by Hazel Hunter
“That life doesnae matter to me. Nor any of the others.” He slipped his arm around her, tugging her against his wet body. “You’re mine, Rowan Thomas. No’ Rowena or Wren or Ruadhan. You.” He lowered his mouth to hers.
Their first kiss had been a wild, terrifying revelation. Now their second suffused her with such hunger and heat she thought they’d vaporize the spring. Taran’s mouth matched hers perfectly, like their bodies, like their desires. In her mind she felt wind and sunlight pouring into her, and felt herself return it with rain and moonlight.
The spring lit up, and bubbles began to churn as Taran shifted into his water-traveling form. He sank down, taking her with him, and breathed for her as they entwined.
Rowan wondered if she might drown, and discovered she didn’t care. All she wanted was this man, in any shape or form he came to her, for she was his. Utterly, completely his. She wrapped her legs around his transparent body, and felt the caress of his penis press between her thighs. It felt like water, and when Taran gripped her bottom and surged into her, his cock flooded her and locked their sexes together in a perfect fit.
Together as one, at last.
Rowan writhed, impaled and impatient, and felt them drifting back to the surface. Taran held her against him as the incredible kiss ended, and slid out of her, making her groan. As he swam back with her to the side of the pool, the rest of his body transformed back to human flesh. He knelt on the rock shelf and set her next to him.
“I’ve waited twenty-two years for this, and you,” she warned him. “Do not bail on me now.”
“You must first ken this.” Taran drew back and tilted her chin up. “You told Lily that no one loves you. ’Tis no’ true.”
She shook her head. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say that. We may be soul-mated, but we barely know each other.”
He touched his fingers to her lips. “Permit me say this. ’Twas the moment you opened your eyes here, that first day. I looked upon you and my heart knew. ’Twas yours.”
Rowan’s heart fluttered wildly. “Oh, Taran.”
He slid his hands down her arms. “Mayhap as other men I’ve loved Ruadhan, and Wren, and Rowena, and all the other incarnations you’ve lived. They matter naught to me. I’ve waited for you for twelve centuries and more.” He brought her hand to his heart. “I give this only to you, my lady. I love you.”
Heated mist rose around them, glowing amber and dark blue. Rowan watched Taran’s centaur ink light up, the legs of the half-man, half-horse pawing at his skin. The raw marks left by the shackles on her wrist throbbed as she touched his tattoo, and felt the power sifting into her fingertips.
“I think your other half wants in on this,” Rowan said as the light encircled her wrist, and healed the minor wound.
When it ebbed away it left a narrow band of two scars twined together all the way around like a bracelet. Although thanks to the soul-mating it wasn’t strictly necessary, she felt ridiculously pleased that his battle spirit had also decided she should be his mate.
Taran stroked the centaur’s mark. “You’ll have all of me, then? The druid and the Pritani?”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you are, or were, or will be. I love you.”
As she said that she felt a rush of sensation that poured through her, as thrilling as riding Ceann at full gallop, and gave herself over to it.
Taran came out of the spring, lifting and turning her as the dark light enveloped them. Rowan braced herself on her hands and knees, and shivered as he clamped an arm around her waist. He made a low, primitive sound in his chest as he nudged apart her thighs, and brought his swollen cockhead to her slick folds. This time when he pressed in he was all man, hard and thick, and plowed so deep Rowan felt it in her soul.
Through the haze of lust and longing Rowan felt what she had never before experienced: completeness. She’d dragged herself through twenty-two lonely years, giving up parts of her life along the way just to survive. Now Taran gave her back everything she’d lost.
He’d made her the woman she was meant to be.
For a long time neither of them moved, captivated by the ecstasy of joining. Then, so slowly that it made her gasp, Taran drew out of her and pumped back in. She gripped him as he did, caressing his shaft with her own softness. He groaned and stroked her again, igniting all the sensitive nerves inside her body. Sex had always bored her. She hadn’t exaggerated about that.
But sex with Taran was turning out to be the most enchanting, erotic thing she’d ever felt.
