by Arial Burnz
A shattering cry erupted from behind the door of the nursery, jarring them both. Cailin! The guilt of her surrender tumbled down upon her like a load of stones. Davina glanced at Broderick’s wide eyes and escaped from under him, righting her nightgown. Cailin’s wailing tore at her conscience, and she fought back tears of shame. “This was wrong,” she whispered, unable to face Broderick, still in her bed. She never should have listened to Rosselyn and given into her impulses. She had a child to think of. She scampered to the door, her face hot with humiliation. Before she disappeared behind the door of the nursery, she saw his bewildered expression and her heart twisted with regret. “Please…go.”
Chapter Eleven
What in Hades was that! Broderick lay where Davina left him, confounded. A baby? He heard the name Cailin from Davina’s mind. She cooed and soothed the child, the sounds drifting through the small crack of the open door, leaving Broderick no other conclusion except that she was the mother. Davina had a child? This explained a lot—including her sensitive breasts—but left a lot of unanswered questions. Ian, this dead man she feared so much, must have been her husband and the child’s father. Why had he not gleaned this from her thoughts? Why did she not tell him? Pacing the length of the hearth, Broderick raked his fingers through his hair, questions tumbling around in his head. Scolding himself, he couldn’t believe he never picked up on it. Well, he could believe his short-sightedness. He had one thing on his mind—getting information from her. Well, two things on your mind, you rogue.
So, the next question—why hide she was a widow? What kind of battle raged inside this woman’s head?
Broderick, too impatient to wait, wanted answers now. He fixed his breeches, threw on his shirt and boots, and marched over to the adjoining room, ready to demand those answers, but the words died on his breath. Broderick stood immobilized in the open doorway.
Embers from the hearth cast a crimson glow upon Davina, seated in a chair close to the dying fire’s warmth. She sat unaware of him, so intent on humming to her child, caressing the infant’s cheek. Tears shone on Davina’s face. In her arms lay a babe who seemed less than a year old—Cailin. With cinnamon curls so much like her mother’s, her pink mouth suckled at Davina’s nipple, her tiny hand resting on the fullness of her breast. His mouth watered at the sight. At the same time, this image of purity, motherhood, and innocence kindled a protective nature that flamed in his soul. Broderick clenched his fists. Immortality would never allow him to experience the joy of having his own children—fatherhood sacrificed for revenge. For the first time, the impact of his foolish decision pierced his heart like a blade. Who was this idiot who wasted the woman and child Broderick now ached to cherish and shelter? Surely, he deserved to die.
Davina raised her head and their eyes met. Her sweet humming stopped, as did the caresses she gave her child. Her eyes turned cold as she glared at him, wrapping protective arms around her baby. Shame swallowed him whole as he became an intruder in this delicate scene. He stared at her a moment longer before he retreated to the bedchamber.
In awkward silence, Broderick waited for Davina to finish, righting his clothing to keep his hands and mind occupied. After a few endless moments, she emerged from the room, closed the door behind her with care and marched to the armoire beside the double doors. Without offering him a single glance, she put on pair of slippers, donned her cloak and stepped out of the chamber, between the heavy curtains onto the terrace. Broderick followed her into the biting night air.
She stood rigid with her back to him. He could feel the heat in his face, flushed from embarrassment. “Davina, I—”
“How dare you!” she snapped and turned on him. “Can I have no privacy with you? Not even when it concerns my own daughter?”
“I am sorry.” Broderick bowed his head in shame. Davina’s silence drew his attention. She stood gawking. Did she not expect an apology from him? What kind of man was this husband of hers that any form of kindness or humbling took her by surprise? His many questions came back to him. “Why did you not tell me you were widowed?”
“‘Tis none of your business. None of my life is any business of yours.”
Broderick ignored her scolding. “But how—? Whose—?”
“My husband was killed in the Battle of Flodden Field.”
“Why did you not mention him when you told me of your brother and father?”
“As I said, ‘tis no business of yours.” Davina turned her back to him and bowed her head.
“He’s the one from which you wanted me to rescue you.” Broderick didn’t ask. He made a simple statement.
