by KH LeMoyne
Uncertain whether to call to her or remain silent until she was safe, he waited. One hand on the rock face, she pulled herself up the steep incline. Her other hand grasped a long leather knife sheath while her feet worked for a toehold on the slick, algae-covered rocks.
The cry of a bird overhead caught her attention. Then her foot slipped and her fingers lost their grip. Eyes wild, she twisted. Her gaze met his.
Logan was already swimming toward her when she went under.
When she didn’t resurface, he kicked up his feet and dove. Eyes open, he spread his hands to find her.
Her hair floated around her like dark clouds. It tangled, obscuring her view as she bent and shoved at the rocks caging her foot, only to slide deeper into the crack. Her desperation surged into panic. Her heart beat in her eardrums, cutting off rational thought.
Lungs burning, she struggled. Bubbles escaped from her mouth. She choked on water as Logan’s hands gripped her ankle and tugged.
Frantic, she pushed against his back and applied pressure to force herself free. The movement gouged her skin. Raw pain registered as her lungs threatened to explode.
Her mind let loose golden shoots, grasping at anything to counter her dizziness. She touched emptiness. Repressing her urge to swallow and gulp water instead of air, she battled for calm.
Logan wrenched the sheath from her hand and wedged it into the crevice. The rock around her foot shifted, but still held her tight. Desperate, she looked up.
Light wavered on the water’s surface above her. A silver shimmer of glass, it reflected back to her a solid prison prepared to claim her life. Unable to hold her breath, she sobbed. Air spewed toward the mirror.
Where water should have rushed in, a bubble held it at bay.
Fine silver lines meshed around her face. They floated and closed around her, holding her fragile bonds of gold around her body. Not able to distinguish reality from imagination, she fixed on the silver and held tight—the silver threads clutched back. Logan’s power refused to let her go.
Strong hands punched against her abdomen and launched her toward the surface. Disoriented by the water clogging her nostrils, she struggled against him, even though he drove her to the surface.
She choked out water, vying with air.
Then Logan held her around her waist, heading for shore with strong strokes as she gasped and coughed.
As her toes finally touched sandy bottom, her stomach revolted.
She covered her mouth with her hand as he lifted her clear of the water and deposited her on the beach. Her stomach heaved water as she leaned limp against him, her fingers digging into the sand. Through the whole miserable episode, he held her hair out of the way while she vomited.
What a lovely sight. Though it was hard to care about her appearance with firm ground beneath her and air to breathe.
He waited, warm and secure at her side until, finally spent, she sat back on her heels and rested her forehead against his arm. “I need to go back in.”
“No.”
“But—”
He carried her to the mossy bank and set her down. When she struggled, he pressed the sheath into her hands.
“This wasn’t worth your life, Briallen.” His lips pressed tight as his eyes flashed with a brilliant anger she hadn’t yet witnessed in him.
Unable to talk, she wrapped her arms around her knees, covered her mouth with a fist, and stared at him.
“I’ll get your basket and my things,” he said. Then he strode away, tense muscles bunching across his shoulders. Oh yes, definitely angry. And the first time she’d ever felt that emotion from him directed toward her. Heavens help her, she never wanted to cause that again.
Shivers grabbed hold of her muscles. Tight, tiny jerks paved the way for uncontrollable tremors. She felt a heavy blanket settle around her, but the terror refused to recede. He cursed and dragged her onto his lap, enclosing her in his warmth.
“Thank you,” she murmured against his chest.
He didn’t answer, but held her tighter, and pressed his lips against her hair. With a strong exhale, he pulled her basket close and dug through her belongings. With another curse, he held an empty cup before her face.
“What were you going to drink? There’s nothing in the basket.”
She wiggled her fingers and the cup filled to the brim with clear water.
Settling her back on her knees, he pressed the cup against her lips. “Take a sip. Swill it around and spit it out.”
She gave him a look at his condescending order, but complied. After three rinses, she could finally swallow a little water without the acid taste of vomit in her mouth.
