Celestial Seductions: The Complete Series: An MM Gay Paranormal Mpreg Romance Collection

by Odin Nightshade

  At the first opportunity, the MacConaill men, particularly the sons, had gathered around Camden' father as his guests of honor. He vaguely remembered sitting beside the eldest MacConaill son, who was six years his senior, and thinking that he would grow to be a fine man. The teenage boy had been the epitome of propriety. Camden saw that now as a deception intended to lull his father into complacency. He had been distracted that night, awaiting the gift that his father had promised to bestow at the end of the feast. A gift that he had never received.

  The traitors had shared his food, his drink, his entertainment… and paid Laird Sutharlainn back with a poison so foul that his face had turned purple and his eyes had bulged from his head right there at the long table. Murder, in cold blood. There was no better description for such a death.

  Camden remembered being pulled away from his father’s body by his kind uncle, whose eyes were filled with tears for his lost kin. He had extricated Camden from the midst of the MacConaill men and protected him from their treacherous grasps. Yet, here he was today, about to enter their very den.

  Camden would never forget the day of his father's murder. He could never forgive these brutal men for the death of the only parent he had even known, and whom he had loved fiercely. From that day on he had been called Lord Sutharlainn. And from that day he had vowed revenge.

  Now, in the forests, Camden waited and watched the village of these hated enemies. This was the last step in a journey that had started a fortnight before, when Camden had slipped away from his guards and advisors. He had taken nothing of his own except for a small dagger, which he wore strapped to his calf. His plan was to disguise himself as a laborer and infiltrate the stronghold of the MacConaills. There, he would kill them all.

  Now, he heard a noise behind him and stiffened, looking with fine eyesight up the track. He could just see the approaching caravan of traders, rounding the bend to his left. He exhaled, sharply. They were safe. He had been traveling with them for six nights, using the name of Alan, the builder.

  Camden slipped down the hillside and circled the caravan from behind. He jogged up to join it, adjusting the layers of his kilt as if he had merely taken the opportunity to urinate.

  “Alan.” snapped a wrinkled old crone who sat, wrapped in shawls, atop a wooden cart. She used the false name that Camden had given them. “I told you, laddie. You cannot be wandering the woods on these MacConaill lands. There’s dark magic and creatures that roam these forests.”

  “Oh, Ainsley,” He smiled, walking beside the slow moving cart, “I’m sure your magic and creatures are nothing more than ruffians and thieves.” When the woman did not look convinced, he continued. “Aye, these are dangerous lands and I shouldn’t have wandered off. Though, I think we approach a place much more dangerous than the wood.”

  Ainsley nodded. “We’ve never traded with Clan MacConaill before, but it’s been rumored they have a surplus crop this year and we cannot miss an opportunity like that. My son says we’ll only stay a week at most.” She turned her glassy blue eyes on Camden. “Will you be travelling with us again?”

  Camden shrugged. “I’m hoping to find more permanent employment, if they have need of it. I can’t say for sure yet.” The truth was he might need to make a quick escape with the caravan in a week’s time. He doubted that a week would be enough time to infiltrate their ranks and execute a plan. He would need to stay longer, though how he might escape at that time, were he to need it, he had no idea. This was not country he wanted to traverse in his other form alone. And not just because of other packs who might roam there. The MacConnaills were all deadly marksmen, and he had no desire to have his days ended by an over-eager shooter.

  Ainsley grunted her disapproval. He could not help a grin, although the thought filled him with apprehension as well. It really was remote out here; grim and unforgiving. What would it be like to be in the heartland of his enemies, alone? He bit his lip, resolved. He would do it. He had to.

  When they entered the small town Camden noticed that they were met with wary looks. It was clear that visitors were uncommon in these parts, especially a caravan of thirty or more. He realized that they must have been spotted a long way off, because Ainsley’s son, and the other men at the front of the caravan were met by a formidable line of MacConaill men waiting at the gates to the castle. There was some discussion which Camden could not hear, which must have led to them gaining permission to set up camp on the edge of the town. After it, the cart began to move again and the tradesmen began to unpack their wares.

