by Rae Monet
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Atlantic Bridge/Liquid Silver Books
www.liquidsilverbooks.com
Copyright ©2004 Rae Monet
First Published by Liquid Silver Books, Imprint of Atlantic Bridge, August, 2004
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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Published by Liquid Silver Books, Imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright 2004, Rae Monet. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the authors.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Prologue
Scotland, 1311 A.D.
One more life I was unable to save.
Another Wolf Warrior death radiated through Richard's body and plummeted into his consciousness.
He stared at his bloodied hands.
These were the same hands that had absorbed the dying breath of the Wolf Warrior that lay before him, that had captured the young man's pain while attempting to revive him as Richard had for so many who had gone before this one.
Richard's forehead fell against that of the dead warrior, while his tears ran unchecked down his face. The clear wetness of his agony joined with the warrior's red blood, carving a trench in the crimson.
I can no longer do this.
I can no longer absorb the pain of others.
It wasn't in him any longer to perform his task as the Realm healer. He staggered from his knees to his feet, swaying from the immense effort of his rising. His sole thought was that he had to get away.
I have to leave this place and my people.
They would never understand, of course, his need to abandon his appointed vocation, but he must depart before it destroyed him entirely.
* * * *
Richard stood in silence, leaning against the door as he watched the scene before him between his sister and her new husband, Roan.
He could not hear Roan's quietly spoken dialog, albeit the effect on his sister was unquestionable. He need not hear Roan's promises to know how deeply his words affected Serena as her hands desperately clung to Roan.
Richard ran his hand through his long, dark hair in frustration and sighed in longing as he watched the couple. He knew he should leave them to their peace, but alas, what he needed to confide would not wait for the right time.
He would leave immediately following their conversation.
Richard hesitated, uncertain if he should turn and grant them their privacy. He began to pivot when Serena's command stopped him.
"Richard?"
He hated to spoil their moment.
He approached Serena, who lay upon the bed, and knelt beside a smiling Roan.
"She carries my child.” There was a sense of wonderment in Roan's voice.
Richard laid his hand on Serena's stomach; taking deep breaths, he nodded.
"Indeed she does. A strong man lies within her womb. The child is well. Serena, you must commit to eat more and rest well in the coming months. Angus, my apprentice, will be here to help you with the birth and all will go well. Do not worry.” Richard moved back several paces, distancing himself from his sister's emotions.
Roan rose off his knees to drop down next to Serena on their bed.
Richard was not outfitted in his traditional healer garb. He was dressed as a warrior, his great claymore strapped to his back, and his leather armor wrapped around his body. His leather gauntlet, courtesy of Robert the Bruce, adorned his arm. The gauntlet would assure his safety anywhere in Scotland.
Roan voiced the words. “I can sense the finality in this visit. You are leaving, Richard. Am I right?"
Richard was immediately grateful that he had not been required to say them himself.
Serena gasped.
"Yes.” Richard sighed as Serena swiftly rose to her feet. He could sense the protest coming from her.
Roan followed and wrapped his arms around her from behind, restraining her.
"My path leads me to the Bruce's men where I will lend my sword to his cause. I have made a difficult decision in light of my feelings toward my profession. I am unsure how long I will be gone."
Roan held out his arm for a final farewell. “A'Don ar Cuideachd-ne."Roan spoke the Solarian vow.We protect our own.
Richard clasped his arm back. “A'Don ar Cuideachd-ne. Take care of my sister and nephew."
Serena surrounded him with her arms. “I sensed your displeasure. I had hoped it was a fleeting emotion. I was denying what I knew to be true. I should have helped you more.” She shed more tears.
Richard shook his head at her guilt.
"Serena, I cannot even control my reaction to absorbing others; pain, the most essential element to my craft. I am disgusted at myself and the means that led me here.” Serena opened her mouth to argue, but Richard stopped her. “No, I must do this. If I ever hope to survive this profession, I must do this."
"Take care, and return to us when you are ready. Take Caine and Greystar. Please.” She lent him her support as she always had.
"I will, Serena, I will.” Richard stepped back with determination and raised his hand.
He turned slowly and walked out of the protected Realm.
He didn't look back.
Chapter One
Scotland, 1312 A.D.
"Who is that man, Father? The one who stands apart from the others, back by the tree?” Megan inclined her head in the man's direction with a quizzical look. Her fiery wavy hair shifted and tumbled carelessly unrestrained down her shoulders to the small of her back.
"Ach, Megan, dinna set yer heart on the likes of that one,” Megan father's responded, not fooled by the innocent expression on her face.
"Tell me about him, Father."
"Megan, I warn ye, I ken that look. He inna one of your sparrows or small animals to heal. He is a mon, and a troubled one at that."
"Father,” Megan voiced her endearment with patience. Megan loved her father despite his constant harping about the injured animals she adopted.
