Ensnared by Blood

by Claire Ashgrove

  Her brick walls snapped in place faster than he could counter her argument. Sensing her shut down, he took a half-step closer and settled his hands on her waist. He recognized the carefully constructed defenses—she’d been wearing them the day they met. Thick barricades meant to keep others out, and if he intended to punch a hole in that false façade, he couldn’t keep her at an emotional distance.

  A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Sweet Beth…I don’t want to sway you in any direction. But I’ve heard you talk about your dreams.” Dipping his head, he caught her in a soft, lingering kiss. Against her lips he whispered, “I want to see them come true.”

  “They have,” she mumbled.

  He clasped her lips once more, then stepped back and picked up her discarded shirt from the previous night. The impeccable white silk slid across his hand, expensive, but worthless all the same. “This isn’t you, Beth. You aren’t this cold, this unfeeling.” He gestured at the breathtaking scene she’d crafted by hand. “That is. There’s passion and life in that bonfire. The woman who showed up in comfortable jeans and a worn sweatshirt—she was real. The woman I made love to last night…” Trailing off, he shook his head. “I want her, Beth. I’m crazy about her.”

  She stood motionless, her jade green eyes brimming with silent emotion. That unspoken feeling swelled inside Fintan as well, provoking a slow burn behind his lungs. He swallowed it down, afraid of its meaning. Afraid he had let her in too far, and in so doing, revealed too much of himself. Caring about Beth was one thing. Before he could let her in all the way, he needed to free himself from the curse.

  And to do that, he needed to explain the scroll. For without it, he teetered on a dangerous ledge. One half of his soul yearning to give everything he was to Beth Whitley. The other half aching for her death.

  He looked away before those watery eyes could pull him under. He was falling for Beth. Hard and fast. Sometime tonight, he must broach the impossible.

  Retreating to her door, he asked, “How’s dinner sound?”

  “Dinner? It’s only lunch time.”

  Damn. He’d have sworn more time had passed since he’d awakened by a dormant fire with Beth twined intimately around him. “Then lunch? Window shopping?” Anything to get her out of this house where he wouldn’t be tempted by the siren call of her body. “We’ll talk about the scroll tonight.”

  Her mouth quirked as she chuckled. “How about the reverse order?”

  The sound of the front door slamming gave Fintan the excuse he needed. “Brigid is home. She won’t be tonight—she has a…meeting.” Not exactly, but it was better than admitting tonight was the night his sister habitually stalked the countryside for the lost and unsuspecting. “If she knew about the scroll, she’d be far worse than she was this morning.”

  “Why?”

  Because she’s as vile as Drandar. “She’d want it for herself.”

  “Oh.”

  “Lunch then?” he asked hopefully.

  “Yeah. Give me a few minutes to dress.”

  He’d give her the whole day, so long as he escaped now, before the exposed swell of her breast had him peeling away her robe. Another orgasm like the one he’d had last night, and it wouldn’t matter whether Beth would help with the ritual or not. He’d be too immersed in darkness to care.

  Chapter Ten

  Beth strolled down the wide sidewalk hand-in-hand with Fintan. Quiet spanned between them, a comfortable silence that enveloped her like a warm winter blanket. For two hours they’d shopped, window-shopped, and snacked on tidbits found in quaint cafes between the retailers. He lugged their baggage—hers more specifically. He’d spoiled her like a child on a birthday outing, picking up what she remarked on until she’d learned to keep her comments to herself.

  In three horrendous years with Dan, she’d never been treated like the queen Fintan made her feel like today.

  Giving his hand an affectionate squeeze, she rested her head on his shoulder and glanced up at a brick storefront that displayed a wide array of hand-crafted woolen products. Caps, scarves, sheepskin-collared coats, and a dozen other garments adorned the headless mannequin forms. But it wasn’t the rich hand-dipped colors that slowed Beth to a halt. Nor the masterful craftsmanship and fancy-stitched patterns.

