A Storm of Passion

by TERRI BRISBIN

  She eased her way closer to the water, trying to figure out how to get into the boat without swimming to it. One of the guards, without a word of warning, picked her up in his arms and carried her through the shallows to the boat. He dumped her in and tossed the lighter sack to her as he untied the ropes anchoring the boat in place and climbed into it. Moira winced when the metal links in the other sack clanged as they landed on the bottom of the boat at her feet.

  All she needed was one good moment of opportunity, and she could die knowing her task was completed. All she had to do was stay alive long enough for one more attack. All she had to accomplish was to lull him into believing that she did not want his death and did not need it in her soul, and she could take him down once and for all.

  Moira gathered the hood of the borrowed cloak and tugged it down around her head and face to block out most of the wind. Pol called out her name, and she turned toward the shore to see him waving to her. A strange impulse to call out words of thanks to him and for Dara pierced her then, and she fought against it. She spared only a nod for him, while words of gratitude and regret soured on her tongue, unspoken.

  There was no time for such soft thoughts. She must prepare herself for the ordeal ahead and allow herself only to think on her plan. Last time, she’d been so surprised by what she’d witnessed in the Seer’s chambers that she’d lost her nerve to end her own life before they could capture her. This time, she must be ready.

  Closing her eyes, she blocked out the sounds of the gulls and the sun’s light playing merrily across the waves to think only about the layout of the keep and how she could attain a weapon. Minutes turned to hours as the boat caught the winds in its sails and made its way around Mull to Diarmid’s keep on the north coast.

  “Keep yer voices down, ye bloody fools!”

  They quieted and waited on his words. Standing in the darkened room, using their hooded cloaks and the shadowed corners to hide their identities, none knew many of the others. Except him. He knew them all, and he’d used their petty jealousies and fears to draw them into his plan to end the Seer’s influence on Diarmid and Diarmid’s influence on Earl Magnus.

  “She returns on the morrow,” he said, squinting into the shadows. “Did any of ye recruit her to our plans?”

  “Bah,” the tall one, Lord Struan, said, spitting on the floor. “No one would use a woman in something this important.” Turning to those nearest him, he explained, “And a worthless bitch at that. She had a knife in her hands and no one to intervene, and she couldna even kill him. If ye expect more than the heat ye find between their thighs, yer expecting too much from them.” He spit again, making his feelings clear to everyone.

  “Ye brought her into the keep,” he said to Gillis. “What know you of her?”

  The younger man stammered at first, uncomfortable with the attention brought to him. “My lord, she just offered to warm my bed and…weel, all that goes wi’ it, if ye get my meaning?” He paused and searched for an understanding gaze. At the soft laughter, he continued, “She said nothing about herself but that her family was dead and she sought a place to live.”

  “So there is no one to ask after her if she disappears?” the red-haired lord, Dougal, asked.

  “Nay, my lord,” Gillis said, shaking his head nearly as much as his hands did.

  He waited and then asked again. He needed to be certain their plans had not been uncovered, by the stupid woman with her botched attempt or by anyone loyal to Diarmid.

  “So, none of ye knew her or talked with her before her attack?” He watched as each man, other than the randy young one, shook his head; some whispered or mumbled their answers, but none acknowledged her. Turning to the door, he pulled his hood lower and gave his orders.

  “Because we didna ken of her plans, doesna mean she kens nothing of ours. Either way, she could be dangerous to many of us. ’Twould be best, I think, if this one lost her footing on the stairs or got caught up in the frenzy of her welcome on the morrow. What say ye?”

  He gazed around the room, meeting each man’s look until all to a one had agreed. For something this simple, no specific plans were needed. No one man would be ordered to act, yet someone or other who understood his plans would, and the girl would be dead before she could be questioned by Diarmid’s ruthless guards. Better to spill no words than to spill the wrong ones, even by accident.

  “We meet in four days, after his next vision. Ye ken yer assignments,” he said quietly. “Do not fail in this now.”

  Tugging the door open just a crack, he waited for the hallway outside to empty and then began to let them out, in groups of two or three so as to not draw attention to their gathering. When he was alone, he pushed back his hood and took in a breath.

  Success was so very close now, and he tried not to laugh aloud at the thought. The Seer would be gone, and Diarmid’s alliances would shatter, leaving him defenseless against his enemies. He did grin then, for the all-powerful Diarmid had no idea of how many were his enemies and how few were friends indeed.

  Mayhap this woman was a tool to be used?

  If she survived long enough to make another strike against Connor, both would be handled with her one blow. Diarmid would never know the extent of the plans against him until his own downfall played out before him. He would wallow in the false comfort her death would create, never even thinking that there was more going on behind and around him than one stupid bitch’s botched and then successful attempts to kill his man.

  He walked out into the hall now and pulled the chamber door closed behind him. Climbing the tower steps to the next floor, he sought his place at Diarmid’s table, trying to keep the smile from his face.

  If she died in some “mishap,” he was safe.

  If she stayed alive and tried to kill the Seer again, his plans would be in place.

  No matter which, he would succeed.

