I don’t know. I can’t see anything. But it’s warm and a little smelly, like the baths at Baden.
Baths?
The word cut like a whiplash, and Zarabeth felt his surging, joyous triumph. He shouted so loudly in her head she thought it would vibrate the room.
I knew there was a bloody hot spring under the Ring of Dunmarran! I’ve found ye, lass!
Oh, good. Zarabeth laughed shakily. Do hurry. But please don’t leave me again.
No, lass, came Egan’s voice and the heady feeling of his love. I never will.
* * *
The first thing Zarabeth saw when moonlight sliced through the roof of her prison was a set of paws—enormous clawed feet that raked dirt out of the way more quickly than the sharpest spade.
“Valentin?” she called.
A moment later the face of a huge black wolf hung in the hole, blue eyes shining. It vanished to be replaced by the human face of Egan MacDonald, dirt-streaked, mist-dampened, and beautiful to behold.
“Hello, lass,” he said, his dark eyes full of tenderness, love, and relief.
Zarabeth’s throat squeezed shut and she couldn’t speak. My Egan. I knew you’d come.
To her joy, Zarabeth could hear his answering thoughts. Did ye? Ye seemed scared for a lass who believed I’d rescue her.
That does not mean I wasn’t terrified. Get me out of here!
We’re coming, love.
Egan disappeared but the link to him still held. Zarabeth did not need to think in words, she simply let herself wrap around the feeling of his presence.
It seemed so natural to reach out and touch him with thought alone. She’d been able to do that with her mother when she’d been a child, and somewhat with her father, although her father had never known it.
Egan responded by caressing her thoughts as gently as he caressed her skin. He did it in wonder, a new thing for him.
Zarabeth stood well away from the opening while men with Egan dug a shaft to her, dirt cascading downward. She wondered what had become of Ivan and Constanz, but she could tell that Egan didn’t know.
She sensed her father with Egan, his gladness and relief plus worry that the tunnel would collapse around her.
The old walls held as they dug, and the moonlight pouring into the enlarged opening showed her a ceiling shored up with thick beams and carved stone arches that looked ancient. The arches led down the tunnel to another huge, dark opening that swallowed light.
A lantern came down on a rope, its warm twinkle welcome. This was followed by Egan, who lowered himself into the hole, holding on at arms’ length before dropping to the floor. His kilt swirled around him, a long sword strapped to his side slapping his leg.
Zarabeth flung herself at him and Egan caught her in a hard embrace, his big arms squeezing the breath out of her. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, never minding how filthy she must be.
“Lass. My Zarabeth.” He kissed her lips, her face, her hair, holding her hard.
Men were calling out above, including Zarabeth’s father. She dragged her hair from her wet face as Egan stepped away from her and shouted up that she was fine. Zarabeth heard her father let out a sob of relief, then the other men started talking about the logistics of putting down a ladder or ropes or both.
Egan skimmed his hands through Zarabeth’s hair and kissed her again, smiling the smile she loved. “I thought I’d lost ye, lass.”
She hugged him without words, shivering when she thought about what might have happened to her.
“Ivan and Constanz,” she began.
“We didn’t find them. They must have fled, but never fear, love. We’ll have them.”
“They were coerced by someone else,” she said quickly. “They have this idea that I’ll be put on the throne, the savior of Nvengaria, led by some fanatic. But they don’t deserve to be hurt—they are misguided, not evil.”
“That doesn’t make them less dangerous, love,” Egan growled. “They could have gotten ye killed, bringing ye down here, and were ready to turn ye over to a man, whoever he may be. Ye couldn’t discover who?”
“No,” Zarabeth said in regret. “It was vague in their heads.”
“Aye, well, when we find them, I’ll pry it out of ‘em.”
With Egan’s grim look and his sword, he looked more fearsome than the ghosts she’d been imagining. He snatched up the lantern, but instead of waiting for the ladders and ropes, he took Zarabeth’s hand and led her into tunnel under the line of arches.
His lantern light shone on stone pillars that were fantastically carved with interlaced flowers and leaves and the occasional animal—badger, deer, hawk—and wild-looking men and women. The tunnel led downward in a short slope until it opened into a natural cavern. In the middle of this a sheet of water, black in the shadows, steamed gently, the odor of sulfur wafting from it.
