Celtic Peril (Celtic Storm Book 6)

by Ria Cantrell

  He greeted the old woman in their native tongue and he took her hand in his to place a kiss upon the weathered and gnarled knuckles. Her grey eyes seemed to light at the greeting and she said with a tired smile, “Ye’ look well, laddie. Marriage suits ye’.”

  “Aye. So it seems.”

  Morag didn’t have to ask, but she did anyway, saying, “Are ye’ happy, boy?”

  He winked and said, “Aye, even though I am saddled with this bossy Sassenach.”

  Morag laughed and said, “Aye, but ye’ needed her to rein ye’ in. Ye’ complement each other, Lad. Aye, that ye’ do and I am gladdened for it.”

  Derek excused himself for a moment. He had made it a habit to kiss his baby girl before he retired and he went into the bedroom where his sleeping daughter was lying safely in her cradle. He brushed a kiss on her downy head and he straightened the coverlet over her. He then steeled himself to return to talk to the Ancient One. As much as she made him nervous, he felt deep respect for her and even a fondness he would never admit.

  ~

  Chapter Seventeen ~

  Tom tossed fitfully in his sleep. Despite the few pints of ale he had at the pub, he did not slip into blissful oblivion. Instead, his dreams were invaded with ancient battles and he seemed to be drawn into perilous treachery he had only read in books. He fought his bedding as if it were some sort of evil menace that had him locked in a melee where axes and swords clashed about him. No matter how he tried, he could not wake himself from the dreaded scene as men screamed in agony while they waited for Death to claim them.

  ~The one called de la Pole stood at the forefront of the treachery. Everything had gone according to plan. The king’s horse was guarded, but he would not be prepared for the assault by one of his own. Michael was certain his ruse would keep him clear of blame and so as he raised his sword it would appear that he would be the hero as his hired assassin finished the deed. De la pole forced back the sardonic laugh that fought to spill at the irony of it all. His henchman had dressed himself in the plaid worn by the savages in the area. With mud caked upon his face to disguise himself, the man sought to take the king down with one blow. De la Pole felt the bloodlust course through him and he knew that victory would soon be his. The man chosen for murder swung his sword until it connected with bone as he sliced into the shoulder of the guard set to protect Richard. The death rattle was upon the man as blood gurgled from his mouth and he fell amid the chaos of the trampling hooves in the fray. Yes, Michael thought. It was nearly his to take. The king was left unguarded at last. De la Pole rode up and faced the king who had called him friend.

  With the stench of betrayal clinging to his clothes, Michael de la Pole pulled a dagger from his belt. When his eyes met that of the young king’s, he saw recognition of his treachery and he reveled at the knowledge that the monarch would die seeing that his trusted confidante had dealt the killing blow.~

  Tom screamed out, “NO!”

  The sound of his voice was enough to wake him from the hideous gore of the dream that had stolen the peace of his sleep. “Jeeezzus,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes as he came fully awake. “What the hell was that?”

  He spoke to no one but himself as he got untangled from the bedding that had somehow wrapped around his long legs. He ran his hand through his leonine hair and took a deep breath. He must have been reading too many history books. Couple that with the smooth whiskey he had at the pub; not to mention the ale base he had laid and it was no wonder Tom was having brutal dreams. Still, he could never remember having such a vivid dream where all his senses were heightened. He could almost still smell the tang of blood in the midst of the carnage that he had just dreamed about. He was not usually prone to such violent dreams so again, he chalked it up to too much drink and too much imagination.

  Thomas swung his legs off of the bed and his feet connected to the cold stone floor beneath him. This caused a chill to race through him. He wasn’t quite used to the cold that Scotland seemed to throw upon a body. Even when he had lived in New York, he could not remember feeling the bone numbing chill that he now experienced. Stretching his neck and back, he felt a pop which seemed to ease the tension that had filled him upon waking from the nightmare. He threw on a sweatshirt and decided to make his way down to the kitchens to get himself a cup of tea or something. And by all things holy, he had better put on some shoes or his toes would freeze clean off. He was still a California boy at heart, it seemed.

