by Hazel Hunter
What are you thinking?
She couldn’t kill any of the Skaraven. No one could. They had all been made immortal. They were also good, decent men. Their war master, Cadeyrn, had risked his life countless times to rescue her and the other women. She’d be dead if he had left her behind, which he never had.
But he’d thought about it. That was why he looked at me so often during the escape. Even if I didnae feel it, I saw it in those cold eyes. Each time deciding if I was worth all the trouble…
“Emeline.”
The slender, copper-haired woman who called her name rushed to her, followed by the dark, imposing figure of her husband, Chieftain Brennus Skaraven.
“You look so pale. Haven’t you been able to sleep?” Althea Jarden knew better than to touch her, but looked all over her, her worry plain in her aquamarine eyes. “Did you hurt yourself again?”
I never hurt myself, Emeline wanted to shriek. Those demented druids and their brutes did this to me. So did the other women and the Skaraven and every damned person around me since I left that huddy bridal shop. I’ve done naught but help others the whole of my life and still all of you DID THIS TO ME.
“I’m well enough.”
It took every scrap of her self-control to get those three words out. She swallowed all the hateful things she really wanted to scream in the botanist’s face. How much longer could she keep holding them back? She could also feel the wet warmth on her wounded side, which meant the gash from the spear had begun bleeding again.
Althea shivered and wrapped her arms around her waist. “You should try and get some rest.”
In that moment Emeline really saw how effortlessly beautiful the other woman was. No wonder Brennus had fallen so hard for her. Compared to Emeline she looked like a goddess.
Meribeth had never pitied Emeline like this, although now their friendship seemed very odd. The other nurse had been obsessed with keeping her own body very trim, almost to the point of gauntness. Why would she want to be seen with a walking lardy cake?
Of course, Emeline thought, swaying a little. If you want to look a skelf, befriend a bulfie lass like me.
They should never have been friends. Meri had worked in surgery, while Emeline had been firmly entrenched in geriatrics. A sleek, fashionable girl from the city didn’t take up with a girl from a village so small they had yet to pave the roads. All Meri liked to do on her off days was shop, have her hair and nails done, and throw parties or go clubbing. Taught by her parents to live their ideal of a quiet life, Emeline read books, knitted and gardened.
They’d had absolutely nothing in common.
Meri had always dragged her out of her flat to accompany her on countless adventures. Which when she thought about it had been Meri mostly having the fun while Emeline watched or waited or held her purse. No one ever spoke directly to her whenever Meri could be chatted up instead. Whenever she went out with her best friend Emeline listened and smiled and quietly seethed, just as she had in the dress shop.
As she did now with Althea.
“Emmie?” The botanist looked worried. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
No longer trusting herself to speak, Emeline nodded, and then shifted her gaze to Althea’s husband. The chieftain’s dark eyes and austere features betrayed none of his feelings, but she could sense his emotions as clearly as if he’d flung a handful of thorns in her face. He considered her a nuisance, and wanted her gone from Dun Mor.
You may get your wish sooner than you think, you snaiking skellum.
Taking a tighter grip on her cane, Emeline walked past him and limped downstairs to her room.
Chapter Two
INSIDE HIS HEALING chamber Ruadri sorted the scant bundles the clan’s gatherers had brought to him from their daily delves through the Am Monadh Ruadh. Only when a sharp, bitter scent filled his head did he realize he’d instead mangled them. Murmuring an entreaty to the Gods under his breath didn’t soothe him, nor did tidying up the mess he’d made of the last of the Red Hills’ autumn herbs.
“Now I turn a daft gowk.” He brushed bits of the crushed greenery from his palms, wishing he could do the same with his troubles.
Bracing his big hands on the edge of the table, Ruadri bowed his head and focused on the pitted stone surface. He’d carved the slabs of the table himself, chiseling the granite out of a slope and carrying them back to the stronghold balanced on one shoulder. He’d been mortal at the time, and yet still the toughest of the clan. Now that he had risen from his grave, an immortal warrior who would never again age or know sickness or disease, he was as helpless as a swaddled bairn.
