by Jenny Brown
He couldn’t have enough of that cool way she dealt with the many difficulties with which her life was filled. She was so calm, so matter-of-fact. So unlike him. She wasn’t tormented by an overactive imagination. And yet despite her objectivity she was so kind. She’d been willing to resume their journey because she knew what abandoning it would mean for him. She might pretend she did it cynically, but he’d felt the subtle touch of her compassion enough over these few days they’d spent together to know there was more to it than that.
He wished he had her strength. He marveled at the inner beauty that lay hidden beneath her flawed skin and crude features. Had she been anyone else’s daughter—had he not been chosen as the heir—who was to say what he might have felt for her? But he couldn’t change the past. She’d been right to remind him that she was Isabelle’s daughter. She was the last woman alive with whom he should betray his vow and give in to his animal nature. He couldn’t betray Charlotte like that.
But even so, cursed as he was—and knowing how wrong it was—his soul cried out to join itself with Zoe’s.
Perhaps it was a side effect of the spell. Perhaps when he’d invaded her soul to bend her to his will he had somehow opened his soul to her—or given up some of his own will. Whatever it was, he hoped it would pass quickly, before he gave himself up to any more of the Piscean emotionality his teacher had so often chided him for. It might be his nature to pine for what he could never have, but he would not succumb to it.
In a few more days they would reach Iskeny, and he would find himself again in the Dark Lord’s presence. But even the thought of his long-awaited reunion with his teacher brought him no comfort. For the Dark Lord had told him to bring him the virgin and had written that if he did, Charlotte, at last, would be avenged. What role would Zoe play in that Final Teaching—the virgin his teacher had summoned?
He sighed. Perhaps it was just more proof of his flawed Piscean nature, but it struck him that what he needed right now was a drink. So he made his way downstairs to the taproom and called for a pint of porter. When the bar man had pulled it and set the tall pewter tankard before him, Adam paid him and walked over to a secluded corner where a comfortable chair beckoned. It was only after he’d drunk a long, satisfying draught that he looked up and noticed that a short, burly man was making his way toward him.
The man was dressed in the characteristic costume of a lowland cottar, a shapeless hat, rough trews, and a homespun shirt with an open collar similar to the one the Dark Lord had conferred on Adam in Morlaix when he’d first taken him on as a disciple. He carried a heavy pack on his back and there were layers of dried-on mud on his boots, as if he’d recently tramped through wet fields. He must be a beggar. Adam reached into his pocket for a shilling to give him, hoping to forestall a recital of his wretched plight.
But when the man saw him bring out the coin, he waved it away. A rough smile twisted his weathered face. “Nae, keep yer siller.” He spoke in a heavy Scots brogue. “I have other business with you, milord.” Then, without waiting for an invitation, he dropped into a chair beside Adam and bent his face close to his. A rich odor compounded of horse and unwashed clothing filled Adam’s nostrils, forcing him back against the wall.
“Who are you?” he demanded testily. “What do you want with me?”
The man smiled again, a slow, not entirely amiable smile.
“Does this answer yer question?” The man rooted around in his pocket before pulling something out and holding it up before Adam’s startled gaze.
A black feather, notched in the ancient fashion, just like the one he’d shown Isabelle.
Adam took it, his fingers shaking. What message had the Dark Lord sent him now? Had the healer’s powers shown him how shamefully Adam had betrayed his vow? Had he sent this message to warn Adam away from continuing on with his journey now that his impurity had rendered it pointless?
A curious mixture of emotions flowed through him at that thought: grief that the work of so many years had been wasted, relief that he might at last give up a struggle he’d begun to think he couldn’t win. But though he tried to read the message encoded in the feather’s notches, the rigors of the messenger’s journey had caused it to become so bedraggled Adam couldn’t make it out. Still, there was no doubt of its provenance. “You come from Iskeny?”
The man nodded.
“Does the Dark Lord still live?”
Reaching up to remove his hat, the man shook his head sadly. “Nae. He passed on to his reward this Tuesday last.”
