by Lora Andrews
Donald narrowed his eyes in warning—a warning Ian ignored with a tilt of his head and a shrug of his shoulders. “It’s possible.”
The brother’s didn’t bother responding. No buzzards circled the woods when they’d buried the bodies. They’d found no human remains other than those slain on the field. Which meant two men ran into the woods and were yet to exit.
“And the sorceress?” Donald asked.
“We tracked her farther than we did this morning. About forty five furlongs before the storm rolled in. Mayhap it was the rain, mayhap no’, but her tracks ended, and where they ceased, we found an unusual depression.”
Donald scrubbed a hand over his weary face. “An unusual depression? How so?”
“Like a subtle buckling of the ground, free of leaves and debris.”
Torin grunted in agreement and added to Aengus’s description. “As if the wind blew it clean and left a small cavity in return.”
“Ah,” Donald said, rising from the table. “An unnatural dip in the earth, is that all?”
The brothers nodded.
“Very well. Then it would appear we are at a standstill. I’ll send word to Duart with a request for aid. Put all able-bodied men on alert,” he said to Ewen. “We are under threat of attack until I say otherwise.”
Ewen pressed the pads of his thumbs against his eyelids to relieve the pressure building in his head.
Three chairs ground against the stone floor as the men stood to exit the room.
He opened his eyes to find his brother staring at him. “Will you question the woman, or shall I?”
“I’ll do it.” Ewen gnashed his teeth and strode out the door.
SIX
“SHE IS ASLEEP.”
Ewen caught a glimpse of the slumbering woman before Mari closed the door and stepped into the darkened hallway.
“We did all we could for the injury. Only time will tell if the wound will fester.” Wiping her palms across her apron, Mari glared at the guard stationed across the hall.
Poor Gowan ogled a spot on the wall, avoiding the bite of Lady Ardgour’s stare. Mari had been none too pleased to learn the laird had tasked a man to the woman’s room.
“How long will the tonic last?” Ewen asked.
“It’s difficult to say.” Wisps of amber hair escaped the knotted kerchief Mari wore. “Deidre was careful with the herbs but the potency will depend on Caitlin’s constitution. She’ll be blessed if she sleeps the night. I’ve a poultice on the wound to prevent fever, but rest is what Caitlin needs most.”
Caitlin. The name centered something inside his chest. Ewen rubbed the back of his neck, angry his thoughts had once again reverted to her.
At Donald’s approach, Mari’s mouth drew into a tight line. “Are you meaning to question the lass now? Is that why you are both here?”
“Wife,” Donald warned, glancing at the guard.
Mari smiled sweetly and tipped her head to Gowan. “Perhaps you should relieve your cousin of his duties for the night, husband. I see no need to keep dear Gowan from his lovely wife and young children when an innocent woman sleeps quietly in her bed.”
Ewen leaned a shoulder against the wall. His brother didn’t stand a chance against his hellcat spouse.
“Dear Gowan,” Donald said in a low voice, “will sleep better knowing his wife and children are safe from an enemy spy.”
Mari’s sweet smile froze to her face. “A spy? You can’t be serious.”
Donald flicked his hand to Gowan.
Visible relief flooded their cousin. Gowan quickly fled into the darkened hallway before the laird could retract the temporary order.
“Aye, a spy, and I will make no apology for protecting what is mine.” Donald’s gaze fell to their unborn child. “As long as that woman keeps one foot in this manor, a guard will remain posted by her door. I want eyes on her at all times.”
Mari rose to her full height and met her husband’s rancor with the strength of her own. On her tiptoes, she barely reached Donald’s chin.
“She is not a spy, and I will not in good conscience allow that woman to return to a home that does not protect its kin. Do you understand me, Donald, First of Ardgour?”
Donald glanced at the closed door. “She bears the marks of a man’s hand?”
“Aye. That and more.”
Ewen moved from the wall. “You are certain?”
“Once we cleaned the dried blood from her body, the bruises spoke for themselves.”
Ewen curled his fist. Christ. He’d wish harm on no woman, but why did this woman’s abuse send him into a rage?