  Camden did not wait to help the others: he would only have been in their way. Instead, he went in search of the apothecary or priest, whichever he might find first. He had been considering this next step carefully, and he had decided either of these two were bound to know if his services would be welcomed in any household. Camden knew that he would need to become ingrained in the community before he would ever get near enough to the Laird and his sons to slip them the ruthless poison that rested in a small vial in his pack. That was his goal.

  He happened upon the priest in the muddy town square. He was, surprisingly, counselling an anxious group of townsfolk about the arrival of the caravan. He heard only a small snatch of the conversation as, upon his arrival, the crowd became instantly silent. Camden’s heart beat painfully in his chest. Had they been planning an attack on the caravan? They did not look aggressive, merely frightened themselves, he reassured himself. The cold iron of his dagger rested against his thigh, a reminder of its presence, although he hesitated to draw it unless he had to. It would not make his plan of infiltration any easier.

  “Excuse me, Father, I did not mean to interrupt.” He began. Camden cleared his throat, reminding himself that he was a laborer now. He would need to be careful to disguise his highborn upbringing. He relaxed his shoulders into a gentle slouch and lowered his eyes to the ground in a way he had been taught never to do.

  “Go on, child.” The priest approached with his arms spread wide. “Speak openly and show the townsfolk that you’ll be no stranger.” Stranger? Camden thought. They were worried of the danger of a group of strangers, when their clan was feared above all others?

  “I’ll be no stranger, Father. It’s only… I’m here in search of employ.” Camden struggled against the urge to raise his gaze. He must appear meek and in need. Pity would be his ally. “I’ve a fair hand at building, and I can also do repairs on walls and cottages. The gypsies allowed me the protection of traveling with them but I’ve no desire to continue any further. If it’s all the same, and if there is work for me, I’m looking to stay on after they leave.”

  There was a murmur of surprise that drifted through the crowd.

  “Why would a young lad, such as yourself, want to remain behind? Surely you could do better with another clan along the way?” Camden had expected this argument. In fact, he agreed that a builder would do better anywhere else than holed up with this reclusive clan. So, he had prepared what he hoped would be a suitable explanation, one that would perhaps, due to its sensitive nature, encourage the townsfolk to avoid raising additional questions. His traveling companions had accepted it with ease and he could only hope they would be no different.

  “To be honest, Father,” he began the speech with a false tremor in his voice, “I came here to escape a matter most personal. I was in debt to the Laird, and when the men came to collect the due, one of them was...threatening with my wife. In her defense, I killed him. I ran, then, in fear for death on the gallows. I had nowhere to go. Where could I hide that I couldn’t be followed? Every day I moved on, fearful that my Laird would send men looking for me.” People in the crowd were making sympathetic noises and Camden knew that he had struck their hearts. “I’m tired of running, Father.” He allowed his voice to crack with emotion. “I want a home again. I want to stay in once place without fear of being found out. This is the only place where I can think to do so.”

  Two women beside Camden turned to him, their faces etched with compassi
on. One of them patted his arm consolingly. He allowed it, pretending to very much need their support and kindness. In the back of his mind, he wondered how many of these people might have had knowledge of the plot to kill his father. He seethed inwardly, thinking of it. But he stood his ground, his feet rooted to the spot, eyes downcast to the ground before him.

  “My child!” the priest erupted. “Of course you may stay within the safety of the lands MacConaill. It is an evil world outside of our borders and we will always welcome those in need.” Camden thought it strange, the way that the man spoke about the other clans. Did they really think that they were protecting themselves from an evil? Camden did not think that there was any evil that could compare to that which resided only a short ways away, behind a high ring of stone walls. “What is your name, lad?”