“This is why there’s no snow in the Ring of Dunmarran,” Egan said in triumph. “A hot spring. Marked by our ancient forefathers by a ring of stone.”
“Or perhaps they marked it because it was a sacred place,” Zarabeth suggested, “and the spring was part of the sacredness.”
“Either way, they cared enough about it to decorate it fine.”
Egan rubbed his hand across an intricate carving and strolled to the spring, leaning down to poke his bare finger into it. “That feels nice. Want to test it?”
Zarabeth glanced back up the tunnel. “Father and your Highlanders are trying to rescue me.”
“They’ll be at it a while. Come on.”
Egan unstrapped his belt and sword, peeled off his coat and shirt and unpinned the kilt to let it fall. Naked except for his armband, he sat on the stone edge and dangled his feet in the water. He looked like one of the old gods, Thor perhaps, god of thunder, deciding to rest his huge body in a spring under the earth.
Winking at her, Egan slid into the water. “’Tis not deep,” he said, up to his neck. “And nice on the muscles. Join me, love.”
Zarabeth was cold, bone tired, and aching, and the steam, despite its odor, beckoned her. With a glance up the tunnel, she unbuttoned her gown with stiff fingers, slid it from her body, then unlaced her stays and chemise. She placed gown and underclothes neatly on the ground, and sat down on the rock where Egan had rested.
Egan reached to her, slid his hands around her waist, and pulled her down into the spring. The hot water bit Zarabeth’s skin, stinging the cuts and abrasions from her frantic escape. The heat was heavenly, Egan’s arms protective, the water letting her float in warmth and peace.
“This is a sacred space,” she said in reverence. “Can’t you feel it?”
“I feel you,” Egan said, his grin as wicked as ever.
He cupped her bottom with his hands and coaxed her legs around him. His hardness nudged her, and dark warmth twisted through her. She nuzzled him, hands sliding on his slippery body.
Egan cupped water to her face, cleaning the dirt, tears, and blood from her skin. The hot water felt good, and Zarabeth found her fear dissolving. She was here with Egan, the thought connection between them strong.
Zarabeth kissed him, and he slanted his mouth across hers, scooping up the taste of her. His hair wound to wiry kinks in the steam, curling around her fingers. He was delectable.
I love you, Egan.
Zarabeth wanted to say it over and over again, directly into his mind, coupling the words with her thoughts. Anyone could repeat the phrase, but this way he’d know she spoke the truth.
He smiled as she filled his mind, and kissed the tip of her nose. “Ye know I love ye back, my Zarabeth.”
The words made her toastier than the hottest hot spring ever could.
Shouting from the tunnel broke their next kiss, and then the room filled with an enormous shadow of a Highlander, kilted and booted with a gun in his hand. The shadow shrank down to meet Hamish as he charged into the tunnel then stopped short when he spied them floating in the pool.
It was dark and the water was
murky, but Zarabeth shrunk shyly into Egan’s side. Hamish stood up straight and pushed his hair from his sweating face.
“Disturbin’ ye are we?” he said. “I beg yer pardon. We didn’t mean t’ rescue ye so loud.”
Angus MacDonald piled in behind Hamish, followed by Adam and Piers Ross, then Zarabeth’s father, and Dougal. Zarabeth wondered where Jamie was, but the lad didn’t seem to be with them. Last came Baron Valentin dressed in tattered breeches and coat over his bare body. Bandages smeared with dirt showed in the shadow of his coat, but he stood upright, his face calm.
“Och,” Angus said, leaning on his brother Hamish. “Look at him, if ye please. We’re breakin’ our backs diggin’ him out, and his lairdship is having a swim with his lady.”
“Really, uncle,” Dougal chimed in.
Olaf simply smiled, his face streaked with tears of relief that Zarabeth was all right. Adam peered about the room, taking in the carvings and the pool with a proprietary gleam in his eye.
“A natural hot spring beneath Castle Ross,” he said with glee. “Look at it Piers, and think of the possibilities.”