He’d been too late. But if the Dark Lord had died that long ago, at least it hadn’t been Adam’s lust and Zoe’s injury that had denied him the reunion with his teacher he’d looked forward to all these years. The Dark Lord had already been dead before the two of them had even set out on their journey north.
The Dark Lord’s messenger replaced his battered hat. “Since my master’s passing, I’ve traveled hard, restin’ neither day nor night to bring his last message to you.”
“He left me a message? What is it?”
The man took a long, yearning look at Adam’s tankard before replying. “I’ll get to that, but ye must let me tell my story. The auld laird died at sunset as was the prophecy”—Adam made a gesture of reverence with his hand as he’d been taught—“but before he passed, he asked to be taken one last time to the holy stane—you know of his ways how he goes to the holy stanes and calls to Them with his magic—”
Adam did indeed. There had been a standing stone at Morlaix, set out in a field, and it was there the Dark Lord had taken him and called upon the Ancient Ones for guidance on that terrible day when he’d discovered what Isabelle had done to his sister. “I know his ways well. But get to the message that he sent me.”
Then, observing the longing way the man’s eyes caressed the tankard, he shoved it across the table to him, saying, “Take it, I’ve hardly touched it.”
The man’s eyes lit up. “Slainte.” He took a deep draught from the tankard and then wiped his upper lip with his sleeve. “It’s been a long, dry journey. Now where was I? Oh yes. When we brought him back frae the holy stane, the auld laird called for me, his eyes burning like coals. ‘MacMinn!’ he cries—that being me name, Yer Lordship—‘Find Lord Ramsay. Dinnae rest until you find him.’ And he told me to follow the coaching road south until I found you.”
“But why?”
“Ah, but I’m coming to that. It’s the lassie, Yer Lordship. The one that he purchased frae the wicked harlot.” The man fixed him suddenly with a severe eye. “You’ve not ravished the girl, have ye?”
“Of course not,” Adam said swiftly, his blood congealing as he remembered how close he’d come to doing just that.
“Good! Then ye must wed her.”
“Wed her?”
“Aye, and the marriage must take place this very night. ‘When ye find him, MacMinn,’ the auld laird said. ‘Let not the sun rise agin afore they wed, or the power of the Auld Ones will seep back into the earth.’ That was his charge to me, and those were his very words.”
“But he made such a point in his letter that she must stay a virgin!”
“Well, aye,” the man said slowly, pausing to take another long pull of the ale. “He wanted only the best for you, his heir. Ye wudna wish her to be soiled, she that would become the bride of the Dark Lord’s heir?”
“So I am still his heir? Though he be dead?”
“Of course. But only if ye marry the girl.”
“But the Dark Lord must be chaste.”
The man fixed him with one eye. “He commanded that ye be married, laddie. The time for chastity is over.”
The Dark Lord had released him from his vow? It was almost too much to take in. “But now that he’s dead, how can I inherit his powers? Without him, there can be no Final Teaching. Did he mention that?”
“Och, aye. ’Twas the last thing he spake before he could speak nae more. ‘Hark ye,’ says he, ‘’tis the harlot’s daughter who holds the key to the Final Te
aching now. They must wed before the power of the Ancient Ones seeps back into the earth. Then they must dwell together on his ancestral lands for a year and a day, and bide there together. He must not return to the Holy Isle ’til that time is past. For until the year goes by it wudna be safe.’ And after that he started a-babbling in some foreign tongue and said nae more in any language we could understand.”
“So I must marry her?”
“Ye must. And ye must marry her swiftly, too, before the power he would pass on to ye drains back into the earth. It’s been seven days already since he died. Ye must not make it seven nights. It must be now.”
Adam’s head was spinning. He called for another pint for the messenger, who sipped at it with obvious pleasure while he tried to come to terms with the message the man had brought him. Though there could be no Final Teaching as he had understood it—no passage through the Dragon’s Cave, no fearsome test—at the end of his life the Dark Lord found a way to reach out from beyond the grave. The tradition would, somehow, pass on.
