She’d answered that one without hesitation: a best friend. She’d hastily added, a truly, seriously best friend; one that I couldn’t wait to talk to first thing in the morning as soon as I woke up, and one that I still wanted to be talking to, right up to the last minute before I went to sleep.
He’d smiled faintly. You mean a soul mate, he’d thought but not said. She’d meant a man, a lifetime lover. He could see it in her eyes.
Now she was telling him how she’d decided to be an archaeologist; that she’d read a book when she was young that had inspired her and set her on her path.
He listened intently, watched intently. He fancied he could sit like this for two eternities, mayhap more, drinking her in. He wanted to hear the minute details of her life, to know as much of this woman as he possibly could.
“So there I was, in college, second year into my major, realizing that it wasn’t going to be like Anne Rice’s book The Mummy at all. That it wasn’t glamour and travel and the thrill of discovery. That it was really a lot of grunt work and paperwork. Most archaeologists never get to dig in the dirt.”
“But by then it was too late,” she told him with a sheepish smile, “I’d fallen in love with it for totally different reasons. I’d gotten addicted to the history. I’d been sucked in by the mysteries of our origins, of the world’s origins, of trying to piece together the big picture.”
She spoke of Druid things now, the things that had always fascinated him. Life was full of tiny slices of truth and knowledge, here and there, and a wise man or woman endeavored to collect them.
An unwise man endeavored to collect other things. Like Unseelie Hallows.
And paid the price. Och, Christ, and paid the price!
“My mother hates my choice of major,” she confided. “She can’t understand why I’m not married and popping out babies left and right. She can’t imagine how I could prefer to spend time with artifacts when I could be out trying to find a husband.”
His gut twisted. Out trying to find a husband. He hated those words. They pissed him off to the last sorcerous, fiery drop of blood in his veins. “Why have you no man?” he said tightly.
Her smile faded. She was quiet a moment. Then she smiled again, but this one was softer, older than her years, and achingly bittersweet. “I think I’m misplaced in time, Cian. I think that’s part of the reason I’m drawn to the past. I’m an old-fashioned girl. My mother has had four husbands and she’s already looking for the next.”
“Do they die, lass?” he asked. He wondered if she had any idea what she did to him, sitting there like that. Plaid soft and rumpled around her shoulders, her dainty hands relaxed in her lap, her palms upward, fingers half-curled. She was utterly unself-conscious, reflective, her shimmering jade gaze turned inward.
“Nope,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “They just seem to decide they don’t love each other anymore. If they ever did. Usually she leaves them.”
“And they let her?” Were mother aught like her daughter, ’twas unfathomable that a man would let her go, inconceivable that a husband wouldn’t do all in his power to make her happy, to breathe life into every last one of his woman’s dreams.
He would never understand modern marriages. Divorce was beyond his comprehension. Though at times he made light of it, the truth was, a Keltar Druid lived for his binding vows and the day he could give them.
For him, that day would never come. But for him, many days would never come. Canceled out by too many days gone wrong.
“I doona ken it, Jessica. Love, once given, is forever. It canna simply go away. Do they not love her, these men she marries?”
She shrugged, looking as baffled by it as he felt. “I don’t know. I wonder sometimes if people even know what love is anymore. Some days, when I’m watching my friends at school change lovers as unperturbedly as they change shoes, I think the world just got filled with too many people, and all our technological advances made things so easy that it cheapened our most basic, essential values somehow,” she told him. “It’s like spouses are commodities nowadays: disposable, constantly getting tossed back out for trade on the market, and everyone’s trying to trade up, up—like there is a ‘trading up’ in love.” She rolled her eyes. “No way. That’s not for me. I’m having one husband. I’m getting married once. When you know going in that you’re staying for life, it makes you think harder about it, go slower, choose really well.”
When she fell pensively silent, Cian smiled bitterly, brooding over the vagaries of fate. Jessica St. James was strong, impassioned, true of heart, funny, fierce, and sexy as hell.
