“Your man eats your meal for you? And you allow it?”
“I canna’ do it justice, leannan.”
“That’s ridiculous. Just look at the size of you. You eat. You have to.”
“My size does na’ change. Ever. This is what my Honor Guard works to avoid.”
“Your size?”
“Rumor and speculation over such a thing. And how the years fail to dent any of it.”
Tira shook her head to clear it. It didn’t work. Everything felt muddled and fogged. “Where are we?” she asked.
“Safe.”
“Where exactly is safe?”
“Beneath my cabin. In a chamber I had constructed and designed. In secret and with a fortune in bribe money.”
“Why go to all that trouble?”
“So my Honor Guardsmen can partake of my meal and na’ one soul is the wiser that it was na’ me at that table.”
“Maybe he didn’t take it all. Maybe he left a slice of bread?”
“Bread? You want bread?”
“It smelled heavenly, didn’t it? And I’m famished. I haven’t had as much as a crust since sometime before our—uh . . . wedding and—”. . . the consummation that followed. Her words dribbled off in recollection of how he’d shown her absolute heaven. And had it been twice? Last night was a darker blur than the space about them. It had been twice. She’d started the second one. Tira blushed. That made everything moist and warm in the enclosure where it had been chilled and inhospitable.
“You can smell it?”
“What?” Tira had to keep her thoughts on what he said and not what he made her feel. But how was she to do that when everything about him seemed created to heighten and enhance? No wonder women acted as they did around Iain MacAvee. She was in danger of it herself.
“Bread.”
“Oh, yes . . . bread. Of course I smell it. You can’t?”
“Na’ unless I want to. All I smell is blood, leannan. That . . . and lust. Yours for me is particularly noticeable.”
“Of all the odious, egotistical, arrogant—”
“Are you saying ’tis untrue?”
Tira turned her head and put her cheek against his chest and listened to the solid thump of his heart, oddly mimicking hers. Her tongue felt larger, thick, useless. She bit at it and felt the minute sting of a cut before shaking her head slightly.
“That’s what I thought you’d be saying,” he finally answered.
“I don’t understand, Iain.”
“I dinna’ ask for this prowess, Tira. For a man of a score and five, though, ’twas a true gift. At first.”
“At first?” She stiffened slightly.
“Anything done to excess becomes a bore. And then a bane. And then a burden. Trust me.”
“To excess?” She choked on the word as one hand curled into a fist.
“Anything.”
“You might not want to say another word, Iain.” As a threat, it didn’t do what she wanted. He simply sent a breath of possible amusement all over her exposed flesh.
“You canna’ fight it, lass. Well . . . you can, but will na’ change anything.”
“And you’ll be finding yourself locked out of my chamber quite often if you don’t cease speaking, Iain Evan Duncan and-a-few-other-names MacAvee.”
He pulled back. “I doona’ ken you at all, and I’m na’ fond of your track of thinking.”
“Iain—”
“Hush. And listen. I’ve got words that need saying and deeds I canna’ undo. And forgiveness that I dare na’ even ask for.”
“Forgiveness?”
He nodded. She felt it. And then he started talking again, the words low and clear through where her ear rested on his chest.
“The attraction of the lasses was always there. I dinna’ ask for it. I dinna’ want it in particular, but I dinna’ fight it. What man would?”
“Iain—”
He ignored her low-toned outburst. “ ’Tis said all MacAvee lairds have this appeal. It came from birth. Passed on from sire to son. Even with the scars I suffered in battle. The lasses would na’ leave me alone. ’Twas almost a curse.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I could na’ attend the slightest fest without an issue. There’s a sonnet written about the fight that took place on May fest back in 1536. The laird’s wife had a grand lust and was na’ averse to showing it. And acting on it. That fight burnt down Glencairn’s great hall. Took a century until I got the deeds and had it rebuilt.”
“Did you say 1536?” Tira’s voice accurately portrayed her disbelief even if he couldn’t see her expression.
