Brude was right: Callum was far more motivated to finish the crannog now, and it was because of Annie Ross. If he had to work until the torches gutted tonight, he vowed not to stop until he had a private place to woo the woman he intended to make his bride.
And yet…no one else seemed to have noted the changing colors of her stone, so while he believed her, he realized the others might not, so until Biera returned, he must keep the lass at bay…a task that might not prove so simple if she continued to look at him that way—with that incredible look of longing that made him want to taste the nectar of her body.
Aye, he wanted her, but for now, it was enough to know that wherever she had come from—faerie or nay—the gods had surely sent her to settle his restless heart.
“D’ ye wish to kiss me, lass?”
Those sensual lips were branded in Annie’s memory. To emphasize her lie, the Winter Stone remained dark—no longer red, green or milky white.
“D’ ye wish to kiss me?”
No.
Yes.
The crystal’s color brightened suddenly, revealing shards of pink.
Damn it.
She did want to kiss him. It was true. The way he had looked at her set her heart to racing, even now that he was nowhere near. He wasn’t immune to her either, despite his claims to the contrary. She only wished she had known how to use the crystal better, so she could have made a liar out of him as he had done to her.
Bloody hell, he’d used her own stone against her.
But why was it that only the two of them could see its colors, aside from the shopkeeper? Annie wondered.
Curled beneath her cheap poncho, she tried to make herself as small as she was able so she might better fit beneath the fringed garment. It was pointless. It was cold and she was restless. Once the sun went down, the temperature plummeted and her teeth might have begun to chatter except that the object of her newest obsession appeared long enough to dump a heavy woolen cloak over her. He gave her a wink—as though they were long-time allies—and then walked away.
“Wait!” Annie grabbed her stone, eager for an opportunity to redeem herself. “Wait!” she called after him, but he ignored her, marching deliberately away, without looking back, his shoulders shaking with what she suspected was mirth.
He was toying with her.
Did he realize what he had done to her?
Damn him.
Frustrated, Annie turned, giving grumpy Morag her back.
Embraced by Callum’s cloak, she realized how thin and poorly made her modern poncho was and she was heartily grateful for Callum’s thoughtful gesture…except that now…she could smell him on her covers—the scent of man, sun and sweat. It was entirely disturbing and it sent her thoughts skittering to places they shouldn’t wander. Nor could she stop imagining him working out there…somewhere…bare-assed. She stared into the Winter Stone, admitting the truth—she wanted him—and the rosy color of the stone heightened.
“Okay, yes,” she confessed to the stubborn rock. “Yes, damn it! I do!”
Over by the fire Morag muttered something crossly beneath her breath and continued to stoke the flames. Thankfully, after awhile, one of the men came to take her place. The two exchanged words Annie couldn’t quite make out and then she was alone again with a new guard—thankfully, whose temperament wasn’t half so grim. But if she had thought Callum a tall man, this guy loomed over her like a lumbering pine. He sat—or more like, folded like an accordion to his knees. “’S thoigh le Callum Annie às Ross,” he said with a lopsided grin.
Annie couldn’t be certain, but she thought he had uttered some third-grade proclamation, something like, “Callum likes Annie Ross.”
She smirked. It gave her a curious sense of satisfaction to know that someone else had noticed as well, even if Callum refused to confess it. Seriously, if the situation wasn’t so…bizarre…she might have laughed. What in God’s name was she supposed to say to that? Except that, apparently, she kind of liked Callum back. She smiled tentatively at the man, and he rewarded her with his flask, handing it over after taking another hefty chug.
Thirsty, tired, cold and grateful for his show of kindness, Annie didn’t hesitate. She greedily accepted the flask and took a quick drink.
Liquid fire poured down her throat and she swallowed as she choked. She thought it might be whiskey, but she couldn’t be sure. It tasted more like gasoline. Good lord! She might have realized water wasn’t a thing here—they probably didn’t know how to boil yet, she thought sardonically. And despite her sour face, her new companion laughed amiably. “Is ainm dhomh Dunneld,” he said, offering up his name.