  The wide double-paned glass storefront next door drew her to a stop. Darkness loomed beyond the glass, shadows that took on life as they draped from dangling fixtures and danced across barren walls. In the crystalline reflection, as the sun sank down the horizon, the mountains boasted a heartbreaking pallet of color. Pale lavender blended with deep indigo. Bright melon burst across an evergreen crest. At the tips of the high peaks, pristine white glimmered like diamond dust in the fading light.

  Slowly, Beth turned to look at the mountainous ridge that surrounded the cozy valley. As her gaze traversed the crests and valleys, her heart saw what her mind had blocked all afternoon—beauty that could never be captured by pencil, chalk, or even oil. But the urge to try and put that breathtaking life on canvas nearly turned her inside out, it spoke so strong.

  Watercolor wouldn’t do the scene justice. Oil though…she could add texture, paint in gliceé that would trap highlights unrecognized by the human eye. Her hands itched to hold a brush, her nose longed for the scent of linseed.

  And this storefront would be the perfect place to try.

  She turned back to the building, giddiness bubbling through her veins. Yes—she could set her easel just beyond the window. The full natural light was perfect. Overhead, she could hang a rack of spots, ambient enough for portraits, demure enough to not overshadow her subject.

  On the walls, she could mount the closet-full of artwork she’d hidden away since college. Maybe stick a price tag on a few. A handful of dollars, just enough to get her by. Her work wouldn’t demand anything more than moderate prices anyway.

  “What is it, Beth?” Fintan’s features bunched in a curious squint.

  “This would make a perfect gallery.”

  His gaze snapped away from the empty storefront and landed on her. Those steely grey eyes sparkled with interest. “I’d bet you could rent it for a while. Try it out…see how it goes.”

  “You think?” Despite all the logical reasons she shouldn’t entertain the idea, excitement brightened her voice. “They wouldn’t want a year-long lease?” Maybe she could make it work. Fintan seemed to think she was capable enough. He obviously wanted her to stick around. All afternoon he’d dropped hints that she should find a reason to stay.

  And if she stayed, she’d have him close by. Endless amounts of the soul-deep comfort he unwittingly provided.

  “I do think.” Fintan draped his arm across Beth’s shoulder and tucked her against his side. “I know the man who manages this property. He’s aging. Worried about what will happen to his family when he’s gone. Wants to see them secure. I’m sure he’d rather have some income than none at all.” Tipping his head to brush a kiss against her temple, he murmured, “We could give him a call tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. Her pulse jumped by several degrees. Tomorrow she might have her very own studio. A place to do nothing but paint. A place free from all the tension of her job, her demanding clients.

  A place that contented parts of her soul that hadn’t lived since she’d married Dan.

  As her ex surfaced in memory, a frown squelched her brimming excitement. She’d been here before, changed her life to please someone else. She loved the law, her firm, her finicky clients. It was Fintan who thought she needed to paint.

  Wasn’t it?

  Confused and uncomfortable, Beth turned away from the shop. “I have to leave the day after tomorrow. I don’t know when I’d get back to justify renting office space.”

  ****

  As Beth resumed a brisk pace down the sidewalk, Fintan stared after her with a sharp scowl. The peaceful energy that surrounded her now shifted and churned, discontent that didn’t know how to solidify and settle. A stream of life that was so very different t
han what rolled off her in waves when she indulged in the secret cravings of her heart.

  As she had all afternoon. With him. He witnessed emotion behind her eyes when she glanced sideways at him. Affection that fisted so deep and tight inside him at times he felt like he was being turned inside out. Not just with him, though. When they’d entered a small shop full of handcrafted pottery, the same contentment drifted around him.

  Just now, it had been so defined he’d have sworn he could touch the gently lilting waves.

  Realizing she’d walked half a block, he jerked himself out of his thoughts and jogged to catch up. When he reached her side, he fitted his hand into hers and fell into a matched pace. That simple twine of fingers snapped instantaneous desire through his system like the crack of a bullwhip. Not just his either. Hers hit him just as hard, along with a heavy dose of something deeper, something richer.

  Something Beth Whitley was fighting.