  Soon, very soon, the lands and titles and esteem in Earl Magnus’s eyes that should have been his all along, would be.

  And Diarmid and his bedeviled Seer would be dead and buried.

  Chapter Six

  Connor paced the length of the high wall around the keep twice and still could catch no sight of the boat that was overdue. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he squinted into the midday sun and searched to the edges of the bay.

  Nothing.

  The guards sent to return her to the keep could have sailed last night, for the sky had been clear of clouds and filled with the moon’s light as it waxed to its fullness. Even the seas had been calm, yet they’d clearly waited until today to bring her back.

  Dara had a hand in this delay. Soft-hearted Dara, who had taken his attacker under her wing and cared for her when the girl lay near death. His own care had been seen to by Diarmid’s healer, for only he could be trusted with someone of his importance to the overlord of Mull.

  After one more circle of the perimeter wall, he shook his head and turned back to the stairway. His body was wound tight, and he’d not slept in days. Every sound made his head throb. Every step or movement reverberated through him. And every touch made his skin ache both in pain and hunger.

  Another month had passed, and more visions were close. So close he felt the ripples of power teasing his thoughts and pulsing in his veins, deep in his blood. Desire traveled there, too, ever seeking satisfaction, but his mind sought the one who had made a difference. At least, he suspected she had.

  Instead, he would face the woman who tried to kill him. A laundry woman, a common servant among the myriad who worked for Diarmid, had almost killed him. Though Diarmid would have gladly executed her, Connor wanted to know why. Other near accidents and apparent attacks had been foiled and always the perpetrator had been killed, never leaving any answers for him.

  Diarmid took it in stride as a part of being a man of power—other men wanted what you had. For Diarmid that meant power in the number of warriors at his call and allies who backed him. For Connor, it was the power of the visions, the power in seeing what
had already happened or yet waited ahead.

  He pressed his hands to his head, hoping that the roaring inside of it would cease. Some days, like this one, it was louder than even the roar of the storms that came off the sea to the west and pounded the coast. Some days it simply sat in the background, threatening to burst out without a moment’s warning.

  He rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the tightness there and avoid worsening the pain in his head. Some clouds passed in front of the sun and dimmed the glaring sunlight, easing the need to squint so strongly. He wanted nothing more than to go back to his chambers and drown his pain in mead or wine again, but something deep within him forced him back to the wall to search the bay for signs of the boat.

  Just like his self-control over the pain, the visions, and even his growing need for women in his bed, everything in his life seemed to be spiraling out of control. The visions that had fallen into a pattern over the last several years, now grew in intensity and frequency, happening now with the full moon’s passing through the sky. The effects of them increased every time; he endured the pain and blindness for nearly a week now. The pulsing, growing lust in his blood grew more potent and demanding with every vision.

  But because he did not know the origin of his powers, he had no way of telling how this would end for him, if this was leading to an end at all. Would his eyes finally burn out from the fires the visions brought? Would the pain and blindness be his punishment for some unknown transgression or misuse of the visions? Would he never calm the heat in his veins? Was there anyone who could tell him the truth of it or how he came to be so gifted?

  Connor smacked his hands down on the cool, stone wall and gathered his control from within, allowing the winds to buffet him and soothe his frayed nerves. From here he could watch the villagers scurry from keep to town, Diarmid’s warriors train in the yard, and even a few of the children who lived within the walls run freely around sheep and cattle being driven into the pens outside the keep. Life continued on, regardless of his questions or his pain.

  And for some reason he didn’t yet understand, Connor suspected that the woman who tried to kill him had more knowledge than he did about his past and his future.

  The clouds moved once more, and a beam of sunlight struck a small object on the horizon, gaining his attention. A boat glided toward him in the distance. He did not move from his place there high on the walls as it grew closer and closer, finally stopping at the wooden dock near the main gate. Now he could see three occupants in it—clearly two men and a woman.

  It wasn’t until the pressure in his chest hurt that he realized he was holding his breath. One man climbed out and held out his arms as the other lifted the woman from the boat. Connor could see her wobble on the wooden platform and one man grab for her before she fell. He found his own hands clenching the edge of the wall. Releasing his grip on the cold stone and the breath he held inside, he fought the urge to run down to the dock to confront her. Instead, once he recognized the anger and tension bubbling inside, he called out to the guard at the stairs to have her brought to him in his chambers, rather than in the hall as planned.

  Making his way down the tower stairs to his room, he tried to sort through the pressure plaguing his every step and every breath. Instead of sheer rage at her attempts to end his life, curiosity pulsed through him. His fists tightened and relaxed over and over again until he reached his chambers and entered. Ranald followed a few steps behind, aware, as always, of his every move within the keep.

  “Lord Diarmid wants her turned over to his men for questioning,” he said as Connor sat on the carved chair. “He said this idea of yours to keep her close is too dangerous.”

  “Tell Diarmid we have an agreement,” Connor ordered. His clenched jaws sharpened his words. “When I am done with her, she is his to do as he pleases.” He grabbed Ranald’s arm as the man turned to leave. “But she is mine first.”

