by Jayne Castel
Maximus and Cassian did as bid, lowering themselves onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath their weight, causing a jolt of hot fire to lance through Draco, and his vision speckled. He needed to say this fast; he could tell he didn’t have much time left.
“You know I was the youngest of five brothers,” he said weakly. It frustrated him just how feeble his voice sounded, but he pressed on nonetheless. “All the same, my father … the proudest Moor in Valentia … was furious when I enlisted in the Roman army. In one afternoon, I gave up my heritage and became a Roman citizen.” Draco swallowed then, wetting his parched lips. “Despite everything, it was the best decision I ever made. You two are kin to me.”
Maximus stared down at him, his proud face all taught angles. Tears shone in his eyes. “Don’t try to speak,” he rasped. “It’s taking its toll on you.”
“I must … say this,” Draco countered. “I don’t have much longer … and I want you both to know about what happened to me … why I turned into such a bitter bastard.”
“You lost Magda,” Cassian replied gently. “In that raid … we know.”
Draco shook his head. Weakness was suffusing his body now. The soured wound was spreading its poison through him. “No,” he gasped. “That’s not the reason.”
Seated outside the bed-chamber in her solar, Gavina stared sightlessly at the flickering hearth. It was a warm day, yet she felt chilled to the marrow. Outdoors, through the open window, she could hear the cry of gulls, the clang of metal, and shouts of men as they worked on repairing the damage to the fortress.
Work would continue on Dunnottar for a long while, before all signs of that attack were erased. Huge chunks had been ripped out of the western curtain wall, the grey stone blackened from Greek fire.
Nearby, Heather and Aila sat silently. All three women had taken up sewing or knitting projects, but none had touched their work.
Their thoughts were on other matters.
The faint rumble of male voices filtered through the closed door. Maximus and Cassian had been in there for a while—and although Gavina knew Draco needed to say a proper farewell to his friends, she felt robbed of him.
They had such a short time left together.
She didn’t want to waste a moment.
Gavina glanced right, toward the window. The sun blazed down from a clear blue sky. It was a bright summer’s day, but winter lay in her heart. She felt as if she would never feel warm again.
Her unfinished tapestry sat near the window—the panorama of Dunnottar only needed a few more rows before it would be completed. Gavina’s throat closed, grief swelling within her so fiercely that it hurt to draw breath. She never would finish it now.
“Gavina!” Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, her cheeks flushed from what must have been a rapid climb up the stairs. Ever since the English had retreated, Gavina had handed over charge of Dunnottar to her sister-by-marriage.
Now that she had wed Draco, she could no longer continue as laird.
Not that she wanted to.
She wanted nothing other than for her husband to live, but with each passing hour, she knew her prayers wouldn’t be answered.
“A woman is here to see ye … from Stonehaven.”
Gavina frowned. Right now, she didn’t want to see anyone. “Who is it?”
“It’s Nessa … the wise woman.”
Gavina stiffened. “What does she want?”
As she spoke, a figure appeared in the doorway behind Elizabeth—a tall woman with a mane of red-gold hair. Nessa was dressed in the same blue kirtle she’d worn when Draco and Gavina had visited her. However, this afternoon, she also wore a sky-blue cloak about her shoulders. And she carried a small wooden basket hooked over one arm.
“I’m here to tend Draco,” the wise woman greeted Gavina with a half-smile, her pine-green eyes glinting as their gazes met. “The folk of Stonehaven know me as a wise woman … but I am also a skilled healer.”
Gavina shoved her sewing to one side and rose to her feet. “But I didn’t send for ye … how did ye know he was injured?”
Nessa held her gaze, before she inclined her head. “I cast the bones this morning,” she replied, “and they warned me that yer man lies gravely ill. If I don’t tend him, he will die.”
A shocked silence settled over the solar as the four women surrounding Nessa stilled.
Gavina was the first to recover. “But he is dying?”
Nessa patted the basket she carried. “A man isn’t doomed until he draws his last breath. Will ye take me to him?”