For that he could blame nothing but his inability to resist the intoxicating allure of Emeline McAra.
Ruadri had first seen the healer from the future just before he’d been awakened to immortality. He’d been pushed out of a void of blackness onto a narrow lane of strange stone. He’d known at once that he’d stepped into the future from the unfamiliar surroundings. Towering buildings of perfect brick penned him in the lane, and huge boxy carts of metal and fine glass had sped past him on fat black wheels. One silver cart with a red circle and the Roman letters I and T painted in white within it stopped beside him and blasted a hooting sound. A door in the brick building opened, and Emeline had hurried out.
“Take me to Bridge Street,” she said to the man inside the cart.
Her voice sounded ragged, and Ruadri saw the tears shimmering in her bright eyes. Without thinking he reached out to her, and then the ground shook under his boots. The pebbly stone of the road cracked and collapsed as one of the famhairean emerged from the earth. It had been bespelled to look more human, but he recognized the way it moved, like some jerking, disjointed poppet. With one hand it caught hold of the silver cart, wrenching a side panel open and dragging out the terrified lady.
“Dinnae touch her,” Ruadri shouted.
He’d drawn his dagger and lunged at the giant, only to pass through it as if he were no more substantial than a twilight mist. It had felt as if his heart would shrivel to nothing to discover himself a wraith, until he’d finally realized he was only having a dream of this, and her. The famhair pushed the helpless lass into the rent in the street, and then she was gone, and with her the whole of her world.
The next thing Ruadri recalled was fighting his way out of the earth, bursting forth from the cold, hard soil with the rest of the Skaraven. From the moment he’d learned that five females had been brought back in time by the mad druids and their famhairean, he had hoped to find the dark lady of his vision. Indeed, he dreamed of her every night. In the end it had been Cadeyrn, the clan’s war master, who had found and rescued Emeline and the other lasses, and brought them to Dun Mor.
That, too, had been a bitter draught for Ruadri’s pride to swallow.
Still, he would never forget the first moment he’d seen Emeline. Gods, but the lovely dream of her from his visions paled beside the real lady. She had skin as pale and perfect as white heather petals, and eyes so clear and blue they seemed pieces of sky. Her pretty mouth reminded him of the curves of blush-colored rose petals beginning to bloom. It had stabbed at him to look at her beautiful face and see the bruises that yet mottled one side of it. Water-traveling with Cadeyrn had soaked her ragged garments, molding them to her glorious body. Such luscious curves would have made a fertility goddess seethe with envy.
While her beauty made Ruadri’s longing for her flare into rampant desire, the warmth of her spirit enveloped him in something he’d been unable to name. The heat of the hearth, the softness of goose down, the rush of cool water—she had something of all and yet none of them. What the healer made him feel he’d never experienced, even those long past nights when he’d lain shackled beneath a pleasure lass.
Ruadri understood the call of male to female, but he’d never felt it until now. Was this what other men endured when they met their intended mates? All he could think clearly on was his wanting, to go to Emeline McAra, and carry her off to his chamber, an
d claim her as his…but she would have none of him.
And why should she?
Unlike the rest of the Skaraven Clan, Ruadri had been sired and trained in secret by a tree-knower. Since boyhood he’d also been compelled to spy on his brothers and report back to the druids. Although he had finally been released from his onerous furtive duties, he would always be a half-blood and a traitor.
Naught can make me clean again.
“Shaman.”
He looked up blindly as a tall, dark figure entered the chamber, and belatedly straightened. Brennus should ken what I’ve done. Only then shall it be over. But revealing the truth of his blood, and his long betrayal of the clan, would part him from Emeline, and that he couldn’t bear just yet.
“How may I serve, Chieftain?”
“You carried the McAra healer into the stronghold,” Brennus reminded him. “Explain to me why.”
“I but caught her when she slipped in the tors.” He briefly described what had happened, and then added, “To prevent another spill I reckoned I should. She’s stubborn.”
