by Hazel Hunter
“Handed over?” Rowan’s jaw dropped. “For what?”
“For whatever he wants to do with her. He’s the laird,” Althea said slowly. “We won’t do that, of course. But if McAra discovers we brought Emeline here without telling him anything about her… It’s basically considered the same as holding her hostage. It’s the kind of thing that could start a war between the clans, Rowan.”
One of the guards entered the hall and stopped a short distance away. “Forgive me, my lady, but you’re needed. Lady Lily finds the kitchens in want of some changes…” He winced as the bonging sound of an iron pot hitting the floor came from behind him. “…that arenae amenable to Kelturan.”
“Well, nothing is.” Althea regarded Rowan. “Look, while we’re at the McAra stronghold we’ll talk to the druid and see if he knows how to help Emeline. I promise you, whatever Brennus decides, I won’t let anyone hurt her.” She hurried off with the guard.
Rowan considered banging her head against the wall, but it was made of solid stone and she’d probably crack her aching skull open. Even if she could talk her way past the sentries posted on the lower levels, with her messed-up shoulder she couldn’t haul Emeline out of the pit. Especially not if the nurse still wanted to kill her. That was the part that really hurt, worse than the shoulder.
I thought she liked me.
For once Rowan’s perpetual urge to go and check on Perrin didn’t kick in. Whatever brainwashing their adopted mother Marion had done to make her watch over her sister for eternity, it seemed to have worn off or faded away. As soon as she learned of it, Perrin had made it very clear that she didn’t want a bodyguard anymore. Rowan should have been relieved, even happy. Protecting her sister, however, had occupied—had defined—nearly her whole life. Without that responsibility she was lost and alone, and then it struck her. Althea had Brennus, and Lily had Cadeyrn. The clan would protect Perrin now, and Emeline had been dropped in an inescapable pit.
No one needs me anymore.
Rowan wandered down the hall toward the forge, but then felt a waft of cold air and followed it down another passage with an odd, swinging stone door. Pushing through it, she found herself outside the stronghold and in another maze of piled stone. Boot prints in the snow led her through that and into a stone tunnel that widened and opened into what looked like a gigantic primitive barn. Every part of the stable looked clean and tidy. Even the dirt floor had been well-oiled and packed down. Not a single Skaraven occupied the place, which made Rowan wonder who looked after the animals. Whoever he was, the clan should give him a raise. He kept the place spotless.
The newly-built wooden stalls stretched out in four long rows, and when she stepped inside a dozen horses’ heads appeared over the pegged doors. She walked over to the first onlooker, a huge white stallion with gleaming dark bronze eyes. Making sure he could see her straight on, she checked his ears, which stood up and pointed at her—aka happy horse ears.
“Hey, big fella.” She didn’t know if he was a biter, so she couldn’t pet him. Keeping her voice low and soft, she asked, “You’re okay with me barging in here?”
The stallion nickered back what Rowan took as a yes. For some reason that simple response made her eyes burn.
At least the damn horse likes me.
She walked past the stalls to the ladder that led to a second-level storage loft and glanced up. Tidy bales of hay occupied most of the space, but she saw the edge of a dark wool blanket tucked in the middle of the stacks. Climbing up the ladder, she glanced over her shoulder before she stepped onto the deck and inspected the makeshift bed. Whoever had been sleeping up here had covered a pile of hay with the blanket and folded the corners to make a crude mattress. She envied him. Since coming to this time she’d slept in far worse places.
The hard, sharp voice of her internal foreman immediately gave notice: Pull it together, Thomas.
Carefully she lowered herself onto the blanket and stretched out on her uninjured side. She didn’t mind the smell of hay and horses, or the fainter scent the last occupant had left on the wool. Whoever slept in the stables smelled like leather and pine, with a dash of sweat. She’d forgotten how much she liked Eau de Working Man. Maybe she’d wait around for him and see what sort of highlander he was. Probably some oversized, muscle-bound, ready-to-rumble type like the rest of the clan. God, she was so tired.