  “Alan.” He gave the same name that he had been using since he left home. It was a common name, the name of their woodworker at home. He would not forget it. The man had been kind after his father's death, carving him wooden animals and teaching him the craft in the evenings. The expertise he passed on would be useful now. And the name of a second father would remind him of the first, and give him courage and resolve, if he needed more of each.

  For a short time afterward the townsfolk rallied with the priest to decide where best his skills could be put to use. They had almost decided to allow him to assist the bone-setter, a task about which Camden knew less than nothing, when a tall woman with brilliantly orange hair came sprinting up the road toward them.

  “I’ll take him, Father Kendrick!” she panted when she finally came to a halt. There was a murmur of assent through the crowd, as if they all thought that this was an acceptable solution. The way the others in the crowd treated her with some respect suggested that she must be a landowner of some substance. A glance at her hands, which were rough and reddened, suggested that she also participated in the spinning and weaving of all cloth in the village. A woman of some importance in the community, clearly. She cleared her throat to address the priest and the now-silent group of people around him.

  “Ever since my man passed, may the Lord bless his soul, the old cottage has been falling apart, and the barns are in disrepair. He can stay on the farm while he does the rebuilding, bed and board. I would be pleased for the help.”

  Father Kendrick gave a nod and the deal was done. As the crowd quietly dispersed, Camden was surprised at how easily his first goal had been achieved.

  Ten days later, Camden could barely contain his delight at how easily it had all happened. Upon discovering that he did, indeed, have a gift with woodwork, the villagers quickly plied him with requests for both new and mended structures. He was more grateful than ever for the tuition of Alan, whose techniques, which he had thought of only as quite clever, were completely new here. Camden explained his skill as traditional to his family, but people insisted that he had a special gift, and the requests for work piled in. His current employer smiled and shook her head at him. But she could not complain, as she was now the owner of fine, watertight barns that were the village envy.

  The only drawback of Camden's time in the village thus far was that he had seen neither hide nor hair of the Laird and his sons. Perhaps they were even more reclusive than he had considered. He was thinking that this was going to present a problem when he began to hear a riot of cheering on the street.

  Camden rushed out of the door to join the waiting crowd as a stream of riders began to trickle from the forest. He watched the parade of men through the street with interest, despite knowing it as the Laird's attempt to impress the crowds.

  Man after man rode past him, each wearing the MacConaill kilt of burgundy and green. A boy in his teens came through with his own kilt tied awkwardly around his waist. A woman near Camden snickered.

  “I see Birk is still tearing his clothes.” One laughed.

  “Aye,” another whispered, casting a glance at Camden, who was clearly listening. He pretended not to hear, and she continued. “I told his mother he better learn quickly or the seamstress is going to start wondering why our men can’t keep their clothes about them. She said she’s mending them herself for the time, at least until the new bairn arrives. It’s the red hair, I tell you. Always takes them longer to control themselves.”

  Camden had just begun to wonder what they were talking about when all thought suddenly fled from his mind. There he is. He would recognize the eldest son of Laird MacConaill any day. His face was the last that he had seen before looking into the eyes of his dying father. The men behind him were presumably his two brothers, as there was definitely a resemblance. None were as captivating as Greum MacConaill.

  He sat astride the horse as if he owned the world. Camden stared at the man, hating him. His good looks made it worse. Why could he not have the face of a monster, rather than the pleasant features he clearly had? It seemed sickly wrong that someone so evil should be so striking. The locks of curls that fell across his forehead were black as the moonless sky; the paleness of his own hair seemed dull in comparison. And his eyes! In contrast to his hair they were deepest emerald green.

  Camden watched the firm set of his shoulders, the way his men seemed to instinctively swarm around him. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the three brothers. Each had been present on his father’s last day. Each had slipped away under the cover of night with the rest of the MacConaill men, only to later claim, by letter, no involvement in the crime.

  A young girl nearby sighed.

