by E. B. Brown
Yet reality was a harsh mistress, and Dagr was one more man who meant to use her for his own means. She swallowed hard and raised her eyes to his, refusing to let him see her weakness.
“Since it seems your loyalty can be bought, why not help me escape? I can still help you find your brother and return to your time. Can Malcolm give you the same?”
His gaze faltered. He scowled at her attack on his character.
“My loyalty is not for sale,” he growled.
“Then prove it. You promised to help me. Keep yer word and I shall keep mine,” she bargained. She pulled her sgian dubh from her belt and made a tiny slice in her palm, enough to bleed but not enough to worry over. “A blood bond, then, if you must. To seal our vows.”
He raised one dark brow and stared curiously at her. “Our vows?” he asked.
“I mean our pact. Our promise,” she stammered. Flustered by his closeness and shadowed by his thick body, she snatched his hand to distract her flailing wits. He did not object when she cut his palm and pressed their hands together. “There. I’ve sealed our pact.”
She heard the door latch click and suddenly his lips were close to hers.
“I will consider yer offer,” he said softly. He stepped away, opening the door as he left her space.
Skye did not look back when she fled to her room. It was no longer necessary to worry over Dagr, and she needed time to think.
It was late afternoon when she was summoned to the Laird’s study. Skye was glad to see she was alone when she arrived. She had enough to account for without her uncle and cousin monitoring her every word.
In truth, Old Laird McMillan had always treated her kindly. A part of her wished she could trust him, that he was different from the other clan leaders. She recalled how fond he was of his late wife and how he mourned terribly after her death – a natural death during a stillbirth, no less. Yet as much as she wanted to believe he was different, she wondered what the Laird might have done to save his wife. At the time of her death, there were no Blooded newborns in the clan, nor were there any adult women past childbearing years. Did the Laird let her die because it was the natural way of things or was it because he had no other option? It was a question that could never be answered, and a chance she was not willing to take.
Young Malcolm was a different matter entirely. They had often played together as children, running through the corridors of Castle Dunloch until their lungs burned near bursting. Together, they played fanciful games and stayed up late reading books in the Laird’s study. As she waited for the Laird, she traced her fingers over the spines of books along the shelves, bittersweet memories staining her thoughts. There was an old ladder along the shelf which rolled along the entire wall, tall enough to reach even the volumes near the ceiling. She smiled and climbed a few rungs, lost for the moment in the row of titles along the shelf.
“Yer welcome to take a book to your chambers, if you wish.”
At the sound of Malcolm’s voice she turned and her slipper slid off the rung, sending her barreling into the young man. He recovered swiftly from her assault, steadying her by gripping briefly on her arms. Nose to nose, she looked into his green eyes as she tried to catch her breath. His face was flushed and he quickly stepped backward.
“I – I’m sorry. Ye startled me,” she stammered. Glancing around the study, she noticed it was only Young Malcolm. The Old Laird was not with him.
“No, no. I should have announced myself,” he insisted. He ran a hand through his dark curly hair and placed the other on his hip, his discomfort obvious. Intrigued, she kept her gaze on him. He was not the boy she remembered. When they were children, his bright smile lit up his face, and he was a boy who laughed easily and played hard. The man before her, however, was much more reserved. Was he shy? She wondered. He coughed nervously and stole occasional glances at her, his green eyes wide and soft.
“No need. ‘Tis is your home. I am only a guest here,” she offered. Skye felt herself slipping back into the role of dutiful niece, the unobtrusive young woman who behaved as she was supposed to.
“This will be your home as well, Lady Skye. If there is something I can do to ease yer worries, please, tell me what it is,” he said softly. She let him take her hand, stunned as he pressed her knuckles gently to his lips.
“You’re unlike the boy I recall,” she said. He kept hold of her hand, tucking it into the bend of his elbow.
“That was a long time ago. I expect you might find me quite different than the boy you once knew.” He led her out the tall glass doors in the rear of the study, guiding her along a stone path into the garden. Although it was cold and there were no bright flowers to entertain them, the fountain trickled in a comforting manner and made the spot feel secluded.
