by Jen Holling
Much.
Rose patted her knee. "Think about showing yourself, aye? Maybe then he'll go away."
Deidra smiled wanly. Even if Luthias did go away, he'd just come back. He would keep coming back until she could prove she was not a witch.
When Rose was gone, Deidra gathered up the rest of the currants and bread, wrapped them in a napkin, then stuffed the napkin into a canvas satchel. She placed the bowl on the floor. The dog preempted it’s instinctive rush forward and sat back, staring at her with pleading eyes, flanks quivering with hope.
"Go ahead," she said.
The dog's nose disappeared in the bowl.
Deidra crossed the room to her clothes-press and threw open the doors. Scanning the interior, she grabbed fresh stockings and a clean shift. She started to close it then ran a hand over her wild, unruly curls. She snatched up her comb and stuffed it in the satchel with everything else before closing the doors.
She hesitated, standing in the center of her room, satchel in hand. She wanted to leave immediately, to get as far away from Luthias Forsyth as possible. She crossed to the bed and sank down on it. It would be unwise to leave now. Someone might observe her leaving and report back to Luthias. It would be a few more hours yet before the castle went to sleep. So she waited.
The dog finished eating and stared at her expectantly, trying to communicate with her. She could feel it pushing at the membrane of her thoughts, but she would not allow it entrance. She walled it out, just like she did all creatures. It had a name, but she refused to use it, refused to acknowledge it.
She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, the weight of time and her task pressing on her soul.
Luthias had grown tired of this little hamlet. Year in and year out he came here, keeping track of the animal whisperer. He slept in smelly crofts with the rustics, who stank and fed him food unfit for animals. He had never married, and he had no family save a sister he hadn't spoken to in a lifetime. His was not a life for a family man. He lived like a nomad. Still, he had a house in Edinburgh, and it would have been nice to have had a woman waiting for him there.
But it was not his lot. God had handed him this calling, this gift of rooting out witches, and he was obligated to use it in His name. Still, there had been a time when a wife and family had been possible. That was before the MacKays. Before Deidra.
Tonight he slept on a cramped mattress stuffed with heather and probably crawling with fleas, which he had paid far too much for His men had found stables around the village, though one slept outside this croft, protecting him. A blanket hung between Luthias and his hosts, but that did not block out the sounds of the smith rutting on his wife. They thrashed about, grunting and huffing and whimpering. He couldn't remember the last time he'd lain with a woman, but he was certain that when he had, it hadn't been nearly so noisy.
The blanket stirred, and a moment later a small face peeked around the side of it. The smith's son. Luthias glared at the lad and the face swiftly disappeared...but seconds later he was back, staring with wide, serious eyes, all the while the tanner strained and groaned on the other side of the blanket.
Luthias thought he might go mad.
He threw back the itchy wool blanket and struggled off the mattress, grabbing his cloak and rushing out of the croft into the cool night air.
He stood under the waning moon and inhaled deeply of the crisp air, thick with peat smoke. His legs twitched from agitation, and he jigged his foot impatiently.
He would leave in the morning. The witch hid from him and would not show herself. He usually did not back down from a challenge. He'd smoked witches out before, but this one's family was different. They were white witches. Luthias had long subscribed to the notion that the only good witch was a dead one, but that had been before he'd witnessed William MacKay heal a dying man. That could not have been the devil's work, for the man had been William's enemy—and that enemy had been doing God's work, trying to end William MacKays life. True evil would have let him die. True evil would have relished in the revenge. True evil such as Deidra MacKay.
She had been the murderer that day. She had set her hellhounds on the man, a whole horrifying snarling pack of them, and they had ripped the man’s throat out while she’d looked on with approval. And she’d only been eight years old.
