Celtic Peril (Celtic Storm Book 6)

by Ria Cantrell

  Jenna stood up and stopped dead in her tracks. There on the bottom of her skirt was a smear of blood. She bit back a cry of surprise, while Brigid prattled on.

  “Who is Tavish,” Brigid blurted out while still untangling her hair.

  “What?” Jenna snapped out of her momentary daze at seeing the stained hemline of her dress.

  “Tavish? Ye’ called fer him a time or two in yer’ sleep.”

  “God’s teeth, Briggie!” Jenna shot her cousin another murderous look which only made her giggle.

  “Briggie. Leave her be. It’s Samhain…we did nay question yer’ whereabouts when ye’ and Devon were missing from the fires. If she wants to tell ye’, she will in her time,” Brielle said good-naturedly. She already knew about the mysterious Tavish MacCollum. She had heard about him from Jenna, herself, after her misbegotten first real kiss and she had tried to aid her with the confusing feelings that it had stirred within her niece. She was honored to have been the one Jenna sought to confide in. And then, Brielle had also heard about the lad from her husband, who had seemed hell-bent on thumping the young man to dust. She hid her smile. Ruiri would never change, but that was alright with Brielle. He was a strong leader of men and an honor-bound protector of women…even when women were not in need of protectin’.

  Brielle looked over at Jenna and noticed her fumbling with the hem of her skirt. There was a suspicious stain that did not look like mud on it and Jenna suddenly looked stricken.

  “What in the world have ye’ done to yerself, child? Are ye’ hurt?”

  “Nay…nay…I must have dragged it in the dirt before retiring.”

  “Come here, let me have a look at ye’.”

  “Really, Auntie. I am fine.”

  Brielle stopped packing and went to see for herself. If Jenna had injured herself, she would never hear the end of it from Rory or his sister. She gently snatched the hem from Jenna’s suddenly trembling fingers and she inspected it. It was blood alright. Brielle had seen enough of it in her life to know the difference from mud or even clay. She looked closely at Jenna’s legs and ankles and saw no wound or cut.

  “I--I must have…I…Oh, God, t’is real. He’s in danger.”

  “Who, Jenna?”

  “Tavish. Tom! I dunna’ know.”

  Brigid looked at her mother and Brielle said, “Briggie, go to see if ye’ can find yer’ da’. I know he’ll be wantin’ to leave soon.”

  “But….”

  “Just go, daughter.”

  Brigid Caitlyn knew that her mother wanted to have a private word with her cousin and although she really wanted to eavesdrop, she knew better and she also knew that her mother wanted her to make certain that her father was kept busy until their talk was over, so she grabbed her cloak and boots and went out into the crisp dawn morning.

  When the flap of the tent closed back in place, Brielle said, “Come, sit with me for a moment.”

  “Auntie, how can this be? I was merely dreamin’. T’is nay possible for one to….” Jenna’s voice faltered, but Brielle gently took her hand and said, “I dunna’ know how it is possible, but I do know that it does happen. When I met yer’ uncle Rory, I loved him so much; almost from the start, but, well, yer’ uncle was in a lot of pain in those days. His first love had been killed and he carried that pain so deeply in his heart that nary a person could reach him at times. But I loved him, despite his thwart on my affections. I used to dream of his beloved Caitlyn, who we named Briggie after. She seemed so real and she would tell me to love Rory. She wanted me to save him from the hurt that took the joy from his life. Then another time, in the dream, I met yer’ uncle by the banks of a crystal pond. We declared our love for each other there in that dream. I thought it was just a dream, as you say, but Ruiri dreamed it, too. He was there just as I was there. T’was nay only a dream.”

  “Did Uncle Rory believe ye’ when ye’ told him ye’ were in his dream?”

  Brielle laughed softly, “Nay. In fact, he called me a witch and he was very angry about it actually. Ye’ know how that man can be. But what I want ye’ to know is that it is possible. Clearly, ye’ did nay cut yerself, yet ye’ have someone’s blood on yer’ skirt. Lass, who do ye’ think this man is?”