  Him. She was fighting falling for him every bit as much as Fintan struggled against the same.

  “Beth?” he asked quietly.

  “Hm?”

  “If you didn’t have the firm—”

  “I do.”

  He sighed heavily. If he possessed an ounce of sense, he’d accept the fact she wanted to run from her desires. The last thing he should be doing was trying to convince her into considering something more permanent. He was cursed. Damned to kill if he fell in love. Forcing Beth to acknowledge her feelings—about him, her art, her love of Scotland—only opened him more to dangerous consequence. But by the sacred ancestors, he couldn’t tolerate seeing her miserable.

  And while she might not recognize that misery, it reflected in her flat stare, the absolute void in her expression each time she mentioned her career.

  “I want to go back to the castle, Fintan. I want to know about this scroll. Tonight.”

  Dully, he nodded. He’d put the inevitable off all day. Yesterday as well. Maybe telling her was where he needed to begin. Dump everything in her lap, let her sort it out, let her come to terms with the unbelievable at her own pace instead of trying to prepare her for what she’d inevitably reject.

  Still, he couldn’t resist one more attempt at unveiling the truths she didn’t want to admit. “Because you want to know about your ancestry? Or because you want to leave?”

  “Both,” she admitted quietly.

  Fintan dragged her to a stop, turned her to face him, and set both hands on her shoulders, gazing deeply into her eyes. A thousand objections screamed behind his skull. But instead of opening his mouth and spitting them out, he dipped his head and captured her in a kiss.

  Her lips remained firm beneath his. Slowly, deliberately, he slid the tip of his tongue across the full swell of her lower lip to the corner of her mouth. Nudging for entrance, he silently begged her to relent, to yield to the rise of passion that ebbed and flowed between them. She might want to leave him, but he’d bet everything he possessed in two centuries of life, that her need to run came from fear.

  With a soft sigh, Beth surrendered. Parting her lips, she allowed him to deepen the kiss, and Fintan’s tongue glided across hers. Fire laced through his blood, the velvety stroke calling out to his dark instincts. How he needed this. Needed to somehow possess her. Brand her in some unforgettable way so that she could never forget how perfectly they fit together. He didn’t care how inappropriate it might be or who would see them—he’d take her against the cold brick wall if he could.

  As his pulse ratcheted up by three degrees and his cock swelled to full capacity, Fintan released Beth with a muffled groan. Surrendering her mouth caused physical pain. Taking his hands off her soft and pliant body was a hell more damning than all of Drandar’s vile existence. He took a stagger-step backward and expelled a shaky breath.

  “The scroll,” he murmured, more to ground himself than to agree with her. Yes, it was long past time to tell her about her past…about his inherited curse.

  Deliberately avoiding contact with the one thing he craved more than mortality, Fintan gestured for her to go ahead and fell into step behind her as they headed for his car.

  Chapter Eleven

  Fintan left Beth to situate herself on the couch while he went to the windows and pulled the draperies shut. He took his time moving to the other side of the study for a bottle of Cabernet, all the while calling on the powers of his lighter half, the energies of his mother that dominated his soul to protect the room from Drandar’s observation. As he poured two glasses, he murmured timeless phrases in the language of his ancestors. Soft enough Beth couldn’t possibly hear—a talent he’d developed over too many years of living with Brigid. The fastest way to send his sister over the edge was to alert her to his wards of protection.

  When he was convinced that his demonic sire couldn’t possibly intrude upon this room or sense the powers contained in the scroll, he took the leather-bound writings from his desk drawer, tucked them under his arm, and took it as well as the wine to Beth.

  She accepted her glass with an unsteady smile. “Thank you.”

  “Certainly.” She’d be thanking him soon enough when the seventy-five year old brew offered escape from all the things she didn’t want to hear.

  Now where to begin.

  He sank into the cushion beside her and set the scroll between them. “This isn’t what you think it is, Beth. The things you want to know aren’t written here.”

