Galan left the demons to their dismal grousing and tormenting of the handful of mortals still healthy enough to provide sport. In the barn he stripped out of his sopping garments and washed before donning his druid robes. As he did, he felt the strength of the new power suffusing him, still ready and eager to be put to use.
This night had been a disappointment for all but him. He now knew what would bring him his every desire.
He retrieved the satchel in which he had placed Fiana’s bones, and carried them as he walked out into the night. Thanks to the lingering storm clouds he did not go to the stables, but stretched his wings and took to the air.
Flying his beloved from the village to a remote spot in the highlands gave him time to consider what he would do, now that he knew who had trapped the Sluath in the mortal realm. He understood the reason the creature had done so, for the same desire burned in him. Armed with that fire and his new knowledge, he would destroy the Mag Raith, and anyone who defied him.
It seemed a boon that Danar and Iolar no longer considered him a threat. That, too, would work in his favor.
In a spot too high for mortals to climb, and too desolate for anything to grow, Galan entered a remote cave where he had once collected crystals. The interior glittered with faint purple reflections. Gently he placed Fiana’s bones in the center. Though he was tempted to linger over her, his new purpose would not wait. He exited and cast his power over the entrance, sealing it with rockfall.
“Sleep, my love,” Galan said, resting his hand against the still-shifting rocks. “I shall return for you soon, and we will be reunited.”
Now he would begin his search in earnest with but one goal: Culvar, the prince’s halfling brother. The only Sluath with the power of resurrection, he would also undoubtedly possess a hatred of Iolar that Galan would be happy to indulge.
We had to know what you were, the prince had said to him.
If only the mighty Iolar knew how greatly he had changed.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
JENNA AND ROSEALISE hurried into the stronghold ahead of Edane and Broden, and brought blankets and bandages for the wounded woman. Carrying Nellie to a chair by the hearth, Edane sat down and held her. He knew he should be helping the clan tend to the pale lady, but he had to entreat the Gods for his own.
It had been so long since he had done so that he abandoned the usual honorifics. He spoke from his heart as he watched his lover’s still, pallid features.
“I ken she’s hardly mortal anymore. I saw the smoke rising from her wounds. But she died to save two lives. No demoness would do such.”
Domnall came to stand beside him, and rested a hand on Nellie’s head. He gave Edane a long look of silent understanding but slowly shook his head. The chieftain had seen the smoke as well. Edane’s jaw tightened as he held Nellie closer.
Domnall moved to where the others were gathered around the wounded woman. “’Tis your lady there, Brother?”
Edane glanced over at Broden, who knelt beside the pale arrival, his expression that of a man in torment. His dark eyes flashed up for a moment, and he nodded.
“So much blood,” Rosealise said as she gently sponged it from the lady’s back, and then frowned. “I cannot find a wound on her. Jenna, will you help me turn her?”
The chieftain’s wife reached out, but a white hand suddenly gripped her wrist and shoved her into the housekeeper. The pale-haired woman shot to her feet and grabbed Broden from behind. She pulled the dagger from his belt and held the blade to the scar across his throat.
“Non,” the woman said. “Reste en arriére.”
“Oh, crap,” Jenna said as she helped Rosealise to her feet. “She doesn’t speak English.”
Edane looked to Domnall, who made a hand signal to Mael. Broden didn’t move a muscle, but his eyes shifted from side to side.
“Mademoiselle,” the housekeeper said, her tone soothing. “N’aie pas peur. Nous sommes tes amis. Vous parlez anglais?”
“Oui.” The woman’s gaze darted around, cool and assessing, but she didn’t take the knife from Broden’s throat. “England?”
“Scotland,” Rosealise said. “Please, don’t be alarmed. As I’ve said, we will not hurt you. We are your friends.” When the woman pressed the blade deeper, causing blood to trickle along it, she added, “I did not say that correctly. We are strangers to you, but we mean you no harm. We found you and brought you here to help you.”
“Stop moving, big man, I see you,” the woman said to Mael without looking at him. “I see you all.”
