“Jesu,” whispered Peter. “Something just took that bastard’s soul down to hell, didnae it.”
“Exactly,” said Berawald. “Weel, let us go and save your woman, Heming.”
Heming watched Berawald walk away, cast one last look at the floor, and then hurried after his cousin. “Have ye e’er seen that before?”
“Och, aye. A lot of spirits linger after death. The reasons are nay important and they are many. But, the ones who have sins blackening their souls, the ones bound for hell, arenae allowed to linger here. The devil isnae a patient mon. Where do ye think they are keeping your mate?”
Used to his cousin’s abrupt changes of subject, Heming answered, “I have no idea. I have ne’er been in the place before. Nay, above here, in the keep itself. I am hoping Peter can help me.”
“Ah, weel, I am certain we can find someone to help us if Peter cannae.”
“Oh, sweet Mary, nay more spirits,” muttered Peter.
Heming shook his head and hurried up the stairs, moving rapidly past Berawald. He needed to find Brona. Every instinct he had was crying out that she was in imminent peril. The moment he stepped out of the underbelly of Rosscurrach into what looked like a large solar, Heming felt all the cold resolve he needed to do battle wash over him, readying him for whatever he might face next. He moved to the side of the doorway leading to the dungeons, his father, Peter, and Berawald moving to stand with him. As the other men who had come through the passages came into the room, Heming listened to his father direct them.
Colin had sent some Kerrs to them and those men were used to show the MacNachton fighters around the keep. Heming suspected they were also there to try to keep the loss of Kerr life as low as possible. There was a wariness in the men but no more than that and Heming knew Colin was trying to ease his way, for the man was certain that Heming would be the next laird of Rosscurrach. All Heming cared about, however, was Brona, finding her and keeping her safe. The moment all the men who had come in through the doorway were gone, making their way through the keep to make it MacNachton territory, Heming turned to Peter, the only one still at his side.
“Where do ye think Brona will be?” Heming asked the man.
“Whene’er the laird secured the lass it was within her own bedchamber,” replied Peter.
“Then take me there. Now.”
All the breath in Brona’s lungs was pushed out when Angus threw her onto her bed and then flung himself down on top of her. Brona was too desperate to catch her breath, to just breathe, to do anything to stop the man from roughly un-lacing her gown. When she was able to finally breathe she began to struggle. Angus punched her in the face with such a cold calm, it was not only the pain of that blow that stilled her movements.
When Angus started to tug her gown off her shoulders the fear that held her in place fled and her sense returned. No matter what she did this man was going to hurt her. He was going to rape her. Brona doubted Angus would even try to make her want him, to ease the taking of her body by stirring even a little desire in her. She decided that, if she was going to be hurt, she would be hurt while fighting this man. He might not be planning to kill her but what he wanted to do to her would destroy her in ways she did not even want to think about.
Even as Brona punched Angus in the face she knew she was starting a fight that she had absolutely no chance of winning. It was also a battle that would leave her in a great deal of pain, but she no longer cared about that. He was going to put himself inside her, join their bodies, and leave his seed in her womb. The mere thought of that terrified and revolted her. Only Heming had been there and she would fight to the death to try and stop Angus from befouling what she had shared with Heming. She closed her mind to the pain as she fought with Angus.
To her complete shame it only took Angus a few short minutes to subdue her. As he tied her wrists to the bedposts she tried to take some satisfaction in the fact that he was bleeding from the mouth and nose and his eye was watering badly from the punch she had delivered to it. It had been a short, eerie battle, neither one of them making much noise. He had used his big fists and his much bigger body. She had used her fists, her feet, her teeth, and her nails, but she had still lost. Brona just hoped that later she might be able to find some comfort in the fact that she had tried to save herself.
“Why are ye doing this?” she asked, pleased at how calm, even cold, she sounded. “Why marry a woman who doesnae want ye?”
