by Hazel Hunter
Pressing her palm to her forehead, Jenna could hardly believe how very warm she’d grown, as if she were running a low-grade fever. Her back felt uncomfortably hot, too. If she kept using this bizarre power of hers, she suspected she’d keep heating up. Pushing herself through the wood created some kind of friction.
I’ll only do it one more time.
Instead of trying to walk through the door again Jenna retreated to the back of the structure, where she waited for a few minutes. As she suspected her body began to cool down. When the feverish heat faded away, she took a deep breath and pressed her hands against the wall.
Before she could blink, she stood outside again, Domnall’s cloak swirling around her in the wind. She leaned back against the wall, shaken. This ability definitely felt new.
All around her the forest stretched out in every direction. The sunlight streamed down from a now cloudless sky.
Where do I start? Who do I trust?
Domnall’s handsome face flashed in front of her, but he couldn’t help her, not when his headman wanted her kept locked up, or worse. If the tribe found her wandering around they’d probably turn her over to Galan. She couldn’t rely on anyone but herself, and somehow that was a very familiar situation. Going back to where this had all started seemed the most sensible choice. Something in the ash grove might give her an idea of why this had happened to her. Gathering the cloak around her, Jenna broke her promise to the big man and headed into the woods.
In the forest Mael slipped through the trees, stepping on roots and grass where his passage would make no sound and leave little trace. From long habit he kept to the shadows as cover, concealing himself wherever he could. He moved with such skill and care that he passed within a hand span of a pair of grouse intent on mating without disturbing their courtship.
“Hide your nest well, little máthair,” he murmured once far past them. “Our doltish headman may decide you’re hatching wee spies.”
Mael had learned to walk a silent path long before he’d gone on his first hunt. As a small lad he’d learned that eluding Fargus mag Raith, the brute defender who had sired him, had been the only way to escape undeserved beatings. Fond of belligerence, bellowing, and bloody brawls, Fargus worked off much of his endless wrath by beating his mate and their children. The larger Mael had grown, the less he’d had to endure his sire’s fists. Like any burraidh, Fargus had been a coward who preyed only on those who could not possibly hurt him.
Quiet and thoughtful by nature, Mael had been sickened when he grew to be the image of his sire. Most of the tribe assumed he’d inherited the man’s hateful temper as well. Once he’d reached manhood, he stood even taller and broader than Fargus, and others had begun moving out of his path when he approached. Then his sire had injured his shoulder and could not serve as a defender, which combined with too much drink at the evening gatherings stoked his temper even higher. Not a night went by that Fargus did not beat his mate and daughters.
The looks of pity from those who knew how his sire behaved in private infuriated Mael. Nothing could be done about it. Among their tribe a man’s family was his to do with as he pleased. Mael had no right to challenge his sire, and would be punished harshly if he ever tried.
With his injury Fargus could no longer hunt, and so it fell to Mael to provide for his family. He never took pleasure in the kill, but being able to escape the settlement allowed him a few hours of peace. He and Domnall rode out so frequently they often encountered each other in the hills, and in time began hunting together. Mael’s natural gift for tracking paired well with Domnall’s lethal speed with spears. Three others joined them, and with their skills the five Mag Raith were soon able to provide for the entire tribe.
Things did not improve, however, when one night Fargus broke his youngest daughter’s jaw, and his mate’s arm.
In the weeks that followed Mael became adept at taking down the vicious tusked grice, a huge wild swine known to attack rather than run from hunters. Every pig he ended provided preparation for what he knew he had to do. Fargus would never hurt anyone again. All Mael allowed himself was to go on one last hunt with the others before he brought down condemnation on his head.
Instead he’d brought down the very wrath of the Gods on him and his four friends.
Since that day Mael had accepted that the fault for what had happened to them lay on his shoulders. That he’d been obliged to become a defender himself seemed an especially cruel punishment from the Gods for his wicked intentions. Yet he served, grimly determined to redeem himself however he could.
Yet I’m to do naught while that facking dru-wid names this poor lass an evil-doer, and locks her away. Mael ducked under an oak bough to get a view of the cider house. I should release her. I could fetch a horse from the stables, and guide her through the falls.
He wouldn’t, of course. Even if Galan burst into flames Mael wouldn’t waste a piss on him, but his loyalty to Domnall remained as steadfast as the highlands. The overseer had done more than keep the Mag Raith sane through what had been utter madness. He’d made them brothers. Mael also knew that sending the lass off on her own without provisions or protection to be virtually the same as breaking her neck.
Too lovely.
Jenna Cameron didn’t stir his passions—he ever feared hurting females as small as she—but her rare beauty troubled him. The first man to see her beyond the enchanted forest would claim her at once, whether she wished it or not. Then her life would become as his mother’s had been, nightly servicing her mate’s uncaring lust and bearing a new bairn each passing year. Mael would rather end the lass himself than know she suffered the same.
A sharp whistle came from the route they patrolled, reminding Mael of his other task.
Edane’s waiting. Get on with it.