He could feel embarrassment emanating from her. Davina remained motionless for a long period of silence, her back still to him, and then she nodded.
He clenched his jaw and fists, but reasoned he wasted his energy. With her husband dead, he would be unable to continue his abuse. “I cannot say I’m sorry you lost your husband.”
“Nor can I.”
Broderick placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder, and she shrugged him off.
“I told you to leave,” she said with sorrow in her voice. “You have what you came for. You made it into my bed, now please go.”
“Is that what you think this was about?” Broderick put his hands upon her shoulders, turning Davina to face him. Flashes of her husband and an overwhelming sense of betrayal assailed Broderick’s mind and crawled over his body like a death shroud. The many times Ian lied to Davina, lured her in with sweet words, tender caresses and empty promises; all of them ending in violence and violation of her body and heart. Broderick almost staggered back from the mental and emotional assault.
“I cannot trust your intentions, Broderick. I cannot trust what you may say. You have pursued me in such a lustful way, I cannot believe I mean more to you than just a bedding.”
Broderick fought the tears stinging his eyes. The slashing scars on her body showed him the abuse she endured. The rush of her memories made him experience the depth of the abuse from her perspective. Remembering how Davina snapped at Rosselyn for showing pity made Broderick keep his tears at bay. “Everything that just happened has meant more to me than I want to admit because of the depth of my…my love for you, Davina.” He wiped the tear that ran down her cheek and stepped into her heat. “A love that may end up getting you killed. And now I’ve put your daughter in danger.” Broderick sighed, taking Davina’s hands and putting her knuckles to his mouth in a desperate kiss. “I’m torn, Davina. Tonight, I wanted to walk away from you when I thought you hated me, thinking it would have been best. But I fear I’ve fallen too deeply to turn away, because my enemy must already know you mean something to me. And now that I know you have a daughter, there is nothing that could keep me away from you, no matter what the threat may be. All I ever desired was to have a family, and you are all that to me.”
Davina’s eyes welled with more tears and she bit her trembling bottom lip. “There is a darker side to you that frightens me, Broderick. A silver glow I see in your eyes. You speak of a passion for blood. Veronique tried to tell me what you are, and though her words make sense with what I’ve seen with my own eyes, my heart begs for it to be lies. What are you?”
Broderick knew this moment would come. Until now, he never regretted his decision to become a Vamsyrian, and yet he hated what he was because of the fear in her eyes. One thing was certain: He wanted this woman in his life. He didn’t care if this was what Angus intended from the beginning, or what set him on this path to losing his heart to her. His heart was already lost, and he would do anything to protect her, whether she wanted him or not. He would, however, rather have her love in return and telling her the truth at this time would crush that chance.
“I want to answer your questions,” he began. “I want to tell you everything, to tell you the truth. I’ve never wanted to share this with anyone as much as I do with you, but I cannot answer your questions at this time.”
A hope flickered in Davina’s eyes, but the fear and unce
rtainty that emanated from her made her bottom lip quiver and her tears flow anew. “Why? What—”
“Please, Davina,” he begged and kissed her brow. “I’m asking you to give me some time, ‘tis all. I promise I will tell you everything, but there are certain…tasks I must see to before I can.” Facing Angus and eliminating him, being the most important and pressing matter.
Davina collapsed into Broderick’s arms, her body wracking with sobs as he held her tight. Her heartfelt cries drifted out over the snow-covered courtyard and disappeared into the cold night.
* * * * *
Angus leaned back against the wall as he sat on the ground. His grumbling was muffled inside the cellar of the small tower structure he built almost a year ago. It was the one lair Broderick had not yet found. This little dwelling was quiet, tucked away in the woods far to the northwest, too far out of the area Broderick dared to venture from the Gypsy camp. Angus didn’t need anything fancy, nothing elaborate or even functional, in a mortal sense. He purposefully built the structure to appear abandoned and useless. It provided shelter and housed the hidden cellar he crafted, where he slept during the daylight hours. Angus needed nothing else as he sat waiting for the moment to spring his trap, which had, at last, arrived.