  “When do you think he’ll choose his bride?” she said in a breathy voice.

  “It’s true, he’s no longer a cub, girl, but I’d wager you’re a bit too young for him yet,” laughed her mother.

  “Greum!” The girl cried anyway, waving her arm in the air for his attention.

  His gaze shot over to his admirer and he gave a small nod of acknowledgement. Camden was standing almost directly behind the girl, so when Greum looked across the space, he shifted uncomfortably. The only part of his plan of which he was yet uncertain was whether or not he might still be recognized in human form. They had only met one night, yet Greum’s face had been branded as part of a memory that he could never forget. Camden hoped that the same did not hold true for him. He tried to console himself with the thought that committing murder was so unnatural that it would have taken up all of the MacConaills' thoughts that night. Surely none of them would have noticed him?

  Now, on horseback far above him, Greum's eyes shifted to Camden, a strange face in a familiar crowd. He did not see him move in the slightest, but it seemed to Camden as if his horse slowed as he watched him. He raised his eyes, keeping his face turned down and bowing slightly, as was common etiquette for a future Laird. He was certain that he saw Greum's eyes narrow, or had he imagined that? His hands were shaking and suddenly his breathing came with great difficulty. In all of his years of plotting, this was the moment that had the potential to foil his entire plan. This was the moment he feared most.

  The crowd was watching him, their eyes moving back and forth between Camden and the man who held his gaze. Without a word, Greum snapped his reigns and the horse trotted ahead. He had not recognized him as anything other than a new face, he was sure of it. He continued down the road toward the castle, leaving Camden grateful that the encounter was over.

  It was not until two days later that Camden saw Greum again. The sun had just broken across the horizon when he witnessed Greum and two other men returning from the woods. They spoke softly and laughed with companionable ease. He wondered what they had been doing in the dangerous forest at such an early hour. His curiosity got the better of him, and before he knew it Camden was quietly slipping through the village following the laughter of the men.

  He paused on the edge of the village square, observing from the shadows as three other men approaching from the castle joined them.

  “How was the night run?” A bearded man asked, handing out steaming mugs that they had brought from the castle.

  “Dead
silent.” Greum replied. His voice was deep and even. Something about it touched Camden, making him breathe deeply. “I doubt the McKinnons will raid again for another fortnight. They’re getting smarter though. Nearly caught Birk the other night. The lad’s a good scout but he waits too long, ripped another kilt right through.” The other man grunted in agreement. “Dougan, you’re going to have to post a run on the south border. One of the farmers claims there’s a pack of wolves that keeps stealing his livestock. See if there is anything that can be done about it.”

  He drained his mug and handed it back to the bearded man.

  “I’m going to get some rest. Aiden is out now if you need anything.” With that he marched up through the gate, leaving Camden thoroughly confused about the strange way that these people spoke.

  He turned around and headed back to the barns. It was not until a few hours later that he began to wonder… if they were running watches around the MacConaill lands, where were their horses?

  Camden’s days were marked by frequent sightings of Greum and his brothers, but it was the former that most caught his interest. While all of the clansmen seemed to spend a lot of time entering and leaving the densely wooded forest, Greum was one of the only men Camden regularly witnessed do so alone.

  If the lands were as dangerous as Ainsley had foretold, he understood the pairs of men constantly patrolling the forest surrounding the castle. However, he wondered how Greum could be safe on his own. He wondered what it was that he was doing in there. One day, he watched him cross the sloping field behind the farm workshop without even his sword or a bow for protection. If he felt so sure that there would be no danger, then Camden should have no fear either, he told himself. He resolved to follow him.

  By the time he had retrieved his cloak and laced his leather boots, Greum was already out of sight. Camden sprinted across the field, the morning dew soaking his trouser legs and into his shoes. For a moment he stood on the edge of the forest, afraid to enter, but when he heard a noise ahead he pushed through the bramble, determined to catch up to his quarry.