Do you admit defeat yet? The aliens probed sharply.
Liandra refused to answer and in retaliation the creatures sent a bolt of pure agony into her. As her nerves exploded she fainted.
Slowly she dragged herself back. How long had she been unconscious? Liandra tried to move. Too cold. She remembered the time before when she had been cold in the dream-state, Connal had warmed her then, his cloak about her, his arms pressing her to him.
“Connal,” she whispered into the darkness.
Was it her imagination or did the void truly shimmer before regaining its solidity?
Connal? Again, she called. Nothing in response. Just her imagination after all. She closed her eyes. Unbidden, images of Connal came to mind. She relived their experiences together. All the bad times and the good. Though of late she had found him entertaining and, yes, she could admit it to herself—now she was alone, and no one to witness her capitulation. She desired him. Wanted him in reality as she had in her dreams.
In her dreams he had been the gentle, sensual lover who ignited her body to levels of desire she had not known existed within her. But perhaps, in reality, he might be violent. He was capable of it, she knew only too well. Yet, only once had he hurt her and when he realized what he had done in his ignorance, never again did his strength abuse her. Might he then be able to love her in the ways she needed to be loved?
She would be willing, more than willing to try. She focused on him, weaving her dreams and fantasies. Renewed life flowed through her. The blood pounded in her body, as her emotions and senses took control, as she imagined them together. No need to suppress such now. No one was near to read them, anyway! Except the aliens and she didn't care what they thought.
Connal. She tried to image him there with her, and his shadowy form did appear briefly before being snatched away. She tried over and over, with the same result. The aliens were too strong for her. Finally, she let go. Instead, she internalized her dreams, allowing them to take her where they willed. And always Connal was at the center of her thoughts.
What would her father say if he knew she wanted a barbarian for a lover? Might he approve? Though concerned by her desire to remain unpartnered, he could understand her reticence. He had been slow in seeking a life-mate, too. Her mother had told her there had been incredulity from his family when he had soul-partnered with a Terran woman.
And what would her parents make of Connal MacArran? Her barbarian? The only man to elicit any response from her was the same one who challenged her and her way of life. Made her forget who and what she was. Only all that mattered for her was the having of him! Because somewhere—somehow—she had bonded with him.
She realized it, now. She had ignored all the signs, fighting daily against the attraction, but it was a battle over before it truly began. He had touched her soul with his own. And that being so she would forever love him. Be his—always his.
He was beautiful, her Connal. She remembered the way his body had moved in the exercise yard, and so strong were the emotions kindled by that memory, she saw him again before her, almost real, his body shining with perspiration, muscles flexing, sword in hand. Yet that was only one facet of the man. The memory wavered, to be replaced by the memory of their time together on the bed when he had read to her. Connal, gentle and tender. He made her laugh and cry! One moment she was furious with him, the next her body burned with the heat of passion. Images of him coalesced and layered one on top of the other.
By Arran and the Seven Stars! What would he say and do if he knew? Would he be repulsed, or incensed, that she, an alien witch, loved him? Or would he also respond with desire? There were times, of late, when she sensed a mellowing in him. His gentleness towards her far outweighed his intervals of anger. If only she had not been so stubborn, she might have known Connal in other ways. And now it was too late to tell him, because she was trapped here and would die, her secret dying, too.
Oh my Connal...
My Lady Witch?
Liandra started awake. “Connal?” She'd been dreaming again! Nothing here for her but dreams and nightmares. How ironic that in her final hours she could only think of Connal MacArran and tell him the many things she should have and now would never be able to.
“Liandra!”
“You won't be taunting me. I know who you are! Go away you demon-aliens!”
Deamhan-coimheach she had called them, cursing in Caledonian. And they were demon-aliens! Would Connal be proud to know that her last fighting words were in his own tongue, rather than League Standard?
* * * *
Connal battled against the darkness. It clung to his body like a horrible second skin. It smelled of fear, pain and death.