  While there were lights that lit the dim corridors, Tom felt that the darkness of the place seemed to suck at the illumination and it was all a little bit creepy, to say the least. Not only that, the place was ginormous! He hoped he would not end up getting lost in the labyrinth of hallways and he prayed his semi-drunken mind would be clear enough to get him to his destination.

  Oddly, without too much trouble after all, Tom was able to navigate through the passageways. He passed his cousin’s apartments and saw that light spilled from under the doorway. He guessed Kiera was still up; probably because the baby needed tending. So, Thomas continued down to the kitchens; not wanting to disturb anyone…even if his cousin and her husband still seemed to be awake. He padded down into the main part of the keep and he wandered into the great hall. It was eerily lit with a few gas-fed torches but he felt compelled to explore the place. He sensed the chill of the past envelope him as he seemed to step back in time when he entered that large room which must have been the hub of activity in its heyday. Even though he had taken a brief tour when he had arrived, the lure of the place seemed to pull at him beyond any sense or reason at this late hour. Perhaps it had something to do with that crazy nightmare. De la Pole…he had read about that man; Tom was certain of it. That must have been why he dreamed of it! The imagery of the dream had been so vivid; Tom couldn’t seem to get it out of his mind.

  As he stepped into the great hall, he thought he heard someone whisper his name. His mind must have been playing tricks on him. No doubt it was from the lack of good sleep and the over-zealous drinking he had partaken of. He shook off the eerie feeling and walked slowly into the enormous room. There were paintings of the castle’s past inhabitants lining the walls and some seemed to date back to medieval times. Those were the ones that intrigued him the most and despite the lack of ambient lighting, Tom found himself stopping in front of the painted visages of the people long laid to rest. Most of the paintings were of bold men; warriors or chieftains.

  Lairds. Tom heard the word in his mind and he murmured, “Yes, they were called lairds.”

  They were the men who ruled over the ancient clans in the bygone days. He stopped in front of two paintings and noted their names. One was the laird of the MacCollum Clan and the other was the laird of the Campbell. Odd, he thought. This castle was of the Campbell line and Tom thought he had read that Campbell and MacCollum were once bitter enemies. Here he was, a Callum…possibly even a real descendent of the MacCollum clan in the Campbell stronghold. Tom was glad that at the moment there was no strife between the two families. In fact, it seemed to suit his cousin Kiera quite well. Derek was rather imposing but after having a few drinks with the man, Tom actually found him quite likeable. He was good for Kiera. He could see that.

  As he was lost in his thoughts, he wandered to stand in front of another painting. It was of a girl. It pulled at him instantly and he shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “Holy Shit. It looks just like Kiera! What the hell?”

  Maybe the lights were playing tricks on him or rather, the lack of lights. Tom got as close as he could and he tried to inspect the painting again. Perhaps they had made a painting of Kiera in the image of the medieval style since she was now the lady of the keep. As he took a closer look, the warm amber of the eyes of the woman in the portrait seemed to peer into his very soul. The more he looked at it, Tom realized it didn’t look exactly like Kiera after all. Kiera’s eyes were hazel and they sometimes appeared more green than brown. This girl had eyes like molten honey. Tom felt something familiar calling out
to him as her eyes beckoned him to remember. It was as if he had actually looked into her eyes before. He read her name out loud. “Jenna Brandham.”

