A/N: Hello, everyone!
This, like my first two stories, is a period piece. So, again, it's AU, and if historical stories don't really do it for you, then this is not the story for you.
I'm trying something a little different this time. The story is set in a much earlier time, not in the USA, and Brittany and Santana meet right away. BUT, it will still take a while for them to get 'together' because I do love me some slow Brittana build-up ;)
Oh, and just like A Dangerous Masquerade, while this story is AU, it is also PU (Parallel Universe) in that homosexuality is as 'normal' and accepted as heterosexuality. It is not taboo, forbidden, illegal, etc, etc. If you are interested in how, in my universe, this is possible, please read the A/N for the first chapter of A Dangerous Masquerade because I don't want to be redundant and do it again here. And also just like ADM, the rest of history will be the same; only the acceptance of homosexual people will be different from reality.
Anywho, that's all I got for right now. I hope you guys like this first chapter! :)
The Isle of May, off the Firth of Forth
Scotland, March 1543
Santana poked at the corpse with a stick and slowly backed away.
Her unbound raven hair, already soaked from the driving rain, whipped across her eyes when she leaned in to look closer.
The Highlander appeared to be dead, but she couldn't be sure. Long blonde hair lay matted across the woman's face. Santana looked at the high leather boots, darkened by the salt water. The blonde girl was wearing a torn shirt that once must have been white. A broad expanse of plaid, pinned at one shoulder by a silver brooch, trailed into the tidal pool. From the thick belt that held her kilt in place, a sheathed dirk banged against a pale, exposed thigh.
A dozen seals watched Santana from the deep water beyond the surf.
With the storm growing increasingly wilder, she stood indecisively over the body. In all the years she had been on the island, she had never seen a human wash up before. Certainly, there had been wrecks in the storms that swept in across the open water, and Auld Emma and Garth used to find all kinds of things—some valuable and some worthless—cast up on the shores. Never, though, had there been another person—at least, not since the aging husband and wife had found Santana herself eleven years earlier.
Santana pushed aside those thoughts now and crouched beside the girl, placing a hand hesitantly above her breast. A faint pounding beneath the shirt was the answer to her prayers…and her fears. She didn't want anyone intruding on her island and in her life. At the same time, she could not allow a living thing to die when she could save it. Or, rather, her.
The surf crashed over the ring of rock that formed the tidal pool, and the young olive-skinned woman pushed herself to her feet. She drew the leather cloak up to shield her face from the stinging spray of wind-driven brine. When she looked back at the body, the wave had pushed the Highlander deeper into the pool, immersing her face.
Santana immediately dropped her stick and lifted the blonde girl's face out of the water. Glancing over her shoulder, she eyed a flat rock at the far side of the pool. It sat higher than the tide generally rose. Rolling her forward slightly, Santana held the unconscious Highlander under the arms just as another wave crested the pool's rim. The surge of water lifted the body, and Santana quickly dragged her through the water toward the rock.
She was heavier than Santana thought she would be. Out of breath, she finally succeeded in getting the blonde partially anchored on the rock.
Auld Emma had once told Santana that they had found her nearly drowned in this same tidal pool. The thought of that now flickered in her mind. She tried to recall the storm and ship and the day, but those memories had long ago faded into nightmares. Now it was all buried too deeply within her to recollect. She wondered if it had been a day like this one, dark and violent.
The dirk at the Highlander's side caught her eye, snapping her out of her forlorn thoughts. Santana reached down quickly, yanked the weapon from its sheath, and tucked it into her own belt.
The wind was howling, and the salt spray was stinging her face. Santana looked out at the frothy, gray-green sea, hoping to see some boat searching for the Highlander lying unconscious beside her.
If they came, she wouldn't let herself be seen, though. She wanted no news of her presence to be carried to the mainland.
She had been only six years old when the ship had sunk and she had washed ashore. But the little that she allowed herself to remember from the time before that day was too painful. Santana had no desire to face that horrifying past ever again. There was no place else that she ever wanted to be but here. This island was the only home she had left.
For eleven years the reclusive couple had kept her existence a secret. And now, with both of them passed on, she could only pray to continue her life as she had before, undisturbed and unnoticed.
Her plan was the same as the one she had followed dozens of times since washing up on the island. Whenever there was a chance of a fishing boat or some pilgrims coming ashore, Garth and Emma would trundle Santana off with plenty of food and blankets to the caves on the western shore of the island. She would remain there in safety until all was well and the visitors were gone.
The only difference now was that she would have to use her own judgment about when it would be safe to come back out.
