Once Upon A Haunted Castle: A Celtic Romance Anthology

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Once Upon A Haunted Castle: A Celtic Romance Anthology Page 9

by Eliza Knight


  “Beiste!” she shouted, dropping her knife and wrapping her arms around his neck. “How did ye find me?”

  He buried his face in her hair, sweeping her up in his arms. “I followed the tracks. And when my scout said Bjork had ye go off into the woods, I separated from my men to head ye off.”

  “Thank God ye came for me.” Her eyes stung with tears. He was so warm. So solid. So strong. Elle pressed her face to his chest and breathed in his familiar scent, trying to wrap her mind around the fact that he was there and the storm of emotions that flooded her entire being.

  “I swore to protect ye.”

  “An oath ye didna have to keep.”

  Beiste tipped her chin, connecting his gaze with hers. “Aye. I did. I wanted to.”

  He stared into her eyes and she wanted nothing more than to beg him to kiss her, drown against his lips, his embrace. But the sounds of a battle raged behind them and her heart hammered with fear and trepidation.

  “I have to help my men. Come, my horse is over here.” He put a hand on her lower back, guiding her to the left. “I want ye to wait for me, hidden. Ride hard if I dinna come back.”

  “Nay.” She jerked to a stop. “I want to help.”

  “Please, Elle, for me. Stay hidden. I have news.”

  “News?”

  “Go. My mount is that way.” He whistled and a neighing reply sounded.

  Before she could beg him to answer, he was running through the woods, back toward Bjork and his men.

  Picking up her knife, Elle made her way the few dozen yards to Beiste’s horse which was also headed toward her. The horse stilled for her to climb onto his broad back and she sat there for perhaps a minute or two before she decided she couldn’t simply wait. If there was going to be a battle with Bjork, and Beiste, who she’d enlisted, was going to be a part of it, she couldn’t simply sit back and wait. She had to help in any way she could. To prove her own bravery, to show him how much she loved him, how grateful she was.

  If only she had a sword. Damn Bjork for taking hers.

  She felt beneath the saddle blanket and smiled. Just as any true warrior would, Beiste had a second sword stashed there. Withdrawing the sword, she urged his horse to head back toward Bjork. The sounds of battle grew louder the closer she got. Shouts, clangs, cries.

  By the time she broke through the trees, many of the Vikings lay on the ground and so did a few of the Scots. The rest were in hard combat. Slicing, blocking, hacking. Shouts of anger, bellows of pain. It left her speechless with fear and angst. She stared through the throngs of fighting men searching for Beiste and Bjork. Why she didn’t spot them right away was a mystery.

  They two were the largest of men. The fiercest. The most angry. Each of them was splattered with blood, teeth barred.

  Her grip faltered on the sword. Thinking she could somehow aide in this fight had been a mistake. Why couldn’t she stick with her original plan of running? Of letting Beiste handle Bjork on his own? Why did she have to be so stupid?

  Aye, she’d practiced fencing at Castle Gloom, but never had she seen a true battle until her parents had been taken from her. If she were to get in Beiste’s way, he could be harmed. The horse sensed her agitation, worry, and instead of backing up as she commanded, the animal surged forward into the battle.

  Elle let out an ear-piercing scream, grappling with the reins, trying to pull back as hard as she could, but it was hard with a sword in one hand. And she didn’t want to drop it. As it was, men took the opportunity to rush her and she swiped one away. She was grateful to Gunnar who grappled another. Even her horse got in on the action, raising up on his hind legs and bopping a man with his thick head and forelegs.

  Beiste caught sight of her, momentarily distracted. She screamed as Bjork raised his sword, prepared to levy a death stroke on her beloved.

  Aye, she loved him. Intensely.

  “Beiste! Watch out!”

  He turned in time, raising his sword to block the blow. Seeing her seemed to give him a renewed sense of strength, a supernatural power. He intensified his assault, tackling Bjork to the ground with a piercing battle cry. All around her, men fought to the death. One by one, the Vikings fell, either dead or too injured to continue. Beiste’s men seemed to possess a sense of honor, not bothering with killing off the wounded, but taking down those who continued to fight.

