by Donna Grant
“I know, but to Hayden she has drough blood, so it’s the same difference.”
“I see,” she murmured. “And the others?”
“Ramsey is the quiet one, the listener. You almost forget he’s even there until he makes a comment or suggestion. He has an uncanny ability to sum up everything in one or two words, but he can also work through dilemmas.”
Marcail smiled. “A level head, he has.”
“And it comes in handy to be sure.”
“The other Warrior?”
“Logan. He’s the youngest of us and always smiling. He eases tensions with jests and quips that will leave everyone laughing.”
Marcail ran her hand down Quinn’s taut stomach and rippling muscles. “Do you think more will come to your castle?”
“I hope they do. It will take more than seven of us to defeat Deirdre.”
“But you have Duncan, Ian, and Arran,” she said. Her hand stopped at his hip. She wanted to wrap her hand around his now flaccid rod, but she wasn’t quite brave enough.
“Ten is better than seven.”
Then she remembered her desire to take chances she wouldn’t normally take since she could die on the morrow. She skimmed her nails down the side of Quinn’s hip to his thigh before she moved her hand to his cock.
He sucked in a breath when she wrapped her hands around him. She watched in amazement as his rod grew hard before her very eyes.
“Marcail,” he murmured.
She smiled and kissed his chest. “You feel wonderful inside me, but I wanted to know what you felt like in my hand.”
His hand at her back flexed and pulled her tighter against him. Marcail slowly moved her hand up and down his length, marveling at how hot he was, and hard. It was as if steel had been forged beneath his skin, he was so rigid. Yet his skin was as soft as velvet.
A bead of liquid formed at his tip. She ran her thumb over the head of his cock and smoothed the liquid over him. Her stomach fluttered when she heard Quinn’s low moan.
Up and down her hand moved, learning the feel of him. She loved watching the way his hips rose in response to her touch.
“Nay more,” Quinn said as he shifted to his side and kissed her. He turned her over until her back was against his chest.
“I liked touching you.”
He pressed his lips against her neck and moaned. The vibration against her skin was heavenly.
“I know,” he said thickly. “But I want to touch you as well.”
Marcail couldn’t stroke him the way he had her positioned, but before she could complain, his hand shifted to her sex and parted her folds. He then sank a finger deep inside her.
“Hm. I think I like this position. I have you just where I want you.”
She bit her lip as his cock ground into her from behind. His other hand had found her breasts and now rolled a nipple between his fingers.
“Quinn,” she murmured. The desire pulsing through her was so great she couldn’t get another word out.
As if he knew just what she needed, he lifted her leg and guided his rod to her entrance. With one shift of his hips, he was inside her, the feel of him from behind new and exciting.
Marcail moaned as pleasure rippled through her. Taking Quinn as she did, he went deeper, touched more of her. And it was wonderful.
He took his time, moving slowly in and out of her, heightening her pleasure with each thrust, each shift of his hips. When he began to move faster, harder, Marcail was powerless to do anything about the climax that moved quickly toward her.
The first waves of her orgasm engulfed her before she knew it. Quinn jerked behind her, her name on his lips as his hot seed poured into her. Knowing they peaked together prolonged her pleasure.
Long minutes passed before either of them could speak as they lay wrapped together. She had thought the first time they had made love was magnificent, but this second time had been extraordinary.
“Sleep, wee Druid,” Quinn whispered in her ear.
Marcail let her eyes close as he tucked her more firmly against him. As she drifted off to sleep she realized he was still inside her.
Fifteen
Isla stood at the entrance of the doorway, but could go no farther. She had already descended deep into the mountain, far below the Pit and the other various dungeons.
But more stairs awaited her. These led to only one place, a place she put off visiting until she had no choice. Now was one of those times.
Isla saw the first two steps and then the blackness ate everything. Darkness and silence. Sounds surrounded her and drifted from above. She heard the screams of the tortured, the wails of the dying, and the growls of the Warriors.
But down the stairs was a different story.
Already she had put off descending to the point that Deirdre would mete out punishment. Not that Isla cared. There wasn’t a punishment Deirdre had that hadn’t already been inflicted on Isla.
Isla picked up her skirt with one hand and took the first stair. She didn’t bother with a light. She knew the way, but it was more than that. If she tripped and tumbled down the stairs, it was nothing more than she deserved.
She made her feet move down each step. There were nearly a thousand more to go before she reached her destination. She counted the steps each time, but it never came easier.
All too soon she reached the bottom landing. Isla paused one heartbeat, two, before she turned to her left and started toward the prison in the back. As always her heart bled for the man held there, because it was her fault he was imprisoned.
He bared his long fangs as she approached. He couldn’t harm her, though. Not only was he held at both wrists by thick chains that kept his arms out to his sides, but Deirdre had used her magic to prevent him from harming himself or others.
“Hello, Phelan,” Isla said.
He growled and jerked at the chains, causing them to rattle against the stones.
At one time Isla had tried talking to him, but it had become apparent that it was useless. The little boy with dark hair and trusting hazel eyes was no more. Before her was a Warrior who wanted nothing but her death by his hands.
