by E. B. Brown
“Thank ye,” she said quietly. As she moved to stand on the pebble-strewn riverbank, he swept her up into his arms. He told himself it was for her own good that she could not walk yet on such terrain without causing more damage to her injury. Yet a part of him knew it was basic selfish need that drove him, and that he simply enjoyed the excuse to hold her. Lost in another time and place, his only option was to live each moment as it passed, making the best of his situation and putting his trust in the young woman in his arms.
Once he put her on her feet and gathered their meager belongings, she insisted on walking so he grudgingly agreed. He noticed her wince with each step she took and he imagined she would relent soon enough.
“How far is the place we mean to go?” he asked when they had been walking for some time with very little progress. If they stayed along the river, he was sure he could return to the village near Dunloch Castle in less than a day. If they strayed off into the mist-filled hills, however, he was not so confident. He did not know what plants were palatable, nor did he see any game besides a few small hares. Although the river was a drinkable source of fresh water, quenching his thirst would only take him so far. Soon they would both need food in their bellies if they hoped to finish their journey. They passed an abandoned croft with a partially collapsed thatch roof, but there was no garden plot they might rummage through that he could see, so they passed it by.
“On foot, we should reach it by nightfall,” she said.
“If only you thought to steal a horse on your little adventure,” he replied.
She stopped so fast he nearly plowed her over. “Oh, I shall remember that next time I run for my life, be assured,” she sniped. He immediately regretted his jovial tone and dropped the grin from his lips.
“Skye, I meant no harm –”
“You canna imagine what it is like,” she continued, a flush rising fast to her cheeks. “No one will ever force you to marry simply to bear children. You’re a man, you canna be made to do anything. And when you die, it will be by the sword, or by the grace of the Lord it will happen in your sleep when you are old and gray!”
“What do you think yer husband will do to ye?” he asked, taking her hands in his own. She tried to tug them free but he held tight until she turned her tearful gaze up to his. Suddenly he realized she was much more than a spoiled girl running from an arranged marriage. Something terrible drove her to flee, something she feared more than the pain of running on wounded feet or traveling with a strange man she found lying in the woods.
“What they always do to my kind,” she whispered. “When I can no longer give my husband children, my life will be used as they see fit. If the Laird falls ill, or a first son faces death, then my life will be forfeited to see that no important man dies.”
Cold raindrops dappled her skin as she stared back at him, the dewy mist of a morning storm falling over them. The assurances he wanted to give her caught in his throat, because it was not his time that she lived in and he had little knowledge of how men behaved. Yet he knew her tale was true because it was the same reason his family hid the secret of their bloodline and pretended it did not exist. It was the same reason why his sister refused to have her newborn children tested.
Women who were Blooded Ones held the power to travel through time, but their value was much deeper than that. A woman like Skye would bear as many Blooded children as her husband could get upon her, and when she no longer could do that duty, it was only a matter of time before her final sacrifice. Blooded infants could heal or bring life to the dead with only a few drops of magical blood; past the first year, however, that gift was diluted. A Blooded adult woman such as Skye could heal the dead, but it would take all of her blood to do it. Such was the horrific cycle. It was the reason his kin fled to Virginia so long ago – and the reason Skye was so determined to escape her marriage.
“Here, we’ll wait out the storm in the croft house,” he said as a burst of lightening ripped above their heads. Thunder rumbled the very ground beneath their feet a few moments later, and she did not offer any resistance when he carried her into the abandoned cottage.
Part of the roof lay in ruins, but most of the space was dry. He set her down by the stone hearth on a bed of old rushes, taking her slippers off her feet when she reached to remove them. As he looked around the cottage for any supplies that might be of use to them, the urge to take care of her hit him hard. He was an able-bodied man. Son of Chief Winn and future protector of the Blooded McMillans. For the love of Odin, he was a warrior.
Yet the knowledge that he was helpless to comfort the beautiful girl beside him twisted his gut into knots. He wanted her warm and safe, cared for and cherished. He wanted to see her feet healed, her heart protected. The truth, however, ran much deeper and his protective nature was only a disguise.
He wanted her. By his side, in his life, in this time or anytime she wished to live in. There had been women in his life he had cared for before, but never had he felt such a protective urge toward another. Everything about her drove him senseless, so much so that with a pang of shame he realized he had not thought of his brother or his duty to his family for hours.
“In my time, it is the same. My mother’s own father once tried to use her that way. My father killed him, and now my parents must live with that truth between them,” he said softly. He turned away from her and stared at the crumbling stone wall as he spoke, unable to look into her sad eyes as he tried to console her. “Tell me, where do you wish to go? If there is a time where it is safe for those like you, tell me where it is, and I will make sure you find it.”
“I know not. I will let the Seventh Key send me where it sees fit,” she replied.
He felt the brush of her fingertips on his arm as she came up beside him. He glanced down at her bandaged feet but quickly back to her face, her nearness too much for his ragged senses to handle. Even with her hair tangled and her face stained with tears she was lovely, and in her sweet eyes he thought he saw the reflection of desire. As if of their own accord, his hands traveled upward to cup her face and he met her gaze.