Two large villages might have occupied the space between him and the cider house, but still Mael could count the knot holes on its logs. He also spotted a shimmer in the air just behind the back wall. Such spelltrace could not be seen by any hunter but him or Edane, and he tensed, assuming the headman to be the source. Yet a moment later he saw Jenna step out of the shimmer and gather Domnall’s cloak around her.
“Oh, lass,” he murmured, fascinated and appalled. “What do you now?”
Her expression grew stubborn, and she squared her shoulders before she walked into the trees.
Mael watched her long enough to judge her intent, and then altered his own path to track down the overseer. That he would say naught to Galan was already decided. The daft druid would only twist it to his own end. But did the overseer need to know? The wee lass had a rare courage, but bravery alone was not the same as protection. Mael nodded to himself. He would simply report what had happened: she had escaped.
Chapter Five
Once she’d gotten out of the cider house Jenna knew better than to go ambling blindly through the forest. She didn’t know how large it was, or if she could find an alternate route to the grove where she’d awoken. Instead she circled around the settlement, always keeping sight of it on her left, until she found the trail Domnall had used. She followed it directly back to the cluster of ash trees around the leaf-carpeted clearing.
Here we go.
For a few minutes she stood at the fringes and studied the site. No tracks other than Domnall’s showed on the patches of ground between the trail and where she’d fallen. The glyphs on the tree trunk appeared black, as if burned into the bark, but the woodsmoke she smelled came from the direction of the settlement. The trees stood too close together for even a small horse to squeeze through them. She didn’t see any drag marks her body might have left on the ground, or tracks her assailant might have left.
How had she gotten here?
Tilting her head back, she noticed some small branches on the marked tree. They hung from jagged breaks. On the ground below them more newly-broken bits were scattered among the tree’s roots. The damage extended up as far as she could see, some sixty feet above the ground, but all in the same
general area, as if something had fallen onto the branches and snapped them.
Me. I must have done it.
She reached into the cloak and touched her ribs and belly. There was no tenderness or swelling anywhere. No, she couldn’t have fallen into the grove. From that height the impact would have shattered bones. Nor could she have walked in and collapsed. Her feet and shins would have been covered in mud and leaves. That left Domnall, who hadn’t behaved at all like an abductor.
Or magic.
She might have laughed over that thought, but she’d just walked through a door and a wall. Yet even her new ability couldn’t solve this puzzle. If she’d fallen into the grove in her ghost-form, she wouldn’t have snapped all the branches.
Watching the ground closely, Jenna went to the marked tree. She saw the faint indentations and disturbances in the leaves that showed where her body had been. Closer inspection of the tree trunk revealed that the glyphs had not been burned into the wood, but carved and painted or inked with an indelible black substance. Once more looking at the esoteric marks made her body stiffen. She glanced down to see that even her hands had bunched into fists.
Whatever the marks meant, they weren’t good. They made her head hurt. They made her want to hit the tree until her knuckles bled.
“’Tis the work of the Gods,” a deep voice said from behind her.
Jenna closed her eyes for a moment. Though she hadn’t heard Domnall approach, it somehow didn’t surprise her that he had found her here. Slowly she turned to face him. Patches of sunlight shifted over him, threading bright amber through his thick brown hair and turning his green eyes to peridots. The shadows bold-lined his features as if to emphasize his masculine perfection, as if she needed reminding what a striking man he was. Everything about him pulled at her as if he’d cast an invisible lasso around her, and was slowly reeling her in. She had no reason to feel that way, but she didn’t want to fight it. She needed to give in to it, to tell him, to put her hands on him.
Go to him. Show him what you want. He’s waiting for you.
The crazy things bouncing through her thoughts made her think of Galan’s accusations, and abruptly cooled all the desire looking at him had generated.
“I can’t say,” Jenna finally said, annoyed by how husky her voice sounded. She cleared her throat. “But I do know that I’m not working for evil, scheming masters. Are you?”
His gaze shifted back to the tree before he met her gaze again. “I serve Galan, and he’s a man you shouldnae cross or defy.”
He sounded worried. No matter what hold the headman had on him, she suspected that Domnall was at least sympathetic to her situation. “Your way of telling me that I should have stayed locked up in the cider house until you came for me.”
“Aye, and ’tis still locked.” He held out a bundle of folded clothing on which rested a pair of leather slippers. “For you. I’ll want my cloak back.”
Jenna crossed the clearing and accepted the pile, which turned out to contain a pair of lace-up trousers and a long-sleeved tunic, both definitely male in design.
“I was expecting one of those robes the ladies in the settlement wear.”
He moved his broad shoulders. “’Twill no’ please Galan to see you garbed as a dru-widess.”
Jenna made a circling gesture and waited, but he didn’t move. “Would you turn your back, please?”
“When last I did, you escaped,” he said blandly.
“Suit yourself,” she said, matching his tone.
Since he’d already seen her naked it seemed silly to object to dressing in front of him. Removing his cloak and tossing it over his shoulder, she stepped out of the clogs and tugged on the trousers. They proved to be too big, but she tied the laces tight enough to keep them from slipping down over her narrow hips. The tunic also seemed huge as she shrugged into it, but all she could do with that was roll up the sleeves.
