by Sandy James
Sile would have a fit. She kept the castle as clean as any ancient building could be, and when she saw the mess, she’d probably go full banshee on the goddess. He smiled at the notion. Ghosts weren’t bound by the spell Helen had cast on the castle. Sile would scare the piss out of Helen if she reverted to her banshee form—not that Sile could do any real harm. Her wails, however, could be ear piercing.
Ian couldn’t let Helen’s abuse go without inflicting a barb. “Ye brought most of the Highlands in the door with you, m’lady.”
Taking her cloak off with the flourish of a troubadour, she flung it at Old Ewan.
The old man let it fall to the floor and floated away.
She scowled after him. “Why would I care?”
“My servants will be angry and—”
“As if I care what servants think. Yours, in particular, are far too rude for my taste.”
Says one who expects others to serve her. From what she’d shared with him, Helen had no shortage of followers. Her “children,” as she called them, numbered in legions, and each believed she was their savior—the one who would keep the Earth from destroying itself. Her charisma, no doubt, easily won people over.
Since Ian had been restricted to the castle, he knew only what she told him of her plots and plans. Not that he cared for the future of the world, although her ambitions rivaled that of Alexander the Great. Helen wouldn’t rest until every human worshipped her. Those who resisted would meet with swift deaths.
Once he found his justice and faced his brother, Ian wouldn’t be long for this world, either. There was nothing to hold him here. He would die. Again. By his brother’s hand or his own. Or Helen’s.
“They should be punished,” Helen insisted.
“Nay. They are loyal and good servants. Besides, how does one punish the dead?”
Even as laird, Ian had always worked alongside his clan members as they labored. He’d planted fields, delivered lambs, and starved with his people. Only one who’d never known labor dismissed the efforts of others, even if they were ghosts who marched to a different drummer.
“Your gown’s ruined,” he said. “A pity you can’t pop in instead of the making the hike across the moors.”
Helen looked down at her dirty hem. “A small price to pay to be sure this castle’s secure and our prisoner can’t escape.”
“Why do you wear gowns? I thought you were living in the modern—”
“That’s not your concern,” she snapped.
“Mere curiosity.”
“Don’t question me, Ian. Ever. I’m fighting for my birthright—for the worship and reverence this world owes me. I’m an Ancient, and I should be treated as such. My own kind has ignored me for far too long. I intend to remedy that. One day soon, the world will be mine.” Her eyes narrowed as she put her hand against her bosom. “Mine!”
Nerves already stretched close to breaking, he didn’t want to spend more time with her than he had to, especially if she was going off on one of her rants. Yes, she was helping him reach his goal, but he didn’t like her. Not one bit. Nor did he trust her. “What do you want, Helen?”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “Dare you take that tone with me?”
He wanted to tell her he dared all when in dorcha àite. Were he inclined, he could live out whatever mortal life he had left within the walls of his home, and she couldn’t harm him with magicks. Unless, of course, she chose to break the spell.
But that would allow the Amazons to sense their sister. She’d lose her bait.
Whenever she was in his castle, Helen was trapped by her own hand.
Still, he needed her. If he wanted justice, this neo-Ancient represented his best chance. So he’d pretend fealty when his real loyalty lay only with the burning desire of revenge.
He bowed at the waist. “I’m sorry, m’lady. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Has Rebecca settled into her new home?”
“Aye. She’s nae happy, but she knows there’s no way out.”
“Good, good. Where is she?”
“Abed. She fled my company.”
“That won’t do. I have plans for the two of you.”
“Plans?”
“Yes, Ian. Plans. Patience will be rewarded.”
Since she was in the mood to play her petty games, he quit the topic. For now. “Are the Amazons searching for her?”
She smoothed her hands down the front of her velvet dress. “Of course. They’re bound to be in a near panic, and far too busy to be concerned with my children.” Her eyes roamed the great hall. “Have you seen any attempt by them to pierce the protection spell on the castle?”
“Nay. Not a single spark.”
“Good, good,” she said again. “Such a tricky spell. I’m not as strong in Aramaic as I am in Latin. A shame the spell can only be given in that cumbersome language.”
“An effective enchantment, nonetheless,” he said, hoping to stroke her ego so she’d say what she had to and then leave. “Rebecca will be my captive as long as she remains within these walls.”
“Keep a close watch over her.” The sly smile spreading across her beautiful face raised his hackles. “Even in the darkness, as you dream. Tell me, Ian—have you had her yet?”
“I knew it!” His hands became fists. He’d had more than his fill of her mischief, and now that his suspicions had been confirmed, he unleashed his anger on Helen. “You sent her to me in the night!”
“Of course I did.”
“Why? Why would you torment me when I serve you?”
Strolling to the hearth, Helen sprawled over one of the wooden chairs as though she intended to stay for a good long while. “I decided it would suit my purposes.”
Ian marched over to set his hands against his hips and glare down at her. “Torturing me suits your purposes?”
“I didn’t intend to torture you. I simply hoped to inspire some...closeness between you and your captive. I want to deal Artair MacKay one final insult before I end his life.”
