Warrior Untamed

by Mayhue, Melissa

  For now, her path was to return to Castle MacGahan. Perhaps her brother would be there by the time she arrived.

  Things would be different when Jamesy came home. Together, they could set out to track the sword themselves. They would find it, and they would put an end to both Torquil MacDowylt and whatever creature lived inside him. Revenge for her father’s murder would be hers.

  And as for Halldor O’Donar?

  Turning to look over her shoulder, she cast one last glare in his direction. As she’d promised, she wouldn’t forget this latest slight, his sending her away for a second time as if she were some fragile maid in need of his protection.

  By the Seven, he was the most arrogant creature she’d ever met. But she’d show him. She’d track him and find him, and when she did, she’d give him a piece of her mind.

  “What’s got that silly smile upon yer face?” Eleyne asked, her fingers twitching at the blanket covering her lap.

  “I’m no smiling,” Brie denied, carefully wiping all expression from her face.

  And even if she had been, it was only the thought of getting even with O’Donar that made her smile. Certainly not the prospect of meeting up with him again.

  Two

  FINGERS SPLAYED, THE hand reached out to cover the meat in front of him. With little effort, the fingers closed around the morsel and efficiently brought it to his mouth.

  This body, this vessel that had become Fenrir’s new abode, was becoming his now, responding to his thoughts as if he had been born in this form.

  A pity this casing was so weak and vulnerable.

  Fenrir bit into the hot mutton and shivered, longing for the banquet tables of old in his home world. He longed for raw meat that dripped warm blood, fresh from the kill, rather than this pale, tasteless cooked fare that these creatures insisted on consuming.

  Those days, like his original form, were long gone. But if he had his way, they wouldn’t be gone forever.

  He was Torquil MacDowylt now. Laird of the MacDowylts of the North. And in this guise, he would soon rule all he set his sights upon. Nothing in this world could stop him.

  At least, not once he regained possession of those treasures that were rightfully his.

  What little appetite he had for the tasteless swill in front of him disappeared completely at the thought of his missing treasures, and he tossed the overcooked meat back onto the table.

  With the scrolls gone, it was as if a large chunk of him were gone as well. The most powerful of his ancient spells had been locked inside those pages when Odin had bidden the Elves of Niflheim to imprison him. And now, finally, after more time than he could gauge had passed, now that he once again had hands to hold those scrolls, they were gone!

  The scrolls and the jewels that were the keys to unlocking his Magic from its prison. The scrolls and the jewels that were the means to imprison him again. Gone. Taken by some pathetic, putrid little human.

  And the sword!

  He forced himself to breathe, drawing air into the pitifully small lungs this body afforded him.

  The Sword of the Ancients could not remain adrift. Steel forged in the fires of Asgard, honed on the bones of the warriors filling Valhalla, this was a weapon he must possess. This was a weapon, the only weapon, he feared. It alone had the power to steal his freedom. The power to end his life.

  Not just the life of this pathetic body he inhabited, but his, Fenrir’s, very existence. It had been created for that purpose.

  The legs of his chair scraped loudly across the stone floor as he pushed away from the table to stand, fury beating in his chest. Around him, the insignificant mortals who assumed he was their laird stilled, turning their frightened faces in his direction.

  They should be frightened. Though they knew it not, their lives were no longer their own. Their laird had been a formidable tyrant, but at his worst, he was a frail maiden compared to Fenrir in full ferocity.

  Without a word, he strode from the great hall and up to his bedchamber. Once there, he sat upon his large bed and removed his shirt, dropping it next to him.

  He had sent a party of men in search of his treasures days ago, and he needed to see what progress they’d made. He needed to see if he could yet break through the mental barriers of the one who had stolen what belonged to him. Once he accomplished that step, it would be easy enough to direct his warriors to the exact location of the wretched thief and reclaim his rightful belongings.