“Damn this to the Seven Stars!” At his fury, the void parted. He saw her.
It was the way she lay which made his heart stall. He strode forward, afraid to the depths of his being. He bent down and rolled her carefully over. At her throat, his hand sought a pulse beat. Nothing.
Frantically, his hands ran over her body. There was just a little warmth left, and the faint tremor of her heart beneath his hand. He flung off his cloak and wrapped it around her body, lifting her into his arms.
Had it truly taken him hours to find her? No telling how much time had passed until he had heard her first call, then a little while later, another sending, a feather-soft whisper. So weak. After that, nothing but silence. Terrible silence.
Dougall should be activating the device soon, Connal thought. His pax-man had wanted to accompany him into the void. The resulting argument had been brief, but bitter. In retaliation, Dougall had severely limited the time Connal would spend in looking for Liandra. That or nothing: as pax-man, Dougall had been his most obstinate.
Connal hated the machine like nothing on Caledonia, or on any League World. Once home, he would destroy the trans-mat as he should have done long ago!
“Now, Dougall. Bring us home. Now!” Connal called into the void. But of course Dougall could not hear.
On the periphery of his consciousness he felt the aliens racing towards him.
Something clutched at Liandra. It began to drag her away. He held on with both hands. He wished for his claymore, to fight the monsters as he done once before in the dream-state. Only this was no illusion. And if he fought them, he would have to relinquish his hold on Liandra. And that he would not do, for all the universe!
The assault began in earnest. Minds plunged into his, while something grasped him, spinning him about, trying to tear Liandra and him apart. Throughout the battle, she lay like one dead in his arms. He glanced down at her face, thin and pale, with dark circles under her eyes. She'd only been gone a day. What had they done to her to make her look so? Fury rose up inside, and like a bolt he hurled it outwards. The enemy retreated. He sensed their measuring.
As one, they attacked him again and it felt like something was biting him all over, scratching and clawing with fangs and talons. Gasping in pain, he bit down hard to stop from crying out. He tasted his own blood on his lip.
Arran's Mercy! He breathed in relief as he felt the familiar prickling over his flesh, the tingling beam of light before he was wrenched back into more darkness.
Connal sensed the aliens’ pursuit. Something brushed against his body. What was in the trans-mat with him? There was little time to alter course, but he must try, for it was out of the question to willingly lead any invader to his Castle. Balancing Liandra in one arm, he dug into his sporran, fingers clasping on the trans-mat homing signal. He de-activated the switch just as he saw the ghostly outline of the machine in the castle dungeon. For a moment, he hovered in that terrible place between dreams and reality.
Moments later, with an awful gut-wrenching turning inside out, he sprawled face first on long, wet grass. Liandra lay a few feet from him.
Seven Stars and Arran's Mercy—where am I?
It took him some minutes to recover his wits. Slowly, he crawled to Liandra. Turning her over, he drew her against him and lifted her up into
his arms. Shakily, he rose to his feet.
“C—Con?"
He almost dropped her in surprise. As he looked down at her, her eyelids fluttered open a moment before closing again.
“You're here, truly?” she whispered.
“I am here, beloved."
“I'm dreaming?"
“No."
“How did you find me?"
“The trans-mat."
“The enemy?"
“Gone.” I hope, he added to himself. He stared about. Was this another illusion? He frowned and concentrated, trying to image another landscape. It remained solid. Real. Was it truly Caledonia? It was so dark, so silent. Not like anything he had ever experienced. Ominous dark clouds overhead were laced with shimmering green. Something was terribly wrong!
If this was Caledonia, then he knew where he was. Behind that range of hills and beyond the valley lay Castle MacAarran. A good afternoon's walk, if one was able to walk. Liandra certainly could not make the journey in her present state. He glanced down at her before shifting her in his arms. He brought her close against his body and rubbed his cheek against hers.
She stirred slightly. “Where are we?” she asked, hoarsely.
“Safe. There be a cottage nearby. We can rest."
“Must warn my father."
