by Donna Grant
“Eat your fill,” Quinn said as he handed her a loaf of bread. “I will get more if you need it.”
Marcail placed her hand on his arm before he could leave. The feel of thick sinew bunching beneath her palm made her yearn to touch more. “Let me share with you.”
“You need it more than I.”
“Please, Quinn. I don’t want anyone going hungry so that I may be fed.” She broke the loaf in half and held it out. “Won’t you eat with me?”
For a brief moment she thought he would refuse. He eventually took the bread and moved to sit beside her.
Maybe it was because he had saved her, maybe it was because he was a MacLeod, but she trusted Quinn. That trust might very well end her life, but she knew she would die in Deirdre’s mountain one way or another.
“You see in the dark, don’t you?” she asked.
He nodded slowly.
“Why then are there torches down here?”
“For Deirdre. She may be powerful and immortal, but she doesn’t have the powers our gods have given us.”
Marcail pulled a piece of bread apart and popped it into her mouth. “Interesting.”
“How did Deirdre capture you?”
She was surprised by the question. She glanced at Quinn as she finished chewing. “Wyrran were spotted near our village. In the past, small groups of wyrran would roam the countryside looking for Druids. Those were the ones we always fought. But this time, they had a leader. A man.”
“Dunmore,” Quinn spat.
“Aye. I knew they had come looking for me. I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone being killed so I made the decision to leave the village. By that time already half of the village had left to save themselves.”
“That was foolish.”
“It is the thought of every person on this earth to live another day. We all knew what awaited us if Deirdre captured us. I do not blame them for running.”
“Then you left as well?”
“I did. It kept Dunmore and the wyrran from following the others. I stayed to the forest and led them about for nearly a week.”
His brows rose. “A week? That’s impressive.”
“Only because I knew the land. Impressive would have been escaping.”
“You couldna have escape’d the wyrran, Marcail. Magic aided them on their quest to find you.”
“I know.”
“What happened once you arrived here?”
Marcail took a deep breath. “I was immediately brought to Deirdre. She knew I have knowledge of the spell locked in my mind, but she didn’t try to find it. Why?”
“I’m guessing it’s because she’s afraid to.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Quinn shifted to his side so he faced her. “Deirdre is nothing if not intelligent. She hasn’t gotten the power she has now by making costly decisions. I think she knew she couldna kill you or extract the spell the same way she knew you had the spell to begin with.”
“And how is that?”
“Black magic.”
Marcail shook her head. “As a Druid I know just how powerful magic can be, but to get the answers she somehow has…There has to be something else.”
“You know mie magic. What you haven’t encountered is drough magic. Black magic has much more power than yours. And as long as Deirdre’s been alive and acquiring her power, her magic is nearly limitless.”
“If that’s so, why doesn’t she have your brothers?”
Quinn found himself smiling again. Marcail’s mind was quick. “Probably the same reason it took her three hundred years to capture me.”
“Which is?”
“We fought her.”
Marcail grinned, making Quinn forget to breathe. He would never tire of looking at her. She was exquisite. So pure in spirit and form that it boggled his mind that she was sitting next to him.
“There are Druids who fight her. The difference is our magic cannot touch hers,” she said.
Quinn didn’t want to talk about Deirdre any more. He reached out and touched one of the small braids that hung from Marcail’s temple down to her breast. “Why do you braid your hair like this?”
“The holder of the spell always has bound her hair this way. It’s a tradition that has been in my family since before Rome left Britain.”
He glanced at the wealth of sable waves that fell down her back nearly to her hips and wanted to plunge his hands in the strands.
“I like it,” he said.
“And your torc? That is also a tradition of the ancients.”
“That it is. In my clan the laird’s family always wore a torc. It was my mother who chose the animals that would grace mine and my brothers’ torcs.”
He stilled as her finger reached out to touch the wolf’s head on his torc. His blood quickened when her hand brushed against his chest, sending currents of heat unfurling within him.
“Beautiful. The wolf suits you, I think.”
“How can you say that? You doona know me.”
She shrugged, her body leaning closer to look at the torc, teasing him with her scent and curves. Quinn forced his hands to stay as they were instead of reaching for her.
“Maybe,” Marcail said. “Maybe not. However, I know the wolf is cunning and intelligent. I’ve seen those same traits in you.”
Quinn dug his hands into the bread to keep from caressing her. It had been so long since he had kissed a woman that he’d forgotten how, but he wanted to taste her lips, to sweep his tongue into her mouth and learn her essence.
He wanted to drown in her scent of sunshine and rain, to feel her silky hair surround him and her soft skin bared to his touch.
Marcail suddenly sat back and lowered her hand. “And your brothers? What animal is on their torcs?”
Quinn opened his mouth to talk and had to clear his throat before sound came out. “Fallon, the eldest, has a boar. Lucan has a griffin.”
“Those are powerful animals your mother chose.”
“My brothers are powerful men, and her choice fit each of them.”
Marcail cocked her head to the side, her braids swinging with the movement. “Are you telling me you don’t think your mother chose well for you?”