“You had but to tell me.” Donald brushed his wife’s cheek. “You of all people should know I would never abandon a woman in need.”
Mari’s expression softened. “Forgive me, Donald. I let my temper get the best of me. But there’s been a fair amount of secrecy from all of you. Not a word from Ian. Brother Rupert has taken to the evening prayer and all but disappeared from the keep. And you dear husband… Bah, you’ve been a bull as of late. I canna predict what you will or willnae do.”
She rubbed her lower back. Donald followed the movements of her hand. The bairn’s upcoming birth had turned his warlord brother into a rabid bear.
“Are you of a mind to tell me what happened?” Mari glanced between Ewen and Donald. “What sort of animal punctures a woman’s neck at the jugular? Never in all my years have I seen a wound such as this one. Stings, bites, scratches. The scars of war. I’ve seen much. But this? I don’t know how she survived.” Mari searched their faces. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Donald bent over and kissed his wife’s cheek. “Go to bed, Mari.”
Without waiting for his brother, Ewen pushed open the door and entered Caitlin’s room. The lass looked fragile tucked beneath the blanket, her arms framing the outline of her body over the thick bedding. Strips of linen had been wrapped around the splint on her right hand.
Mari swept past him, coming to a stop at the foot of the bed. “Deidre set the bones as best she could. Tomorrow she’ll gather the ingredients to harden the linen.”
The giant must have broken the woman’s wrist when he’d dislodged her weapon. Ewen fingered the hilt of the jeweled dagger he’d retrieved from Rupert, now strapped to his thigh. How had he missed the injury?
“She called for you in her sleep. By name.”
Mari’s words grounded him to a halt. Caitlin had called for him? The realization looped a thread of tenderness that formed a knot around his heart.
The door clicked closed. When Donald joined his wife by the foot of the bed, the knot turned to a vise. Donald had the nose of a bear. It wouldn’t take him long to sniff out Ewen’s omission. Already, with each hour that passed, his brother grew more and more suspicious over the circumstances surrounding Caitlin’s arrival to Ardgour. Ewen wouldn’t be able to keep the truth from him much longer.
God above, where had the monk disappeared to?
Ewen had torn the manor apart looking for Rupert to no avail. It didn’t matter. He was a bluidy idiot for keeping his mouth shut about the “how” of Caitlin’s arrival. Should Donald question his loyalties, he’d have only himself to blame. His fealty belonged to his chieftain, not some strange woman and a holy man.
“Ewen?”
“What?” His head snapped to Mari.
“Had you met before this incident?” Curiosity sparked in his sister-in-law’s dark eyes.
“Nay.” He would have remembered that face.
“Hmm…” was all Mari said in return.
The strange pull swelled inside him, making him uncomfortably aware of his proximity to the bed and the eagle-eyed scrutiny of both the laird and his wife to his right.
“We will speak to the woman about her involvement in the ambush,” Donald told Mari in a soft but stern voice. “It canna be helped.”
“Both of her ears bled at some point before she was attacked.” Mari paused, tension rolling across her lovely features. “Her fingern
ails are scraped down to the nail beds. If you discount her neck, the gouges in her shoulders, and her broken wrist, the fist-sized bruise on her abdomen is the least of her injuries.”
Ewen’s throat tightened. “I’ve heard enough.”
“I know men oft express their disappointment upon their wives or daughters”—anger flashed in Mari’s eyes—“but what this woman suffered is beyond cruel.”
Witch or no witch, Ewen would find the wretch who’d mutilated Caitlin’s body, gut him, and strangle him with his own bleeding innards.
The depth of his anger startled him. He forced air through his teeth and looked away from the bed. “We’ll wait until she is hale.”
Mari shot him a warning look
“Or when you give the order.”
“Fine,” she relented with a satisfied nod. “But not a word until then.”
Donald stepped behind his wife. Wrapping his large arms around her, he nuzzled her ear with his nose. “You’ve been on your feet for the better part of the day and night tending the lass. Go rest. I will join you after I’ve reviewed the preparations for our departure to Lochaber.”