“Are you wounded, Mistress?” Domnall asked her. “When we found you, ’twas blood on your back.”
“No. My back is fine. I have a headache.” Her gaze shifted to Nellie. “That one, she’s dead?”
“No,” Edane declared.
“Okay. C’est bon. Is good.”
The woman slowly lowered the blade, and pushed Broden away from her. Her legs shook as she grabbed his tartan and wrapped it around her, keeping the dagger ready.
“What’s your name?” Jenna asked tentatively.
“Mariena Douet.” She swayed before she groped behind her. Finally she found the chieftain’s chair and sat down heavily.
Rosealise approached her, stopping when she lifted the dagger. “Let us help you, my dear lady. You’ve been through a terrible time.”
“No. If you touch me again, any of you, I will kill you.” The blade then fell from her hand to the floor, and she slumped to one side, unconscious.
Broden slowly bent down to retrieve the bloody dagger, and then backed away from the Frenchwoman. “She’s forgotten.” His mouth shaped the last word, me, as he touched the cut on his throat.
“Like our other ladies,” Domnall said, “in time Mistress Douet shall remember.” He exchanged a look with his seneschal. “I want something understood by all of you. Those who escape the Sluath shall be made welcome by this clan. Even if they hold a blade to our throats.”
Jenna blew out a breath. “For now, let’s hide all the weapons so we can get some clothes on mademoiselle and put her to bed.”
As the other clan members busied themselves, Broden hesitated as he passed Edane. With a gentle touch that the archer would never have expected, the trapper briefly placed a hand on his shoulder and lightly squeezed. More than anything the man could have said to him, the gesture made Edane’s throat tighten.
The bustle behind him faded into a hollow echo. As Broden left the hall, Edane stared down into Nellie’s pale, unmoving face. The other ladies had not taken this long to revive.
Had he been wrong about her?
“No,” he muttered as angry tears brimmed in his eyes. He shook his head, scattering them. “No,” he said, louder. “The lass ’twas no demoness, for the Sluath didnae have her heart. ’Tis the most human thing we possess. I ken because she gave hers to me.” He bent down over her, clutching her to his chest. “If you’ll no’ come to me,” he whispered next to her ear, “then I must follow you.”
“Jeepers,” said a small hoarse voice, “I thought we quit trying to kill ourselves.”
For a moment, Edane didn’t move. But then he jerked upright and stared down as Nellie’s eyelashes fluttered open. She looked up at him with a drowsy smile.
Joy flooded through Edane as a crazy grin spread over his face. “’Twould seem you’re immortal now, my lady.”
“How jake is that?” She winked. “Only had to shoot me. Three times.”
For several long moments Edane could only look at her, as though turning away his gaze might undo what had been done. But someone cleared his throat, and Edane reluctantly looked up to see Kiaran watching them. He nodded to the falconer, who approached and bowed to Nellie.
“I said to you much I now regret, Mistress Quinn. You saved my life, when I cared naught for yours. But for your sacrifice, I... Please forgive me.” When the chieftain approached, smiling at them, the falconer turned to him. “I knew the lady left the stronghold in the night, but I told no one. I d
idnae care what happened to her.”
“Indeed.” All the good humor fled from Domnall’s face. “You failed me sorely, Brother.”
Kiaran nodded. “If you wish me gone, I shall leave in the morning.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Nellie said as she sat up. “Sorry, Chieftain. I’d just like to say something before you decide to kick him out.”
Domnall eyed the falconer, and then nodded to her.
“Dun Chaill or the Gods or I don’t know just gave me another chance to live, right?” She smiled at Edane. “After everything I did wrong the first time, too. Besides finding Danny, I think that’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Everyone should have a second chance.” She regarded Kiaran, a little glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “Just remember, I gave you yours.”
Respect warmed his cool eyes, and the falconer bowed to her.
