“How long will it take you to retrieve it?”
“A short time, a quarter hour, no more.”
“If you don’t come to me, I will return with a bigger knife.”
“You won’t need a knife, lass,” he assured her. “I will bring it.”
She left silently, carrying part of his heart out the door with her.
* * *
Circenn opened his secret chamber and grimly retrieved the flask from the hidden compartment in the stone floor. It had never occurred to him that she’d had a full life in her time; he’d been so selfish that he’d never once asked her what he’d taken her away from. He had seen her only as proud, tenacious, sensual Lisa, as if she’d lived nowhere before she had come to him, but now he understood clearly. She had sacrificed most of her adult years caring for her mother, carrying burdens a laird would stagger beneath, nurturing the only clan she had left. It explained much: her resistance to adaptation, her continued attempts to search his castle, her illogical unwillingness to give up on the flask as a way to return home. He knew Lisa was an intelligent woman, and he suspected that deep down she realized that the flask wouldn’t return her, but if she formally gave up on the flask, she would have no hope. People often clung to irrational hopes to avoid despair.
His heart wept for her, because he knew that the only man who could return her would see her dead first. For the first time in his life he was furious with himself for refusing to learn the things Adam had so often offered to teach him.
Come train with my kind, Adam had coaxed on numerous occasions. Let me teach you the fae arts. Let me show you the worlds you might explore.
Never, Circenn had replied scornfully. I will never become like you.
But the magic is inside you—
I will never accept it.
Yet now he would have given anything for the art of sifting time. Anything Adam wanted at all. He straightened his shoulders, closed the hidden chamber, and moved to the door. How could he have been so blind as not to realize that she’d had a life and lost it? How could he have ever thought she was duplicitous? The image of her huge green eyes, shimmering with tears as she’d gazed up at him, refusing his solace because she’d obviously never been given comfort and didn’t know how to accept it, would burn forever in his mind.
He had a difficult path to walk with her now. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, bracing himself for her discovery that she was truly trapped. With a deep sigh, he left his chambers.
* * *
“Lass,” he said softly.
Lisa glanced up as he entered the room. She was huddled in the center of her bed, her pale face stained with tears. He fished about in his sporran and moved slowly to her side, making a journey he was reluctant to complete.
“Stand up, lass,” he said quietly.
Lisa rose swiftly.
He held out the flask.
“You brought it,” she whispered.
“I told you I would. I should have done so before now. I knew you wanted it. I saw the look on your face when we were riding from Dunnottar and you glimpsed it in my pack.”
“You can read me so easily?”
“Not always. Sometimes I can’t read you at all, but that night I could. You’d been crying—”
“I was not. I almost never cry. I only cried now because I’m so frustrated.”
“My apologies—it had been raining,” he corrected swiftly, protecting her pride. His heart was touched: She was embarrassed by her tears. There was no shame in weeping. He’d seen her cheeks wet with tears several nights on their journey, but they’d been quiet tears, and he’d assumed it was part of her acceptance of her transition, never suspecting she was grieving over her mother. He was amazed that she hadn’t wept openly before now But she was resilient and tough, and that gave him hope that she would recover in time.
“That night it was raining,” she agreed. “Go on.”
“You glimpsed the flask as I removed an extra plaid. To protect you from the rain,” he teased, hoping to lighten her grim mood.
She arched a brow, but her eyes were sad, filled with unshed tears.
He sighed and continued. “And I saw the hope in your eyes—a hope that centered upon my flask. I knew it couldn’t return you, so I dismissed the thought, but I should have realized that you would need to prove to yourself that it wouldn’t work,” he said gently.
“Give it to me,” she demanded.
He dreaded this, dreaded the moment when he would see in her lovely green eyes stark certainty that she could never return. He proffered the shimmering silver flask in silence.
She reached for it. “How does it work?” she whispered.
“It doesn’t,” he whispered back. “You only think it does.”
Her fingers closed on the flask. He watched as she wrapped her hand reverently around it. Wrapped both hands around it, did something funny with her feet, and closed her eyes. She muttered softly.
“What are you saying?”
“There’s no place like home.” The words were half mumbled but painfully clear to his ears. He winced. Aye, there was no place like home, he agreed silently, and he would do his best to make this feel like home to her, since he was the one who’d uprooted her with his thoughtless curse. “I am verra sorry, lass,” he said softly, his brogue thickened by emotion.
She didn’t open her eyes, refused to move. Finally she crossed to the bed and lowered herself on it, tightly holding the flask. She looked as if she was mentally reciting every prayer or rhyme she’d ever learned. After a long time, she rose and stood by the fire.
She stood like that, frozen, clutching the flask, for so long he finally sank into a chair beside her. How much time passed, he had no idea, but he would not move an inch until she accepted it, and then he would be there to wrap her in the shelter of his body.
Full night had descended when she finally stirred, the dinner hour long past. Her hair shimmered in the firelight, her face was ashen, and her lashes were dark fans against her pale skin. He cursed when a tear slipped down her cheek.
