grew wary, unless the business they ran was a bit on the dodgy side. She had as well, but he’d sensed a certain desperation in her, and somehow she’d accepted his explanation.

Thank Christ for that!

Much better if he could avoid her finding out about his past. He was so done with being judged unfairly, and she’d be no exception, he was sure. He’d yet to meet anyone who would give him the benefit of the doubt, which was frustrating as hell, but he’d learned the hard way that keeping quiet was by far the best option.

He drew in deep breaths of the fresh spring air and concentrated on his surroundings. There was dense forest either side of the rutted track, which was in a dreadful state. Not only was it full of potholes, but there were stones sticking up everywhere and the middle consisted of grassy tufts that would scrape against the bottom of his van. Interspersed with the trees was more bracken than he’d ever seen in his life, mostly brown but with mint-green shoots emerging. Bushes and ferns grew in between, as well as brambles. Towering over everything were steep hills, the tops currently wreathed in mist, and in the distance he could glimpse the sea.

This place was gorgeous, but so remote. Well off the beaten track, and he’d never have come across it if that shopkeeper hadn’t mentioned it and given him directions. Why would someone like Skye – thinking of her as Ms Logan or Mrs Baillie seemed too formal – choose to live out here? There wasn’t another dwelling for miles. No close neighbours. And with her husband away, she’d have no one to talk to. Or to help with heavy stuff like turning that boat.

He frowned. Why the hell hadn’t she waited for her husband to come back before attempting that little manoeuvre? It made no sense. She must have known she couldn’t lift it on her own. Weird.

Oh, who cared? He had a job for the next two weeks and he’d make the most of the peace and solitude. All he had to do was get along with his new employer, then she might let him stay even longer. He was tired of constantly being on the move. Bored with roaming the country without any fixed goal. It had been exciting at first, and a relief to escape from everything, but after two years, he knew it was never going to be viable in the long run. He had to find a more permanent solution. Only he hadn’t figured out what that might be yet.

Staying here for a while would give him the time and head space to do that.

Yes, Auchenbeag was exactly what he needed right now.





Óttarr had just stepped outside his back door when he heard the clank of metal. Even though it was only a faint noise penetrating the morning gloom, he knew he wasn’t mistaken. As a blacksmith, it was a sound he was very familiar with, but he wasn’t used to noticing it outside of his forge.

He was an early riser, always had been, and normally used the time before dawn to do some weapons training on his own. Officially he wasn’t one of Thorfinn’s men, but as he had been the son of a minor chieftain for the first fourteen years of his life, he’d been used to training daily with sword, spear, axe, and bow and arrow. It was ingrained in him, a part of who he was. He wanted to keep his skills up, because he had plans, but he did it in secret. He’d rather no one found out about his proficiency, because those plans didn’t involve working for the niðingr who inhabited this place any longer than he had to.

After the fateful raid on his father’s settlement, he’d been surprised to find himself on board a ship, alive, although with the mother of all headaches and a huge lump on his head. It was humiliating to realise that he hadn’t been chosen to accompany everyone else to the afterlife. Even more so when he understood that he was now a lowly thrall. Never would he inherit his father’s hall and sit in that special chair, nor ever see his mother and the other members of their group again. He’d seen with his own eyes that they were all dead, and no doubt the dwellings had been torched.

Only he had survived. But why?

He could only assume that the gods had something else in store for him.

He had recovered somewhat by the time they’d arrived here at Arnaby, Thorfinn’s domain, apparently named after the sea eagles that frequently soared above the place. He’d been told he was to work for the resident blacksmith, whose previous apprentice had died. In fact, the smith was the reason Óttarr hadn’t been killed – he’d claimed to have seen the boy’s potential and carried him to the ship himself, slung across his mighty shoulder.

‘Big strapping boy, you were,’ he said on many occasions, while telling this tale. ‘And me in need of an apprentice. It seemed like fate.’

A fate Óttarr could have done without, but he never said that out loud. At least the man had treated him reasonably well and taught him useful skills. They’d come to a grudging understanding eventually, and the work of a smith was satisfying in many ways.

Now, seven years later, Óttarr had grown even more in both size and strength. And when the blacksmith was on his deathbed two months ago, he’d asked Thorfinn to release his apprentice from bondage and make him a freeman.

‘You’ll need a smith when I’m gone, and the boy is more than capable of doing the work. It seems only fair he should be able to ask for remuneration.’

