“I don’t think it is,” she whispered back, her voice hitching on the last word. A few hours ago, she’d thought she had nothing, yet something had been lost since then. She could feel a space, empty and hollow, inside her chest.
“Dinna cry,” he murmured. She felt his lips move against her hair. “I’m sorry.”
The space filled up with tears, and though she tried to hold them back, they spilled over and dripped down her cheeks. When MacLain urged her head toward his chest, she gave in and leaned against him.
“Sleep, lass. You’ve had a long day. Sleep now.”
“I can’t.” But she didn’t raise her head. The slow beat of his heart was as soothing as a lullaby. And regardless of what she’d seen tonight, the man still smelled of heaven. Of icy clouds and crisp air. “What are you, MacLain?”
He sighed, and the sound of it rushed against her ear. “I’m not sure I can explain it.”
“Have you not done so before?”
“Nay. Never. And it’s a difficult thing. Have you ever heard stories of a creature called a revenant?”
“I don’t think so.”
He shifted and tucked his plaid more tightly around her. Heat crept higher over her back. “There are tales of cursed creatures…Dead men who rise from their graves to exact revenge against those who’ve wronged them. They wander the land, living on the blood of their victims.”
“Is that…Are you one of those revenants?” She couldn’t keep the doubt from her voice. He hardly felt like a corpse. His heart still thundered against her cheek.
“I never truly died,” he said. “But I have spent fifty years hunting for my enemies. And I do drink blood.”
She felt him holding his breath after those words. She could hear the silence, because she held her breath, too. He’d been alive for more than fifty years? He drank blood? “Whose blood?” she rasped.
“I, uh, try to confine myself to cattle. I keep several cows.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s easier that way, as—”
She pushed up. “I mean, why would you drink blood?”
“I must. To stay alive. I am a vampire.”
Vampire. The word raised no alarm inside her head. It meant nothing to her. “Do you like it?”
“What?”
She felt his gaze touch her face as she looked up at him. “The blood.”
“Oh. I see.” He leaned back a bit, rolling his shoulders away from her. “Cow’s blood is only passable.”
Well, that answered nothing, but she could hear the embarrassment in his voice, and somehow his discomfort eased her own nervousness. However old he might be and whatever he might drink to keep himself alive, he seemed nothing more than a man in that moment. And what could she do, anyway? Question him until he agreed to release her? And then where would she be? Homeless and helpless against the attack of that French beast.
Sighing, she eased back to the hard comfort of his chest. “You won’t bite me, then?”
“No,” he rumbled in response.
She hadn’t realized his hand had hovered over her shoulder until he eased it down to rest against her arm. His fingers curled to hold her. The heavy muscles of his arm were a weight against her back, and Kenna became suddenly aware of how much she’d missed that. A man’s arm finding rest on her shoulders.
This man wasn’t a man at all. And yet when he’d kissed her, she’d felt like a woman for the first time in years. Kenna was frowning in confusion when the night floated her up into dreams of bloody demons with angels’ wings.
The sky was lightening to a midnight blue in the east. Occasional birdsong broke the silence of the predawn.
Morning usually filled Finlay’s soul with exhaustion, at the least. Not physical exhaustion, but a bone-deep weariness that sometimes spiraled into despair. But as this dawn approached he felt something entirely different. Anticipation. Such delicious anticipation that he wished they were more than a half mile from the castle.
The cold had soaked into him in the past two hours, turning his flesh cool. But where his body touched Kenna’s, he retained his warmth and absorbed hers as well.
Finlay drew in a deep breath, pretending to scent the night for danger, but his real goal was to draw the taste of Kenna Graham deep into his lungs. His whole body tightened as if his skin were drawing close.
He hadn’t thought much of holding her when they’d first mounted. He’d been busy worrying over Jean and berating himself for letting the man escape. And then there had been the added distraction of the skittish horse. Still, he’d quickly made room in his thoughts for the roundness of her hips between his thighs and the feather softness of her hair when it brushed his face.