When she finally opened her eyes he saw pain in the brilliant green depths. Denial and acceptance warred on her expressive features—acceptance the brutal victor. She had held the flask, she had performed whatever ritual she believed in, and she had experienced incontestable defeat.
“It didn’t work,” she said in a small voice.
“Och, lass,” he said with a sigh, helpless to alleviate her suffering.
She began to fiddle with the stopper on the flask.
“What are you doing?” he thundered, half rising from the chair, ready to rip the flask from her hand.
“Perhaps if I drink this?” she said hesitantly.
“Never, lass,” he said, his olive complexion paling. “Trust me, you doona wish to do something so foolish.”
“What’s in it?” she gasped, clearly stricken by his reaction.
“Lisa, what is in that flask would not only fail to return you to your home, it would be the purest glimpse of hell for you. I would not lie to you. It is a poison of the vilest origin.”
He didn’t need to say more to convince her. He could see her acceptance that not only wouldn’t it take her home, it might kill her—or make her wish she were dead. He understood that Lisa, as sensible as she was, had now acknowledged that she’d been clinging to an impossible hope and would not do so again. If he said it wouldn’t work, that was enough. By trusting her, he had gained her trust.
She sniffed and, to her apparent chagrin, another tear slipped out. She dropped her head forward to hide behind her hair in the way he’d noticed she did when she was uncomfortable or embarrassed.
Circenn moved swiftly, intending to catch the tear upon his finger, kiss it away, then kiss away all her pain and fear, and assure her that he would permit no harm to touch her and would spend his life making things up to her; but she dropped the flask onto the table and turned swiftly.
“Please, leave me alone,” she said and
turned away from him.
“Let me comfort you, Lisa,” he entreated.
“Leave me alone.”
For the first time in his life, Circenn felt utterly helpless. Let her grieve, his heart instructed. She would need to grieve, for discovering that the flask didn’t work was tantamount to lowering her mother into a solitary grave. She would grieve her mother as if she’d in truth died that very day. May God forgive me, he prayed. I did not know what I was doing when I cursed that flask. He snatched the flask from the table, tucked it into his sporran, and left the room.
* * *
And that was that, Lisa admitted, curling up on the bed and pulling the curtains tight. In her cozy nest all she lacked was her stuffed Tigger and her mother’s shoulder to cry on, but such comforts would never again be hers. As long as she hadn’t tried the flask, she’d been able to pin all her hopes on it. She’d been astonished by Circenn’s reaction to her confession—she’d glimpsed a kindred moisture in his eyes.
You’re falling, Lisa, her heart said softly, for more than a country.
Good thing, she told her heart acerbically, because it looks like he’s all I’ve got, for now and forever.
She glanced around the curtained bed and snuggled deeper into the covers. The fire made her chamber toasty, and there was a flask of cider wine in a cubbyhole in the headboard. As she took a deep swallow, savoring the spicy, fruity taste, she gave in to her grief. Her mother would die alone and there was nothing Lisa could do to prevent it. She drank and cried until she was too exhausted to do more than roll onto her side and slip into the gentle, wine-induced oblivion of sleep.
All I wanted was to hold her hand when she died was her last thought before dreaming.
* * *
Circenn Brodie stood beside the bed and watched Lisa sleep. He parted the filmy bed curtains and stepped close, dropping his hand to lightly touch her hair. Curled on her side, she’d folded both hands beneath one cheek, like a child. The faded red bill of her bonnet—base ball cap, he reminded himself—was crushed between her hands and a plaid she’d bunched up into a pillow of sorts. She had clearly cried herself to sleep, and it looked as if she had fought a losing battle with her covers. Gently, he eased the plaid away from her neck so she wouldn’t strangle herself with it, then straightened the fabric twisted about her legs. She sighed and snuggled deeper into the soft mattress. Removing the wineskin from where it was nestled close to her side, he winced when he discovered it was empty, although he understood what had driven her to drink it.
She had been seeking oblivion, a quest he’d embarked upon a time or two himself
She was lost. Torn from her home. Stranded in the middle of a century she couldn’t possibly understand.
And it was his fault.
He would marry her, help her adjust, protect her from discovery—and most of all, protect her from Adam Black. One way or another, he promised himself firmly, he would make her smile again and win her heart. She was everything Brude and more. His mother would have loved this woman.
“Sleep with the angels, my Brude queen,” he said softly. But come back. This devil needs you like he’s never needed anything before.
As he turned to leave he spared a last glance over his shoulder. A faint smile curved his lips as he recalled her fascination with whipped cream. He hoped one day she would trust him, desire him enough to allow him to take his spoonful of whipped cream, trail it across her lovely body, and remove the sweet confection with his tongue.
He would heal her. With his love.
And he would never die on her—that he could promise.
* * *
“What’s wrong?” Galan asked, taking one look at Circenn’s grim expression as he entered the Greathall.
The laird dropped himself heavily into a chair and picked up a flask of cider wine, absently turning it in his hands.
“Is it Lisa?” Duncan asked swiftly. “What happened? I thought the two of you were … growing closer.”
“I gave her the flask,” Circenn grunted, barely intelligible.
