Her chin came up. “None whatsoever.”
“And who taught you such a conjure, Arianna?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “No one. As I said, it came from . . . within me. ‘Twas as if the very Queen of Heaven put the words to my lips . . . or something.”
“Or something indeed.” His brows drew together. “You’ve no need of those village witches any longer. There is no more they can teach you.”
“But there is so much more I need to learn.” She sighed heavily, pacing away from him, wringing her wet hands. “I want Raven back now, Nicodimus. I canna bear the loneliness without her.”
When he didn’t answer, she turned to face him again, only to glimpse a bleak expression in his eyes before he managed to shutter them. But deep in his eyes, she could still see a shadow of pain. Rivulets of rainwater ran down his corded neck, dripped from his chin. She wanted to wipe the drops away with her hands. With her lips.
Finally, he whispered, “I know how much it hurts. But there’s nothing you can do to make her come back to you any sooner. Believe me, I’ve searched the world over for such a spell. It doesn’t exist.”
“Nay, it must,” she whispered, clasping the plaid at his chest in her fists, staring up at him, pleading with her eyes.
“It doesn’t. I would not lie to you about this, nor would I speak the words unless I knew them to be true. There is no way to raise the dead from their graves, Arianna. It cannot happen”
“Nay. . .” Her knees buckled. She collapsed at his feet, kneeling weakly in the mud. It was as if she’d been hit in the belly by a giant fist, the very breath forced out of her. She couldn’t draw any air for a moment. For she knew, instinctively, that he spoke the truth. He wouldn’t lie to her, not about this. So there was no way to hasten Raven’s return. It was almost as if she’d lost her sister all over again at that moment. For she’d existed on a hope that had suddenly disappeared.
Gently, Nicodimus bent over her. He closed his big hands ‘round her waist, lifted her to her feet again. “I regret taking your dream away. But ‘tis best you know. . .”
She leaned against his chest and would have fallen once again had his arms not come ‘round her to hold her upright. Sobs burst from her all at once, her tears mingled with the rain that soaked his clothes. He lowered his head and she felt his lips grazing the top of hers, heard his comforting whispers. “You cast your spell, Arianna, and I believe you cast it true. It will work. She’ll come back to you one day, you have to believe it. Cling to it, child. At least it is something.”
Sniffling, Arianna lifted her head, searching his face with her damp eyes. “Aye. ‘Tis more than you had, is that what you’re sayin’?”
He nodded. “Yes. It is more than I had.”
“Who did you lose, Nicodimus?”
Licking his lips, he set her gently away from him, cleared his throat, schooled his features. Hardened them. “If you must practice your rites, Arianna, do it alone and in some secret place where you won’t be found out. It is safer that way. That is what I came here to tell you, nothing more.” He turned to go.
Arianna caught his arm and he stopped, his back to her. “You ken all of it, dinna you?” she whispered. “You ken the ways of magic, and far more than those village witches understand. You have the secrets I’ve been seekin’ all my life.”
“I know nothing beyond what I’ve told you.”
Slowly she moved around until she was in front of him again. She smeared the tears from her cheeks with one hand, and gripping his forearm with the other she probed his eyes. “I’ve been driven to learn the ways of the mystics, Nicodimus. Driven by some force deep inside me that I dinna even ken. An’ drawn to you like a moth to the candle’s flame from the first time I set eyes on you. And now I ken why. You can teach me, Nicodimus. You can tell me the things I need to learn.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“Am I?”
He nodded.
“An’ what of this, then?” Abruptly, she released his arm, and stepping back, bunched her skirts in both hands and lifted them high, baring her right leg and her thigh, and finally her hip, where the mark of a crescent moon stood in dark contrast to her pale skin. Clouds parted as if on command, and moonlight spilled down onto the birthmark as if in a caress. Nicodimus’s gaze fixed to it in much the same way.
She saw him tremble, saw the sweat bead upon his upper lip. His hands reached out, and she closed her eyes in anticipation of his touch there on her bare hip. She held her breath, and felt the heat of his hands as they hovered a hair’s breadth from her skin . . . .