You’re not going to cry.
Closing her eyes, Rowan finally let the tears brimming on her lashes spill. She never wept around anyone else, not since the first time Marion had punished her as a girl. The old hag had enjoyed making her break down, so she’d learned to swallow the sobs and shut down the waterworks. Even now she did it silently, holding herself with her good arm and pressing her face into the blanket.
Congratulations. You’ve turned into a girl.
Weeping thankfully led to sleeping. In the dense darkness Rowan still felt lost, but at least no nightmares came. She’d barely closed her eyes since being yanked back through time, and she was so done with the fourteenth century. Done with the cold and pain and terror. Sick of being disliked by, well, basically everyone on both sides. Finished with always being the resilient one, the one expected to defend, to take the beating, to refuse to cower. Rowan knew she didn’t play well with others, and she’d never suck up for the sake of acceptance, but she had tried to protect Perrin and the other women.
When would someone be there for her? Strong for her? Devoted to her?
A dream came, stroking warmth along her cheek, and Rowan turned toward it. She smelled the man again, more leather than pine this time, and felt a new ache in the bottom of her belly. Such a tender touch from such a hard hand seemed impossible, but it feathered over her skin like drifting down. She could feel it mapping her face, from the arch of her brow to the curve of her chin. His thumb swept the remnant tears from her cheeks, and his fingertips tidied the mess of hair framing her temples.
No one in her life had ever touched her so reverently.
Although she knew it would end the lovely sensation, Rowan opened her eyes, and saw that she hadn’t been dreaming. A lean man in a shabby tunic and leather trousers crouched beside her. A mane of shining, white-blonde hair surrounded his unsmiling face, shadowing its angles and lines. His hair was so pale it should have made him look old, but it didn’t. It had been cut recently, judging by the uneven ends.
She should have sat up, said something, or knocked his hand away, but she couldn’t stop staring into his vivid eyes. What color were they? Caribbean blue, with a dash of emerald, or maybe dark turquoise inlaid with green garnet? Whatever shade they could be called, they were the most mesmerizing eyes on the planet.
He seemed just as fascinated by hers.
Rowan reached up, intending to push his hand from her face, and found herself pressing it against her cheek. Twinkling sensations popped out from under his palm and moved down her neck and into her chest, like a thousand unseen sparks trying to kindle something. Her heart? Had anything ever felt this exciting? Nothing, not even when she’d watched Perrin dance. She couldn’t look away from his face, and when he closed his eyes for a moment she understood.
Too much, too fast, too soon.
She’d known this before, too, this wonderfully bizarre rightness. Yet she could not for the life of her remember when that had been. Maybe she’d day-dreamed now and then about finding a man she could love, but her imagination couldn’t bring a fantasy to life. Besides, she’d never once been attracted to fair-haired men. Something about them always exasperated her.
Maybe because on some level she knew they were supposed to look like this guy, and yet never did.
No, this was definitely wrong. Who had this insane reaction to a complete stranger she could never have met? It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t mind staying clueless for the rest of her life, as long as she could keep looking at him.
“You came. Came to me.” His low, almost rough voice barely registered above a murmur, and he spoke as if he hadn’t for a lo
ng time. “I didnae think you real.”
“Yeah. Same here.” Either he could read her mind, or everything in her head was true. Hoping it was the latter, Rowan went with the first thing that popped into her head. “Where have you been?”
“Waiting. Watching.” He drew her upright, taking care not to jar her shoulder.
Even the way he touched her was familiar. This whole thing was outrageous, and enchanting. Like getting mugged and seeing fireworks at the same time. It made her want to laugh out loud and burst into tears. For an awful moment she thought she might do both. Crying over a man she’d never met was not on her to-do list.
“It doesn’t– This isn’t real.” Even as the words came out of her mouth, she knew it was, and met his gaze again. “I’m not dreaming, am I? You’re real.”
“As real as you. Tell me your name.” Dread tinged his voice, as if she might give the wrong answer.