She was perfect for him. Right down to his frustrating inability to deep-read her or compel her. She, alone, was forever beyond his magic, that wild talent that had always made his life so easy. Too damnably easy. Dangerously easy.
This woman had been custom-crafted for a man of his ilk.
“What about you?” she said finally. “Were you married in your century?”
He didn’t miss the shadow that flickered in her lovely sparkling eyes. She didn’t like the thought that he might have been wed. She didn’t like the thought of him loving another woman. That knowledge eased some of the pain in that twisted place in his gut. A twisted place that he knew would only grow worse again, and continue to worsen, day by day. “Nay, lass. I’d not found the woman for me before I was imprisoned in the Dark Glass.”
Her brow furrowed and she looked as if she would pursue that thought further, but then she seemed to change her mind. “God, there are so many questions I keep wanting to ask you but I never seem to get around to them! How old are you, anyway? I mean, excluding the time you’ve been in the mirror.”
“A score and ten. I’d gained a new year shortly before I was imprisoned. And you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“In my time, you would have—”
“I know, I know, I would have been an old maid, right?” She laughed. “You and my mother.”
“Nay,” he told her, “you’d not have been unwed. Like as not, you’d have been on your third or fourth husband. Beauty such as yours would have been highly sought by the richest men in the land. Unfortunately, they were often the oldest.”
Her eyes widened ever so slightly and her lips moved. “ ‘Beauty such as—’ ” She broke off with a blush. “Thank you,” she said softly. Then she flashed him a cheeky smile. “Ugh. Great. I get married; he dies. I get married; he dies. And it’s not like I would have been left a wealthy widow to do what I wanted, either. Some male relative would have just married me off again, wouldn’t he? Keeping me in the family so they could hold the dowry and lands?”
Cian nodded. “Though my clan was not so barbaric. Having seven sisters who could all talk at once—and very loudly when fashed—taught me a thing or two.”
Jessica laughed. They both fell silent.
Then she opened her mouth, shut it. Hesitated, then opened it again. Leaning forward, she said in a hushed voice, “How did it happen, Cian? How did you end up in the mirror?”
He drew ripples of silver around him, sliding deeper into his prison.
“Another time,” he said. Though, on occasion, some perverse part of him seemed determined to make her think the worst of him, he relished the intimacy taking root between them. He had no desire to besmirch it with tales of ancient sins. “For now sleep, sweet Jessica. We have much to do on the morrow.”
Later that night, Cian stood naked behind the silvery Unseelie veil, armed with knives and guns, watching over Jessica as she slept.
Clad in an assortment of oversized garments, she was curled on a pallet of his clothing at the foot of the mirror. Over the centuries, he’d accumulated various items of attire. As full night had fallen and the temperature dropped still more, he’d tossed out every last piece of it to her, right down to the jeans and T-shirt he’d been wearing, in an effort to warm her against the chilly October night.
Sleep was obsolete within his mirror, as were all physical needs. He would s
tand guard until she awoke. He’d made her as safe as he could for now. It was not nearly as safe as he could and would make her, using any and all means at his disposal, no matter the cost.
It was the truth that they had much to do on the coming day. On the morrow, they would return to Inverness and gather supplies. On the morrow he would walk the perimeter of their retreat and bury wardstones at eight points and chant spells at sixty-four.
On the morrow he would find something to tattoo himself with, for he would need more protection runes on his body to keep him safe from the backlash of the black arts he must call upon to lay the traps necessary to ensure her safety from Lucan and any of Lucan’s minions. On the morrow he would transmute the soil, in the fashion those most ancient of burial grounds had once been alchemized, brutally forcing the earth to change, calling it alive, making it answerable to him and only him.
If there were anything dead in the soil he’d chosen, things could get . . . unpleasant, but he would shield her. If he had to tattoo himself from head to toe, shave his hair, and dye-brand his scalp, the palms of his hands, the soles of his feet, and his tongue, he would shield her.