Dark eyes studied his face. “Aye, but she’s made it plain that she doesnae crave your help, lad.”
So, everyone in the stronghold knew of her dislike of him. Ruadri shrugged away the hurt of that acknowledged fact.
“’Twas naught but instinct. Another time, I’ll let her tumble.”
“And I’ll invite the famhairean for a feast with the clan.” Brennus arched a black brow. “I ken you had visions of the lass, Brother. I had the same of Althea before the tree-knowers awakened us. ’Tis hard to resist the urge to protect the lady. But the healer’s blood-kin of the McAra.”
“You’ll no’ give her to the laird,” Ruadri said flatly. “Maddock hasnae claim on a female in truth no’ yet born. She–” He stopped himself from betraying more than his concern over more than her wounds. “Forgive me, Chieftain, I dinnae mean to challenge you.”
“Good. The last time you did, you near broke my facking sword arm.” The chieftain’s expression tightened. “That lass has something more brewing in her kettle, and I’ve the notion it’ll soon spill out. My gut tells me ’twill be naught good. Do you ken what so vexes her?”
So Brennus had also noticed Emeline’s uneven temper. “I cannae tell you certain, but I reckon ’twas what she endured at the hands of the famhairean. She’s a gentle lady, accustomed to far better. What harms the spirit cannae be easily healed or forgotten.”
The chieftain’s gaze narrowed. “Aye, your words have weight. Cade tells me that the McAra healer has a mind gift. She keenly feels what others do.”
“Likely ’tis the cause, then.” Ruadri kept his expression blank, but the revelation was a fist to his gut. Emeline knew what he felt for her? Gods above, but he had never once guarded his emotions in her presence. “I should look at the wounds of the other lasses if they’re rested. I managed but bandaging last night.”
“Althea’s gone to look in on them.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “A wife and four more females under my care now. Oft I’d rather face a Roman legion on the march. ’Tis easier to battle a brute than fathom a female.” Shaking his head, he left the chamber.
That the chieftain was so perplexed by the lasses’ presence didn’t trouble Ruadri. Like all the Skaraven, Brennus would fight to the death to protect them. Learning that Emeline was an empath, however, made clear the reason for her immediate rejection and dislike of him. Each time he’d been near her he’d felt longing and admiration and even possessiveness. Since they’d never met outside of his vision she wouldn’t have understood his emotions.
No wonder she’d refused to let him touch her. If she’d sensed his feelings for her the lass probably thought him deranged with lust.
Ruadri grabbed what herbs and bandages he needed for wound care and left his chamber, telling one of the men in the hall that he would return shortly. From there he descended to Dun Mor’s lower levels and went directly to the chamber Brennus had given to Emeline. He lifted his hand to knock, and then heard a whimper of pain. He pushed the door open and hurried inside, stopping short as he saw Emeline perched on the bed.
She’d stripped to the waist, and had only a shaped band of blue lace covering her breasts. Dark bruises and old wounds covered her torso from shoulders to hips, and she’d been starved enough to make her rib bones show. An open bottle of whiskey, cut threads, a pair of shears and scarlet-strained bandages lay beside her. More blood seeped from a partly-stitched gash in her side. Her trembling hand held a needle with thin thread connected to the wound.
He stared at the gash, which appeared much deeper and serious than she had led him to believe. Remembering to shove back his alarm, he asked, “Lass, what do you now?”
“I’m replacing some sutures.” Carefully she tied off the thread before she snipped it. “A few broke when I slipped. What do you want this time?”
The ire in her glance told him she wanted him gone, but Ruadri could no more leave her like this than he could have let her fall.
“Brennus told me of your gift,” he said, marching over to the bed to stand over her. “I came to say that you’ve the wrong notion of me, my lady.”
“Have I?” Emeline looked down at the needle in her bloodied fingers. “I’m sorry for that.”
She sounded indifferent, which likely meant she didn’t believe him. He could work on her opinion of him later. For now, he needed to tend to her.
