Ensnared by Blood

by Claire Ashgrove

  Son of a hellhound’s bitch—he was going to kill his sister. Damn shame she wasn’t mortal, it would make the task ten times easier. “Beth, calm down. I don’t practice sacrifice. Let’s go talk where she can’t eavesdrop.”

  Killing Brigid would have to wait. Right now, Beth’s wide-eyed stare ordered him to see to her first. He pulled her flush against his body and wound his arms around her slight shoulders. “Beth don’t run off like this. There are things about Brigid…things you can’t possibly fathom.” Nuzzling her hair, he willed the shaking to leave her limbs. Or perhaps it was his—he couldn’t be certain. Brigid opened doors he wasn’t willing to reveal to Beth just yet. Now…he realized he couldn’t leave her in ignorance.

  “Come on, sweetheart.” Stepping away by a half-step, he clasped her by one hand and bent over to grab their jumbled clothing in the other. “It’s early. I’ll have Muriel bring us a breakfast upstairs. We can talk. I’ll explain my sister. Then…” He trailed off, glanced at her, and his throat closed around the possibility. In a rough whisper, he finished, “If you still want to leave then, I won’t argue.”

  She did nothing more than swallow. But her hand didn’t tremor against his. Taking that small sign as progress, Fintan hurried her from the room, down the private corridor, to the spacious guest chambers he’d had readied for Beth’s visit. Inside, he slid the massive, ancient, locking bar across the heavy old wood.

  Beth huddled into herself, arms clasped over her bare chest, dainty ankles crossed. Not from cold—Muriel kept the hearth burning as instructed, and several years ago, Cian helped to seal the cracked walls and replace brittle windows with custom insulated glass. Beth’s gaze followed Fintan, watchful and mistrusting.

  With a pinched frown, he passed her the long terry robe hanging behind the door. She shrugged it on while he pulled on his clothes from the night before. “The Imbolc ritual celebrates the renewal of life.”

  She gave him a jerky nod and took a seat on the edge of a navy blue, watered-silk armchair.

  “True, once the Selgovae—all the Celts—practiced the rites of blood. Well…” he paused in thought. “Perhaps the better statement is the Druidic Priests and Priestesses who the Celts looked to for guidance.”

  Again, Beth nodded, encouraging Fintan. He took a deep breath and sat in the chair opposite. Reaching over the three-legged wooden table, he clasped her hand in both of his and gently squeezed. “I’m not capable of taking life, Beth. I didn’t ask you to stay with any particular motive. What happened last night…” Fintan heaved a sigh. “Yes, I’ve hungered for you. But I’m not the sort manipulate you to my desires.”

  Ever-so-slightly, her fingers tightened against his.

  “I’ve gone years without sex, Beth.” Decades. “It’s not something…I look at frivolously.”

  “So what was she talking about? Why would she say those things?”

  Sighing again, Fintan shook his head. He reclined in his chair, regretfully letting go of her hand. Eyes closed, he scoured his mind for the explanations that would give insight without returning her to a state of panic.

  Nothing came to mind. He had two choices—completely lie to her and hide the dark truth of his family’s origins, or spill the unbelievable.

  He couldn’t bring himself to lie to Beth.

  Opening his eyes, he held her gaze. “You asked me why you see the standing stones. You dream of them, don’t you?”

  The tightening of Beth’s jaw provided all the answer Fintan needed.

  “The Selgovae…our people…Beth, they weren’t just destroyed by a man bent on power. He was…inhuman.”

  She jerked away and began to rise. Frantic to keep her in place, Fintan snatched at her wrist. “Wait. Hear me out. Agreed it sounds insane.”

  With one eyebrow arched, her gaze narrowed in apprehension, Beth slowly sank into the seat. “You’re not helping to prove you aren’t crazy.”

  “I’m not.” Despite himself, he chuckled. “He wasn’t human, Beth. He was a product of negative energies, a demon bent on infinite power.”

  Beth blew out an exasperated sigh. “Legend might say that, Fintan. It concerns me you’d believe it.”

  “What do you see in your dreams? Do you see him? You told me you see Nyamah.”