His regrets were vanished now. Strange. Very strange. He’d lived for nothing but revenge, nothing but absolution…nothing more than that for fifty years. Perhaps the talk of mates and what that might mean to a vampire, perhaps the tales had been accurate.
Finlay closed his eyes and pretended that Kenna Graham wasn’t asleep. If she wasn’t asleep, that would mean she leaned into him because she wanted to. It would mean her body curved so effortlessly into his because she desired his touch.
A brief wave of dizziness overtook Finlay for a moment. Feeling foolish, he forced his eyes open. It didn’t help. Instead of picturing her in his mind, he found himself staring down at her mouth, faintly parted. Tiny wisps of white fogged in the cold when she exhaled. His cock tightened at the thought of leaning down and breathing her in.
He hadn’t exactly been celibate since becoming a vampire. In fact, at the start of his new life he’d lowered himself to shameful depths of immorality. That shame had worked itself into his bones, but not deep enough to stop his body’s needs.
So, yes, he’d had women, but he’d tried his best to keep his lust contained. He’d pressed it down until it was a flat, hard thing. Something bitter instead of sweet.
But now there was this.
Kenna sighed and rubbed the side of her face against his chest. His heart squeezed in response. He barely even glanced at the thick bailey walls as they passed. He’d made this journey countless times, but he’d never had Kenna Graham in his arms before.
A lithe, silent figure approached as Finlay led the horse past the inner walls. The mount was too tired to protest anymore. Its ears barely even flickered at the approach of a stranger.
“Gray,” Finlay murmured to his manservant. “I’ve purchased a horse. I hope you remember how to care for one.”
“Not so different from a cow, my laird,” Gray whispered.
“All right,” he responded, though he wasn’t so sure of that. “I’ve also brought home a visitor.”
Gray said nothing. Luckily, the care of Kenna would fall under Mrs. McDermott. Gray did not like people.
When the servant took hold of the bridle, Finlay swung his leg over and tried to slide off the horse in one smooth motion. Lines creased into Kenna’s forehead just before she opened her eyes, arms flying out as if to catch herself.
“Dinna fear. We’re at my home.”
Despite his soft tone, her eyes rolled wildly from side to side. The hint of dawn was too faint for her, he realized. She could see nothing.
“Mistress Kenna, we’ve arrived at MacLain Castle. You’ve a chance to sleep in a bed now.” Her jaw tightened, so Finlay added, “And nothing more.”
He was anxious to get her inside, but Gray’s voice stopped him. “Laird, we have a visitor. Another one, I mean.”
That froze him in his tracks. He inhaled sharply, testing the air for the smell of Jean. No. That wasn’t the scent he found. “Who?” he barked.
“A servant of the king.”
A courtier. Damn it. They were after him again, and he’d put them off too long. This would be trouble and he had no time for it.
Kenna twisted a bit, making clear that she wanted to be set down. Finlay reluctantly eased her to her feet. “What’s wrong?” she demanded.
“Nothing. It’s nothing. Po
litics.”
“Who is it?”
“Just a courtier. Nothing more.”
Kenna frowned. “They know about you?”
“No.” The king didn’t know about him, but he and his people suspected something. Something that might benefit the crown. “It’s nothing,” he said again. “Let’s get you to bed.”
Kenna shot him a sharp glance, but Finlay pretended he hadn’t meant what he’d meant, and led her quickly across the courtyard. Not his bed, then. Not tonight.
“Laird MacLain.” The lanky young man bowed just low enough to convey the appropriate amount of respect and no more. “I am Guthrie, here as a servant to our king.”
Finlay inclined his head. “And here I thought you’d come to break bread with me.” The man’s tight smile offered the exact opposite of amusement. Finlay’s gut turned with dislike. He hated court and everything about it, and here was a man who clearly thrived on politics.
“The king requested that I come personally to remind you of your promise to present yourself at Stirling before month’s end. In case it has escaped your notice, the month draws quickly to a close.”
“I haven’t time for this right now,” Finlay snapped.
