by Donna Grant
For three hundred years Quinn’s rage at losing his wife and son in the massacre of his clan had allowed his god to gain much control over him. Now, he hated seeing the god shown in any form.
“We’ll have to wait till she wakes. Until then, we keep watch. I doona want any of the other Warriors getting close to her,” Quinn ordered them.
The three Warriors nodded and moved to take their positions at the entrance to his cave.
Quinn looked out into the Pit. In the center was a sizeable space where Deirdre would throw her victims and watch the battles take place. Off to each side of the area were caves the Warriors claimed as their homes.
Or prisons without bars, as Quinn thought of them.
His was the largest, but then that came with the territory he had claimed. He hadn’t had to kill any Warriors for his bid for supremacy, and the cave was large enough that it allowed him and the other three Warriors to occupy it without it being crowded. Despite that, Arran and the twins had their own caves as well on either side of Quinn’s.
The cave also had a slab in the back that Quinn used to lie on, not that he slept. Sleep had eluded him ever since he’d been in the mountain. It was for the best anyway. Whenever he closed his eyes he would either see his brothers’ faces or dream about his god gaining control of him and aligning with Deirdre.
Quinn carried too much guilt over leaving his brothers and putting them in the predicament of freeing him to want to see their faces and open his memories of them.
They had spent almost three hundred years securing their castle and fighting any wyrran who dared to get too close to their home. More Warriors had come to them, ready to fight Deirdre in the coming war.
And what had he done? Quinn had ruined it all by running away.
How could he have done that to Fallon and Lucan? After everything they had done for him? Countless times his brothers had been there trying to coax him into controlling his god.
It had been Lucan who brought them back to the castle because he’d thought it would help Quinn. Quinn hadn’t wanted to go, but Lucan had been right. Returning to their home had helped to calm Quinn in ways he couldn’t explain.
With a sigh, Quinn gathered the Druid in his arms and stood. She weighed no more than a feather, but the feel of her soft body made Quinn realize how long he had been without a woman.
He held her pleasing body and curves longer than was necessary before he placed her on the slab he used for his bed. He yearned to lie beside her and feel her warmth, hungered to touch her skin. Longed to taste her lips. He brushed the dark locks of hair from her face, surprised to find rows of tiny braids on the crown of her head and her temples.
Quinn smiled as he fingered one of the plaits. She was a child of the Celts. Her magic thrummed through her veins for all to feel. It was strong, very strong.
He wondered again why Deirdre hadn’t killed her. Though the Pit was far below the space Deirdre used as her great hall, Quinn had heard Deirdre say the Druid thought the MacLeods could save her.
Was it because the woman knew of him and his brothers? Nay, he didn’t think that would stop Deirdre. There had to be something else. If there was one thing Quinn knew about Deirdre it was her self-preservation. Deirdre thought of herself first and foremost on everything.
It was one of the many reasons she had lasted as long as she had. That and the black magic she used. Hatred for Deirdre swelled within Quinn, making his god growl and yearn to be free. The god promised vengeance against Deirdre, and for a heartbeat, Quinn nearly gave in.
He concentrated on battling the god and gaining control again. Each time became more difficult. Quinn didn’t know how much longer he had before the god took over. He prayed his brothers reached him before that happened.
Quinn stilled when the female moaned. She was going to be in pain, but there was nothing he could do to help her. It was also chilly in the Pit. They were far below ground and water constantly ran down the walls, making the Pit damp as well.
He rubbed his hands along her bare arms and felt how cool her skin was. Quinn racked his mind for what Lucan or Fallon would do for the woman. He had no food, no blankets, and nothing to assist with her aches. Had he just prolonged her death?
Quinn sank onto the slab near her legs and allowed himself to think of Lucan and the woman his brother loved. Cara was a perfect fit for his brother in all ways. He wondered if they had gotten married. He supposed they had, though the thought of the ceremony without him left an ache in Quinn’s chest that made it difficult to breathe.
His thoughts then turned to Fallon. As eldest, Fallon had been taught since his birth the duties of a laird. None of them could have guessed an evil like Deirdre would wipe out their clan, leaving nothing behind.
Quinn had seen how difficult it had been for Fallon to deal with the god inside him, but Quinn hadn’t been able to help his brother when he grieved so for his wife and son.
As always Lucan had been there to hold them together. Quinn hated himself for the jealousy he felt toward his brother. Lucan had shouldered so much with Quinn’s rage and Fallon’s drunken stupor that he deserved contentment.
Instead of sharing in the joy with Lucan, Quinn had resented him. Quinn envied Lucan because Lucan had what Quinn had always sought—love. The purest, truest form of love.
But Quinn would never know that kind of affection, of that he was certain.
He turned his eyes to the female beside him. She was petite and so slender she appeared no more than a child at first glance. Until one looked at her chest and saw the curves of breasts, full and pert.
Her gown was of common material, but the gold bands that held her braids told him she was much more than she seemed. As all Druids were.