“Thank ye,” she whispered. “Thank ye for helping me.”
He closed his eyes as she kissed him gently on the cheek. The sound of his pulse pounded in his ears at her touch and he fought the urge to pull her closer. It was a chaste kiss to show thanks, but it took all the strength he had not to make it into something more. He reluctantly released her when she stepped away, keeping hold of her hand so she could not stray too far.
“What magic is it that brought us together, I wonder?” he murmured, pressing her fingers to his lips as he looked into her eyes. “I thank you as well. For helping me.”
When she smiled and turned away he let her go, content to watch over her as the rain beat down upon their shelter.
Chapter 4
Lochaber
Skye.
THE TEARS IN HER eyes were nothing more than proof of her own foolish pride. As she looked up into his soft blue eyes and he held her close, she wished with every bit of her heart that he would kiss her lips. Until that moment, she did not know what it meant to want something so badly that her heart ached inside her chest. Any other response from him might not have pushed her to tears; the sound of his voice as he thanked her, however, was too much to bear.
She should be happy with the way he looked at her. Yes, she had been sheltered by her uncle her entire life, yet she had lived in a castle full of men and knew when one was taken with her. She had never been so close to a man before and she had certainly never behaved so boldly as to steal a kiss, but she knew she had to keep her wits about her. If she did not get her conscience under control soon, it would be too easy to fall for his charms and forget about the reality of her plight. She needed him to help her get the Seventh Key.
When they found the Key, she would leave and never look back – just as her mother begged her to do. There was no other choice. He would hate her when she betrayed him, but not nearly as much as she already h
ated herself.
She laid her plaid down over the pile of old rushes across the room and turned away from him, determined to rest since they were forced to stop by the storm. As she curled her fists under her chin and closed her eyes, the snort of a horse echoed through the dilapidated cottage.
“Dagr?” she said, sitting up. The broken door burst open before Dagr could reach her and he was immediately surrounded by a half dozen armed Highlanders. With a burning sickness rising in her belly she realized they were her uncle’s men and her chance to escape existed no more.
“Skye Cameron, what luck I might find ye here.”
Her heart sank at the sound of the voice. Although men surrounded her, no one dared touch her until her cousin Angus cut through the melee and approached her. His pleasant manner lasted only a moment, leaving her no chance to flee before he yanked her to her feet and promptly backhanded her across the cheek.
“No!” Dagr bellowed. Beyond the surge of pain, darkness swirled and she heard the sound of muffled blows as several men took Dagr to the floor. She crumpled to her knees but Angus yanked her immediately to his chest.
“Did ye truly think ye could run?” he chided her, holding fast to her upper arm as her vision swirled into darkness. She fought to stay conscious despite the ringing in her ears, scratching blindly at him when he shook her hard. “And with a foreigner, no less!” Angus laughed. “No worries, lass, I willna tell my father I found ye with a man. Your marriage contract is safe as far as I see.”
He hauled her outside and shoved her up onto his horse, taking his place behind her. Although she cringed at his touch, there was nowhere for her to go. When she looked longingly at the ground he wrenched her upright, his rancid breath spilling across her face as he growled a warning.
“Try it again, cousin. I promise ye, I will break yer witless arm!”
She bit down hard on her lip instead of telling him it was impossible for her arm to have wits since she knew her criticism would not be well received. Angus was not the brightest lad in the Highlands, but he was always well armed with plenty of men at his command. His blatant disregard for common sense often led him astray and his thirst for violence did not help matters, a dangerous combination in a young hotheaded man.
He pushed his horse into a gallop and she fell back against him. Everything about him turned her stomach, from the dank scent of his unwashed skin to the greasy blond hair he wore in long war braids. Much like her uncle, Angus was willing to barter her away to the McMillan as if she were nothing more than a prized cow. She and Angus were raised together as siblings, but even that fact was not enough to earn an ounce of remorse from him for his actions.
“Who is that man?” Angus asked after they had been riding for some time. He slowed his horse to a walk and loosened his grip on her. It was enough freedom so that she could sit up away from him and she slapped at his roving hand on her hip for good measure.
“How should I know?” she shot back. She did not care to give him anything he might use against her – or against Dagr.
“Oh, ye know, little lamb. Of course ye know,” he chuckled. “I suspect ye might ask a man’s name before ye lay down with him.”
“You disgust me,” she whispered as he laughed. “Not every man is like you. Some men still have honor.”
“Honor? Sweet holy mother! Have ye found an honorable man?” he replied.
Skye clamped her mouth shut, determined to give him no more fodder for his amusement. He rocked his hips against hers and urged his mount back into a gallop, causing her to bounce back hard against his chest.
Ahead in the distance she could see Castle Dunloch, and she knew Angus Cameron was the least of her problems.
When she leveled a square kick at Angus in the courtyard he yanked her off the horse, throwing her over his shoulder to carry her into the castle as if she were nothing more than a bag of rye. She expected an immediate meeting with Old Laird McMillan, but to her surprise, she was deposited directly in her former chambers. With a slap on the backside and a surly grin, Angus threw her onto her bed, slamming the heavy door behind him.