The man smirked. “You should be careful not to displease him. Again.”
God’s blood. He’d ignored James as long as he’d been able, but his refusal to show himself at court had only sharpened the royal curiosity. Finlay was aware of the rumors floating beneath the surface of polite society. No one suspected he was a vampire, of course. No one at court knew what a vampire was.
No, they thought he was a sorcerer, able to bend people to his will through magic. The king wished to find out if this was true, and if it was…Well, then Finlay would prove a permanent asset at court.
Ironically, if they knew the true extent of his powers, he wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the king. Finlay tried one last excuse.
“I have no special skills to offer the king, and I am needed here.”
The courtier’s scornful glance about the hall made clear what he thought of Finlay’s words. “Regardless of your duties here, the king’s patience is at an end. Either you arrive at Stirling Castle before the end of the month, or you’ll be tried for witchcraft.”
“Witchcraft! That’s an outrageous insult.”
“Come now, Laird MacLain. All of Scotland knows you sold your soul to the Devil. But only the king knows what you received in return.”
“God above, that’s ridiculous.”
“I’m sure our liege will be pleased to discuss it with you. Or see you burned at the stake, of course.”
If I punch him, I will kill him, Finlay told himself. His fist clenched, but he managed to keep it by his side and didn’t even consider reaching for his sword. This preening bastard had no idea how lucky he was. Years ago, Finlay hadn’t known the meaning of self-control. Destroying everyone around him had finally taught him that lesson. He wished it hadn’t been so damned hard to learn.
“I’ve had a long journey, Guthrie. If you’ll excuse me, I mean to take my rest. We can speak over supper tonight, if you like.”
“Ah, I’m afraid I’ll have to extend my sincere regret, Laird MacLain. I left my men in Doune and must rejoin them for the journey back. I arrived last night, you know. In fact, I can’t imagine how I missed you on the road as you left. Passing strange, don’t you agree?”
“Not particularly. I wish you well on your journey, then. Godspeed.”
“And on yours as well, Laird MacLain. May it be soon.” The courtier touched a finger to his brilliant blue bonnet, put his other hand on his sword hilt, offered a tiny bow, and left.
Christ, he hoped the man had the good sense to remove the peacock feathers during his ride or he’d likely be killed by hunters. Or set upon by brigands. Finlay tried, and failed, not to smile at the thought.
Light eked past the tight seams of the shutters, so it was past time for him to find his bed. He wondered if Kenna had managed to fall asleep yet. She’d been as skittish as that horse when he’d led her inside. The sight of Mrs. McDermott had seemed to offer only the barest comfort. Then again, the woman was fantastically old. Perhaps Kenna thought the housekeeper was a walking corpse as well.
He waited for Gray to confirm that the king’s man was well and truly gone, and then Finlay took the stairs. The twisted hallway led to ten rooms, then up to the parapets above. But aside from his room, there were only three kept ready. Two of the doors stood open; the third was closed. This was Kenna’s room.
Before he even reached her door, he knew he would end up standing before it. He’d stand there and wonder. He’d imagine her inside. Finlay knew all this even as his feet came to a stop.
Worried that she might be cold, he drew in a deep breath and caught the scent of woodsmoke and hot iron. Yes, Mrs. McDermott’s grandson had laid out a good pyre of wood. The smell of fresh bread crept into the hallway as well, satisfying his next worry.
She was warm and fed and safe, and the sound of her breathing made clear she’d found sleep as well. Finlay could move on now, but he didn’t. Instead, he stared at the latch and told himself not to touch it.
It didn’t matter that she’d let him kiss her earlier. It didn’t matter that her bonny body had heated at his touch and grown wet as he kissed her. It didn’t matter because she’d thought him a man then, and now if she woke to find him watching her sleep, her heart might stop with sheer terror.
Ah, well. When she woke later, perhaps sleep would have stolen some of her fear. As for his own…Well, he didn’t have much hope that his fear would fade before he woke.
Kenna Graham was his mate, and he had no idea what to do with her.