Around her, Gavina heard the sharp intake of breaths from Elizabeth, Heather, and Aila. However, she didn’t look their way; instead, her gaze remained upon Nessa.
Whatever she was—seer, wise woman, witch, healer—it didn’t matter. Nessa claimed she could help Draco, and that was enough for Gavina.
The woman had been right once before, about how the curse would be broken.
Gavina moved toward the bed-chamber door, beckoning for Nessa to follow. “This way.”
XXXVI
SECOND CHANCES
DRACO STARED UP at the woman who set her basket down by the bed. Nessa ran an appraising eye over him.
“I didn’t expect to see you again,” he greeted her weakly. Hades, it was such an effort to speak.
The wise woman arched an eyebrow. “No … neither did I. But ye seem to have a knack for requiring my help.”
Nessa turned, her gaze sweeping over the four women and two men who stood behind her. “I can’t work with an audience,” she informed them. “I need to be alone with Draco for a short while.”
Maximus and Cassian hesitated, their gazes narrowing, but Draco nodded. “All will be well,” he reassured them.
The others filed out, although Gavina hovered.
“Ye too, Gavina,” Nessa said, although there was compassion in her voice. “Please.”
Gavina’s heart-shaped face went taut, and her lips parted as if she would argue, but then she thought better of it and nodded. Picking up her skirts, she turned and swept from the chamber, closing the door after her.
Draco watched as the wise woman turned back to him. “So, you’re a healer as well?”
Her mouth quirked. “Of a sort.” She moved close to him then, drawing a sharp knife from her belt. Deftly, she cut away his bandages, her face wrinkling when she saw the state of his injuries.
The putrid odor, despite that Gavina had cleaned and dressed the wounds earlier in the day, made Draco’s belly churn. There were few smells worse than rotting flesh.
“The bones were right … it’s a real mess we have here,” she muttered under her breath.
“The bones?” he managed between gritted teeth.
“Aye … I cast them this morning, and they were quite adamant.”
Draco’s brow furrowed. The woman wasn’t making any sense—although it probably had more to do with his fever-addled brain.
However, he didn’t answer her. Quite frankly, he lacked the energy to do so. He wanted Gavina back in here at his side, to interlace his fingers through hers one last time before oblivion took him.
He needed for this woman to get on with things.
But instead, this witch, in her blue kirtle, smelling of dried herbs and summer, was digging through her basket. She produced a small clay pestle and mortar and proceeded to add herbs and powders to the mortar.
Draco watched her mash them. She was frowning in concentration now, and there was something about the woman that made him uneasy—as it had back when they’d visited her hovel in Stonehaven.
Now, just like then, the hair on his arms prickled.
Nessa wasn’t what she appeared—this woman’s young and pretty appearance perhaps fooled many. Yet Draco sensed she wielded real power.
She finished mixing the herbs before adding a few drops of something from a clay bottle. And then, as Draco continued to observe her, Nessa’s eyelids fluttered closed. Flexing her fingers over the mortar, she murmured a few words.
&n
bsp; Draco’s skin prickled once more. Ancient words.
Suddenly, he was back in that bandruì’s hut, watching her paint a sickle on Maximus’s forehead with crow’s blood.
This woman was truly a witch. Not just a wise woman who dabbled in ancient arts—but a real witch. Energy vibrated off her.
“Who are you?” he asked as she picked up the mortar and turned to him. It was the same question he’d asked her in her hovel. And now, just as then, she didn’t answer him directly. “Someone who’s about to save yer life,” she replied, her full mouth lifting at the corners.
“But—”
“Lie still, man. Save yer strength.” The firmness in her voice warned him from pressing further.
Sinking back against the pillows, Draco took a shallow breath, and then another. He hated feeling this weak.
“Fortunately for ye, the power of the Mead Moon still dominates,” Nessa murmured. “The tides are high, and healing energy is at its strongest.”