“You’re departing for Tor Castle?” Mari’s eyebrows rose in alarm. “Why? Did my cousin have a hand in the raid against us?” She wiggled out of her husband’s embrace. “Or have you changed your mind about the betrothal, Ewen?”
Donald captured his wife in his arms. “My fierce lady, you will know all before the sun rises and I set foot to negotiate with your kin. Now”—he kissed her temple, turned her so she faced the door, and steered her to the exit—“off to bed with you before I drag you kicking and screaming down the hall, which will only give the old wives more fodder to prattle on about whilst I’m away.”
Mari snorted. “As if they need an excuse.” Heaving a deep sigh, she opened the door. “I am not liking this, Donald MacLean. Not one bit.” She marched from the room, her angry footfalls clacking against the stone floor.
Donald was a lucky man.
“You should no’ be leaving your wife this close to the bairn’s birth.”
His brother made a face. “What choice have I? We’ve magical beings in our woods. Aye”—he stabbed a finger in the air, daring Ewen to say otherwise—“you know it’s true. There is no use denying what we both saw. Those creatures are not of this world. If they are no’ tied to the attack, then I have also gained an enemy who wishes me to start a war. I want to know why. We confront Alan. If he is lying, I will know, and if he is not behind the ambush, then we solidify our alliance and find the miscreants who would see us slay one another. Have you another plan? Because if you do, I’m all ears.”
Ewen ran a hand over his face. War would weaken both clans. Questioning Caitlin would have to wait for his return.
“No, but I don’t feel right about leaving the keep.” But he’d trust no one else to guard his brother’s back.
“It canna be helped. Ian will protect our people with the same ferocity you or I would, and when the regiment arrives from Mull, the keep will be doubly fortified. Assign another guard to Mari, and tell the man I’ll flog him should my wife discover my duplicity.”
The poor wretch. Ewen didn’t envy the man assigned the task of protecting the lady of the keep. He jutted his chin to the sleeping beauty. “And what of her?”
Donald’s brows pulled. He regarded the woman lying in the bed. “Ian will ensure her safety while we’re gone.”
Ewen gritted his teeth.
His brother gave him a long, hard look. “She calls to you. There is no use denying it. Are you having doubts about the betrothal?”
“No. The betrothal stands.” It was right for the clan. Besides, what kind of future could he have with someone like her—a siren who’d fallen from the sky and bewitched him?
Donald grunted in agreement, eyeing the lass with his sharp blue eyes. “Good. I doona think she is of these parts. Mari would have recognized her, and I dinna recall a lass of her coloring in the neighboring villages the last time I traveled north. You need to prepare yourself to accept the possibility she may very well have arrived with the attackers.”
“She isn’t connected to the ambush. I noticed her after the first advance.” It wasn’t a complete lie. He’d seen the object fall; he just hadn’t realized the “it” was a “she.”
“If she didn’t arrive with the attackers, then how?”
Ewen shrugged.
“Don’t let down your guard for a pretty face, brother. Regardless of our sympathies over the abuse she has obviously suffered, we cannot forget this woman has ties to the giants, which makes her a liability to this clan.” Donald’s eyes darkened. “I did not recognize the peculiar language those creatures spoke. It was no’ Latin, nor French, nor the Sassenach tongue.”
Ewen had never heard it spoken before either. Not at the abbey. Not in his travels. Not abroad fighting on foreign soil.
But she had understood every word.
“Well…” Donald paused and stared off into the distance. Ewen had the impression he was about to say more, but then he appeared to change his mind. “My lady waits. I best be off to settle my wildcat, or there will be hell to pay on the morrow.”
Donald gave Ewen a quick clap on the back then exited the room, leaving him alone with Caitlin.
Ewen rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. This woman stirred every protective instinct in his body. He should be angry. He should be stationing a battalion of his fiercest guards outside her room. Instead, he wanted to barricade the door and keep the world out. Keep her safe from harm.
God above, I’ve lost my bluidy mind.