“Not at all.” Quinn turned his head away and scratched his chin, ill at ease anytime he thought to compare himself with his brothers.
“Liar.”
That one word brought his gaze back to her. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s in your eyes,” she whispered.
Quinn didn’t know how to answer her. He should be angry that she called him a liar, but the truth was she was correct. He had lied.
He looked down to find she had eaten all her bread. “Are you thirsty? I can show you where to find the water.”
“Arran already has, thank you.”
No sooner had the words left her mouth than she yawned and wrapped her arms around herself.
“How much sleep did you get this past week while you were evading Dunmore?”
She lifted one shoulder. “Not much. It’s one of the reasons he finally caught me.”
“And food?”
“I ate what berries I could find as I ran.”
Quinn put his bread in her hands. “Eat. No arguments, Marcail. You’re going to need your strength down here.”
“And you?”
“I’ve got a god inside me. Remember?”
She bit into the bread. “Tell me of your god.”
Quinn would talk about anything as long as she ate. “He is Apodatoo, the god of revenge.”
“It’s true then, that the one god is in you and your brothers?”
“Aye. Each god chooses the strongest warrior of whatever bloodline he’s in.”
She swallowed and nodded. “Which means, you and your brothers were all three the strongest.”
“Correct. We each are strong fighters, but when we battle together with the god unleashed, we are unstoppable.”
Marcail’s brow furrowed at his words. �
��Can you not fight Deirdre that way?”
“If only it were that easy. Maybe in the beginning we could have, but now she has too many wyrran and Warriors around her.”
Quinn noticed how Marcail quickly ate the rest of the bread. She was probably starving for more, and she needed meat to help build her strength. Meat they didn’t have.
“How long have you been down here?” she asked.
“I don’t know. You lose track of time when you cannot see the sun.”
“Have you been in the Pit the entire time?”
“Nay. I was chained in another dungeon for a while and beaten daily. Deirdre thought she could break me that way.”
“But she didn’t,” Marcail said with a smile. “See? You and your brothers will save us.”
Quinn wished it were that easy.
“How did you end up in here?”
Quinn grimaced as he thought of what Deirdre wanted from him. “She wants me to give her a child. I refused, so she put me here to change my mind.”
Marcail’s turquoise eyes grew wide. “Why does she want a child from you?”
“Something about a prophecy. She said I would give in to her demand one day.”
“Why not just use magic to force you?”
“Probably the same reason she didna kill you—she canna.”
Marcail leaned her head back at his words. Quinn had gone over in his mind a thousand times the incident with Deirdre. He had expected her to force him, but she hadn’t. She needed him to come willing, and willing he would never be.
Just thinking of having sex with Deirdre made Quinn want to retch. He would kill himself before he ever agreed to give her his seed willingly.
Quinn looked over to find Marcail’s eyes closed and her breathing evened in sleep. Her head tilted toward his shoulder. He reached up and leaned her against him so she wouldn’t harm herself on the jagged rocks on the walls.
The Pit was not a noisy place. The Warriors kept to themselves for the most part. Few spoke, and when they did it was in whispers. When Quinn had first been thrown in the Pit, the constant dripping of water had nearly made him daft, but now, he didn’t notice it.
What he did notice was a conversation going on between a couple of Warriors. It was quickly escalating, which meant a fight was brewing. A battle between Warriors could get loud. Quinn reached up and covered Marcail’s ear with his hand to help drown out the noise he knew would come.
From his position he could see movement near the entrance to his cave. Other Warriors moved closer to the action to discover what was going on.
Quinn spotted Duncan and knew the Warrior would report all he discovered. Quinn wished the others would stop fighting amongst themselves and learn to band together to battle Deirdre, but nothing he said could convince them.
He also had a suspicion that Deirdre had a spy in the Pit. That notion would be tested soon enough, because if there was a spy, he would report Marcail to Deirdre as soon as he could.
Quinn knew once Deirdre discovered Marcail there was nothing he could do to save her. Deirdre might not kill Marcail herself, but she would do whatever it took to see the Druid dead because of the spell she carried.
If only Quinn could get the spell out of Marcail then they could use it against Deirdre and bind all the gods once more. Without her Warriors, Deirdre only had her wyrran. Though the wyrran were tough, they could be killed easily enough.
Quinn found his eyes closing. He should be up and seeing about stopping the fight between the Warriors, but it felt so good to have Marcail next to him, her head leaning on his shoulder as she slept.
He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head and felt her braids. He couldn’t imagine how long it took her to plait her hair, but he would enjoy watching.
It had been three hundred years since he had let a woman touch him as Marcail was. The women he had taken his ease with had been in the dark where they couldn’t see him, and he had never wanted to hold them.
With Marcail it was different. But then much had changed since Deirdre had captured him. He was able to manage his god now, something he hadn’t been able to do in hundreds of years. Quinn couldn’t wait to tell his brothers.
Marcail nestled more comfortably against him. Quinn smiled and let himself enjoy the small moment. By the growls, the fight between the Warriors had broken out. Soon, the smell of blood and death would fill the Pit.