“Weel, I want ye,” Angus replied as he drew his knife and began to cut her gown off her body. “I have wanted ye for years. I have also wanted to be the laird here from the first day I set foot inside these walls.”
“Ye cannae be the laird here. Hervey is the laird.”
“But when Hervey is dead ye become the next heir and, trust me, old Hervey is verra, verra dead.”
Brona felt a brief pang of regret when she realized that news did not cause even a flutter of grief. “I cannae be the laird because I am a woman. ‘Tis why Hervey was chosen o’er me, my father’s only bairn.”
“Ye cannae be the laird but your husband can be.”
So that was it, she thought, feeling a ridiculous sense of insult as she worked strenuously to make her body as cold as ice and numb, so numb that she would not be able to even feel this man’s touch. She had no doubt that Angus had lusted after her, but he had married her to become the laird of Rosscurrach. Brona suspected Hervey had kept Angus close and loyal for years with the promise of letting Angus marry her. Hervey had been smart enough to know that, once Angus was married to her, the man could never be trusted again, that Hervey’s life would be in danger from the moment the vows were uttered. Something had happened to make Angus strike out and just take what he wanted. Brona suspected Angus would use the battle with the MacNachtons to hide his murder of the laird in some way.
“Tell me, has that demon been inside ye?” Angus asked as he gripped the front of her shift and held his knife ready to cut it off.
“Aye, he has been so blessed,” said a deep familiar voice and Brona felt her body rush to life again, “and he is the only mon who e’er will be.”
Angus sat up in shock and gaped at Heming for one brief moment before he was lifted off Brona and thrown across the room. Brona stared at Heming, lightheaded from the joy of seeing him alive and well and able to throw people around again. She met his golden gaze, saw the odd mixture of concern for her and rage at Angus, and smiled at him.
“Did he get what he wanted?” Heming asked her, aching to look her over more carefully but not daring to take his full gaze off Angus Kerr.
“Nay. We were just discussing the matter,” Brona replied.
“I would like to set ye free right now, Brona love, but I have to kill a mon first.”
“I can wait.”
Angus was back on his feet now and he rushed at Heming. The way Heming avoided the man’s heavy fists and kept knocking Angus down told her that Angus had very little chance of winning this fight. She glanced at the door to see Peter standing there. That man started toward her but she shook her head to stop him. The bedchamber was not big enough for two big men to fight without endangering everyone else in the room. She was safe enough where she was for now; but Peter could get hurt if he entered the room, or could cause a distraction that could get Heming hurt, especially now that both men had drawn their swords and were doing their best to cut each other into ribbons. She breathed a sigh of relief when Peter nodded and took up a guard’s position at the door to make sure that no one could slip into the room and attack Heming’s back.
Angus was soon staggering, blood flowing from several wounds. Brona suspected Heming was playing with the man, killing him slowly. Horrible as that was to watch, she could understand why Heming was doing it. Heming had been at the mercy of this man’s cruel hands for almost a week. He had been tortured and humiliated. For a man with Heming’s pride and strength that must have been unendurable.
Then, suddenly, Angus managed to knock Heming back against the w
all. Instead of using that advantage to thrust his sword into Heming, however, Angus ran over to her. He stood next to the bed, his sword in his shaking hand, and glared at Heming as he slowly withdrew his dagger. Brona tried to get out of his reach, but it was impossible with her hands tied so tightly to the bedposts.
“I ken I can ne’er win this fight against ye, demon,” said Angus, his voice hoarse with pain and fury, “but ere I get sent to hell I am taking something from ye as weel. Something I think ye want verra badly.”
Brona stared at the knife in Angus’s hand and knew what he intended to do, but she was helpless to stop him or to get away. All she could do was twist around on the bed as the knife plunged toward her chest. She felt the blow as the blade went into her body. Stunned, she stared down at the hilt of the knife sticking out of her chest. Then the pain hit and Brona knew she could not endure that for long, so she let the blackness rushing into her mind take her away from it.