Draco listened, not understanding half of what she’d just uttered. She mentioned the Mead Moon when he and Gavina had visited her in Stonehaven; clearly, the moon’s cycles were linked to Nessa’s power.
Pouring some vinegar onto a piece of linen, Nessa leaned over him and cleaned his wounds.
Draco sucked in a breath, biting down to prevent himself from crying out.
Oblivious to his pain, Nessa reached into the mortar, took a handful of the paste she’d just mixed, and then spread it over his wounds, pushing it into the holes.
Draco arched off the bed, letting out a howl of agony.
The door to the bed-chamber flew open, and Gavina appeared. “Draco!” she gasped, her gaze snapping to the wise woman. “What are ye doing to him?”
“Attempting to help him,” Nessa replied, not glancing Gavina’s way, her tone clipped. “Now … please leave us alone.”
Gavina placed her hands upon her hips, scowling. She didn’t intend to go anywhere.
“It’s fine, Gavina,” Draco gasped, collapsing back onto the bed. “Do as she says.”
He closed his eyes then, gritting his teeth as the agony subsided. An instant later, the door thudded shut.
“You could have warned me,” he said weakly, “before you did that.”
“Better I didn’t,” Nessa replied. “Ye were never going to enjoy it.”
Draco opened his eyes to see that she was now spreading the rest of the ointment upon his wounds. Heat suffused his side, and then it started to burn.
Draco growled a curse. “What have you treated me with, woman? It feels like my insides are on fire.”
“Best ye don’t know.” Nessa stretched a hand over his flank, her fingers flexing once more. “Folk get squeamish about such things … quiet now … I’m almost done.”
Draco clenched his jaw, tensing as the ointment burned into his flesh. He was now riding a wave of pain—agony pulsing in time with his heartbeat, with each ragged breath. Sweat ran down his face and neck. He wasn’t sure how much more he could endure before he wailed like a babe.
Ignoring his suffering, the witch closed her eyes and started to murmur.
Words slipped from her tongue, rising and falling in the bed-chamber. Draco paid them little mind now though; he was fighting his own battle.
One he was slowly losing.
Bile crept up his throat. He was going to be sick.
His world shrank. Heat. Pain. A woman’s whispers. Nothing else existed.
And despite that he clung to life like a drowning man on the end of a rope, Draco Vulcan wished for his suffering to end—even if that meant death claimed him.
Time lost all meaning, and he blacked out for a spell. When he came to, the heat had turned to a numb chill down his side, and Nessa was no longer speaking.
Instead, she perched upon the edge of the bed, her piercing green stare upon his face.
“I always wondered if the legend was true,” she greeted him solemnly.
Draco licked his parched lips. “Legend?”
“Aye.” She reached for a cup of boiled water and shifted forward, helping him to take a sip. “The women of my coven all know about Maximus, Cassian, and Draco … the three immortal centurions.”
Draco went still, his weakness and pain momentarily forgotten. “You know of us?”
Nessa nodded. “The bandruì who founded our coven … was the one who cursed ye.”
Draco stared at her, shock rendering him speechless.
Coven?
Seeing his confusion, Nessa’s full mouth curved. “Her name was Bedelia … and she was the most powerful of us all. The tale of her greatest deed … cursing the hated Roman invaders … has been passed down through the centuries.” Nessa paused there. “Some of us believed it just a myth, but the moment ye told me yer tale, I knew who ye were.” Her features softened. “Truthfully, I pitied ye and yer friends. Ye have wandered lost for far too long.”
Draco drew in a slow, pained breath. “So, is that why you helped us break the curse?”
She nodded. “Bedelia had her reasons for cursing ye … and the coven she established has protected this land from invaders for many years. But ye have suffered enough.”
Their gazes fused.
“And that’s why you’re treating me now?”
A smile crept across her face. “Everyone deserves a second chance, Draco Vulcan … even ye.”
XXXVII
THE BEST GIFT OF ALL
“YE ARE THE canniest bastard I’ve ever met.”
William Wallace’s gruff voice echoed through the bed-chamber.