Taking the heavy cloak from his back, Malcolm placed it carefully over her shoulders. His hands were warm when he tied it under her chin, straying for a moment as he brushed his fingertips over her cheek.
“Will ye tell me why ye ran? I thought we were all in agreement with this match,” he said.
She swallowed hard. If she told him her fears, he would lie. Of course he would lie. He had nothing to gain by doing anything else. He was a McMillan, and he needed to secure an heir to make his dying father happy. It was his duty to provide more Blooded Ones to his line, as it was to all the men of his kind.
“I am so sorry, my lord,” she said, bowing her head. She was not accustomed to adult Malcolm’s behavior and she was shocked when he cupped her face in his hand.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. I think ‘tis natural to be afraid of what it means to be married,” he said. “But I promise, I willna hurt ye. When we are married, you will have only the best of me – nothing less. I am not the most experienced man in these matters, but I know enough to ease your way on our wedding night.”
Oh, great God! He thought she was afraid of consummating their marriage. True, she was distressed at the thought of lying with her husband, but the idea of being used and discarded for her ancient blood was what truly drove her away. Suddenly a distressing thought raced through her as she looked up into his kind jade eyes.
If she had not found her mother’s letter warning her of the truth, then Skye would now be married to Malcolm. He would be her husband, and he would have every right to come into her bedchambers when he felt the need. The way he gazed at her sent a shiver over her skin as if he was waiting patiently to take what he felt assured was already his.
“Thank ye,” she murmured, allowing him to believe his own words. She would not tell him why she ran, for if he knew, he would only see that she would try to do it again. Better to play along with the charade, gain his trust, and find a way to escape to freedom before the marriage took place.
Before she could move away, his other hand slipped into her hair and he drew her close. As he covered her mouth with his, he slowly pulled her tightly against him and his lips became more demanding. She froze at his touch, startled by his sudden burst of passion. When she did not bend to his advances he drew slightly back, loosening his hold on her as he whispered her name close to her ear.
“Skye,” he said. “I promise ye, I will make ye happy. I canna wait to show ye. Tomorrow at the cèilidh, we’ll announce our betrothal – and soon you will be my wife.”
She could no longer stand the touch of his hands on her body, or the way he looked down upon her as if he owned her. The thought of lying in bed beside him sent a shudder through her body, and her head suddenly filled with thoughts of Dagr.
Dagr’s hands on her flesh.
Lying beside him, skin to skin as he showered her with kisses.
Yet it was Malcolm McMillan who stood before her, the man she was promised to. His eyes filled brightly with hopeful desire, searching hers for something she could not give.
Her heart, it seemed, had a mind of its own.
Chapter 7
Castle Dunloch
Dagr.
HIS HAND TINGLED along the cut where her blood
mixed with his. He had seen his Powhatan and Norse kin perform similar acts, sealing a promise with blood as an act of faith. It was an unbreakable bond, one he knew he could not bend. He had let her do it, and now it was his duty to see it through.
Turning back to his bed, he searched for the satchel of dried medicinal herbs Malcolm’s healer had left for his wounds. It was a soothing remedy mixed into a hot tea, and Dagr slept for several hours after he consumed it. Once he found the bag, he poured a handful of the crumpled leaves in his hand.
“Sleep well, brother?” Malcolm asked, entering the room without knocking. Dagr tilted his head slightly, eying up his brother’s lavish apparel. Outfitted with a pair of black trews and high leather boots, he was every bit the Laird’s son. His dark hair was pulled back with a leather tie held neatly at his nape, the curl of his pigtail brushing against the neckline of his green velvet overcoat.
“Well enough,” he replied with caution.
“Good, good!” Malcolm grinned. “I’d like ye to stand by my side tomorrow when the Laird announces the betrothal. He plans to have a cèilidh in my honor. It’s more to calm the fears of the people, ye see, so they know the marriage will happen. This joining is important to our entire clan.”