He had always told her,Megan McKinney, you have a big heart, and someday you will be hurt .
She could never pass up an animal in need, or even a person, for that matter. Anyone who was hurt she was compelled to help; her father understood this about her.
Megan knew well the tone he was using on her. He was warning her, as he always did. But Megan was in need of information and, by God, she was determined to acquire it.
"Megan McKinney, I dinna like that look,” her father grumbled.
"Tell me what you know of him, Father.” Megan gifted him with her most beguiling and innocent dimpled smile—the smile she knew he could not resist and that would, at last, break him.
"Ach, Megan, you'll be the death of me, lass.” He grunted and shifted his gaze to the dark-haired man leaning against the solitary tree, single-mindedly polishing his claymore. He seemed oblivious to the others around him, and for some reason they gave him a wide berth. No one spoke to him. No one stood near him. No one even approached him. He was alone amidst a sea of celebrat
ion, and he seemed content to be that way.
The McKinneys and the MacGregors, two age-old Scottish clans, had been feuding for so long that some had lost track of the story of how it had begun. Today, however, was different. The clans had gathered at a neutral location to witness the marriage of Megan's sister, Aimee McKinney, to Stephen MacGregor.
The marriage was a love match. And at the agreement of the clan lairds, a truce had been forged between them, calling a halt to the fighting that had plagued them for so many years. The two lovers had no idea how important their union was.
They were in love and only wished to be together.
Megan McKinney was Laird McKinney's youngest daughter, and her heart was much bigger than he wanted it to be.
She was a beautiful lass, and though small, she was strong and fierce. Her blinding red locks highlighted the freckles sprinkled across her nose and made her alabaster skin look as if she would break should she be touched. Her bright green eyes tended to crinkle at the corners when she laughed, which was often. And when she laughed, two dancing dimples graced Megan's cheeks, inviting people to laugh along with her. She was much loved by both clans. He sighed at her demand.
She is always seeking trouble.
"They call him the Raven,” Megan's father explained.
"Why, Father?” Megan continued to stare at the lonely man leaning haphazardly against the tree.
"They say he is marked with the bird of death. I know not what they mean, and I dinna question it. He is said to be savage in battle, almost as if he can sense the enemy comin'. It is a disturbing feelin’ just lookin’ at him. He dinna talk to others.
"They know not where he came from. About one year past he joined the men of the Bruce and was given to the MacGregor clan as a peace offerin’ to fight for them. They gladly took him in, his skills being above all others. He is a mystery."
Her father paused and then added ominously. “Most strangely, he dinna want people to touch him, and he dinna touch people ... if it can be avoided. He stays to himself mostly, and the MacGregors respect that. That is why he stands apart from the others, lass, and that is why they stand apart from him."
* * * *
Megan pondered her father's answer, and her next words slipped out of her mouth unconsciously, “Ach, but he is beautiful."
At times of deep emotion, her brogue came out. Unlike her father, she tried hard to suppress it. She knew that it would serve her better to speak with more of an English accent.
The English, in their fight for superiority, despised the Scottish people for what they termed theirbarbaric ways . Some Highlanders had been persecuted, some even killed, for speaking their native Gaelic. Some were punished for simply speaking with a Scottish accent. The English used any means necessary in an attempt to break the Scottish culture and force them to surrender their lives to English rule. Megan shook her head at the thought.And they call the Scottish ways barbaric .
"MEGAN!” Megan's father spoke sternly. “I'm warnin’ you, lass. Dinna attempt to take that one in."
The firm look he gave her left no room to question his order.
She crossed her arms to mimic the man who had finally sheathed his sword.
Despite her father's warning, Megan ran her hungry gaze over the warrior's entire body. He was a large man. His shoulders were so wide, she imagined they could block out the sun. His muscular chest, thighs, and legs showed firm through his leather breeches. She was surprised he wasn't wearing the clan tartan; it was an act of rebellion not to wear the plaid at a wedding.
Although the English had outlawed the tartan, they were worn illegally for special occasions, such as the current marriage. But this man wore no plaid, and it also seemed he had no family. His dark hair fell against his forehead and over his shoulders, unbound and reckless.
"Is that a wolf he has with him?” She eyed the gray bundle resting comfortably near the man's feet.
"Aye, the wolf follows him everywhere. Seems to be a protector of a sort for him. He even takes him to battle. Just another barrier I suppose, between him and other people. That wolf willna let anyone near the man.” Her father rose at the call of the other laird to begin the wedding festivities.
"Ach, I must be off, lass.” He kissed her on the cheek.
"Aye, Father."
The dark-haired man intrigued her, drew her to him. It was true she was known for having a big heart, and she knew it. She would find an injured animal in the forest and feel a compulsion to help, to heal. She hated to see anything suffer. For some strange reason she had the same feeling about this man.