He felt a pang. He’d lived for so long imagining that trip to the Dragon’s Cave. The hope that he would be worthy of it had been what motivated him to keep his vow. And yet, at the same time, he felt a surge of relief. There would be no virgin on the altar.
Only now did he allow himself to admit how much he’d feared what might lie in store for Zoe on the island. But in view of the Dark Lord’s last command, he saw how foolish he’d been and felt shame at how little he’d trusted in the wisdom of his teacher.
It had been his own vengeful nature that had created the ugly scenes that had flitted through his imagination. That was no work of the Old Ones. The Dark Lord had never meant Zoe to be his victim.
“Ye must marry her, laddie,” MacMinn repeated after he’d refreshed himself with another swig from the foaming tankard. “And ye must do it now.” He wiped his mouth. “Do not delay or the power will dribble away and the auld laird will have no heir.”
“I shall do his will.” Adam stood.
A broad grin spread over the messenger’s features. “ ’Tis well that I found you in our bonny Scotland where the laws of marriage are so reasonable. I shall go now and find an anvil priest to join ye twa in the sight of the gods and men. Then off with ye to your ancestral lands, as the auld laird intended. It willna be safe to dally ’til you are home, once ye have made her yours.”
The man donned his battered cap. “I imagine the girl will be relieved when she learns she’s to be wed.”
I imagine the girl will tear out my liver and my lights when I suggest any such thing, Adam thought, wondering how he would ever get her to consent.
Chapter 8
Adam watched with mixed feelings as MacMinn disappeared into the night to hunt up one of the blacksmiths who custom—and the lenient Scottish law—allowed to solemnize runaway marriages. But as simple as a Scottish marriage might be, the bride must still give her consent. And given the coldness with which Zoe had dismissed him not an hour ago and her bitter words about marriage, how would he obtain it?
The simplest approach—just asking—was out of the question. He couldn’t delude himself that she’d accept a straightforward proposal. A gently raised girl, subjected to the humiliations he’d put her through, might welcome the wedding that would save her reputation, especially in view of the sexual encounter they’d engaged in. But Zoe didn’t consider herself bound by the narrow rules that applied to a gently raised lady. She’d made her preference for freedom clear—as well as her disdain for him. With all she’d suffered at his hands, he could just imagine how she would respond were he to ask her to become his wife. He’d be lucky if she didn’t fling something at his head.
But he might be wrong. He knew little about women, having taken pains to avoid their company throughout the past nine years. Perhaps she would surprise him. He was a titled lord, after all, and it was marriage he was offering. Unworldly though he might be, he knew enough to know that few women could resist the allure of a title, whatever their feelings might be for its possessor.
But he quickly dismissed that hope. He knew Zoe well enough by now to know that she was one of the small number who could. That was part of what made her so appealing—the integrity that was so evident in her character, despite her base birth.
If he ever were to marry, it would be just such a woman that he’d want, someone who saw him as more than just a way to achieve wealth and rank, an honest woman who took no pleasure in the flirtatious behaviors so common among both courtesans and debutantes. That was the kind of woman he’d want were he to marry—but that thought brought him crashing back to reality.
It wasn’t a matter of “were he to marry,” but of how he could persuade Zoe to marry him tonight—within the next few hours, before the power of the Dark Lord seeped back into the earth.
It seemed impossible. And yet he must achieve it.
He sighed. There was a certain justice to the old man’s setting out this path for him. Perhaps the passage through the Dragon’s Cave would have been too easy for him. He wasn’t afraid of the things of the dark. He’d faced them all his life. But marriage to Zoe, whom he longed for with his body, and who, he was beginning to suspect, had touched him in his soul—to bind himself to her, for life—now that was truly frightening.
