The Prophecy

by Sakwa, Kim

  “They’d be so disappointed if they were here.”

  “Don’t give them that power, Gwen. You always said you were their lab experiment, and their prodigy repaid them in spades.”

  “Well, that prodigy feels like a lost puppy.”

  “You’re lying, Gwen. You sound better than ever.”

  Gwen’s smile widened. “Truthfully, Sara, coming here is the best decision I’ve ever made.”

  Greylen arose from his third sleepless night well before dawn. Foregoing his usual bedside ritual, he donned a pair of breeches and made his way through the darkened hallways of Seagrave Castle. Once outside, he nodded to the men who stood sentinel at the keep’s main doors and continued to the stables. Then he took the narrow path to the shore.

  He would watch the sunrise.

  He stood barefoot on the sand, greeting a day that could only be called glorious. ’Twas the day that marked the anniversary of his thirty-third year. His anger grew by the second. His roar of outrage was lost to the waters and cove.

  On this day no one would escape his wrath.

  Of the many attributes for which Laird Greylen MacGreggor was revered, his barely veiled contempt for this day was not one of them. Few understood the reasoning behind it, and one seemed not to care.

  His sister. Lady Isabelle MacGreggor.

  Greylen had just returned to the keep, intent to order his mother never to breathe a word of that blasted infernal prophecy ever again, when Isabelle passed him. Obviously in her haste she hadn’t noticed he was there. Exuberance radiated from her very being as she hurried down the steps and all but flew through the keep’s main doors.

  He turned and was about to order her back to her quarters when Gavin at last made himself useful. His first-in-command caught her about the waist just as she made for the first of the steps that would take her into the courtyard.

  ’Twas at first a comical display. Isabelle’s head tilted back, her lips forming an O as she came flush against him. Gavin, too, showed surprise for just but a second before his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed in an angry line. “If you know what’s good for you, Isabelle, leave your brother be,” Gavin snapped.

  Greylen wasn’t surprised by Gavin’s harsh tone with his sister. Truth be told, ’twas the only way he seemed to address her of late. What did surprise him was that his first-in-command had yet to release her. Gavin must have realized the same, too, for he hastily removed his arm from around her torso and stepped back a full pace. Greylen watched Isabelle adjust her gown, cleverly blinking back tears as she did so.

  “’Tis Greylen’s birthday. I only wish to bid him good day,” she explained, fully composed once again.

  “’Tis not a good day he wishes for. He’s been at it since the crack of dawn. See you the practice fields,” Gavin said, motioning with his hand in their direction. “One fallen soldier after another. Your brother left them long minutes ago and they’ve still yet to stand.”

  “Then perhaps you should put him out of his misery,” Isabelle suggested.

  “’Tis misery he craves,” Gavin replied in a softer tone. “Please, Isabelle, heed my advice. ’Twould only blacken his mood more if he is the cause of pain to you.”

  “Very well, Gavin,” she conceded with a sigh. “You’ll see, though, both of you. This night will bring what he so desires.”

  Isabelle left on the heels of her declaration, yet as Greylen joined Gavin atop the keep’s step and looked to the sky, ’twas plainly clear—the only storms in the making were those that would be unleashed by Greylen.

  Greylen spent the remainder of the day back on the practice fields. Occasionally he saw Gavin on the portico, assessing the damage he wrought. His first-in-command wouldn’t think twice that three days without sleep, and swordplay for the last eight hours, hadn’t diminished his laird’s strength. He was sure that Gavin took note of the number of times Greylen had changed the hand in which he held his sword—but four.

  ’Twas the gloaming that finally brought a roar from yonder fields. A dusk as clear and calm as the day.

  “NOW,” Greylen bellowed. A demand of such force, it carried across the fields where it echoed for a surprising span of time. He watched as the front doors of the keep finally opened and Gavin’s form filled the frame. The cad still wore a crisp linen shirt and looked as if he’d had quite the peaceful day.

  Greylen hoped to hell he had.