“Now, the clothes.”
What? Surprised at his direction, she touched his thigh with her fingertips, the wool weave instantly dry and clean beneath her fingers.
“Not mine. Yours,” he said, his voice short and brusque.
She looked at her clothes. Cold and transparent, more a layer of threads than concealment, her shift clung to her body. One sleeve dropped from her shoulder, not covered with the blanket. The breeze in the glen gusted, suddenly icy against her skin.
Flexing her fingers on instinct to cover herself, she noticed his fixed stare at her naked back and most likely the design there that she’d avoided mentioning to him. In an instant, a clean, dry jersey top, pants, and a minty freshness in her mouth transformed the chill to a tolerable temperature. Soft boots sat at her side, though she wasn’t sure she could wear them. Logan’s gaze turned to a frown and he pulled her back into his arms.
“I’m okay,” she stuttered, not really wanting to move.
“I’m not,” he said with enough force that she bit her lip and leaned closer into his hold, despite his bare chest.
She’d only dried his clothes, without providing a tunic. Now, she didn’t want to give up the warm comfort of his skin and the dark matting of his chest hair beneath her cheek, both so distinctly male they kept her grounded.
“That was too close, Bri.”
Dismay and regret flooded through her at the memory of his account of his mother’s death. Then Robert’s accusation of her ability to hurt Logan surfaced with painful clarity. Fortunately for both of them, Logan had succeeded in saving her.
“Will you answer a few questions for me?” he whispered into her hair.
She nodded.
“What is so important about that knife you’d risk your life for it?”
Turning her head, she met his gaze. “I didn’t consider it a risk. I hid the knife in this pond nine years ago. There’s a cave behind the falls. Hefin mentioned it once after I arrived.”
The sheath lay feet away, the detailed scrolling in the dark leather foreboding, even in the dappling sunlight.
“I stole the knife from a minion before I was sent here.” Biting her lip, she shook her head. “I’ve searched for my brothers, waited for a portal to open to take me to them. It was stupid of me not to consider the minions could do the same.” The darkness of their threat revived her last minutes in Tir Thar again with fresh horror. “Since they’ve now arrived on this island, I considered the knife a good weapon to use against them. I wanted us to be prepared.”
Logan tugged on the ends of her hair. She doubted he knew he’d done it. The gesture combined frustration and intimacy. He hadn’t given the sheath a glance, and he didn’t bother now, even with her admission. His silence was a clear sign there was more he needed to hear.
“You want to know about my mark?” It seemed likely now that he’d seen the tattoo of magic on her back that he’d expect an explanation.
Instead, he didn’t ask. She could sense him backing off to give her privacy, but the fact he’d seen it—that she hadn’t explained it during their earlier discussion of the symbol in the book—was a chasm growing between them. One she needed to repair quickly.
He shook his head. “Only what you’re willing to share.”
“There’s no secret.” Bri rolled her lip between her teeth. “It was given to me at b
irth.”
Logan’s hand stiffened against her back. “You were tattooed as a baby?”
She shifted quickly and slid her hand to his arm, bracing herself against his chest. “The mark is part of us. It isn’t applied on the skin.”
He didn’t seem appeased. She stroked over his muscles, attempting to soothe away his anger the way she soothed away Fiona’s terrors. “It appears through ritual and changes over time, a part of our power and a reflection of who we are. In my time, others with powers recognize us through our marks. It’s an emblem for protection—and a potential weakness.”
“No one carved the picture onto your skin?”
“The marks are not applied,” she repeated, rubbing her cheek against his jawline until he reciprocated. “They evolve. My mother’s power sought the kernel of my power and summoned the mark to rise. If we embrace our powers, it develops. Her interaction, the ritual, protects each of us from the moment of our birth. It’s not an act of pain or abuse.” The irony was that until recently, Bri’s mark had been faint, muted.
