With his right arm made useless by the dagger’s wound, he tried to grasp with his left, but after another slashing wound to his forearm he lay helpless on the cold floor. Connor felt his attacker grab his tunic and slice it open down to his waist. He waited for death to come.
Instead, the attacker poked his bleeding wound and then whispered something he could not understand. A gasp, one that sounded strangely feminine, was followed by another whisper, and then he smelled the metallic odor of blood as he was touched again. This time something was smeared over his face and onto his chest.
“Who are you? Tell me,” he gasped. He would at least know the reason for his death.
“Your blood for those slain at your word, Seer. Prepare for death.” The attacker shifted, rising up as though preparing to plunge the blade with more weight behind it. “Open your eyes, and see who brings your death.”
There was not time to explain the futility of it, and part of him wished he could look on the face of the one who would release him from the torment in which he lived. But knowing the horror that would be seen there, Connor clenched his eyes closed more tightly.
“Open them, pig,” the order came again, whispered gruffly.
The dagger slit the skin at his neck as if to force him to obey. The voice was definitely a woman’s; he could hear it now, even though she tried to hide it in the hoarse whisper she used. By God, they stooped to using women now. Was he so valuable to Diarmid and his enemies so desperate that they would draw a woman into their plans?
When he did not open his eyes, she did not delay, burying her blade into his chest. The searing pain of the dagger slicing through ribs and muscles wracked his body. He did open his eyes then, stunned at the feeling of his blood gushing out and soaking through his tunic and cloak. As he lost consciousness, he tried to see her face and let her see his.
The shrill scream pierced his stupor, but did not rouse him completely. She pulled the dagger from his chest, and still she screamed. Some part of him knew the horror she’d seen in his eyes and knew it was the source of her torment. Her cries drew attention from outside, and Connor was aware of the struggle as her weight disappeared from his chest and Ranald’s concerned voice whispered to him to close his eyes.
Darkness followed then, with all manner of sounds filling it. Connor knew he was losing his battle to stay awake, but the questions about this woman and her involvement plagued him even this close to death. If he did not die, he wanted to know the truth. When he could, he forced the words out, giving Ranald one final order.
“I want her alive,” he gasped, shocked at the amount of pain just speaking caused. “She is mine.”
Chapter Four
The first two times he attempted it, he could see nothing, for the cloth placed by Ranald blocked his sight, as well as the view of anyone who would look upon him. The third time, the blindfold was gone, and a dull light broke into the darkness. Ranald spoke to him.
“Will I live?” Connor asked, as he felt Ranald’s hand beneath his head, lifting it so he could sip at the cup now at his mouth. He tried to reach the place on his chest that burned and ached, but his hands would not obey him.
“You may, my lord. ’Twas a near thing though.”
“The girl? Where is she?” The cup was tilted, and he was forced to drink and wait on Ranald’s answer. “I asked where she is, Ranald.”
His servant moved away for a moment, and Connor tried to pull himself up on his bed. Waves of pain stopped him from trying it a second time.
“They are holding her nearby, my lord,” he finally answered. “Though I confess I do not understand why you are even concerned over the bitch. She tried to kill you!”
“Ranald? Is she alive?” He had a bad feeling about this.
“Perhaps, though in the five days since she attacked you she may have died. I have not seen her in that time.”
Five days had passed? “Get her now,” he ordered in as strong a voice as he could muster. “Now.”
“Lord Diarmid has other plans, my lord.”
The damn servant began walking away, intent on disobeying his orders and on letting the girl die. He knew Diarmid’s methods and knew the men who would carry them out, and even with his attacker being a woman, they would show no mercy in their quest for information.
Though his liege, lord, and host, Lord Diarmid did not have the right to take her life while he still lived and ordered otherwise. Not while he needed to know the reason for the attack. And her identity.
Gathering his strength, Connor rolled to his side and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Ranald was there in a trice, cursing him for reopening wounds.
“Send word to Lord Diarmid that she is mine to punish. Tell him I live and will be very angry if he takes my right to punish the one who sought to end my life. Very angry,” he said, putting his foot on the floor.
“My lord, you are not strong enough to leave your bed.” Ranald tried to block his way. “Is your sight restored?” he asked in a whisper, so that no one else could hear.
“Nearly. Enough for me to find my way down the halls, searching room by room, until I discover where she is.”
There had been many tests of wills in their past, and he’d won every one, even at great cost, so Ranald knew the outcome already. He backed away and bowed.
“Stay, rest, while I speak to Lord Diarmid.”
Connor sank back on the bed and nodded. Truly, he did not have the strength to leave his bed, let alone his chambers. Once his head fell back onto his pillow, he lost consciousness once more.
Shadows shifted in his chambers, and whispers floated around him. Connor tried to focus his thoughts and open his eyes, but with his strength gone from the last contest, he could only lie in silence. It was possibly another day before he roused and felt clearly awake. The light, from both the braziers lit around his chambers and from the sun as it poured through the open window in the wall, told him that his vision was back.