  He rubbed his hand over the smooth skin of his new body, still somehow surprised at the lack of fur. He glanced down as his fingers encountered a twinge of pain where five oozing, festering marks circled his heart. He didn’t know what Torquil had done to damage their body in this fashion before he’d taken control of it, but he’d been unable to heal this unusual wound, no matter what he’d tried.

  It was a mystery he would have to deal with at a later time.

  He lay back and nestled his head into the pillow beneath him. Eyes closed, he retreated into his mind, ignoring the piteous cries coming from behind the black door deep within the hidden recesses there. Plead as he might, what was left of Torquil MacDowylt’s soul would remain in that place until Fenrir no longer needed this form.

  Calming his thoughts, Fenrir set them free, flying through the world of the between in search of the sparkly bits of stone he sought.

  Only when he found them did he slow, taking care to avoid their siren pull upon him. As long as the thief kept them all together, he had no chance. But once they were separated, their power was his.

  He was in luck. Carefully, slowly, he fit his essence inside the one jewel that had been separated from the others. Beyond the red shimmer of the ruby’s walls, he could just make out the shadowy, wavering form a man.

  “There you are,” he growled, pushing his voice beyond the stone, into the cold night air. “Did you think to escape me so easily?”

  The young man yelped in fright, whatever he’d held clattering to the ground at his feet.

  The thief was little more than a terror-stricken boy? He couldn’t have asked for better luck. Since his power rode the wings of terror, this was going to be much, much easier than he had expected.

  Three

  MATHEW MACFALNY STEPPED out of the small house and into a narrow, dirty alley deep in the bowels of Inverness. He didn’t have to count the paltry sum of coins in his sporran again to know he’d been cheated.

  The old merchant’s eyes had lit with greed when Mathew showed him the jewel. He’d closed down his stall and brought Mathew here, to his home, where they could conduct their business in private.

  Hugo had often said he trusted no one. Though his brother had been sorely lacking in scruples of his own, he’d been right on that count. Because of his brother’s training, Mathew had split up the treasures the night before he’d reached Inverness, carrying only one of each in his sporran and hiding the others in the small pack he carried.

  When he’d first approached the old merchant, something about the man’s attitude had warned him this wasn’t the place to present all the treasures he planned to sell.

  He’d shown the old merchant one single jewel and one ancient scroll, claiming they were all he had left in the world to support him and his poor family of orphaned brothers and sisters.

  And still the old man cheated him.

  Mathew had no doubt the merchant was, at this very moment, cackling in glee over the bargain they’d struck, knowing he’d fetch a much higher price than what he’d paid for Mathew’s lovely bauble.

  But the transaction hadn’t been a complete loss. The coins in Mathew’s sporran were enough to provide him with a mount and the provisions he would need to reach Dunvegan Castle.

  Besides, he was more than ready to have that blighted ruby out of his hands. Let the merchant deal with the vengeful spirit dwelling inside it. It would serve him right for his cheating ways.

  Freed of that burden, Mathew was ready for his next step. Although the merchant had had no interest in the scroll
he’d hoped to sell, he’d told Mathew that the laird of the MacLeod was said to desire such things, willing to pay good silver with no questions asked. The great laird was also rumored to harbor a particular interest in Magic and the Fae.

  Once the merchant had assured Mathew that the markings on the scroll were none he’d ever seen before, Mathew had determined that Dunvegan would be his next destination. With a story already brewing in his mind, it should take little effort to convince the MacLeod laird that he’d discovered the scrolls lying on a tuft of grass just outside a Faerie Circle, as if the Fae themselves had accidentally left the scrolls behind.

  Mathew’s mood lightened as the tale seemed to take on a life of its own, weaving itself ever more intricately in his imagination. Perhaps now that he’d left his pipes behind, he should consider becoming a troubadour, weaving stories to delight the crowds.

  That or any other future would depend upon how successful he might be when he met the MacLeod laird.