But he only took her skirts from her hands to lower them. If his fingers brushed her thigh as they passed, it was purely unintentional, though that touch left a burning trail of forbidden pleasure in its wake.
“Do not,” was all he said.
Breathless, shivering, she stared into his eyes as if daring him to deny the truth. “You bear the mark, same as I do, Nicodimus.”
He caught his breath. “How can you know that?”
She lowered her eyes. “I told you. I’ve watched you just as you’ve watched me. I’ve peered from my da’s croft as you rode through the village upon that magnificent black stallion, an’ I’ve spied on you from the tall reeds near the loch, long before the sun has risen in the sky. You go there to bathe in the coolness of the wee hours.”
“You have no right—”
“Aye,” she whispered. “I do. That mark you bear upon your hip gives me the right. An’ if that were not enough, Nicodimus, there is the stirrin’ I feel deep in the pit of my belly when you step, naked and wet, out of that water into the glow of the early sun, lookin’ as wild an’ magnificent as Cernunnos Himself. We’re bound to one another somehow. When you touch me, I feel a force pass between us that is more than ordinary desire. An’ you know ‘tis true, Nicodimus. For you feel it, too.”
“Arianna–”
“What does the crescent birthmark mean?”
He closed his eyes only briefly. So strong and steadfast, while she trembled at his very touch. “You’re a young girl. The time when you’ll need to burden yourself with all of this is far away yet. Far away. When it comes, when you need to know . . . I’ll tell you. I promise you that.” He stroked her hair with his big hand. “For now, that will have to be enough for you.” He lowered his head, shaking it slowly. “An’ as for this other—”
“Us wantin’ each other, you mean?”
His jaw clenched. “You’re too young, and I am too old for either of us to entertain such a ludicrous notion, Arianna.”
But he didn’t deny it was true. It wasn’t an admission, nor even much of a concession. But it was something. He wanted her, too. She knew that as he turned and she watched him stride away. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted a good deal more than a promise and a pat on the head from Nicodimus Lachlan.
A good deal more.
“You’ll be mine, one day, Nicodimus. Heart an’ soul you’ll be mine. You canna see it, but deep down in your soul, you already are.”
Nicodimus stiffened, but kept on walking.
Chapter 3
ARIANNA WAS A girl in need of rescue. Yet at the same time, she was a woman . . . a woman in need of a man. And I knew that made her dangerous to me. I had a weakness in me for a woman in trouble. And with her that weakness seemed trebled. I had long ago vowed never to care again, and I feared that rescuing Arianna would mean breaking that vow. Already I felt the slow burn of desire for her in my blood. And more. A softness. A weakness. A vulnerability.
Just as there had been before . . . for Anya.
* * * *
IT HAD BEEN a furious battle, between my own clansmen and those who dwelled in the lowlands. I no longer remember precisely when nor why it began, but in the year 764, I rode into battle beside my father, bow at my side and a quiver of arrows on my back. I fought bravely that day. I killed as many men as any of the other warriors, though I had but four and ten years, and this was my first battle. They
congratulated me, my clansmen. Slapped my shoulders and sang my praises as we rode through the defeated village. Wounded men raced out of our path while women cowered.
As I looked around me, I saw her for the first time. A bit of a girl with wild hair as red as the sun before a storm. She tugged a wounded man by the arm, dragging his body from the path, though it was obviously more than she could manage alone. Her eyes met mine, and she stopped what she was doing, staring at me in silence.
Another man, younger than the wounded one, strode up to her and slapped her sharply across the face. “I told you to get him inside, Anya. Do it. Now”
“Yes, Marten.” She lowered her head in submission and began tugging at the man again. I drew my horse to a halt before her.
“Leave him,” I said.
She looked up at me, wide-eyed. Her eyes were the palest blue I had ever seen. The blue of water, or ice. A thin, weak blue. And they showed me her soul.
“Leave him,” I told her again, my voice more gentle this time, for she was small and timid and afraid.
She slanted a glance at the one who’d slapped her, as if seeking his permission.