It was different though, not as clear as before, and he was not able to see in the shadows. How many more times before he went completely blind? Would the Sight then vanish from him? Would the curse be lifted once the gift was gone? Whimpering in the corner drew his attention away from all the possibilities he faced.
Connor struggled, but managed to sit up and find the source of the noise. As he pulled himself to stand and edged closer to the corner of the chamber—damn it, but it was the one in the darkest shadows—the smell knocked him back. The foul stench gagged him, but Connor moved closer, now seeing a small heap lying on a pile of straw.
“Is that her?” he asked, knowing Ranald stood behind him now.
“Aye, though why you would bother with her, I know not.”
“I do not need your permission or consent on this, Ranald. If you would rather serve another, I can speak to Diarmid.”
The silence told him that Ranald was effectively quelled for the moment.
“Has she been fed? Given water?” Again, the silence gave him his answer. The odor and his own weakness kept him at a distance, frustrating him in his need to look on a girl brave enough and foolish enough to breach Diarmid’s keep to get to him.
“Clean her and feed her, and then I will speak to her.” Ranald began to argue, but ceased at his look. “I do not want her befouling my chambers with her smell. ’Tis a small matter, Ranald, not one that should cause any problem for you.”
Connor made his way to sit in his chair, far enough away not to choke but close enough to insure that his orders would not be ignored. Ranald left the room, calling out to various servants in the corridor outside as he went. When he chose to be efficient, none could match his efforts, so Connor knew it would only be a short time before the girl was ready to be questioned.
A serving girl entered with some broth for him, and with her help he sipped at it as he waited for Ranald’s return. Instead, one of Diarmid’s burly house slaves entered, carrying two huge wooden buckets of water. The man did not wait for a tub. He put the
buckets down and proceeded to dump one on the girl curled on the floor. She did not move much with the first, only coughed and shook, so he reached down and tore the garments she wore off. Then, before Connor could do anything to intervene, the slave threw the other bucket of water on her. The shuddering now was noticeable even from where he sat in shock.
Connor stood so quickly that he knocked the bowl of broth out of the servant’s hands, and it bounced on the floor, splashing them both. He stumbled to the corner and tried to reach the girl, who lay unmoving now. Would he never discover her reasons for trying kill him? Why she would risk her own life to take his?
“Get out of here,” he ordered the slave. “Send Ranald to me.”
Ranald was only a moment behind his order and entered the chambers with three other servants. As Ranald helped him aside, they dragged the girl out of the corner, shoveled out the decaying straw on which she had lain, and tossed her back on the floor with a blanket over her.
“She has not long to live, my lord. Why waste any effort or concern on her well-being?”
“Because I ordered it to be so,” he said through clenched teeth. He had never realized the mean streak in his servant before. “Now, get them out of here,” he nodded to the others in the chambers, “and get her clothed.”
Ranald waved the others out, but not before acquiescing to his orders for clothing for the girl. He wondered if a shroud would be needed instead.
His breathing became labored, and the chambers began to spin around him then. He’d moved too quickly, done too much and not enough. Connor fell to his knees and grabbed for the end of his bed to try to balance himself. Blood leaked through his tunic, and he could feel the tearing where stitches were being pulled from the skin. If he was not careful, he would end up dead without ever finding out who she was or why she attacked him.
But, the stubborn part of him would simply not give up. On his own life, or on hers. Curiosity won out, and he allowed Ranald to help him back to his bed now. He waited for his servant to go for more broth, and then he spoke, his words aimed at his attacker, words he thought would not be heard, really.
“It would have gone better for you if you had simply killed me.”
He heard the scraping on the stone floor, as she shifted around in the corner. Surprised, since he did not think she was awake, Connor leaned up on his elbows and searched the darkened corner for her.
“Aye, a swift death would have been a blessing to both of us,” he continued. “Now ’tis too late for both of us.”
Darkness and light blended together into a blur for her, just as the waves of pain grew and receded, once and again, until Moira did the unthinkable and prayed for death. Her plea went ignored, and she forced another breath into her broken body.
She’d failed yet again and deserved to die for such failure. Her family’s souls yet cried out to be avenged, and she would suffer the torments of hell for nothing. If only they’d killed her quickly, all of this would be over.
The cough surprised her, pushing its way from deep within her in spite of her efforts to keep it inside. It exploded then, and the thick, coppery taste of blood filled her mouth until she spat it out. Unable to turn, unable to brace herself against the onslaught of pain, Moira simply let go and melted back down into unconsciousness.
She knew not how many times it happened, but she felt the same pattern repeat itself many uncounted times until there was one moment of clarity in her mind. And, her mind clung to that moment and searched for more. The same tenacity that had kept her alive these last six years, through danger and starvation and other obstacles, now would not allow her to grasp the ultimate surrender to the pain and injuries.