Ready to push herself to her feet, Santana felt a tinge of curiosity that made her reach out and push the Highlander's wet, matted hair out of her face. Instantly she was sorry for the action, for the woman's features took her by surprise. Even unconscious, or perhaps because of it, she was an extremely beautiful woman. A high forehead, a straight nose, a thin but shapely mouth, an angular jaw.
Without thinking, Santana slowly, as though mesmerized, raised her left hand and softly traced the contours of the blonde's face with the tips of her fingers. She had a face not even marred by scars…yet. Only a few scratches and bruises from her time in the surf. It wasn't until her fingers brushed ever-so-gently against the blonde's bottom lip, sending a peculiar jolt up her arm and into her heart, that Santana realized what she was doing and jerked her hand away from the Highlander's striking face.
Angry at herself for allow herself to be distracted, Santana started to get to her feet, but one foot slipped, and she had to brace a hand on the blonde's chest to catch herself.
The Highlander's eyes immediately opened, and Santana's breath knotted tightly in her chest. Blue eyes the color of a winter sky stared at her from beneath long dark lashes flecked with gold. Santana didn't blink. She didn't move. Holding her breath, she remained still, staring into the Highlander's eyes for the eternity of a moment until the blonde closed them again.
Santana edged off the rock and ran as fast and as far as her legs would take her.
The taste in Brittany Pierce's mouth was foul as a dried-up chamber bucket.
Rolling onto her side, she felt her stomach heave. She tried to push herself up, but she couldn't see anything. As she turned, Brittany's hand slipped off cold wet rock, and she tumbled into a shallow pool of water, banging her ribs hard on the stone as she fell.
"Blasted hell," she groaned, pushing herself onto her knees. Holding her head, the blonde blinked a few times, trying to clean the sand and salt out of her eyes.
Rocks. More rocks. And water. And bobbing heads? Brittany pushed back a long, twisted lock of hair that had fallen across her face, obstructing her vision. She tried to focus on the creatures moving on the rocks.
Seals—a dozen or so—were staring at her from the rocks rimming the pool and from the sea beyond. Their brown eyes were dark and watchful. The image of a stunning brunette woman's face immediately flashed before her mind, and she struggled to push herself to her feet. A couple of seals barked a warning to those on shore.
"H-hello!" she called out, only to have the surf and the wind slap the greeting back into her face.
Her entire body ached. It had taken great effort to get the words out past her raw, scratched throat, but Brittany tried again. She was certain that someone had been there only moments before. Or was it hours?
"Hello!"
This time the shriek of seabirds was her only answer. Taking in a painful half breath, she tried to move her feet in the shallow pool. They moved, although it felt as if they were made of lead. Brittany succeeded in taking only three steps before she had to sit down on the edge of a rock. The world was spinning around in her head like a whirlpool.
Water. Rocks. And on each side of the protected tidal pool, rock-studded banks dotted with occasional patches of sea grass sloped upward from the turbulent sea.
The Pierce ship had been sailing north when the weather had taken a turn for the worse. It shouldn't have been unexpected, though. The Firth of Forth was famous for its foul and quickly changing moods and was often the inspiration behind many Scottish and English poems and songs.
Well, Brittany thought as she looked out over the sea and then turned to take in her surroundings once more, at least I have washed ashore…wherever I am.
The last clear memory that Brittany had was of shoving one of the sailors to safety in the aft passageway. The lad was nearly unconscious after being slammed against the ship's gunwales as the great vessel had continued to heel before the tempestuous blast of wind.
The storm had come on fast and hard, but they had been riding it well. Brittany and Quinn, her eldest sister, had been standing with the second mate at the tiller when the younger blonde had seen the young man go down. The sea sweeping across the deck had nearly carried the lad overboard.
Brittany fought the urge to be ill. The foul, salty taste rose again into her mouth, at the memory of what had happened next.
The boy had no sooner been secured when Brittany had heard the cries of the lookout above. The dark shape of land appeared, not an arrowshot to port. And then the ship's keel had struck the sandbar.
She remembered being bounced hard across the deck, only to have the sea lift her before plunging her deep into the brine. After a lifetime of thrashing in the dark waters, she had finally sputtered to the surface. Al she had heard then was the howling shriek of wind before another crashing wall of water drove her under again. Somehow she had survived it all, although she had not the faintest idea how.
Brittany stared again at a seal, who was watching her intently. For an insane moment, thoughts of legends told by sailors clouded her reason, making her wonder if the seals had brought her there only for her to die, like the irresistible Sirens in the ancient Greek legend of Odysseus.
