A Storm of Passion

by TERRI BRISBIN

  “Are you well? You did not seem so at table,” he began. “I know you chafe under this constant watch, Connor, but I…”

  Connor held up his hand, shaking his head at what was to come…again. “I appreciate your concern for my welfare, Diarmid, but there have been no attempts in the last two months.”

  With the power of Sight, he had become a valuable asset to this lord, and, in exchange for care, comfort, protection, and wealth, Connor served only him. Apparently someone wanted to stop that arrangement, and whether Connor or Diarmid’s influence with both the Norwegian and Scottish kings and many other island chieftains was the true target, they knew not.

  “My men have been searching for those connected to the assassins.”

  “Aye, I know that, but two months is longer than the intervals since the attacks began. I should be safe now.”

  “You and I both know that the effort was planned ahead and in concert with others, Connor. Though none of the three we captured talked before they died, I am beginning to understand and suspect that there is a web connecting them. A few more weeks…”

  “I will go insane in a few more weeks, Diarmid,” he swore.

  Turning away, he sought the cup of ale he’d dropped. Ranald had cleaned up the spillage and set a new one there for him. Filling it near to the rim, he glanced at Diarmid, who shook his head. He drank most of it before stopping.

  “Is that wise?” Diarmid asked.

  “It is necessary, Diarmid.”

  “I thought that the women eased your pain before the visions. Is that not true now?” He could feel Diarmid’s dark scrutiny. “Is there something I should know?”

  Connor did not meet the astute man’s gaze for a moment, trying to bring the pain that stabbed his head and the heat in his veins under control. It was worse, and it was growing even more painful. Although refusing the women who showed up at his door these last weeks seemed a good idea to him, his “gift” thought otherwise. It seemed foolish to him to continue to bed women when none could satisfy him, but the pressure building warned him of the dire results of such forced celibacy.

  Like some cruel joke played by ancient gods against mortal men, each time he used the power of the visions, he suffered with repercussions he could not have imagined when the power first asserted itself within him. Now each vision of the past or the present or some unknown future brought devastating consequences: he was going blind.

  Somehow he’d managed to keep the worst of it to himself. The effects lessened over days, but each time the power flowed, the blindness lasted longer and was more complete. The first time it happened, now just over ten months ago, it had almost seemed like his imagination rather than a real event. Then, each time, it worsened, and it now lasted for several full days, the cone of darkness around him larger and deeper with each occurrence.

  And the power flowed more freely as well, stronger and stronger, both luring him and allowing him to see deeper into the past and further into today and beyond and drawing more women to him daily, while reaping its terrible price on him.

  “The visions grow stronger, Diarmid, and so too do their effects on me. I suffer from pains in my head for days after being gifted with a vision.”

  “So that is the reason for your seclusion afterward? I thought,” he said, walking closer and lowering his voice, “I thought that you might be losing your…gift.”

  Connor considered how to answer. Truth be told, he did not know the answer to that question. Only tales passed down could explain what happened to him. There was no one who knew exactly how his power worked or the reasons behind these more recent changes to it. Was he losing his gift? Of what value would he be to Diarmid if that happened? Taking a deep breath in, he realized the only prudent thing to do was bluff through it until he had more of an idea of what the situation really was.

  “The visions seem stronger and come more often, as you know, Diarmid.”

  Of course he knew, for as the frequency and strength increased, he’d arranged for more of his cronies and potential allies to benefit from Connor’s visions. When the portents changed and a vision approached, Lord Diarmid filled his keep with those whom he sought to influence and control and exposed them to Connor’s powers. Though Connor could not completely control the choice of the recipient of his gift, he could feel when those requesting were true of heart—the one common element among those who received a vision in answer to their question.

  “But these effects seem stronger and to plague you more viciously each time. Is there aught that can be done?” Lord Diarmid asked.

  Find that damned wench! his body and head screamed out in silence.

  “Nay, Diarmid. Nothing that I am aware of,” he said, drinking down more ale. “Your healer has attempted every pain concoction she knows. Your priest prays incessantly for me, though for my demise or my improvement, I know not which. I have searched for years for someone who could tell me more of this gift and found no one.” He rubbed his forehead again and squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. “I know of nothing else to try.”

  “And the girl you sought. You thought she might be somehow connected to this?” Diarmid’s eyes darkened, and his face emptied of all expression, a sign he’d come to know in the years he’d spent here.

  “Nay, Diarmid. She but provided me with several hours of vigorous bedplay, and I sought more of it…her,” he forced out a laugh. “She had certain skills….” He let his words drift off, allowing Diarmid, who also liked variety in his bed, to think what he would. “Better even than when I paid good coin for it. What better way to take my mind off the pain?”

  Diarmid smiled then, and nodded. “I have my men searching for her, Connor. If she returns to the island or the keep, she is yours….” Smacking him on the shoulder, Diarmid walked to the door. “First, at the least,” he said then. “With such high praise from you, I will have to try her as well.”