“Worry about that later. I have to get you to safety. ’Tis a storm heading this way."
Long before the stone cottage came in view, Connal was drenched to the skin and Liandra was a cold weight in his arms. Beneath the saturated folds of her cloak, she shuddered violently. He knew she was unto death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Connal cursed his shaking fingers. He was so damn cold and the thrice-blasted fire was slow in catching hold. He should have had this bothan replaced by a modern cottage, but it was one of the last remaining from the old days. A touch of nostalgia had stayed his hand when he had overseen the modernization of his estate. Now that sentiment was likely to see him and Liandra freeze to death.
Outside the wind howled, buffeting the cottage so that the walls and roof shuddered. Hail beat incessantly against the shingles, the relentless pounding echoing inside the cottage. He had never experienced such a tempest.
Connal fanned the fire, coaxing it to life, adding more logs to the now blazing hearth. Satisfied, he turned back to Liandra. She still shuddered beneath the thick quilt. Gathering her up into his arms he placed her before the fire on a pallet of lambs-wool rugs. Briskly, he again massaged her body, forcing warmth into her chill flesh. He tucked the quilt back around her.
Taking a few moments for himself, Connal stripped off his sodden clothes and wrapped a blanket around his body, all the while shivering in the dankness of the cottage. Slipping beneath the quilt, he pressed against Liandra, giving her the strength from his own body. Gradually her convulsions abated. Slowly, so slowly, her body lost its iciness.
Hours later, satisfied she was a little recovered, he left the safe haven of the hearth and rummaged through the ration cupboard. He returned carrying a flask of whisky. He forced the bottle between her lips and made her swallow a mouthful.
“Don't, Con...” she protested, batting at his hand, pushing the flask away.
“'Tis my best whisky, darling."
“It's horrible!"
If the circumstances were different he would have laughed at the grimace on her face. He forced her to drink a little more before he swallowed several gulps. The whisky blazed through his body, warming and invigorating. Drawing her closer, he let her cheek rest against his chest. Gently he stroked her hair, his hands falling away, to trail down the length of her, rubbing over and over, trying to banish the last of the cold from her.
“C—Con?”
“Aye?"
“Where are we?"
“In a cottage at least a half day's walk from my Castle."
“Safe?"
“For the present."
“How did you find me?"
“Fergus led me to the dungeon, where I discovered Jenna hiding, with remnants of your gown. I forced the truth from her. Then, I followed you into the trans-mat, using your sending to guide me to you."
“You heard me?” she asked.
“Most strongly. How I know not."
“I'm thankful you did. I nearly died in that place. I never want to be in the dark or cold again."
Connal enfolded her tightly against him, and gently kissed her forehead. “By Arran, Liandra, you will not suffer such again.” He glanced down at her. The firelight flickered across her face. There was a little color to her cheeks now, and the dark shadows had diminished. He had almost lost her! And in that realization come another thought, if she had died ... That he did not want to think about! Not now, not ever!
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“A little better."
He ran a trembling hand up and down her arm. In response she snuggled into the curve of his body, her knee pressed across his legs, inadvertently touching his maleness. He drew in a sharp breath. Now no longer afraid she would die, other considerations flooded his body. Connal gritted his teeth, vainly trying to ignore the heated blood swirling in his veins.
“Hold me closer, Con."
“There is some danger in that, Liandra. You can surely feel the evidence of it?” He smiled grimly as she raised her gaze to his.
Closing her eyes, Liandra rested her cheek against his chest. She heard the thumping beat of his heart, and its rate increased the longer she listened.
“I know what I'm doing,” she said.
“Do you?” he answered, gently lifting her so that she lay on top of him. His arms held her close, as his legs wrapped around her. “If we start, Liandra, I am not certain I can stop."
“I'm not afraid of you, Connal MacArran,” she whispered.