A gust of cold wind blasting mercilessly across the stormy water instantly sobered her, snapping the Highlander out of her fantastical musings. She was soaked through and chilled to the bone. Brittany managed to push herself to her feet and climb out of the tidal pool.
Another image of dark eyes gazing down at her flashed through her mind. The eyes of a young woman. Brittany remembered more now. Someone pulling her through the water. Propping her on the rock. The raven-haired beauty had been no apparition. Brittany braced herself against the wind and let her gaze sweep over her surroundings again.
"Where are you?" she shouted over the wind. There was not a boat or person, not even a tree in sight, and the rising slope of rocky ground straight ahead hampered Brittany's vision of what lay beyond.
"And where am I?" she muttered to herself.
The Pierce ship had been too far north for her to wash ashore on English soil. The storm could not have driven them as far east as the continent. This had to be Scotland.
Brittany knew that she could die of the cold once night fell. She had to determine her whereabouts and find a protected place to wait out the storm.
She looked around again at her surroundings, and she couldn't shake the sensation that she was being watched. And she didn't think that it was just the seals. There was no one else in sight, though. Brittany's hand reached for the dirk she always kept at her belt, but found that it was missing. She picked up a solid branch of driftwood and started up the slope.
Her trek was slow, but the distance was short. Upon reaching the crest of the brae, Brittany sat on a boulder jutting through the long grass. One look and she recognized the place.
Brittany Pierce had grown up sailing aboard ships. Standing on the stern deck beside her grandfather, her uncle, and lately her older sister, she had covered this coast many times over the years. Brittany was familiar with every port, every inlet, every island from the Shetlands to Dover in the east, and from Stornoway to Cornwall in the west. She had sailed from Mull to France and back again a dozen times. And she knew the history of this Scottish coast as well as she knew her clan's name.
She was on May, a small island east of the Firth of Forth. It was well known to sailors as a graveyard for errant ships. Many vessels, passing too close to the jagged rocks above and beneath the surface, had met their end along its western shore. And the sandbars to the east were just as deadly. A hill, the highest point, rose up almost at the center of the island. To the west sharp bluffs dropped off to the sea. To her right the blonde could see the sloping stretches of rock and sea grass that ended at the water. To her left, the low walls and the five or six ruined buildings of an abandoned priory.
Knowing where she was eased Brittany's mind a great deal. She was safe here, and it was only a matter of time before Quinn would turn her ship around and come looking for the taller blonde.
The wind at her back cut through her wet clothing, and she shivered as she pushed on. It was said that the island had once been a destination for religious pilgrims, drawing many across the water year after year. The priory, built centuries ago, had been dedicated to Saint Adrian, who had been murdered here by marauding Danes in the dark time.
As Brittany made her way toward the buildings, she recalled hearing that the monks had deserted the island before her grandfather's time. Only an old man and his wife lived out here now, feeding the occasional pilgrims and lighting a large fire during storms to warn the ships off.
Brittany didn't remember seeing any fire in her one brief glimpse of the island before being swept overboard. But she didn't believe the face she had seen—a face already permanently etched into her mind—had been elderly, either.
Brittany fought off the fatigue that was gathering around her like a fog, and approached the stone buildings of the old priory. To her right she saw a protected hollow where a small flock of sheep huddled together out of the wind. Ahead, she couldn't tell which of the decrepit buildings might have housed the couple.
"Hello!" At her shout the animals shuffled about and bleated loudly. Brittany wished she knew something more about the keeper and his wife—even a name would have been a good place to start. No one was showing themselves, and the gray stone buildings showed no sign of anyone's living inside of them.
Crossing a moor of knee-high grass, Brittany found herself on a path of sorts that led past a little patch of land protected from the wet wind by a grove of short, wind-stunted pines. The remains of what looked to be last year's gardens affirmed that the couple still lived on the island.
It wasn't until she was past the first line of buildings that the Highlander saw wisps of smoke being whipped from a recently built chimney above a squat, two-story building. As Brittany drew near, her excitement grew at the tidy condition of the protected yard.
"Is there anyone here?" Brittany called up the set of ancient stairs that lay beyond the door.
The lack of an answer didn't deter the blonde. The wind was howling behind her—perhaps her voice was simply lost on the wind. The steps had been swept recently. A large pile of gnarled driftwood was stacked neatly at the foot of the stairs. Brittany drew in a deep breath and started up the stairs. Reaching the upper floor, she saw the glowing embers in the hearth at the end of the room.
Someone had to be around, but the fact that they still weren't showing themselves didn't make her feel particularly comfortable.