Rowan lifted her hips into his deep, hard thrusts, feeling her bottom jolt against his hard belly. His hands slipped around her, cradling her breasts as he fucked her, his long fingers strumming her nipples in time with each penetration. His breath whispered against her nape, and then her ear as he traced the outer curve with his tongue.
“You’ll come to me when you need me thus,” he said, his voice making her shake as much as his cock. “As I’ll come to you.”
“Yeah, definitely.” She closed her eyes as he squeezed her mounds. “That may be a lot.”
“I’ll see to your every pleasure,” he promised. “Anything you wish, I shall do. You’ve but to say to me.”
Rowan felt something tighten deep inside her, and knew she was about to come. “This. Just this is fine. For now.”
“I want your every joy,” Taran told her, his fingers slipping down to part the top of her folds and stroke her clit, “and you shall have mine, my lady.”
She couldn’t think, not with his cock so deep in her core, and the aching delight of his hand on her breast and his fingers caressing her nub. When he kissed her shoulder she stiffened, and then felt his teeth. The love bite he gave her made her pussy clench, and her mind explode with hot bliss.
The climax went on and on and on. His voice urged her through the waves of delight, hoarse and hot against her ear, and just as she reached the final peak he jerked against her. His cock did the same inside her pussy, pulsing thick jets of his seed into the center of her pleasure.
When it leveled out Rowan felt her arms and legs shake, and then sighed as Taran lifted her and stepped down into the spring. He held her pressed against him as the water massaged them both.
“We’re going to need to put a bed in the hayloft. A big, roomy bed. I’ll make that.” She lifted her cheek from his shoulder to see his expression. He looked almost smug now, and it made her laugh. “Not so tedious anymore, huh?”
“We shall need to brace the loft floor,” Taran told her. “’Tis no’ so sturdy.”
She’d have to give up celebrating her birthday, Rowan decided as she studied his face. She had all she’d ever wanted now. No gift would ever be as amazing or beautiful as Taran’s love, but the sex? Might be her second favorite present of all time.
“Why do you look at me thus?” he asked.
“Even with the bald head Tairne was sexy as hell,” she told him. “And I think Aran would have won every wet t-shirt contest ever held in the history of time. But I prefer this you.”
Taran smiled. “At least I’m no’ ancient in this incarnation.”
She thought of the old man and the young, pregnant druidess who had tried to run away together, and stroked Taran’s neck as other, distant memories came back to her.
“Wren kept her promise to Tarn, and named their daughter Rowan. She also told her about her dad, and how they’d found each other almost too late. She told her that death didn’t matter because they’d find each other again. I think Rowan told her kids, and they told theirs.” Dimly she recalled her own, dark-haired father telling her the story. “That’s why there’s always been a Rowan in every generation since Wren.”
“’Twas wise of Tarn,” he said, but his expression sobered. “’Twas your name that made me ken who you were, even when I remembered naught else.” He scooped her up out of the water and set her down on the stone. “But wherever you go, I shall find you. Here or in the afterlife, we shall ever be together.”
“Count on it,” she said as he lightly kissed her forehead.
In the easy silence that followed they dried off and dressed, but as they left the chamber Rowan took hold of his hand.
“I’d like to go measure the hayloft,” she told him. “Want to help me figure out how big a bed we’ll need?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
OCHD WAITED BY the cave for Rowan for hours, soaking up as much sunlight as he needed after burrowing back to the Great Wood. That she never came made him wonder if the Skaraven had imprisoned her after taking her from the settlement. She hated the highlander, of that he was convinced.
Hendry’s transformation spells had at last changed his wooden form to flesh, and his garments to match the highlander’s. The druid had even matched the man’s ring. Along with the transformations his voice had become smoother, and he had paid close attention to how the horse master had spoken.
“They willnae ken ’tis me,” he said with the highlander’s accent, and then tried again in a lower, softer tone. “Taran Skaraven. I’m Taran. Taran.”
