A Storm of Passion

by TERRI BRISBIN

  “So, is it Ceanna or Moira?”

  His voice was so soft and so close, it startled her into looking. He crouched down low, his arms resting on his legs, staring at her as he asked again. “You told me your name was Moira. Is it?”

  Though she felt none of the strange compulsion to obey him that she’d felt during their bed play, she could not stop herself from nodding. “’Tis Moira.”

  Perhaps it was exhaustion setting in or simply a desire to be known as herself instead of the made-up name she gave to Gillis and then to everyone in Diarmid’s keep. “Aye, my name is Moira.” She slumped then, giving up the fight for now.

  “You did not come to my bed a virgin. I did not mistreat you. I did not harm you. I gave you pleasure even as you saw to mine.”

  His voice and tone were level, almost pleasant, but she did not believe him to be harmless for a moment. She could tell he was trying to figure out her ruse and trying to determine the reasons a woman would come to him willingly and then try to kill him. The same battle had waged within her for days after their encounter, but she accepted it for the oddity it was in her life.

  “You said my blood for those slain at my word, yet I know you not.”

  She met his gaze then, and his eyes gleamed. He remembered what she’d said just before plunging the dagger into his chest. Part of her wanted to scream out the truth of her family’s destruction, but part fought to remain calm and not give in to the hysteria that threatened her now. Did he not realize the extent of his visions and the cost of them?

  “Who died at my word, Moira? Tell me—make me understand why you tried to kill me. Why even now hatred pours out in your gaze at me when I have done nothing to you.”

  “Dozens?” she spat. “Hundreds?” The strength of her hatred overtook her control, and she spoke freely for the first time in years. “You reveal things that should remain hidden, and your words cause death. Greedy men, powerful men, men hungering for what is not theirs follow your instructions, your advice, your directions, and others die,” she said. “They die without warning and without mercy.” Taking in a breath and releasing it, she finally accused him of his unforgivable sin. “My family was killed at your word, Seer,” she sneered.

  Unable to breathe then, Moira waited for him to strike out at her. Instead, his reaction was completely unexpected: he flinched at her words, so slightly that she would have missed it if their gazes were not locked at that moment. Then he stood and walked around the wooden screen that separated his bed from the rest of his chambers and out, pulling the door closed behind him. All without a word or another glance at her. Still fearing the worst, she did not dare move for a long time. When no sounds entered his chambers, she allowed herself to lean back against the wall.

  Surely he knew? He could not have parceled out the information gained in his visions and not know that someone stood to gain and another to lose from them. Diarmid had added allies to his cause using the Seer’s powers, offering them to those he wanted to entice closer. None who had need could refuse such an offer.

  One village leader wanted to discover his enemy’s weakness. Another sought his daughter who’d been taken and held in hopes of forcing an alliance. And so on and so on, dozens, nay, hundreds of times since the Seer’s powers had become known to Diarmid and put to his disposal. Moira had discovered that and more in her years of searching for him and the origin of his powers.

  ‘Twas not possible that he could be ignorant of such things.

  She leaned her head back now, at first putting too much pressure on a new lump on her scalp and then tilting her head until there was a less painful spot. The iron collar scraped her neck with every move and kept her in her place. Her leg, unused to such efforts as this day had forced, began to spasm and seize up in cramps. Her arms and back ached as the coldness and dampness of the wall and floor began to seep inside her.

  Minutes and then hours passed, and soon darkness filled the chamber, the sun’s light gone and the moon’s not strong enough to illuminate the room through the small, high windows in the walls. At first, she tried to keep moving, to keep the cold at bay and to keep her leg from stiffening, but soon her only movements were the shivers that coursed through her, causing her teeth to chatter and her body to shake. Her cloak lay only a few feet away but was unreachable to her, and it taunted her as the chamber cooled without a fire in the hearth to warm it.

  Then, her mouth and throat grew parched, her stomach began growling, and, worse, she’d had no chance since early this morn to see to other bodily needs, which now made her belly clutch in pain. Hours passed with no one entering his chambers, and she feared he’d planned it this way to force a confession from her.

  Sometime in the deepest part of the night, he returned. He moved quietly, so quietly that she did not hear him enter the room. Only when he roused her with a gentle shake of her shoulder did she realize he knelt at her side. Moira rubbed her eyes to clear them and only then noticed a man standing back in the shadows. She shook so badly then that the Seer cursed under his breath and stepped back, motioning to the other with his hand.

  “See to her, Breac,” he said. He disappeared around the screen again before she could utter a word.

  She wanted to fight back, but she was tired to the bone, in pain, hungry, thirsty, and more. And this hulking man, with long black hair and a nose that did not sit in the center of his face, was bigger in height and bulk than any she’d seen here at the keep and would kill her with one hand before she would be able to stop him. When he reached for her neck with both hands, she knew her death was at hand.