"I intend no harm," she said loudly with every ounce of sincerity she had, eyeing the slabs of smoked fish and the long, looping strands of shells hanging from the low rafters. The blonde's gaze swept every dark corner and crevice. The dim light coming in through the narrow slits in the walls added to the faint light from the hearth, but did little to help brighten the room. "I was swept off my ship in the storm," she continued, as though the inhabitants merely needed more explanation before they came forward.
Brittany stepped cautiously into the room. A torn net—half-mended—lay by a small, carefully stacked pile of bleached whale bones. Something crunched beneath her boots and she looked down. All around the room, seashells of every size and description could be seen, and a small hill of them sat on a sheepskin in the corner, beside a small loom.
The fire crackled and sparked in the hearth, drawing Brittany's attention again. She noticed the cauldron hanging over the fire. Someone's dinner. "I think someone…perhaps 'twas you…pulled me out."
One thing that the blonde remembered hearing about the old couple who lived on the island was that they had never been particularly hospitable. But they had also not been afraid of the fishermen or sailors who ended up on their shores.
"My people will be back for me soon." She spoke louder this time, eyeing the ladder resting against a wall. Near it, a line of dark boards across the beams created a loft area above. "I need to borrow a blanket…maybe some food…and I'll repay you for it."
She climbed the ladder and peered into the darkness of the large open space above. The room appeared to be used for storage.
"Hello," she called out once more. There was no one up there.
Brittany climbed back down the ladder and looked out the narrow slit of a window at the sea. The storm was still blowing hard, and she could barely see past the shoreline. She could only imagine how upset Quinn would be right now. But there was no coming after Brittany this night or in this weather.
Unwilling to put the missing and quite possibly frightened inhabitants out of their home, Brittany resigned herself to spending the night outside. She reached for a thick woolen blanket that sat on a shelf beside the hearth. As she picked it up, something that had been folded within the blanket fell onto the floor. She crouched down and stared at a small bundle of mending at her feet. The intricate lace edging on a child's white cap caught her attention first. Brittany touched the soft wool cloth of a dress. Perplexed, she frowned at a child's linen apron and again at the cap she had seen first. Brittany picked up the items one by one and looked at them intently, wondering why two elderly people would keep such things.
The blonde looked about the room again. There was one wooden bowl near the hearth—one spoon. On the floor in one corner, there was a small bed of straw and blankets suitable for one person. She touched the dress again. The dark, mesmerizing eyes of a woman looking down at her flashed though her mind again. Brittany carefully wrapped the bundle of child's clothing in the blanket and put it back where she had found it.
Rising to her feet, Brittany picked up a more worn woolen blanket that she saw folded by the bed and draped it over her shoulders. With one more glance around, she descended the stairs and pushed out into the storm.
Added to the shivering that had taken control of Santana's limbs, her teeth were now clattering and she could not stop it. Her clothes were soaked through from her efforts to get the blonde woman out of the tidal pool. Her olive skin was clammy, and she was feeling chilled to the bone. The leather cloak offered some protection against the bitter wind-driven rain, but her body seemed unable to produce any warmth as she lay flat out on her stomach on the rocks to the west of the prior.
Santana's eyes narrowed as the Highlander finally came out of her house.
She had hoped to go inside and get a blanket or two and some food before fleeing to the caves on the western side of the island. In fact, it was much more than a hope, she corrected. She had to get some supplies before retreating there. Who knew how long the storm surges would require her to stay hidden, or how many days it would be before the Highlander's people would return?
Night was quickly dropping its dark cloak over the island. The storm, though, seemed to have shaken off its leash. It was now hammering the island with ten times the fury it had before. A freezing rain had been falling in fits and spurts. It was not a night to be out.
The blonde was making a fire. Santana saw her walk back toward her house a couple of times. Each time the Highlander came back carrying armfuls of dry seaweed and driftwood that Santana had diligently gathered, she felt herself growing angrier. And if this wasn't enough, the blonde was building her fire within the area protected by the priory walls.
A standing stone wall served as a windbreak. The location kept away the rain. There she was, safe and warm. But there was also no chance of any passing ship seeing her fire.
And what was worse, she was building it where Santana could not possibly get inside her house without being seen by the tall blonde stranger.
Santana should have left her to swallow more seawater.
The sparking flames, hissing and crackling, climbed high into the night. Brittany's clothes were practically dry now. Her plaid, with the added layer from the blanket she had borrowed from the house, was keeping the worst of the rain off of her.
