Highlander The Demon Lord

by Donna Fletcher

  “I will never let anything happen to you,” —his hand went to rest on her stomach— “or the bairn. You have my word on that.”

  Feeling safe at the moment, and for the first time in her life, she wanted to believe his pledge, but life had taught her differently. For now, she would allow herself a small reprieve and believe she was safe… until she was not.

  Night came much too soon and with it bedtime. She had gone to her room, thinking if she fell asleep there Warrick would leave her be. But what little of hers had been there had been removed and the bed stripped. Even the fire in the hearth had been doused. She had no choice but to go to the bedchamber that she would share with her husband.

  The room had belonged to her uncle and when she entered, sweet memories greeted her. She would spend early evening here with uncle Owen. They would sit in the two chairs he had arranged in front of the hearth, a fire always kept burning since the stone walls seemed to forever hold a chill as had his old bones, as he would say.

  A tear fell from the corner of her eye as she recalled their talks and she realized she missed her uncle more than she thought possible.

  “What is wrong? Is it the bairn?” Warrick asked, after stepping around her and seeing the tear slip down her cheek. He placed a gentle hand to her lower back while his other hand came to rest tenderly on her stomach.

  His concern poked at her heart, though she tried not to think too much on it, but instead reminded herself that hopes and wishes never came her way.

  “Good memories of my uncle,” she said. “This was his room. We would talk here in the evenings. He would tell me about my mum when she was a young, spirited lass.” She had been grateful for those talks, for she had come to know her mum that way.

  “You do not remember your mum?”

  “I remember nothing of her or my da.”

  “No siblings?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “What of your family?”

  Warrick patted her stomach. “You both are my family.”

  Having been thrown into the marriage, she had never considered that it just might give her what she had always wanted, a permanent home, a family… love. Warrick might not love her but the bairn would. Hope sprang in her that it was possible and she held tight to it.

  She rested her hand over his and smiled up at him to let him know his words had pleased her.

  Her innocent touch struck him like a bolt of lightning, arousing him and bringing with it the memories of the one night they had shared. A night that had haunted him, playing in his mind over and over. He wanted a taste of it again. To see if the immense pleasure had been real or if he had made it more than it had been.

  He had thought often of her lips and the kisses they had shared. Light, faint kisses at first, letting her grow accustom to his lips, to his desire, and her own. He had teased hers, brushing them gently until she began to respond, with caution at first. Her timid attempts had flared his desire like a spark to kindling. That moment was branded in his memory and every time he recalled it, which was far too often, he grew aroused just as he did now. There had been no recourse for him, not until now.

  He lowered his head slowly to see if she would pull away, deny him, but she did not move, though her eyes, the darkest blue he had ever seen, turned wide. He brushed his lips over hers and he felt her gasp and knew he had struck a spark in her. His lips stroked hers faintly, though unlike before she responded more quickly, her lips showing their eagerness for more.

  His hand went to the back of her head, cupping it, holding it firm as his lips took possession of hers, teasing, coaxing, demanding and his loins tightened when she eagerly returned his kiss.

  It was not as he remembered it. It was more, so much more.

  Their tongues dueled in passionate play and as his arm closed around her, she stepped closer to him, pressed her body to his so hard that it felt like she could not get close enough, like she had missed him, had finally come home to him. Or was it he who felt that way?

  He had missed her and she had welcomed him home.

  The thought shocked him so badly that it had him stepping away from her abruptly. He scowled at her, a low snarl rumbling in his chest as his hands fisted at his sides, and she took a step back away from him.

  He stormed past her, out the door, slamming it closed behind him.

  Adara hurried to sit in the chair by the hearth, fearful her trembling legs would not support her much longer. She had no idea what happened. Had she done something wrong? She had kissed him no differently then she had on their wedding night. At least, she did not believe so.

  When she realized he intended to kiss her, she felt anxious, unsure, and yet something inside her was eager for his kiss, eager to taste the pleasure his lips would bring her. But it had brought her even more than she had expected. Her heart had soared when his lips touched hers and she felt…

  Tears tickled her eyes. She could not believe what she had felt and was still feeling. It could not be.

  She felt as if he had welcomed her home.

  Warrick stepped out into the cold night air and took several deep breaths to stop himself from roaring into the darkness and waking the entire village. He had rid himself of any feelings, that would get in his way, anything that would prevent him from succeeding. A trait owed to his father’s tutelage.

  He had to keep his mind clear, his insights sharp, to keep all his missions victorious. He could not let a wisp of a woman distract him. He needed his thoughts focused.

  He turned his face into the wind that whipped behind him, the cold that came with it hitting him like a slap in the face. He needed it, needed reminding of what was important.

  He could easily lose himself in Adara. When he was with her, kissed her, touched her, was inside her, he had felt free. Free of the horrors of battle, the pain and suffering, the stench of death. That night, it had been as if her innocence had washed away his sins and he was at peace. He could not remember the last time he had felt such contentment. He had tried to deny the impact she had had on him, but kissing her again had brought it all back and now it was not only peace she brought him, but the feeling of returning home. A place he longed for, a place he had never known.

