Immortal Desires (Well of Souls)

by Eno, Laura

  ***

  Boulder, November 2012

  Ian rushed into Robert's office carrying two cigars. "I have a son! I canna believe it. A son." He handed a cigar to Robert who took it with a grin.

  "Congratulations. Uh, what do we do with these, smoke them or keep them?" He studied the cigar in his hand and took a sniff of the rolled tobacco.

  "I dinna ken. It's a somewhat modern convention to pass these out at births. I guess we smoke them."

  "Strange concept, considering they can kill you," Robert murmured then laughed. "I suppose that doesn't apply to either one of us, though. What's his name?"

  "William. We named him after Munro. I wish my mother had lived to see him. She lived beyond me in the other timeline." Ian still felt the devastation of that memory. It was hard to believe that Alyth had gone to the extreme of trying to kill Deanna. If it hadn't been for his mother's sacrifice, he wouldn't be celebrating his son's birth today. He sent a silent prayer her way and hoped that she heard him.

  Robert startled him out of his reverie by handing him a glass of brandy. He raised his own and offered a toast. "Here's to William's and Deanna's health."

  They popped out to the field to try the cigars and celebrate friendship, both past and present.

  ***

  Highlands, September 1506

  Five days after William's birth, Deanna made her unsteady way down the stairs. Ian, carrying the baby, walked beside her, matching her pace. Two months of bedrest had knocked the stuffing out of her and she vowed to get back in shape quickly.

  Deanna clung to Ian's free arm for more than physical support as they made their way out to the graveyard. This was her first chance to say goodbye to Isobel—the mother she'd gained, then lost, between one moment and the next.

  Her throat burned and eyes stung as she knelt in the soft dirt, her mind racing with things to say but uttering none of them. "Why?" managed to shove its way past the constriction, wheezing the question to the heavens, her tears falling to earth.

  Shame laid its foul mantle about her shoulders when Deanna admitted her anger toward Isobel, the weight bowing her spirit and threatening to crush her. William chose that moment to gurgle and the terrible pressure lifted, replaced by a mother's fierce need to protect.

  "I understand." Deanna kissed her fingers and laid them on the headstone.

  Ian helped her to stand. She gazed at the babe in his arms, then looked him in the eye. "Teach me to throw a knife."

  His eyes searched hers. He nodded once and they turned in silence, leaving the dead to their rest.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Highlands, November 1507

  "Riders approaching," the guard at the gatehouse bellowed from his post.

  Deanna picked William up off the ground and swung him onto her hip, the squirming bundle protesting and pointing to the bug he'd been inspecting.

  "Ma, ma, ma." His pink cheeks puffed in outrage at the interruption.

  "Later, sweetie." Deanna hurried back to the keep, unsure of who might be coming but not taking any chances where William was concerned. Her hand reached reflexively for the knife hanging from her waist. The days of being a hapless bystander to her own fate were gone.

  Ian escorted three Mackenzie riders into the great hall. They didn't break stride, instead continuing into his office and closing the door. Deanna caught a glimpse of the dour looks on the men's faces and a tendril of fear left her knees weak, a warning of trouble beating frantic wings against her ribcage. She sat with William and hugged him close, his drowsing face a tonic against the creeping silence that spread through the room like a midnight fog.

  The men emerged a scant few minutes later and Deanna's hope that she'd only imagined trouble was dashed by the sorrow in Ian's eyes. He stared down at William, his gaze lingering before scrubbing at his face with one hand.

  "Mairi and her bairn have both died from a fever." His quiet words echoed around the hall before gasps filled the empty space with sound.

  No! Deanna's mind crumpled, centered on the horrific news. Sorrow lashed its way through her psyche as she pictured Mairi's smiling face on her wedding day. It seemed so long ago now…

  She rose from her seat, running into her husband's arms with William nestled between them. He bowed his head onto her shoulder, his grief palpable as he gathered his small family to him.