  He needed a good horse underneath him, so he’d look less like a boy on the run and more like a man worthy of an important business deal. His body might be that of a sixteen-year-old, but the last few days had aged his mind and soul far beyond his years.

  With a fine mount, a story such as he’d invented, and the MacLeod laird’s penchant for Magic and Faeries, Mathew would be a wealthy man by the time he departed Dunvegan.

  With wealth came power, and power was exactly what he needed most desperately.

  Power would enable him to find his cousin, Eleyne, and take her home where she belonged. Power would enable him to stand up to his uncle and demand his rightful place at Castle Glenluce.

  Such worthy goals should certainly override the tang of dishonor that clung to the way the treasures had come into in his possession. After all, the things he’d taken from Tordenet were no more than the just payment he deserved for what the evil laird there had done to his brother, Hugo.

  He shuddered at the memory of his brother’s mutilated body, struggling to push it from his mind’s eye.

  Wealth was what he needed now. Wealth and power.

  Perhaps with enough wealth, with enough power, he might even drive away the nameless fear that haunted his every dream.

  Four

  BRIE’S HEART POUNDED in her chest as the Tinklers’ wagon lumbered under the open portcullis and through the long, tunnellike gate at Castle MacGahan.

  She spotted him the instant they pulled into the bailey.

  Her brother had returned! At last she would have a partner in her quest to avenge their father’s death.

  Jamesy stood at the top of the great stairs, flanked by two men she didn’t recognize. Hands on his hips, his long brown hair ruffling in the breeze, he looked the very image of everything she’d ever imagined in a Pictish king.

  Thank the Seven he’d returned. For the first time since her father’s death, she felt as if she weren’t alone.

  Next to her, Eleyne gave her a little shove as she tried to push in front of Brie. Tried, but didn’t succeed. It would take more strength than the tiny blonde possessed to move her out of the way.

  “Who is that?” Eleyne asked, peering over her shoulder, her gaze clearly fixed on the stairs where the three men stood.

  Brie ignored her, intent on climbing down from the slow-moving wagon. She hit the ground lightly, but stumbled as she started forward.

  “Bollocks,” she grunted, recovering her balance and gathering up the layers of skirts that composed the Tinkler costume she wore.

  The dress might be pretty, but pretty was hardly practical.

  Jamesy met her halfway, wrapping her in his arms, hugging her close, and lifting her inches off the ground just as their da had always done. If she closed her eyes, she might almost believe her da had returned.

  Though it wouldn’t surprise her if she and Jamesy had themselves a fine, rowdy argument before the sun set on their first day together, it was beyond good to have her big brother home again. He, like no other here at Castle MacGahan, was true family.

  “You’ve been gone too long,” she proclaimed, returning her brother’s embrace. “You canna believe how I’ve missed you.”

  “What I canna believe is how you’ve filled out in just a year’s time. No wonder they tell me the castle’s larder is low.”

  Her older brother had always had the ability to annoy her more than any other person she knew.

  Though the big warrior Halldor O’Donar was running a close second of late.

  “Those look to me to be curves,” one of the men who joined them commented. “And none too excessive to my way of thinking.”

  “Did I forget to mention how it would be best for you to keep yer eyes—and yer thoughts—to yerself?” Jamesy growled, completely ruining the effect of his threat by giving her a wink as he ended their embrace.

  “Once or twice, mayhap,” the other responded, his voice reflecting his lack of concern over his friend’s bark. “But it’s yer own fault, Jamesy MacCulloch. When you spoke of a little sister, we all imagined a wee bit of a bairn, no a full-grown beauty such as this. You should introduce us.”

  Jamesy grinned down at her before turning to face his companions. “Well, then, Finn, you imagined wrong, did you no? And while we’re about it, I’ll thank you to keep my sister out of any further imaginings you might have, aye? She’s no meant for the likes of you.”

  “Friends of yers, are they?” she asked, studying the face of each of the men. They had to be, or Jamesy would have taken the mouthy one to the ground by now.