  Throwing her arms wide, she bolted to her feet. “Good grief! This is crazy talk! How do you know I see Nyamah, or whatever her name is? It’s nothing more than a product of my imagination. The woman could be any woman, for all you know.”

  Back-up, quick. He was losing her. If he pushed this discussion, she’d never agree to stay, and staying was precisely what she needed to do. Both because she needed to understand her past, and Fintan held more than a slight suspicion the scroll she brought required her participation.

  He also suspected the way his heart painfully twisted at the thought she might leave had a deeper, damning meaning. Which put him in a quandary. Logic said he should push her as far away as possible. On the other hand…he craved freedom from the darkness of his soul. Longed for the cleansing of mortality.

  He wanted normal. Life. Death.

  Love.

  Very well—no more talk of Drandar and Nyamah. “Ah, Beth. Why is it so hard to believe that you might be witnessing a glimpse of actual history?”

  She turned a look on him that solidified his presumption that she believed he’d lost his mind. “Can you hear yourself?”

  “Yes, I can, damn it. And I can hear you too. You knew those runes were on that stone. You went right to them.” His own exasperation set in. “I didn’t show them to you. And it isn’t like I had any way to erect an exact picture of the place you described. It took thirty strong men and forty more horses to move those damned—” Fintan snapped his mouth shut. That he couldn’t explain without including the little tidbit that he was over two thousand years old.

  Swiveling in his chair, he lifted the back of his shirt to expose the band of Celt scrollwork at the base of his spine. “Tell me what it means, Beth.”

  “How should I know?” Her voice rose in indignation. “It’s tribal art. There could be a dozen interpretations.”

  Fintan ground his teeth together, measuring his breaths until his temper no longer threatened to erupt. Low and quiet, he insisted, “Tell me what it means. You do know. Listen to your heart.” He paused a moment, then added, “If nothing else, Beth, you’ve studied the Celts enough to make an educated guess.”

  Several moments of silence passed, leaving Fintan’s nerves in knots. Had he pushed her further away? Had she clammed up out of stubbornness? Or would she take a chance and try? The meaning lay in her blood. Nothing could convince him she didn’t know, even if she didn’t understand how she knew.

  He glanced over his shoulder to find her sitting in the chair once more, her eyes closed, hands folded in her lap. Fintan let out a quiet sigh of relief. Her brow was puckered, but anger didn’t harden the soft fullness of her mouth or etch tension into her jaw. Relaxing, he twisted away once more, content to let her think as long as necessary.

  Please, Beth. Open your heart.

  “It’s the branches of the Sacred Tree, twined together to protect you.” Her voice was a whisper that trapped the air in Fintan’s lungs. “The swirls on both sides of your spine represent your birth. I don’t know what they mean, but they symbolize you.”

  The chair creaked as she rose to her feet. A heartbeat later, her fingertip traced over the leftmost side of his tattoo. “And this…dagger…protects you.”

  Fintan’s head bowed to the soft fabric, and he let out an unsteady breath. Time passed at a crawl with Beth trailing her finger over the intricate loops and swirls, each feather-light touch churning the desire that simmered in his veins. He couldn’t move, could scarce think, her accuracy so affected him. All he knew was she understood. She recognized the ancient markings his mother had placed on his back, and had placed on all his other siblings, to protect them from their sire until they were old enough to do so themselves.

 
“How, Fintan?” Disbelief thickened Beth’s hesitant question.

  Pulled from the intoxicating velvet of her caress, Fintan lowered his shirt and swiveled to face her. His gaze latched onto her troubled jade eyes. “Because you’re Celt, Beth. Selgovae. And the history lives in your soul. Scotland is part of you. You belong here. It’s called you time and again. You’ve never stopped to listen.”

  She drew away, but her actions lacked the fire of her earlier protests. Her forehead puckered with a deep frown, and she moved to the chair, sitting to stare out the window in silence. In the delicate contours of her expression, he recognized the struggle he had witnessed the last time she visited, the same battle that waged each time she fought what her heart desired and what her head refused to accept.

