“Stay here,” he commanded with a hush.
Derina nodded, holding the children to her.
Boyden doubled back and quickly donned his torn breeches and boots. Hefting the unconscious warrior temptress over his shoulder, he grabbed the short sword and hurried back to where they waited.
“Follow me,” he commanded.
He led them back into the cover of night, their welfare his responsibility. His second stealing of the night, besides a teasing enemy princess, would be among their warhorses. Even burdened with her light weight on his shoulder, the children and the druidess would be unable to keep up with him … at least for the time being. Soon, he would drop in fever and madness. He had little time left.
CHAPTER 5
SLOW, ACHING SENSATIONS RETURNED.
Thump, thump, thump … her stomach went.
Lush green woodlands came into hard focus, rising about her like an army.
Her mind registered the feel and sound of hooves encountering moist soil. She lay across a black horse’s powerful shoulders. The confounded warrior had bound her wrists together with thick rope. Soreness spread through her stomach from the rocky movement of a horse’s gallop, now slowing to a jostling trot. She gritted her teeth, about to complain, when the animal slowed to a walk.
She stared at a brown-booted foot—a large one. She wondered what he would do if she leaned over and took a bite out of his shin. Probably toss her on her head, she mused, trying to shift into a more comfortable position, a hopeless proposition when lying across a horse.
Below her, light and shadow spilled over a rock-strewn ground with clumpy green-gray moss. She looked at his shin again. How dare he kidnap her! The steaming scent of horse sweat assailed her senses. Painfully, she lifted her head higher as the horse came to a stop. The warrior put a hand on her lower back and slid off the horse, narrowly avoiding her head. Clumsy goat. She looked over her shoulder, wrinkling her nose at a foul smell. The horse’s long black tail lifted high, fragrancing the air as the animal …
Beside her cheek, a large hand stroked the animal’s neck. “Good boy, Shade.”
She turned.
Her captor said not a word to her. Long, blunt fingers slid through the hairs of the animal’s night-black coat with calming. In the back of her mind, she thought he cleaned up well enough. Beneath the strands of blond hair, the wound arrowed from his temple to his brow, congealing in a red line. It only added to the dangerous quality of his rugged features.
He leaned into her unexpectedly and inhaled, as if taking the scent of her deep in his lungs for memory and recall.
Scota pulled back as far as she could, given her position on a horse’s shoulders. “What are you doing?” she said with outrage. As far as she was concerned, between the horse’s sweat and dumping, the air reeked.
He said not a word, but continued his sniffing perusal without regard for her comfiture. Nostrils flaring, he then shifted back having found whatever scent he wanted.
She glared at him. The whispers among the whores in the camp said the men of the Tuatha Dé Danann tribe scented their women. If true, his actions made little sense to her. She smelled of sweaty horse, not the water of lavender she put on her skin to repel insects, nor the aromatic wildflowers she sometimes crushed on her wrists and behind her knees. The whores’ eager commentary also included something about a mating bite ritual where the Tuatha male bit a large chunk out of the female’s jaw before mating her. The whores found it thrilling, fanning themselves with their hands. She thought it would be extremely painful. No one was going to take a bite out of her jaw. Intolerable! The women of the Tuatha tribe probably all had scarred faces. Stupid whores.
“Are you going to get me off this horse?” she demanded.
He continued his leisurely petting of the animal, his eyes unreadable.
“Take her down, Boyden,” the crone said from somewhere nearby.
He seized her arm and pulled forward.
“Stop!” Scota protested, imagining her face hitting the ground before her feet. “Let me slide off the other way.”
He ignored her.
A hand snagged her hip, flipping her into his arms.
Scota instinctively kicked out, grabbing for a hold to stay her fall, hands bunching in soft blond hair.
With a muttered oath, he set her firmly on her feet, but did not step back.
Scota stared into amethyst fire, her will and rebellion melting with each jagged breath.
He waited, silent and predatory, as the shadows in this place closed around them.
A brown brow slowly arched in question.
She released his hair and stepped back, taking a few strands of dark gold with her.
His eyes narrowed.
“Methinks she be awake, Boyden,” the crone cackled to her right.
“Aye,” he muttered and rubbed his scalp.
“Bring her here and let me have a closer look at her.”
“Nay, Derina. She is too rebellious for the moment.”
Rebellious? More like enraged! Scota thought and looked fiercely at him. He stood like one of the ancient gods, feet planted wide. Torn brown breeches clung to long muscular legs, offering glimpses of blond, dusted skin. Scuffed boots protected his feet. At the waistband of his low riding pants, the hilt of a silver dagger glittered menacingly.
Two leather straps crossed a muscular chest anchoring a stolen scabbard at his back. It was there that her short sword resided, the hilt peeking over the slope of a shoulder.
Scota’s gaze lifted to his, her body responding to the dark magical calling of him. It was inescapable, this confounded awareness, and she took off at a run.
He must have expected her to bolt for he had her in three steps. Fingers wrapping in her own dark tresses, he yanked with just enough force to pull her up short.
Her scalp smarting, Scota pivoted and kicked out, trying to unman him.