Her palm rubbed over his skin, soaking in his warmth as she stared into his eyes. “Grainne told me my mark has changed in the last few days. I can’t really see it, but she says the colors and lines are more vivid.”
Logan nodded, unconvinced.
She pressed her fingers to his collarbone and allowed a spiral of gold to whisper against his flesh.
His hand stilled her actions, but brought her fingertips to his lips. “Don’t coddle me, Bri. I can handle whatever you have to tell me. I just want the truth.”
“You know it’s the truth. You’re too concerned about threats to me to pay attention. The mark is a blessing. Here, parents have their children blessed by a priest, protected in the sight of their god. My mark originates from the same act, only it involves magic.”
He’d linked his fingers with hers over his heart. “Have you seen it done?”
“I saw my brother, Daniel, receive his mark after his birth. He laughed. A newborn baby, and he laughed. There is no harm to the child, Logan. My parents would never have harmed any of us.”
“That doesn’t explain why you neglected to mention this symbol we share.” His gaze bore into her, seeking an explanation.
“It took me by surprise, at first.” A tremor of unease, or perhaps a thrill of anticipation, rippled along her skin. His hold on her hand released, yet she recaptured his hand and held tight. “You...I wasn’t comfortable or experienced enough to filter through what your purpose here means or to deal with how you affect me. And it’s on my back. I’d have to be almost naked for you to see it. That isn’t—it may be easy for you. But…”
“Naked. Got it. Sorry. You drive me crazy.” His lips touched hers before she could expound more. Soft and gentle, his kiss quelled her uncertainty and stoked her desire in one delightful touch.
She leaned closer for more and his arm curled around her back, pulling her to him as his mouth angled and his tongue teased at her lips. The featherlight contact struck with an electric sizzle. The spicy taste of him added temptation to the heat unfurling inside her. Not wanting him to move away, she pursued the taste of him until he responded with more pressure and heat.
A soft tug on her hair stopped her.
“I respect that you didn’t want to show me, Bri, but don’t be afraid of me. Tell me anything, but don’t fear me,” he whispered. Their lips touched with each syllable.
Fear? All she wanted was to sink deep into him and meld with him. His hands on her skin and the caress of his mouth awakened urges she’d never experienced. But while one thing held her back, he deserved honesty.
She stopped. “Logan, what we share gets more intense, more tied to everything around us. I don’t know what to make of it.”
He accepted her hesitation without censure. And again kissed only her fingers.
“I was going to tell you about the knife when I brought it back. The mark—”
“Was more personal. I understand. Though I’m glad to know now.”
She nodded. Before she could give in to her embarrassment, she pressed her lips to his again, and he opened for her. But just when the heat spiraled, he turned his mouth to her neck and pulled her tighter into his arms.
“I don’t want to stop, Bri. However, Grainne promised to send Hefin if I didn’t come back in an hour. I want you comfortable with me, not embarrassed by interruptions. But your choices about what’s between us dictate what happens. Always.” He brushed her hair from her face with a look of regret. “Let me check your foot and see if you can walk.”
She nodded, but he didn’t release her immediately. He kissed her palm and stared into her eyes. She felt his heart race as she kissed him one last time until he drew back and moved her beside him.
“Let’s see how much damage those rocks did.” He drew her foot into his lap, brushed above the cut, then curled his fingers around her ankle and squeezed gently. “I don’t think the flesh wound requires Grainne’s evil paste, and you don’t have much swelling, which is good. Any pain? Sharp or dull?”
“A slight discomfort, nothing more. Can I ask you about what happened beneath the water?”
He frowned, and she rushed ahead. “About how you covered me with a...shield against drowning. How did you do that?”
The muscles in his cheek twitched, and he bent his head over her foot as he massaged. She knew he’d heard her and waited.