One day you’ll have tattooed your entire body. Tears had shimmered in his mother’s eyes when she’d spotted the fresh crimson tattoos on his neck, so fresh his own blood was still beading, mingled inseparably with the dye. Then how will you safeguard your soul? Cian, you must stop. Send him away.
He’d laughed at her. I’ve scarce yielded a tenth of my body, Mother. And Lucan may be a learned man, but he hasn’t enough power to be dangerous.
You’re wrong. And he’s making you dangerous.
You know naught of what you speak.
But she’d known. From that first blustery winter’s eve the dark Welsh stranger had appeared at their gates petitioning shelter, claiming to have lost his way in the storm, she’d known.
Turn him away, Cian, she’d begged. He comes to our step with darkness at his back in more ways than one. His mother had often been sought for her touch of prescience.
We’ll but feed and shelter him for an eve, he’d said to please her. There’d been a time when pleasing those he loved had pleased him most. His sisters and mother especially. The eight of them had been a cluster of bright, feminine butterflies, swooping through his days, brilliantly coloring his existence, making him impatient for a mate of his own.
But then he’d discovered a fellow Druid in the man across his table that eve; a thing he’d not encountered before, and he’d been too curious to turn him away. His da had died before his birth, he’d had no brothers, and he’d never heard of another like himself in all of Albania.
One thing had led to another. Ego and arrogance had played no small part.
I can work this spell, can you?
Aye, can you work this one?
Aye. Ken you how to summon the elements?
Aye, ken you Voice? Have you heard of the Unseelie Hallows?
Nay, though I know of the Seelie Hallows: the spear, stone, sword, and cauldron.
Ah, so you’ve heard not of the Scrying Glass. . . .
It was what Lucan had called it then, the Dark Glass. The Welsh Druid had begun laying his trap that very eve, baiting it brilliantly. Can you imagine foretelling the winds of political change? Or knowing which contender for king with which to ally your clan? Or when a loved one might suffer a tragedy? ’Tis said the glass reveals the future in exacting detail, unlike anything our spells could ever hope to achieve.
Mayhap, Cian’s blood had quickened at the thought, it could even show the coming of a Keltar’s life mate.
The mere opening of a door that night, of not heeding a mother’s words—how life drew its complex design from the simplest of choices, the smallest of moments!
All those he once loved had been dead for more than a thousand years.
Was Lucan out there, counting the hours to Samhain—or the Welshman’s counterpart known as Hollantide, a night of ghostly visitation, divination games, and bonfire burning—as was he? Though he spoke aloud of days, Cian knew to the minute how long he had.
“A little over sixteen days, Trevayne,” he growled into the chill Highland night, “and you will answer for all you took from me.”
In three hundred eighty-four hours and forty-three minutes, to be precise, vengeance would finally be his.
His gaze dark, he glanced down at Jessica.
He’d never thought it would be such a double-edged sword.
* * *
17
Cian MacKeltar was a machine.
And Jessi didn’t like it one bit.
After their intimacy at the airport and the warm camaraderie of their conversation last night, after sleeping drenched in the sinfully sexy man-scent of him, dressed in his clothing, sprawled on top of more of it, after having wickedly erotic dreams about him in which they’d had sex that would have made the author of the Kama Sutra sit up and start taking notes, after waking to find him standing naked over her, staring down at her from his mirror with that incredible rock-hard erection that had made her mouth dry and other parts of her oh-so-not-dry-at-all, she’d expected . . . well, at least a few hot, slippery kisses.
She’d not gotten a single, quick brush of his lips.
Not even a horny comment.
Just a Are you awake?
She’d blinked, unable to tear her gaze away from him. The man had, quite simply, the most amazing package she’d ever seen, and although most of the ones she’d seen had been in pictures, she still considered herself a fair judge. Uh-huh, I’m awake, she’d managed breathlessly. Some parts of her more than others.