Dagr bit back a harsh retort, sighing as he nodded his head. What else could he do but support Malcolm and hope his brother came to his senses?
“Of course,” Dagr replied quietly.
“Very well, then!” Malcolm beamed. “Join me for the evening meal after you are dressed. We have much to celebrate.”
When Malcolm left and shut the door, Dagr slowly unclenched his fist as he let out the air he had been holding onto. Intending to deposit the herbs in a cup of hot water, he spread his fingers and gazed down at his hand.
Streaked with drops of blood, the herbs sat in his palm, yet they were crumbled pieces no more. New bright green leaves uncurled as he watched, first a clover, and then the young sprout of a dandelion. The yellow flower seemed to yawn, unwrapping its twisted stem as it grew into a strong green spike. Flecks of dried blood stained the yellow petals – a mixture of blood from Dagr and Skye.
Was it her blood that gave life to the dead plants, or was it the combination of both? No matter what the reason, he knew with every ounce of his being that she needed him more than ever. He did not trust himself when he was with her, but he was the only one he knew could protect her.
Dagr dropped the plants into the hot water but left the tea sitting on the table. He would need all his wits about him if he were going to figure out what to do.
He quickly donned the borrowed clothes Malcolm acquired for him. The trews were made of a soft cotton blend, a deep brown color with a matching tunic. He wore his own fur vest and ceremonial cloak since it was the best clothing he owned. He was accustomed to functional garments rather than extravagant ones such as Malcolm wore, and it made him distinctly uncomfortable to wear anything else. At least his cloak was warm. He would need the extra heat inside the hall of the drafty castle.
Malcolm was seated when Dagr arrived. He was surprised to see Skye at his brother’s right, and as Dagr approached Malcolm waved him to an empty chair to his left. Dagr flexed his fists, his fingers cutting into his palms as he sat down across from Skye. He tried to avoid looking at her but he could not resist, giving her a curt nod as their eyes met.
“Ale, Dagr?” Malcolm asked, waving one of the servants over. Dagr held his cup out for the skittish maid, smiling gently at her when she spilled a few drops on his hand.
“My apologies, milord!” she whispered, her plump face turning red.
“No worries,” he replied. He took the jug from her shaking hands and placed it on the table. She looked like she needed relief from her duties, or she might spill much more and earn Malcolm’s ire. Dagr knew his brother well, and he was not known for being a patient man.
At the opposite end of the table, Angus lifted his cup high, tipping his head to Malcolm.
“’Tis time to honor our new guest – a man from a distant land. Dagr must be a great warrior to earn the ear of our Laird’s son,” Angus called out. Although he grinned when Dagr met his gaze, the suspicion in his words was clear. If Angus questioned who Dagr was, it would create dissent among the rest of the men. Fortunately, Malcolm was quick to interject his own response, standing abruptly from his chair as he glared at Angus.
“Thank ye, Angus. Since we will soon be related by marriage, it pleases me greatly that ye trust my choice of counsel. Indeed, Dagr is a man I trust as I trust no other. I am sure when you know more of him, you will soon agree,” Malcolm said evenly as he lifted his own cup high above his head.
“Of course, my lord,” Angus agreed. “Let us celebrate your impending marriage as well. Once our families are united, there will be no other clan that can challenge us.”
Malcolm nodded, a wide smile spreading over his face. Shouts rang out through the hall, and the pounding of fists shook the long table as men roared and raised their drinks. With a tight smile on her lips, Skye raised her glass as well, tucking a wayward blond curl away from her face in a nervous manner. Malcolm leaned toward her and she tilted her head to him, smiling as she whispered something into his ear that made Malcolm smile.
“Dagr, Lady Skye wishes to walk outside. Would ye mind accompanying her until I can join ye? I will not be long,” Malcolm said, turning to Dagr. Skye’s smile faded.
“Of course,” Dagr replied. As torturous as it would feel to be in her company, he was glad Angus was not chosen for the duty. It was difficult enough playing second to his younger brother as he watched enemies swarm – and Dagr had the uneasy feeling that Angus Cameron was no ally.