The image of such a small lovely child committing such a vile, inhuman act had haunted Luthias for twelve years now. God had made him witness to that horror for a reason. God haunted him with nightmares of the child for a reason. Every day since he had walked away from Deidra, he had regretted it. He had tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that trying a child was illegal and He’d honored the law. But he knew in his heart it had just been an excuse. God’s law superseded any law created by man. He was God’s servant, and Deidra MacKay offended God. It was his calling to keep her from committing any further horrors and to punish her if she transgressed. She was not a child anymore; had not been for some time. It was past time for him to set things to rights.
He took his calling very seriously.
The twitching stopped, but he didn't want to go back inside. He didn't think he could sleep in that croft tonight anyway. He crossed the dark yard and lowered himself onto a log. It was too dark to travel in such terrain, plus his men needed their sleep. Tomorrow they had a long journey ahead of them. He'd caught word of another witch in the lowlands. This one heard the voices of the dead and used her magic to find lost objects. Evil. He shuddered just to imagine the kind of evil that raised the dead for profit. He would come back to Strathwick and seek another opportunity.
As he sat contemplating his next assignment, he became aware of movement in the distance, near the castle. He sat very still, watching. A lone figure moved silently through the darkness. But he was wrong; he soon saw that it was not alone. In the distance behind it followed an entourage of figures low to the ground. Dogs, it appeared, or mayhap wolves.
Luthias recoiled inside, his lips curling. The animal whisperer, out skulking about after everyone else was asleep. As he watched, he noted she carried a satchel. She disappeared into the stables, then reappeared moments later leading a horse. He watched her until she was gone.
She was leaving Strathwick.
He felt an unfamiliar tugging at the corners of his mouth and realized it was a smile. He’d finally smoked her out.
A change of plans was in order. He would not be heading directly to the lowlands after all. God had finally rewarded his patience with opportunity. It was time to set things right.
Chapter 2
Braighde Pele crouched upon a jagged black mountaintop. The castle was not far from MacKay lands, but it still took Deidra two days to reach it. Its name meant "hostage tower," and it was no mystery why the castle had acquired it. Craggy rocks and a thick forest surrounded it on all sides. The overgrown rubble of an abandoned kirk blocked the way to the south. This was dangerous and difficult terrain to traverse, discouraging all but the most determined.
An odd choice for a cripple...but not for a baobhan sith. In fact, it was the perfect lair for a blood witch—away from prying eyes. Deidra’s pulse stepped up a few beats with hope and excitement. The idea that her life could soon be transformed from nightmare to normal was almost too much to contemplate. It swelled inside her, threatening to overtake her and make her reckless. The horse felt the excited trembling in her thighs and wanted to understand. It probed at her. She blocked it, her jaw set, shutting her mind against it.
It had been a difficult journey for Deidra. She loathed sleeping outside. Animals sensed her presence somehow and flocked to her, all wanting something. Unlike most people, she had nothing to fear from even the most dangerous beast, but that mattered not. She would rather fear them than be stalked by them.
The tower rose before her, reaching high above the castle walls. Many years ago—even before Deidra’s father had been born, when the castle had been nothing more than a simple tower—it had bee
n owned by the MacKays and used to hold pledges. When the MacKay lairds had kidnapped enemies and held them for ransom, they'd locked them up in the tower and forgotten about them until the ransom was paid. Sometimes it had been a very long time before that happened. Often, the hostages hadn't lived to see release, and so the ransom had had to be returned...or fought over. It was a place of death and darkness, and it made Deidra's chest heavy with dread.
The Rosses of Irvine had purchased the castle and the land around it many years ago and built the tower up into a grand estate. Stephen owned it now and had moved into it nearly a decade ago. Few had seen him since, though he did send occasional letters to family and friends.
As she drew closer, the sky seemed to grow thicker and darker above the castle. It was no more than her imagination, but the place exuded dread, as if cursed and forgotten. Deidra pulled her wool araisad closer to her neck. She didn't understand why anyone would choose to make such an unpleasant and isolated place their home—unless they had something to hide. A baobhan sith. He had to be one.