He caught her ankle with one hand and flipped her onto her back in the dirt. She landed with a loud “ooomph.”
Breathing raggedly, she stared defiantly at him.
“Are we done?” he asked sharply.
In the empty silence that followed, she swallowed audibly.
“Doona hurt her,” a girl child’s voice pleaded from the other side of the black horse.
“I willna hurt her, Nora. She needs a wee bit of discipline to understand her place.”
He stepped forward, reaching for her, and she kicked at him again.
Easily swatting her foot aside, he grabbed her bound wrists and yanked her to her feet.
Hands grasping her upper arms, he turned her so fast she did not know what happened until a hard chest pressed into her back.
Scota squirmed in rebellion, trying to stomp on his foot.
Muscular arms locked around her with a sweeping possession. Teeth clamped down on her ear.
She froze at the unexpected action, breathing rapidly.
Warm breath pummeled her cheek and temple, adding to the heat and frustration within her. His body threatened.
A low growl vibrated in his throat, a warning she should heed.
They were deep in the woodlands. The air was thick with dawn, and a gloomy white mist swirled at their ankles like a living thing. She felt caught in another realm, an outsider who must learn patience in order to escape. She nodded.
He released her ear, pushing her around the front of the big black horse who stood obediently still during their scuffle.
Under low-hanging branches, the two children sat astride a lathered chestnut mare with a white fetlock. The crone stood nearby, watchful and alert, a bent hand slowly caressing the arching neck of her sun-red roan. She nodded once in greeting, and Scota glowered at her too, thinking it peculiar for a blind woman to be permitted to ride a horse alone. And how did she know to nod at her? She rubbed her tingling ear.
The black horse stomped his hoof several times with impatience.
“Easy, Shade,” her warrior captor soothed, petting the
animal’s shoulder while his other hand held her in front of him.
“His name is Blacksword,” she muttered under her breath.
The animal blew air out of its nostrils, its sides expanding in and out from a long run, no doubt carrying both her and the warrior. Blacksword was one of the captain’s prized warhorses, standing at least eighteen hands, with great power and stamina. All of these horses were prime bred, of good temperament and fast speed. What amazed her was that they were unbridled, yet were easily controlled by their riders.
“You steal well,” she observed.
“I did what was needed.” Soft lips grazed the tingling spot where he had held her with his teeth. Scota swatted at her ear as if he were an annoying insect and vowed to ignore the fluttering in her stomach.
A male’s chuckle infuriated her before he propelled her forward. “Free the horses, boy. They can take us no farther.”
“His name is Cavan,” she corrected with sweetly contained antagonism, “and his name is Blacksword.” She pointed to the black warhorse with a sweep of her bound wrists.
“I know the boy’s name, Scota, and Blacksword prefers to be called Shade.”
“Prefers?” she choked.
“Do you not listen to your animals?” he asked with all seriousness. “They have preferences, as we do.”
“Listen? What, you can speak to animals?”
“Nay, only listen when they wish it,” he answered simply. His belief unnerved her.
“Cavan, the mare caught a rock in her hoof. Remove it.”
The boy helped his sister off the horse.
“Right front,” the warrior directed.
With firm gentle hands, the boy lifted the mare’s hoof and expertly removed the small rock.
“Is he your son?” Scota heard herself ask.
“Nay, he is one of the children from the village you burned.”
Her insides turned. Though she greatly disagreed with Amergin’s command to burn the villages, there was nothing she could do to prevent the needless waste.
“Done, Wind Herald,” Cavan said, straightening. “Her hoof is not injured.”
Scota agreed with the boy’s observation. The chestnut mare shifted her full weight back onto the leg.
“Good, release them,” her golden captor commanded.
Taking his sister’s hand, Cavan tapped the chestnut on the rump. The crone did the same to her roan and Shade trotted after them with a soft whinny. The horses disappeared into the dark woodlands for well-deserved rest and freedom.
“You are freeing the horses?” she remarked with astonishment.
“Aye, they have traveled far and fast this night and canna go where we are going. They earned their freedom.”
“Where are we going that they can not go, and why do you need me?”
He gave her a sardonic look edged with anger.
“ ‘Twas a Darkscape dagger the pig-nosed man cut you with, Boyden?” the crone interrupted, coming up to them as if she could see. It unsettled Scota, this seeing without eyes.
“Aye, ‘twas Darkshade, Derina.”
“Did the blade carry the runic marks?”
“Aye, from what I can remember. He came at me from the side, and I only caught a glimpse of it.”
The crone turned to her for confirmation, and Scota looked into those pink, empty eye sockets.
“Did it?” the old woman asked.
She gave a curt nod, not understanding why symbols on a dagger were of any importance.
The crone scratched her head. “Methinks it be one of the older blades of the long-ago times, Boyden, verra bad, for a guardian born.”
“I am not guardian born.”
“The wound willna heal,” she argued against him, her tone laced with irritation.
The girl child started weeping and buried her face in her brother’s side.
Her tears unnerved Scota, and she sought to ease the child’s worries. “It is a minor wound, nothing to worry about.”
“It be more than a flesh wound,” the crone explained, “much more than you be ever imagining.”