Unable to help himself, he leaned forward and inhaled her scent again. She smelled so good he almost thought he was back at his castle standing on the cliffs with the sea wind ruffling his hair and the spray of the waves washing over him.
Quinn’s gaze raked her face. Her long, sooty lashes rested against her cheeks, and dark brows arched softly above her eyes. He was curious to know what color her eyes were, to see if they were as exotic as the rest of her.
She had high cheekbones, a small, pert nose, and a mouth that begged to be kissed. His balls clenched, desire making his breathing harsh. He touched a finger to her lips before he could think better of it. They were so soft, so luscious he almost leaned down to taste them.
To savor. To enjoy. To claim.
Get a hold of yourself!
Quinn fisted his hand and moved it into his lap as his blood quickened and rushed to his cock. But he couldn’t tear his gaze from her. The steady rise and fall of her chest drew his eyes. He wanted to tear her gown from her and see her body in all its naked glory.
To feast his gaze upon her creamy skin, her lush curves. To caress. To hold. To embrace.
“Holy Hell,” he ground out as a wave of lust swallowed him.
It wasn’t as if he had remained celibate like Fallon and Lucan. Nay, Quinn had given in to his body’s urging when he could deny it no longer. His brothers never knew when he had left the castle. With some part of his god always showing, Quinn had left at night, keeping to the shadows and darkness.
But he had never wanted a woman like he wanted to touch, to taste…to feel the Druid beside him.
The woman issued a long, low moan that made Quinn yank his gaze to her face and bite back a groan of his own. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arran and the twins also glance her way.
She lifted a shaky hand and touched her forehead, her breath hitching as the pain registered in her mind.
“Don’t move,” he whispered in warning of the pain that was to come.
Three
“You’ve got a rather nasty bump on the back of your head, and I think your ribs are bruised.”
Marcail stilled at the sound of the deep, rich voice that sliced through her like the mist that came down from the mountains. A shiver raked her body that had nothing to
do with the cool temperatures that surrounded her.
For that short moment, she forgot the throbbing of her head and how it hurt to breathe. All she could think about was who belonged to such a sensual, commanding voice.
And did she dare find out?
With each pounding inside her head she recalled everything that had happened over the past week, beginning with her running through the forest and being cornered by Dunmore and the wyrran. Then she had been brought to Deirdre and thrown into the Pit.
She remembered being surrounded by Warriors before something big and black leapt on top of her. She sucked in a sharp breath and instantly regretted it as the ache exploded in her chest.
“Easy.”
The same seductive, smooth voice surrounded her once more; his tone left her feeling safe and protected. It was a ruse, she knew, but in her current condition there was nothing she could do about it.
Marcail licked her lips, then bit back a moan as that simple movement caused pain to burst in her head once more. She laid there a moment thinking she heard what sounded like a chant. The more she tried to listen to it, the faster it faded until there was nothing.
Any moment she expected her head to explode from the pain. When nothing happened, she cracked open an eye to see she was surrounded by darkness. She hated the dark because of what it represented—evil. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and concentrated on alleviating the aches of her body.
She placed her hand on her forehead and felt a large, warm hand cover hers. “I have nothing to help with your pain.”
Was there concern in his voice? She swallowed to wet her dry mouth. “I will be all right.”
“You are a healer, then?”
She started to shake her head, but his hand held her still. Instead, she said, “Nay. I was taught how to speed the healing of my body.”
Marcail wasn’t sure why she told the stranger that. She shouldn’t trust him, even if he had saved her. Or had he? Was it just another trick by Deirdre?
“You need to mend yourself, then,” he said, his husky voice dropping even lower. “By saving you, I’ve put you in terrible danger. I will protect you, but with your injuries, it will make it more difficult.”
She never liked being a burden to anyone, but there was something in his voice, a thread of despair and heartache that mirrored her own and caused emotions to stir within her. She had to have his name. “Who are you?”
“My name doesna matter. Rest and heal yourself, Druid.”
The pain of her body began to drag her under, but she fought to stay awake, to learn more about the mysterious man beside her. “Marcail. My name is Marcail.”
“You have my word I will protect you. Now sleep.”
She could have sworn as she drifted off to sleep that he whispered her name.
Quinn lifted his hand from Marcail’s forehead once he was sure she was asleep. He picked up her small hand and placed it on her stomach. Unable to help himself, he ran his fingers over the back of her hand, feeling her soft, supple skin. It wasn’t until his claws touched her that he worried about her discerning what he was.
It had been Warriors, after all, who had thrown her into the Pit. She trusted him now, but how long would that last once she realized she was surrounded by more Warriors—most of whom wanted her for her body?
He told himself to leave her and let her sleep, but he couldn’t make himself rise. He didn’t fight the urge to stay near her. It seemed harmless enough. But when the desire to touch her rose within him, he fisted his hands on his thighs until he shook with the crushing need to lay his hands on her again. Was this how Lucan had felt when he’d had Cara in his arms?
Quinn knew in that instant he had made a fatal mistake. There was something about the female that moved a deep, dark primordial reaction inside him. That emotion could very well be the death of him.
