by Jayne Castel
Instead, he gave a pained groan when Heather lowered him to the ground, his eyes flickering shut once more.
Heather sat back on her heels and ran her gaze over him.
There was no doubt Maximus would die here in this glade—but she would do this brave man the honor of staying by his side.
He wouldn’t die alone.
Her throat thickened, her vision blurring.
Stop it. She knuckled away the tears. There will be time for weeping later.
“I’ll light a fire,” she said. But Maximus had drifted into unconsciousness, and so didn’t reply.
A small fire crackled in the woodland glade, sending out a soft glow over the man who lay dying beside it. Heather sat at his side, feeding the flames with the twigs and branches she’d collected, while around them the light gradually faded.
Where had the afternoon gone? Heather had lost track of time. Had it taken that long to clear away the bodies, set the horses free, and light a fire?
Leaning forward, Heather felt Maximus’s neck for a pulse.
“Mother Mary,” she whispered, “he still lives.”
The man hung onto life like a drowning man clinging to a fraying rope. Most of Cory’s men had died of lesser wounds, yet Maximus refused to fade.
And the sight of the struggle he was clearly waging made guilt claw at her chest.
Aye, this was all her fault.
He’d come to her rescue back in Fintry, and then had insisted on accompanying her north. She’d chafed at his overbearing manner, but she’d never dreamed it would come to this.
She should have realized.
The Galbraiths were well known for their tempers. Cory wasn’t the type to let a slight pass.
Her only solace was that the mean bastard was now dead.
“I’m so sorry, Maximus,” she whispered, her fingers entwining with his. “I brought this upon ye.”
His eyes flickered open. “I told you that you aren’t to blame, woman,” he croaked. “I made my choice.”
Maximus’s face was ashen, his dark eyes sunken into their sockets. Why was the Lord so intent on making him suffer?
“But I’m virtually a stranger to ye,” she replied, tears running freely down her cheeks. She could no longer hold them back. It was true, they hardly knew each other, and yet it felt as if someone were squeezing her heart. “Better to give up yer life … for something … someone … that matters.”
“You matter.” His fingers tightened around hers. “I’d fight any man who dares threaten you … but you should go now, Heather. Take Luchag, and find somewhere else to spend the night.”
“I’m not leaving ye,” she gasped, swallowing a sob.
“It’s better that you do … please.”
The pleading edge to his voice nearly undid her. Why on earth did this man want to die alone?
“I’m staying with ye … to the end,” she answered, squeezing his hand. “I will never leave, so save yer breath.”
His eyes closed, a spasm of pain rippling across his face. “If you stay, you’ll regret it,” he gasped.
Heather frowned. “Let me be the judge of that.”
“You don’t understand … I’m not who you think I am.” The words came out in pained grunts. “I’ll be healed by morning … and you will think me a demon for it.”
Heather stared down at him, sorrow grasping her around the throat. Poor man. His mind is going. He was muttering nonsense now, yet she wasn’t surprised.
He wouldn’t last till the witching hour, let alone the dawn. But she would stay at his side nonetheless.
They lapsed into silence then, and Heather watched Maximus’s breathing gradually grow slower and shallower. His skin already had the pallor of a corpse. It was no sleep he’d fallen into, but something much deeper.
Watching him, an ache rose under Heather’s breast bone. She reached up with her free hand, for her other still grasped Maximus’s, and rubbed her knuckles against her chest, trying to ease the pain.
How was it possible to spend only three days with someone, and yet feel as if you’d known them a lifetime? No man had ever protected her as Maximus had. No man had ever really seen her. Last night, when they talked as dusk settled over the land, she’d sensed she had his full attention. He’d been curious about her. Given time, they might have lain together again. Given time, they might have forged a bond.
Yet now, Heather would never know.
“Sleep, brave warrior,” she whispered, hot tears flooding down her cheeks. “And know that I will never forget ye.”
With that, she bent her head over his bloodied body and let the tears flow.
XVIII
THE COMING OF THE DAWN
MAXIMUS AWOKE TO the warmth of the sun on his face.
For a moment, he just lay there, enjoying the heat of it, and the fact that his body was no longer wracked with agony. The shadow of yesterday’s injuries was still there—deep scars that no one could see—yet he knew without even opening his eyes that his body was whole and healthy once more.
With the rising sun, the curse had worked its magic.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, his gaze settling upon the woman who lay sleeping next to him. Heather’s eyes were puffy, her cheeks reddened from tears, and yet she’d never looked lovelier to him. With her hair spread out around her, she appeared a fairy maid sleeping there.
But as Maximus watched her, a cold lump settled in the pit of his belly.
He’d done his best to avoid this moment—but he’d been too injured the day before to prevent her from remaining at his side. And yet, maybe there was still time.
She was in a deep sleep, having wept until exhaustion claimed her.
Perhaps, Maximus could simply disappear into the trees? Later, she’d wake and wonder what had happened to his body. But it would be better that way. Better that he didn’t have to look into her eyes and see horror there.
Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he looked down upon his ruined hunting leathers. He’d need to find a new vest, yet the flesh that showed through the slashes in the leather was healthy, no longer raw and gaping.
Maximus rolled to his feet and glanced over at where Luchag dozed under the shade of a beech tree. He’d leave Heather the garron and continue his journey on foot. But since they were both headed for the same destination, he’d have to be careful in Dunnottar lest she accidentally saw him.
Maximus took a step away from the smoking fire pit, his gaze swiveling back to the sleeping woman.
I’m sorry, Heather.
He then took another step, his boot landing upon a twig. The snapping sound echoed through the glade, and Maximus froze.
Heather’s eyes flickered open and fixed upon him.
The moments that followed were the most awkward of Maximus’s long life.
At first, Heather just stared at him, her mind and senses still fogged by sleep. And then, he saw realization flood across her face.
It was a terrible thing to watch, a dawning that made his belly twist.
The gentle expression upon her face vanished, and her eyes widened. Her throat bobbed, her body tensing. Slowly, she sat up, her attention never leaving him. It was as if he were a predator standing before her—no longer a man, but a beast.
“I warned you, Heather,” he said, breaking the brittle silence. “If you’d left me as I asked, you’d have spared yourself this.”
She didn’t answer him. Instead, a nerve flickered in her cheek as her gaze shifted down from his face to his chest and belly, where those mortal wounds had vanished.
“What are ye?” she finally rasped.
“Does it matter?”
“Aye,” she choked the word out. “What kind of man receives injuries like that and lives?
Maximus drew in a slow, steadying breath. “A cursed one.”
She continued to stare at him, her face draining of color. Slowly, as if expecting him to pounce and rip her throat out, Heather rose to her feet. Her hand strayed to the knife
at her waist. Her trembling fingers fastened around the hilt.
“There’s no need for that,” he murmured. “You know I’d never harm you.”
“Do I?” With her free hand, she hastily crossed herself. She looked at him as if Satan himself stood before her.
“One thousand, one hundred and eighty-three years ago, I was part of a Roman legion that marched into the wild north of this land,” he began softly. Maximus didn’t know why he was bothering to tell her his story. Heather’s eyes had that glazed look that terrorized folk often got. She probably wasn’t taking any of this in. And yet, he had to tell her. “We were sent to put down the ‘barbarian savages’ and secure the northern frontier for our emperor.” Maximus’s throat tightened as he spoke. Even after all this time, the tragedy of the Hispana’s fate still affected him. “We were the Ninth legion … a force of five thousand men who crossed the border and never returned. They slowly picked us off on our journey north, and by the time we reached the ruins of our northernmost outpost, there were barely five hundred of us left.”
Maximus halted here. Heather was watching him as though he’d slipped into another tongue, her features taut, her body coiled. He should stop there, for nothing he said would make any difference, yet Maximus pressed on. She might as well hear everything.
“Three of us were taken alive after the battle and brought before a Pictish druidess. She cursed us to an immortal life, damned us to remain forever within the boundaries of this land … and so, here I am before you, Heather. Maximus Flavius Cato, commander of a lost legion … a soldier of an empire that fell long ago.”
He stopped speaking then and let the twitter of birdsong in the surrounding trees dominate. Behind him, Luchag snorted, as if he found the story preposterous. Indeed, spoken so baldly, it sounded like utter fantasy.
Maximus didn’t expect Heather to believe him, but all the same, it felt as if a weight had been lifted to share who he truly was with one mortal soul. It had gone as badly as he’d expected.
“Take Luchag and continue north on your own,” he said finally, taking another step back. “I shall make my way to Dunnottar on foot.”
Heather merely stared at him, her expression frozen. He felt a pang of pity for her. She’d be sorely regretting her choice in travel companion now.
“Go well, Heather,” Maximus said, attempting a smile yet failing. “I wish you health and happiness … but here is where our paths diverge.”
Still, she said nothing. The fingers clutching the hilt of the knife tightened.
Without another word, Maximus turned and left the glade, disappearing into the trees.
Heather stood there for a long while after Maximus vanished. She stared at the spot where his tall, lean figure had disappeared, as if expecting him to reappear.
But thankfully he didn’t.
Whispering a curse, Heather let go of the knife hilt and wrapped her arms around her torso. She realized then that her legs were trembling. She needed to sit for a moment.
She lowered herself down next to the smoldering ruins of last night’s fire and attempted to net her racing thoughts.
Immortal.
Lost legion.
Pictish druidess.
Curse.
The words tumbled through her confused mind. None of it made any sense, and yet Maximus had stared at her with a look of complete sincerity. Who would make up such an outrageous story anyway?
No man can live a thousand years.
But no man could sustain the wounds he had the day before and live to see the next dawn. She might not believe his outlandish tale, yet she’d seen how all the wounds on his chest and stomach had miraculously healed.
Groaning another curse—a filthy one she’d learned from Iain—she scrubbed at her face.
Maybe I’m dreaming.
But she wasn’t. She was wide awake, with a cool morning breeze stirring her hair and the call of birds echoing through the trees around her.