He could not risk burrowing closer to the stronghold, so Ochd made his way on foot. Other clansmen passed him in pairs, but simply nodded to him before continuing their patrols. He halted when he saw a group of highlanders gathered around Cadeyrn, the clan’s war master. He remained out of sight and listened as the men spoke of attacking the Wood Dream settlement. Since he had pledged himself to Rowan he no longer felt loyalty to the druids, so it did not concern him. Nor could his brethren be killed. Once the Skaraven ended Hendry and Murdina the famhairean would have no more reason to continue the fight.
By the time he reached the back of the stables Ochd felt his feelings swell. Rowan would be so happy to see him. Surely now she would go with him to her future, where they could begin a life together.
Horses stared at him as he came silently into the long row of stalls. The beasts seemed almost fearful as he came close, drawing back out of sight. Of Rowan he saw no sign, and after checking every room Ochd wondered if he would have to risk going into the stronghold itself. There he’d be surrounded by most of the clan, and possibly exposed as an imposter.
He would do whatever he had to for his lady.
A soft sound drew his attention up to the hayloft, and he caught a faint trace of Rowan’s scent. Smiling, he went to the ladder and climbed up. There lay his beautiful druidess, asleep in the hay, her hair flung down her back. Beside her lay the slumbering Taran Skaraven, one of his long arms curled over Rowan’s waist.
The scents lingering in the air told him what they had been doing before they slept.
Hendry had instructed him thoroughly on the manner humans used to produce young. To breed the new race of famhairean-human hybrids Ochd and Rowan were to do the same. The druid had warned him it would take much repetition of the act, but that had not repelled him. No, he’d longed for it, to put himself inside her. To bring her pleasure. To plant his seed deep and see it swell inside her.
She had been facking the horse master. That was why she hadn’t come to the cave. Why she had refused to go away with Ochd when he’d begged her to. Why, he realized, she had given him this face. The face of her true lover. Rowan had never been his lady. She’d deceived him to believe that so she might use him. His love for her meant nothing. It had all been a lie—her lie.
Unable to bear the sight a moment longer, Ochd turned his head away. He saw the highlander’s belt and sheathed sword where he had left them. His hand shook as he reached for the sturdy hilt and drew the blade.
If I cannae have her, he thought as he approached the sleeping pair, never again shall you.
As he hefted the long sword over his head Taran opened his eyes. The Skaraven lunged at his legs, propelling Ochd with him over the edge of the hayloft.
The sword jolted from his grip as they landed on the hard dirt floor. Taran scrambled to his feet and kicked the blade away from Ochd’s clutching hand.
He didn’t need a weapon, the famhair decided as he thrust himself to his feet. He’d tear off the horse master’s head with his bare hands.
“You cannae have her,” the highlander told him, circling around him. “She’s my mate now.”
“She’s my mate,” Ochd said, mimicking him. “You shallnae have her.”
With that he lunged, and the horses began to scream.
Rowan’s ears rang with the sound of horses going crazy and pushed herself upright. Taran was gone, and some kind of ruckus was going on down in the stables. Quickly she got to her feet.
“Hey, I wasn’t done napping.” She went to look down and saw him sprawled beside the other man, who turned over to reveal he was… “Taran?”
“Stay there,” one of them called up to her. “’Tis Ochd.”
“He lies,” his twin said. “I’m Taran. He’s the famhair.”
Panic made Rowan slide down the ladder to land a few feet away. “Ochd, don’t do this,” she told both of them. “I’m the one who lied to you. Taran had nothing to do with it. Oh, God, how do I tell?”
“You ken, Rowan,” one of them said. “Look upon me. Listen.”
“He’s become the same in every way,” the other warned. “Except–”
The other Taran punched him in the face. “You cannae deceive my lady, imposter.”
Rowan backed away as they collided and wrestled each other to the ground. Physically they were identical in every sense. Dirt covered their clothes, and in her panic, she couldn’t remember what her Taran had been wearing. She looked around, and then saw the one thing that would reveal their identities.