For a moment, Annie could barely speak past the burn in her throat. She handed the flask back, and said, “Good to meet you, Dunneld.”
He took another turn with the flask, putting the homemade whiskey down as easily as though it were milk. “Ye as well, lass.” His grin widened. “If ye ask me,” he proffered, “ye’re a gift from the gods, fae or no’.” He nodded when she furrowed her brow. “Until ye appeared, Callum was all set to go. Puir lad. He dinna take his da’s passing well. In truth, he’s never been quite convinced of…our…” He averted his gaze suddenly, looking a bit disconcerted as he finished, “mission.” But then he peered back at her, grinning once more, and he shook his head with what appeared to be genuine wonder. “Ye’d best be getting’ yourself some rest,” he advised with a wink, and chased his warning with another swig of whiskey. “Ye’re just the thing tae keep the chief settled, I warrant.”
Annie blushed. It probably wouldn’t do much good to assure the man that she didn’t intend to remain here all that long. Once her curiosity was appeased over the Stone of Destiny, she’d be applying herself twenty-four-seven to finding a way back home—no matter how much Callum invaded her thoughts.
Why?
The question popped into her head, like a disembodied voice, unsettling her.
She lay back on her elbow against the ground, pulling the cloak up nearly to her chin. These people had not harmed her, despite that they had questioned her motives. So why not explore whatever this was she was feeling? What was there to get back to anyway?
Everything, she mentally replied. Everything. Then again, nothing.
That thought made her glum.
“Come near the fire, Annie Ross,” Dunneld demanded, not unkindly. “The night’s cauld.”
“Thank you.” Annie said.
“’S e do bheatha.” You’re welcome.
Annie considered the man sitting in front her—and Callum as well—both far more polite than most guys she knew. And for a time, she lay watching him draw pensively with his stick in the ash, wondering who would miss her if she didn’t return home. Maybe Kate? She only saw her cousin once every year or so. She did have friends, but everyone was busy with their own lives, raising babies and trying to crash glass ceilings. Annie had always felt a bit like a fish out of water—something she was, inconceivably, not feeling at the moment. She ought to be questioning why. “Where exactly are we, Dunneld?”
The giant’s brows collided. “Ach, now, ye walked here w’ ye’re ain two legs. How is it ye dinna know where ye be?”
Faced with such a common sense question, and having absolutely no answer, Annie furrowed her brow. “I don’t know.” Everything she’d thought she’d known was upside down.
The night was dark, but the firelight cast a warm glow over Dunneld’s face, highlighting the red in his beard. He took another swig from his flask, nodding. And he must have decided he believed her, because he waved a hand over the entire expanse and said, “’Tis a sacred vale…MacAilpín himself brought together seven kings here to sup as friends.” His voice took on a somber tone. “Black Tolargg, Drust, all of them…slaughtered like lambs upon an altar.”
He tossed his stick into the fire and watched it burn. Intense sadness entered his eyes, revealed by the flickering of the flames. Lost in thoughts she could not glean, he drank more of his whiskey, his tongue loosening
a bit as he continued. He said the words as though he had held them in far too long. “The bastard said his minny was a Pecht,” he recounted bitterly. “Though he was naught but a wolf in sheep’s clothing—a faithless Gael…”
“Who?”
“MacAilpín—the bastard.”
Annie suddenly remembered Callum’s words:…there’s no’ a one of us who would benefit by siding with the sons of MacAilpín. Her heart tripped a little. The possibility that she might be sharing the same air as the Father of Scotland made her feel lightheaded, but apparently neither Dunneld nor Callum held him in high regard. “Where is he now?” she asked, and held her breath for his answer.
“Who?”
“Kenneth MacAilpín.”
He gave her an incredulous look. “Ach! Dead now—for twenty years or more!”
Disappointment sidled through her. “Oh. I didn’t realize.”