  Deanna mourned for the lively girl she called sister and the son they'd never met. William would never have the chance to bond with his cousin as they grew into manhood.

  That night, after William fell asleep, Ian allowed his tears to fall. He kissed her with a certain desperation, as if by loving her he could keep her safe from harm. Deanna understood. They both needed the comfort only the other could give.

  She drew her hands through his hair, kissing his eyelids, lips, the stubble on his jaw. He took her in a fury that she matched, their bodies shuddering in tune with the need to feel alive, each trying to absorb the other and become one flesh.

  Hours later, she awoke to an empty bed. Ian stood by the window, his silhouette splashed against the wall by a shaft of moonlight. She rose and padded over to his side, grateful for the rug beneath her chilled feet.

  "You're cold." Ian encircled her body with his arms, hugging her against his warm chest.

  She breathed deeply, inhaling his masculine scent, wondering if now was the right time to tell him. His lips sought hers, adding sweet warmth to her soul in the lingering kiss.

  "You're going to be a da again," she whispered.

  His eyes glinted in the light and he picked her up, carrying her back to bed. "Thank you for such a precious gift, mo chridhe. I know Mairi would have been happy for us."

  "Yes, she would have." Deanna stroked his chest until Ian fell asleep. She hoped Mairi and her son were smiling down on them now.

  ***

  Boulder, November 2012

  The memories sped up, slowed down, came in batches—however the Guardians or the Gods willed it. Ian didn't know who controlled the situation. It didn't matter much anyway. He savored each memory as it came to pass, then got on with his work.

  Mairi's death didn't cause fresh pain for him. She'd died in his original timeline as well. He probed the old wound, feeling the sorrow, relieved to find nothing new embedded in the memory. The blade was dull after five hundred years and he was thankful for that small mercy.

  His ability to jump great distances without Robert's assistance was a new gift from the Guardians, one they apparently thought he was ready for. Ian traveled to Istanbul on his own, marveling at the changes. The last time he'd stood in the great city had been four hundred years ago with Robert, when its name was more widely known as Constantinople.

  He entered the Grand Bazaar through the Beyazit Gate cloaking his presence, an unseen ghost whom few could sense. Only someone with a gift of extraordinary magic could perceive him and then they would have to be looking for him. An unlikely combination.

  One of the lost souls had reappeared in this area. Ian meant to get close enough to tag the person so it would be easier to track. He and Robert had agreed not to inform the Council but rather keep watch over them until their cycle of life was over. Only then would they be returned to the Well.

  Ian followed the rich smell of spices before he sensed a direction for the soul. As he drew closer, waves of despair crashed over him like a vast sea upon a rocky shoreline. Ian's bowels clenched as he fought off the fear he now owned.

  She sat on the ground inside of a booth, one ankle shackled to a weight in the corner. Filthy, starving, she looked no more than fourteen or so; her empty eyes stared at nothing in the gloom surrounding her.

  Ian uttered an oath and clenched his teeth, pity and rage fighting for supremacy. His earlier conviction to let the souls remain in their present lives faltered in the harsh reality of this truth. He'd never wanted to set himself on the throne of judgment, deciding the fate of others in this manner.

  "Please…" The girl focused on him with unerring a
ccuracy, whispering with but a breath of sound.

  Ian jerked, annoyed that he'd been so distracted he'd let himself become visible—more of an apparition than anything, but still there. She must think of him as a spirit come to take her away.

  Her plea decided it for him. He called upon the Council and light encased her, causing her skin to glow vibrantly for perhaps the only time in her miserable existence. She smiled and closed her eyes, her body slumping to the ground. The light faded and Ian studied her body. She looked at peace.

  He closed his eyes and sought the mountains of Boulder, not sure if he'd done the right thing but convinced he'd followed the only path open to him.

  Chapter Fifty

  Highlands, July 1508

  William toddled through the room on his chubby legs, peeking over the edge of the cradle at his newborn sister. "Issa, Issa," he yelled, jabbing the baby in the chest with his finger.

