Nature of the Beast

by Hannah Howell

  At the mere thought of casting Evanna and her brother out of his home, Berawald felt a pinching pain in the area of his heart. Despite his best efforts, both Masseys had wormed their way into his affections. Evanna had such a tight grip on his heart and his lust he was not sure he could push her out of his home even if she was guilty of some heinous crime. And each time he considered the possibility that she was guilty of something, it was only a fleeting consideration. He feared his opinion was being influenced far too strongly by soft green eyes, sweet smiles, and a beautiful voice.

  No matter what he decided to do with the Masseys in the end, he still needed answers. It was all right for him to make an error in judgment when only his own life was at risk, but he would not share that risk with his whole clan. There were men hunting his kinsmen, men who wished to put every MacNachton in a grave. Berawald had seen what those men were capable of and he could not allow sentiment or lust to cloud his thoughts.

  There was also something a little strange about David and Evanna Massey. In the week they had lived with him he had seen few spirits. Since the day when he had begun to change from a boy to a man he had had little peace from the visitations of the dead, yet he had known it from the moment the pair had entered his life. He could still see the occasional ghost, but the constant noise of them, the constant rattle of voices in his head, had gone away. It was as if the Masseys had brought some shield with them, one that thickened the wall between the dead and the living. He had never experienced such a thing before, or even heard of it, but he wanted to know the secret of it. Such a skill could help him to finally live as normal a life as any MacNachton was capable of.

  Unlike many other Outsiders he had known, the Masseys did not seem to crave the sun. Evanna did not bemoan her inability to go outside, and David never did more than watch the sunsets, and occasionally the sunrises, with him. That a boy of five would be so content inside for day after day did not seem right, not when he was one of those who could go out and enjoy the summer sun the few times it deigned to show itself. Berawald knew fear could be keeping the boy close and hidden, but he could not shake the suspicion that it was more than that.

  There were other things that he had noticed that troubled him. The Masseys did not even blink an eye when he ate his meat barely seared; David had even requested some for himself and Evanna. Berawald doubted that was because they had had so little meat in their lives that they had no idea how it should usually be served. He felt sure both Masseys caught sight of the occasional spirit that still wandered through the cave, yet they said nothing. And Evanna was healing at a very rapid rate for an Outsider. With their red hair and bright eyes, he could not believe they were MacNachtons, and yet he began to wonder if there was some of his clan’s blood in their veins. The problem would be in trying to verify his suspicions without exposing the secrets of his clan.

  Berawald was yanked from his thoughts by a soft noise from Evanna, and he turned his head to find himself staring into her sleepy green eyes. The slow smile she gave him made him ache to pull her into his arms and join her on that bed. He crossed his arms over his chest to keep himself from giving in to that urge. She was a weakness with him, and until he knew the truth, he could not allow himself to give in to it.

  Evie’s smile faded away. For the first time since she had met the man, Berawald’s beautiful face had a predatory cast. She felt a tickle of fear but smothered it. He was not her enemy; enemies did not save their prey and heal the wounds of the ones they were hunting. Something was troubling the man, however, she decided as she struggled to sit up.

  “Is David all right?” she asked as a sudden fear for her brother swept over her.

  “David is fine,” Berawald replied, feeling a little guilty for frightening her and fighting to not allow that guilt to make him back off from demanding some answers. “I have been waiting for ye to wake up. ’Tis time to remove your stitches. In truth, I think they could have come out soon after ye woke up several days ago. Ye heal verra quickly.” He noticed the way she briefly glanced to the side, fleeing his gaze, and suspected she was about to lie to him. He wondered why that should hurt him as it did.

  “I have always been a fast healer and ’twas but a shallow cut,” she finally replied. “Ye said as much yourself.”

  “Aye, I did. ’Twas a sword cut.”

  She sighed. “Aye. I was a wee bit slow to move aside, I fear.”

  “Evanna, why would someone try to kill you?”

  She could tell by the look on his face that he would not cease to question her until he had an answer to that question. Evanna knew he deserved at least some of the truth. He had aided them and now sheltered them. She was afraid to say too much, however. The truth was why she and David were running for their lives, why both their mother and their father were now dead. She did not think Berawald would ever try to kill them simply because they were different, but she knew he might turn away from them. Just the thought of his dark eyes looking at her with disgust, with even a hint of fear, turned her heart into a cold stone in her chest.

  It astonished her that, after so short a time, she could feel such a strong, deep need for him to look upon her with favor. Evanna thought it a little cruel of fate to deliver her into the hands of the first man to stir her interest now, when she had no time to play flirtatious games or see if the feelings he stirred within her were reciprocated. She wanted Berawald MacNachton, liked everything she had seen and learned about him so far, but she could not allow herself the luxury of learning any more. Her brother’s safety was all she could think about or act on, at least until their enemies no longer hunted them.

  “We are different from them,” she answered softly. “’Tis all that is needed sometimes, aye?”

  “Aye, but just how are ye different? E’en the most ignorant need some reason to fear or hate ye enough to want to kill ye, to want to kill David who is naught but a bairn.”

