by Lucy Monroe
“It’s true. I would have killed my laird’s lady.”
“The Donegal laird?”
“Aye.”
“She’s raven?”
“She is.”
“But you did not kill her.”
“I tried.”
“How?”
“With an arrow.”
“So, you are a poor shot.”
“No. I was one of the best in our clan.”
“Then you must not have tried very hard.”
’Twas what Barr had said at the time, but Lais would never forget his guilt. “In time, you will find a mate worthy of you and you will forget this crush you have on me.”
Mairi’s eyes narrowed. “Will I, then?”
He nodded, but she was no longer looking at him. Her brows were drawn together in thought and he was fairly certain it did not bode well for him.
The Balmoral soldiers had a small hut cleverly disguised by outer bracken, so one had to be almost upon it before seeing it was not merely part of the forest.
Inside, it was clean if small. Two bedrolls were tied and stacked neatly against the far wall. Matching benches that could seat two in a pinch were on either side of the fire pit in the center of the hut.
The pit smoldered in the fashion of a fire that had been recently banked. Gart poked at it and blew on it until a small blaze caught the fresh wood Artair laid across it. They worked in a unison that told of longtime friendship and training together.
“We’ll heat stew for our supper,” Artair said with a smile for Ciara.
Gart harrumphed and grabbed the stew pot from a shelf on the nearest wall. He hung it by its handle from the tri-legged iron stand over the fire. The big soldier grabbed wooden cups from the same shelf and Artair poured wine from a skin into them before adding water from a bucket.
He served Eirik first. She thought it was because the Éan was a prince, but Eirik took a sip of the watered wine before handing the cup to Ciara.
He’d been testing it for her safety. “If you trust them with your secret, surely you can trust them to serve us a drink.”
He ignored her and took his own cup from the Chrechte soldier.
She frowned, but took a sip of her drink, suddenly realizing how very thirsty she was. She should have drunk more water on the journey here, but she had been preoccupied with her thoughts and conversation with Eirik.
Artair indicated one of the benches with his hand. “Please, sit.”
She took his offer with alacrity, only to nearly jump out of her skin when Eirik joined her on the small bench. He pressed against her side from hip to shoulder. She tried to bump him with her hip, but he didn’t move.
He could be a gentleman and choose to sit on the floor, but perhaps those kinds of manners were not taught among the Éan. Him sitting so close was indecent though.
And she did not care that she had ridden his dragon not a half an hour past. ’Twas not the same. No, it was not. And she would tell him so. Later.
The two warriors shared the other bench, instead of one of them taking the floor, too. She supposed it made sense, but she did not like the way her body heated in inappropriate places at his closeness.
The Balmoral soldiers started to pepper Eirik with questions of what it was like to be a dragon.
“Do you see with colors?” Artair asked.
It was a fair question. Wolves did not.
Eirik nodded. “My vision is very good as well.”
“Better than your raven?” Artair asked.
“Much.”
Both soldiers went silent to give that truth the respect it deserved.
Then Gart asked, “Does your dragon pull you to shift like your raven?”
“Aye. He’s an impatient beast,” Eirik replied.
Ciara didn’t even pretend not to be interested in the discussion and the stew was bubbling in the pot before she knew it. The delicious aroma from the rabbit stew made her stomach growl embarrassingly.
Artair smiled at her with understanding. “Time to eat, I think.”
“Aye,” Eirik agreed with a concerned look for her.
“I am fine.”
“You do not eat enough.”
Oh, for goodness’ sake. Did he really need to share her shortcomings with the Balmoral soldiers? “I’m going to eat now.”
Gart grabbed shallow wooden bowls that would double for plates and Artair ladled a rich broth filled with vegetables and meat into each. Again, Eirik tasted her stew before she was allowed to eat.
“Are you going to do this from now on?” she asked him with exasperation.
“Aye.”
“It’s ridiculous. I’m a wolf. I would smell if my food or drink was off.”
“I am a dragon, my senses are stronger.”
“You are being arrogant again.”
“I am protecting you.”
“From friendly soldiers?”
“From the possibility they let their food spoil.”
“Well, they didn’t.”
“Nay.” He nodded to Artair and Gart. “’Tis tasty.”
“Thank you,” Gart replied.
Artair shrugged. “He does most of the cooking when we are on watch. I’m better at catching our meal than preparing it.”
“Our Artair is a fine hunter,” Gart said with some pride. “He’ll make a good husband to a lucky clanswoman.”
Artair smacked his friend on the back of the head and a bite of stew went flying, but Gart saved the rest of his food with his quick reflexes.
Their conversation continued over the meal but moved to the Éan settling into the Balmoral clan. Apparently, since none of the secret society of the Faol who wanted to kill all the Éan had been found among the Balmoral, the laird had decreed his people would be told the full truth of their new clan members.
To Ciara’s surprise, Eirik had agreed. She wondered again if he trusted the Balmoral more than her father, but realized it was not her father the dragon mistrusted. It was the rest of the clan. And since there had been members of the secret Faol society among them, only time would prove his people safe with the Sinclairs.