“I am,” Piers answered, the lantern light catching on his Ross-blond hair. “Paying guests, the aristocracy of Europe come to relax at Castle Ross and its healing spa. A hotel perhaps, with a chef from Paris to cater to well-bred tastes.”
“You’re forgetting,” Egan said from the water, his voice vibrating under Zarabeth’s ear. “This spring is under the Ring of Dunmarran, which belongs t’ the MacDonalds.”
Adam pursed his lips. “There has always been some dispute whether the Ring stands on Ross land or MacDonald.”
“Aye, well I have the maps at home t’ prove it.”
Zarabeth glanced up from where her head rested on Egan’s shoulder. “Perhaps we can speak of this later?”
Adam had the grace to avert his eyes. “Of course, Zarabeth. Forgive me.”
“Uncle!” The shout came from the outer tunnel followed in a hurry by Jamie. “Did ye find—” He halted abruptly when he caught sight of the pool with Egan and Zarabeth in it, the rest of the Highlanders standing by, peering down at them. Jamie’s mouth dropped open. “A hot spring, by all that’s holy!”
His words rang to the corners of the cavern, then he quickly shucked his clothes and dove in, his body a lithe white streak.
The other Highlanders looked at one other, and suddenly kilts tumbled to the ground in a tangle of Ross and MacDonald plaid, and the water splashed to the ceiling as five more Highlanders leapt in.
Even Zarabeth’s father stripped off and joined them, modestly remaining at the far side of the pool. Valentin, on the other hand, shook his head and faded back into the tunnel, a thread of amusement touching Zarabeth’s senses.
Zarabeth smiled at Egan while the Highlanders splashed and shouted and dunked each other in the middle of the pool, her thoughts and his still entwined.
Och, she thought, imitating Gemma’s voice as best she could. ’Tis true. When ye marry a Highlander, ye marry the pack of ’em.
Chapter 23
The Inn at Ullapool
When Egan awoke the next morning, curled around Zarabeth, he realized that the thought-bond between them had gone.
He’d brought her home to Castle MacDonald after his cousins, nephews, and friends had had their fun in the pool and gone. He and Zarabeth had helped each other dress in the cavern, kissing and laughing as they tried to pull clothes over wet bodies.
When they reached the end of the tunnel it was to find Hamish and Angus waiting with Olaf, Egan’s cousins having rigged a hoist to haul Zarabeth, unhurt, to the surface.
Bundled against the January cold, Egan had ridden Zarabeth back to Castle MacDonald, determined to keep her warm and safe while his cousins, the Rosses, and Olaf hunted for the elusive Ivan and Constanz.
Jamie and Dougal had returned to the castle with them, where they were greeted by the worried Gemma, Mary, and the servants, Gemma falling on Zarabeth and weeping in relief. Mary had hugged her as well, her stateliness breaking down, tears in her eyes.
Egan had taken Zarabeth to his chamber high above and made love to her in a frenzy, burning from nearly losing her—he’d been terrified.
Being inside her while their love twined through each other’s minds had been the most powerful thing he’d ever experienced. Egan loved Zarabeth, he needed her, and he knew without doubt that Zarabeth felt the same.
They’d fallen asleep, Egan still inside her. Sometime in the night, he must have rolled away, because when he woke, he was spooned against her as he had been in the inn near Ullapool, when he’d rescued her the first time.
Zarabeth opened her blue eyes and smiled over her shoulder at him. “Good morning, love.”
And then he knew the thought-bond had disappeared. He couldn’t feel what Zarabeth was thinking or sense her love or her thoughts. He sucked in a breath, feeling something special had been ripped away from him.
Zarabeth frowned at him in concern, then he saw her also realize the silence between them.
Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s gone,” she whispered. “Why?”
“Ye cannae tell what I’m thinking at all?”
Zarabeth held him with her gaze for a moment then shook her head.
Egan’s chest hurt. The closeness he’d shared with Zarabeth last night had been unlike anything in his life, and he’d wanted to hold her with it forever. At last he’d found someone who saw his true self—Egan MacDonald—not the Mad Highlander or Charlie’s brother or the laird of his lands or his father’s hated son.
Just Egan, the man who loved Zarabeth.