  He turned an eye on the keep. He had paid the price demanded of him, though he had done so under his terms. He had wed a woman of his choice, not a woman known to him, and not a titled one. One who was accustomed to obedience. One who would live by his rules. One he would treat well and keep safe. One that would expect nothing from him.

  Why now did he want something else from the woman he had chosen?

  “Something amiss, Roark?” Warrick asked, turning to see his warrior and friend step out of the night shadows. He believed his keen senses had been born of experience through the years, but he was reminded they had been born more out of necessity.

  “No, all is well. I could not sleep. I miss my wife.”

  “I am surprised she has not taken it upon herself to venture here,” Warrick said.

  Roark smiled. “Callie does have a strong nature.”

  “More than a strong nature. I do not know how you deal with her.”

  Roark laughed. “Love is blind.”

  “The very reason I avoid it.”

  “It strikes you whether you want it to or not.”

  “I keep an impenetrable shield.”

  Roark shrugged. “Is the shield any longer necessary? You have a wife, chosen for her obedience. A servant who for years obeyed without thought or question. You need not worry about love. You have what you want.”

  “I do have what I want. Adara knows her place and will obey me without question.”

  “And she is fertile, already carrying your bairn.”

  “You doubt the bairn is mine, Roark,” Warrick challenged.

  “What matters is what you believe.”

  “Trust and truth are difficult for me, as you know.”

  “Those who betrayed your trust and lied to you were known to you. You do not know Adara

well enough to judge if she can be trusted or if she speaks the truth,” Roark said.

  “It matters not. I will not speak of important matters with her.”

  “If that is what you wish,” Roark said.

  “What I wish?” Warrick snapped. “What I wish is for what happened never to have happened. But that is not possible and now I must find the truth.”

  “Would it not be wiser to tell Adara before she discovers for herself?”

  “Do you plan on telling her?” Warrick snapped again.

  “You know I would never do such a thing,” Roark assured him.

  “Then who would tell her?”

  Roark shook his head. “You know well enough there are those who take pleasure in other peoples’ pain and would only be too glad to see the shock on Adara’s face at the news. They would get even more pleasure to see her recoil from you after learning about it. Tell her before someone else does.”

  “Not yet,” Warrick argued.

  “I was there when you told her you would keep her safe, let no harm come to her. She will be harmed if she learns of this from someone else.”

  Warrick took a step away from Roark, angry that he had brought up the matter and angrier that he was right. “She will be harmed either way.”

  “It will make a difference coming from you.”

  Warrick laughed, not a humorous one. One more tinged with evil. “A difference? I doubt that, my friend. Though, I do not doubt that she will run from the room screaming when I tell her I killed my first wife.”

  Chapter 10

  Two days and Adara had barely seen her husband, not that she minded that he left her alone, especially in their bedchamber. He had not shared their bed since their arrival and it left her wondering since he had informed her that he would. It also kept her on edge at night, lying there waiting to see if he would enter the room and join her in bed. Sometimes when she woke in the middle of the night she would carefully turn to see if he was there, but she continued to find an empty spot beside her.

  Had she done something wrong? Was that why he seemed to avoid her?

  She shook the nagging thoughts away. What difference did it make? Warrick did as he pleased. He answered to no one. The problem was that she had had a taste of the same and she favored it. Hers days had been her own since discovering she was Owen MacVarish’s niece and after having tended to others from before sunrise to after sunset since she had been young, she had cherished every one of them.

  Her uncle Owen had, however, insisted she learn about the running of the clan and the keep. He told her that she knew all too well from experience that life was unpredictable, ever changing, and that some people we think we can count on to help may not always be able to.

  He had been right about that. She had learned to adapt more often than she had cared to, having been sent from one family to another. She did here what she had done countless times before… adapted. She got to know the clan’s people and had slowly grown comfortable around them, though conversation with them had remained limited. Many faces had become familiar to her while others she knew by name, and all would bob their head, smile, or call out a greeting to her. In the last two days, however, they seemed to avoid her. She understood why, she had brought the Demon Lord down upon them and they were fearful of the future.

  It was near to mid-day and she had not seen her husband since early morning when she had caught a glance of him leaving the Great Hall. She had enjoyed a quiet meal and had retired to a small room on the first floor that had fallen to neglect after Uncle Owen’s wife, Corliss, had died. He had encouraged her to use it, having had it cleaned and prepared for her, insisting his wife would be happy to know another woman got as much pleasure from it as she had.

  There was where she spent many enjoyable hours stitching. Stitching had been one chore that she had enjoyed and had become proficient at. It also was the one thing that had helped her accept that she was with child.

  Fear had been her first thought when she had realized, shortly after settling into MacVarish keep, that she carried the Demon Lord’s bairn. She had no idea at the time what she would do. There had been no thought to return to Warrick, the idea, itself, prickling her skin with fear. She never wanted to be anywhere near that horrid dungeon again.