  The bow of his head was a reluctant one, but Connor knew Ranald would convey the words and the message to Diarmid. He glanced over at the newly placed spike in the wall and the chain attached to it. She would be kept here until he found out what he needed to know. The collar and chain were for his protection and hers, for Diarmid’s displeasure over her attack was well known and his people would take action on their own with the confidence of his approval.

  The commotion outside his door pierced through his thoughts, and he stood as the door opened, pushed so hard it slammed against the wall and bounced back. Connor stood as the two men sent to his homestead half dragged, half carried the woman in and brought her before him. Her cloak was torn, and he noticed blood dripping from her lip as she staggered a few steps. He walked over to her, noticing the slats still encircling her leg and the way she awkwardly balanced herself.

  “What happened to her, Ennis?” he asked.

  “My lord, the crowd saw her and tried to…well, take her from us,” Ennis explained, with a nod at the other man.

  Considering that neither stood less than six feet tall and had the bulk and strength of seasoned warriors, the confession startled him. Had Diarmid arranged this to void their agreement? Or were so many so angered by her actions that they acted on their own? He thought not.

  He watched as she raised a trembling hand and wiped the blood from her mouth. The hood of the cloak covered most of her face, hiding it from him. He remembered his last sight of her—so bruised and battered that he could not tell if he’d met her before or not. Other than this new injury, he wondered at her appearance and her identity. The name Ceanna and the fact that she’d worked as a laundry woman did not bring any particular woman to mind.

  “Take off the cloak,” he ordered, sitting down on his chair once more and preparing himself to meet his attacker.

  Ennis grabbed the hood, dragging it off her head and exposing a mass of brown curls. He would have continued to simply pull at it if the woman had not tugged the laces and freed it from her. The cloak fell to the ground around her feet, and she raised her head to meet his gaze.

  “You!” he choked out once he saw her face. He had crossed the distance to her before he even realized he’d stood. Connor searched her face for the truth, but there was none to see there.

  “They said your name was Ceanna,” he growled. So angry at her deceit that he could feel the blood pounding in his veins, he fisted his hand in her hair and tugged it so she would have to look up at him. “Is it?”

  He thought she would remain silent, for it took her a long time to speak, and though he could tell she struggled to stay on her feet, she did not fight his grasp.

  “It matters not,” she whispered in that voice that had haunted his sleeping and waking hours for months now.

  Connor flung her into the guards’ grasp and grabbed a cup of wine from the table nearby. Filled with rage and confusion, betrayal and disappointment, he drank it down and tried to regain control of himself. Caught between wanting to strike her down for her deception and wanting to throw her on the floor and slake his body’s need for her, he ordered Ennis to chain her and leave. Not daring to watch, he walked back to his chair and leaned on the back of it until the men had completed their task.

  He’d slipped up when he recognized her, for no one but he knew that Moira, the woman who had given him such pleasure, and Ceanna, the laundry woman who tried to kill him, were the same person. If Diarmid suspected it, he would not hesitate to use her in whatever way he wanted and to control Connor since he would know of his desire for her. When the door closed, he drank the last of his wine and turned to face her.

  “It matters not to a dead woman,” he said as he examined her from head to toe.

  Because of her height and the short length of the chain, the only way she could stand upright was if she remained leaning against the wall. Even a step away would force her to bend to keep from choking on the iron collar. The heavy metal ring already scraped the skin of her neck, and there would be new bruises to join the fading ones soon. Her mouth still bled from whatever bl
ow she’d received, yet her eyes burned brightly at him, as though daring him on.

  “But if you want to live, you will give me the truth.”

  Moira watched as he struggled not to hit her and then as he turned away and let his men chain her to the wall in the corner of his chambers. He’d recognized her in an instant, but for some reason, he’d acted as though he did not know her name. Now, his men had gone, and they were alone. She wanted to meet him face to face and on her feet, but her legs trembled and threatened to throw her face down on the floor. The splint, its pieces of wood loosened by the jostling of the crowd on her way into the keep, hung in pieces around her leg, and she dared not put any weight on the healing limb.

  Already the chain was stretched to its full length, and it gave her no room to maneuver. Soon, if the dizziness in her head told her anything, the decision on how to get down on the floor would be out of her control. Grasping the chain for support and to keep it from gouging her neck, she slid down along the wall, easing her leg straight out before her. The last foot or so was a rough drop, but at least she landed without more injury. Moira released her hold on the chain and shuddered as it clattered on the stone wall at her back.

  He’d watched her every move, but never said a word. Now, seated and able to regain her breath, Moira used the edge of her sleeve to wipe the blood from her mouth and face. Someone in the crowd had shouted her name, and everyone had surged toward her. She felt the new bruises on her leg and the ones on her arms and shoulders, caused by the guards’ tightened grip as they dragged her ever forward, beginning to throb even now.

  Was that the worst of it then? She couldn’t help shifting against the wall as the Seer stood again and walked toward her. On her feet, she was almost even to him and could probably fight off some of the blows to come, but on the floor, she was the perfect target for his strong, agile legs if he chose to kick. The journey today had taken any strength she’d managed to save out of her, and Moira closed her eyes so she would not watch the blow as it came.