  Chapter Seven

  Breac’s touch was lighter than she would have ever guessed as he unlocked the collar and lifted it from around her neck. Moira had not realized how much it weighed until it was removed. He tossed it away from her and began to poke and prod her from head to feet. Nothing got in his way—not her clothing, her hands, or her objections. Within a few minutes, he decided that the injuries of the day were not serious—no more bones had broken, and her split lip and the bump on her head would heal. His gruff manner eased her fears and, in many ways, reminded her of Dara’s efficient way of treating injuries and pain.

  Another servant entered the chambers, this one a woman, and she stood aside and waited for his orders. Once he completed his tasks, he nodded to the woman, someone Moira had not met before, who stepped in closer and helped her see to other more personal needs while Breac turned his back and waited. Then he lifted her as though she were a child and placed her on the Seer’s bed. Within a short time, her leg had been wrapped tightly with clean bandages to hold the wooden slats in place and the various cuts and bruises treated with a foul-smelling unguent and dressed. Once Breac finished his attentions, the woman handed Moira a cup of watered ale and a bowl filled with a thick porridge.

  She tried to fight off the exhaustion and the urge to sleep, but now that she was clean and warm and her stomach stopped growling, it was nigh to impossible. But, she lay in the Seer’s bed now, and it was not her place. As she tried to sit up, Breac simply put a hand on her chest and pushed her back down. With no effort at all, he held her there until she could not keep her eyes open.

  The next time she could open them, she discovered the Seer standing by the bed, watching her. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she pushed the hair from her eyes and cleared her throat.

  “Breac would not allow me to leave,” she explained. His expression did not change, so she continued. “I did not mean to fall asleep here.”

  It was then that she noticed the pile of blankets on top of her and the clean gown and tunic laying on top of them. Lifting the covers and pulling her leg to the edge of the bed, Moira moved to the side and slid off the bed. So focused on getting out of that bed was she that only the feeling of the fine linen sheets against her skin told her that someone had removed her clothing during the night. A modesty she never knew before caused her to reach for the gown that must be for her and tug it over her head. She tried not to wince a
gainst the onslaught of pain that happened as she moved.

  His gaze never left her, but he said not a word as she pulled the tunic on next and then stood away from the bed to let the edges fall over her legs. He’d seen her back, now a mass of scars, the ridges still pink and new, and she knew bruises yet remained on many places on her skin. Always lean, now Moira could feel her ribs and the crest of her hip, as she smoothed the layers over her belly and legs, and knew she’d lost much weight since she was last in this room.

  “Breac said you need a stick to help you walk, but I hesitate to give you something you could use as a weapon.”

  Moira looked at him now and noticed the dark smudges under his eyes and the bleak expression in his eyes. Had he not slept because she was in his bed? The thing she saw there that affected her, though, was the pity with which he looked on her now that he’d seen her naked. She needed no one’s pity.

  “I can make my way without one,” she said, as she lifted her leg and swung it forward to show him. “And I will use what I can…when I can.”

  She lifted her face and hardened her heart against the despair she saw on his face. Despair and pain and anger and so much more that it nearly undid her resolve. This was not the arrogant, proud Seer she’d witnessed proclaiming his visions or the lust-driven, passionate one who’d pleasured her through that long day months ago.

  Nay. This was an empty, tortured man. A man who did not know himself. Yet a man who held the power of life and death over her.

  “Agnes,” he called out as he walked away.

  The same servant who had helped her last night came around the screen and assisted her once more. Efficient and silent, she took only minutes to see to Moira’s needs and stand, awaiting his next command. It was not the Seer, but Breac who came to her then, a length of chain and an iron collar in his hands. She tried not to tremble as he approached, the iron ring open and ready to be locked around her neck again.

  “I added some length to the chain so she can stand or sit now, Connor,” he said in his deep, gruff voice. “I filed the iron so it will not tear her neck in two as she moves.”

  His plain explanation terrified her in some way she could not explain, and if not for his size and strength, she would have fought him. But making that decision and keeping it were two different matters, and Moira found herself clutching the rough wool of her tunic to keep her hands from grabbing at the collar as he surrounded her neck with it and locked it. Worse even was when he pulled the length of chain through a link in the collar and shackled her to the wall.

  True, she could stand, but she could take but one step in any direction before the chain grew taut and the collar choked her. Sitting would be just as difficult as it had been yesterday, even more so since the slats were now tied tightly in place around her leg and there was no slackness to ease her way down.

  Moira looked around and could see more of the Seer’s chambers from her place in the corner. He stood between the chair and the screen, watching everything that happened, but said nothing else until both Breac and Agnes left. Then he walked back over to the bed, picked up the pile of blankets, and tossed them to her as he passed.

  Clean clothes. Servants to see to her needs. Adjustments to even the chain that kept her prisoner. None of these things were the common way to treat prisoners, and yet he did them all.

  “Why do you not just kill me and get it over with, Seer? Do you get pleasure out of playing with your enemies before you destroy them like Diarmid does?” she asked, in a tone bolder than she truly felt. “How long will you let me live?”

  The chain rattling as she shifted onto her better leg was the only sound echoing through his chambers. He moved toward her so quickly that she stumbled back against the wall to get away.