“Aye. I was na’ even a score in age yet,” Iain continued. “That was na’ the first of my troubles, either.”
“I don’t want to hear any more. Really. You can cease regaling me with nonsense. I’ll wait for my supper. I promise.”
He ignored her again. “The worst incident was when I came to the attention of the wife of the Douglas of Loch Nyven. She was a right bonny one. Ripe. Inviting.”
“Don’t you understand English, Iain? I said I don’t want to hear.”
“I should have been forewarned. Na’ of her husband. He was used to being a cuckold. I should have been told of bloody Stewart, King James the fifth!”
“The king?” The words were deadpan as disbelief had gone right over to complete doubt and skepticism. Tira closed her eyes. It was better than rolling them.
“How was I to ken he’d taken her for his mistress? Hell, he already had two of them at Edinburgh right beneath the queen’s nose!”
“You truly expect me to believe this, don’t you?”
“That’s why I was at Solway Moss. I was ordered to be there. Fighting for the king. As punishment.”
“Solway Moss?”
“Aye. November twenty-fourth it was. 1542. Cursed fogged day. See, your King Henry the eighth declared war but sent the Duke of Norfolk to fight his battles for him. It was another defeat for the Scots. One of many, curse them. Doona’ you ken your own history?”
“I have to admit, Iain. One thing you do is spin a grand story.”
“You doona’ believe me.”
“Of course not.”
“I dinna’ at first, either.”
“At . . . first?”
“Aye. At first you fight it. You try and behave as normal. You eat as you used to. Will na’ matter. Roasted meat. Bread. Even ale. Na’ a bit of it will stay in your belly. Turns to poison if you try. You believe you can walk about like other men—in full sun . . . and you canna’. The sun’s rays are worse than a burn from a fire pit.”
“You’re trying to tell me you’re three hundred years old. Is that it?”
“You miscalculate. I am na’ three hundred. I am two hundred ninety-eight. Unless you add in the score and five I was when that wretch turned me. That would make me a mite over three hundred.”
“Iain, please—”
“Is it so verra hard to believe, leannan? ”
“In a word, yes. Double yes. And then add a third. This is impossible to believe.”
He gave another sigh. “You’ve heard of the Black Death?”
“You asked that last night, didn’t you?”
He nodded. She felt it. “I was trying for a bit of honor. Restraint. I dinna’ wish to turn you unless you agreed.”
“T-t-turn me?”
“I love you, Tira. You believe that?”
The solid thump of his heart toyed at her ear, while the legs she perched atop had nothing cool about them anywhere. They still resembled iron, although it was flesh-wrapped metal now, while he moved a hand into hair that had to be a nest of snarls. Tira reached a hand to smooth it and collided with his. And that just got hers snatched.
“Y-y-yes.”
“Your little stammer is verra endearing, love.”
“What did you mean, turn me?”
“You’ll recollect I love you, no matter what I tell you? Fair?”
It was difficult
to concentrate with what had to be a tongue fixated on her wrist, lapping at the tissue there.
“Black . . . Death, Iain.”
“ ’Twas the start of the talk. Tales of death dealers started up, creatures that walked the night, taking a man’s lifeblood and tossing the flesh. You ever told these?”
“Everyone hears stories like that. To frighten . . . and entertain. I think plays are written about them. They’re not called death dealers. They’re called—I can’t remember the term . . .”
Her voice lowered, losing the words, but that was his fault as he moved his ministration up her arm toward an elbow, wrapping it about him as he went.
“We’re called vampires, leannan.”
“Vampires.”
The word was softly whispered, engendering illicit sensual overtones onto the term. She couldn’t keep her mind functioning and that wasn’t normal. Or sane. Or anything other than complete madness. His touch was at the core of her trouble, too. Just like before.
“Aye, love. Vampires. Purveyors of death. Proprietors of the night. Seeking only to satisfy their lusts while taking their pleasure. Is this the tales you’ve heard?”