“You what?” Galan roared, leaping from the chair. “You made her like you?”
“Nay.” Circenn waved an impatient hand. “I would never do that. I merely gave it to her so she could see for herself it would not return her to her home.” He paused, then raised his eyes from the floor. “I found out why she wants to return so badly,” he said. Then, haltingly, he told him what Lisa had confided.
“Och, Christ,” Duncan said when he was finished. “This is a fankle. Can you not return her? It is her mother.” Galan murmured his agreement.
Circenn shrugged and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I doona know how. The only creature who knows how is Adam—”
“And Adam would kill her,” Duncan finished bitterly.
“Aye.”
Duncan shook his head. “I never knew. She told me that a woman was depending on her, but she wouldn’t tell me more.”
“She told you that?” Circenn snapped.
“Aye.”
Circenn’s lips twitched bitterly. “Well, here I have been offering to be her husband and she didn’t tell me that much.”
“Did you ever ask?” Galan asked softly.
Circenn muttered a curse, uncapped the wine, and started to drink.
ARMAND GRITTED HIS TEETH AND PERMITTED JAMES Comyn to vent his anger, assuring himself that soon the tables would be turned, and then he would revel in crushing the traitorous Scot. He understood the Comyn’s motivations well. Ten years ago, when Robert the Bruce had slain Red John Comyn in Greyfriars Kirk at Dumfries, thereby eliminating the only other real contender for the Scottish crown, the remainder of the Comyn clan had eagerly allied themselves with the English. They were avid to murder any relative of the Bruce they could get their hands on.
“It has been weeks, Berard! And you bring me nothing. No woman, no sacred hallows.”
Armand shrugged. “I have done all I can. The woman has not left her chambers in weeks. She stays holed up there, although I cannot fathom why.”
“Then go in and get her,” Comyn spat. “The war grows fiercer, and the Bruce’s brother Edward has made a foolish wager.”
“What say you?” Armand had heard nothing of this.
“Only last night he made a wager that may win or lose this war. King Edward is most displeased.”
“What wager?” Armand pressed.
“It is not my place to speak of it. Even the Bruce hasn’t received word of it yet, and he will be furious when he hears what his brother has done. It is imperative that we capture the woman. At least then we will have something to appease his temper. You must get her,” Comyn ordered.
“There are guards outside her chambers day and night, James. I must wait until she comes out.” He raised a hand as the Comyn started to argue. “She will have to come out soon.” And while he waited, he would continue to search the castle for the sacred hallows. Thus far he’d managed to search only the north wing; somehow, he had to get into both the laird’s and the lady’s chambers.
“A fortnight, Berard. Any longer and I cannot assure you I will be able to prevent King Edward from ordering his men to attack.”
“It will be done before a fortnight is up.”
* * *
Lisa rolled over, stretching gingerly. She knew that she would have to leave her bed eventually but hadn’t been able to face it. She sat up slowly, surprised to discover that the painful knot in her chest seemed to have loosened. She glanced around her room as if seeing it for the first time.
She’d been sleeping more than sixteen hours a day and wondered if perhaps the past five years had finally claimed their price. She’d slept and grieved for everything—not just her mother, but the car accident, her father’s death, and the loss of her childhood. She hadn’t let herself feel any of that for five years, and when she’d finally permitted a tiny sliver of pain, all of it had come crashing in and she’d lost herself for a time. She hadn’t realized how much buried anger she
held. She suspected that only a bit of it had been released.
But now she had to face the facts: The flask would not return her, Circenn could not curse her back, and this was going to be her life—for the rest of her life.
She rose from the bed, rubbing her neck to ease the kinks. She had no idea how long it had been since she’d bathed. Disgusted with her protracted inertia, she moved to the door. While closeted in her room, she’d been dimly aware that men were posted outside in the corridor. She’d never spoken to them, had merely accepted the food they handed in through the door and picked at it listlessly.
She fumbled with the handle and pulled the door open.
Circenn crashed in and hit the floor. He rolled smoothly onto his back and sprang to his feet, hand on his sword, looking dazed. She realized he must have been sitting on the floor, leaning back against it, and when she’d opened it she’d taken him by surprise. He blinked several times, as if he’d fallen asleep in that position and been awakened abruptly. She was startled and touched: Had he been outside her room all this time?
He gazed down at her and they regarded each other silently. There were dark circles under his dark eyes, his face was lined with fatigue and worry, and the look he gave her was so tender and self-effacing that it made her catch her breath.
“A bath,” she said softly. “Might I have a bath?”
His smile was slow to form, but dazzling when it did. “Absolutely, lass. Wait right here. Doona move. I’ll see to the preparation myself.” He rushed out to fulfill her request.
* * *
“She wants a bath,” Circenn bellowed, barreling into the Greathall. He’d been waiting weeks for some spark of life. That she was aware of her body again meant she was slowly retreating from the dark place within, where she’d languished so long. He roared for the maids, who came at a run.
“Have hot water drawn immediately. And a meal. Send her all the tempting food you can find. And wine. Clothing! She must have clean clothing as well. See to my lady. She wants a bath!”
The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 78