“You mean before I end his life.”
“Of course,” she replied, although her tone was far from apologetic. “I want you to cuckold him. By sending her to you in dreams, I sought to tempt you into wanting the woman.” She stopped, crinkling her brow. “Do you want her?”
“She’s beautiful. Any man would want her.”
“Not you, Ian. You’re a man of—” She shuddered. “—conscience. I needed you to desire her to the point of casting aside your restraint and taking her. So tell me...was I successful?”
“I haven’t bedded the lass.”
“But you desire her, don’t you?”
He saw no reason to lie, though appalled with himself for wanting his enemy’s wife. The passion he felt for Rebecca couldn’t be pushed aside. “Aye. I desire her.” More than he would let Helen—or Rebecca—know.
Helen popped to her feet. “Then do me this service. Take her. Have your way with her. Should you wish to truly hurt Artair MacKay, there’s one more thing you can do.”
“And what is that?”
“You can steal away her love. That blow would hurt him more than a dirk through the heart.”
Chapter Six
Sarita was restless. Pacing the length of her room and back yet again, she could have snatched at her hair like some crazy person.
The lack of water didn’t help. The “toilet” was called a garderobe. Disgusting but serviceable.
Water missed water. No bathroom. No bathtub. No shower.
Sure, Sile brought her fresh water in a ceramic pitcher every evening so she could wash up. But what Sarita wanted—what she needed—was to soak in a tub full of rejuvenating water until refreshed and able to face Ian and the possibility of escape with some renewed strength.
The three days she’d spent in his company were heaven. He was witty and charming when he wanted to be, although his moods shifted quickly whenever reminded of the past. Most of the time, he was solicitous and treated Sarita less like a captive and more like an honored guest. Not that she felt she could open up to him about her identity. Not yet. Nor had she found the nerve to ask if he’d dreamed about her the way she’d dreamed about him.
He stole kisses often, leaving her increasingly frustrated and vulnerable. How much longer could she hold out against his attempts at seduction? Even when she reminded him she was a “married woman,” he reminded her she enjoyed his attention as much as he enjoyed hers.
Did he truly desire her or did he only want to use her as a tool for his revenge?
Goddess help her, she didn’t know.
Yet every cell in her body cried out to give in, to let this man make love to her. She ached, knotted up in sexual need—more than she could have imagined.
Unfortunately, while her stay in the castle might be heaven, it was also hell. She would have to leave. Soon.
This wasn’t a vacation in the Scottish Highlands. Sarita was a prisoner, and her sisters and the Sentinels had to be searching for her. Who knew what had happened in their world while she was gone? Helen might use this weakness to make her move—whatever move she’d been building up to with her expanding cult. Perhaps in her absence, her sisters had figured out Helen’s plan of attack.
Whoever had trapped her here wanted the Amazons compromised. Even if she was the weakest of the four, they were formidable when together. She needed to find a way back to her sisters.
She used much of her far too plentiful free time to seek out ways to break through the magicks holding her inside the walls of her prison. Spell after spell had no effect—even the black magicks she probably shouldn’t have tried. But she was desperate. Although she’d yet to find a bolt-hole, she wouldn’t give up.
Once the escape route presented itself, she’d take it.
“M’lady?”
From where she sat on the window’s ledge, Sarita glanced back at Sile. “I told you, you should call me Rebecca.”
“Nay, I cannae.” Sile moved to the wardrobe and opened it. “Have ye chosen your gown for the day?”
Sarita shook her head, sick and tired of wearing the only clothing available to her—gowns. Not just gowns, but the same kinds of gowns the goddesses Rhiannon and Freya preferred.
Helen wore them in her appearances for the Children of the Earth as a way to show her followers she was “special.” To Sarita, it spoke of her desire to be equal to Rhiannon—her former patroness. According to Rebecca, the jealousy had been there from the beginning. Helen continued to let that jealousy fester. One day the Amazons might be able to exploit that weakness.
To Sarita, the gowns were cumbersome and pretentious, and she longed to wear a pair of good, holey jeans and a ratty sweatshirt. At least the cotton nightgowns Sile had for her were comfortable.
Today, her yoga pants and shirt were clean. “I’ll just wear my own things, thank you, Sile.”
Sile clucked her tongue, something she seemed to do often. The woman acted like a grandmother rather than a servant. “The laird willnae like that.”
The woman made no secret of the fact she’d been matchmaking from the moment Sarita arrived. Sile nagged at her to look her best whenever the couple would be together. She fluffed Sarita’s hair and pinched her cheeks to add “a wee bit of color.”
Sarita had discovered that Sile was far too free with her tongue. If asked the proper questions, the servant would open up and provide details that Sarita tucked away in hopes of using them later. So far Sarita had learned that Ian had been a good laird, that dorcha àite had been built by his great-grandfather, and that Ian had never married. None of that could help her, but perhaps Sile would let something valuable slip soon.
“The laird will get over it,” Sarita replied. “So. Sile...how is it that you are here?”
“I’m not understanding the question, lassie.”