She swallowed against the vise of fear that had suddenly clamped around her throat. “Rowan Thomas.”
His expression didn’t change, but his gorgeous, glorious eyes filled with pleasure. “I am Taran Skaraven.”
Chapter Six
STANDING INSIDE THE rounded walls of the clan’s aviary, Ruadri bound a tiny scroll to the bird in his hand. He had coded the message to Bhaltair Flen about Emeline and her affliction, in the event the McAra’s dovecote master opened it. No mortal could read the cipher they used, but since all druid kind communicated in code he was sure it would arouse no suspicion. He could not wait another day or more for Brennus to consult with Bhaltair. The delay might cost the lady the last of her sanity.
If being cast in the eagalsloc hadn’t already done so.
Releasing the messenger bird outside, Ruadri watched it fly off toward the midland stronghold. He should return to his duties now and look in on the Thomas sisters to assure they improved. He told himself this very thing even as he took a side entry and descended to Dun Mor’s subterranean levels. There he crossed paths with Girom and Cenel, the two clansmen assigned to sentry duty in the lower levels. They were headed in the same direction.
“Shaman,” they said together, nodding to him.
“What do you here?” Ruadri asked as he collected the rope ladder and fastened it to the edge hooks.
“Kelturan sent us,” Girom told him, nodding toward the dark interior of the pit. He produced a cloth bundle. “We’re to place this near the edge. ’Tis to ward off the Sluath.”
Ruadri took the bundle and opened it to see it had been stuffed with club moss and yarrow. He vaguely remembered the old Pritani superstition about storm-riding demons who stole dying mortals and took them to the underworld.
“’Tis nonsense.”
“Aye,” Girom said, taking back the bundle. He crouched and placed it by the pit. “But ’tis better than taking Kelturan’s clout to my ear.”
Cenel peered over the edge. “Should you go down alone, Shaman? ’Tis said that the lass dropped Kanyth with a single blow.”
Ruadri just looked at him.
“Aye, right,” Cenel said quickly. “You’ve no’ Kanyth’s soft head.” The sentry nudged his partner. “Back to our posts, Gir.”
Taking a torch from the wall bracket, Ruadri lowered the ladder and climbed down. His bulk made the rope creak, but as soon as he saw Emeline he dropped down onto his feet.
The guards had left her on a straw-stuffed fleece and covered her with his tartan. They’d also removed the broken splint from her ankle, likely on Brennus’s orders. He would want her hobbled.
His anger faded as he planted the torch and simply looked his fill of her.
“I’m awake,” she said, startling him, and opened her drowsy eyes. “I’ve been for some time. I heard the men talking.”
Ruadri crouched down beside her. “Do you mean the sentries? They looked in on you?”
Emeline nodded. “Girom finds me too pretty to be made an enemy of the clan. Cenel imagines I’d serve well as a fine pleasure lass, if I’d be the one chained to the bed.” She met his gaze. “They really did chain you?”
“’Twas the custom.” He would knock the men’s heads together a few times for speaking so crassly within her hearing. “They shouldnae have said such.”
“They thought me asleep.” She glanced around them. “Why am I in a great hole?”
If Emeline couldn’t recall attacking Rowan, then what plagued her might be affecting her mind.
“You’ve been afflicted, my lady. I dinnae ken how or by what yet, but ’twas none of your doing.”
“But it was. I remember it. Feeling it.” She pushed herself up into a sitting position, grimacing as she pressed a hand to her wounded side. “Something in me wanted to kill Rowan. Something dark and seething with hatred. If you hadnae…hadn’t stopped me, I believe I would have.”
She sounded like a different person now. Her Scottish accent had become lighter, and she had corrected herself to use the same words that the other lasses from the future spoke. Before now she had talked as if born in this time.
“Do you feel this presence now?” he asked.
Emeline started to shake her head, and then went still. “Aye—yes. It’s still there, waiting. The first time I felt it I….” She ducked her head. “It started when I came out of the river, with the others. When I saw you, I was drawn to you. I also hated you. I told you not to touch me because I was afraid of what I might do.”