  “I dunna’ know, really. As I told ye’, Auntie, I met him some nights ago at the MacDougal fete. He kissed me. At first I was angry that he had done it, but I could nay stop thinking about it. No one seems to know who he is, although he said he is a MacCollum, which must be a lie. The only person who saw him besides me was Uncle Rory. And he was none too pleased about it, either. I thought I would nay ever see the man again; until last night. He was locked in a storage room at my home. His hand was bleeding from pounding against the door to get out. I--I dabbed the blood away with my skirts. Now, I know he was real and he must be in some sort of danger.”

  Brielle patted Jenna’s hand. At last! The lass was going to meet her mate that the Fates had chosen for her. When Bronwyn confided to her that she was worried her daughter would never settle down, Brielle knew that it was just a matter of time when the Ancients would weave their threads and pull her stubborn and beautiful niece into their webs. “T’is Samhain, after all, Jenna. Magical things happen every day, but it is particularly more powerful at this time of year.”

  Jenna wrinkled her nose and said, “Auntie, ye’ dunna’ believe all that hocus pocus, do ye’? I mean that is just old superstition.”

  “Nay, my girl. Nay. T’is real and ye’d best remember that. Those who fight against it come to realize the truth of it eventually…and the sooner for ye’ the better. Now, let us get ready to leave. I’m thinkin’ ye’ll be wantin’ to return home now, after all.”

  “But, the king will still be there.”

  “Never mind about him. He is nay the one set fer ye’.”

  “Are--are you sayin’ ye’ think that the man in my dream is my future….”

  Brielle cut Jenna off, stating, “No one knows what is in store for them. I’m nay sayin’ anything about yer’ future husband or suitor for that matter. I am just thinkin’ we need to see what this is all about.”

  Jenna sighed. She did need to see if her dream was true. If the man was being held as a prisoner in her home, she needed to find out why. And if he tried to kiss her again, she was pretty certain she would not be slapping him. That thought disturbed her more than the idea of walking in dreams.

  ~

  Chapter Thirty-One ~

  Tom hadn’t realized that he was claustrophobic until he had been locked in that airless closet within the keep. As the door was barred against him, he suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. Sweat began to pour out of him as panic seized him. He tried to think back to a time when he had been in close quarters and he could not remember ever having been. Even the tour busses were open and airy and with the presence of huge windows, it did not seem to confine him. He had not thought about it ever and it came as a shocking surprise as he railed against the thick oak of the door locked behind him.

  He sucked at his knuckles again. They were pretty bloody, but he did not care too much about that. It was the feeling like he was being buried alive. While he still was able to form cognitive thoughts, Tom rationalized the fear from his years that he suffered from childhood asthma. Those memories lived in his mind and the feeling of suffocating was a reality he hoped he would one day forget. Now in the inky darkness, Tom could smell the dank and fetid air. Dust seemed to coat his tongue and it felt like ashes were in his throat. He had to get out of here. This was no joke.

  But as the minutes ticked by and no one released him, despair came upon him. He felt like he was going to die and no one would know until it was too late. The only light that he had was a small shaft that crept under the door, but it was not enough to give him any consolation.

  He sank down to the floor and huddled against the door, grasping his knees. He needed to calm down. He was a rational person. He knew that despite the feeling of air being cut off, the shard of light from unde
r the door meant that there was still a flow of oxygen. He just had to convince himself and he needed to do something to relax the panic so he could continue to think clearly. He gulped breaths and only felt as if the hot air scorched his lungs with each intake. Why was it so bloody hot in there? Tom wondered if the storeroom was close to the kitchens and the more he thought about it, the more he realized it was probably so. The ovens were in full use for the feast and the room was stifling as a result of it. He could feel the sweat trickling down his temples and soaking his clothes as he tried to get a grip of himself. Tom knew that if he continued to gulp the air, it was only going to make him hyperventilate, but what else could he do?