  She slept through it all but Ian rescued the bairn from her brother's enthusiasm, picking William up and twirling him in the air while the lad giggled.

  "If he throws up, you're cleaning the mess," Deanna said but she smiled and patted the spot next to her on the bed.

  Ian tumbled William next to his mother, careful not to jostle her too much, though she said she felt fine. He blinked as he watched tiny Isobel sleep, not believing his good fortune. Two strong, healthy bairns and a loving wife. He was truly blessed.

  Relations had cooled somewhat with the Mackenzie clan—nothing overtly antagonistic but still worrisome. It started when his former brother-in-law remarried less than two months after Mairi was put into the ground…and to a Cameron, no less. Ian swiped the hair out of his face and found Deanna gazing at him.

  "You look worried." She held out her hand and he squeezed it, smiling with what he hoped conveyed his love for her. Things like that shouldn't intrude on this moment but trouble seemed to spring out of the fog lately.

  "Only a bit of clan matters on my mind. Dinna concern yourself with it." He knew he didn't fool her but she left it alone, instead patting the bed.

  "I want to snuggle with my awesome guys."

  He laughed and eased down next to her. After all this time, she still used strange words but he understood her well enough.

  She'd become the heart of this keep, a role that had terrified her after his mother died. Deanna had stepped into it naturally though, winning over those who thought Isobel's absence would send the household into chaos. Her strength and intelligence had bound the people to her. Even the healer sought out Deanna's wisdom and the keep harbored less illness as a result.

  A likeness of her father sat in a frame on the table next to the bed. She'd called it a photo and had brought it with her. Ian picked it up and studied the man, marveling again at a future that could produce such a thing.

  "We need a portrait painted of our family."

  Her lips twitched at the suggestion. "We will. There was an excellent portrait of you hanging above the mantle in the hotel. You knew a great artist."

  "I dinna ken any artists. Mayhap he hasna shown up yet." This talk of his future being in her past unsettled him, though he never admitted it to her. How much did her arrival change what was to come?

  She'd told him he didn't have bairns before—now he had two. What of the headstone and his death in 1513? Did her coming here change that as well? They'd never spoken of it—he wouldn't let her. One shouldn't speculate on the future. His mother had suffered from that, although she'd considered it a useful tool. Would his daughter inherit the Sight?

  Ian glanced over at the tiny bundle asleep in her cradle and smiled. He hoped not. It seemed a terrible burden to possess.

  ***

  Highlands, September 1510

  Deanna watched William hold his tiny wood sword with reverence, imitating his da's every stroke. The four-year-old had an unusual dexterity, no doubt part of his Druid heritage. She hid a chuckle when she saw Isobel pick up a stick and copy her brother's moves.

  That one would be a handful. Ian had already promised to start training her next year, bending to Deanna's insistence that girls could be warriors, too…or at least be able to defend themselves.

  He'd instructed her in the use of the lighter swords, surprised that Deanna caught on so quickly. She'd had to stop when this pregnancy left her unbalanced, but in three more months the baby would arrive and Deanna meant to become as proficient with the sword as she already was with a knife.

  "Issa, stop it." William spun around and glared at his sister.

  "You should be pleased that she wants to learn from you," Ian said. "Dinna worry about what she's doing. Focus on me."

  The small lad scrunched up his face in concentration, looking so much like Ian that Deanna's heart swelled with joy. Both children had Ian's green eyes, but while William's hair was dark, Issa had blonde ringlets. She looked like a cherub, at odds with her mischievous streak.

  One of the deerhounds blasted through the bailey, heading for Issa. She dropped her stick in favor of the large puppy she'd named Doggie. Ian had been appalled when the name stuck, grumbling that she'd ruined a good hunting hound, for how could he stand in the glen calling for "Doggie?"

  "The deer will laugh at him," he'd said and tweaked Issa's nose. She'd only smiled at her da and patted the puppy's head. Now the hound slept in her room at night. Ian really was a pushover, Deanna thought with a grin.