“Your words have weight, Mistress Quinn,” the chieftain said. “You may stay, Kiaran. Only ken that ’tis your last chance.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
CUL DRANK LISTLESSLY from a stolen bottle of whiskey as he listened to the voices in the great hall. The touch-reader had been revived, and another escaped slave rescued. Mariena Douet’s particular gift held no interest for him, although her vicious nature amused him. How the Mag Raith would enjoy learning of her past.
He could still smell the ash of the fallen on his flesh, but he’d been obliged to remain cloaked until the battle had concluded. Many demons had died, so many that he’d dared hope to see the prince among them. But Iolar had been too shrewd again, using his pet druid to escape unscathed.
Cul finished the whiskey before he trudged down the tunnels toward his chamber. The sound of two voices murmuring drew him to the new listening post he’d built by tunneling under the greenhouse to place it beyond the reach of the shaman’s wards.
The Mag Raith thought themselves clever, and indeed they were. Just not clever enough.
Chapter Forty
EDANE INSISTED ON taking Nellie out to the greenhouse to speak alone to her. When she came in, she saw their makeshift bed still there and laughed.
“Is that why you brought me out here? Not this time, Mister.” She poked him in the chest. “I want to make love in a real bed. Not on the floor, in the grass, or in the rain.” She sidled up against him. “At least, not tonight.”
“Aye.” He linked his hands behind her waist. “In the storm, I demanded much of you. You drive me mad sometimes. Forgive me that.”
“Ah, heat of the moment.” Nellie shrugged. “I’m not a delicate flower. I only look like one.” She stroked his jaw with her fingers. “Besides, I like you when you’re demanding.”
“You smell like flowers. You taste…” His mouth came down on hers for a moment. “…like honey and sunshine. I love you, and I ken you love me, so I must ask properly now. Will you mate with me, my lady? Will you be my wife, and share your eternity with me?”
Nellie pressed her cheek against his heart, and listened to the steady beat of it for moment. She thought of all the wisecracks she could make, but that was the old Nellie. For the woman she chose to be, it just came down to two words.
“I will.”
Sneak Peek
Broden (Immortal Highlander, Clan Mag Raith Book 4)
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
STANDING IN THE shadows of Dun Chaill’s great hall, Broden mag Raith watched Mariena Douet sleep. Firelight painted her with glowing colors, tinting the porcelain paleness of her hair and skin. Even from where he stood, he could smell the rain-washed headiness of her scent, like angelica after a storm. Absent expression, her face appeared calm, almost serene—yet her hands remained in loose fists. Blood flecked some of her fingers and stained the inside of one thin wrist.
Gazing upon her yet felt as if Broden had somehow gone mad.
For weeks he’d dreamt of this female, in both tantalizing detail and frustrating uncertainty. In hours of slumber, he’d held and kissed and caressed her, giving and taking pleasures with her that only the most ardent lovers shared. For all the females he’d lain with over his long life, he’d never felt such a consuming passion. He would have happily spent eternity in her arms, feasting on her as a sumptuous, unending banquet. Each time he awoke he felt addled, and almost convinced she could not be flesh.
Tonight, she’d dropped from the sky in the aftermath of a battle between his clan and the demonic Sluath, as if a victory boon from the Gods. But that illusion had lasted until the moment the lady had awakened.
In Broden’s dreams he’d looked upon Mariena as if through eyes filled with rain, so that she seemed only a blur of pale hair and skin. Now he could see everything of her, from a tousled mane of white and light gold to the thin, arched elegance of her bare feet. Since she had arrived naked after escaping the demons, nothing of her provided a hint of what time she had been taken from by the Sluath. Her features, more handsome than pretty, appeared as young and innocent as any maiden’s.
Her quickness and surety an hour past had banished that notion as well.
Edane, the clan’s shaman-trained archer, finished his examination of the unconscious lady. He covered her with a wool blanket, taking care to cover her bare feet. He then scrubbed a hand over his long scarlet hair as he beheld her another moment.
“No wounds or bruising, thank the Gods,” he told Domnall, the Mag Raith clan’s chieftain. “’Tis likely she’ll wake calmer once she’s rested. Only dinnae be fooled by her look of frailty. That swan’s skin covers muscles as fit and hard as a man’s.”