Skye rose abruptly and stalked off. Malcolm shrugged and raised his brows in an apologetic gesture as Dagr left the table to follow her.
Pulling his cloak up around his neck, Dagr shivered as the cool air rippled the fur. Soon he was sure Skye was hell bent on torturing him, for he could see no reason why she must walk in the garden when a storm loomed overhead. Her back was huddled beneath her furs, tendrils of her hair escaping from the sides of her hood as wind whipped through the aisles. If he was cold, surely she must be freezing.
“Must you see the garden now?” he demanded as he caught up to her. She sat gingerly down on the edge of a fountain, looking at the frozen spray on the spout instead of at him. Dagr shoved his hands into his cloak to keep from reaching out to her. He did not enjoy seeing her discomfort, and he could see her shoulders shudder as she fought the cold.
“I asked to go alone. I don’t need an escort,” she shot back. Clutching her bare hands together, her knuckles stood out in a line of white nubs across her fists.
Dagr bent down in front of her and took her hands into his with a sigh. He rubbed her cold fingers and then cupped her hands between his, blowing gently to warm her. Once some color returned, he wrapped the edge of his cloak around her hands and held them gently between them. Despite the painful numbness in his knee from the frozen earth, he refused to budge when she tried to pull away.
“Be reasonable. You’ll lose your fingers,” he said quietly.
“I can manage just fine, thank ye!” she insisted.
He shook his head, staring up into her soft brown eyes. “Aye, ye can manage. But ‘tis no harm in taking help from one who offers it.”
She stared back at him for a long while, her face creased with a frown. Slowly the distrust faded, and he imagined he saw a glimmer of softness in her gaze. As much as he longed for her trust, he knew he did not deserve it. What kind of man would he be if he took what belonged to Malcolm? A betrothal was a contract in his time and hers, one that should not be tampered with – especially by one’s own brother.
“Are ye saying you will help me?” she whispered. Her hands, once rigid, softened, and he felt her fingers wind around his own.
“Skye,” he said, his voice hoarse, “Can ye not be happy here? Here, in this time, I can keep you safe. I can protect you. I canna help ye if y
ou run. Trust me for that much, at least, if for nothing more. If you leave, you leave alone.”
“How can you protect me here? Your new friendship with Malcolm is not enough.”
“It is enough,” he said. “Malcolm has enough power to keep you safe. You need to trust him as well.” The bitter words left his tongue in a rush, leaving the taste of betrayal in his dry mouth. “There is something else you should know. Your blood – our blood – it gave life to the dead. Here, look.”
He unsheathed the blade from his belt and re-opened the scabbed wound on his hand. She extended her hand and he did the same to her, twisting their fingers together when the deed was done. He plucked a shriveled rose from the edge of the fountain and slipped it between their hands, coating it in their blood.
“You must be mistaken,” she insisted.
“Nay. Open yer hand,” he replied.
He held the plant in his outstretched palm as Skye pulled away, her eyes wide. A moment later the plant twitched, curling back down upon itself in a dry, tight ball, until suddenly it flopped open. He heard her gasp as it changed from dark brown to a bright shade of green, its new stem unfolding into a long straight spike. Thorns emerged, pricking his skin, and the petals faded to a silvery white hue. The flower burst wide, contracted, and then closed into a perfect bud, tinged with droplets of their powerful joined blood.
“’Tis not possible!” she cried. “Only the newborns have that power!”
“I know. It’s what I was told as well. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Even a whisper of such a tale?”
“Nay, never. But how do we know ‘tis our mixed blood?”
“I know mine alone will not restore the dead. I have tried,” he replied quietly. As much as he wished to share his own deepest secrets with her, the time was not right and they had more to worry on than his own simple needs. He knew his adult blood would not restore the dead because he had once tried it, so the only explanation was that it was their combined blood – or Skye’s blood alone. Either answer put Skye in even more danger, with the possibility of making Dagr a wanted man as well.