The ever present rats were moving closer to the brawl, hoping to find something to eat. Quinn sensed when one reached the entry to his cave and began to move inside.
“Out. Now,” Quinn told the animal. “You will not enter here or come near me or the woman.”
The rat immediately moved away from the cave. Quinn had learned of his power only when he had awakened in Deirdre’s dungeon. All those years and he’d had no idea of the power he’d held. For three centuries he hadn’t developed that power or learned to use it.
How he regretted the fury that had run his life. He would do so many things differently if he could. But there was no going back and reliving the past. There was only the future.
And that looked bleak.
Six
Quinn snapped his eyes open. He hadn’t let himself drift off that deeply since being thrown in the Pit. Anything could have happened to him…or to Marcail.
He looked down to find the Druid half lying in his arms. Her head must have slid off his shoulder while he dozed. Thankfully, he had fit her in his arms and her face against his chest.
Her lips were parted as she slept, his arm supporting her head while her hair draped over his arm and legs. Quinn could honestly say he had never seen a more beautiful woman in all his days.
There was a purity about Marcail that shone for everyone to see. But there was strength there as well. Marcail had been intelligent enough to run and lead Dunmore and the wyrran from her village. She had saved countless lives by doing so. It had taken much courage, courage Quinn hadn’t expected from a woman.
Unable to stop himself, Quinn lifted his free hand and ran the back of his fingers over the smooth skin of Marcail’s cheek. His hand shook with the need, the hunger, to touch more of her.
Even knowing he wasn’t good enough for her didn’t stop the yearning to know her as only a man could. He wanted to kiss, to lick every inch of her body.
His rod throbbed. It was made worse by the feel of her in his arms. Three hundred years was a long time not to feel the softness of a woman as he was now.
Quinn’s gaze fastened on Marcail’s mouth. Such a luscious, decadent mouth. Her lips were full, wide, and delectable. He knew they would taste heavenly, and that one kiss would never be enough.
He lowered his head before he realized what he was doing. Just before his lips touched hers, he managed to stop himself. What would she think when she woke to find him kissing her?
Quinn didn’t want to find out. She looked at him with trust in her gorgeous turquoise eyes. He didn’t want that to change.
His free hand brought a lock of her hair to his nose. Quinn breathed in the scent that was hers alone. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. With a tilt of his head, he fit his face against her neck and drowned in the sunshine and rain fragrance. He could still smell the sun on her skin.
Slowly, he lifted his head, afraid she would wake. And afraid she wouldn’t.
Her eyelids lifted, and he found himself gazing into her eyes. For several heartbeats they didn’t move, didn’t speak. Quinn realized he still held a lock of her hair in his grasp, but he couldn’t seem to let go.
“I didn’t mean for you to become my bed.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, soft and seductive.
Quinn’s balls tightened in response. “It was my pleasure.”
Her lips tilted into a smile. “You don’t stay in your god form as the others do. Why?”
“Because it’s what Deirdre wants. I’m very close to my god taking control of me. If that happens, I’m hers.”
Marcail’s hand cupped his cheek and her
brow furrowed. “You take a grave chance by allowing your god loose.”
“I owe it to my brothers.”
“And to yourself?” she asked.
He began to shake his head no when her thumb brushed his lips.
“Don’t you dare tell me nay.” She sat up and put her face close to his. “You can beat whatever Deirdre tries to use to lure you or trap you. I’ve heard tales of you and your brothers my entire life, Quinn. You were the three who have outwitted her for hundreds of years.”
Quinn closed his eyes against her words. He couldn’t move, not with her hand on him, but he didn’t want to hear her words. She didn’t know the true him, the person who had disgraced his brothers and put their plan in jeopardy.
No one wanted to know that person—not even Quinn.
“You doona know what you’re saying,” Quinn finally said. “There are things about me you doona know.”
“No one is perfect, Quinn MacLeod. You need to realize that before it’s too late.”
Before he could respond, she was gone. Her touch, her heat…vanished. Quinn felt bereft, as if he had been shown a glimpse of heaven for those few moments she was in his arms.
But when he opened his eyes, he was still in Hell.
He found Marcail at the water that collected in a hollowed-out stone. She drank her fill, then splashed the water on her face.
Quinn wanted to go to her, but he had nothing to say. He wasn’t about to tell her who he really was. She was one of the few people who saw him as he wanted to be.
Odd that he had recognized that so quickly. Maybe it was because she claimed the MacLeods would save her, and he wanted to be the one who did it. For whatever reason, when she was near, she made him want to be the man he saw in her eyes.
Lucan MacLeod washed the blood from his tunic in the loch and draped the tunic over a tree limb to dry. For the third time in two days they had been attacked by wyrran.
“There will be more attacks,” Ramsey said.
Lucan looked to the calm, reserved Warrior. Ramsey was the one who listened, formed his opinions, and then spoke. So, when he stated something, it was to everyone’s benefit to take notice.