  He had half a mind to stretch out on the floor to put his mouth at the bottom of the door, but even that made him realize he was being foolish. Instead he put his hand down beside him and tried to feel any indication of a cool draft coming from the crevice. He tried to think of something other than the closing walls about him. His mind wandered to that girl; Jenna. He did not know why she was the first thing he thought of in this predicament, but somehow the image of her seemed to calm him enough to put aside his irrational fear of being buried alive.

  He tried to remember he was just in a room, not in an airless coffin, despite how it felt to him and he concentrated again on the image of the girl. He may have even called her name and he closed his eyes to try to make the fantasy more real. He could remember the kiss they had shared; even if it had only been a dream. Tom envisioned the way she tasted and the feel of her soft lips upon his own. He pulled at his memory to recall the way she felt in his arms; the way her body curled into his with just enough curves in all the right places. It was as if he could actually see her.

  As his breathing slowed to a normal pace, her image became more real. Yes, he could almost imagine her there before him. As his imagination conjured her into being, he could feel her gentle hand touch him. Wait, what? He just felt someone touch him. Tom’s eyes sprung open and in the gloom of his coffin-like prison, he saw her. He must have blacked out again and this was a dream, but as he looked at her and felt her touch, he could not think it was imagined. It felt so damned real. She stooped down beside him and took his injured hand in her slender fingers. She dabbed at the blood with the fabric of her skirt.

  Tom said, “It’s you. How did you get in here?”

  ~

  Chapter Thirty-Two ~

  It all happened so quickly. Jenna was there. Tom had seen her and felt her touch. It was real. They had shared a few brief moments and in that time, for some reason, she had tried to comfort him. She must have thought he was a real pansy, as he sat huddled on the floor, breathing as if hell was about to swallow him whole. But, she had not acted like she was put off by his fear. Instead she had tried to help him and she told him that someone would release him soon. She told him the door was never locked from the outside, so somehow they must have blocked it so he could not budge it even a hair.

  Tom thought at first that he had dreamed the whole thing up, but even if it had only been a fantasy, Jenna’s presence had done the trick. He was breathing less rapidly and he felt a sense of calmness wash over him. At first, he even thought she was an angel; pulled from his subconscious in the mind’s attempt to fix the sudden irrational fear. From what he knew about Jenna Brandham, she was no angel, but he’d rather have the likes of that spitfire than some harp strumming heavenly host. She was warm and her fingers had caressed him and oh, how he had enjoyed her touch, brief though it was.

  What was it about that girl? He couldn’t even be sure he had really felt her. Well, he was moderately sure, because the simplicity of her touch had sent a fire coursing through him; the like he had never known before. In the castle prior to his arrival into the past, Tom had dreamed he had met her in his drunken stupor and here she had floated in like a spectral vision. Tom was not a man prone to flights of fancy. This was not like him at all.

  What the hell was happening to him? Maybe this whole thing was a dream, from which he would wake up back on the tour bus or something. No, that couldn’t be it. When you are sleeping, you don’t feel pain. His knuckles felt like maybe he had even broken them in his attempt to break free from the cloying darkness of the storage room. If he pressed the offending wound, he felt it as the sharp ache pulsed into his arm. He pinched himself, too. Yup, he was awake. Could he have been losing his mind? That was a definite possibility. After all, the events of the past few days could rattle the sanity of anyone.

  The things that happened to him since arriving in Scotland were beyond bizarre. Perhaps the strain of the tour had been too much for him, after all, even though Tom loved the thrill of touring and performing. As Tom thought back on the days before he had gotten to Campbell Keep, he tried to remember if anything had happened to cause undue anxiety on him and he could think of nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, he thrived on it. When some of the other guys in Celtic Storm seemed irritable and stressed-out, Tom seemed to do all the better. He loved the life on the road and on stage. There was nothing that gave him apprehension at all. He did not get stage fright when he faced the audience of admirers. He played into their appreciation with ease. No, it could not have been that the life on the road and stage had gotten the better of him.