  Quietly, he rose. The urge to haul her into his arms and kiss away that troubled expression pressed on him like a weighty fist. He resisted, aware that distracting her now would only lead them back to this place, this uncomfortable crossroad, in short time. Moving to the door, he murmured, “I’ll be in my study.”

  Her distant nod bid him a cold farewell.

  Chapter Nine

  Beth stepped out of the shower as shakily as she’d entered it. She didn’t know how long she’d stood beneath the water, only that it now pelted cold, and she’d just managed to rinse the conditioner out of her hair before it became unbearable.

  You belong here.

  Fintan’s rich baritone echoed in her head, making it throb all over again. Belong in Scotland? Her stomach fluttered. If she stayed in Scotland, she’d throw away too many years of school, too many college loans that weren’t yet repaid. She’d wind up tucked away in some second-story flat with a breathtaking view and an easel erected in front of the window. At night, Fintan and she would have dinner by the fire. A glass of wine. Long hours spent enjoying the other’s body…

  Warmth skittered up her spine. Heaven.

  No, not heaven. Frivolous. Temptation that had nothing to do with what she wanted, but classically involved her bending to someone else’s wishes.

  She ruffled her hair with a thick terry towel. No. She didn’t belong in Scotland. Her life, her dreams were in Manhattan. Scotland only filled her with petty fantasies she had no hope of fulfilling. Her mother would never speak to her again.

  She was too old to chase irresponsibility.

  Annoyed she’d even let the idea creep into her consciousness, Beth slid back into the comfortable robe and wandered into the attached bedroom. The rest of Fintan’s claims threatened to drag her into a dark abyss. Could she really be Selgovae? Could her past be speaking to her, as he claimed?

  A buzz of excitement stirred behind her ribcage. There really wasn’t explanation for how she knew the runes were there, only that she’d dreamt them. Nor could she logic how she knew the precise way the child had lain upon the ancient altar. Yet…she did.

  And Fintan’s tattoo—it was like she pulled buried information out of her head when she relayed its meaning. Where had she learned such detail about Celt art? Had she studied it in one of her many long-ago art-history classes?

  Sighing, Beth sat down on the edge of the bed. Foolishness. She didn’t believe in this sort of stuff. Since they were teenagers she’d been arguing with Emily about the reality of the paranormal. Everything had scientific reasoning. Her dreams were dreams, products of her knowledge of history, engaging movies, and her over-active imagination. Nothing more. All too likely she’d seen a photograph of the standing stones behind Fintan’s castle.

  The rune column as well…

  It wasn’t there before.

  It had to have been etched into that monolith before. Runic symbols didn’t just appear overnight. Particularly those that had been worn away with time.

  Clamping a groan behind clenched teeth, Beth pushed both hands through her wet hair and let out a heavy sigh. This was insanity. She never should have come to Scotland. She should have packed the scroll, insured it, and air mailed it to Fintan. If she had, she wouldn’t have slept with him, wouldn’t be forced to consider the supernatural quality of her dreams, and she damn sure wouldn’t be entertaining the foolish idea of staying in Scotland.

  As she puffed out a frustrated breath and flopped onto the pillows, her gaze caught a colorful box sitting on the nightstand. Curious, she pushed the matter of Fintan and his wild claims aside and sat up to inspect the package. Colored pencils—her heart skipped several beats.

  Not just colored pencils, she realized as she ran a finger over the thin metallic container, but quality Caran d’Ache. Expensive artist grade tools, along with a tablet of heavyweight white paper.

  It had been years since Beth had put pencil to paper, but not so many that she failed to realize Fintan spent a great deal of money on this temptation. And indeed, it was a temptation. If she picked it up, she might never put it down.

  She jerked her focus away from her heart’s obsession and stared, deliberately, at the glowing embers in the hearth. A solitary tongue of yellow-orange flame curled around an ashen log, licking at the spent timber. In that bright flicker, another, more damning fire burned. Voices erupted in her head, drowning out all other thoughts.

  Beth’s gaze slid back to the tablet of paper. Maybe if she put that horrifying image on paper it would leave her alone. Maybe that’s what the dream was all about, her subconscious needing to spend energy it had no outlet for.