If she had been somehow possessed by one of the famhairean’s spirits, it could be fighting for control of her form. “’Tis speaking to you, trying to compel you, mayhap?”
“No. It’s not a person. It doesn’t have thoughts. Only feelings, but not like anything else. They’re not natural.” She took hold of his hand and, for a moment, he could only marvel at her soft touch. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but I feel it the same way I feel you. Your worry over me. Your anger at the sentries. To me they’re like a forest of snarled green knots, and a sky filled with hundreds of moons.”
Ruadri had to blink and then yanked his hand free. “Forgive me, my lady. I didnae ken I’d harm you.”
“You don’t understand. You’re not hurting me.” She put her hand on his again. “Touching you helps me. It feels better.”
As he stared at her small hand on his, something gnawed at the edges of his memory. Though he’d sworn never again to think on his training, something his sire had told him slowly came back
“Such talent,” he finally said to Emeline. “’Tis a gift among druid kind. ’Tis called soul-sharing.”
Understanding seemed to dawn on her face. “I think I might be one of them,” she whispered. Though he thought she would continue, she stopped and looked at the floor. She took in a deep breath and brought her gaze up to his. “If you could feel something other than worried and angry, maybe it would make me stronger. Can you remember what you felt when you saw me by the river?”
Remember it? Those sentiments had near scored her name on his heart.
“Aye.”
He cradled her hand between his as he remembered the deep, gratifying delight of seeing his lady on the riverbank. Of knowing at last that she was everything and more than what he had envisioned. Her beauty had rushed through him like a breeze in a garden of roses, and her voice had been the sweetest sound to grace his ears. He’d wanted so badly to embrace her that he’d lingered in the shadows, until he could better control that ravenous longing for her.
“Yes, that’s what I felt.” Emeline shifted closer, leaning into him. Her eyes became slumberous. “Like a river of flowing honey.”
A strange, blissful warmth enveloped Ruadri, and he couldn’t resist wrapping his arms around her. Holding her against him filled him with sensations he’d never before experienced. He could almost feel her unraveling the knots of his worry and dispelling the many moons of his anger. The heat expanded, sizzling along the curves of the skinwork on his arms, and yet it didn’t alarm him as it should have.
Emeline tipped her head back, her bre
ath quickening. “Oh, now I feel that.”
“’Tis your touch. ’Tis how the soul-sharers best work their gift.” For once he blessed his size and strength, for it would take all of it to release her. “What we do, ’tis dangerous, my lady.”
“Oh, no, Ruadri.” She slipped one hand around his neck, her fingers caressing his flesh. “Nothing that feels this good could hurt.”
He felt her trembling despite her claim, and resolved to put her aside and move away. Yet his hands would have none of that when they could cup her lovely face, and feel the softness of her skin. They wanted every inch of her against him, under him, wrapped around him.
“You’ve enchanted me,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to her brow before he looked into her eyes. “’Tis what you wish, my lady?”
She put her lips close to his ear. “I want everything, Shaman.”
Ruadri felt the last of his reason crumble as she turned her head and brushed her mouth over his. The petal-soft touch sent a surge of scalding desire through his veins, burning away all but the need for more. He had never kissed a woman, but the moment she parted her lips for him he had to taste her. She made a low, sweet sound as he licked the inner curve of her lip, and gripped his neck as she pressed against his chest.
If touching Emeline had been blissful, kissing her proved a delicious torment. He held her fast as he stroked her tongue with his, swallowing the moans and gasps she made. The scent of her rushed into his head, stoking his hunger to wild heights. Emeline’s trembling fingers twined in his hair, and her breasts heaved until he could feel the pebbled peaks through their tunics. Her wanting fed his own, and his cock swelled hard and thick with throbbing need.
“Emeline.” Saying her name parted their lips, and Ruadri drew back enough to see her expression. “’Tis better now?”
“I can’t say.” She whispered the words against his jaw. “I’ve never kissed a man.”