“Our laird assigned two of your warriors to share this guard and others the task of a flying watch over the island,” Artair said to Eirik when asked.
Eirik tensed. “Not all are soldiers.”
Ciara wanted to soothe him, though she could not understand the urge. He was hardly a child needing comfort, but he was a man who took the well-being of his people very much to heart.
“Oh, no,” Artair was quick to reply. “Some have been assigned crofter’s huts. Three have gone to work in the castle, in one capacity or another.”
“That is as the Balmoral said it would be.”
“Our laird can be trusted,” Gart said on a growl.
Ciara smiled at him. “Of course he can. Eirik did not mean to imply otherwise.”
The dragon shifter said nothing. Gart was turning a bit red and Artair wasn’t looking too happy, either.
She dug her elbow in Eirik’s side. “Did you?”
He shifted so he almost faced her, his big body blocking her view of the others. “Did I what?”
“Mean to say that their laird was untrustworthy.”
“I allowed my people to join his clan.”
“I know, but perhaps they are not aware how much you had to trust the Balmoral to have done so.”
“’Twas not their decision.”
“No, of course not.” She barely refrained from rolling her eyes. “The point is—”
“Not important,” Gart interrupted, sounding much happier.
She peeked around Eirik, but both the Balmoral guards looked at peace again. Really. Heaven save her from testy warriors.
She looked up at Eirik and lost her breath. His focus was entirely on her and the message in his eyes was hot enough to singe. “Um…you…I…the soldiers…”
“What about them, faolán?”
“I can’t see them around you.”
&nb
sp; “Mayhap you should not be looking at other men.”
“I wasn’t looking,” she said in outrage. “That way, I mean.”
“But you wanted to see them.”
“Not like that.”
The tiny twitch in the muscle of his cheek finally gave him away.
“You are teasing me,” she accused.
“You smell good when you blush.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She must have the fragrance of a garden right now, because her face was so hot she would have gladly dunked her head in the bucket of water. “Will you shift your behemoth body so I can see Artair and Gart, please?”
He moved but ruined her pleasure at his cooperation by asking, “You find me too large?”
“I did not say that.” Too large? How could she when she found him perfect in most every way? And that was not a revelation she needed to make, to herself or him. Life as a seer was much more complicated than when she’d merely been a daughter who could avoid all entanglements behind the wall of her adopted family. “It would not be appropriate for me to comment one way or another.”
“You called me giant.”
“I’ve also called you dragon. You did not take offense at that.”
“I am a dragon.”
“And you are a very big man.”
“I think you like big.” His tone and the heat in his stare said more than the words, and they said enough.
“Stop. Please.” Ciara turned her attention to Artair and asked somewhat desperately, “Are your clan accepting of them, the Éan I mean?”
She expected they were, but discovering the Éan were known as bird shifters among the Balmoral might put a different light on it. She hoped not, though.
“Oh, aye,” Artair said with a decisive nod. “No one treats new clan members as anything but family since our lady came near ten years ago.”
“She’d not settle for it,” Gart agreed.
Ciara grinned at this mention of Abigail’s acknowledged strong-willed sister. “Aunt Emily did not find such a warm welcome among the Sinclairs, I fear.”
Artair returned her grin. “So I hear. Though she gave as good as she got, I reckon.”
“I think you are right.” Ciara laughed softly. “I’m not sure my father has ever gotten over being likened to a goat.”
“It’s not something a laird would be used to, is it?” Artair asked with another grin.
Eirik growled, similar but different to a wolf, and she stared at him askance only to turn her head quickly at an almost identical sound from Gart.
Artair twisted his lips in a grimace. “Ignore him. We’ve been best mates since before we could walk. So, it stands to reason to him I should marry his sister. But I’m not joining my spirit with another until I feel the call of a true mate, am I?”
“The old stories claim that in the days of the ancients,” Ciara remembered aloud, “none mated unless they felt the connection of a true bond.”
“How are you going to know you feel it, until you are mated?” Gart asked with irritation.
Artair gave him a measured look. “I’ll know.”
“You’re so damn stubborn.”
“You’ve been saying so since your first words and it hasn’t changed yet. What makes you think it’s going to?”
Gart made a sound of exasperation and slammed his now-empty stew bowl down before storming from the hut.
Ciara got up to gather all the bowls before carrying them to the shelf. She would take them out later to wash with sand and water from the sea.
She patted the other Balmoral guard on his arm as she walked by him. “He’ll figure it out eventually.”
“You think so?” Artair shook his head. “I’m about despaired of it ever happening.”
“He’s a Chrechte. He can’t ignore the call forever.”
“He could. Some do.”
She couldn’t argue that, particularly when she was doing her best to ignore her feelings for Eirik. But she did not think Gart was like her. He wasn’t afraid, merely blinded by dreams he’d clearly cherished since childhood.
“He has to let go of his treasured hopes for his sister first.” She took the seat beside Artair on the small bench. He did not fill the space like Eirik did. “Perhaps you should encourage him to find his own mate.”