  “You stay alive until I discover the truth from you. But have a care, Moira. For if you do not give me the truth, Diarmid will take you from me, and under his care you will long for death many, many times before he grants it to you.”

  In spite of the heat of his body pressing her against the wall, she shivered as she remembered the punishment meted out by Diarmid’s men. She did not doubt that she would long—aye, even beg—for death if he controlled her fate again.

  What did he want to know? What could she tell him? Her attack and her purpose here was known, so what harm was there in answering his questions? She was about to tell him to ask his questions when the warmth pierced her. A dizzying heat and a smell she could not identify encircled her and flowed through her veins.

  Moira noticed his nearness, the strength in the muscles of his legs as they pressed against hers. His hardness pulsed to life between their bodies, and her mouth watered at the thought of tasting it once more. She shifted to allow him closer, and he moved in, turning his body to cover more of hers. The enticing scent increased, and her head and thoughts swam in the musky, male smell that seemed to pour from him.

  Her body remembered his caresses, the taste of his skin, and his essence as he poured forth into her mouth. She arched against him as the place between her legs grew wet and hot with the need to be touched and filled. And he would fill her there, and every other place he could, over and over until she begged…until she begged…. Oh, aye, she would beg him to…

  She shook her head, pushing him away and trying to regain her senses. What had just happened between them? How had he turned her against her purpose again? Was she losing her mind after all these years of having such a focused plan? The air around her cleared as he moved back, and she took in several deep breaths to break free of that which confounded her.

  “Did you put something in my food, Seer? You would drug me to gain the truth?” she asked, wiping her face with her hands and pushing her hair back. Her body yet ached for his touch, and her blood yet heated in readiness for their joining. “You know my purpose here: to kill you. My reason you also know: to avenge the deaths of my family. The only thing you do not know is how or when it will happen.”

  Moira could still feel the intoxicant, whatever it was, trying to gain control of her, softening her resolve and eating into her purpose, but she could force it away and she did. Whatever she planned on saying to him or he’d planned on saying to her was stopped when Lord Diarmid burst into the room.

  “This close to your visions, I thought I’d find you planted deep between her legs by now, Seer,” Lord Diarmid said with a terrifying leer at her. “Do not let the chain put you off. At least this way, you do not have to chase after her again.”

  He strode over to her, and she had no place to go but up against the wall. Taking hold of the slack in the chain, he pulled it up tightly, forcing her onto her toes to keep from choking.

  “Has the bitch told you why she did it, or has she been waiting for me and my men to loosen her tongue?” Diarmid looked over at the Seer. “I think she liked it the first time with us and came back for more.”

  She tried to block out the raucous and lustful laughter that filled the chamber then, just as she tried to block out his fetid breath and the memories of the last time. None of that worked, and she waited to discover how quickly or slowly she would die at his hands this time.

  Diarmid and his men spread out through the room, forming a wall between him and the woman. Connor waited for Diarmid to get past his first move of intimidation with her so he could find out the real reason for such an intrusion. Scaring her into pliability was only the beginning. But this show was for more.

  Moira.

  Ceanna.

  The woman chained before him, who, in spite of her obvious terror at being in Diarmid’s grasp, still looked like a warrior queen of old, and who had threatened him in the same minute that she’d begun to succumb to him.

  Damn and hell! He’d not had time to question her more, to get something from her he could use to keep Diarmid happy and away. One glance at her told him she knew the gravity of the situation, for she’d lost all the color that rising passion and rising hatred had put into her pale cheeks.

  He did not need a
sk what Diarmid had done to her a month ago. He knew their methods better than he knew his own gift, for they were clear and decisive: break down their victim, gain her cooperation or not, and then destroy her. Connor had watched Diarmid’s enemies fall through such a pattern many times while in his time there, and he knew it had only been his intervention that kept her alive. And thwarted Diarmid’s desire to destroy anyone who stood against him.

  “We have an arrangement, my lord,” he called out. Waiting for Diarmid to acknowledge his promise, Connor began walking closer, making his way between Diarmid’s men and the wall. “I sent her away and let her grow strong enough over these last weeks to withstand my questioning. I fear she may not make it to yours.”

  Diarmid startled at his words, not those he expected from his usually docile Seer. “So, ye’ve learned from my methods then, Connor? You think you can break her down and find out her part in the other attacks?” Diarmid’s black eyes narrowed. “Good for you, man! About time you learned how to deal with enemies and whatever minions they send at you!”

  He dropped the chain, releasing Moira to her feet, and she staggered back, landing hard against the wall. “How long will you need with her?”

  Diarmid’s men relaxed back a pace or two, waiting on their lord’s word to leave. Connor looked over at Moira and then smiled at Diarmid. Sliding his hand to rest on his still-erect cock, Connor made his point.

  “Well, my lord, I have certain other needs that she will tend to before I am willing to lose her to your tender touch. What difference does it make if she lives a while more if she makes my life easier?”

  He needed time to find out why she was so different from the others—that was no lie—but Diarmid did not need to know, nay could not know, that killing her was not necessarily in his plans.