by Jayne Castel
Mithras save him, the woman would be his undoing. Whenever she was near, he found himself doing and saying things he knew he’d regret later. Cassian was right to be angry he’d told her about the curse. In his place, he’d have been furious too. But when Heather’s gaze met his, he found it difficult to hold back. She knew who he was and yet, once the initial shock of discovery had passed, she accepted him.
It was a powerful thing—to be seen and wanted after so many centuries alone.
Heather was so sultry, her grey-green eyes a blend of knowing and innocence that caused something deep inside his chest to tighten. Just a couple of hours apart, and when he saw her again, a hunger had risen inside him he’d had trouble controlling.
Even now, his groin ached in the memory of how sweet her mouth had tasted. She’d been impossible to resist: her curves in that clinging lilac kirtle, her breasts straining against the laces, and the creamy skin of her cleavage tempting him.
But when she’d told him how she longed to be a wife and mother, a heaviness settled over him. He wished he could give her what she wanted. And yet he couldn’t. The bandruí had made sure of that.
A roar went up in the midst of the crowd of soldiers, drawing Maximus’s attention once more.
A stable lad appeared from the tack room, his eyes panicked. Obviously, this host of men hadn’t been expected. The lad went to rush by, in a hurry to ready stalls for the horses, but Maximus caught him by the arm.
“Who are these men?” he asked.
The lad’s thin face tensed as he met Maximus’s eye. However, seeing that he was being questioned by one of the Guard, he didn’t struggle in his grip. “It’s the Wallace—William Wallace,” the youth gasped. “He and his men have returned to Dunnottar.”
This announcement made Maximus let go of the lad, and without another word, the boy scurried off. Frowning, Maximus turned back to view the company—this time with fresh eyes.
The Wallace had been active a few years earlier, and instrumental in repelling the English forces, but of late, he’d gone to ground. No word had been heard from him. Many folk thought he’d left Scotland. But it appeared he was back.
Maximus’s gaze swept the faces of the men who were now dismounting from their horses, their rough voices deafening as they ribbed each other and called for ale. In the midst of the group sat a big man upon the largest destrier that Maximus had ever seen.
In contrast to the activity around him, the newcomer was strangely still. Instead, he took in his surroundings with calm, yet keen, interest.
It was the gaze of a leader.
Maximus had sometimes wondered if he’d ever meet this warrior in his travels, and William Wallace was indeed how he’d imagined him. A mail shirt covered his broad chest, a thick fur mantle emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. He had long dark hair and a thick beard to match, his strong-featured face set in a severe expression.
“Wallace!” A shout rang out across the crowd, and Maximus’s attention shifted to the steps of the keep, where a tall man with brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard, an ermine cloak upon his shoulders, had stepped outdoors. Shadowing him, Maximus spied Cassian.
Although Maximus had never set eyes upon the laird of Dunnottar, he realized that this must be David De Keith, the current ruler of this fortress.
“Greetings, De Keith!” The newcomer bellowed, as the rumble of voices around him died away. “I hope yer kitchen is well-stocked … my men are hungry!”
“And thirsty!” One of the warriors shouted, much to the delight of his companions. Laughter rang out across the bailey.
“Of course … there will be plenty of food and drink for the Guardian of the Realm and his warriors,” De Keith called back. However, the lack of force to his voice betrayed him.
Clearly, the laird wasn’t happy to have these men as his visitors.
William Wallace frowned, a formidable expression indeed. “I gave up that title, De Keith.” The bitter edge to his voice made the men around him grow still. “And I’d prefer not to be reminded of it.”
“Well, we welcome ye here all the same,” De Keith replied, a note of brittle joviality in his voice now. “To what do we owe the honor?”
Wallace’s dark gaze narrowed further. “I’m a wanted man, De Keith … and need a place to lie low for a while,” he rumbled. “Plus, Longshanks is pushing north again. Soon he’ll be knocking on yer door … we don’t want Dunnottar to fall under English rule again, do we?”