  He knew his first-in-command steered clear of him since he’d seen him that morn, and he knew why.

  Only Gavin could give him the fight he so desperately needed. Only Gavin could release the demons to which he wanted nothing more than to succumb.

  Ten years of waiting…for naught.

  He believed with every fiber of his being he would know peace that night. Yet ’twas painfully clear, tomorrow he would face another dawn—and he would face it alone.

  Greylen watched Gavin approach as never before. No arrogance, no hint of gladdening malice upon his lips for that which he was about to perform. ’Twas only a man’s best friend who came to stand before him now.

  God willing, Gavin would beat him to the ground. He only prayed his body would feel the pain that seemed to emanate from his very soul.

  Gavin said nothing of Greylen’s appearance, dreadful as it must be. He had discarded his shirt hours ago, having ripped it to strips to tie about his forehead. Then he’d changed them every hour as they became soaked with sweat. Now it lay in a pile of tatters. His hair clung to his scalp and the base of his neck, shorn just days ago as he did with the coming of each full moon.

  He could no longer feel the weight of his sword. Nor his legs, encased in breeches and what were once polished boots. He wished he felt nothing at all. But truth be told, he felt betrayed.

  Betrayed by the prophecy. Betrayed—by her.

  Gavin at last began to circle him, fixing him with a look that brought even the most skilled of fighters to their knees. Greylen engaged. Steel meeting steel as they repeatedly exchanged blows; barely contained murmurs now grunts released with such force the end seemed nowhere in sight.

  After what seemed an eternity, Gavin mercifully gave a nod and their men stood. The only men left on the fields. Five of the best men in the Highlands he’d taken as his own over the past fifteen years. But ’twas Gavin’s order that they followed now.

  His men would put him out of his self-imposed misery. They’d take him down at last, beat and exhaust him till he ceased to feel. Then he would never feel again. He would never again believe. He knew it as he knew nothing else.

  ’Twas at that very moment—when defeat seemed so imminent—that the gods showed their grace. Lightning tore through the clearest night sky, and a storm of unnatural force unleashed its power.

  And ’twas then that Laird Greylen MacGreggor fell to his knees for the first time in his entire life…witnessing the beginning of his destiny.

  Gwen enjoyed the evening of her birthday more than she ever thought possible. A night usually filled with cold assessments of goals attained during the previous year, that night was met with simple contentment. It was a first and welcome respite from the emotional battle that consumed her day.

  Scotland was perfect, just as she told Sara. But for some reason, the glorious day to which she awoke filled her with sadness. As if the day should be anything but glorious. She couldn’t put her finger on the exact cause, yet she sensed that the sunshine and warm, calm breeze created a disturbance of some sort. Not an outward one, but one deep within…oddly…her.

  It was filled with anger. It was filled with betrayal.

  It was only when dusk set in, and an unexpected storm of unnatural proportion swept the coastal inlet, that she finally felt better. It seemed to wash all the foreboding away. As if the world, tipped slightly off its axis, put itself to rights.

  She sat at a cozy table, savoring a fabulous dinner of sauté
ed fish, potatoes, and vegetables, along with a glass of incredible white wine the owners had insisted was on them. A band played a variety of soulful acoustic music, which was another reason she’d chosen this pub to mark the occasion. She was having such a nice time.

  As she headed toward the door, the same pull she’d been experiencing for weeks heightened. Demanded.

  The owners, three patrons, and the lead singer of the band tried to stop her, but Gwen wouldn’t have stayed if her life depended on it. Which they righteously told her it did.

  In the end, her smile and self-assurance won. It also could’ve been that she’d felt rather safe in the large SUV she’d rented. Whatever the case, she secured her bag over her shoulder and made a run for the truck. She hugged the wheel with a sigh and smile, knowing she’d made the right choice. If nothing else, she had to go back to the inn. And she had to go there now.

  Minutes later she felt like a complete idiot.

  Minutes later the worst began to happen.