“Yer betrothed is quite heartbroken. What were ye thinking, running like ye did?” Angus demanded. “Ye agreed to the match. Does our family mean nothing to ye?”
“You speak of family to me? My mother lost her life so that your father could live. Your men killed my father when he tried to stop it. I know the truth – and I willna meet the same fate,” Skye replied, unable to hide her fears. “The Laird’s son has no care for anyone but himself. I willna do it. I willna marry him!”
“Aye, ye will. Even if yer carrying some bastard in yer belly, ye’ll still marry him.”
“You’re a swine. That man never touched me. He’s an honorable man – something I am certain you do not understand!”
“He’ll understand when he’s hanging by a noose.”
She felt as if she would vomit. Dagr had done nothing to deserve such a beating, nor did he deserve to die for helping her. “What did you do to him?” she whispered.
“Nothing as of yet. We shall let the Laird’s son decide what fate he will meet. Your fate, however, is decided. You will keep yer mouth shut, and ye will agree to the betrothal in front of God and family.”
“No, I will not!” she hissed.
Angus was on her before she could blink. He snatched her by the throat and shoved her up against the wall, slamming her head into the stone. She let out a moan as her vision swirled, fighting the urge to let it take her. Angus had always been volatile, and she was accustomed to being on the receiving end of his frustration. He stood to benefit from her marriage as well as her uncle did, and he was a strong ally to the McMillan’s son. Fighting him was a battle she would not win.
“Stop it,” she choked through her narrowed airway. His rancid breath felt heavy on her face, smothering her senses. Leaning in close, his mouth was inches from hers.
“Doona run again. Ye’ve embarrassed our family enough.”
“Go ahead. Strike me. Do it, you coward,” she taunted him. He could not strike her as she could see he wished to do, and by the crazed look in his eye it was driving him wild. Angus was not a man to speak reason, preferring to settle his disagreements with fist or sword. Skye and Angus had many scuffles over the years, but until now, she have never given him cause to thrash her outright. They both knew he was within his rights as her male relative to punish her, but they also both knew Laird McMillan would question matters if Skye returned bruised and beaten.
When Angus raised his hand she winced, squeezing her eyes shut in anticipation of the blow.
“Nay, wench, I’ll not fall fer yer games,” he murmured. She felt his lips touch her neck and shuddered, shrinking away from the fingers that roved up her bodice. “There are much more enjoyable ways to punish a woman, ones that leave no mark.”
“Enough, Angus. Release Lady Skye.”
Angus muttered a low curse but obeyed his father, immediately dropping his hands away from Skye. Ian Cameron held the door open, looking expectantly at his son.
“Father, I found her in the company of some heathen man. Now she says she willna marry the Laird’s son,” Angus quickly answered.
“Oh, is that true, my dear niece?” Ian asked, turning his narrowed gaze on her.
“Uncle, I can explain,” she said, trying to think of something – anything – to placate him. She had seen him angry many times before, but his temper was never directed at her. Until now, she had always done as he commanded and followed his every rule, playing the part of a perfect ward as she was raised to do. It was new territory they embarked on, and she was unsure if she would survive the journey she had begun.
“Leave us,” Ian said evenly, his words directed to Angus although his eyes were fixed on Skye.
“But father –”
“Get out!” Ian roared. Angus shot a glare at Skye as he left, slamming the door behind him.
“Hold onto yer lies, niece. I’ve no patience fer yer forked ton
gue. D’ye know what ye nearly cost me?” Ian demanded. She moved away from the hand he offered but her refusal only served to inflame him further. Grabbing her by the front of her shift, he yanked her forward to face him.
“Uncle –” she pleaded, struggling to get away from him.
“Ye’ll agree to the betrothal on the morrow when I take ye to the McMillan. If ye run,” he said evenly, his eyes locked on hers, “I’ll kill yer heathen friend.”
She made a slight movement of her chin to indicate her agreement and he released her. It took all the strength she had left to remain standing until he slammed the door, but once he was gone, she crumpled to the floor and choked back her sobs through her bruised airway.
What choice did she have, if she ever had a choice at all? In her blood was an ancient magic, one the clans had fought for control of for centuries, yet she stood before her uncle as helpless as a kitten. She knew the way he raised her was purposeful. By controlling whom she spoke to he could control what she knew, and she was beginning to understand there was much more to her bloodline than he wished her to know.
If she held the power within her blood, then it seemed she should have the right to control how it was used. Surely, the Blooded Ones had not always been at the mercy of men like her uncle, bartered and traded for money and power.
She pulled her mother’s letter from her shift and gently opened it. Her mother dated it on the day she was born, and after eighteen years, it was nearly worn through on the folds. The words were burned into her memory, but she needed to see them once more.
The Glaistig keeps the Seventh Key. If you gift her a drop of your blood, she will release it to you.
If another had picked up the letter and read the instructions, it might seem as if the words were only a riddle to be solved. The more times she read it, the more certain felt it was no myth.
