Shadows of the Keeper

by Karey Brown

  “You are rude, sir.”

  “Aye.”

  “You’ve seen me naked.”

  “Ye’ seem fixated on tha’. Trust me, I am not.”

  Emily turned red. Male laughter erupted, apparently mistaking his cold analysis as entertainment. A sardonic smiled slithered across Broc’s face.

  “I wouldna’ be grinnen, ye’ fool!”

  Emily nodded. “You should take your jester’s advice.”

  “Jester?” Murmurs ensued, followed with loudly whispered ‘village idiot’ and then, “She insulted me?”

  Broc’s arched brow was answer enough.

  “Aye, well, a furious lass wi’ blade is dangerous ta’ yer’ heirlooms.”

  “It’s family jewels, ye’ arse,” someone else piped up.

  “You all mock me like I’m some sort of simpleton.” Emily’s lip curled. “Just like Peter!”

  “Who the hell is Peter?” onlookers chorused.

  “Gorgeous or not, you are going to drive me to an airport, or I swear upon everything Holy, I’m gutting you like the rutting pig you are!” Emily jabbed with her borrowed sword.

  “I think she’s rememberin’.”

  “I think she’s lost her mind.”

  “Silence!” Broc commanded, parrying her thrusts.

  “Aye,” laughter erupted behind her. “Ye’ need ta’ concentrate or the wee lass will take yer’ manhood, and that thatch on yer’ face!” Laughter escalated as benches scraped stone floor. “Yer face bleeds, mohn.”

  Peripherally, Emily witnessed the rough looking lot elbow joust for a better view. She growled. Her enemy joined their laughter. Her continued vulnerability at the hands of men emblazoned fury such as she’d never experienced.

  She stepped back from the battle.

  Broc MacLarrin lowered his sword. “Had enough of your temper tantrum, Lady Emily?”

  Emily pulled the silver hilt flush with her abdomen, broadside of the blade pressing against her forehead. Her lids closed of their own accord. For the life of her, she’d never been taught this in the few fencing lessons she’d been able to scrape money for, but this just seemed so . . . right.

  Coherency escaped her.

  “What’s she doin’?” The voice was strangely faraway.

  Emily took a small step forward, her left foot slowly coming down toe to heel. Her body dipped as her right foot crossed the left. Methodically, she twirled, her blade making a complete arc in front of her. Her eyes remained closed. Voices no longer penetrated her trance. Right foot stepping out, her left foot snapped forward to join its mate as her sword arced over her head, wrist windmilling the sword round and round over her head.

  “Lugh’s blood!”

  “I warned ye’, the soul remembers,” Maeve muttered.

  Entrenched in ancient magicks, Emily’s mind engaged one objective: enemies would not see the coming sunrise.

  “Summon Aunsgar, now!” Her opponent bellowed.

  Weapons unsheathed. “She performs the Lumynari dance of—“

  “Do not step near her!”

  Emily’s eyes snapped open, charged.

  Broc narrowed his own. “Emily, release yer’ weapon. You do not understand the power coursing through you.” Strong hand flexed, reaching for her.

  She attacked.

  Thrusting, swinging, slicing, parrying. Panting, Broc found himself backing towards tables, battling for his life.

  “Her eyes! Ye’ see her eyes?”

  “Look at that,” Allen said, awed. “I thought your tales exaggerated, but her eyes glow like your fables of the Lumynari.”

  Shouts and shuffling, bodies surged. “She’s gonna kill him!”

  “Stay back! She’ll kill you before you draw a second breath,” Broc warned.

  Emily’s wrist twisted. The loud clanging of Broc’s sword upon the stone floor silenced the great hall. Bloodlust absorbed her. Sword tip poked the base of this throat. Her chin raised, legs slightly apart, her body poised for the final kill. “You will die now,” she hissed from clenched teeth.

  A presence from behind penetrated her senses. Feral smile painted itself on her face. “Seems your fools desire to join your demise.” Emily spun so fast, she was but a blur. As was her blade.

  A mortal man would have been decapitated.

  The clash of her sword, brutal against another, caused sparks to erupt.

  “Christ’s blood! No one’s ever matched swords with ye!” A faceless voice muttered.