Days and days later—she could not tell how many passed—a loud argument pierced her fog, and she feared more pain would come. Instead, Moira tasted some foul brew forced into her mouth, and then a blissful peace took control of her senses. Was this it? Was this the end of her suffering, the end of the quest that had given her purpose when she’d lost all?
More time passed—so confused was she by the pain and the darkness that she knew not how much—before she came to awareness again, but then the searing and tearing pain faded into something more tolerable. When she realized that the cold, hard stone floor beneath her had been replaced with a cot or pallet of some kind and began to recognize the comings and goings of servants and the pattern of life within the keep, she knew she would survive.
Whether from the potions given her or something else, terrible, ghastly images filled her slumber. Flames, like the very flames of hell, tormented her and pursued her as she ran through the keep. Demons, with horrible faces and fire where their eyes should be, ran after her, clawing and grabbing at her, then beating her and tearing her clothes. Moira ran and ran, but they grew closer and closer until she could only scream and scream and watch herself die.
Other times it was just the flames, like living torches, chasing her, nipping at her feet, with the tormenting heat growing stronger and nearer with every pace she took away. But every time, her screams were as useless as before. Her arms and legs seemed weighted, and, try as she might, she could not move.
Then Moira grew aware of more light and less darkness in the world that surrounded her. The pain subsided, and voices began to penetrate the silence of her thoughts. Sometimes stern and demanding, sometimes soft and coaxing, sometimes female and sometimes male. One day, Moira recognized the voice of the man she’d come to kill. The man whose eyes had burned with the very fires of hell. She forced her own to open a crack.
The room where she lay was not the large and spacious one he used for both his personal sleeping chamber and the place he called his visions. She’d seen almost all the chambers in the keep, but never this one. Moira suspected it was on one of the lower floors of Diarmid’s keep. Since she’d arrived here, she’d crept through the passageways and hidden corridors of the stone castle, looking for her quarry and watching his movements and habits. Moira planned and prepared for months, knowing that the Seer was far too valuable for Lord Diarmid to let him live and travel unguarded.
Now, if her senses served her, he stood at her side, staring at her with those eyes that had burst into inhuman flames as he lay on the floor. Those eyes that had looked at her in desire and had watched her pleasure him throughout that strange yet wondrous day now so long ago. Not certain she could bear to see them again, Moira focused her gaze on his cloak and took a deeper breath.
“She is awake,” the Seer said to someone else in the chamber.
A cool hand touched her brow then—not one of his, for she saw that he did not move. Then the hand moved to her cheek. Moira winced at the pain from the touch.
“I did not mean to add to your pain,” said a woman. “The bruises run deep and will take a long time to heal.”
Daring to open her eyes more, Moira looked above her and found the source of the touch and the voice. A young servant woman stood next to her, peering at her with a concerned gaze. Finally, Moira gathered her courage and faced her enemy.
His gaze burned no longer, but neither did it hold the compassion that the woman’s did. Anger filled it now. Anger and something else she could not decipher. He took a step closer, and she steeled herself for the inevitable blow.
It did not come.
Instead he crouched lower, studying her face as though some clue was written there. Tempted to say something, anything, to break his contemplation of her, Moira fought the urge and lay silent. She was a prisoner now, and she understood what that meant. Torture to extract any information she carried that would help his lord continue his rule of terror over the local clans. The pain she’d suffered so far, for her attack on the Seer, was only a punishing prelude to what she would feel when they turned their efforts to keeping her alive while they worked.
Her courage faltered then, only for a moment, before she grabbed the shredded edges of it and tugged it harder and closer around her. Closing her eyes, she remembered the reason for this. The reason she woul
d bear what she must.
Her family. Their bloodied bodies, strewn around their village. Her sister.
Under control once more, she met his gaze without faltering.
“What are you called?” he asked in a voice that was deceptively pleasant. Deep and resonant, she recognized the power there, power that had called her to his bed and power that emanated from him during his visions.
He did not know her! How could that be? Had he taken so many to his bed that each meant nothing and did not even garner memory to him? Then she realized that her face must be so badly beaten and torn that she did not look like the woman who climbed into his bed so easily.
She said nothing.
“I asked what you are called,” he repeated, this time louder as though her hearing had suffered. His fists clenched and released as he waited.
“Connor,” the woman said softly. A warning or plea, Moira could not tell.
Standing back to his full height, he crossed his arms over his chest, and then the right one fell to his side. She’d pierced the shoulder there, rendering his arm useless for now. Tempted to smile, she fought back the insane need to gloat at the damage she’d caused.
He could render so very much more.
“For the last time, girl. What are you called?” he asked.
Moira looked away then, the temptation to shout her name too strong to deny. He changed his approach then, demanding other information.
“Who do you work for?”
Startled by the strange question, her eyes darted to his, but she forced herself to remain silent.
“Why did you try to kill me when you knew you would die too?”
Ah, she’d known the consequences of her act, but her attackers had turned the quick death she’d expected into something else. Exhausted from just this short exchange, she closed her eyes and felt her body surrendering to it, inch by inch.
A Storm of Passion Page 4