Draco cocked an eyebrow. “Does that mean you’re pleased to see me alive?”
“Those injuries would have killed most men,” Wallace rumbled with a shake of his head. “Ye have nine lives, lad.”
Draco’s expression sobered. “I did once,” he murmured. “But not anymore. I think I just used my last one.”
He sat propped up on a nest of pillows. On his insistence, the servants had left the shutters open, letting in a crisp sea-breeze. Outdoors, the sound of industry—hammering and shouts—filtered in. Dunnottar had undergone a battering indeed.
Draco’s gaze wasn’t on the view out the window though, but on the big man whose presence dominated the chamber. They were alone. Maximus and Cassian were helping repair the curtain wall, and Gavina had ridden out to Stonehaven with Aila and Heather to bring a basket of gifts to Nessa, in thanks for all she’d done.
The wise woman had saved his life.
Four days had passed since her visit. She’d left him still in pain and fevered, but the fever had broken that night, and he’d healed quickly since.
Gavina had wept the following morning, when it had become clear that he would indeed live. They had wept together.
Draco had laughed in the face of death many times—but he’d never come so close to dying. One day he would breathe his last, but now that he’d been given a mortal life once more, he wanted to savior it.
Meeting the Wallace’s eye, Draco smiled. “So, what now, William?”
He’d followed the Wallace for a while, and knew that restless look on the man’s face; impatience vibrated through his huge body. Dunnottar had become a cage.
“We’ve helped with the repairs,” Wallace grunted, “but my time here is coming to an end. I need to move on … and rally more warriors to my side once more. The cause cannot be abandoned.”
The outlaw’s gaze guttered then. It occurred to Draco that William Wallace carried his own curse—the curse of a wanted man. He would be hunted forever—they both knew it. The man wore an expression of grim resolve, of fatalism.
“When then?” Draco asked.
“Tomorrow,” Wallace replied. “The lads and I will depart with the dawn.” His gaze roved over Draco then. “And I take it ye won’t be joining us?”
Draco shook his head. “I’m a wedded man now. Gavina would never forgive me if I rode off into the wilderness with you.”
“Fair enough,” Wallace gru
nted, his features stretching into a grin. “You’re a lucky one, Draco. Gavina is a jewel among women.”
Draco raised his eyebrows. It was rare to hear Wallace use such language.
Seeing his incredulous look, the Wallace snorted. “It’s true.”
Draco smiled. “It is. I don’t know what I did to deserve Gavina … but now she’s mine, I’m not leaving her side.”
Wallace grinned. “Good lad.”
Gavina gently opened the door to the bed-chamber, peeking inside. Draco was propped up, his hands wrapped around a cup. He wasn’t looking her way; instead, his gaze was trained out of the window.
He wore a gentle expression—one she’d rarely seen upon his face before the curse was broken.
Her breathing hitched. He still looked drawn from his brush with death, yet her husband was a sight to behold all the same: his face all lean planes, his bearing lordly. She would never tire of looking upon him.
“Are ye taking more visitors?” she asked softly, cutting into his reverie. “I know folk have been tramping through here since dawn like it’s harvest market.”
He glanced her way, a slow smile creeping across his face. “You aren’t a visitor, Gavina. You’re my wife.” He patted the bed next to him. “Come here, love.”
Love.
She never tired of hearing him say that. Even a week after they’d professed their feelings for each other, she still reeled from the fact that things had worked out.
She was no longer laird of Dunnottar, but frankly that was a relief. Instead, she was wed to a man she loved, and they were about to embark upon a wonderful new life together.
Crossing to the bed, she lay down upon the blankets and snuggled up to him, placing her cheek upon his shoulder.
“Did you find the wise woman well?” Draco asked after a moment. “I hope she appreciated your gifts.”
“She wasn’t there,” Gavina replied, disappointment creeping into her voice as she recalled the deserted hovel and the fowl—freed from their coops—scratching in the overgrown garden. “She’s gone, Draco. I asked around in Stonehaven … but no one knows where she went.”