  The storm grew stronger. Its center was above her. Her stomach reeled as the ground beneath gave way. Her screams rent the air as her truck plunged toward the icy waters.

  She knew she shouldn’t brace herself for the impact, but it was beyond her control. As the hood of her truck crashed into the water and the airbags exploded around her, the truck lurched forward into the turbulent waters.

  Knowing she had to get out, she swatted at the chalky smoke and instinctively reached for her bag. She could never part with it; its contents represented everything she’d worked so hard to achieve. It was her life, and sadly, the only thing she had left to value.

  She pushed through the driver’s-side window, a frantic and futile struggle as the seat belt held her back. She searched for the release button, then pushed through the window again, fear and adrenaline overriding pain as jagged edges of broken glass tore through the palm of her hand and shoulders. The salt water hit her eyes, a hellish sting somehow worse than what she’d already endured. Lightning shot through the sky, and she set her sights on the shore.

  Gwen swam with everything she had, an almost impossible feat as the churning waters kept pulling her under.

  But no matter how hard she tried, it just wasn’t enough. The water was too cold. And when she finally felt the sand and rock with the tips of her shoes—she was pulled farther out to sea again.

  Curling into a ball, she willed herself to relax. But when she opened her eyes, the last remnants of hope left her. How she had lasted so long in the freezing water was beyond her.

  Damning herself for the choices that brought her here—the foolishness that led to death instead of discovery—Gwen knew her dreams would never be realized. No one could hear her pleas. No one would save her. She would never find what she searched for.

  A home. Love. Children.

  She would never feel those strong arms wrapped around her body, those of the man whose image haunted her dreams. And she would never hear his whispered endearments, the ones she so longed to hear.

  She felt rather than heard her last cry rip from her heart, body, and soul.

  It echoed through the stormy night.

  Greylen drew upon the reins of his horse. “Gavin,” he called through the fury of the storm. “Take Duncan and Hugh and search the perimeter.” He turned to lead Kevin, Connell, and Ian toward the cliffs.

  Gavin reached his side moments later, his horse dancing upon its hindquarters as he heeded the command to stop. “Greylen—”

  “She will come, Gavin.” His anger spilled into each word he shouted back.

  “’Tis not an argument,” Gavin assured. “We swept the perimeter but moments ago.” They had in fact swept it for the last four hours. Hours of relentless rain and thunder so loud, the storm’s center had yet to move from above them.

  “Take the northern trail,” Greylen conceded. “I’ll—” Lightning tore through the sky, drawing Greylen’s attention. ’Twas the only time it distracted him that night, but with the blast came awareness. His entire body tensed—good God, she was in the waters below.

  He raced toward the cliffs.

  ’Twas a descent of record time, each second pure torture as Greylen’s eyes fixed on a sight far from the shore’s edge, each flash of lightning confirming his worst ungodly fear.

  He dropped his sword and dagger on the sand as he ran for the water. His boots and shirt lost to the surf as he shucked them while charging through the shallow depths. When the water reached his thighs, he dove into the white-capped waves, his deft strokes closing the distance. Strokes driven by an all-consuming rage. Rage at the peril in which this woman was placed.

  His woman.

  His eyes never lost sight of her. Finally, a solitary wave between them, but strokes away…she vanished beneath the crest.

  She did not resurface.

  She did not resurface.

  He dove into the wave, and long minutes surely passed before he felt her lifeless body making its descent to the ocean’s floor. He grabbed at her with both hands, his fingers twisting harshly through her hair, his arms leashing viciously about her waist. Finally clutched fully in his embrace, an extreme sensation passed through his body.

  ’Twas as powerful as lightning, intense light and heat. Yet he kicked to the surface above, stunned the force did not take them.

  Certain she didn’t breathe, and unable to fathom the horrid possible truth of the thoughts that followed, he ceased to think them. He did not live by emotion. He lived with it. But it did not rule him. No one ruled him.