It was late afternoon by the time she rode beneath the portcullis and into the courtyard, tired and hungry. She'd been forced to dismount and walk the horse the last few miles. She couldn't guess what kind of hospitality to expect from Stephen Ross. In the Highlands, it was expected of a laird to extend hospitality to those of rank, regardless of the laird's circumstances. But Stephen Ross was not normal.
It didn't take long for Deidra to find out what kind of welcome she would receive. Servants rushed at her seconds after she entered the courtyard. Men crowded around her, grabbed her, and hauled her away from the horse. Her nervous excitement transformed into panicked confusion. She pushed at them, her skin crawling- Their hands were all over her body, patting her down as they searched for weapons. They confiscated the knife she'd strapped to her thigh.
"I'm here to see Stephen Ross," she said over and over, but her words elicited no response—not even eye contact. It was as if the men were mutes. Her horse was led away, and one of the men gripped her upper arm in a firm hold, leading her forcefully across the courtyard and into the castle. Her heart hammered in her throat, her breath coming in small gasps as terror tightened her chest. Baobhan siths murdered people—ripped their throats out and drank their blood. She had not told anyone where she was going. No one knew where she was. She could disappear and no one would ever suspect she’d come here.
Foolish. Foolish. Foolish. And impulsive.
The men led her to an enormous room, it’s high ceilings carved with dragons and griffins. A huge chair, it’s back to Deidra, crouched before a blazing fire. A bear skin draped the back of it, and more skins covered the arms.
The men shoved Deidra until she stood before the chair, her back to the fire. Sprawled in the thronelike monstrosity was Stephen Ross, but not the Stephen Ross Deidra remembered from her youth.
Even as a cripple Stephen Ross had not been a small man. He’d not been over-tall, but he had been broad and thick with muscle. The man that sat before her was enormous. He wore a white shirt that hung open, exposing a muscled chest furred with light blond hair that traveled down a hard abdomen, disappearing beneath a thick leather belt.
Pale blue eyes regarded her without emotion. His blond hair had grown long and hung loose over his shoulders and down his back. He was still an exceedingly handsome man, but pain had deepened the lines beside his mouth and eyes, showing the passage of years. Pale whiskers stubbled his chin and upper lip. He looked disreputable and dangerous. Not at all like a harmless cripple.
His arms rested on the chair arms, and he gripped a tankard in one of his hands. He stared at her beneath dark blond brows. The men exited the room, leaving them alone. Deidra stood mutely before Stephen Ross, trembling uncontrollably. The blasting heat from the fire at her back did nothing to dispel the chill fear that gripped her.
He took a long, thoughtful drink from his tankard, his gaze remaining fixed on her. Then he said, "I know you."
His presence overwhelmed her She couldn't form a coherent thought. She trembled from the inside out. Her mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.
He lowered the tankard to rest on the chair arm. His gaze scanned her from head to toe. “Are you from the village?"
Deidra managed a small shake of her head.
"What do you do?"
She blinked. "I—I don't understand."
He sighed with studied patience. "What do you do?" Each word was enunciated, as if she were an addlepate. "Do you work magic with your hands? Your body? Your mouth? What will it be tonight?"
Though innocent in experience, Deidra was not innocent in knowledge of what went on between men and women. Nevertheless, his comment struck her as so inconceivable that her mind scrambled for some meaning other than the one his words conveyed. He hadn't just assumed she was a common village trull. He couldn't have.
His brow lowered into a frown. "You'd think you would have cleaned up a bit first." He waved a hand at her, encompassing her travel-stained attire and ending with a baffled wave at her head. "Or combed your hair and removed some of the foliage." He slurred his words slightly, indicating that He’d drunk more than one tankard. He took another deep drink, watching her all the while.
Heat rushed to her cheeks. She patted at her hair self-consciously and felt the leaves stuck in there. She pulled them out, dropping them surreptitiously to the floor.
He wiped a hand across his mouth. "You'd better be impressive, sweet, or I'm not paying full price, not for a wench that wilna even pick the leaves from her last tumble out of her hair."