  It was when she had sat down one day in this room with some scraps of cloth the weavers had given her and began to stitch a garment for the child that a smile had surfaced on her face. The tiny, innocent bairn growing inside was not to blame for anything, and she would protect him, care for him, love him like she had never been loved.

  She felt a strong flutter, then another, and she laughed softly as she patted her stomach. “You have had enough sitting. I will work on your garment later, though I believe you will like it. It is the softest of wool, but for now we walk.”

  Adara stepped out of the keep to find the day overcast. It did not look nor feel like rain, but one could never tell. The air held a chill and she was glad for her wool cloak. It would keep her and the bairn warm.

  She rarely left the keep through the front doors. She preferred taking the narrow passage that led out to the kitchen. Not that she entered the kitchen. She took the door to the left, just before the entrance to the kitchen, that led outside, avoiding most everyone. She saw that Burchard was tending the kitchen garden, seeing to the last of the plants before harvest. They talked on occasion and she was pleased when he waved to her and walked toward her.

  He was a man of many years, his gait slow, his fingers gnarled from endless work, and a perpetual smile framed by an abundance of wrinkles.

  “All is well with you, my lady?” he asked as she approached.

  Adara felt uncomfortable with the title upon first hearing it. It did not seem right. It did not fit her, and yet it had become hers upon marriage.

  “I am well, Burchard and you? And where is Langdon, he does not help you today?” she asked a soft smile on her face and thinking he could use the help.

  “Langdon is busy elsewhere today and I am well. I only hope I do well, my lady,” he said, bobbing his head. “Many changes coming. Many.”

  While he continued to smile, Adara saw worry in his aged eyes and attempted to reassure him. “You have nothing to fear, Burchard.”

  “I hope, my lady, I do hope,” he said, his bobbing head suddenly going stiff and fear replaced worry in his eyes. He turned away from her without a word and hurried back to work.

  When Adara turned, she saw two of Warrick’s warriors, draped in their shrouds standing there watching Burchard.

  Adara did not know where the foolish courage came from, perhaps it was instinct to protect an old man, and without hesitation she approached the two warriors.

  “Go about your business and leave this man alone,” Adara snapped at them.

  They stood there, unmoving, the hoods of their shrouds covering down to the tips of their noses, making their near faceless heads even more intimidating.

  “Go away,” she ordered more sternly.

  “They take orders only from me.”

  Adara jolted as she turned at the sound of her husband’s deep, commanding voice. He did not wear a shroud, yet he was more intimidating than his warriors who did. His imposing presence, the defiant tilt of his chin, the way he commanded, demanded from all those around overpowered and made one back away from him… usually.

  This time Adara did not back away, she approached him, the overwhelming sense to protect the old man who brought harm to none too intense to ignore.

  “Then tell them to leave, there is nothing for them here.”

  Warrick brought his face down close to hers. “You do not dictate to me, wife.”

  Adara warned herself to hold her tongue, but it was too late, words were already rushing past her lips. “Why are they here?”

  “That does not concern you.”

  A voice inside cautioned her to stop, say no more. Be obedient as she had always been. She did not listen. “It most certainly does. This is my clan and I will see no one harmed.”

  “This clan belongs to me as do you.”

  Chattel. That was all she was to him. That was all she ever was to anyone.

  Changes. Many changes coming.

  Burchard was right. There were many changes coming and she could not stop them. She could, however, defend Burchard the best she could.

  “He is an old man. He can harm none. Why do they watch him?”

  “That is not your concern,” Warrick repeated, annoyed that she continued to defy him yet admired her courage as misplaced as it was.

  A sudden irritation pushed past all sound reason and had her saying, “You are insufferable.” Adara cringed as she saw his hand swing up and she braced herself for the blow.

  She was shocked when his whole body wrapped around her, cocooning her against him as he dropped to the ground, and turning her as they went down so he would take the brunt of the fall. Then he let out a roar that she could have sworn trembled the earth.

  Once they hit the ground, he rolled them to their sides, keeping her body encased in his arms and planted solidly against him.

  Shouts and pounding footfalls rushed past them while others came to a stop behind Warrick, forming a line, shielding them.

  From what? she wondered.

  “Are you harmed?” Warrick asked, keeping her tucked against him.

  “I do not believe so.” Before she could ask him what happened, shouts rang out. He suddenly lifted her to her feet, keeping one arm around her waist and holding her firm.

  Warrick placed his hand on her stomach, his body riddled with fury that his wife or child could have been harmed. “Are you sure? I feel no movement.”

  “He makes himself known only when he wants to,” she said and thought how much he was like his da.

  “I will send for Espy.”

  Adara shook her head. “It is not necessary. You shielded me well. The bairn and I are unharmed.” She hoped to reassure him, but the anger mixed with worry remained in his dark eyes.

  His warriors parted and Warrick turned, calling out to Roark as he approached. “Do not tell me that you failed to catch him.”

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