Call me out.
She’d obeyed, wetting her lips.
Six and a half feet of muscle-ripped, naked Highlander had separated from the glass and reached toward her . . .
And past her, retrieving his clothing.
He’d dressed, for heaven’s sake—covering up all that magnificent masculine nudity with swift efficiency. Then he scooped up the mirror and loaded it into the back of the SUV. He’d returned, scooped her up as well, and dumped her into the driver’s seat.
As he’d deposited her behind the wheel, he’d pecked her freaking forehead.
When he’d lowered his head, like an idiot, she’d actually puckered, thinking he was finally going to kiss her. She’d smooched air, putting her in a positively foul mood—no matter that the sun was shining and it looked like it was going to be a glorious, unseasonably warm autumn day in the Highlands, and she was alive to see it.
Behaving with all the automated efficiency of a cool, detached Terminator, with steely insides and computer chips dictating his every move, Cian had referenced one of the pamphlets he’d swiped from the airport along with the stack of maps, and directed her to a store called Tiedemann’s, an outdoorsman’s store, specializing in camping equipment and survival gear.
For the past thirty minutes—ever since he’d so unceremoniously “parked” her at the front counter—he’d been oblivious to her, examining everything, asking the salesman he’d ensorcelled dozens of questions, selecting and sending to the counter insulated clothing, sleeping bags, a small gas stove, cooking implements, along with dozens of other things she had no idea what he planned to do with.
We will gather foodstuffs next, he’d informed her brusquely on one of his circuits through the store.
That had cheered her a bit. Her stomach was growling. She was starved. Food would be heaven. A cup of steaming cocoa or coffee with it would be even more heavenly. The skintight Lucky jeans he’d swiped for her days ago weren’t nearly so snug on her waist as they’d been when he’d procured them, and they were in serious need of a washing. She’d slept on the plane in them, she’d slept on the ground in them. She’d been living in them twenty-four/seven for four days now. Same panties too. It had been four days since she’d last had a shower, and if she didn’t get one soon, she might hurt somebody.
Pushing up on her tiptoes, she spied a collection of women’s athl
etic gear and outdoor clothing just beyond the tent department. The least he could do, she decided peevishly, was Voice her some new clothes. And she wanted a bra, damn it. Even a sports bra would do, and it looked like there were several racks of them. She doubted she’d find panties in this store, but she’d settle for a few bottles of water and some soap to wash them out by hand.
Shoving away from the counter where she’d been dutifully obeying his “wait right here” command, she wended her way through the camping gear to the women’s department. As she approached the sports-bra racks, she saw the sign for the ladies’ rest room and veered off toward it.
Just in case she didn’t get a shower today—and there was no telling how any of her days were going to go in the care, custody, and control of one Cian MacKeltar—she was opting for yet another paper-towel bath to be on the safe, not-quite-so aromatic side.
“You will tell me how many of these gas refills I will require to use such a stove for sixteen days in the wilds. Assume it will be in constant use.” Cian needed to keep Jessica warm and prepare meals for her, but dare not risk the smoke of a wood fire, inside the cave or out. Colorless, odorless, virtually smokeless gas was a welcome discovery.
The salesman performed a series of calculations and gave him a number, his hazel eyes glazed by the spell of compulsion, his gestures jerky, as if automated.
Cian had been using Voice since the moment he’d walked in the door. He wanted in and out fast. He had too much to accomplish today to permit the indulgence of the slightest of his personal desires, to waste even a moment of time. If he was lucky enough to have eight hours free of the glass today, he could accomplish all of his goals. He’d only had three hours and forty-two minutes free yesterday, so he felt it reasonable to expect a longer reprieve today—if aught about the Unseelie Hallow could be expected to function in accordance with even a loose definition of “reasonable.”
Jessica was feeling slighted, he knew. He hated that, but it had to be for now.
Beyond the Highland Myst Page 195