  “As ye have seen, I heal quickly, quickly enough to rouse suspicion.” Pleased that her bed now rested against the wall near the fire, Evanna sat up and leaned against the cool stone.

  “David is the same?” Hearing a slight rasp in her voice, Berawald rose to pour her a tankard of cider.

  “He is. Thank ye,” she murmured, accepting the drink and taking a deep swallow before continuing. “’Tis so plain that such a gift must be a blessing, nay a curse, yet it troubled people. We tried to hide it, but ’tis nay always possible to hide such a gift. Once when my father was gone away, my mother was badly injured in a fall. The village healing woman cared for her.”

  “And your mother recovered from her injuries with a suspicious speed.”

  “Aye. The whispers began then and soon superstition began to stir in the hearts of the villagers. In the end the verra gift that helped my mother survive such a hard life as we had, killed her. They came in the night intending to kill all of us and caught my mother outside fetching water. Our father got me and David to safety, but I think he left his heart with my mother’s body. We moved away to another village and enjoyed a few years of peace, but it soon began all over again. This time superstition killed my father. He stood firm when the attack came, giving me the chance to get David away from there.”

  “But ye are still nay safe, are ye? Moving away willnae stop it this time, aye?”

  “Nay, we arenae safe. I am nay sure we will e’er be safe, but I must try. For David. As ye said, he is naught but a bairn.”

  “’Tis hard to think that a healthy body and a quickness of healing could set a mob at your heels.”

  He was not exactly calling her a liar, but Evanna barely subdued a flinch of shame nevertheless. She truly hated lying to this man, to see in his fine eyes the knowledge that she was lying to him. Even assuring herself that she was not really lying, was just omitting a few facts, did not ease the guilt she felt. She also knew she would have to give him more, enough to satisfy his curiosity and his doubts, but not enough to rouse fear or superstition. It would not be easy, especially when
she was so loath to lie to him.

  “Weel, there is all this red hair,” she said.

  Unable to stop himself, Berawald reached out to stroke the thick, deep red braid that was draped over her slender shoulders. “True, but I havenae heard of many who were killed simply because of the color of their hair. Red hair isnae so verra rare in this land as to cause immediate alarm.”

  “True. Weel, ye do ken that redheads have fair skin.” The way he moved his long fingers from her hair to lightly brush them down her cheek made her insides clench with the need to touch him back, with what she suspected was a fierce, white-hot lust. “This fair skin is, weel, easily damaged by the sun. ’Tis nay just slowly darkened as so many others’ skin is; it burns. David and I try to stay out of the midday sun, as my mother did. For reasons I cannae e’en guess at, some people felt all those things, all those wee differences, marked us as demons.”

  Berawald said nothing for a moment, just nodded and tried to look sympathetic as he clasped his hands together in his lap and savored the lingering feel of her skin against his fingertips. He knew superstition well, and the fear it bred could indeed be stirred by such small things, but he also suspected there was a lot more to it all. His clan was being hunted, the hunters gaining strength and becoming more organized every year. It was very possible that one of those hunters had discovered the Masseys, seen their differences, and realized how closely those differences matched those of the MacNachton clan. That would be enough to set those dogs on the heels of the Masseys. In finding the Masseys they would be very close to finding the MacNachtons.

  It was certainly enough to make him think that, somewhere in her lineage, Evanna would find a MacNachton. He needed to talk to his kinsmen. Several of them were diligently searching for all who might have a connection to or knowledge of their clan. A few instances in the past had revealed that some MacNachtons had bred children with Outsiders and, either uncaring or not knowing, left those children unclaimed. Being that their clan was very small, few children being born, the laird was calling on every MacNachton to search out all who might have some blood tie to their clan. The existence of the hunters had made it even more important to gather all their kinsmen into the fold. Berawald could not shake the feeling that the Masseys were some of those unknown and distant kinsmen. It would be tricky to gain the information needed to ascertain that without telling Evanna more than he wanted her to know right now.

  “Weel, ye and David will be safe here,” he said, deciding it was time to seek some advice on how to proceed now that she had healed. “I believe I will remove your stitches now.”

  Evanna grimaced. “I hate the feeling of that.”

  Carefully arranging the hem of the shirt she wore and the top of her blanket so that only the bandaged wound showed, Berawald gently removed that bandage. “I ken. I have always thought it just felt odd, that there really wasnae any word to describe it.” Not that he had had stitches more than once, for his own ability to heal quickly meant there was little need for them.

  “Aye, odd is a verra good word for how it feels.” When he just frowned down at her uncovered wound, Evanna began to feel a little uneasy. “Is it all right? It hasnae putrefied or the like, has it?”

  “Nay, ’tis completely healed and verra clean.”

  “Weel, then best to get the stitches out.” She was pleased that he had not made any comment on how unusual that was and closed her eyes tightly. “I am ready.”

  Berawald had to smile, for she looked like a small child about to be forced to swallow a particularly revolting potion. Each time he tugged a stitch free, she grimaced. He would have felt bad about that except that he knew he was not really hurting her. It was amusing, however, that the woman who had remained strong through so much thus far would now whine and complain over something so simple and relatively painless.