She hoped one day that he would take her life. It was the least she could do to help him.
Isla lifted her hand to reveal the gold goblet she had kept hidden in her skirts. If her being there made him angry, seeing the goblet pushed him to the edge of insanity.
He jerked so hard on the chains that she feared they might rip from the stones, but no amount of strength or magic could free those chains, not unless Deirdre wanted it.
“Please, Phelan,” Isla begged. “Do not make this more difficult than it already is.”
She took a step toward his outstretched arm and unsheathed the dagger at her waist. There was something about Phelan’s blood that could cure anything. Though most Warriors’ blood could heal other Warriors, Phelan’s could heal anyone and anything.
And Deirdre had acquired a taste for it.
It was bad enough they kept Phelan chained in the bowels of the mountain, but to also take his blood seemed more than cruel. Deirdre knew Isla felt this way, which is why she sent Isla to him each time.
“I will kill you one day,” Phelan said between clenched teeth.
Isla raised the dagger over his wrist. As a Warrior, his coloring was that of gold skin and eyes. She met his gaze and nodded. “I know.”
“You doona fear death?”
It would be a blessing actually. “I do not.”
“I trusted you.”
Isla swallowed and lowered the dagger. This was the most Phelan had spoken to her since she had brought him to the mountain.
She thought back to that awful day so long ago. Deirdre had already begun using Isla’s sister as her seer. Lavena helped Deirdre locate potential Warriors, which is how they found Phelan.
Isla had refused Deirdre’s order to bring the child to the mountain. Lavena was lost to Isla already, but Isla had foolishly thought her niece was safe. That’s when Deirdre gave her the option o
f Grania’s death or Phelan’s imprisonment. There was no way Isla was going to watch her beloved niece die, so she had gone after Phelan.
“I trusted you!”
Isla flinched at Phelan’s bellow. She opened her mouth to respond when a blinding headache sliced through her. Isla dropped the goblet and dagger and held her head between her hands as she stumbled backward until she hit the wall. She slid to the ground as the pain grew and grew.
She knew what this was, knew it and loathed it. Because it was Deirdre.
“You test my patience, Isla,” Deirdre said in her mind. “I do not like to be kept waiting. I need that blood!”
“I’m talking to him. Just as you ordered,” she ground out through the pain.
Deirdre’s laugh echoed in her head. “I know you just went down there so do not think to lie to me! You will be punished when you return. Now do your duty.”
Isla doubled over until her head rested on the stone floor. To her horror, tears she had not shed in hundreds of years began to trail down her cheeks.
Everything she had fought so hard to protect, Lavena and Grania, were lost to her. And even if she wanted to escape Deirdre, she was as chained as Phelan was.
“Isla?”
She blinked at Phelan’s quiet voice and raised her head. He was crouched down watching her with his brow furrowed. It was bad enough to cry, but to be seen crying was worst of all.
Isla turned her head and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. She rose on unsteady legs, the pain still throbbing in her head. With her hand on the stones for balance she turned toward Phelan. The chamber swam around her; the vestiges of the headache would last for days, as she well knew.
“Tell me what just happened,” Phelan demanded.
Somewhere over time the innocent little boy had become a man—and a Warrior. She bent to retrieve the goblet and dagger, breathing through her mouth to dispel the nausea that simple movement had caused.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” he insisted. His gold Warrior eyes impaled her. “You were in great pain.”
Isla didn’t want to talk about it, but more than that, she was cautious of Phelan’s change in attitude. A moment before Deirdre had invaded her head he had wanted to kill her. Now, his tone had softened and he no longer growled.
She licked her dry lips and swallowed. “May I come take your blood?”
Phelan sighed and gave a quick jerk of his head. Isla wasted no time in moving to the Warrior and slicing his wrist. Dark red blood welled out of the cut and poured into the goblet.
Isla held the cup carefully. She had made the mistake of spilling it once, which had meant she’d had to cut Phelan again. There was no way she could return to Deirdre without a goblet full of the Warrior’s blood.
“It was Deirdre, wasn’t it?” Phelan asked.
Isla glanced at his face. “Why do you want to know?”
“All I know is what I hear through the stones of this cursed mountain. I know Deirdre is as wicked as a person can get, but what I doona know is who she has caged and who is willingly working with her.”
His wound healed before the goblet could fill completely with blood, but Isla refused to slice him again. She was already going to be punished. What was a little more?
Isla set aside the goblet and dagger near the entrance of his prison and faced Phelan. Deirdre had told her to talk to him, so she would. If only Isla could remove his chains or go back and change the past.
“Deirdre is an evil Druid called a drough. She is amassing powers that will enable her to take over the world.”
Phelan clenched his jaw. “Is no one fighting against her?”
She opened her mouth to tell him of the MacLeods, but that would give him hope, a hope he couldn’t have. “Some are trying, but it is futile.”
“There are others…like me, aren’t there?”
She nodded. “You’ve seen a few who have come down here.”
“I’ve seen one. His skin is royal blue.”