“Anya,” I said, calling her by name. “He’s too heavy for you. Let this brute who slaps small women carry him instead.”
She let go of the unconscious one’s arm, and he thumped downward to the dirt.
“You,” I said, addressing the young man now. “Are you her husband?”
“Her brother,” he said, all but spitting the words at me. “An’ she’ll do as I tell her or suffer the consequences.”
The men around me muttered, but didn’t interfere. “No,” I said softly. “You’ll both do as I tell you. Marten, is it? If you want that wounded man carried inside, do it yourself.” He didn’t move. I pulled an arrow from my quiver. I’d fired them all in the midst of the battle, and I’d had to run about plucking arrows from dead men in order to re-arm myself. The tip was bloodied. I strung the arrow, but before I lifted my bow, Marten had slung the old man—his father, I guessed—over his shoulder and was lugging him away. Anya turned to follow.
“Wait,” I said, and she stopped, her back to me. “Does he strike you often?”
Her body seemed to stiffen. “Only when I do not work fast enough, or do my work well enough to suit him.”
“And how often is that?” I asked softly.
I saw her shoulders slump. “Every day.”
My stomach churned with the urge to kill the bastard. “Is he the only one who treats you this way,” I asked. “Or does your father join in as well?”
She turned to face me. “My father is far harsher than Marten, and my other brother, Kohl, is just as bad.” Her eyes flashed with the first life I’d seen in them. “And now that you and your clan have defeated ours in battle, it is bound to be even worse. Our women will bear the brunt of their anger. While you ride away with the spoils.”
“Spoils?” I lifted my palms and looked at the men around me. “Have we taken any spoils?”
They all answered in the negative. It had never been our custom to loot a defeated enemy’s village. I looked back at Anya once more. “But perhaps we should. I am the victor this day, after all. I ought to take a token of this battle back with me.”
Her eyes widened slightly. She took a step backward as I held out my hand to her.
“Come with me, Anya,” I said. “Come with me and no man will ever raise a hand to you again.”
She simply stood there, her brows crooked together as if she couldn’t understand. She took a hesitant step forward, then went still as a man yelled her name.
I turned to see what had to be the second brother rushing toward us, and I quickly leapt to the ground, snatched up a sword, and grabbed Anya’s hand.
“Let go of her!” Kohl shrieked, and then he cried, “Marten! Marten, they’re taking Anya!”
By the time Marten came running, likely after having dropped his father headfirst, I was lifting the girl onto my horse. I swung up behind her. She neither helped me nor resisted. And I remember wishing she’d give some indication whether she wished to come with me or not. I’d likely have taken her either way. It was my right to do so. But mostly I hated the thought of those men treating her so cruelly.
Marten and Kohl rushed me, and I could have easily killed one or the other of them with a single swipe of my sword, but I chose not to. Not in front of their sister. Instead, I simply kicked my stallion’s sides, and we lunged forward. Tipping my head back, I bellowed a victory cry, and carried my prize away. And Anya whispered, “Goodbye, my brothers.” Her voice was neither jubilant nor sad.
I’d made a pair of lifelong enemies that day. Their vengeance had cost me dearly, and would again, I knew. And yet here I was, once again, tempted by a woman in need of rescue.
Yet, I could not quite envision Arianna ever taking the abuse Anya had. I imagined the man who would lift a hand to her would suffer a thousand deaths before she’d satisfied her need for vengeance. She needed rescuing only from herself. And that, she needed badly. For if she continued on the course she’d set, only disaster awaited her.
* * * *
I WENT INTO the village often. Daily, in fact. And each time, I made it a point to see her, to watch her movements. But from a distance, for my own peace of mind. Being close to her was far too disturbing to me.
Most often I found her at the grave of her sister–not mourning, but focusing very intently with a look of stubborn determination on her pretty, elfin face.
One morning I found her near the loch, sitting on the grassy bank alone–always alone. She stared out at the blue-green waters that had taken her sister, a haunted expression in her eyes. I’d vowed to watch over her, to keep her from ruining herself, if I could, but to do so without interacting with her any more than necessary. If she knew how often I observed her, she would read more into my actions than was truly there. And that would feed her romantic notions about the two of us. Besides, sparring with her was exhausting . . . and yet exciting to me.