He didn’t add that it would have been difficult for anyone in the settlement to force Óttarr to continue to work if he didn’t have an incentive. Having seen twenty-one winters, he wasn’t a boy any more, no matter what the smith called him. Short of being put in chains or maimed, he could no longer be controlled. Thorfinn must have seen the sense in this and freed him. He’d probably been under the impression that Óttarr was reconciled to his new status, but although he enjoyed the work in the forge, that was very far from the case. And the chieftain had clearly forgotten that he was the man who’d captured Óttarr in the first place and killed all his kin.

The argr. Óttarr hated his guts, and as soon as he’d gathered enough silver, he’d kill him and escape.

Apart from the children, he hated everyone in this place, from Thorfinn himself down to the lowliest of the freemen. He was tired of dancing to their tune and longed to go home and see if he could rebuild Óláfr’s settlement. If not, he could at least work for someone who hadn’t murdered his parents and kin.

Now, hearing the clink of metal, he stopped what he was doing and put away his sword. He’d made it for himself in secret once his former master had passed away and there was no one watching his every move. It wasn’t as good as the beautiful specimens his father had owned – pattern-welded and wrought in far-away Frankia – but it would fulfil its function when the time came. Which would be soon.

When he peered round the corner of the hut that housed the forge, he was surprised to see Thorfinn’s daughter, Ásta, hurrying off towards the shore carrying something bulky. She was glancing around nervously, as if fearful of being spotted, which piqued his interest. Ordinarily, there was nothing particularly remarkable about her – she was of average build, with even features and a dark brown plait hanging over one shoulder. He’d seen her going about her duties around the settlement and in the hall, but hadn’t paid her any more attention than the other inhabitants of the place, whom he mostly ignored. Now he looked at her properly for the first time and noticed the natural grace with which she moved, the subtle sway of her hips and the soft swish of that long silky plait . . . He blinked and shook himself mentally. What was the matter with him? She was just another woman, and the daughter of his sworn enemy to boot. Nothing about her should interest him, except her current activities, which were intriguing.

‘What are you up to?’ he whispered to himself. She wasn’t normally about at this time of day. No one was except him.

There was something so furtive about her movements, he simply had to follow her. He waited a moment so that she wouldn’t notice him, then moved silently towards the sea. She was just starting to row a small boat along the shoreline, a bit erratically at first, then settling into a more even rhythm. The waves were against her, which meant that Óttarr could follow her on foot. He dived into the forest and kept an eye on her through the trees as she continued to row for what seemed like ages. With his long legs, he had no problem keeping up with her.

‘Now I’m definitely intrigued,’ he muttered, as she finally pulled the boat up on to a sliver of beach. She kneeled down to do something, although he couldn’t see what. The sound of metal clanking against metal rang out again, and he could only assume she had brought some precious items in the sack he’d glimpsed.

The forest was dark, and there was a low mist hanging about the place, which was to his advantage. He found a particularly thick tree trunk to hide behind. From this vantage point, he watched while she dug a big hole and buried a whole lot of shining objects. The spoils of war, or more likely, raiding. He clenched his fists, because he knew exactly where some of that treasure had come from – his father’s locked chests and his mother’s body. What he didn’t understand was why Ásta was burying it here. He’d heard that Thorfinn was poorly, but surely she wouldn’t steal from her own father while he was unwell?

Actually, nothing about these people would surprise him. They were scum.

She appeared agitated, and after she’d finished her task, he heard her shout out her frustration while hurling something into the undergrowth. It seemed most unlike her, as she was normally even-tempered and calm, as far as he’d been able to tell. In fact, he’d never heard her so much as raise her voice before.

‘Curious,’ he murmured, holding his breath as she turned to survey her surroundings one last time. Would she notice him? But she remained oblivious to his presence.

As soon as she’d left, he walked over to where she had buried everything and memorised the spot. If the objects lying here were what he suspected, she had no more right to them than Thorfinn had had. He dug around in the soil with his hands and came up with a silver-gilt cup. It clinked against a ring he wore on the middle finger of his right hand, the only ornament he allowed himself apart from a silver Thor’s hammer amulet around his neck. Yes, these were definitely stolen items; the cup looked like something made by the Engilskir followers of the White Christ. He put it back and covered it over, stomping on the ground to flatten the earth.

‘Tomorrow night I’ll come back and move them somewhere else,’ he muttered, but he’d need a proper spade to make the work easier.

At least that way Ásta could never find them again. She didn’t deserve to.



Rafe woke up entangled in his sleeping bag and impatiently pushed his way out of it. The back of his beat-up VW camper van wasn’t the most comfortable place to spend the night, but that . . .