“Aye, and she fights as one.” The big man regarded his mate. “This French tongue the lady first spoke, ’tis common in your time, Wife?”
“In France, Canada, and most of Europe, but not in my country.” Jenna Cameron had come to the clan in fourteenth-century Scotland, but had been abducted from twenty-first century America, where she had worked as an architect. “Miss Douet used English with some fluency, and Rosealise speaks French like a native, so we shouldn’t have any problem communicating with her.”
No one mentioned the other reason they might expect difficulty with Mariena. Broden wondered if they thought it a kindness to him. He said nothing, aware as always that while his looks had always been called god-like, the sound of his harsh, damaged voice rasped unpleasantly in everyone’s ears.
“One more thing,” Jenna said, touching the chieftain’s arm. “Her face looks familiar to me. I’m pretty sure that she escaped the underworld with the rest of us.”
Domnall glanced at Broden, a flicker of sympathy in his green eyes before he said to his wife, “You should change into something dry, my love.”
“We both need a bath first,” she said. The slender, dark-haired architect glanced down at her mud-spattered garments. “Before I hit the showers, I’ll check on Nellie and Rosealise. They were both pretty shaken up by, ah, mademoiselle’s introduction.” She gave Broden a rueful look before she left the hall.
All gentleness left Domnall’s expression as he regarded the two men. “You and Edane secure the hall so the lady cannae set fires or run loose. Mael has the keepe watch until dawn, and I the next. Kiaran isnae in any shape to relieve us, so sleep while you may.” He headed after his wife.
Moving heavy stones to block the doorways provided welcome occupation for Broden, even with the odd weakness that had beset him since the battle. He then watched from the kitchens as Edane cast protective spells over the hearths and torches. When the archer stepped through to join him, Broden shifted the last blocks into place, effectively turning the hall into a spacious prison.
Through a gap in the stones he peered in at Mariena, only to assure himself that she still slept. When he turned around, he saw Edane bring out his box of medicines.
“I thought Kiaran but muddled by the spell blast,” Broden said, disuse rendering his voice little more than a grinder of words.
“’Tis no’ for the falconer,” the archer said, nodding toward his throat. “You yet
bleed.”
Touching the new wound atop the old scar on his throat, Broden took away his fingers to find them spotted with thick, dark blood. Until this moment he’d felt no pain, but now it throbbed like a sore tooth. His hand also shook slightly, and he looked up to see Edane watching the tremor.
“Dinnae be a facking wench,” the trapper told him flatly. “’Tis naught but weariness.”
The archer nodded, and with silent speed attended to the deep cut, cleaning it before he applied a soothing salve. As he did Broden stared past him without seeing anything but Mariena’s face. It seemed now permanently fixed in his mind.
“’Tis better,” Edane said and stepped back. “’Twill want a bandage if ’tis still open in the morning.” His blue eyes shifted to Broden’s, and filled with doubt. “I should see how Kiaran fares before I seek my lady and our bed.” He hesitated before he touched Broden’s shoulder. “Dinnae brood longer, Brother. I vow we’ll fathom more on the morrow.”
The trapper doubted that, and everything else now, but Edane would not leave him if he thought him addlepated. “My thanks, and fair night.”
Once the archer left, Broden retrieved a bottle of whiskey from their stores and drank directly from it. Although as an immortal he could no longer become drunk, the burn of the spirit distracted him from the throb of his neck.
It did nothing to soothe the churn of his thoughts.
Handsome as he surely was, Broden had fared none too well with females. His own mother, a headman’s bed slave, had died bearing him. Sileas, his sire’s vengeful wife, had then tried to strangle the life from him, forcing her mate to foster Broden with another tribe. There, among the Mag Raith, the one Pritani lass he might have loved had been openly humiliated for opening her heart to a worthless slaveborn like him. The dru-widess lovers he’d since taken had offered their bodies, never their affections.
Edane: Immortal Highlander, Clan Mag Raith Book 3 Page 19