Warrior Untamed

by Mayhue, Melissa

  A moment to regain his control.

  A moment to ensure her passion spiked as high as his own.

  He shifted his weight to one side and trailed his hand down to her waist and around to the juncture between her legs.

  So hot, so welcoming, her hips lifted and she moaned with pleasure as he slipped one finger inside her.

  With one finger inside and his thumb covering the hard little nub, he had but to flex his hand and her moan turned to a breathless whimper, her hips lifting rhythmically to meet the movement of his hand.

  Two fingers. Two fingers pressing deep inside, readying her body to accept him. Massaging, slow at first, building in tempo until her body convulsed, her throbbing muscles pulsating around his fingers.

  He held her through her climax, his lips covering hers until she gasped for breath.

  She was ready for the next step.

  With his hands at the small of her back, he lifted her hips and positioned himself against her.

  She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled his mouth to hers, opening for him, her tongue fencing with his in a magnificent dance.

  It was now. She would be his.

  He’d just begun the exquisitely slow slide into her welcoming sheath when an unearthly scream shattered his moment of bliss.

  Not quite human, not quite beast, the sound pierced the night, echoing louder than the rumble of the crashing storm outside.

  Hall leapt to his feet, grabbed his sword in one hand and his fur in the other. The sword he raised in front of him. The fur he tossed over the fire, smothering the flames and dousing every last bit of light.

  “What was that?” Bridget asked in a whisper, lifting herself up on her elbows.

  He didn’t answer, tilting his head to one side in an effort to catch the smallest ripple of vibration for miles. In the silence of the suddenly stilled storm, only one sound reached his ears—the steady beat of massive wings passing through the air, racing away from them.

  Fourteen

  PAIN FROM THE depths of Niflheim wracked his body, radiating along the length of his arm.

  Fenrir slid from the window ledge into his tower to land on his bare feet. Earlier in the evening, he’d taken the form of the great owl to investigate the odd vibrations he’d sensed from the far corner of his lands.

  Half an hour into his flight, he’d spotted it, a strange red glow pulsating up from the ground, flowing out into the night. He’d known that whatever emitted that light was a danger to him, because the five oozing sores around his heart had pulsated in conjunction with the glow. Whatever had caused the wound to Torquil’s body was somewhere down there in the night.

  He’d been closing in on the source when a sudden, savage storm exploded the sky around him.

  He could find no respite, no safe escape. The lightning caught him, charring his feathers and searing his skin. In his agony, his concentration wavered, and with it, his form. He plummeted helplessly toward the land below, struggling desperately to recover his hold on the transformation Magic.

  In his original form, the form in which he had been created, such a near crisis would never have occurred. But his own form was long gone, destroyed by the Elves of Niflheim when they imprisoned his spirit in those accursed scrolls of theirs.

  His merging with the laird of the MacDowylt was nearing completion, and his senses accepted the body he had borrowed as if it were his own. And this body, this weak, helpless body, had plummeted from the skies like a boulder when he was attacked.

  And it was an attack. No mere storm, no mere coincidence, could have formed so quickly or so viciously to drive him away.

  “I must have my scrolls,” he roared to the heavens, clutching his injured arm.

  Without them, he was trapped as a lesser being, unable to enhance this body to prevent such a thing as had happened tonight.

  Without them, he was separated from the vast power of his Magic.

  Without them, he risked another imprisonment within the Magic of the symbols scrawled on their faces.

  The pain in his arm pulsed with every beat of the pitifully small heart in his chest. He turned his attention to study the wound. A burn, jagged and scarring, raced the length of his arm from shoulder to elbow. The sickly sweet stench of charred flesh rose up from the gaping rip in his skin, churning his stomach.

  Silently, he sent an order to the captain of his guard to bring a healer to him. He hurt as only a feeble Mortal body could hurt. Great heaving waves of pain assaulted his physical being. Never before, never in his true form, had he experienced torment like this. The need to relieve the agony was so great that he reached for the jug of spirits on the shelf above the fireplace. Whisky might dull his senses, if only for a short time.

  He tipped back the container, allowing the liquid to flow down his throat, burning the tender flesh as it gurgled toward his stomach.

  Even before this calamity struck, his evening had been one frustration after another.

  None of the remaining men he’d sent in pursuit of his treasure had managed to locate the thief yet. His attempts to control the boy through his dreams were thwarted by the power of the sword. And when he’d attempted to view the culprit’s location through the jewels, his view had been blocked as if the stones were swathed in layers of protective covering, the five of them united in their effort to reject him.

  He prayed that the jewels hadn’t been separated from the scrolls. That sort of a foolish move would leave the powers of the scrolls, his powers, available for anyone to claim, a completely unacceptable outcome.

  It was his concern over the jewels that had sent him winging into the night.

  Whisky in hand now, he stared out into the star-sparkled heavens. After spending an eternity imprisoned by the jewels’ power, he recognized the feel of them, and tonight he was sure he’d felt them somewhere in the vast dark of the night, heading in his direction.