Chapter Three
At first, the darkness was like a cocoon, warm and safe and familiar. But slowly, as Kenna tried to ease free of the muffling bonds of sleep, she realized something was not right. Her tiny room beneath the attic eaves of the inn might be dark and relatively safe, but it was decidedly not warm. And her regular pallet wasn’t thick and springy beneath her back.
Eyes wide open, Kenna lay still and tried to see something, anything. Finally, an ember caught her eye, then another spark of deep orange. The glowing coals looked like the gaze of a beast for a brief, frightening moment, and that was when she remembered.
The MacLain.
A tiny squeak escaped her throat before she could stop it, but then Kenna swallowed her breath, forced it back, and held it tight within her lungs. Was he here with her? Was he in the bed? She listened for breathing, but heard nothing and sensed no one. If only it weren’t so dark.
Before ten heartbeats had passed, Kenna had already grown impatient with her terror. She’d never been impulsive, and she couldn’t stand to lie there wondering what might be happening, so she sighted her eyes on those glowing embers and eased her feet over the side of the bed. She could picture the room now, a simple square furnished with nothing more than a bed and chest. The door was to her left, and it hadn’t been locked behind her when she’d been left here.
Forcing herself to stand, she moved three feet forward and reached her hand to the left. After a few tense moments of groping, she finally touched the wood of the door. The latch opened when she pushed it, and the door swung silently in.
Finally, a bit of light. Not much, but enough to see that her small chamber was empty. A candle sat on a table. Kenna wrenched it from the holder and pushed it into the embers. The wick caught, and she could see. Yes, she was alone, aside from the ghosts who lived here, and there had to be plenty. But after facing the hell-beast who’d tried to eat her earlier, Kenna couldn’t summon up fear for mere wisps of spirit.
And what of the hell-beast who’d kissed her?
Kenna slumped back down to the feather bed. She was in MacLain Castle. With the MacLain. And he was some sort of faery or demon or vampire, whatever that might mean.
She couldn’t imagine that she’d managed to sleep, but the bread and mead had filled her belly and muddl
ed her mind, and sleep had been the only clear answer as to what to do.
But what to do now? Was it day? Night? She glanced at the shutters of the window and the three thick iron bars that kept them closed. Then she glanced at the open door. Well then. The easiest path seemed the best answer. Kenna pulled on her shoes.
Though she began with weak knees and a rattling heart, as the minutes passed and Kenna found nothing and no one in the passageway, she grew weary of her cowering and simply explored. She found the stairway easily enough, but when she reached the great hall, nothing moved there but two flickering rush lights.
Had she been left here alone then? The last traces of her fear hardened into irritation. For a great laird with the power of the Devil on his side, MacLain led a decidedly severe life. There were no servants rushing about, no pot bubbling over the fire, no fire at all, for heaven’s sake.
Shivering from the cold and scowling over her empty stomach, Kenna ventured toward the small door set next to the hearth. Pray God there was a kitchen there, complete with fire and food. She could not face life with monsters without something warm in her belly.
Her perseverance was rewarded. In the kitchen, Kenna discovered a pot of parritch steaming in the hearth. No servants still. Perhaps the laird had called them all to his chambers to bathe and perfume him.
Laughing at the very idea of MacLain wearing perfume, Kenna retrieved a wooden bowl and spoon from a shelf and ladled out a generous helping of parritch to fill her belly.
She sat at a small wood table, but after the first bite found herself nervously glancing between the doorway that led to the hall and the smaller door that likely led to a garden. How vulnerable it felt, sitting here, waiting for a stranger to stumble upon her.
Kenna grabbed up her bowl and carried it with her to wander the hall. There was not much to see in the huge square room. One large table sat before the cold hearth. Four benches were pulled ’round it. An old claymore hung above the mantel, and two tapestries flanked it. The bright colors of the pictures told her nothing, though, aside from the fact that some long-ago ancestor had greatly enjoyed hunting stag. And perhaps that the wife had resented the time he spent hunting.
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