She grabbed the trough bucket and tossed the water in it over both men.
One Taran rolled away and pushed himself to his feet. The other did the same with great effort, then went still and stared up at her, his flawless skin cracking and darkening.
The real horse master hurried over to her and held her in his arms. “Thank the Gods you remembered that.”
“I became human for you,” Ochd said as roots burst out of his boots to sink into the ground. “So I could sire your bairns, to become the new Wood Dream. ’Twas to be our world after the reckoning.”
So that was what Hendry had planned for her, to use her to breed his new master race. Rowan felt sick.
“I would never have agreed to that, Ochd. He lied to you too.”
“The totems shall crush your highlanders when they attack. I shall see him dead.” The famhair stretched out his hand as if to touch her, but it sprouted dozens of twigs and leaves. “Rowan.”
The rest of his body began to grow taller and formed itself into the trunk of an oak, spreading more branches as its top rammed through the roof.
Taran looked up as yellow light poured out of the tree and funneled through the hole the oak had made. “He’s gone.”
“He’ll go back and tell Hendry everything,” Rowan predicted, and sighed. “We’d better go and update Brennus. I’m not going to need those shackles and chains now.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE SCENT OF honeysuckle and lavender assured Bhaltair that he had not, in fact, disincarnated. The darkness that cradled him thinned enough for him to sense other wonders as well. His cracked skull had been healed, and the pain in his face had vanished, although a spot on his scalp throbbed with tenderness. He could not feel his troublesome knee, although that swelling and stiffness would return as soon as he took a few steps. His hands had been bound behind his back.
He'd been taken through a portal, he concluded, and delivered to a familiar place that should have given him ease but, of course, did not: Gwyn Embry’s cottage.
“I ken you’re awake, Flen,” a deep, amused voice said. “Open your eyes, and look upon your fate.”
He did as Barra Omey commanded and found that he was bound in the chair by Gwyn’s bookcase. She had brought him to his old friend’s work room, where all his treasured possessions had been kept. As for the bone conjurer, she now wore one of Gwyn’s robes, which on his granddaughter’s much sma
ller form puddled around her feet.
“I thought this the ideal place for our final moments together. To remind you of what you stole from me.” She lifted a sleeve to her nose and breathed in deeply. “Do you ken, his robes still smell of him, even now.”
Peering down at the brazier and herbs she had assembled inside a spell circle drawn on the floor, Bhaltair noted the absence of bone and blood. The large dark crystal she’d placed beside the brazier, however, had a hollow core in which she had placed a single spiny root wrapped in silver thread.
No’ thread, he corrected himself. No wonder his scalp hurt. She’d torn out his hair to bind the root.
“You should release me now,” Bhaltair told her evenly. “The conclave’s justice shall be swift. I’ll see to it that you’re given a swift end.”
Oriana’s eyes danced as she uttered Barra’s long, throaty laugh. “Swift, aye. You’d skin me alive with your teeth if you could. No, old fool, ’twill be no more escapes for you. ’Tis time I remove you from this existence and all future incarnations.”
He felt almost amused as well. “You truly believe that a root, a rock and some hair shall obliterate my soul? Barra, I’m ashamed for you. What simpleton attended to your training?”
“These shall divest the soul from your decrepit body,” she advised him, and went to fetch a strange-looking urn from one of Gwyn’s shelves. The body of the urn was made from a smooth, milky white stone but the top had been carved to resemble a canine with a long, thin nose. “But this, this comes from across the world, from the land of stone temples and endless sands. To acquire it I was obliged to murder a very powerful dark mage in Hispania. ’Tis called a soul-eater.”
Now Bhaltair knew what she had done with all the poor souls she had resurrected since fleeing Scotland: she’d fed them to the urn.
“You shall be damned for all eternity for this.”
“You took Gwyn from me,” Barra reminded him. “I had to avenge him. The Gods now smile upon me as I seek justice for my beloved. When Murdina Stroud cast me unconscious into a portal, they directed it to deliver me to Dun Mor.”