A heavy beat of silence passed before the laird shook his head, his mouth compressing. “The occupation was my brother’s doing … he couldn’t repel them.”
“And yet Robert is a much better military commander than ye,” Wallace countered.
The silence in the lower ward bailey turned chill. Even from this distance, Maximus could see that David De Keith was scowling. William Wallace’s reply had been a blatant challenge.
“I take it ye have seen the fire-tailed star in the night sky?” De Keith asked, unexpectedly steering the exchange in a new direction.
Wallace inclined his head. “Aye … what of it?”
“It’s an omen … one which bodes ill for us all.”
The freedom fighter snorted at this while around him some of his men exchanged wary looks. The people of this land were superstitious; such talk made them uncomfortable.
“It bodes ill for the English, De Keith … as it did all those years ago when William the Conqueror crossed the Narrow Sea.”
The moments drew out, and then De Keith favored the newcomer with a strained smile. “The Lord willing, ye are right.” He waved his arm to the gathering of warriors before him, an expansive gesture. “Come inside … and leave yer horses for my men to see to.”
Wallace gave a curt nod. And with that, he swung down from his warhorse.
Conversation resumed once more, and Maximus’s gaze shifted from the band’s leader to the other faces in the crowd. Judging from the array of plaid, the Wallace had managed to recruit men from all over the Highlands to his cause—men whose clans had fought each other over the centuries were now temporarily united against a common enemy.
Maximus wondered how long the truce would last.
And as he viewed the milling crowd of horses and riders, the same sensation he’d felt in Stirling—which made the hair on the back of his arms prickle—revisited him. These men were stout-hearted Scots, proud to represent their clans and defend their homeland with their lives.
How I envy them.
The prickling sensation intensified. The feeling was so strong it made him catch his breath. No wonder even the promise of breaking the curse left him numb these days.
What was the point, if he was going to continue living this way? He was nothing but a shadow, a man who passed through the lives of others without ever belonging.
He’d spent centuries avoiding the very thing that made life worth living.
I don’t believe it … I actually want to settle down. The thought struck him with such clarity that he sucked in a sharp breath. I want a woman … a clan.
Still reeling from this realization, Maximus forced himself to continue surveying the crowd of warriors. And as he did so, he spied a face he hadn’t seen in many years.
The man stood out amongst the Scots—with their long hair and beards, and their fair, ruddy complexions. Dressed in leather armor, a wolfskin cloak hanging from his shoulders, the warrior was clean-shaven and had aquiline features, curly black hair shorn close to his scalp, and dark-copper skin. He was seated astride his horse, watching the surrounding activity under hooded lids.
And then, feeling Maximus’s gaze upon him, the newcomer’s attention shifted across the crowd of men and horses.
Their gazes locked for an instant. The man’s expression was as hawkish and brutal as Maximus remembered. The years hadn’t softened this centurion at all; instead, they had turned him to steel.
As such, it came as a surprise when, at that moment, Draco Vulcan smiled.
&nb
sp; XXVIII
THE WELCOME BANQUET
THE NOISE IN Dunnottar hall was deafening. Men’s rough voices echoed off the stone walls and lifted high into the rafters. The thud of tankards of ale and mead being slammed down onto tables, and the clatter of food being served, accompanied the raucous conversation. Musicians—two youths playing a harp and a flute—stood next to the huge hearth at one end of the long rectangular chamber, yet the clamor almost drowned out the music.
This was the chamber where the De Keith and his retainers took their meals. The steward and his family sat at a long table near one of the hall’s wide windows. Extra tables had been dragged in to accommodate the new arrivals, which meant that the servants had to squeeze through the gaps between to serve them.
Five long years had passed since Heather had last graced this hall with her presence. Strangely, it felt like much longer; she was a different person these days.