“That’s William. He will do anything for Deirdre.”
Phelan rolled his shoulders and shifted his feet as he took her words in. “The other Warriors, are they like me?”
Isla leaned against the rock wall and shrugged. “In a way. All Warriors change as you have. Each of you is a different color because of each god within you. The Warriors not on Deirdre’s side only allow their god to show when they are fighting her. How is it you don’t know this after all these years?”
“I didn’t ask, and no one spoke of it.”
If Isla had felt awful before speaking with him, she felt worse now. She had intentionally kept her distance from him because seeing him always made her remember the day he had gone from looking at her as a friend, to being chained and glaring at her with murder in his eyes.
“There are things you need to know,” she said. “Each Warrior holds a different power depending on their god.”
As soon as the words left her mouth the dark, gloomy chamber disappeared and she was surrounded by sunlight. She stood on the side of a hill, the tall grass swaying in the wind, and the smell of heather and thistle filled her senses. Her gaze drifted upward to see a cloudless bright blue sky as the sun warmed her.
She knew that somehow Phelan had done this. She didn’t know how, and she was enjoying it too much to question him.
“Can other Warriors do this?” he asked.
She turned her head and blinked. Gone were the chains that held him. Gone were the gold skin, fangs, and claws of his Warrior form. She saw a glimpse of the lad he had been in the hazel eyes that watched her.
The man that stood before her with dark hair that hung past his shoulders was so handsome she couldn’t look at him. His body was lean and well-developed. She could see the definition of his muscles in his upper body, and though he wasn’t as muscular as some of the Warriors, she could sense the strength within him.
“How are you doing this?” she asked.
“This,” he said and held out his arms, “is my power.”
Isla closed her eyes. “Please stop.”
“Why? Do you prefer the darkness?”
She preferred the sunlight, and being in it for even small amounts of time made her long for it more and more. “I’m begging you,” she pleaded.
“Open your eyes, Isla.”
When she dared to peek, the darkness once more surrounded her. She blew out a shaky breath, not realizing until her fingers began to ache that she gripped the rocks behind her.
“So, each Warrior has a different power,” Phelan said. “How many are there?”
“There are many. Some have sided with Deirdre. The ones that are holding out against her are being held in dungeons.”
Phelan smiled, revealing his fangs. “But not all are held here, are they? There are some who have managed to escape and elude Deirdre and her wyrran.”
It was true, and though she didn’t wish to lie to him, she wasn’t sure she could tell him the truth.
“Your silence is answer enough,” he said. “Why do you pledge yourself to Deirdre?”
“Because I have no choice.”
“There is always a choice.”
Isla laughed and shook her head. “If only things were that easy. I suspect you will begin to receive more visitors soon. Watch yourself, Phelan. Deirdre has plans to use you in her scheme to dominate the world.”
She retrieved the goblet and dagger and walked to the stairs.
“Guard yourself as well,” Phelan called after her.
Sixteen
Quinn knew he was in trouble when he woke up and couldn’t stop looking at Marcail. He had managed to rise without waking her, but now, all he could do was stand and look at her while images of their night together replayed in his head.
How he wished he had met her differently, but he realized, as the man he was before, he wouldn’t have given in to the desire to have her. He had changed since being captured, changed in ways he thought he never would.
> He still missed his son, but he had come to understand that bad things happen to innocents. Even if his son had somehow survived, Quinn wouldn’t have stayed near him for fear of hurting him.
The need for vengeance for his son’s and wife’s deaths had not left Quinn, however. He would kill Deirdre, or die trying.
A muted curse made Quinn turn away from Marcail’s sleeping form to find Duncan leaning an arm against the wall while the other held his stomach.
Quinn went to his friend. “Duncan? What is it?”
“Not feeling well,” the Warrior ground out.
Quinn knew he lied. “Were you attacked last night?”
“Nay,” Duncan said with a brittle laugh.
“Then what is it?”
Duncan turned his pale blue Warrior eyes on Quinn. “Nothing I canna handle.”
Quinn inclined his head and turned on his heel to find Arran on the other side of the entrance. He walked to the white Warrior who stood with his arms crossed over his chest watching Duncan.
“He’s not well,” Arran said when Quinn reached him.
“Nay, he isna, but he willna tell me what’s wrong.”
Arran rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I doona like this situation.”
“I’ve never liked it. I have promised Duncan I will set things right, and I will. I need something from you, though.”
Arran snorted and shook his head angrily. “I willna bother arguing with you again but know that I think you handing yourself to Deirdre is horseshite. I’ve already promised to take care of Marcail.”
“Aye, and I appreciate it. However, this is more important.”
That got Arran’s attention. He narrowed his eyes and took a step closer to Quinn. “What is it?”
“I have no doubt Lucan and Fallon will eventually come. No matter what I say, no matter what I do to them, you must leave whenever they escape, because they will escape. I will see to that. Take as many Warriors as you can, but you follow my brothers.”
“I’d rather have you at my side.”
Quinn wanted to be there, but Broc had been right, his time had run out. “Tell my brothers…”