Heming let out a bellow of rage as he watched Angus stab Brona. The man laughed even as Heming rushed at him and swung his sword. The look of triumph for causing one last person pain was still on Angus’s face as his head hit the floor, the body slowly following it down. Heming immediately turned to Brona and gave a prayer of thanks to see that the knife had not entered her heart, that she was still alive.
“Another headless body?” asked Berawald as he stepped around Peter and into the room.
“Should we be taking that down to the dungeons?” asked Peter. “Ye ken, so that the devil can take the bastard’s soul like it did the laird’s?”
“Oh, we dinnae need to move the body for that to happen. So, best ye stay away from the body,” Berawald added as he walked up to the bedside and looked down at Brona.
“Your mate is a bonnie lass, Cousin,” he told Heming. “The wound is deep but it doesnae need to be a mortal wound.”
“What do ye mean by that?” asked Heming.
“I am nay quite sure. ‘Tis just what I feel. Take the knife out and I will help ye stop the bleeding. I think Peter should send word to your mother, who follows us. She needs to be here and, nay, I am nay sure of the why of that, either.”
Peter did not question Berawald, just took off at a run. Heming did not even know or care how the battle for Rosscurrach fared. All of his attention was upon tending to Brona’s wound and praying that she would recover.
“She is dying.”
Efrica rubbed her hand over her son’s broad back trying vainly to ease the grief she felt in him, the pain roughening his voice as he spoke the ugly truth. He had not left Brona Kerr’s bedside for three long days and nights. The girl was very close to death and Efrica decided it was time to tell Heming what she had learned in the old journals she had been studying for years. Efrica was not sure she believed all she had read, despite her own situation, but it was worth a try. They had certainly tried everything else to help the girl recover.
“She needs some of your blood, Heming,” she said.
Heming sat up and stared at his mother. “She isnae a MacNachton, Maman.”
“I ken it.” She sat down in the chair at his side and leaned forward, clasping his hands in hers, her heart breaking over the sorrow he felt now and the knowledge of the agony he would feel if they could not save Brona. “Ye ken that your father and I tend to the histories of the clan. Studying them and preserving them.”
“Have ye found some connection between the MacNachtons and the Kerrs of Rosscurrach?”
“Nay, but I have found something else far more important. Heming, look at me with the eyes of a man and nay those of a loving son who will probably always see his mother as the one who held him when he was small. How old do I look?”
Heming stared at his mother and began to frown. There were few lines on her face and her skin still had the soft clear glow of a much younger woman. He wondered how he had not noticed that that was odd. He was no good at guessing people’s ages, the talent not having been of much use at Cambrun, but he tried to think of other women he knew and began to feel an odd mixture of wary and excited.
“Weel, I am nay so verra good at such things, but I would say ye look about thirty. But, have ye and Aunt nay told us many times that the Callans are a long-lived clan?”
“Long-lived being that they tend to live four score or more years. They certainly dinnae stop aging. I am o’er two score and ten years, son. Do I truly look anything like that age?”
“Nay, but how has this happened? If being wed to a MacNachton makes ye live as long as we do, then why did the laird’s mother die?”
“Because she didnae guess the secret. None of us did. I had a small idea of the truth because I read so many books and journals and began to add up a few things I had read. The laird’s mother lived to be nearly two hundred, Heming, e’en though she was an Outsider.”
“And she drank of her husband’s blood?”
“Nay, but I begin to think that, if she had, she would have lived as long as her husband. I think what added so many years to her life was that, weel, she and her husband were verra passionate. She did receive a fair bit of his, er, essence.”
Heming had to grin, for his mother was blushing. “I ken what ye mean. But why do ye think blood will work e’en better? Mayhap what happened with the old laird’s wife was all part of the mating.” Even though he was questioning his mother’s opinion, Heming began to feel the distinct tingle of hope.