Taking in her surroundings, Heather caught snatches of conversation around her. The table behind them were discussing the fire-tailed star. Apparently, De Keith had proclaimed it an ill omen. The edges of her mouth curved when she thought of what the ‘Broom-star’ meant to Maximus and his friends. To them it was a sign of hope.
Heather’s pulse quickened then, as she recalled the passionate kiss she and Maximus had shared in the stables. It was a stolen moment, yet she found herself longing for another.
Forcing herself to focus, her attention shifted to the long table before the hearth where the laird, his family, and his most loyal warriors sat eating. Servants were circling the laird’s table with ewers of wine.
Heather had been amazed to discover that the huge, dark-haired man who’d stridden into the hall earlier was none other than William Wallace.
Her breathing had caught when she’d found out who he was.
The Wallace was actually here—once again a resident at Dunnottar. He was her hero: a man who represented Scottish freedom.
“I don’t know how the kitchen manages to accommodate all these men,” Iona De Keith muttered, raising her voice to be heard over the din. “The Wallace could have sent word of his arrival ahead.”
“That’s not his way,” Donnan De Keith replied. “I suppose it’s safer if no one knows the man’s whereabouts … especially with the English up to no good again.”
Heather, who’d just started on her dish of boiled mutton and mashed turnip and butter, glanced up to find her father watching her. “Who is this man ye traveled north with, Heather?”
Heather stifled a sigh, aware then that her sister also observed her closely now. Likewise, her mother stared at her, a frown marring her brow.
“It’s dangerous on the road for a woman alone,” Heather answered evenly. “Maximus was traveling to Dunnottar … so we journeyed together.”
“Maximus,” Iona sniffed. “What kind of name is that? Is he a cèin?”
“Aye … he’s from near Rome, but has lived here a long while.”
If only they knew just how long.
“And what’s his business at Dunnottar?” her father asked.
“His friend Cassian invited him to join the Guard.”
“The Spaniard?” Heather’s mother gave another disapproving sniff. “Soon we’ll be overrun with outsiders.”
“Cassian Gaius is the best captain we’ve had in years, my love,” Donnan De Keith replied, a note of chastisement in his voice. “Better a man of Rome and a Spaniard at our side than to have this fortress overrun with English again.”
Iona shuddered at this, hastily crossing herself. “Don’t say such things, Donnan.”
Heather’s father didn’t answer his wife. Instead, he caught his eldest daughter’s eye before favoring her with a gentle smile. “At least he brought ye home safely, lass.”
Heather smiled back, although the expression was forced. It was fortunate her father didn’t know what had actually befallen them on the road to Dunnottar.
Reaching for a loaf of bread, she ripped a piece off, her gaze settling upon where her sister sat at her side. Aila had been silent ever since they’d entered the hall. She realized then that her sister’s attention had shifted during Heather’s exchange with her parents. Her gaze was now fixed upon the laird’s table a few yards away. She appeared to be staring at a big, ruggedly handsome man with short brown hair, who sat halfway down the table.
“Who’s he?” Heather asked, her curiosity spiking.
Aila started, as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t, and tore her gaze from the man. She focused on her supper then, her cheeks flushing. “No one,” she murmured.
Across the table, their parents were now conversing together, their daughters ignored for the moment. As such, Heather bent her head toward her sister’s, her elbow nudging her in the ribs. “I doubt ‘no one’ makes a lass blush like that … come on … who is he?”
Aila made a strangled sound in the back of her throat. Her sister wore a hunted look, as if she wished to leap up from the table and flee. “Cassian Gaius, Captain of the Guard,” she whispered.
Heather glanced over at the table, at where the man was speaking to one of the Wallace’s men. Maximus’s friend. Like Maximus, he wore his hair in that brutally short style, and he held himself with that same ramrod straight posture. A soldier’s bearing—a centurion’s bearing.
“He’s handsome,” she acknowledged, shifting her attention once more to where her sister now squirmed beside her.
“Enough,” Aila hissed. “I wasn’t staring at him … I was just … deep in thought.”