  Her expectant expression fell. Disappointment dimmed her bright eyes, and Fintan’s heart twinged uncomfortably. She had her hopes set on finding written documentation. This wouldn’t be easy. Not in the least.

  “What is it then?”

  “An ancient ritual.”

  “Oh.” She toyed with her wineglass, swirling the deep red liquid around the smooth crystal basin.

  “What you want to know, you don’t want to hear. I can’t give you proof for it. But you are Selgovae. I should have realized it much earlier. As with many things, it was too obvious to consider.”

  Her frown returned in an instant. “How can you say that? What do you mean I don’t want to hear?”

  Fintan ignored the latter question, focusing instead on her inability to believe in her roots. The rest would come. “Let me tell you what you’ve seen in your dream. Tell me if I get it wrong.”

  Beth shrugged. “Okay.”

  Reclining, he sipped from his glass then set it on the end table. Nothing would make this conversation easier for him, not even wine that had aged two hundred years or more. “It’s Samhain. Identified by the tall corn sheaves, the offerings of grains, wheat, and apples sitting outside doorways.” He slid his gaze to her face, watching for recognition. Her frown remained, her expression impassive. “Children are playing with corn dolls. Gourds have been carved out and set with tiny fires to illuminate their thin shells.”

  Her brow puckered, and she squinted at the glass she had yet to drink from.

  “Down a dirt path—well used, I might add—the standing stones rise around an imposing bonfire.” He took a deep breath with closed eyes and tumbled through memory to that long ago night of sacrifice. He’d been seven the night his mother died, the last of his siblings that could remember the end of the Selgovae. But the memory was as vivid as if he had stood in the shadows of the trees, watching his brother Belen try to chase after their mother and the sister she carried, hiding from his sire as he’d been instructed to do. Looking at Beth once more, he exhaled long and hard, determined to ignore the rise of sorrow.

  “There’s a man with long ebony hair. He stands taller than the rest of the people by a good head. He’s handsome, very powerful in physique. At his side, standing over a child who’s naked on the stone altar, is an equally beautiful blonde woman. They make an eye-catching pair.”

  A flicker of recognition dashed behind Beth’s clouded eyes. Her fingers tightened on the glass, the hint of white showing on her knuckles. Indeed, she knew exactly what he spoke of. Her silence only confirmed that fact.

  Now,
all he had to do was get her to admit what she couldn’t bring herself to accept.

  ****

  Beth listened to Fintan’s rich voice, shocked into silence by the details he pulled from her nightmare. He described the chaos as if he stood by her side on the path. Detailed the fear that weighed her down and forbade her to move. Uncanny accuracy that she couldn’t explain, no matter how she tried.

  “As the woman lunges at the altar, there’s a blinding flash. Like lightning struck a nearby tree. Only…it didn’t. There was lightning on the horizon, an approaching storm. But even it didn’t come with clouds.”

  Holy crap, how had he learned that? She might have been able to excuse a great lot of what he was saying to the fact he’d seen her colored pencil still life. But she’d left the lightning out. Hadn’t told a soul about the unexplainable flash of white, and she’d told Emily every other detail.

  “A woman’s scream echoes over the fighting, a death cry that carries on endlessly. But the redhead is running. Gathering a mere handful of people with her and racing through the forest. Carrying children.”

  “Stop.” Beth shook her head and lifted a shaky hand to drink deeply from her glass. “That doesn’t happen.”

  “No?”

  “The dream stops at the flash of light.”

  “So you have no idea what Ealasaid did near that altar?”

  “How do you know it’s this Ealasaid person?” She rolled her eyes, unable to truly accept the names and people from her nightmare were the legends the remaining tribe members evidently documented.

  He ignored her question. “You told me a blood-covered feminine hand carved the runes into the monolith. Right?”

  Beth nodded hesitantly.

  “Ealasaid used the blood rite to ensnare Drandar. Her magic, combined with Nyamah’s trap—for lack of a better explanation—kept him from rising to undefeatable power. If she had not, the entire tribe would have died that night. There would be no survivors. You would not be here.”

  “Nor you,” she countered with a touch of flippancy.