  Her new opponent was angelic, tall with long white hair, his blade currently locked against hers. Stepping back, she swung her weapon around, attempting to disarm him. Their blades continued to clash, sparking as the lethal weapons glided against one another. He mumbled while Emily thrust fiercely, forcing him to backpedal several paces. She offered him no opportunity to regain footing against her. Peripherally, she witnessed men stationed on the stairs, their arrows aimed at her. “In the time it takes for their arrows to soar through the air, I will have cut off your head,” Emily stated. “Hurtyn!”

  Maeve gasped. “She speaks Gaelic?”

  “And well! Aunsgar, she’s called ye’ an idiot . . . lest ye’ be wonderin!” Raucous laughter filled the great hall.

  “This is not a repast,” Aunsgar warned his rowdy audience. He resumed his incantations, more loudly. His blue eyes chilled.

  Her sword’s weight increased.

  His voice escalated.

  Her shoulder blazed.

  He flung out his hand, as if showering her with something.

  Strength poured from her. Trembling, teeth now chattering, Emily looked down at her weapon, dumbfounded. Its clatter against the flagstone floor deafened.

  “Take the discarded weapon, Garreck,” her opponent calmly ordered.

  Emily pressed palms against her temples and closed her eyes against excruciating pain. Slow, deep breaths expelled before she dared ease her hands from her head.

  Ominous silence greeted her. Dozens of armed men glared. Fear rippled through her. Up on the landing and down along the stairs, men were lined up, their arrows aimed at her. Strange men. Long white hair . . . pointy ears? Where the hell am I? Shit-hell-damn!

  Call to me, Keer’dra, and I will exterminate their pathetic existence.

  Emily’s gaze flicked to the man she’d been fighting. That strange voice again. His stare did not offer comfort. In her mind, she could see snatches of the battle, but it was more like vague memories of a long ago movie.

  Unfortunately, her migraine was not.

  “Ahhhh!” Palming her eye, sharp pain pierced for a way out. “What’s happening to me?” She’d fought with the intent to kill—that much, she sure remembered. Impossible. I’m an amateur! Muttering penetrated her fog of pain and confusion. The man in front of her, his hair as white as her own, deep blue eyes, and a face so angelic, it reminded her of—“I know you.”

  “Qui’ altinir’ dijion.”

  “Yeah, okay. Whatever.” Still . . . his foreign words sounded familiar. Impossible.

  “I told my guards to lower their weapons. You are no longer a threat to my life.”

  “Well, at least I don’t have to worry about twitchy fingers.”

  “They are highly skilled.”

  “I’m hardly a threat to you.”

  “Not any longer, you aren’t.”

  Trembling resumed. Her chin quivered, teeth chattering. “So . . . cold.”

  Strong hands gripped her from behind, steadying her, ignoring her flinch.

  “I just want to go home.”

  “Mi’ lady, ‘tis been an ordeal for you. I promise, we mean ye’ no harm.” A large blanket followed the words of comfort. Emily huddled deep in what to her looked like a Highlander’s plaid. The warmth it offered was tremendous. She eased around and looked up into sympathetic meadow-green eyes—

  “You’re real?” She gave her head a quick shake. “But that means I really woke up to you.” Guffaws erupted, blessedly thinning the simmering tension.


  He bowed deeply. “The laird’s captain, I am Lord Garreck.”

  “I thought you were a dream.” Déjà vu, she’d uttered those very words before. The room dipped. “A bad dream with much pain.” Backslapping a few shouted foreign words and male boisterous laughter made obvious they were throwing ribald remarks at the man kind enough to have offered her a blanket. His blush confirmed her suspicions. He turned from her and looked somewhere down the length of the vast hall. She followed his gaze.

  He’d said his name was Broc. She’d awakened in his bed. Clean, bathed, stitched, and on the mend. And I thanked him by nearly killing him.

  Her guilt must have tapped him on the shoulder. He turned from the massive hearth he warmed himself by and glared. Others must have noticed for humor was quickly swept away. Intense betrayal, despair and contempt churned within her. Why? I’ve never seen him before.

  “Escort Lady Emily to her borrowed chambers, Aedan.” Broc turned back to the fire, dismissing her.

  “Hey! Wait just a damn minute. How dare you?” She ignored collective gasps. “I’m leaving. Final! Call a taxi, or I call the police!”

  He slowly turned. His expression scared her to death. “Aye? Police?”

  Her chin jutted. “Yes.”

  “On what phone?”