  Tom felt a bit woozy all of a sudden. A loud thrumming began to sound in his ears and he put his hands up to them to block the sound. Dear God…he was going to black out. Are you freakin’ kidding me? He knew he couldn’t prevent it. His last conscious thought was the cursed drink and its potent aftermath.

  ~~~~~

  ~ When his eyes fell upon the beautiful woman, he felt like he instantly had lost his heart. He also felt like he had known her his entire life; like she was part of his soul.

  Besides being beautiful, she was feisty. He liked that in a woman. In fact, he stood back and observed her giving some guy an earful just before her hand reached out and slapped the poor bastard’s face. Tom thought he should step in to help but he certainly didn’t want his jaw to receive the same treatment that the guy just got.

  Something was weird about the entire scene. She was wearing a gown and her dark hair hung long in almost tussled waves over one shoulder. The man who had been hitting on her was dressed like some sort of actor from the local Renaissance faire as well. In fact the whole place was like being at one of those medieval festivals or something. Somehow, it didn’t seem like they were play actors. Tom looked down at his own clothes and noticed that he was dressed like the rest of them. His pants were made of really tight fitting leather, which was topped with a poet shirt that laced open in front.

  What the hell?

  When he looked up, the beautiful girl was storming off and so he stepped out of the shadows to follow at a safe distance. There were tons of people milling about and the crowd was quite lively, to say the least. In the midst of what appeared to be an open courtyard, there were people drinking from large tankards and there seemed to be quite a party going on. Upon following the girl, a really big dude dressed in a kilt put a heavy hand on Tom’s shoulder and said, “Just where do ye’ think to be goin’, lad?”

  Tom stood almost eye to eye with the man, but he was beefier…like a huge body builder and Tom was pretty sure that the big brute could out-muscle him easily. Tom could see muscles layering muscles. He looked up to meet the man’s eyes and said, “I was just going to see if she was alright. It seemed some guy was giving her a hard time.” Tom didn’t mention that she had actually gotten the better of her suitor.

  “Some guy? Someone was bothering Jenna? Tell me! Who?”

  “Jenna,” Tom murmured…somewhere in his memory or his heart, for he knew not which, he remembered a name…Jenna Brandham. He wasn’t sure how he knew it actually, because he was quite certain he had never seen her before. But as sure as the strong hand weighed heavily upon Tom’s shoulder, he knew that this girl was going to change his life. Snapping back to the moment, Tom answered, “I don’t know who. Jenna slapped the guy. That’s all I know. I was just going to see if she was alright.”

  “Ye’ leave that to me, laddie. I dunna’ know how ye’ know my niece but there’s time to learn that later.” Then the man cursed, saying, “Must have been one of those blasted MacIans…should have nay let them join the fete. Stay here, Lad. I shall be wantin’ to talk to ye’ some more.”

  Tom watched the big dude’s back as it turned and moved towards the woman; Jenna. He had said he was her uncle. The man seemed to have a bit of an anger issue so Tom wasn’t about to wait for the guy to come back and “talk” with him. He started to move across the great open yard that was leading inside a castle. He had the strangest feeling that he knew exactly where he was going. Dreams were funny that way.

  The throng of people spilled in and out of the entry of the feast hall and Tom pushed his way through. He noticed the eyes of several people upon him, but he didn’t pause to give it too much merit. One thing he knew for certain. He had to find her. It was as if his life depended on it. He hadn’t been one to throw himself after a girl; hell, he never needed to but he had a feeling this one was going to give him quite a run for his money. He suddenly felt up to the chase.

  As Tom made a path through the thick crowd, he spotted the woman. She was standing in an alcove speaking to another lovely looking young lady, who was giggling at the tale. Clearly, Jenna was relating her misadventure to her friend because she had gesticulated a “slap”, which made her friend’s eyes widen in horror. Tom moved closer and tried to hear the conversation. He kept himself hidden for the most part and was quite certain he had gone unseen when the beautiful one turned and moved up to him quickly. He almost was certain he was going to get his face slapped as well but instead she said, “Who are ye’ and why are ye’ followin’ me?”

  Tom bowed in a mock salute and said, “I was not following you. I only meant to see if you were alright. It seemed you were quite upset with that guy a few minutes ago.”

  “T’is nay business of yers’.”