“Ian said he lived a long, long time ago and that you were one of his clan. How are you still alive?”
Sile shook her head.
“Tell me about your clan. What name did they use?”
A smile lit her face and she opened her mouth only to quickly shut it again.
“What’s wrong?” Sarita asked.
“I cannae speak of the clan.”
But she wanted to. That much was plain. “Were you and Ewan resurrected? Like Ian?” It was a rare happening, and Sarita had her own idea on how the servants came to be here. She needed some confirmation, though. “Ian came back because he was murdered. Were you murdered too?”
Sile’s body shimmered, slowly becoming transparent as her legs became wisps of smoke.
So she was a ghost.
“We were hanged for fighting to save our laird’s life,” Sile said, her voice choked with emotion. “’Tis why we’ve stayed here. We waited for the laird to return to seek his justice.”
“Justice? Against whom? The people who killed him are all long gone.”
Sile clenched her hands into fists and tipped her head back as she floated higher and higher. Right as she reached the ceiling, Sarita worried she’d leave. Sile might be a ghost, but at least she was someone to talk to.
“Wait. Sile, please. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
The ghost drifted back down. “I cannae speak of the past. It pains me so.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Sile’s form solidified. “Thank ye, lassie.”
Sarita changed the topic. “I’m so bored. What is there to do in this castle?”
Damn if Sile didn’t pull out a gown of ice blue out of the wardrobe and drape it over the bed. “Bored are ye? Mayhaps I can help. Can ye read?”
That got Sarita’s attention. “Yes. Oh, yes. I love to read.”
“Have ye not found the library as you search the castle for a bolt-hole?” Her green eyes lit with a smile.
“Who said I was looking for... What did you call it? A bolt-hole?” She kept her tone inquisitive and as innocent as possible.
“Nay, ye’ll not fool me, lassie. Had six daughters of me own.” Sile chuckled, the sound forcing Sarita to grin because it reminded her so much of her nanny, Lalita.
All her memories of Lalita made her heart happy. Her sweet smile. Her warm eyes. The way she’d hug Sarita tight whenever she’d been frightened.
Once Sarita had become an Amazon, she’d learned both her Aunt Kamala and Lalita were Ganga’s high priestesses. Despite Kamala’s constant absences, Sarita’s childhood had been full of joy. Thanks to Lalita. Although Sarita been an intelligent and precocious child, her nanny had tempered her with a gentle hand, using the same kind of wisdom Sile seemed to possess to keep Sarita out of trouble.
“I probably couldn’t read anything in Ian’s library.” She tried to hide her disappointment. “They’re probably all in Gaelic or English too old for me to read.”
“Nay. Most are new. The laird has mastered several modern tongues.”
“Then show me the books. Please.”
“Well then,” Sile said. “You don this bonnie blue dress, and I’ll be showing ye the way to the library.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“Aye, it is. I’m wanting ye to look your bonniest for our laird.”
“Why?”
Sile tossed her an incredulous scoff. “As if ye donnae know.”
“Know what?”
“Och, are ye blind, m’lady?” Sile pulled out the silky shift she always insisted Sarita wear under her gowns.
Leaving the window to go to the bed, Sarita ran her hand over the fabric of the gown. The blue would complement her dark skin.
So what? S
he’d be a beautiful bird that was still trapped in a cage.
Since the servant seemed intent on taking over a grandmother’s role, Sarita decided to use that to her advantage. “Sile...I want to go home.”
“What say you?”
“I’m so unhappy here.” Her voice caught, making her voice authentically sad. She was able to work up a couple of tears. “I was kidnapped, and I’m locked away from all the people I love. I—I want to go home.” Sarita sniffed hard as she bowed her head.
“Six daughters,” Sile said again. “I’m knowin’ fake tears when I see ‘em.”
Sarita shrugged, not at all that surprised. Gina always told her she was a terrible liar. “It was worth a try.”
“That it was, but ye know the laird willnae let you go. He’s quite taken with you.”
“What you meant to say was that your laird took me. I was kidnapped, remember?”
“Och, nae truly kidnapped. ’tis fate.”
“Fate?” She scoffed. “Being hit over the head and dragged away had nothing to do with fate. It was Ian’s choice.”
“’Tis fate, I tell ye. If you watch yer step, ye could one day be mistress of dorcha àite.”
“Dor-what?”
“This clan’s castle, the place you now rest your wee head at night. Dorcha àite.”
“What’s it mean?”
“A dark place.”
Sarita snorted a laugh. “That’s appropriate for this prison.”
“’Tis a prison only if ye see it that way. Now did ye wish to see the library or nae?”
Bored enough to scream, she had no choice but to give in to the blackmail. “Fine. I’ll wear the damn gown.”
* * *
Ian stepped into the library, intent on reading one of his favorite tales to keep his mind off his captive. Instead of the diversion, he found temptation.
Rebecca had curled up in a chair, legs pulled under the skirts of her dress, while she read one of his most beloved books. The sunlight streamed through the window, painting her in an ethereal glow as though she were an angel sent to him as a reward for seeking justice for himself and his clan.