“Oh, lass.” Egan gathered her close while her hot tears fell on his skin.
“What do we do?” Her sadness broke his heart.
Egan stroked the midnight silk of her hair. “What we always did, lass. Quarrel, make up, quarrel some more. That’s what most of us do—talk and argue and try to figure out what the devil is goin’ on in each other’s minds.”
“It has only ever been a problem with you.” Zarabeth traced her thumb over his cheek, her blue eyes full. “The only person I could never read.”
Egan forced a grin. “Maybe ’twas meant that way, love. Maybe if we are meant to be together, we have to poke and pry to see what each other is feeling. So we’ll keep poking and trying to understand for years to come.”
Zarabeth’s brows rose. “You mean, if we could read each other’s thoughts, it would be too easy?”
“Aye. We’ll have to muddle through like any other couple in love.”
Her face fell, and she snuggled against him. “But it was so …”
Egan chuckled. “I know, lass.” He thought about the wildness that had risen in him when he’d thrust into her last night. They’d been together like never before, bodies and thoughts entangled. It had been insane and wonderful.
“I suppose,” Egan said in a soft voice, “we’ll just have to keep trying until we find something that resembles what we had last night.”
He saw a wicked smile sparkle behind her tears. “Perhaps we can spend much time on this.”
“I was thinkin’ that.”
Zarabeth twined her arms around him and moved her foot firmly against his thigh. Egan was hard, in love, and ready. He kissed her, tentatively probing for the thought bond they’d had, but he did not find it.
What he did find was Zarabeth, the spice of her, the softness of her breasts against his chest, and the slick moisture between her legs that told him she was just as ready as he was. Egan groaned as he entered her, and was rewarded with a soft look on her face, her lips brushing his, and love in her eyes.
* * *
Egan and his men found Ivan and Constanz later that morning on the road to Ullapool. When they tried to run, Egan and his clansmen surrounded them, and Egan dismounted and put the sword of Ian MacDonald to Ivan’s throat. Constanz immediately surrendered.
Egan and Adam, with the help of Egan’s Highlanders, dragged them back to Castle Mac
Donald. Constanz was terrified, certain he’d die any moment, though Ivan tried to brave it out.
“You have no right to keep our princess from us,” Ivan said in Nvengarian, as though disdaining to attempt English. He stood in the Great Hall in front of the collected Highlanders, his face ashen but his chin lifted.
“And ye had no right to abduct Zarabeth like brigands,” Egan told him severely, speaking Nvengarian as well. “I want to know who put you up to this, how much they paid you, and where I can find your mysterious benefactor.”
Ivan clenched his fists and did not meet Egan’s gaze. “I will tell you nothing. We do this for the good of Nvengaria.
Egan, who still gripped his ancestor’s sword, again put its point to Ivan’s throat. Amazing how effective a fine blade was. “For the good of your hide, you’ll tell me.”
Constanz broke in nervously. “We never meant to harm the princess. If she’d done what we told her she would not have been hurt. She belongs in Nvengaria.”
Olaf, standing next to Egan with a grim look on his face, said, “She’ll not go there against her will. She’s chosen Scotland, and that is good enough for me.”
“But she is Nvengarian,” Ivan argued, switching to English. “She does not belong in this so barbaric, cold place with backward Highlanders.”
Hamish said mildly, “Careful, lad, you’ll have a ton of backward Highlanders on you if you don’t watch yourself.”
Egan held up his hand. What he really wanted to do was thrash Ivan and Constanz until they couldn’t see and send their broken bodies back to Nvengaria. He’d have Damien lay them at the feet of whoever had hired them, as a warning to all who threatened the lady of Egan MacDonald.
Egan stopped himself, knowing that he needed to use the two young men to catch the bigger fish. Zarabeth’s continued safety was more important than Egan’s immediate need for vengeance—no matter how difficult that truth was to swallow.
He turned his voice to the tones of Captain Egan MacDonald of the Ninety-Second Highland Regiment. “If ye want to continue living, ye will lead me to the man ye intended to take Zarabeth to. No arguing, no running, no quarter.”
Highlander Ever After: Nvengaria, Book 3 Page 30