  Tom smiled. She had an attitude, but he liked that. “You must be the lady Jenna Brandham.”

  “How do ye’ know my name?”

  The girl Jenna had been talking with leaned over and whispered something in her ear and tried to hide a very feminine chuckle. Jenna shot her cousin Brigid a nasty look and hissed, “Never mind that. He was followin’ us. I saw him when that MacIan lout was trying to…was being improper.”

  “Jenna, this man has done ye’ no harm. Mayhap ye’ should be a little nicer to him.”

  “Brigid, I am nay like ye’.”

  The girl named Brigid rolled her eyes and she gathered her skirts in her hands and flounced past Tom. She smiled sweetly into his face and left Jenna standing there in her annoyance. Brigid paused only to throw a final comment to Jenna, saying, “Ye’ are nay like me, t’is so, but if ye’ were polite more than surly, more gentlemen would wish to woo ye’ fer’ ye’ are beautiful; only yer’ scowl sends them running.”

  Tossing her dark tresses over her shoulder, Brigid swaggered off, laughing. She was not going to let Jenna’s ill temper spoil things for her. The night still held the promise of adventure and there were many a swain she wished to flirt with before the last fires were lit. It was time Jenna should take some of her advice. Brigid had about as much of Jenna’s brooding as she could stand. She was determined to have some fun before the last Samhain celebrations were finished.

  Despite the noise of the great hall, silence seemed to stretch between them as Tom gazed down upon the pert, upturned nose of this lively beauty. He smiled into her amber eyes and said, “She’s right you know? You are very beautiful, but when you look so sour, it might daunt a man from seeing it.”

  Jenna’s eyes widened at the off-handed flattery. Tom could see she would have none of it. He grinned wickedly and said, “But it doesn’t faze me in the least. I rather like your gnarly attitude.”

  Gnarly? What did he mean by that? Who the hell was he and who did he think he was telling her such a thing?

  “I dunna’ know what you mean by Nahrly…but I can tell by the way ye’ said it, that it is not the most complimentary thing to say. Now if ye’ will excuse me, I must catch up to my cousin.”

  Tom didn’t know why, but his hand shot out and he clasped her delicate wrist in his strong fingers.

  “I really wish you wouldn’t. I just want to talk to you for a little bit. What harm could there be in that?”

  “I…dunna’ know…I know not who ye’ are and why ye’ wish to…”

  “My name is Tom…er, I think here I would be called Tavish. Tavish MacCollum.” It was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Why the hell would he say that?

  Jenna Brandham broke from his touch that had sent an irrational charge of heat through her hand and she put her fists haughtily on her hips.

  “MacCollum are ye’? Really? I dunna’ know what game ye’ are playin’, but playin’ me for a fool will nay be one of them. Ye’ are no MacCollum. I know all the men from my clan and ye’ are clearly not one of them. Obviously ye’ are nay bent on honorable intentions.”

  Crap…she was a Ma
cCollum! He lost sight of that because he knew she was Jenna Brandham. What the hell made him say MacCollum? Yet, it felt right; even more than his adoptive name; Callum. Why the mere whisper of it tugged at a memory long lost in the depths of his mind. Jenna turned her back to Tom and began to stalk off but Tom’s hand moved swiftly and he touched her waist, turning her back to face him. “Please”, he said. “I mean no harm. I just want…”

  Words failed him so he did something so impetuous that it surprised him more than Jenna. He pulled her into his arms and while she gazed at him with distrust still on her face, he kissed her. He expected her to slap him silly as he had witnessed her previously do to the ill-fated suitor, but instead, he felt her lean in and more surprisingly, he felt her respond. Her lips parted slightly and he drew her closer to him; his hands gently pressing above her hips. Jenna did not know why, but kissing this man felt familiar; like she had met him before; like she had known him all of her life.

  Moving his hand slowly, Tom inched it under her thick waves of beautiful dark hair which glinted with auburn fire in the torch-lit room. Tom coiled her locks in his fist and he drew her in for a deeper kiss. He could feel her breathing become harder as his mouth pressed to her honeyed lips and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts against his chest confirmed it. Pulling back slightly, but not much, with his hand still tangled in her hair she breathed, “Who are ye’?”

  Before he could answer, he felt the unwanted strength of a hand clutching his collar and he felt like a whelp being pulled by the scruff of his neck.

  “Take yer’ feckin’ hands off of her, Lad and step away. I may still let ye’ live.” Tom turned to see it was that giant who he had encountered before meeting Jenna. He heard her say, “Uncle Ruiri, no…leave him be.”