“I began having a wee bit of your father’s blood o’er twenty years ago, Heming, and I havenae aged but a few days or so since that time. I carry none of the usual signs of age an Outsider would. I feel certain the secret of what makes ye MacNachtons is in your blood. And, ere ye start to worry, I havenae suddenly grown fangs or desired to drink blood, or lost my ability to go outside when the sun is shining.”
“Do ye ken, Hervey Kerr wondered if the secret of our long lives was in our blood. He had had plans to drink mine.”
“Then I am verra glad the mon is dead and nay just for what he wanted to do to ye. If I am right, this is a secret we must keep verra close and quiet. People would kill for it, Heming. There would be no place a MacNachton could hide.”
He nodded, chilled by that truth. He then thought about her opinion on what his blood might do for Brona for only a few more minutes and decided there was nothing to lose if he tried what his mother suggested. It caused him pure agony to admit it, even briefly, but Brona was dying. One could hear the approach of death in every soft rattle as she struggled to breathe.
“How do I give it to her?”
“Best if ye mix it with some wine and pour it down her throat. Ye can cut yourself and let her drink from ye later if ye wish it and if she will do it.” Efrica blushed again. “It can be verra, weel, nice.” She suddenly frowned at Brona. “Hurry, Heming, Death’s hand is definitely reaching for your lass.”
Heming made a drink of his blood and some rich wine. It was not easy getting the drink down Brona’s throat but he finally managed. With his mother’s hand in his, he sat and watched the woman he loved for any sign, however faint, that she would get strong again. The first sign was so subtle he would have missed it if he had not heard his mother take a swift indrawn breath. He listened closely and he heard it, heard the first sign that he was not going to lose his mate. The rattle in her chest was gone.
Eleven
Brona slowly opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling of her bedchamber. A moment later memories flooded her mind and she almost leapt out of bed and went screaming for the door. Only the realization that her wrists were no longer tied to the bedposts calmed her. She knew instinctively that the warm body she could now feel curled at her back was not Angus and she lightly stroked the arm wrapped around her waist. A warm, soft kiss on the nape of her neck told her that Heming was awake and she turned on her back to look at him. She sighed, for with his sleep-warmed golden eyes and his tousled hair, he was intimidatingly handsome.
Then another chilling memory skipped through her mind and she gasp
ed, hastily putting her hand on her chest where Angus’s dagger had been buried. Brona frowned in confusion for there was no bandage. She eased aside the neck of her night shift and frowned even more. There was only the faintest of red lines where her wound would have been. Had she been unconscious for so long that it had healed without her even being aware of it?
“Just how long have I been asleep?” she asked Heming, idly poking at the remnants of her wound and feeling no pain there.
Heming took her hand in his and kissed her palm. He would have to tell her the truth for many reasons. If his mother was right, the occasional drinking of his blood would ensure that he did not have to stand over her grave when she died an old woman and he was still young and vigorous. There should also be no secrets between them.
“Ye were dying, Brona,” he said quietly, needing her to understand that he would never have done something she might well find distasteful unless the need was dire. “Nothing we did could save ye and we tried everything. My mother finally told me about something she has discovered in the old histories and journals of our clan. Do ye recall how Hervey thought the secret to our strength and long lives was in our blood?”
Brona tensed. “Aye and he planned to drink yours to see if he was right.”
“Weel, ‘tis a surprise a mon like him could stumble upon a truth like that, but he was right. I gave ye some of my blood, Brona. Mixed it with wine and poured it down your throat.”
“When was that?”
“Last night. Ye have slept through most of the day.”
Brona knew she should be disgusted, maybe even looking for something to thoroughly rinse her mouth out with, but she only felt a passing twinge of unease. Then again she had overcome her unease with the fact that Heming drank blood and did so straight from the source. She took another peek at the faint mark that was all that was left of what she suspected had been a mortal wound. Considering some of the putrid potions healers mixed up, a little blood with her wine seemed almost mild and it had obviously worked a miraculous cure.
Highland Thirst Page 12