  You are sane. You are sane. Hell, who wouldn’t be a little less sane after the couple of days I’ve had. First, I find out Kiera is married to a medieval warrior somehow plunged into the future. Then I find out that we can travel back to time and we do, only to learn that the old lady who brought us here is actually my mother. Now I am stuck in a freakin’ dungeon…okay well not a dungeon exactly, because I am sure I don’t want to find out what an actual dungeon is like. But I am in a prison just the same; just because someone doesn’t like the looks of me.

  Tom spoke the words out loud to himself. Well, talking to myself doesn’t convince me that I am still sane. Pull it together, man. You have got to get out of here and tell someone what you know about the plot to murder the king.

  It was that thought that got through the fog of fear in Tom’s mind. He had to tell someone. It may have meant life or death for someone; perhaps even for the beautiful and mysterious enigma that was named Jenna. He had to get someone to believe him, if for no other reason than for her sake; her sake and his because now he knew that even if he was losing his mind, Jenna Brandham and he were linked through time and space.

  ~~~~~

  Bronwyn watched carefully from her place at High Table, while the king seemed to enjoy his meal and the company of Kiera Campbell. She knew she should try to think of her as Jenna, but it was really difficult. Despite their resemblance, it was not Jenna and Bronwyn could not force her mind to believe the ruse that she herself had devised. She still had that very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, which prevented her from partaking of too much of the elaborate feast. Morag would not tell her anything and so Bronwyn knew the dire feeling of disaster was not to be discounted. As she looked at the king being gallant to her play-acting guest, she realized that it mattered not what the girl’s name was who shared her trencher with him. All that mattered was that he was flattered and amused.

  Bronwyn glanced at Kiera. The woman appeared to be less stiff and frightened and seemed to be fitting in to the role of daughter of the keep easily enough. Bronwyn supposed it was because for the past few years in her time, Kiera had been lady of the keep in her marriage to Derek Campbell. She gave Kiera credit. The king was an annoying little shyte and Kiera was handling herself beautifully. Why, it was all Bronwyn could do to not throw a pitcher of water in the smug wee dandy’s face before the meal was through. She would more than be glad to be done with it so she could retire in private, away from the conceited insect of a man who had the worst taste in personal attire that she had ever known.

  It was Bronwyn’s duty, as lady of the keep, to see that all remained well for not only the royal guest, but for his entourage. She craned her neck above the vast populous to see if she could find her son. She ne
eded to try to explain things and she was looking for an opportunity to take him aside privately. His uninformed presence made the ruse that much more dangerous; though Bronwyn was quite certain that Ian would never betray her family by baring their deception before the king.

  Bronwyn knew it would be easier to pick Erik Ragnorsen out of the crowd than to find her son, so she searched for the large blond Viking and knew that where he was, her son would be close behind.

  Ah, there he is, Bronwyn breathed with relief. Sure enough, Ian was ten paces to the left of him. Pasting a smile to her lips, she turned to her husband and began to rise. In doing so, the king rose and all his attendants at the table rose with him.

  “My pardon, Your Grace. I dunna’ wish to disrupt yer’ meal. I merely wished to see that all our guests are well served. Would ye’ please excuse me?”

  “Of course, dear lady, but please return soon so that you can finish and enjoy Our meal with Us.”

  Bronwyn bobbed in a polite curtsey and hastily made her way toward the Norse giant keeping watch in her great hall. A small smile lifted her lips as she remembered their very turbulent beginnings. Now, his presence actually felt comfortable and as she approached him, she saw a slow grin spread on his handsome face.

  “The lovely Lady Bronwyn. T’is good to see you again.”

  “M’lord,” she answered formally, but soon found herself in a tight bear hug.

  “Life has been kind to you, fair lady. You are as beautiful as ever.”

  Bronwyn blushed and said, “Thank you, Erik. And to ye’ as well. My only regret is that my dear friend Rhianna could not accompany ye’ to our home, this time.”

  “Indeed, but alas, she is preparing our daughter to marry yon swain.” Erik inclined his head toward the direction of Ian’s post.