  “If I can’t use yours, I’ll walk until I find one.”

  “Ye’ will find a thousand years o’ walkin’ will not garner yer’ modern contraption.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Phones do not exist,” Garreck muttered behind her, attempting to draw her away from the laird’s fury.

  “You finance a castle, but no phone? Brilliant.”

  “Do you see electricity?” Broc taunted.

  She’d assumed candles and torchlight were for ambiance. “You can’t keep me here.”

  “Aye. Can and will. Ye’ no longer reside in yer’ realm, Emily, ye’ have traipsed into mine.” He stalked her, his voice descending into deadly octaves. “And, now that ye’ ‘ave returned, so too will those hunting ye’.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Broc revived his tankard, his scowl as murky as his ale. Around him, Forest Lords carried on in their usual boisterous way, as if nothing were amiss. His mood fermented more and more each day as a certain lass schemed to infuriate him enough that he’d send her back to her barbaric country. Why spend good coin when sword to gullet will suffice? This morning, he’d come damn close to dragging her from her chambers and tossing her from the turrets. Who the hell did she thinks she was to waste good parchment, tacking the scrap of paper to his study door with the label: Sir Pissed? Envisioning her spending several days in his dungeon brightened his mood. And every one of these loons I suffer can join her! Let’s see how loudly they laugh then!

  “Where is our guest?” Broc growled as Maeve passed by, serving women trailing behind her with their heavily laden trays. “Does she no’ find our company fitting to dine amongst?”

  “You leave her be. I sent her upstairs hours ago with oatcakes and ale. She was weavin’ and about ta’ collapse from exhaustion.”

  “Aye, making fools of men is hard work.”

  “Cleaning up after fool men is hard work. She has helped me clear out all three hearths, clean cooking pots and clean up yer’ boot trails throughout mi’ hall.”

  “Your hall?”

  “Aye, and until ye’ carry the wood ta’ fill the hearths, ‘tis mi’ hall. Those stacks you see today, Lady Emily brought in. I’d ‘ave asked ye’ for help, but I dinna wish ta’ interfere with yer’ need ta’ hide from the wee lass.”

  “I do no’ hide.”

  “Lady Emily warned ye’ would ‘ave a need ta’ pout after she put a . . .”

  Obsidian eyes glinted. “Finish yer’ tale, woman.”

  Forest Lords ceased their bantering. Maeve pretended to be busy with serving. Broc’s tone dropped to notorious dead tones. “I’ll have her words, Mistress Maeve.”

  “Braggarts are usually lazy bullies, content to have auld women perform arduous chores while they themselves stomp and rut, bleating about their male prowess.” Maeve pretended indifference while pouring herself Merlot, one of her favorite treats supplied by Allen from Emily’s realm.

  Tension thickened.

  Urkani chuckled, Aunsgar’s commander surprising everyone with his non-Elvish display of emotion.

  Ever-so-slowly, Broc rose from his seat. “I think it surpasses the time for Lady Emily and I to have a discussion.”

  Maeve dabbed her mouth before answering. “Mayhaps ye’ could let her know the meal is served?”

  “Oh, aye. I’ll fetch her!” Broc rushed up the immense stairs, boots furiously pounding the ancient marble.

  “Och, did ye’ ‘ave ta’ stretch yer’ words as if on the rack?” Garreck whispered when Broc was well out of hearing range.

  “We want ta’ see them getting’ along, not Lady Emily skinned by his raging, woman!” Reignsfeugh hissed.

  Erchyll look hopeful. “I’ve yet ta’ make him repent anything.” He slurped a mouthful from his trencher. “What say you the chances of him attendin’ mi’ church after he’s strangled the wee lass?” He reached for more bread, tore off a chunk, and tossed the remains back onto a central platter. Baleful glares finally drew his attention. “A priest can hope his laird will attend church. I doona care what it takes ta’ make him find God and repent.”

  Several waved him off, disgusted.

  “I made none of it up,” Maeve defended. “Just so ye’ ken.” She mopped butter with thick steaming bread. Another luxury supplied by Allen. She was too old to be churning butter like days of old. “Made me realize I should be requestin’ more help from you lads. Put me in a whole new mind ‘bout how things should be ‘round here.”

  “Nothin’ good ever comes from womenfolk sharin’ ideas,” Erchyll warned.