  Gaze fastened on Beiste, fear pummeling her insides, Elle watched him crush Bjork beneath his fists. He used no weapons. He continued to pound away until the man who’d killed her parents, killed Beiste’s father, no longer breathed, his face a mush of blood and bone.

  As soon as Beiste stood, his eyes turned toward her. She felt dizzy with relief, affection, and something so strong, she couldn’t even name it.

  He charged toward her, nearly ripping her from the horse, his mouth claiming hers for all to see.

  Elle clung to him, arms around his neck, body pressed tightly to his, she wished they were one. That she’d never leave his side, that they could be together forever.

  “I didna think…” She started peppering his face with kisses and he threaded his hands in her hair and breathed her in. “God, I was terrified. If he’d have…” She couldn’t even say the word killed, it was too painful to contemplate.

  “Ye should have remained hidden,” he growled, his fingers digging into her back as he crushed his mouth to hers again. “Ye should have listened. Ye could have been killed.” He spoke between kisses, leaving her breathless and speechless all at once.

  “I couldn’t. I… I needed to help. Needed to see that ye lived! I love ye. Did ye hear me? I love ye!” Love! She’d confessed to him her feelings, split open her heart and shared it.

  At her words, Beiste pushed her to arm’s length, dark clouds storming in his eyes. He shook his head. Didn’t say anything.

  She waited, heart wide open, tears stinging her eyes as he denied her feelings with that subtle shake of his head.

  “Ye shouldna.” Then he turned his back and walked away.

  Chapter Ten

  The ride back to Dunstaffnage Castle was painful, to say the least.

  At least Beiste had cleaned himself by the river. The only blood on his person was the invisible blood of the woman’s heart he’d broken—and that of his own shredded soul.

  Elle sat pillion on his horse, her arms encircling his waist, her breasts to his back, her face pressed to his spine. She clung to him and though it was mostly because they were riding hard back to the castle, he also hoped it was because she needed him.

  Och, but, nay! How could he want such a thing? Especially after her confession, how he’d smashed her offer, her gift as though he were the worst kind of monster alive. A true beast.

  She loved him?

  Beiste tried to grapple with that admission. Love. Love. Love.

  What was love?

  What did it mean?

  Did he deserve it?

  Could he return it?

  Lord, help him, but he already knew he loved her. With every fiber of his being. His heart sung to hear her words, his body had literally tingled. And then his mind had laid a cracking whip against his chest, laying him open, exposed and wounded.

  Everyone he loved perished. Died. Did he really want that for her? Was it too late for her, because he loved her so deeply? Was she already doomed to a terrible fate? Or had she already escaped that fate right before his eyes? Hell, he’d just battled the very devil himself who’d taken her—and she was still living and breathing. They had won. She was not dead, but alive and breathing behind him.

  Was it possible, truly, that whatever terrible curse he’d been punished with had been lifted?

  Beiste glanced down at her hands pressed to his middle, his own arms holding on to those precious limbs. She’d think that he simply held on to her for practicality’s sake, but it wasn’t. He liked touching her. Wanted to touch her. Didn’t know what the bloody hell he was going to do about it.

  Was that what Beiste’s father was t
rying to tell him when he sent him after her? What had his father wanted to tell him before he’d been sucked back into Purgatory? Or wherever he was…

  There was a storm of questions and worry plunging around inside him. Planning and executing a battle was easier than figuring out what to do about the woman he loved.

  The ride back to the castle only took an hour. As soon as they were through the gates, he helped Elle down from her horse. Her waist was warm and tiny in his hands. It was hard not to bury his face in her hair. He settled for breathing in the floral scent of her, for grazing his lips over her temple. She avoided his gaze; her eyes focused somewhere near her feet.

  Beiste licked his lower lip, prepared to speak. The words teetering on the tip of his tongue. I love ye, too. But he couldn’t risk it. Who was to say if her not being harmed wasn’t just a coincidence? How could he risk her life for his own selfish reasons?

  Blast it all, he couldn’t live with her, but he couldn’t live without her either.

  “Elle—” he started, but was cut off by young Erik calling out to his sister at the same time.