  Perhaps it was only the dilution of his powers he suffered as he melded with this form, but uncertainty clouded his thoughts. The sudden storm, so strange and unusual for this time of year, had assailed him as if engaging in battle.

  Mere chance?

  He downed another long draught of the heady drink before turning his back on the window.

  He didn’t believe in chance.

  Something was out there. A threat greater than he had faced in many years.

  Though he wouldn’t be flying again anytime soon, he would be vigilant. He would find a way to search for whatever had given off those peculiar vibrations. To search for whatever life force had lit the night with its eerie red glow.

  And when he found it, his justice would be swift and merciless to whoever dared approach him with such a burdensome gift.

  Fifteen

  EVERYTHING BRIE HAD ever imagined about what the future held in store for her had changed completely over the course of this strange and wonderful evening. For the first time in her life, she could envision herself with a man at her side as she rode into the hereafter.

  One very specific man, upon whose broad chest she rested her head. Halldor O’Donar.

  Hall. Her Hall.

  The warmth of happiness cocooned her and she ran a hand across the hard expanse of chest that served as her pillow. His hand covered hers, offering the reassurance of a light squeeze.

  What might have happened between them had they not been interrupted by that horrible scream would remain fodder for her fantasies for the moment. The need to remain vigilant for whatever had lurked outside in the dark outweighed their desire to lose themselves in the fog of sensual pleasure.

  What she couldn’t even begin to conceive of, even in her own admittedly overactive imagination, was what kind of beast could possibly have issued that hideous shriek. Never in her life had she heard such an unearthly sound.

  After checking their campsite, Hall had returned with a growled “No fire.”

  Under the circumstances, she agreed.

  Beneath her ear, his heart pounded strong and s
ure. Thankfully, adjusting the bandage over his wound had made a remarkable difference in his strength. She prayed, to whatever gods would listen, that he would remain his strong warrior self until they reached Orabilis.

  Her strong warrior.

  She’d never dared to think of any man as hers before. But she’d never met anyone like Hall. He, unlike every other man she’d ever known, accepted her as his equal. It seemed only natural they should be together. He was so much like her—a warrior with nothing but his honor, and no place to call his own.

  “Will you remain here?” Her question echoed off the rocks above them, jarringly loud in the silence. She lowered her voice to barely more than a whisper to continue. “When all this is over, I mean.”

  It seemed a logical question. His brother, Chase, had married Christiana MacDowylt, so without question he would remain at Castle MacGahan.

  But would Hall do the same?

  “At Castle MacGahan, you mean? Such a prospect paints a most pleasant picture to a man such as I.” He stroked his fingers softly through her hair for several minutes before he spoke again. “But such is not woven as my fate.”

  Surely he didn’t still believe she’d allow him to die out here.

  “Your fate is not what you fear. I intend to see you safely to Rowan Cottage, where the witch will heal you. I so swear it. You have no call to doubt that outcome or to expect the worst will happen.”

  A chuckle rumbled under her ear. “I have not one doubt about your good intentions, Shield Maiden. But even should you be successful, once our task is finished and our enemy defeated, I have no choice but to return to my home.”

  She wished for light so that she might see his face as he spoke. So much meaning was lost in the words floating in the dark void where they lay.

  “Where is home for you?”

  “I live along the northern coast of the Isle of Mists,” he answered, his voice little more than a whisper as well. “Ireland, you’d call it. Home of my grandmother’s people.”

  He meant to return to Ireland? And leave a whole entire ocean separating them? That would never do. Whatever laird he served would simply have to make do without her big warrior.

  “You ken there’s a place for you here, aye? You dinna have to go back. Forget about those you served there. We need you here.”

  She needed him here.

  “My days are not my own. My life’s path is not my own to choose. I am committed to go when and where I’m needed, when and where I’m sent, no matter where I might want to be. I don’t have the luxury of forgetting those for whom I am responsible. Though I’d venture a guess, as often as I’m gone, they might feel forgotten. Nonetheless, they are my people and I have an obligation to see to their welfare.”

  “Yer people?” She lifted her head and turned toward him, straining to see his face. In the dark, she could barely make out his shape, let alone his features or expression.

  “Yes. With my grandmother gone, Haven Castle and all her people have become my responsibility. I must oversee their welfare and safety, as well as the welfare and safety of those I’m sent to help. It is the destiny I was born to. My path in life. And I cannot change it, no matter that I might want to.”

  Brie struggled for her next breath, feeling as though her heart had stopped beating.

  He was a laird. With a castle and responsibilities. A man born to substance and wealth.

  And she? She was no one. She owned nothing but a few paltry household goods she could carry upon the back of a horse. She was certainly not the dowried lady a man such as Hall would one day wed.

  All the ridiculous fantasies she’d allowed herself to indulge in as she lay in his arms disappeared like smoke on a blustery day. She’d never been much of a dreamer and she certainly was no fool. A landed man like him would never want someone like her for more than a quick night’s tumble.

  And Bridget MacCulloch, daughter of the House MacUlagh, descended from the Ancient Seven, tumbled for no man. Especially not a man who could so easily break her heart.

  If she allowed him that power over her.