With a curse Quinn leapt to his feet and stalked to the cave entrance. Marcail was too tempting, too sweet to be left alone with the likes of him. He would only bring her down as he had everything else in his life.
“She woke?” Arran asked.
Quinn almost didn’t answer. “Briefly. She’s in a tremendous amount of pain. However, she told me she knew how to help herself heal.”
“Not surprising. Every Druid holds a special kind of magic. It’s lucky for the female that she can mend herself.”
Quinn grunted, not wishing to speak of Marcail any more since his body hungered for her so. “Any sign of trouble?”
Arran crossed his arms over his chest and jerked his chin to the left. “They smell her. God’s blood, Quinn, we all smell her. She’s like a feast to a starving man, in more ways than one. We’re going to have our hands full.”
“I’ll be watching her myself.” Quinn knew his voice came out more of a growl than anything, and Arran’s narrowed white gaze let Quinn know the Warrior heard the challenge in it.
“Do you think I would fight you for her?” Arran asked, his voice hard with disbelief. “I gave you my word I would stand by your side. Do you doubt me?”
“What I question is the need within all of us—myself included.”
Arran blew out a breath and raked a hand down his face. “None of us deserves to be here, the Druid especially because she doesn’t stand a chance against us in a fight. Did she say anything else?”
“She told me her name. It’s Marcail.”
“Marcail,” Arran repeated. “An unusual name. She didn’t happen to say why Deirdre didn’t kill her, did she?”
Quinn shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Let’s hope she wakes soon so we can learn more about her.” Arran turned and looked at Marcail over his shoulder.
Quinn watched Arran, waiting for the moment when he would have to battle one of the few men he gave his trust to.
“She reminds me of my sister,” Arran said after a lengthy pause.
“You had a sister?”
Arran nodded and looked away from Marcail, his brow furrowed. “Two actually. One older and one younger. Marcail reminds me of my youngest sister. She was small and always into some kind of trouble. I used to call her my little sprite.”
“What happened to her?” It was out of Quinn’s mouth before he thought better of it.
“She died,” Arran murmured absently.
Quinn didn’t press for more. There wasn’t a Warrior out there that hadn’t suffered terribly when Deirdre found them. Quinn had discovered this the hard way.
With Arran lost in the memories of his past, Quinn walked to the twins. Both brothers were tall and thickly muscled. They stood similarly with their feet apart and their arms crossed over their chests as they stared at the other Warriors, waiting for someone to make a move against Quinn.
Duncan and Ian looked so much alike that they wore their hair differently to help people know who was who. Both had light brown hair that was streaked with gold, but Ian wore his shorn close to his head while Duncan preferred to let his grow down his back.
Ian turned his head to glance at him. “The Druid woke.”
It wasn’t a question. Quinn nodded. “She’s healing herself now. I plan on questioning her more once she wakes again.”
“Does she know where she’s at?” Duncan asked.
Quinn shrugged. “If you two find any food, let me know. Marcail is going to be hungry.”
They only got fed once a day, and then only some bread. But it was enough for them. Quinn planned on giving her most, if not all, his food if she needed it.
“I’ll see to it,” Ian said and walked away.
Duncan scratched his chin and watched his twin. “How long do you think it will take for Deirdre to realize the Druid isn’t dead?”
“Not long enough,” Quinn admitted. “Not nearly long enough.”
Four
When Marcail next woke, she felt immensely better. There was still a dull ache in her head, but it would fade. She tried taking a deep breath and was rewarded with no pain.
In the distance
she could hear the chanting again, as well as music. For an instant, Marcail thought she sensed magic in the tune, but just as before, it faded before she could discern more of it.
It was a heartbeat later that she realized she wasn’t alone. Was it the man with the voice that made her stomach flutter? Or was it someone—or something—else?
Marcail opened her eyes to the darkness once more. She became aware of the steady dripping of water nearby, and with the cool air, she knew she was still in Deirdre’s mountain.
“How are you feeling?”
She turned her head toward the now familiar voice. He wasn’t sitting with her as before but stood off to the side. Try as she might she couldn’t discern more than his silhouette in the gloom. She wanted to see his face, to know his name. “I’m better.”
“Good.”
Marcail sat up slowly, testing her body. When the aches didn’t scream in pain, she swung her legs to the ground. That’s when she saw that what little light there was came from a torch on the outside of what looked like a cave. The Pit.
Across from the cave were even more caves, though they appeared smaller. And in between was the large open space where she had fallen.
Oh, God. Warriors.
She gripped the stone slab she sat on with both hands and tried to keep her breathing steady. She had never feared the Warriors before Deirdre had taken her prisoner. Mostly because, in her opinion, they weren’t to blame for what was inside them.
Now that she had come in contact with those in Deirdre’s control, she had a different opinion of the men.
“Are you the one who threw me after I fell?” she asked the man. He stood to her left, still as a statue.
There was a moment’s pause and then, “Aye.”
“Who are you?”
“What is so important about my name?”
She was taken aback by his hard tone and the anger. Why should he care about giving his name?