Scota studied the old woman. Beside her, the tension of the warrior was undeniable, thickening the air she breathed.
“Derina, she of all people has no need to know this,” he said coldly.
“Nay, she needs to know. Needs to know for what comes after.”
“Nothing comes after.”
There was a short silence before the crone retorted, “You need her, Boyden.”
“You speak stupidity,” he said with annoyance.
Scota stood in silence, watching the white-haired crone argue forcefully with the tall, powerful warrior. She almost pitied him, but it was a breach she intended to widen in order to hasten her escape.
“Tell me, crone,” she interrupted them, wanting to know, needing to know all weaknesses pertaining to the enemy. And, she reminded herself, this tawny-maned warrior is the enemy.
“There be nothing to tell.” His fingers tightened on her upper arm with threat.
Ignoring him, she focused fully on the druidess. “Tell me.”
The ancient woman looked up at the warrior with her empty eye sockets, a faint curl of satisfaction to her lips. “He be born with the blood threads of the wind guardians and an ancient king.”
“Derina,” came the warning, and Scota missed the mention of the word king. “Blood threads?” she prompted, hoping to get as much information as she could before another argument ensued. She pushed hair out of her eyes. “I do not understand your words.”
“The blood threads in his veins be belonging to the long-ago times. He be one born of the air.”
“Derina, she has no need to know this.”
The crone waved away his protest. “She needs to know, Boyden.”
“She is the enemy,” he said impatiently.
“Is she?”
Scota looked up at him and had the most curious impression of a godlike being about to crush an annoying insect—her.
She focused back on the crone. “What are wind guardians?”
“They steal your breath,” Boyden said edgily with a firm shake.
Scota felt her shoulder wrench and turned to him. Amethyst eyes burned with golden shards of dark light. “Would you care for me to steal your breath?” he asked barely above a whisper, a sensual threat for her ears alone.
All around them the branches of trees started swaying in response to the rising of a suddenly cold wind. They stood at the edge of a steep slope, a small dell of trees and rocks ahead. Out of the corner of her eye and behind him, she thought she saw a reflection of herself standing beside a gray boulder spotted with green moss.
The girl child’s weeping grew louder, more frightened …
“Hush, Nora,” the crone said with soft reprimand, not turning to look at the child. “The Wind Herald willna harm us.”
Gold light flashed in the warrior’s eyes with a terrible realization, and he looked away, nostrils flaring, his hand slipping away from her arm.
Scota took an unsteady breath herself as the eerie winds dwindled, the trees quiet once again … and the strange reflection of herself gone.
The old woman pushed a tumbled mass of white hair off her forehead, and the child gave a small pitiful gulp, thawing some of the ice locked around Scota’s heart. She did not want to feel compassion for a child.
“What was that strange wind?” She lifted her gaze to the warrior for an explanation.
Boyden had no intention of explaining anything to this princess. He went and knelt in front of Nora, seeking to calm the child’s fears. Never would he bring the deadly wind down upon them. “Nora, you are always safe around me.”
She sniffed, eyes glassy with tears and uncertainty.
“Do you believe me?” he asked.
She nodded with another loud sniff.
He touched her hand. “This be no time for tears and weakness, Nora. We must be strong and swift this day.”
“I am swift, Boyden,”
Nora swiped her nose with the back of her hand and smiled valiantly.
His heart went out to her. “I know you are, Nora. This day we must be extra swift and extra silent. Can you do this for me?”
The child nodded and stiffened her shoulders.
He smiled reassuringly. “Methinks I need a hug, Nora.”
A small body slammed into him, arms locking tightly around his neck. “I am not afraid.”
He held her close, for he was. “I know.”
“Will you be sick soon?” she whispered in a small voice and pulled back to look into his eyes.
“Aye, but not for a long while yet,” he lied, and she understood that he did.
He gave her a reassuring smile and looked up at the boy. “Cavan?”
“I do what we need to do, Wind Herald.”
Boyden nodded and climbed to his feet. He gripped the boy’s shoulder, one warrior to another. “Keep your sister close to you, Cavan. She is your responsibility.”
“Aye, Wind Herald.”
Boyden released him, admiring bravery in one so young. This day called for it, and all the children of his tribe answered to it. He scanned the tall trees, their would-be protectors. He had chosen this area of the woodlands specifically because there were no clear paths to follow. The enemy’s superior numbers had beaten the Tuatha Dé Danann. Those remaining of his tribe scattered to the hills, some retreating to the sanctuary of their fey brethren, others unable to. At least he had played a small part in saving these three.
He glanced over his shoulder at the pushy princess. She stood straight as a stick, confident and watchful of his every move, his every weakness. Taking her was a mistake, he realized, but the alternative did not suit him. The captain did not respect her. She was merely a prize to the pig-nosed man, to be done with as he pleased, whether she was willing or not.
A shiver of painful heat sliced through him, and he stumbled back, holding his head, teeth clenching.
“Boyden?” The crone touched his arm in concern.
He held up his hand to stay her. The power of the Darkshade flowed in his blood, attacking the magical within him. He clung to his humanness, hoping it would be enough to see his purpose done.
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