  “There, ’tis done,” he said, and smiled when she opened one eye to peek down at the reddened scar that marred her fair skin. “The redness will fade soon.”

  At the same moment that Berawald finished tugging her shirt back into place, Evanna reached down to pull the blanket up higher. That movement brought her face close to his, her mouth within inches of his sinfully tempting lips. She met his gaze and saw a flare of interest in their dark depths. Her whole body responded with a keen interest of its own. Her lips tingled as if he had already touched them, the heat in his gaze enough to warm them.

  Berawald was not sure which one of them moved first, but suddenly his mouth was on hers. He trembled faintly as the warmth of her full, soft lips soaked into his body, raising a heat he had never felt before. When her small, soft hand touched the back of his neck, he felt that light caress fly straight to his groin. That heedless part of him rose in full salute and demanded that he take more of what she seemed so willing to give. The gentle, closemouthed kiss they were sharing was no longer enough; he needed to taste her.

  Nipping gently at her lower lip, he took quick advantage of her soft gasp that caused her mouth to open slightly. The taste of her, the sweet heat of her mouth, killed all rational thought and control. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with all the hunger he could no longer hide, from her or from himself.

  Evanna was briefly shocked when Berawald thrust his tongue into her mouth. No man had ever done that to her before. The way he stroked the inside of her mouth with his tongue and the feel of his strong body pressed close to her as he pulled her into his arms quickly dimmed that shock. Desire throbbed inside her with each stroke of his tongue. She reveled in the taste of him, in the way he made her feel. She wanted to wrap her whole body around his and never let him go.

  It was not until the warmth of his hand curled around her breast that she was able to regain any of her senses except for need and desire. Her surprise over such an intimate touch, the slight tensing of her body, passed quickly beneath the heat of that caress, but he had noticed her brief withdrawal. A heartbeat later she found herself freed from his embrace and she nearly cried out in protest.

  He stared at her in horror for a moment and then muttered an apology. Before Evanna could say a word, he fled the room and disappeared down a deeply shadowed passage. For a moment all Evanna could do was stare after him in stunned amazement before uncertainty began to taint the wonderful feelings he had left her with. She huddled beneath the blanket as a chill quickly replaced the heat his kiss had filled her with.

  Despite her efforts to just forget his odd behavior, her mind began to sort through all the possible reasons for his sudden abandonment and none of them made her feel very good. Had she been such a terrible kisser? she wondered. Had her total lack of skill turned him away? Perhaps he had suddenly recalled what few truths she had just told him and realized he could not abide them.

  Evanna shook her head, trying to force such thoughts from her mind. She did not know Berawald well enough to guess at his reasons for his actions. Perhaps when he returned she could find out what had sent him running off into the night. She could only pray that when he returned, she would either hear an explanation that soothed her doubts and hurts or see by the look in his eyes that he had not fled her arms because he had suddenly realized he was kissing a demon.

  Four

  Berawald cursed himself with every step he took toward Cambrun, his kinsmen’s home. He had given in to temptation, something his body still ached for, and nearly devoured an innocent maid. And there was little doubt in his mind that she was innocent. Her kiss had been one of a woman who had rarely, if ever, been kissed. That should have gentled him. Instead, for some inexplicable reason, it had stirred his lust to new heights. What was even more alarming was that, with every beat of his pounding heart, the word mine had echoed in his head.

  She was not his. He was not sure she could ever be his or would ever want to be. That knowledge did nothing to silence the primal cry of possession in his heart, however. Berawald had to face the fact that he wanted to claim Evanna Massey in every way a man could claim a woman. It made no sense, for, alt
hough she was beautiful enough to stir any man’s passion, he did not really know her. The feelings tearing through his body ought to be inspired by far more than a beauty of face and form. Surely a man needed to really know a woman, know her mind, and her heart, before he became so needy and possessive.

  Shaking away his confusion, he entered through the gates of Cambrun, grunting a response to the calls of welcome he received from the guards, many of them his cousins. The sight of spirits clustering near him and the murmur of their voices in his head did nothing to improve his mood. He had quickly become accustomed to the quiet he enjoyed around the Masseys. What he needed to concentrate on was getting some advice and maybe even some answers to all the questions he still had. He also had to tell someone about the men he had seen creeping around the edges of MacNachton land. Since the laird and his lady were off visiting one of his sons, Berawald headed down into the bowels of the keep to find his cousin Jankyn.

  When he entered Jankyn’s chambers, Jankyn’s wife took one look at his face and swiftly excused herself from the room. Berawald realized that he must look as bad as he felt, but she gave him no time to offer an apology for his foul mood. When he turned back to Jankyn that man handed him a large tankard of wine. One sniff was enough to tell Berawald that it was some of the specially enhanced wine and he gulped it down, savoring the strength it gave him.

  “Sit,” Jankyn ordered, pointing to a chair by a table set close to the fire. “What has the usually distracted but cheerful Berawald looking as if he wants to kill someone?” Jankyn poured himself some wine, refilled Berawald’s tankard, and sat down facing him.