  Her eyes widened, her mouth fell open, and the color drained from her face. “Erik?” she whispered, then squeezed her eyes shut, murmuring something about a ghost.

  Had his father been to see her, too?

  Erik threw himself against his sister, knocking her off balance. Beiste steadied them both, feeling his chest swell with emotion at their reunion.

  “Surprise,” Beiste said. “Your brother.”

  Elle wrapped her arms around Erik. “Why did ye not tell me?” she asked. Then shook her head. “Never mind. I’m just glad he’s safe.” She kissed the lad’s head. “Ye’re not harmed? Bjork did not hurt ye?”

  “He never found me.” Erik beamed. “I presented myself to Laird MacDougall and returned to Dunstaffnage upon his insistence. Had I known ye were here…”

  “Never mind that,” she said. “We’ll not speak of regrets when there is so much to celebrate.”

  “Aye, sister, we have survived.”

  “Aye. Against all odds.”

  Elle glanced up at Beiste, regret shining in the depths of her face. “We’ll soon be on our way, my laird. I thank ye from the bottom of my heart for your help. I hope one day, I can repay ye.”

  Beiste shook his head, deciding then and there he wasn’t going to ask about the sword. Perhaps that was a mystery that he’d never get solved. He’d recovered the sword from Bjork’s dead body, who must have taken it from Elle. She would return it to Erik. His father had gifted the weapon to him in the first place. “There is no need to repay me. Ye have no debt with me. Ye owe me nothing. ’Tis my duty,” he murmured, sensing how utterly distant and heartless he sounded considering her earlier admission of love.

  Elle’s eyes burned into his and he could only imagine the many things she was saying in her mind. Coward, being one of them.

  He couldn’t look at her. For that was what he was. But wasn’t her life worth it? How could he push on her the curse that seemed to rule him from the day he was born? Beiste bowed his head and, once more, turned his back on her.

  His feet were heavy as he walked away. His body rigid. It felt like every single inch of him was trying to remain rooted in place as he pulled away. Separating his body from his soul. His soul remaining with her. He knew he’d never be the same again. Lost, cold, soulless.

  Damn, but he’d not realized how much he loved her. Needed her. Wanted her.

  The two dozen steps to the keep stairs were the longest he’d ever taken in his life.

  This couldn’t be right. It couldn’t.

  He paused. One foot on the stair. He ran a hand through his hair and then he felt her hand on his arm.

  “Beiste. Before ye walk away,” she said. “There is something ye need to know.”

  Pulling in a shuddering breath, he turned to look at her. “Aye.”

  Elle was beautiful, devastatingly so. Her arm was slung protectively over her brother’s shoulders.

  “Erik, he is not my brother by blood.”

  Beiste glanced between the two of them, seeing very little resemblance, but not grasping just what she meant. “I dinna understand.”

  “Erik is your brother.”

  Beiste’s throat tightened. When he looked at the lad and thought him familiar, now he knew why. His eyes were the same blue as their father’s. The stubborn tilt of his chin was the same as his own.

  “How?”

  Elle tugged Erik forward a step. “Can we talk inside?”

  Beiste glanced at the men around the courtyard, taking care of the horses, their weapons, drinking from the well. No one seemed to take note at all that such life-altering news had been laid upon him. “Aye.”

  “Erik,” she said. “Go and get something to eat from the kitchens. Lord knows ye need it.”

  Dutifully, the lad nodded and trotted away.

  Elle slid her hand in Beiste’s, the delicate skin of her palms rubbing against his rougher hand. “Shall we?”

  *

  Though she was still feeling devastated that her love was shoved aside by Beiste, at least Elle could give him this parting gift. A sibling. Something he’d been saying since they met that he desperately wanted. Not to be alone. Not to be the last.

  He looked so lost just now, a fragile shell that might just crack. His fingers threaded with hers and he squeezed. She clutched back, trying to offer him comfort and strength and love, even if he wouldn’t accept it. And then she’d leave.