The Balmoral soldier gave her a look of pure horror. “Why would I do that?”
“Why did you sit beside him?” Eirik demanded.
She ignored Eirik and told Artair, “So that he will start thinking in the right direction.”
“I’ll think on it.”
Eirik stood up, his expression feral in the dusky light of the hut. “Your body is touching his,” the Éan prince gritted.
She scooted so the small spot where their hips had connected did not touch at all. “There. Are you satisfied? You’re being ridiculous. It wasn’t anything like when I was sitting beside you.”
“Come sit over here.” Eirik pointed to the other bench.
“I’m fine right here.”
A low rumble sounded and Ciara watched in fascination as Eirik’s hands became covered in crimson scales and tipped with lethal-looking claws. Though they remained in proportion to his body.
It was unlike anything she had ever heard of before.
“How did you do that?” she asked with wonder.
“I think, perhaps, I will join Gart outside,” Artair said from the doorway.
She hadn’t even realized the other man had gotten up. She stood as well and turned to the guard. “That is not necessary.”
“I think it is.” He gave a significant look toward Eirik.
And she looked back at her dragon. His hands were still amazingly transformed, but he had not moved from his spot. His expression was no longer so ferocious, either.
She turned back to Artair and smiled. “See? He is only feeling protective as he has taken on the role of my guard for this journey. You saw him with our meal, tasting it for me.”
Artair was looking at her as if she was spouting gibberish and she sighed. The soldier simply did not appreciate the wonder of Eirik’s gifts like she did.
“Lais and Mairi have arrived,” Eirik said into the tense quiet.
Ciara spun back to him, all of her suspicions about his abilities confirmed. “Lais told you that, didn’t he?”
Eirik didn’t reply but left the hut, his shoulders taut, his jaw set. At least his hands had gone back to normal. She did not think it was a gift he needed to go sharing with everyone under the sun.
Artair reached out as if to pat her shoulder but withdrew his hand before touching her. “The Éan prince will figure it out, too.”
She didn’t ask what. She was no fool and apparently neither was Artair. “Let’s hope not,” Ciara said fervently.
“You don’t want a mate?” Artair frowned. “Or is that you do not want an Éan for a mate?”
“I want no mate, whether he be human, Chrechte or a wild beast for that matter.”
“Our celi di says that God gifts us what we need, not what we want.”
“And sometimes he also takes away what we love most.”
“So you would reject the possibility of love to prevent ever losing it again?”
“I want no mate,” she repeated doggedly. “There will be no children for me to lose to illness or war.”
No mate whose loss would send her into a decline like her mother. Ciara had suffered enough pain when she lost her family, but she had survived. She had learned to live again. Her mother had not.
Because she had lost that which she could not bear, her true bonded mate and her child.
Chapter 17
Human behavior flows from three main sources: desire, emotion and knowledge.
—PLATO
His beast demanding a chance to come out and cast fire at the Balmoral soldier, Eirik waited impatiently for Ciara and Artair to join them on the beach. He could control his dragon, but he did not know if he could control his warrior’s instincts to cla
im the woman so that all would know she belonged to him.
He had not thought to take a mate for several more years, but both his dragon and his raven insisted he make Ciara his. Which was shock enough. He’d thought the fact both his alternate natures were attracted to the little wolf interesting, but the intensity with which his dragon and raven craved Ciara only grew by the day.
He had never had such happen before. While he had not been celibate since coming of age, Eirik had always found putting his duty to his people first easy. No woman had ever invaded his senses like Ciara did, and none caused such an inner disturbance in Eirik.
He’d shown his partial shift to Artair and Ciara without thought. Not only had that never happened before, but it was dangerous for others to know the full extent of Eirik’s gifts.
One truth was obvious, he could not serve his people as he needed to if he was in constant conflict with the animals that shared his soul.
There was no choice. He would have to take her for mate.
It would be no hardship, though she was more willful than most. As seer and princess of her people, Ciara would bring more to their mating than simply her person. In truth, there was probably not another woman in the Highlands so well suited to become his wife and bear his children.
Her Chrechte power, though mostly latent until now, was great. And as his mate, that power would serve both the Éan and the Faol once she bonded with him. ’Twas the way it worked between mates.
Eirik had already sworn his allegiance to the Sinclair wolf pack and by doing so dedicating his own Chrechte gifts to their welfare. The mating bond would not change much for him. But it would give his people claim to the gifts of another powerful Chrechte to rely on for their well-being.
Yes, even without the insistent cravings of his beasts, Eirik would have had to consider taking Ciara as his mate.
The fact his alternate natures were so enthralled by her only made the probability that their mating would be a true one more tantalizing and real.
Ciara came down to the beach finally, a frown settled on her sweet features, clearly agitated by something. She greeted Mairi and Lais, but was distracted.
He glared at Artair, taking it as his due when the Balmoral soldier flinched and lost his color. “What did you say to Ciara?”
“Me?” Artair asked with a squeak.