  “We, uh,” Reignsfeugh coughed into his fist, eyeing his comrades. Impatiently, they waved for him to get on with it. “We could help ye’ clean the rest o’ the hearths throughout the keep.”

  “I doona care much for heights. Perhaps one of ye’ is brave enough ta’ stand upon a ladder and fetch cobwebs as well?”

  “Aye, that task I’ll do for ye’,” Kaven offered. “I’m atop battlements during the night. Can’t be afraid o’ heights up there, now can ye?”

  “No, I supposed ye’v a point there, lad,” Maeve agreed, eyes glittering.

  “I think the lass teaches ye’ the art o’ manipulation, auld woman,” Reignsfeugh stated, stuffing his mouth with a meat pasty.

  “She’s well versed in poisons too.”

  The Celt spewed his food.

  * * * * *

  Never in his life, and it had been a very long one indeed, had his men dared pranks—save for Aedan. Sir Pissed. His mouth quirked, laughter threatening to escape. That maddening piece of paper had found its way to his chair in the great hall, and then pinned to his plaid hanging from the drying hook. A conspiracy. Aye, ‘twas time ta’ cease being easy on their arses during strategy, and make them earn their keep.

  Strategy. Once upon a time, we had real enemies ta’ test our competence against. The lads have become soft. Daft as well. Apparently, pride is nonexistent when it comes to one wee lass.

  Pounding on her door, Broc seethed.

  Thirty-six hundred years, we’ve waited for Aurelia’s return. That the lass lacks knowledge of her true identity only continues to waste our time here, in this realm far from Quemori. He shook his head, knuckles clunking against her door again. She’d been sent to purchase mi’ castle. How? None in her realm know of its existence. A set up. Pendaran? Dezenial? Aye, which of the two I’d kill first, I know not. One day, I will have my face-to-face with the Lumynari. Broc’s temper increased. Whatever schemes the druid or the Shadow Master had manipulated into happening, Emily had nearly paid with her life. If Aunsgar hadn’t sent Garreck . . . he pounded the door again, more to dispel aggravation than to garner entrance.

  “Lady
Emily!”

  Silence mocked him. Perhaps she sat upon the terrace? Perhaps treacherous enemies of old had scaled the outer wall—

  Broc barged into her room.

  Sprawled across the bed, and laying on her side, the she-devil slept soundly, her hand cupping the paperback she’d been reading. Some nonsense Allen had found in the wreckage of her automobile. The ridiculous book told of a Highlander turning into a besotted fool over an even more foolish woman who had the mohn eating out of her hand by chapter eleven.

  He’d read its entirety, unable to put it down, vigilant by her bedside when she’d first been brought to his hall. Easing the sinful pages from her fingers, he cupped her brow. Just for good measure, he told himself. No fever. His anger eased. They’d nearly lost her, before they’d even realized she walked amongst them. That damn fool Allen had no business driving. How many times have I railed against the spirit operating an automobile? Absurd, how much we’ve come to rely on the Sassenach keeping us stocked with supplies from the modern realm.

  Gently, he glided wisps of hair away from her face. Silky hair. Damp. She’d worked too hard for someone still recovering from near fatal injuries. Lugh’s blood, but the woman was lucky to have survived. His eyes fell to her long white hair glowing upon the coverlet. She could pass as Aurelia’s twin. His lip curled of its own accord.

  “Broc,” she mumbled, turning her head slightly, nuzzling his hand. He snatched his fingers away as if burned. “Was . . . not . . . no . . . not my fault.” She nuzzled deeper into the coverlet, sound asleep. Broc’s pulse pounded his ears.

  She’d spoken Quemoric!

  O’Shay jumped onto the bed. Broc yelped. Settling back on his haunches, the huge tom tilted his head, diamond pupils locking on Broc.

  “Watch over her,” the laird commanded, his voice cracking. O’Shay meowed, turned one rotation and settled down, his tale wrapping around him. Quilts retrieved from a cedar trunk, Broc covered Emily. His hands trembled. He held one up, eyeing the appendage. “Not a word,” he admonished O’Shay, for the cat stared at his hand as well. To his shame, his hand quivered like a youth after his first kiss. Meowing mocked him. Not used to unsettled nerves being witnessed, Broc hastily took his leave. Scotch. A full bottle tonight. Not her fault? What the hell was that all about?