It felt as if his whole being electrified at her words. He kissed her gently, half expecting she would pull away. Instead she parted her mouth to the tentative probing of his tongue tip. Connal groaned against her mouth. He had wanted this. Wanted it for so long it had been such a sweet agony, keeping him awake night after night. And when he could snatch a few moments of sleep, the erotic intensity of his dreams made him start awake, heart and blood racing, his shaft thick and aching with such need, not even cold baths in the middle of the night could quell his torment. Being in such a state of arousal and not being able to do anything about it, for no other woman held any interest for him, his temper had been foul for as long as he could remember.
Fear sliced through his euphoria. Fear that this might be yet another dream to bedevil him. If this be another dream ... Arran's Mercy, let me wake up when it is finished, not halfway through as I always do!
His kisses, lazy feather-soft caresses, traced a slow, sensual teasing journey across her mouth, throat and cheek, to reassure and to intoxicate. He reveled in the feel of her against him; drank in her femininity. Teasingly, his palms massaged her body, cupping and stroking every inch of her curves.
Liandra rolled on to her back, drawing Connal over her. The heat of their bodies merged. Her heart thudded so fiercely her breasts quivered. She explored him, marveling at the contrast of his whipcord muscles and satin-smooth flesh. The spicy musk of his male heat permeated her every cell, driving her to new heights, to greater daring. She cupped his male rigidity, drawing a ragged gasp from him.
“Did I hurt you?” she asked.
He pressed against her. “Do not stop, my beloved,” he whispered huskily against her mouth. “Do that. Oh, yes! Oh...” Her nails carefully raked his swollen flesh.
Gently his fingers snagged in her hair, tilting her head back, exposing her neck to his mouth and tongue. His lips traced a blazing trail down her neck to her breast, which he teased into a rigid peak. His fingers slowly stroked down her leg, teasingly returning along the inside of a silken thigh to find the center of her. He heard her gasp and in response his blood pounded, its epicenter in his groin, a rhythmic throbbing that traveled his entire body. He drew in a ragged b
reath. Almost he felt a virgin, a callow youth trembling with the need to bed his first woman.
Liandra writhed beneath his touch. Never had she dreamed it could be like this—feel the things this man was invoking. She opened her eyes and he smiled down at her, the gentlest lover's smile that drove a thrill deep into her soul. His gaze held hers as his fingers teased her, parting, stroking, swirling in and out, over her cleft, returning, retreating, inexorably building a pressure within her. She watched the play of firelight across his face, lighting his eyes so that they glowed a beautiful combination of gold and gray.
“Please...” she murmured.
“Please—what? My Lady Witch?” His hoarse whisper caressed her senses as his hands claimed her body. “Please—that I stop? Or—please that I continue?"
Shaking her head, slowly she reached out with her mind, coming up against his instinctive mental shielding. She heard him draw in a quick, trembling breath. Had he sensed her presence? She had almost done the unthinkable in forcing a meld. Connal was not ready to mind-share. She was going too fast for him, though she wanted that exquisite joining more than anything. But she could not force him. Instead, she traced a finger over his flushed face. She sensed the strength of his desire and longing. He held himself in check, so much so that his body trembled with the effort to maintain control, in order to pleasure her, to bring her to fulfillment, considering her needs before his own. She loved him in that moment with such intensity it frightened her. She arched her body to his and kissed him. Slowly his mouth left hers, traveling lower and lower.
At his daring, she gasped with shock. “Con!"
He would not be dissuaded, even as she curled her fingers in his hair to still his questing mouth. Undaunted, he continued his sweet plundering. So easily, so expertly he carried her far beyond anything she had ever experienced in her dreams, in her wildest imaginings. Mouth and tongue knew their teasing art—oh so well. “Connal, please!"
His fingers again stroked her hot silken texture where moments before he had shared with her the most intimate kiss of all. Liandra's body convulsed as his caresses brought her so close ... His hand stilled, deliberately holding her at the brink, letting her regain a measure of sanity before easing her again, on and on inexorably to that pleasure-border, delaying it for so long that she writhed like a wild thing against him.
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