And with that bit of crudeness, there was no doubt what he inferred. Her jaw unhinged as she stared at him in stunned silence. It had been a very long time since she’d last seen Stephen Ross, and even then, she’d been a child and had not actually known him. Nevertheless, this was not what she remembered. In her memory He’d been a charmer, not a whoremonger.
He reached a hand out to her, strong fingers curved invitingly. "Come closer, wee dustball. Let us put that sweet mouth to good use."
She gaped at his hand. "You think I am a whore? That I came here to.. .to.. .to..." She was so appalled that she couldn't even say it. Her lip curled in disgust. "You make me sick."
He lowered his hand but didn't look terribly surprised at her indignation.
She swept her arm out to encompass the room. "Is this what you've become? A pathetic cripple, lying around drunk, paying whores to make you feel good for a few moments?"
His eyes narrowed to pale blue slits. "I assure you, lassie, it will take more than a few moments."
Deidra rolled her eyes. "You cannot help me. I can see that now. You are no baobhan sith. You are just a sad lonely man who has to pay for companionship."
He leaned back in the chair, rubbing his fingers over his lips. “And when she speaks, she spews forth poison."
At least I don't spew forth whisky fumes."
He glowered at her for a moment, then his mouth curved. A second later he chuckled. He raised his tankard in a salute to her.
"You are Rose and William's bairn."
This surprised Deidra. After a second she nodded, though inwardly she recoiled at being referred to as a child.
"I thought I recognized the eyes and the hair." He raised his finger as if to trace her features, then dropped it heavily so that his hand rested again on the fur-covered chair arm. "But it was the mouth that gave away your heritage. Only Rose has such a gimlet tongue."
"She is my stepmother, not my mother."
"She raised you since you were a wee thing." He held a hand out to indicate a child's height. "You obviously learned your razor wit from her."
Deidra loved her stepmother and normally would be proud to be compared to her...if the comparison had been made by anyone else. How dare such a waste of flesh pretend to know her? He knew nothing.
She crossed her arms over her chest. "The earl of Irvine is a well respected man. You obviously did
not learn to be a sot and a lecher from him."
He feigned a scowl. “I sense disappointment. What is it you said before? I am no baobhan sith? What is that?"
Deidra sighed and looked heavenward. He didn't even know what a baobhan sith was. This was a wasted, useless journey. “A baobhan sith? A blood witch? Surely you jest. I thought everyone had heard the tales of the blood witches."
"No, not everyone." He shifted in his chair and glanced to his right. Another, smaller chair was beside him. He indicated it with a careless wave. "Pray, have a seat and enlighten me."
Deidra remained rooted to the spot. She had not forgotten his rudeness. She was still insulted.
He stared up at her, his pale eyes probing- "You're still in a chuff, aye? Well, I apologize. How's that? Smooth your fur any!”
Deidra's lips tightened and her arms folded closer to her chest.
Stephen sighed. "Come now. Accept my apology.. .or at least pretend to. What else will you do? It's late, you're in the middle of nowhere, and I offer you a hot meal and soft bed. Indulge me."
He had a point. Deidra didn't really want to, but it was late and she was stuck here for the night. She sank into the chair. The bone-deep ache from two days of hard travel and fitful sleep on a hard ground throbbed through her. Every muscle pulsed with exquisite pain as she relaxed in the chair. It was a fine, well made chair, just like everything else she’d seen in the castle thus far. The soft pillow she sat on had been skillfully embroidered, and a skin hung over the chair back and arms, cushioning the wood and making the seat extremely comfortable.
"Hungry? Thirsty?" Before she could answer, he gave a harsh shout. Seconds later, a man entered the room. "Fetch our guest some food and drink, and prepare a room for her."
The man bowed out and Stephen turned his attention back to her. He cocked his head slightly as he regarded her. "Deidra... aye?"
She nodded and he smiled, pleased with his memory, which apparently had not been impaired by the excess of spirits.
"Good. Deidra—tell me now the tales of the baobhan sith that I was deprived of in my youth."