He arched a brow. “Mayhap then ye be a faerie, in truth, because I dinna ken how any mon or woman wadna know. That liar died with a lump in his throat the size o’ my fist—cursed by the gods, yet buried in Iona as befits a saint. ’Tis true enough only his Gael brothers mourn him now for my kin willna so easily forget ’twas Kenneth MacAilpín who murdered our sires…”
“Twenty years?” Annie sighed with disappointment. But there was still the stone…and she had lived her entire academic life for this question, so she had to know. “What about the stone…the one you brought from Scone?”
Momentarily caught off guard by the question, Dunneld peered up at her through dark lashes. “Seems I’ve said too much already, Annie Ross. Dinna fash yersel’ o’er it. Get some rest now afore auld Morag returns an’ ye find yersel’ squirming beneath an droch-shùil!” The evil eye.
Annie laughed softly. She lay her head back upon the ground and peered up at the black sky, listening to the endless echo of hammers in the distance.
Until ye appeared, Callum was all set to go…
Callum likes Annie Ross.
Yes, he did and she was going to prove it, she vowed—if it was the last thing she did before she left here. A feeling like butterflies flittered somewhere down deep in her belly, and her heart tripped again. If she was dead, in fact…or dreaming…if this was heaven…at least God had gotten her version of heaven exactly right—surrounded by the history she loved…
Unconsciously pulling Callum’s cloak to her nostrils, Annie breathed deeply of his male scent and studied the night sky. These were all the same stars—exactly where they belonged. Even the North Star, bright as it was, was in plain sight. If she was dreaming…then she was doing it in amazing detail. High above, stars twinkled like faerie dust, lulling her into closing her eyes. And somehow she fell into a deep, weary sleep, despite a growing sense of anticipation she attributed to the fantastic possibility of setting eyes upon the Stone of Destiny…but it was much, much more than that, she knew.
She didn’t stir at the changing of her guard.
Chapter Seven
Higher on the hill, guards changed there as well.
The caves, naturally formed and full of mist, descended deep into the bowels of the ben. That’s where they had vaulted the stone. But this was as close as any need come, for the cold mist was enough to put an ague in the bones. There was no other way in, so the guards remained outside, guarding from without. Voices carried so they fell into whispers—one an elder, one not. It so happened the two had received the same rotation this evening.
“If she’s a spy, she wasna sent here by Giric,” the elder declared.
“How can ye know?”
The elder shrugged. Using his dirk to pare off an annoying hang of flesh at his thumb, he pricked a bit of his own blood, and then swiped it upon his breacan. “Let us simply say I was kept in confidence until we left Scone.”
“Tell me then, if Giric realizes the stone missing, why has he no’ raised alarm and stormed the vale?”
The elder eyed the man seated upon his rump and re-sheathed his blade. “Of course, they have no idea where we have taken the stone—how could they? No one has left this god-forsaken vale since the day we arrived—except Biera, the auld bitch.”
“Ye shouldna speak of her that way. She has the ear of the gods, they say.”
“Chan eil agad ach a' bhreug!” Nothing but lies! “She’s but an old crone,” the elder maintained. “If’n ye ask me, she’s off to drink the summer away—as we should be doing. She’s no’ Cailleach Bheur!”
The storm that had threatened earlier had fled entirely. The night sky was clear without a breath of wind, but from within the caverns, a cold mist rolled out, settling over the hillside.
“Anyhow,” the elder continued. “Giric wadna want anyone to know his coronation was no’ consecrated—especially now that MacAilpín’s grandsons have both fled Scotia.”
As far as the elder was concerned, they had but three choices now. Only one was palatable. One would have them siding with Giric, the usurper, who was even now prepared to wed one of their blood and realign the royal houses. Another would see the noble houses of Pechtland rot, alone, in this vale, along with that accursed Destiny Stone, while the new kingdom of Scotia set its own path, giving its kingship to the sons and daughters of Gaels. And then, of course, they could return the stone publicly, for which they would all likely hang. And, of course, Giric might as well, and the line of succession would return to men who cared not a wit about the Pechts. At least Giric mac Dúngail was willing to wed the elder’s daughter, but no one else knew that, save the man at his feet. But just in case he thought to change his mind, the elder reminded, “Giric will pay in gold if we return the stone—with positions in his court. It canna be worse than this—a cauld, hard ground in the middle of the Mounth, with the ides of winter on the way.”