When Jenna glanced up, she saw that rather than enjoying the show Domnall had his eyes on the marked tree. The proof that he was a gentleman at heart made her wish they’d met under far different circumstances.
“Do you know anything more about those glyphs?” she asked.
“As much as I ken of how you freed yourself.” He met her gaze. “’Twas a canny trick.”
One she was going to keep to herself for the time being, Jenna decided. He probably wouldn’t believe that she could walk through walls anyway.
“What happens to me now? Back to the cider house?”
He shook his head. “You’ll want a meal. Follow me.”
Because the apple had barely dented her hunger, and she doubted she could outrun Domnall, Jenna walked out of the grove with him. This time he took her down a different trail that led deeper into the woods. He didn’t try to chat her up, which she appreciated. It gave her a chance to memorize landmarks.
The tribe’s forest looked incredibly old and yet seemed bursting with life. Most of the trees soared high above her head, with trunks so wide she suspected they were hundreds of years old. Their leaves festooned every branch in heavy swaths of dense green. Birds sang and then chattered and squawked as she and Domnall disturbed them, some swooping low enough for her to see their feather colors and patterns. She didn’t recognize any of them. For a second, she saw a pair of shaggy, red-colored deer grazing in the brush. A moment later they arched their heads, showing broad racks of velvety-looking antlers. Dark eyes glittering in their gray faces, they bounded away.
The trail ended at a small but thriving garden that had been fenced off, likely to discourage the deer from raiding it. She touched the braided vines knotted around the fence posts before she peered over to inspect the crops. She saw herbs and cabbage, and several types of squash and beans. Too small to be for the tribe, the garden had to belong to the overseer.
The thought of a man as big as Domnall gardening should have seemed comical, but instead it charmed her. “You grow your own vegetables?”
“Aye.” He reached over and, with a dagger, cut a handful of herbs. “I’ve a fondness for them.”
Beyond the garden they walked through another grove of close-grown pines, and then Jenna saw what they protected. The cottage looked much bigger than those she’d seen in the settlement, with a high thatched roof and sturdy stone walls rounded at each corner. Big windows covered by wooden shutters flanked a heavy hide and wood door, which Domnall simply pushed open. The threshold had been made high enough for him to pass through without ducking his head.
Inside Jenna stopped and took in the overseer’s large front room. Handmade wood furnishings, carved with simple yet pleasing designs, occupied some of the space. Irregular-shaped gray stones had been flattened and fitted together for the flooring, their black and white streaks reminding her of old marble. One huge chair sat before a big stone hearth. On the speckled stone mantel stood carvings of animals. He’d left a bowl of fruit and half a loaf of dark, rustic-looking bread on his dining table, around which she counted five chairs.
Although Jenna saw no sign that anyone else occupied the cottage, he might not be unattached. There had been plenty of pretty women among the tribe, and he was an ungodly attractive man.
She tried to think of how to ask if he were involved, and finally came up with, “Do you have a family?”
“They’re gone.” He carried the herbs over to a primitive-looking kitchen area and added them to a lidded pot, releasing a delicious fragrance. “Come and sit.”
“Can I help you with this?” She walked over to join him at the stove.
“Aye.” He nodded toward a cabinet. “We’ll need bowls and cups. Spoons in the flat box beside the platters.”
Jenna retrieved the dishes and utensils, all of which had been made from carved wood and polished to a glassy smoothness. Setting the table felt as strange as watching the big man stir the pot on the stove. She must not be very domestic in her own life, or perhaps she lived with someone else who did such things.
What would it be like to live with a man
like Domnall?
His cottage felt quiet and cozy, and she had the sense that it provided a sort of haven for him from all the responsibilities he had. The tidiness of the place definitely resonated with her, so she probably lived the same way. An image of curling up with him in a big bed under a pile of blankets made her smile a little. With him she’d never shiver again on a cold night.
A sudden thought made her smile slip.
What if I’m already with someone?
She didn’t feel as if she were, and that had to mean something. If she’d been in love before she’d lost her memories, wouldn’t she now feel a sense of loss?
Jenna noticed he was watching her, and wondered if her presence made him feel uncomfortable. He seemed like a man who would prefer being alone, which prompted her to ask, “Why don’t you live in the settlement with the tribe?”
“I and the other Mag Raith arenae dru-wid kind,” Domnall said as he brought the pot over to the table. “We’re Pritani.”
That name didn’t ring a bell, but then, nothing did.
“Where are your people?” she asked as he ladled a thick stew from the pot into their bowls.
“Long dead,” he said, and then went to retrieve a tall pottery jug with a cork in it. From it he poured a cloudy amber liquid to fill their cups. “From the cider house.”
She took a small sip, and grimaced over the powerful sweetness of the fermented drink. “Whew.” Carefully she set aside the cup. “I think I’d better eat something before I have more of that.”
Domnall sat down beside her and sliced the bread, giving her a thick piece before he started eating. Jenna did the same. The herbed stew, made entirely from vegetables, tasted unfamiliar to her. She found it delectable, especially when she dipped her bread into it as Domnall did. They ate together in a comfortable silence, but she shook her head when he offered her another helping.