But none of this brought him any closer to figuring out how he would get her to go along with his plan. She had every reason to reject it. It wasn’t her quest that made this marriage necessary. Why should she bind herself to him, after the callous way he’d treated her? Why put herself under the lifelong control of the man who had stolen her from her home with insults and threats and whose cowardice had almost cost her leg or even her life? He could barely stand to think what might have happened had he not found that paper with the spell—
But that was it. That was how it could be done.
Nothing could be simpler. He would just invoke the healing spell again. He wouldn’t have to plead his case or convince her to accept him as her husband. He need only command her to assent, and she must obey. The spell would make it so. It was almost as if the Ancient Ones had planned it.
A quiet voice within whispered it was wrong. But no sooner had it made its case than he imagined the Dark Lord’s scornful rebuttal. Too much was at stake for him to let himself be hobbled by Piscean sentiment. It was the time for action, not losing himself in weakening reflection. The Ancient Ones had decreed that he must marry Zoe, so marry her he would.
He’d ensure she wouldn’t suffer in the aftermath. He’d give her a better life than the one she’d have had without him. As he’d told her, he wasn’t a monster. Now he’d have the chance to prove it.
That decided, Adam tiptoed down the narrow inn hallway to Zoe’s chamber and knocked gingerly on her door. In a whisper she bade him enter. She’d lain down as if to rest, but it was clear that rest had eluded her.
He strode across the room to where she lay. “Does your leg pain you?”
“It does, though I think it’s getting better.” Her face looked pale and drawn. He’d expected that by now she would be feeling her body’s reaction to what he’d done to it with his surgery. But as was her wont, she was fighting hard to hide her pain.
“Perhaps I can ease it somewhat.”
Her face brightened. “Can you? Were you able to find some laudanum?”
“No. But I can help you again with the healing spell. It helped you sleep after you awoke from the surgery, didn’t it?”
“It did. Can you use it again?”
He nodded. But the relief that animated her features sent shame flooding through him, in view of what it was he was about to do to her. It wasn’t right. Had it not been the Dark Lord’s final command that Adam wed her, he’d have turned on his heel then and there and left her alone. But he had no other choice. The Dark Lord’s power must not ebb back into the earth. The unbroken chain of a hundred heirs that had gone before him demanded that he assume their heritage.
He sat down on the plai
n wooden chair that stood at Zoe’s bedside. “When you awake your pain will be gone.” He looked into her warm brown eyes and smiled to allay the concern he saw in them. Then he leaned over and spoke the Word of Power.
“Codladh.”
Almost as soon as the breath had left his lips, her eyelids dropped over her pupils. He examined her for the signs that the Dark Lord had taught him and, finding them, was satisfied that she had, indeed, dropped back into that same state of enchantment in which he had operated on her leg.
To assuage his conscience, he began by murmuring the words that would relieve her pain. He owed her that much, as he’d told her he’d invoke the spell to soothe her. When that was done, he battled the feeling that he should stop there and not take the next, irreversible step. Conscience whispered it was wrong; prudence, that he’d pay dearly for it.
But even as he contended with his sentimental weakness, a faint smile played upon Zoe’s lips, making her look so very beautiful. She glowed with an inner beauty that entranced him. He felt himself enveloped in her aura now that they were connected once again by the power of his magic. He yearned to embrace her, to enfold her in his arms, and lose himself in her.
Instinctively, he drew back, fighting the treacherous urge, only to remember that if he did what he intended that yearning would be permitted—and not only permitted but required. She would be his wife. It would be right to join himself with her and to bathe himself in the comfort she, and only she, could give him.
“Zoe,” he began, speaking with the soothing rhythm of the ancient incantation. “When you awaken, you will have no memory of what we speak of now. You will feel only happiness. You will have no pain. And when next you see me pull my watch out of my pocket”—his voice cracked, but still he must go on—“you will be filled with the desire to be my bride.”
He paused, in case she should protest, trembling at the enormity of what he’d done. But Zoe made no response except for the tiniest quiver at the corner of her closed eyes. She was truly under the power of his spell.