The man eyed the people around him, seemingly bored with the activities the others enjoyed. As her father had said, no one approached him; they left him to his solitude.
He looks so lonely.
There was something about the man that took her breath away. She didn't know if it was the way he crossed his arms in defiance. Or the way his leg lifted against the tree to brace himself, his muscles rippling. Or was it possibly the way he sheathed his sword or his forlorn gaze? She didn't know if it was these routine actions or just her big heart, but she was definitely attracted to him.
She replayed her father's words.Dinna like to be touched, huh?
She smiled and his eyes caught hers. She grinned at him. The man returned her smile with a frown. She inclined her head to him, her smile not dimming in the least. He did not return her nod, but rather dismissed her and turned his head as if he was trying not to acknowledge her greeting. Megan squared her shoulders and threw back her hair.
Humph. If there was one thing that Megan McKinney loved, it was a challenge, and this man had just thrown her one. The brooding man glanced at her again and continued to frown.Dinna like to be touched , she thought again.Well, I'll just see about that.
Suddenly the man's eyes alerted at the warning growl of his wolf. Quicker than Megan could blink, he brandished his sword in his hands. He eased it down when a stumbling drunk, Ewan MacGregor, approached him. His warning glance left no doubt in Megan's mind that he could kill Ewan instantly should he choose.
Ewan's loud obnoxious voice could be heard over the noisy celebration of the crowd. Ewan, her future brother-in-law's second cousin, was a troublemaker. That was the best way she could think to describe him.
"So, Raven.” Ewan's sneer was slurred but boisterous. She shifted closer to observe the confrontation. “Hear yer nae amenable to people touchin’ ya. Thought I'd just be checkin’ that fact."
The man called the Raven slowly re-sheathed his sword as if Ewan were a pesky insect that posed no threat to him, but was one that he could simply bat away with a flick of his wrist.
Megan's mind drifted back to when she had seen him draw that sword. All brawn and bravery, in that second, when he had brandished his sword and faced the possible threat of Ewan, the expression on his face, the dangerous lowering of his eyes, the lifting of his mouth in an almost snarl, the hardening and tightening of his honed muscles.
Megan sighed when she relived it in her mind. It had been ... her hand drifted to her rapidly beating heart ... it had been arousing.
Megan was stunned by her reaction. She had never felt that way about a man before. Although he had acted almost feral, he had been all man, through and through, ready to fight and protect. It made her feel feminine; she longed to be under that fierce male protectiveness with a craving that alarmed her. She yearned to be his possession to protect. Megan shook her head to deny her troublesome notions and watched the drama unfold in front of her.
The attractive man pointed to Ewan with his gauntlet-clad arm. It was the arm of a trained warrior, veined and sculpted with flexing muscles. His finger did not waver as he warned Ewan.
"I would not advise you to do that, my friend. It could be your last move."
The threat was not given idly as he lowered his hand to the hilt of the sword he had just re-sheathed. The veins in his muscled arms stood out as he grasped the sword. His face was dark, intent, as if he could freeze E
wan with a simple glance. The man waved his hand, and his wolf stood directly between him and Ewan with an agitated growl, his teeth bared.
"Although I do not need this wolf to protect me, he is the only one that keeps you alive right now.” The man's clearly enunciated words floated toward Megan.
She sucked in a breath at his threat. She prayed that Ewan would ease down. Although she somehow knew in her heart that the man would not kill Ewan in his stupid drunkenness, she nonetheless felt the stern warning in his words that she hoped Ewan would not ignore.
Megan let out a sigh of relief when Ewan stopped his progress. He realized, even in his drunken stupor, that he was treading on dangerous ground by playing with this man. He raised his hands in surrender and began backing away.
"I ken ye meaning, my man, I was just funning with ya. I'll just be on my way, then.” Ewan stepped away, turned, and actually ran.
The Raven removed his hand from his sword and, with a wave, the wolf relaxed his stance. She heard him murmur “wise man” before he settled himself back against the tree and took out his sword to continue his meticulous polishing. Megan stayed where she was, hoping to catch his eye so she could gift him with another of her best smiles.
* * * *
Richard crossed his arms and leaned against a tree as he contemplated just how much he hated these celebrations, especially the drunken sots who imagined it great fun to play with him.
In the last year of his life, he had been dedicated to fighting. To killing, precisely. His new life was in direct contrast to his existence before he left the Realm. That life had been dedicated to healing, to absorbing the pain of others and making them well.
But he had given up that life and he was resigned to that fact now.
They called him the Raven, marked by death, and that was how he felt sometimes. Most respected his wishes not to be touched and because of his fighting skills, they left him alone.
He examined the area in boredom. The wedding of the McKinney to the MacGregor was an important event in these people's lives and although he had to be present for the celebration, he didn't have to like it.