“I ken how to stitch shut a gash, and you cannae see all the wound. Permit me do this work.”
“Such eagerness to put hands on me.” Her eyes took on a peculiar narrowness as she met his gaze. “That’s truly why you came. To be alone with me, where no one can interfere.”
Her suspicions dumbfounded him for a moment. Interfere in what?
“’Tis but my way to look in on the wounded. If you dinnae wish it done here, we’ll return to my healing chamber,” Ruadri offered. “I shall send for Althea, or Lily, to be with you.”
Emeline peered up at him. “Do you reckon you’re the first to want to have at me? Lads in my time always wondered if I’d be good in bed. Fat lasses such as me, dinnae you ken, ever so desperate for it.”
“Fat?” he echoed blankly. “What?”
“Baggie, chuffie, girthie.” She threw out the words as if spitting them. “A great hauchan, one nurse called me. I ken what I look like, Shaman. I’ve endured this podgy body all of my life.”
Ruadri peered at her. Even half-starved Emeline was the most luscious, beautiful female he’d ever seen, and she spoke of herself as if she were utterly blind.
“Have you hit your head as well?”
“Dinnae joke.” She rose to her feet, swaying a little. “’Tis why you willnae leave me be. Because like all men you reckon I should be begging for it. When I’ve done naught but tell you to stay away. You should be made to listen.”
That she believed he wished to force himself on her sickened him, but the thought of others attempting the same enraged him. What manner of men had she known in her time?
“You’re mistaken,” Ruadri said and saw how the dark of her eyes had dwindled to pinpricks, and glanced down. She’d clenched her fist around the shears she still held, as if she meant to drive them into his gut. “Emeline, no.”
The door behind him opened, and a willowy, blonde-haired woman carrying a bucket of steaming water came in.
“Morning, Shaman,” Lily Stover said as she breezed past him. “This is blistering hot, Em, so be careful.” The British woman set down the bucket and looked from the healer to Ruadri, wariness darkening her green eyes. “Am I interrupting?”
He watched Emeline’s eyes change to how they had been before her outburst, and her hand slowly lowered the shears. If she had been drugged she could not have shaken off the effects so quickly. He could not sense any magic at work, either. Yet if he pressed the issue she might descend into that furious state again and attack them both.
“No, my lady.” It took all his resolv
e to regard Lily as if nothing had happened. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Ruadri went from Emeline’s chamber to the great hall, where Brennus and his wife stood with Rowan and Perrin Thomas. For a moment he struggled with what he should tell his chieftain and the other ladies. Something was terribly wrong with Emeline, and it wasn’t simply lingering emotional trauma from the terrible abuse she’d endured. Althea had told him the nurse was the sweetest, gentlest woman she’d ever known, and Cadeyrn had spoken at length on her courage and ingenuity.
A lady’s character did not change that much overnight. But what more had been done to her to alter her so? Had Hendry and Murdina somehow bespelled her, and then masked the magic to prevent detection?
Being half-druid and having some skill in the magical arts did not make Ruadri an expert on the tree-knowers or their powers. His sadistic father had hidden much from him during his boyhood training, doubtless to keep the upper hand. Emeline was not only McAra blood-kin but a druidess with a remarkable gift. Before he could help her, he had to discover what could possibly afflict her so, and if it required a treatment particular to her kind.
“There you are.” Althea smiled as he joined them. “Everything all right?”
“’Twill be, my lady,” Ruadri assured her. “Do you ken where Master Flen may be now?”
“Probably on his way to the McAra’s stronghold for our meeting,” the chieftain’s wife said. “Why?”
After leaving the Thomas sisters to wait for Ruadri in the shaman’s healing chamber Althea went over to the hearth in the great hall, where Lily stood speaking with Brennus and Cadeyrn. Their conversation halted as soon as they saw her, and the chief looked worried, which meant the topic wasn’t a happy one.
“You can tell me what the problem is now,” she warned them in a low voice, “or I can beat it out of my husband later.”