  Later that night, Ian spooned against her backside, making love to her with gentle strokes. His touch trailed flames of passion along her skin as a hand slid over her hip. He lifted her hair and kissed the nape of her neck, Deanna's spine shivering from the sensation of his lips.

  Five years with this man had only strengthened her love for him. If she chose to ignore the occasional nightmares, the headstone from the future, who could blame her? Deanna closed her eyes and pushed the unsettling images away.

  ***

  Boulder, January 2013

  Ian arrived in Robert's office, bearing cigars for the third time. "My third bairn is a son, named Alec after my brother."

  "I wonder how many children you end up having?"

  "I dinna ken. I'm glad they've thought to give me five years worth of memories in these past six months, instead of dragging it out." Ian poured them each a brandy and raised his glass in a toast. "Here's to three healthy bairns and to Guardians who are no sadistic."

  Robert basked in his friend's happiness, ignoring the fact that it would end all too soon. For now, Ian felt joy and that was good enough for him. He raised his glass high and took a sip.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Highlands, July 1513

  Rumors of war flew throughout the highlands. King James IV had called for the defense of Scotland against the English who would take away their independence and subject them to King Henry VIII's rule. Ian knew he must assemble his warriors at Edinburgh for the honor of his country, though it grieved him to leave Deanna and the children.

  With the preparations complete, Ian carried his wife into their bedchamber. He hesitated at the doorway. Dozens of candles cast a soft glow about the room. A smile crossed Deanna's tired face at his look of astonishment.

  "I find candles seductive, don't you?"

  "Aye." He found he couldn't say more. Words fled as her love consumed him.

  She bared her neck in invitation, head falling back and eyes closed. His lips pressed against the hollow of her throat, feeling her pulse beat as his own quickened its pace.

  How empty his life would have been without her by his side. He marveled once more at this gift from the Gods that rested within his arms.

  Deanna shed her clothes, her skin bathed in candlelight. He knelt at her feet, wanting to give her all the pleasure she deserved on this night. On the morrow he would leave, but this night belonged to her.

  She ran her fingers through his hair and moaned as he kissed her thighs. His cock jumped at the sound of her sweet voice. Begging his body for patience, Ian rubbed at her heat and explored her sof
t folds as she thrust her hips toward his face.

  Her breathing stuttered as he lapped, then cried out in pleasure, her body trembling against him. Ian ached with desire but took his time, working slowly up her body, caressing each breast with his mouth before obeying her frantic tugging to pull him down on the bed.

  He slipped inside her hot center and held still for a moment as her muscles clenched around him. Ian wanted to stay here forever, to preserve this point in time and tuck it away in his heart to guard against the trials to come.

  As Deanna's hips rotated beneath him, time started again and he plunged back and forth, unable to stop the irresistible pull of this woman. Her legs captured his body as their lips sought their own pleasure.

  She came again and Ian tensed, his own release following. Her hand slid over his face, touching each plane of bone as if trying to memorize the lines. He closed his eyes, feeling her pain as a jagged cut. Deanna didn't speak of it; she didn't need to. It hung in the air, filling them both with a quiet desperation.

  Ian rolled over beside her and smoothed his hand over the slight form in her belly. "I'll try to be back home before the wee bairn arrives." He prayed it to be so, knowing he couldn't promise.

  She nodded and clung to him, her tears squeezing from beneath closed eyelids.

  ***

  Deanna hadn't meant to start crying. She shut her eyes so that Ian couldn't see the naked fear in their depths. He kissed her on the shoulder, not fooled in the least. She was sure of that.

  Had she changed history enough to keep him alive? Would the foreknowledge be enough to save him? A bone-chilling ache crept up her spine, seizing her heart in an icy grip. She heard the answer in the wind outside, singing a note of sorrow amongst the trees.

  Be strong for him. Don't make him worry about you too.

  Her resolve crumbled as she recalled her own childhood, a different war, the little girl waiting for a mother who never came home again…