So I’d decided to stay away. But the picture she made there that morning was one so heartbreaking that I started forward. No one deserved to be as lonely as Arianna looked at that moment.
As soon as I took a step forward, I saw a young man approaching her, and decided to wait . . . and to watch.
He had to be the cobbler’s son of whom Joseph had spoken; the lad to whom she was betrothed. His proprietary hand on her arm gave me to know as much. The way she shook it off only made me smile as I crept closer amid the rushes to watch this little scene play out amid a backdrop of sparkling water and rocky hillsides. The keep loomed tall and gray beyond them, looking almost like an extension of the cliffs beyond it. Its backdrop was the sky, the fluffy clouds drifting lazily past the sun.
“You’ve mourned your sister long enough,” the lad was saying. Angus MacClennan was his name, I recalled. “It looks bad for you, Arianna, sitting out here all alone. ‘Tis long enough, I tell you.”
Arianna tilted her head to one side, studying him curiously. “How can one know how long is long enough? If I still miss her, if I still weep for her when I’m alone at night, then I still mourn her, Angus. And I do miss her. And I do weep for her. And I sometimes think that I loved her so much, a lifetime of mourning her wouldna be long enough.’“
Lowering his head, properly shamed, he whispered, “I didna mean you should stop missing her, Arianna. Only that ‘tis high time you be happy again.”
“An’ how would you suggest I do that?”
He shifted his stance. Arianna remained where she was, sitting carelessly on the bank, knees wrapped within the folds of her arms, glancing at the boy occasionally only to return to her contemplation of the waves. It looked as if he was a bit of a nuisance to her, like a fly, and would get no more attention than one.
“You’ve long been promised to me,” he said, seeming to choose his words with great care and forethought. “I want us to go forth with our lives, Arianna.”
“Spea
k plainly, for heaven’s sake.”
He cleared his throat, thrust out his chin. “I want us to marry.”
“Why?”
Very frank, very blunt, and spoken so quickly poor Angus nearly fell over backward. He blinked his surprise. “What sort of question is that?”
“A good one, I think. Why do you want to marry me?”
“Arianna, you’re nigh on ten and eight! And I nearly twenty!”
“So we should marry because we are of a certain age, then.” She frowned, shaking her head, still staring at the water. “Hardly seems reason enough to me.”
Pushing both hands through his carrot-colored hair, Angus spun in a circle. Then he stopped and stared down at her. “Ahh, I see. So ‘tis declarations of love you be wantin’, is that it?”
She said nothing, but I saw her close her eyes as if in dread of what was to come.
Sure enough, young Angus rounded on her, dropping to one knee. “I love you, fair Arianna. I want you to be my wife. To bear my children. To—”
“So, you love me, do you?” she interrupted.
He licked his lips. “Aye. Do you nay believe it?”
She shrugged. “Why should I believe it? ‘Tis the first time you’ve spoken of love, Angus, and only now because you think ‘tis what I wish to hear. So tell me, what is it you love about me?”
“I–I dinna ken–”
“Well, do you love the way I go about alone when ‘tis deemed improper?”
“Nay, not that, but–”
“Then ‘tis the way I speak my mind, be my thoughts impertinent or not?”
“Nay, of course not, lass. But I–”
“Nay? Then it must be the way I mourn my beloved sister. Oh, nay, for you’ve already told me you dislike that about me.”
“You talk in circles!” he shouted. “I–I love your hair, lass, and your eyes, and the figure you fetch in your dresses.” He gave a nod, looking quite satisfied with himself.
“My hair will turn gray and fall out in time. My eyes will dull and lose their glow amid the wrinkles that will pucker my face, and as for the figure I fetch, ‘twill go to this childbearing you’ve spoken of soon enough. What will remain of your so-called love, then, Angus?”
Eternal Love: The Immortal Witch Series Page 37