  “Aye,” her brother agreed with a roll of his eyes. He wagged his thumb to indicate the man who’d spoken. “The noisy one with the ragged dog at his side is Finley MacCormack. And the quiet one back there is Alexander MacKillican. I couldna shake the two of them from my heels when I left Edinburgh, so I’d no choice but to let them follow along. Like lost sheep, they were.”

  “Allow us?” Finn snorted his disbelief. “We couldna trust this brother of yers to stay out of trouble without us. It’s we who had no choice in the matter but to leave our studies and trail along after him. Am I no telling the God’s honest truth, Alex?”

  Alex shrugged. “We’ve a bond, for a fact. Harm one, harm us all.”

  Brie acknowledged the two men with a dip of her head, then turned to her brother, catching up his hand in hers as the four of them made their way toward the great stairs.

  She had so many things to tell Jamesy, so many plans to finalize. Chief among those things was determining when they would leave to find the sword they needed to confront their father’s killer.

  Jamesy stopped, his gaze scanning the wagon and riders in the courtyard. “Patrick dinna return with you?”

  She shook her head. “He and Halldor continued on after they met up with us.”

  Continued on their own merry way, leaving her behind as if she weren’t every bit the warrior they were.

  “Halldor?” Her brother turned a hard, questioning gaze her direction. “That would be O’Donar? He’s the one who managed to spirit you out of Tordenet in one piece, is he no?”

  He’d gotten her out of there, but he’d failed as miserably as she had in her original purpose in being there.

  “He is. But my escape from the castle came at a price. Torquil MacDowylt still lives, Jamesy. I missed my opportunity to kill the bastard.”

  All traces of humor left her brother’s eyes. “So Malcolm has told me. And now I hear that, thanks to some mythical beast, the MacDowylt laird is even more powerful than he was before.”

  Though she felt no trace of rebuke in what her brother said, she felt the guilt of having failed more sharply than if he’d accused her in plain words.

  She’d been in the room while Torquil slept. She’d stood over him, that fancy sword of his within arm’s reach. It had called to her to take it up, to use it as her own, but she’d lacked the nerve. Had she but plunged the weapon into his heart then and there, she might have prevented the battles that were to come. She c
ertainly would have had her revenge.

  But she hadn’t. What she had done was take the coward’s way out. She’d tucked tail and run from his castle like nothing more than a frightened—

  “Did you hear me?” Jamesy pulled at her arm. “It was foolish beyond measure, what you did, running off to Tordenet like that. No one had any idea where you’d gone or what peril you faced. And then you tried to gut the man with naught but a wee dagger at his own table in his own hall, surrounded by his own men?”

  It had been the best plan she could come up with at the time. And it might have worked, too, if not for the strength of the Beast inside him. All too well she remembered the evil red glow shining from Torquil’s eyes as he’d pinned her to the table and gone for her throat. If not for Halldor’s intervention on her behalf . . .

  “Are you listening to me? Yer no to ever put yerself in such danger again. With Da gone, it’s me you’ll need to answer to now, and on this matter, I will accept no quarrel. You’ll do as I say.”

  She could hardly believe what she’d just heard. Jamesy’s voice oozed with entitlement, and for the first time ever her brother’s words sounded more like those of their uncle than of their father.

  Bridget MacCulloch was no delicate maiden to be hidden away before some hearth and protected by men far weaker than she. Warrior blood coursed through her veins, just as it did through her brother’s. She was the last daughter of the House MacUlagh, descended from the Ancient Seven who ruled the land when not even the Roman invaders dared challenge all the way to the Northern Sea.

  Yet Jamesy spoke to her as if a year away had caused him to forget that.

  She pulled her hand from his and stepped back to glare at him. “Yer hardly in any position to be telling me what I can and canna do, Jamesy MacCulloch. You forget yerself. You forget who and what I am. When you leave here to go after the MacDowylt, it’s me what will be riding at yer side, weapon at the ready.”