  Jealous rage pierced him, tearing through his blood and making his jaws clench in possessive fury. But, to give Diarmid so much information about her importance to him was to hand the lord another weapon with which to control him. Something he knew better than to do, for Diarmid liked very little in life more than controlling others and making them dance to his tune.

  “Find her, and you will learn the truth of my words of praise, my lord. Now, I would seek some rest,” Connor said, opening the door for Diarmid.

  “Have a care about the ale and wine, Connor. Should I send Ranald to you?”

  “Nay,” Connor shook his head. “His service to me this day is done. He can seek his own rest.”

  Diarmid stepped through the doorway and would have walked away, but Connor grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop. There was one more thing they needed settled between them this night. Making certain no one lurked in the hallway, he spoke in a low voice.

  “I will travel to my farm next week, Diarmid,” he said in a calm voice. “Ranald need not accompany me.”

  “It is not safe for you to leave the keep, Connor,” Diarmid answered, shaking his head decisively. “We will talk of this when the identities of those trying to assassinate you are known.”

  Connor stopped him when he would have walked away again. “I am not asking you this, Diarmid. I have been your faithful servant for years and have never given you reason to question my loyalty to you. I will only be gone several days, a sennight at the most.”

  Diarmid looked as though he would argue, but he crossed his arms and nodded. “After the vision and with sufficient guards,” he ordered.

  Connor tilted his head, appearing to acquiesce for the moment. That battle could be better waged with a clearer head than he had now.

  “My lord,” he said, stepping back into his chambers.

  Once Diarmid made his way down the hall, Connor closed the door and leaned against it as the pain flooded him. Trying to ride the waves of pain as they hit, Connor stumbled over to the large, wooden chest in one corner and opened it. After a few minutes of searching, he found the hea
ler’s latest brew and poured a good measure of it into his goblet. Filling it with sweet wine, he swirled the mixture and then downed it in two swallows. Connor walked over to the chair and fell into it, for the effects of the drug would begin soon.

  The concoction began working in a few minutes, and Connor noticed that the pain receded a bit. He was still sitting in the chair, unmoving, when he realized that his physical needs, heightened now as the vision was but two or three days off, caused his body to emanate that essence that beckoned women to him. The smell of it, like something from deep in the forest, was more noticeable now than earlier—mayhap the pain blocked it from working?—and Connor knew it would take no time at all to be answered.

  The sound of someone scratching lightly on the door at his back told him the first had arrived. Torn between his fleshly needs, accelerated now, and his desire for the only woman who’d made a difference, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he began to experience more of the drug’s effect. The pain moved further away from him, allowing the heat in his blood to spread. Erect and hardened, his cock knew the answer even if he struggled with the question.

  “My lord?” the soft voice queried through the timber door.

  Another breath, and more of the scent spread. And yet he took another breath before he gave in, deciding that celibacy was not the answer either.

  What if he never found her?

  What if waiting for her caused him to miss another woman who could make him feel the same things Moira had?

  Mayhap the girl outside his door now, the one who had lain in his bed offering herself to him earlier, could drain him of the raging lust in his veins and give him respite from the pain, too?

  He strode to the door, lifted the latch, and stepped away, pulling the door open as he moved. The girl entered, still wrapped in the cloak that Ranald had covered her in just minutes—hours—ago. With a motion of his hand, he sent her back to his bed, watching her long brown hair sway down her back with each step she took.

  If he closed his eyes, it would feel the same. If he didn’t taste her lips or the heart of her passion, he would never know. Connor pushed the door closed and followed her into his sleeping chamber. She’d stopped by the bed, and he moved around her, climbing onto its surface and sitting with his back against the tall, cushioned headboard.

  “My lord, how can I serve you?” she asked, her voice soft and dreamlike. Her eyes, though green, were undefined and shadowed, not clear and challenging as the woman he wanted.

  She’d not waited on his request; instead, she lifted his tunic and loosened his belt. Reaching into his trews, she took his cock in her grasp and then climbed between his legs, positioning herself as he knew she would. She paused and raised her head, waiting on his word now, and he nodded.

  When she licked her lips and opened her mouth wide to accommodate him there, he tried to imagine someone else in her place. Her movements teased his hardness and made waves of pleasure pulse through it. Her hands were skillful as she massaged his sac, sliding her fingers around it, lifting it, and caressing it as she suckled on his rod.

  He felt the pressure build in it and tried to remember the feel of Moira’s mouth taking him in deeply. Connor knew his release was close, and he shifted, pushing farther into the wench’s mouth. Her hair fell like a curtain around her, brushing his thighs and groin as she moved up and down again and again, pulling on his length until he felt his sac tauten and his release spew into her. She did not stop until every drop had been drawn from him.

  Whatever feelings of pleasure he’d experienced waned quickly, and he sat there with a girl who wasn’t the one he wanted between his legs, servicing him just as so many others had but with one difference now: the momentarily relief could not disguise the disappointment rushing through him.

  But when she began to caress him once more, sliding those experienced hands over his thighs and belly and then down to his half-erect cock, he let her.

  He just did not have the strength to fight the call in his blood. The visions were coming, and they proved his master yet again.