She nodded. His voice created shivers that went over her entire frame before centering somewhere deep within her. Calling to something primitive and earthy that stirred and came to life in her very core. Something she’d never felt before. One thing she believed about this story was his prowess with women. The man’s voice created pleasure, his touch generated energy, and his frame and size guaranteed sexual satisfaction. She could well believe centuries of women swooned over him if the sensation matched what he did to her. She only wished she had the fortitude to deny it.
“We doona’ just take our pleasures, love. We give them. You ken?”
“I . . . don’t believe in . . . vampires, Iain.”
“I dinna’, either.”
“You’re crazed, Iain. Mad. Someone should’ve warned me. The family curse is insanity, isn’t it? This is why you chose an impoverished English girl to betroth.”
“Leannan . . . look to me.”
Look? Without light?
The glow was back, diffusing gold-washed light onto the walls. Tira rolled her head along one of his chest mounds, reached a shoulder, and tilted her head back before doing as he asked. Her eyes went huge and her breath caught at the opened lips, sharp teeth, and the absolute power seeming to hum from him, filling the enclosure with energy.
“These are fangs, love. For drawing lifeblood. Go ahead. Touch. Feel.”
“Iain . . . I—”
Do it!
The command went right through her consciousness without his voicing it. Tira trembled as she reached to run a finger along one long spiked tooth. She felt the oddest prick in her own bottom lip at the same time.
“Iain . . .”
“Now, touch your own.”
Her heart was blocking her throat. That had to be the obstruction lodged there, impeding her breathing and her swallowing as she did what he ordered. Tira found two like spikes protruding from her upper teeth. They were sharp enough to cut her index finger, and she pulled it away to stare at the pin drop of dark blood.
“This . . . can’t be.” Her voice shuddered, matching the tremor overtaking her entire body.
“Tira, I—”
“This is . . . a nightmare. It is. It has to be! Please? No! This isn’t real! It isn’t! How could you do this to me? Oh, Iain . . . no!”
There was more, sobbed with a voice that broke along with her words. She lifted from him or got lifted. The space was black again, everything was. But Tira didn’t see it. She clamped both hands over the horror that was her face . . . the horror he’d made her visualize and then feel. He didn’t stop her. He didn’t even touch her. But she knew he left. She didn’t see it. She knew only one moment he was there, and the next, he’d vanished.
Chapter Twelve
Iain looked down at the moon-tipped waves with unseeing eyes and waited. He’d sated to such an overfull state his ears rang with the infusion of blood into his veins. He couldn’t remember when he’d last taken so much, perhaps back when he’d first turned and found the taste ambrosia to the senses. He’d been insatiable then, too, but with a different result. Back then, he’d leave animals near death and shepherds begging for assist with their flock. Not now. Gluttony of this magnitude required precision and skill. All of which he’d practiced to such a fine art not one animal noted the pricks, nor would any consequence be visible in the morning.
And so he waited out here in the dark for his body to absorb the feeding. He’d done it for a reason. His bride was going to need sustenance, and she wasn’t going to take it easily.
Iain pondered his situation in the soulless waves, growing high enough to wash the deck occasionally, wetting his boots and the bottom of his feile-breacan. He’d waited the last few years to go to her because he feared the demon within him. He lacked control of it—and the last thing he’d wanted was an eternity with a fledgling girl at his side. He’d wanted her full-grown, educated, and ready . . . and happy.
Iain sighed and reached for the railing. He was lying to himself. He wasn’t waiting for his body to absorb the volume of fluid. He was out here because he was afraid. Him: Iain Duncan Evan James Alexander MacAvee, fourth Duke of MacAvee. Earl of Glencairn and Blannock, chieftain of Clans MacAvee, MacGruder, and two other clans. He admitted it. Freely. But only to himself. Iain was out here on a wave-washed deck, watching the black of an ocean until it disappeared, because he was afraid of facing one little woman.