Broderick’s failed attempts at finding him over the last several nights were amusing, but starting to bore him, and he grumbled once more. Two things Broderick had learned to do caught Angus off guard. First was the ability to stop feeding to spare lives. Doing such a thing went against the very nature and purpose of a Vamsyrian. Death was indeed the goal, as their Creator designed. How else was one to rack up so many sins against the soul, making it impossible to turn back toward God? Just the free-will choice to become a Vamsyrian was the axe of the executioner for their souls. Did Broderick think to spare these lives in order to avoid final judgment? Angus snarled at Broderick’s meaningless quest. Did he hope to make up for the sins against his soul before he became a Vamsyrian? Broderick pretended to be a hero, a man of honor and integrity, but Angus knew the true soul that lurked inside his black heart.
These weak attempts at salvation in sparing these lives were a waste. Then again, Angus saw the benefits of such a skill. Angus wouldn’t have been able to spare the sweet Davina had he not learned such a thing from Broderick years ago, by feeding from the people Broderick spared. The first time Angus tried to stop in the middle of a feeding, he failed. Not wanting to be bested by his enemy, it had taken him several attempts before he finally mastered the talent. The monumental strength of will it took to wrestle the Hunger into obedience turned out to be greater than he imagined, and the little respect he had for Broderick increased.
Davina was a means to an end, a hope that Broderick would dally with the lass as a distraction, giving Angus time to find out who Broderick really cared about. Broderick couldn’t spend almost a decade-and-a-half with these Gypsies and not form some lasting relationships. Feeding from Davina helped him learn about Amice. He saw the old woman and her connection to Broderick through Davina’s memories, but he couldn’t count on the old woman still being around by the time Broderick arrived in Stewart Glen. And the victims Angus killed in cleaning up after Broderick gave him no pertinent clues about such things. Revenge would be to torment Broderick through the ones he loved, just as Broderick had tormented him. He had to learn about whom Broderick cared; yet, that proved to be most difficult.
Angus kicked the dirt wall in his cellar, grunting his frustration. That was the second thing Broderick learned that caught Angus off guard—his ability to sense Angus before Angus could sense him. Every time he started toward the Gypsy settlement or Stewart Glen, Broderick’s presence loomed like a hawk swooping down from the sky unannounced. He didn’t know if Amice still lived or who had replaced her. He couldn’t even get close enough to observe from a distance.
The age-old hatred erupted, and Angus clenched his fists. Broderick knew who Angus was, and yet Broderick purposely made himself the enemy, seeking to end Angus’s life. Broderick had been given everything denied to Angus, yet he still wanted Angus’s blood. Angus pounded his fists against the ground upon which he sat. “None of it was enough for you!” Broderick’s entire life had been a mockery of what Angus hoped to achieve. No matter how hard Angus tried to prove himself, Broderick shoved his nose in Angus’s position amongst his brothers, like a dog in its own excrement. Rick even stole Angus’s idea of using immortality for revenge, no thanks to Cordelia. What a fiasco that turned out to be.
Angus stood and dressed, then pushed his way out through the cellar door in a hidden corner of the high-ceilinged room. Listening to the sounds of the area to make sure he was alone, Angus heard the distant rumble of thunder from the north. Another storm. He smiled at the appropriate setting the icy weather would create. He set off down the hill, through the dense forest several miles northwest of Stewart Glen. As he glided silently over the snow, dashing between the trees, he chuckled over the new development in his plan. He needed a distraction, and the poor lovesick man with the hairy knuckles he observed in Strathbogie last night would be just the one.
* * * * *
Veronique’s hand trembled as she pushed at the stone wall behind the bushes. With her grandmother asleep and Broderick still out for the evening, she had grabbed what she needed and slipped away from the camp with no one’s notice. The darkness of the deep night made finding Nicabar’s path difficult, and the newly fallen snow didn’t help. Even though the white landscape provided a backdrop to at least see the shadow of trees, she hadn’t the proper shoes to protect her feet. Nor did she have anything for her hands to guard against the cold.