She was surprised to find that she was even growing hungry. Brittany considered for a moment the food she had seen in the prior building. On the one hand, she had already imposed upon the inhabitants of the building enough, but on the other, she didn't know when she would be able to get food again. Brittany stared at the flames wondering what she should do for a few minutes, until the growling of her stomach decided for her. Making one last trip, she entered the small building and approached the hearth, picking up the wooden spoon. She used the spoon to move the still-simmering cauldron off the fire and dipped it into the stew. One mouthful of the thick, bitter-tasting brew, though, and her stomach wrenched. Brittany ran outside, gulping down drafts of fresh salt air to keep her insides from spilling out.
Her appetite was gone now, most likely for good, and she returned to the fire. Even as she walked, Brittany could feel the eyes of someone watching her from the darkness. She settled by the wall for the night and thought about the old stories of seals who became women.
Santana started abruptly. She didn't know how long she had been lying on the cold rocks. It was still night, and the storm was continuing unabated. Her limbs were stiff and numb. The chattering of her teeth was like thunder rolling painfully through her head. At some point, she thought, she must have fallen asleep. But she wasn't sure when.
Lifting her head off the rock required and effort that surprised her. She pulled the hood of the leather cloak back so she could see. The sleety rain continued to pelt her, but the Highlander's fire was still burning below. In the circle of light around it, she could see the blonde's sleeping form tucked snugly against the wall. The Highlander must be quite comfortable with her blanket wrapped around her pale body.
Santana glanced at the door of her house and back again at the Highlander. The light from the fire didn't quite reach the entrance of the building. The blonde seemed to have gone to sleep with her back to it, anyway.
The brunette's first attempt at pushing herself to her feet was rejected by her stiff, half-frozen muscles, but her second effort was more successful. Carefully picking her way through the boulders, Santana descended, praying that her chattering teeth wouldn't alert the slumbering blonde woman.
There were other things that she had to be concerned with besides the storm. Santana recalled Auld Emma's warnings about sailors and fishermen…about all strangers. She said that with the exception of herself and Garth, there was not a single person who might come to the island that Santana could trust. The old woman had been blunt about it. And she had continued to preach the lesson even on her deathbed.
If the filthy dogs find a young and bonny thing like ye on this deserted island, they'll all be thinking the same thing, lassie. They'll knock each other down, racing to see which one of them can lay his hand on ye first. But do not let them touch ye, Santana. Ye fight them, child, ye hear? Better yet, go and hide and do not let any of them see ye in the first place.
Auld Emma had been talking particularly about the men that may come ashore the island, but Santana wasn't about to let her guard down just because this Highlander happened to be a woman. In fact, she was even more wary of the stranger because she was a woman. The blonde must be dangerous if she were accustomed to carrying a dirk and going about in men's clothing.
Santana circled around, staying in the shadows and crouching as she moved silently along the low stone wall that surrounded the ruins of the priory. All the while, she kept an eye on the blonde's sleeping form as she considered what she needed to take.
The door creaked a little as she pushed it open. Santana looked back toward the Highlander. She hadn't stirred.
As soon as she had closed the door behind her, Santana stood in the dark and took off the dripping cloak. Feeling for the familiar peg, she hung her cloak and turned toward the steps. After so many hours in the cold, her knees protested as she tried to climb the stairs, but she pressed herself on anyway.
Food. Dry clothes. Blankets. Flints. She wondered if the pile of seaweed and driftwood she had gathered and stored in one of the caves a year ago would still be there. When she reached the landing, Santana saw that there was some red glow left of the dying fire in the hearth. The cauldron was hanging where she had left it.
There was nothing that Santana wanted to do more than dry and warm herself first. In her rush to get to the fire, though, she slipped and nearly fell on some seashells that the Highlander must have moved. Quickly regaining her balance, Santana made her way more cautiously across the room.
The heat from the embers felt heavenly after her hours in the bitter wet and cold. She crouched on the hearth and added some dried seaweed and a couple of small pieces of driftwood that were nearby. While she waited for the fire to kindle and come to life, she pressed her hands to the sides of the cauldron and almost sighed aloud with pleasure from its warmth.
"I wouldn't eat any of that, if I were you."
A/N: So, there it is. I hope you guys liked it!
Oh! And in case there are any Scottish people reading this, please forgive some of the liberties I am taking with this story. I know that women did not wear kilts, but I figured, if Brittany's a sailor and everything, she would probably dress the part. Right? :) Also, I'm sorry if I get anything wrong. 16th century Scotland is not really my area of expertise, but I'm going to try to be as historically accurate as I can. Thanks! :)