  ’Twas a lie of such magnitude he would have laughed had this predicament not been his. And if this woman knew what was good for her—this woman whom he held within his grasp, this woman whom he knew to the very depths of his soul was the woman for whom he had waited—she’d better take his blasted breath. And she’d better make a damn good show of it.

  As he continued to swim upon his back, willing the hand that held her atop his chest to feel even the faintest of a heartbeat, he realized the storm was gone. No prevailing mist. Not a cloud in the clearest of night skies. Only a full moon and bright stars accompanied the cool, crisp air.

  His men waited just beyond the shoreline and formed a tight circle as he straddled her body. He heard their swords drawn in unison, their pledges made to this woman, their oaths sworn as he ripped her shirt in two and tossed aside her satchel that had come loose as well.

  Stunned by the vision beneath him, enraged by the prophecy’s sadistic twist, he pressed his ear to her chest, praying she had life. And “pray to no one” Greylen prayed as never before. He embraced God with an open heart; he even vowed to attend Father Michael’s next Mass.

  He suspected that this woman was waiting for just that as the sweet sound of a faint heartbeat whispered in his ear. Then in true overlord fashion, he demanded she take his breath.

  Breaths and then strokes as he laid her on her side, harsh upward strokes to remove the water from her lungs.

  Breathe, breathe…for the sake of God, breathe! Did she not understand an order?

  A good show indeed.

  He could’ve collected a fortune for it, had it been of the theatrical kind. She took his blasted breath all right. And scared him witless in the process, gasping and coughing so violently ’twas painful to watch.

  She’d be punished for that.

  ’Twasn’t enough that he had to look at perfection and fight to keep it within his realm. ’Twasn’t enough that he had to move his hands over her entire slender frame, cut and bruised but otherwise sound. ’Twasn’t enough that he had to watch her violent shakes until he could at last pick her up and wrap her in his warmth. This woman scared him close to death.

  ’Twas those thoughts that consumed him as he and his men rode back to the keep. He could not live in such fear—with such fear. Yet ’twas that very fear, his need to protect and keep safe, which kept
him at pace with Gavin, whom he ordered to ride ahead.

  The doors to the keep opened as they took the stairs, and for the first time in hours Greylen breathed a sigh of relief. Home. Lady Madelyn. Isabelle. Anna. Safety. Detachment.

  ’Twas with this last sentiment that he allowed himself to step back. To distance himself. ’Twas but a farce, this detachment.

  Every muscle in his body clenched as he watched his mother and Anna try to remove this woman’s clothing. He finally saw to the task himself, ripping the strange garments from her body. Feeling every involuntary grimace and bruise as if it were his own, feeling each of her lacerations as they were cleaned, and in the case of some, tended with needle and thread before being covered.

  But the most painful of wounds that he could not understand—the most unthinkable of them—were those that covered her eyes.

  Tender skin, raw and exposed. Lids damaged and carefully anointed with thick healing paste. Eyes wrapped with linen strips.

  Eyes he’d dreamed of seeing.

  He said not a word throughout the entire process. Not as her hair was brushed, then secured, nor as a bedgown of Isabelle’s was slipped onto her, followed by a dose of God knows what potion. He merely stood there, his body so tight with tension ’twas a wonder he’d not snapped from within.

  Two pairs of eyes turned to him: his mother’s and Anna’s. But ’twas Isabelle’s touch to which he responded. He’d no idea she was in the room.

  “Greylen, see to your bath,” she instructed softly.

  He stared at her upturned face, hearing her words clearly, yet unable to move.

  “Greylen, Anna will bring refreshments. Mother and I will stay, I swear to you. Please, Greylen,” she pleaded. “See to your needs.”

  He gave a nod in her direction, then removed himself to the bathing chamber. His needs at the moment were vast. Isabelle, however, had the decency not to throw it in his face. He’d been covered in sweat and dirt when the storm finally broke, then purged of it by the cold waters. Covered with sand from the shore, and then sweat once again as he swallowed true fear.