“I don’t know. I was desperate.” He covered her foot with both hands and stilled, his eyes almost as green as the surrounding moss. “The sheath pried at the rock, but it was taking too long. You’d stopped fighting. And had gone so still.” He hung his head before he looked at her again. “There’s this radiance about you. Always. A shield of sunshine you carry. Suddenly, I couldn’t see it. I wanted to breathe for you—to force air into you.” His muscles clenched again as his jaw worked. “I tried to imagine holding your breath inside of me and…your glow returned. For a few seconds. Long enough to free your foot.”
He slid one of her boots on, then carefully eased the second one over her injured foot.
Slowly, she pulled her foot away, moved to her knees, and pressed her forehead to his. “I felt you. All your ferocity and desperation—I felt it.”
He nodded and closed his eyes as he cupped her face. “For once, there weren’t any walls between us. I think you let me borrow your personal power, Bri. That’s what it felt like. I can’t explain it.”
He’d done a good job. From her perspective, she felt like he’d thrown her a lifeline, part of him to keep her alive.
With a soft kiss to her cheek, he stood. “Let’s see if you can put pressure on your foot.” He held out his hand and slid the other to her waist, supporting her weight.
The foot steadied with a punch of pain. She flexed and rose onto her toes with a wince, but she looked at him and smiled. “It will be fine. I can walk.”
“Good.”
Before he stepped away, she held him and pressed her lips against his.
Without hesitation, his mouth opened and his tongue swirled with hers in a slow, easy exploration—test, dance, and retreat.
She pulled back first. With regret and a quick sigh, she covered him in a fresh tunic before she turned to pick up her basket.
Several steps along the path, he took the basket from her, slid his arm around her waist, and intertwined their fingers. His action absorbed some of her weight, and relieved the pressure on her foot. But from the easy look on his face and the heat of him close to her, she doubted that was his only reason.
An unbidden thought surfaced. How painful will it be to leave him behind when we finish, and he and I part ways?
12
With her eyes closed, Bri sat quietly, little Fiona’s head in her lap. She focused in a fruitless attempt to break through the girl’s comatose state.
She wandered along the fringes of Fiona’s memories. Soft wisps of vapor hung in clusters, instead of cohesive images with strong emotions and ties. W
hatever had happened during the few days before Logan rescued her left no tangible memory. Nothing to coax Fiona from her trance. Not willing to tread on older memories, and afraid a crack would shatter a treasured bit of her past, Bri circled the edges. Her golden threads performed gentle touches.
Deep pockets of thick gray, suffocating blankets of nightmares, drifted like living plasma. The flex and tug of the girl’s emotional struggle against the hallucination holding her matched the pulse of silver strands standing guard against the miasma.
Each ripple of gray met a brighter pulse of silver in a battle of wills.
Whether sleep by some magical mutation held Fiona captive, or the slumber was a result of her abduction and subsequent illness, Bri couldn’t decide.
Perhaps a limitation of her own power. The incident at the falls still rattled her. The cloying memory of water choking her wasn’t something she’d soon forget. But her self-confidence toyed with her, as if the near-death experience had ripped away the camouflage she used to hide a weaker self. She knew better, but still, the occasional ripples of doubt bothered her.
Her equilibrium in Fiona’s mind tipped. A brush of silver whispered beside her with a quick caress of support. She distanced herself from the child, and the silver split into multiple strands. Some followed her when she broke free of her bonds with Fiona. Others remained behind.
Bri exhaled slowly as she dissolved the remaining fibers of her connection and opened her eyes.
Logan’s hand in Fiona’s hand, her tiny one clenching his. The child wrestled with phantoms in her dreams, ones even he couldn’t battle for her. Not that he didn’t try. Bri had seen his connection, firm yet flexible—and unbreakable. Similar to the web she’d woven for Maeve.
Driven by instinct, Logan offered his protection, and Fiona grasped the lifeline.
Robert’s stare burned on Bri’s back, but she didn’t turn to gauge his expression. She remembered their discussion too clearly.
Logan’s gaze traced over her features with a concerned look of his own. The memory of his lips and fingers whispering across her skin sent a rush of pleasure through her, and a flush heated her cheeks.