  She rolled to her knees and placed her palm against his forehead, fighting to keep her roiling emotions in check.

  “Fever’s completely gone. I think it’s best we get some sleep. We’ll want an early start.”

  She crawled away from him and built a physical barrier between them by piling up the bags of provisions they traveled with.

  If only she could build an emotional barrier as easily.

  “Bridget?” He sounded confused, and she hardened her heart against the hurt in his voice.

  “Go to sleep, Hall. Morning will be here soon enough, and we’ve a long way to travel to reach Orabilis on the morrow.”

  She’d done herself proud. Only calm and determination rang in her voice. Not even the tiniest hint of the hurt eating away at her soul had escaped.

  She would have to keep it so. It was her only hope against losing her heart and her soul.

  Sixteen

  KEEP UP WITH me, Hall. You can do this. We’ve no much farther to go now.”

  Hall nodded his acceptance of Bridget’s encouragement, hoping he wouldn’t let her down. Fearing he already had.

  She’d been distant since last night, when he’d confessed to her that his life was not his own to control. As he’d suspected, no woman, not even Bridget, wanted a man who was always gone, battling some new enemy, leaving her to a life of loneliness.

  Not that it mattered now. He’d be lucky to live through the day, so worrying over how often Thor dispatched him to see to the welfare of one of his believers was of little consequence.

  All he could do now was put her out of his mind and focus his efforts to stay alive. In the long run it was better this way, the way he had always known his life was meant to be.

  What life he had left, anyway.

  He couldn’t hold on much longer. Between keeping the rain at bay and the vile Magic eating its way through his body, he’d about reached the limit of his strength. Pain radiated out from the wound and up into his neck. For the past several minutes, he couldn’t quite get that side of his face to work as it should. His eye drooped shut, no matter how hard he struggled to keep it open. His shoulder felt as if lightning bolts sawed back and forth within the wound, and that was with the bandage-wrapped jewels firmly in place.

  Day three, the maximum extent of time the Faerie had allotted him.

  He lifted his hand up toward the west, his shaky palm facing him. Four fingers’ distance remained between the sun and the horizon. On this last day Editha had given him to reach Rowan Cottage, maybe an hour of daylight remained, and he was fading fast.

  The way he felt now, he wouldn’t last to see another sunset.

  He tied a knot in the end of his reins, slipped them down over his head, and fitted them under his arms. When he lost consciousness, that precaution might at least keep him in the saddle. If he fell to the ground, he doubted Bridget’s ability to get him back on the horse, though he didn’t doubt her willingness to try.

  The woman was stubborn to a fault. It was one of the traits he’d come to admire most in her. That and her temper.

  “It willna be long now. We’re close,” Bridget called over her shoulder, continuing the repetitive encouragement she’d adopted over the past hour. “Oh, bother it all, the rains are back.”

  So they were. He had no choice but to let something go, and it was taking everything he had left just to remain upright on his horse.

  “Sorry,” he managed to mumble, but doubted she’d heard him. He wasn’t even sure he’d heard it himself.

  He regretted all the people he’d be letting down. Regretted how angry Bridget would be that she hadn’t been able to get him to Rowan Cottage in time. Most of all, he regretted that he wouldn’t get to witness it. Nothing he’d ever seen was quite as beautiful as Bridget MacCulloch in full rage, her eyes sparkling with the fire of her emotions, her cheeks pink with the heat of her anger, her tongue honed to its sh
arpest point as she argued her case.

  He would miss that.

  The only thing he could think of that was more beautiful than Bridget in full fury was Bridget lying beneath him, her eyes unfocused with a need he was prepared to meet.

  He didn’t want to leave that behind. Perhaps he could hang on just a bit longer . . . but no. Even as the thought flared, all control drained from his arms and his back began to buckle.

  He pitched forward as if in slow motion, to bury his face in the wet hair on his mount’s neck.

  BEHIND HER, THE sound of hoofbeats slowed to a stop and Brie huffed out an irritated breath. They’d stopped too often today already. If Hall didn’t get a move on, it was going to take until well after dark to reach Rowan Cottage. They were running out of time.

  “How many times do I have to tell you to keep up with me? Yer no helping in the least, when you constantly . . .”

  Her tirade faded to a stop as she turned. “No, no, no, no, no,” she cried, hopping down from her mount to race to his side. “Hall? Hall! Answer me, damn you!”

  He lay sprawled facedown on his horse’s neck, motionless.

  Had the bandage slipped again? That must be it. She wouldn’t accept anything else. She’d simply redress the bandage, snugging the jewels over the wound again, and he’d be good as new in no time.

  Hoisting herself up onto his horse behind him, she struggled to pull away the heavy wet fur he wore. The momentary satisfaction of success evaporated as she checked the bandage and found it securely in place.

  This was far more serious than the bandage slipping.

  “Day three,” she whispered, resting her head against his back.

  It wasn’t fair. Day three hadn’t yet come to an end.

  Gradually, she became aware of a faint sound beneath her ear. A steady, if not strong, heartbeat.

  Hall still lived, and that was enough for her. She wouldn’t give up, either.