  Chewing on her lower lip, she picked up the box of pencils and dumped them on the bed.

  ****

  Fintan carefully rolled the waxed parchment back into its leather binding, locked it inside his desk, and glanced at the ticking pendulum clock near the door to his study. Three hours had passed, and still no Beth. Probably better that she hadn’t appeared, because she would have pressed for details about her ancient writings. What he’d read, however, made it impossible to tell her. The runes called for blood. Fresh blood. Which pushed Beth’s boundaries with the ancient rite of sacrifice. Not that anyone, or anything, needed to surrender its life, but still, the rite of blood would send her over the edge again.

  Where was she? He frowned. Had Brigid cornered her again? He’d have sworn his sister had left the castle around the time the pipes rattled, signaling Beth’s shower.

  Concerned, he crossed the room and unlocked the door. He banished the panicky feeling and forced his steps to remain even as he made his way down the hall to Beth’s room. At the heavy wooden entrance, his skin prickled with rising energy. Power that came from beyond the thick barrier. Contained, contented strength.

  An energy he had felt only once before, two years earlier, when Beth had spilled her tears, and her dreams, over the loss of her art.

  His heart kicked hard. She must have discovered the pencils. He’d put them there on a whim, hoping that she had returned to her passion. Unaware that her time in the States only buried that soulful love deeper than before.

  He tried the doorknob, torn between being glad it gave easily and annoyed she hadn’t locked her door. “Beth?” Fintan called as he eased the door open.

  Oblivious to his presence, she lay on her belly on the bed, her knees kicked up behind her, elegant calves bared for his enjoyment. One glance at the certain evidence she was naked beneath that robe clamped his gut in on itself. He’d had only the briefest taste of her last night, and he hungered for more.

  “Beth?”

  Her hand scrawled furiously across the pad, and as he neared the edge of her bed, he caught the way she chewed on her lower lip in concentration. Damned cute. Convinced she hadn’t heard him, he reached out to touch her shoulder.

  She dropped her shoulder, avoiding contact. “Just a minute.”

  So she had heard him after all. He smiled and looked around her arm at the picture before her. What he glimpsed on that broad white canvas made his eyes widen in surprise. He’d assumed she was good. Perhaps it was a bias, perhaps just an inference he’d made from the passion that filled her voice when she spoke about her hobby. Either way, goo
d didn’t do Beth’s talent justice. The vibrant scene that spanned two full sheets was impeccable.

  Vivid hues of orange, red, and yellow created a fire that rose against a night sky as if she’d snapped a picture with a camera. The standing stones, complete with hulking shadows, stood out in stark relief, so intricately detailed he could feel their rough surface simply at a glance. Drandar, his mother, his infant sister on the altar—for the first time in Fintan’s long existence, he became oblivious to the horrors of his heritage. All he recognized was the beauty of Beth’s talent.

  She blended a swathe of pale lemon into the rising flames and tossed the pencil on the quilt. Tipping her head to the side, Beth smiled. “Sorry. I guess I got a little caught up.”

  Fintan picked up both sheets of paper, held them side by side. Nyamah, Drandar, the tribesmen gathered in ceremony. Even Ealasaid crouched behind the eastern monolith. “Beth this is…amazing.”

  Beth shrugged. “It’s nothing special, just colored pencil.”

  Nothing special? He’d known professionals that didn’t possess a fraction of Beth’s talent. They made solid livings on their artwork. She could earn thousands off this simple, three-hour creation.

  Three hours. By the ancestors, she was gifted! “This is incredible work.” Frowning, he tore his amazed stare off the picture. “Why aren’t you doing this daily?”

  She shot him an unamused glance and slid off the bed. “I’m an attorney, Fintan. Not an artist. We’ve had this discussion once or twice already.”

  Fintan blinked, then shook off his surprise and set the picture on the nightstand. “Not an artist? Beth, you’re selling yourself short. You love this. And you’re damned good at it. Why are you locking it away?”

  “Love it?” she asked, incredulous. “It’s my hobby. I have a juris doctorate. I’m not going to throw away my schooling for a hobby. I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do, and I’m not going to let you sway me in another direction.”