Heather cocked an eyebrow. Aila must think her a goose if she was ever going to believe that. Nonetheless, she could see her sister wasn’t in the mood to be teased. She was staring down at her plate with a fixed, pained look upon her face, her shoulders rounded. There wasn’t any point in pursuing the subject.
Instead, Heather’s attention returned to the laird’s table, and to William Wallace. The rumors had said he was a giant, and indeed she’d seen how he towered over De Keith as he made his way to the table. David De Keith wasn’t a small man, but he’d looked so next to the seven-foot warrior.
Curiosity spiraled up within Heather. Why is he here? She longed to be one of the servants circuiting the table, so she could catch snippets of conversation. Had he gone to France to rally support for the Scottish cause as many folk believed?
Heather’s gaze slid along the table, taking in the faces of those seated there. Lady Gavina was the only woman present this eve. She was seated to the left of her husband, with Cassian flanking her other side.
The Wallace sat to David De Keith’s right, and the pair of them appeared to be deep in discussion. William Wallace was frowning, while the De Keith laird wore a pinched expression.
Heather guessed that the conversation wasn’t going well.
A striking man sat next to William Wallace. Jet black hair curled close against his scalp, and he bore haughty, hawkish good looks. Unlike most of the men in this hall, he didn’t wear any clan colors.
Heather wondered who he was.
Nosiness will be yer undoing one of these days, she chastised herself, taking a mouthful of mutton.
She noted that Maximus was nowhere in sight. Since he’d just joined the Guard, she imagined he was taking his first watch upon the walls. Nonetheless, she found her gaze looking for him.
Careful. She washed the mutton down with a sip of ale. Don’t ye get besotted with him.
The thought made her tense. It was probably too late for such warnings. It was time to admit that Maximus had gotten under her skin. That kiss had left her breathless and aching. She felt oddly tearful as she’d hurried away afterward.
Falling for him wasn’t wise at all.
As she finished her supper, Heather became aware of a strange sensation, a prickling between her shoulder blades. It felt like someone was staring at her. At first, she resisted the impulse to glance over her shoulder, telling herself that it was probably just fatigue. It had been a tirin
g journey, and she was looking forward to sleeping on a soft mattress tonight.
However, the sensation intensified with each passing moment, and eventually, Heather glanced over her shoulder.
And when she did so, she froze.
A man seated at the far side of the hall was watching her. He sat in the midst of a long table, where the Wallace’s men ate and drank. Around him, the other warriors roared with laughter over some joke one of them had made. Yet this man ignored them.
He merely stared at Heather. His face was taut, his eyes unblinking.
Heather stared back, a chill washing over her. She’d been enjoying her supper, but now her belly and throat closed. A moment later, she broke into a cold sweat.
No … it can’t be.
But it was. She knew that face well enough not to mistake it.
There, watching her with a glare that pinned her to her seat and robbed her lungs of breath, was Iain Galbraith.
XXIX
A GHOST FROM THE PAST
HEATHER TURNED BACK to face her parents, her pulse thundering in her ears. Her body coiled, and she dug her fingers into the wooden tabletop.
“Heather … what’s wrong, lass? Ye have gone the color of milk.” Across the table, her father watched her, his brow furrowed.
Next to him, her mother also frowned. “Donnan’s right … are ye unwell?”
Heather shook her head. Shock had rendered her momentarily speechless. Her supper churned in her belly.
Run, her instincts screamed. Get away from him!
But she couldn’t, not now. Everyone was still seated in the hall. She’d only draw unwelcome attention to herself.
One thing she knew though was that she wasn’t going to keep this secret to herself. Her kin were her only allies in this hall—and none of them had liked her husband.
“Iain is here,” she rasped, finally finding her voice.
Beside her, Aila gasped. “Iain Galbraith?”
Heather nodded, bile stinging the back of her throat. “He’s seated at the rear of the hall … and I can still feel his stare drilling a hole into my back.”