And then for a time, both fell silent, staring into the starry night.
When all was said and done, hiding away the Stone of Destiny to keep those Gael bastards from slitting each others’ throats was not their duty. Not even Callum was convinced of it. The elder had nearly had him cajoled to go back…nearly. And then that woman had arrived…
“We have failed to persuade him,” the man at his feet said soberly, as though reading his thoughts.
“Nay—you have failed,” the elder countered. “A fact which aggrieves me to no end, for it forced my hand.”
The man nodded, eyes shadowed. “At least Finn died quickly. Poor bastard.”
“Poor bastard? He always had aught he desired—whenever he desired. Did he not woo everyone to this end with nary more than a drunkard’s tale? Nay, I dinna feel an ounce of regret for what is done. Finn could ha’ taken his place at Giric’s side simply for the asking, yet he appointed himself the guardian of the Stone instead. All men must live by their choices. He but died for his.”
“Because he believed the stone to be cursed.”
“Bollocks!” The elder exclaimed. “That stone is naught more than a worthless slab some bampot toted here on his back from Erin. We are defeated if we remain in this vale, dinna forget it.”
Both men fell into silence again.
The elder determined they must not fail. Not at any cost. There was too much to lose. He could not allow the man to waver, but just in case, he had already begun to whisper in Angus’s ear. Like Fergus, Angus was an elder, much respected by his clan.
“I thought mayhap Callum suspected…when he questioned what any might have to gain by siding with the sons of MacAilpín…”
The elder gave him a sideways glance. “Of course he asks the wrong question and dismisses Giric out of hand.”
“How many know why Máel remained in Scone?”
“None,” the elder reassured. “Why would anyone question a daughter’s right to remain with her ailing minny?”
The man nodded. “So now Callum has returned to repairing the crannog.”
“Fool.”
Silence. “Should we kill the lass?”
The elder heard hesitation in the man’s voic
e. He scoffed. “Lest ye believe she’s a fae and ye’re afeared to anger the gods? But nay, I’ll do better,” he assured with a slow grin. “I’ll let Callum do it for us…then, once he leaves the vale, our task will go all the easier, for although he doesna realize as yet, he is the one who keeps the others constant. Once he leaves, ’twill be a simple matter to convince them that returning the stone is to our greatest advantage.”
“But what if killing the lass isna enough?”
The elder shrugged. He thought about it only a moment, then suggested, “Then we must kill Callum as well.”
Half expecting to find it had all been a dream, Annie’s lashes fluttered open to find she was lying beside Callum upon a pallet in a strange room. On the floor. Covered by tartans. Below the floorboards, she heard the distinct sound of sloshing water.
She had slept so soundly that she had only a vague memory of him carrying her here, snuggling her against his warm chest, walking gently, so as not to wake her.
She smiled knowingly. Right, so he wasn’t attracted to her and he didn’t like her?
She tried to rise, but he must have been awake, because his arm shot out to keep her next to him. His morning voice was gruff. “Ye’re here for ye’re protection,” he explained, despite that she didn’t ask.
“Really?” Absurdly, she welcomed the weight of his muscular arm across her breasts, and she stretched, pressing them into his arm, taunting him. “Not even a wee bit because you want me?”
“Nay,” he answered, without hesitation.
Feeling smug at the thought of checking her Winter Stone now, Annie pushed his arm aside and sought her crystal, intending to show it to him. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, realizing it was no longer with her. “Where is it?”
She sat straight up, searching the empty room. There was not a stitch of wall covering or furniture here. The room was bare and her Winter Stone was gone. He merely shifted to look at her, pulling the cloak back so she could clearly see he didn’t have her crystal. “Haud yer wheesht, lass. Your keek stane is safe.”
The Winter Stone: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas Page 6