She had actually lain with that man, had given her body to him. Betrayal robbed her of breath and made her pulse flutter like a trapped moth in her throat.
To think she’d actually fantasized about him taking her again, about the relationship between them blossoming into something far deeper.
She’d have ended up shackling herself to a fiend.
Her head felt as if it were stuffed full of wool. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t make sense of anything Maximus had told her. The Ninth legion? She’d never heard of such a thing.
Rising to her feet, Heather kicked dirt over the embers of the fire pit and crossed to the garron. She appreciated that Maximus had left her his pony. It was a generous act; even if she was loath to receive any help from someone—or something—so unnatural.
Nonetheless, Luchag would save her legs.
She started to saddle the pony. However, she was now on edge and kept glancing over her shoulder. Part of her expected Maximus to return.
If he was a demon, he was dangerous. Folk said that such creatures stole the souls of unwary travelers. Heather hastily crossed herself and muttered a prayer to the Virgin. Right now, she needed protection.
She needed to put as much distance as she could between her and Maximus Flavius Cato.
XIX
I HAVE QUESTIONS
THE CRY OF a red kite circling overhead made Maximus crane his neck up at the sky. The bird of prey, with its russet underbelly and forked tail, was gliding upon the air currents, and the sight made Maximus halt to watch it.
How glorious it must be to be able to fly high above the world. Why couldn’t the Pict witch have turned him into a kite all those years ago? He wouldn’t have minded that so much.
Shaking his head, Maximus cast the foolish thoughts aside and continued on his way up the hillside. It was another glorious spring day, although the wind that blew in from the north had a bite to it—a reminder that winter had only recently loosened its grip and could return on a whim. The weather in this land was notoriously capricious, something that had taken him a long while to get used to.
Yesterday’s events had slowed his progress north. Cassian would be waiting for him at Dunnottar—and he hoped after all the ill luck he’d had over the past few days his fortune was about to change.
Cassian had tried the hardest of all three of them to solve the riddle. He’d spent the last few centuries working for the personal guards of Scotland’s most powerful clan-chiefs, all the while searching for clues that would help them break the curse.
Unlike Maximus and Draco, who’d let the years turn them despondent and bitter, Cassian had never given up.
Maximus wondered where Draco was these days. He clearly hadn’t made a trip to Stirling, which meant that he was probably off on some perilous adventure, testing his curse to its limits. Draco was a man who continued to look for death, even though it steadfastly eluded him.
The heat of the sun on his back lightened Maximus’s mood a little, and with each furlong that he walked north, the humiliation of that scene at dawn eased a little. Nonetheless, there was a heaviness upon him today, a disappointment.
He hadn’t expected things to go any better than they had between him and Heather, but the confrontation in that glade had left a sour taste in his mouth nonetheless.
It was always the same. If he tried to spare women the pain of discovering who he was, they condemned him as a heartless rogue. But if they discovered his unnaturalness, it was as if he’d just turned into a wulver before them.
At least Heather had let him tell her his story, although he wasn’t sure she’d listened to any of it.
Maximus’s mouth twisted. Perhaps women’s reactions to him were part of the bandruí’s curse.
His belly growled as he walked, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything since morning the day before. Galbraith and his friends had turned up before he’d been able to take a bite of bread and cheese.
He felt famished now and, as such, Maximus was relieved to arrive at a tiny hamlet mid-morning.
The village sat near a swiftly flowing river, its banks overhung with willows wearing their bright green spring coats. There was a market taking place by the river, and Maximus bought himself a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a large pork pie, to eat while he traveled.
He walked on. To the west, large, wooded mountains rose to greet him, their bulk etched against a windy sky. Those peaks led into the Highlands, the wild and beautiful land where the Ninth had met its inglorious end.
Noon came and went. Maximus had finished his pie and was considering eating the bread and cheese as well, when he spotted two figures upon the crest of the hill before him.
A sturdy highland pony nipped at grass, while next to him, a woman perched upon a boulder, her long walnut-colored hair blowing in the wind.
Maximus’s step faltered.
Heather.
Had she deliberately waited for him?
He slowed his pace as he climbed the hill, for part of him dreaded facing her again. Yet another part of him was curious. She was a brave woman indeed if she wished to face the immortal demon again.
He kept his gaze upon Heather as he approached; her face was expressionless, her gaze narrowed. She was a different woman to the frightened one who’d stared at him across the smoldering fire pit that morning.
All the same, Maximus noted the tension in her shoulders and the way her fingers clutched at the skirt of her kirtle. She was still afraid of him.
That being the case, he stopped a few yards back from her.
“Good afternoon,” he greeted her with a half-smile.
Heather swallowed hard. Her heart was hammering, the noise of it distracting her. Wiping her sweaty palms against her skirts, she rose to her feet.
Her gaze swept over Maximus, and like that morning, a cold sensation of shock rippled through her. There was no sign of the terrible wounds he’d sustained. The chill intensified when she noted that the leather vest he wore appeared mended.
What devilry was this?
“Yer clothing,” she said. Her voice came out in a strangled croak, betraying her.