Why didn’t the wall open the way it had for Nicabar? She cursed under her breath and tried again. Nothing. Veronique’s fingers crept along the cold stone in the darkness, searching and shivering from the freezing temperature. She held her shawl closer around her shoulders, not giving up. There! She pushed the nub protruding from the stone and the wall submitted. Breathing a sigh of relief, she pushed the wall section with all her might and stepped into the dark passage. A deafening silence oppressed her, the shadowed courtyard empty and ominous. A heavy, throttling sigh from one of the horses shattered the stillness and she gasped. Gritting her teeth, she crept along the stables, cringing at the crunching of her steps. She waited at the corner of the stables, hunting for movement. Confident she was alone, she stepped across the courtyard—thankful her footprints mingled with the multitude of others—and over to the castle wall. Listening for any sound, she tried the door she had seen the man named Seamus use, thankful the latch hadn’t been locked.
The kitchen lay dark and empty. Veronique waited until her eyes became accustomed to the blackness. Tiptoeing through the hall, keeping close to the wall, she peered into the first door. The dark shapes seemed familiar. She stepped into the doorway and recognized the parlor where she told Davina about Broderick’s true nature. She snorted as she thought of the stupid Scot. Now that she had her bearings, she backtracked into the kitchen.
The illumination from the open, outside door helped her make out the shape of a large table at the center of the room. She padded along the walls, trailing her hand along the wooden panel, and almost screeched at the clanging of the implements she’d touched. Stilling them, she darted her eyes around the room, waiting for someone to come running in to investigate the commotion. She could just make out two doors along the back wall. Scampering to close the outside door, she tiptoed her way blindly to where she saw the first door, and ducked inside. She waited in silence.
The thick scent of ale and foodstuff surrounded her. She listened, but nothing save the hammering of her heart pounded in her ears. The pitch-blackness of the room seemed suffocating, so she eased the door open to let in some of the dim lighting afforded by windows near the ceiling. Still no one appeared in the kitchen. She sighed and turned to contemplate the room. With her eyes now more accustomed to the dark, she saw shelves of provisions lined the walls, and several huge barre
ls sat in the corner. This was what she wanted! She searched franticly for the honey pot. There! Lifting the lid, she stepped before the pot and looked inside, hesitating.
Veronique clutched the stolen vial in her smock pocket. Autumn crocus, an herbal liquid Amice used to cure gout. Veronique remembered tasting the bitter brew when she was younger, sneaking through her grandmother’s potions, intent on sampling the many exotic-scented concoctions, not knowing at all what she did. Lucky for her, Amice caught her only after trying the first vial—the autumn crocus. Even after Amice made her vomit, she remained sick for two days. The painful experience from her childhood formed a bitter tang in her mouth, reminiscent of the poison.
This honey may be eaten by anyone in the household, she surmised. What if someone else gets sick instead of Davina? She replaced the lid and bit her lip. What if she missed the mark entirely? Davina would still be able to accept visitors while someone else suffered and lay sick in bed, not solving her problem. She searched the contents of the cupboard for answers, as if the vegetables and dried meats could tell her what to do. Veronique stopped short and gasped with excitement. A small jar next to the larger honey pot bore the name “Mistress Davina” in the pottery surface. She opened the lid and sniffed. Honey! She shook her head and giggled. The spoiled brat has her own supply!
Putting the lid down on the shelf beside the pot, she held the vial and again hesitated. How much? Veronique tested only a little of the potion as a girl, but she drank the concoction directly not diluted, and she was much younger. What she held in this vile was enough to kill Davina. Veronique shook her head, certain she wouldn’t eat the whole jar. But what if she ate too much? Did she want to put Davina through such torture? Part of her said nay, she didn’t want to be responsible if things went wrong. But the other part of her quickly pushed away any of the warnings threatening her mission. This part of her wanted to see Davina suffer. She closed her eyes and imagined Broderick, seeing him pursue Davina with a passion she dreamed he would pursue her with; a passion she had not seen him pursue anyone else with, but that Davina. What made her so special? The most frustrating part was how Davina opposed Broderick at every turn. She despised him. Why did he want her so much? Why, when Veronique came to him willing and able and so much in love with him already? She swallowed the lump in her throat and gripped the potion tighter.