He dropped into the chair by the bed and leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his thighs. Even in sleep, she was lovely. Her wild mass of unruly chestnut hair fell around her face. A purple bruise marked the area below her right cheekbone. Dark brows framed green eyes that resembled the color of highland grass when open. They’d held him hostage from the moment he’d caught sight of her on the field.
She’d run into danger, dagger in hand, ready to confront a giant nearly twice her size in his defense. He sighed. She was lovely, brave, and a witch—a witch with much to answer for, beginning with her connection to the Fomorians who were mythological creatures that should not exist in this world. And more importantly, he needed to know why her nearness fed an instinctual urge he couldn’t name.
She stirred, a soft moan escaping her lips.
“Shh,” Ewen whispered, brushing the wrinkle forming above her brows. “Sleep now.”
He snapped his hand back, curling his fingers into his palm. He had defense plans to draw. Orders to assign before his departure. He didn’t have time to be smoothing the brow of an injured woman. Especially this woman. He needed to drag his arse out of the chair and move away from her bed.
Her eyelids fluttered. She woke and blinked, a glazed look to her eyes. “Ewen?” she said, her voice hoarse.
He stilled.
Grunting, she attempted to sit up, rolling on to her injured arm. She let out a strangled whimper.
“Don’t move.” He gently nudged her shoulders to the bed. “You must rest.”
Caitlin grabbed his arm with her uninjured hand and held. “You’re wrong,” she rasped. Her breath came out in short spurts. “You’re wrong about the Camerons. You told me…you told me they…”
He told her what?
She sagged against the bed. Her face scrunched. “Can’t let you die.”
Die? Him?
“Two,” she slurred, closing her eyes. The grip on his arm eased. “Only have…two…”
Voice fading, her hand dropped to the mattress. Her chest rose and fell as sleep lulled her mind to rest.
Can’t let you die.
Ewen ignored the cold dread settling in his gut and moved away from the bed. He had no intentions of dying anytime soon, but something told him the matter was no longer his to decide.
SEVEN
CAITLIN WOKE up alone. She took in her surroundings—stone walls, a dim
ly lit fire, tapestries. Tapestries? She closed her eyes. Yet another strange room. This was what? Room number three in a span of two weeks, maybe?
She sighed. “Valoria, are you out there? Can you hear me?”
No response.
In her mind, she could see each of the bond links, their bright colors flashing against the dark walls of her psyche. Valoria’s gold, Ewen’s blue, and Fionn’s silver. The gold and silver strands were thinner than she remembered, and although they felt alive, they were dormant somehow. Like the black cables running from a street telephone pole to a house, the energy was there waiting for someone to flick on the lights.
Or answer the phone.
Which made her sad. Although she hadn’t known Valoria long, she missed the sound of her voice—the negligible Swedish accent that was part and parcel to Valoria’s dauntless, warrior-woman persona. Maybe distance affected their ability to communicate telepathically. The last two conversations they’d shared had occurred with Valoria standing less than ten feet away. Who knew where she and Fionn were in this time.
Caitlin attempted to sit.
Ouch. Bad idea.
To say her body hurt would be like saying the Niagara Falls were small river cascades instead of one hundred and fifty thousand gallons of rushing water cresting over a ledge to drop one hundred and seventy-six feet to the river below. And right now, she felt like someone had stuffed her body inside a wine barrel and shoved her over the edge to hit every gorge and boulder on the way to Lake Ontario.
Okay…that was over the top, even for her.
She sagged against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Her family made the trip to Niagara Falls, New York in seventh grade. Four adults and a twelve year old crammed into a blue Buick LeSabre for nine hours of what her mother called “family bonding” time.
Crazy, huh?
It had been one of the best vacations of her life.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Caitlin blinked away the tears and ignored the suffocating pressure weighing on her ribcage. Above her head, large slabs of wood ran horizontally from one end of the room to the other. An intricate scrolled pattern was set between each beam. Someone had hand-painted those designs onto the plaster. But how? What kind of staging would they have used? Caitlin had suffered a two-day crick in her neck from using an extension pole to paint her living room ceiling. This—she scanned the width of the room—must have taken days, if not weeks.