  She’d return to Castle Gloom and try to put it back together, until Beiste MacDougall sent Erik there to rule. She assumed he’d want his brother here, to get to know one another to make up for the time they’d lost. So he could train his brother, protect him. Lord, but she’d miss having Erik around. She’d been just a lass when he was born and so many years she’d spent helping to raise him.

  Beiste seemed to shake himself from his shock and led her inside to his library, shutting the door behind them both.

  He moved to the sidebar and poured himself a healthy bit of whisky, offering her a glass.

  Elle shook her head. She needed all her wits about her.

  He sipped slowly, instead of throwing it back like she thought he might. In fact, given how intoxicated he’d been the night she first met him, she expected him to simply drink from the bottle.

  Elle let out a deep sigh. She had to get this over with. And leave. Because all she kept thinking about was how handsome he was. How much she loved him and wanted to kiss him. What it would be like to live out her days with him. To convince him that they were right for each other.

  Elle cleared her throat. “When my father, Padrig, was here, he and your father became close confidants. That, despite the fact that he’d once been found raiding on your lands and your father took him prisoner. Then he eventually was made an indentured servant. Padrig watched as your mother lost bairn after bairn. Then one night, while your mother was taking a walk to ease her labor pains that she’d kept hidden, she fell down in the gardens, unable to move, her labor starting in earnest. My father happened to be fixing part of the wall and stopped to see if she was all right. She grabbed hold of his arm and begged him to help her, telling him that the bairn was nearly all the way born. Nervous, but unable to do anything but help, my father found Erik was, indeed, nearly born. The head was delivered, shoulders, and the rest of his body soon slithering out onto the garden floor.” Elle paused, checking Beiste’s features, trying to gauge his reaction.

  He was stunned, rigid. His lips clamped.

  “Father picked him up, wrapping him in the extra length of his plaid. Erik looked right up into his eyes and let out a healthy wail. Not something the previous bairns had the strength to summon. Your mother begged him to take the bairn away. To raise him away from the curse of the castle.”

  “My curse,” Beiste growled.

  Elle shook her head. “Nay. Ye were not the first born to them. Your parents thought when ye survived ye were th
e breaker of curses. They tried for more children, but it seemed ye were a gift, and then Erik, too.”

  “And he was raised all this time without my knowing.”

  “Aye.” She licked her lips. “Your father agreed with your mother’s wishes and gifted Padrig Castle Gloom. My mother and I were summoned from Ireland to live with my father.”

  “Ye were not here before?”

  Elle shook her head. “My father had come over to Scotland during a raid and never returned. Mother had long thought him dead. She gave birth to me just before he left. Gone for ten long years before she had a word. My mother fought all those years to keep herself in my father’s homeland. Bjork believed her to be a traitor, that she was owed to him as a wife, and then subsequently myself.”

  Beiste briefly touched her face, emotions she couldn’t comprehend showing in his eyes. “Thank God that bastard is gone from your life.” He blew out a heavy breath, his hand falling. “Saints, but I have a brother.”

  Elle laughed softly. “Aye.”

  “And that is why my father gave Erik the sword.”

  “Mhmm. So he’d know it was the truth.”

  Beiste scrubbed his hands over his face. “Ye have given me a great gift.”

  Elle’s throat tightened so much that she couldn’t speak. But she summoned the strength to whisper. “I’d have given ye more.”

  Beiste’s face contorted slightly, pinching, as though he held back a flood of emotion. “I’ve been a fool. A terrible beast.”

  Elle smoothed out her skirts, wanting to back away. To run.

  “I threw away the other precious gift ye gave me. Even when I wanted it. I didna think I deserved it. Didna think if I accepted it that I could keep ye safe.”

  “What gift?” she asked, tears stinging her eyes. It couldn’t be what she hoped it was.

  “Love.”

  Oh, zounds! Her heart pounded, near to exploding. “Ye canna throw away a person’s feelings. They are still here, right out in the open. All ye have to do is accept them.”

  He marched toward her, covering the ground between them in a few strides. “I want to. I do.” Beiste clutched her up in his arms, holding her tight. “I love ye, lass. With all my heart and soul and being. I feared for ye. Feared that if I loved ye, if I accepted your love in return, that something would happen to ye.”

 

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