  Chapter Three

  The scene burst out before Connor and he was tempted to delay in his quest for the sheer enjoyment of such lightness and beauty. And clarity. The sky filled with huge white clouds. The sun’s rays traced their outlines on the sea and ground below, barely able to keep up as they raced on the Highland winds. Following the coast, he searched for the cliffs and the loch that sliced into the land, making a path toward the higher mountain peaks.

  As though a bird in flight, Connor sighted the trail that led over the mountains and followed it, on and on, until the castle came into view. Rough stone walls topped with a wooden roof, surrounded by another ring of tall stones. Now, he searched for the way in.

  Flying lower and lower, he traced the route of a small stream and found its entrance under the walls. The location was unseen from the ground, hidden by an outcropping of rock and trees, but from his place in the sky, it was clear…and undefended. The perfect place to begin the downfall of the castle and its inhabitants.

  “Follow the trail until it turns to the north. Then look to the south for a break in the forest and search for the stream that runs there. It will lead you to the secret entrance. Use it, and you will recover your daughter,” Connor instructed.

  His hand rushed across the slate creating a chalk map of exactly what he saw before him. The trail, the entrance to the forest, the stream were now all marked on the slate for the man to follow. He did not need to say that this man and his warriors would crush his enemies as well, for he knew that once the man was inside the keep, when he saw what had been done to his daughter, death and complete annihilation for those responsible would follow.

  Even now, as he finished describing the vision and released the hand of the man who asked for his help, the scene was fading from his view. Connor handed the slate off to a servant waiting there and laid his hands on the carved arms of the chair. Clutching the strong wood beneath his palms against the pain he knew would come, he realized it was vital not to let anyone know the extent of it. Glancing in that moment around the large chamber, he nodded to his servant Ranald.

  Ranald clapped his hands loudly, drawing the attention of all who observed Connor’s use of the Sight. Ushering them out, Ranald waved off the attempt of the one requesting the vision to gift him with gold. So many tried, but Connor had learned the folly of accepting such payment a long time ago. With a nod of acceptance of the man’s show of gratitude, he turned away.

  He took in a breath and released it as the burning began. The heat filled his eyes like it filled his finger when he held his hand too close to a flame. Now, the blindness robbed his eyes of sight as the pain increased. Like white-hot iron pokers thrust there, the burning grew and grew. Fighting it long enough to allow Ranald to empty his chambers of those who came to witness the power of his gift, usually those whom Diarmid wanted to entice into his circle of allies, he held on to any vestige of control he had. As soon as he heard the door close loudly, Connor clutched his eyes and slid from the chair, down from the dais and onto the floor. His stomach clenched, and he heaved out bile as he writhed against it. Struggling not to scream, he curled up tightly and waited, praying it would end soon.

  Minutes or hours passed, and the burning began to ease in his eyes. Connor remained on the floor, taking in deep breaths of air, trying to rid himself of the pain, but it was not done yet. A few more minutes, and he could remove his hands from his eyes. The burning was bearable now. Almost.

  More time moved by as he waited for the pain to cease completely. This time it lasted longer than before. And it was more intense again, as though the respite two months before had never happened. Now, he waited to regain his strength before trying to stand, or even sit. Each time his recovery slowed with each use of his power.

  When Connor could feel both the coldness and the hardness of the stone floor beneath him, he tried to sit up. His head pounded with dizziness, but he managed to get to
his knees. Then, feeling the floor with his hands, he got his bearings of his position in the room.

  Opening his eyes would do no good, for they were useless now and would remain so for days. This was the price of his “gift.” Kneeling there, he pushed away all the thoughts of and prayers for release that plagued his days and nights and especially these moments after he used his power. There was no release, as far as he could discover, and nothing that could intervene in his descent into blindness. Connor fought not to wish that the recent attempts on his life would succeed and free him from all of this.

  He heard the voices of those outside his chamber, some arguing with Ranald, others pleading. It would be to no avail, for until he could see, he could not have the visions they wanted, or needed, or begged for. Pushing his hair out of his face, he righted his cloak and sat back on his heels. The hallway would quiet, and Ranald would leave as soon as he cleared out those who still pled their case. It was as he was about to gain his feet that he heard the sound.

  Someone was in his chambers.

  Someone had witnessed his descent from Seer to blind man.

  Someone was moving from one place to another behind him.

  He turned his head quickly to try to gauge the intruder’s location and his distance from him, but the first blow hit him then, a strong kick that shoved him to the floor once again. The dagger’s entrance into his shoulder was quick and silent.

  Connor grabbed for his shoulder and tried to call out, but the vision left him with little strength. Any sound he could make would be masked by the busyness and noise of those in the corridor outside his chambers. Rolling away from his assailant, he tried to make it to the door. Another kick to his ribs, and he collapsed on the floor.

  Of all the ends to his life he’d considered, especially as the assassins had varied their attempts, murder by an unseen attacker was not one of them. Now as he waited for the death blow, he wondered what had brought this about, and why now. Was it another of the Fae’s strange ironies? An enemy he knew not? The weight of someone pouncing on his chest ended all speculation, for he could not breathe.