If he possessed a gilded tongue, he’d have used it already, begging her forgiveness with words such as the English seemed to spout—at any time and for any reason. But he didn’t have the gift. No MacAvee did. They were known for reticence. The past was filled with tales of victory and conquest and ruthlessness, all accomplished with few words and no emotion. That was another thing. A MacAvee didn’t show emotion because it was said they failed to possess them. Made it easier to attack and deal with the responsibilities and spoils of victory. Taking a man’s land and his castle and his clan required overseeing and controlling it. There wasn’t a need of regret, emotion, or words. And in those, Iain did his ancestry proud.
He’d grown up with the tales and then he’d added to them. MacAvee lairds were all large men, handsome, fearless, descended from Highlanders that defeated more than one wave of Norse marauders. A MacAvee sought ostracism before dishonor, maiming before capture, and death before defeat. They acted with courage and valor. Honor. Pride. They were revered and feared by everyone, including their Honor Guard. It was part of the legend and one Iain added to with alacrity and a great sense of accomplishment and pleasure.
And now . . . it was all as dust in his mouth, tasteless, and endless. Joyless. Because of one woman.
The waves beneath him grew large. Not enough for worry, but enough to tell of the weather ahead. The moment they’d turned north, it changed. As if every portion of the ship and everything on it knew they left civilization and the stricture of massed groups of people behind and replaced it with untrammeled beauty and freedom. All you had to do was open your senses: Hike through a forest, run across a moor, ford a glen, climb along a dale . . . do any of these things, and you’d know beauty and freedom and happiness like no other. Scotland was filled with the grandness of men and women who’d lived and died for it. All you had to do was inhale it.
Iain pulled in a large breath and forced the experience into his consciousness; the moist feel of rain-laden air just waiting to release, the slight brine smell of seawater; the perfect blend of moonlit quiet and pending wave-borne fury. It was as it always had been, and would continue to be. And he was still out here, waiting and afraid. And alone. Iain exhaled slowly and twisted his hands into claws about the iron rail.
The view blurred into a mesh of ocean and cloud-laden sky. Iain shuddered and blinked and kept at it until everything went back into focus. Distinct and lonely. He sniffed, and then h
e watched in disbelief as the ocean blurred again. And then he pulled every muscle in his body into a mass of coiled anger, his back aching with the effort while braided iron marks got imprinted into his palms, until the weakness faded and then passed. And then got buried . . . as he should have been nearly three hundred years ago.
Iain frowned. And then he snarled. He was the MacAvee chieftain. He couldn’t afford an exhibition of weakness. Ever. MacAvee lairds passed judgment, made war, granted favors, assumed full responsibility for their clans, and they never admitted regret. They were immune from human frailties, including something so close to weeping he’d kill the man who even hinted at it.
Iain looked to his right and left to make certain he’d had no observers. And that’s when he saw her. This time he gripped the iron so hard, the ends loosened and it rotated one-quarter turn before he stopped. She was wearing the seafoam green gown, and there wasn’t a mark on it, despite the damage he’d done. Her hair was unbound, sending a red-hued draping all about her as wind tossed the strands. She wasn’t aware of her powers, yet, or she’d not be approaching, her steps doing little to alter the drape of her gown as it skimmed her legs. . . .
“Your Grace?”
At Grant’s voice, Iain swiveled his head to the other side and glared at the man for daring to witness his Tira. Then he turned fully to face his second-in-command, blocking everything.
“You’d best have a verra good reason for being here, Grant. Damn good.”
“Her Grace is asking for you.”
Iain swung about to see nothing save open deck getting washed with wave water. He blinked twice and still found nothing. That’s when he got the first glimpse of her power.
“Iain. Oh . . . Iain. Iain?”
Tira writhed on the bare mattress, trying to get as much of her skin into contact with the ticking as possible. Her existence was becoming a nightmare. From the horror of that story he told her in that black cubicle beneath this bed to the sip of water she’d taken. All of it was horrid and getting worse. Her skin was too tight, the nightgown she’d donned impossibly restrictive and confining and creating sweat where it stifled her flesh. Tira tore at the material, hearing the rip of seams and clatter of buttons peppering the wooden floor as she worked at it.
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