Time Everlastin' Book 5

by Mickee Madden

  If only....

  "Taryn." Her name echoed softly in the chamber, the richness of his tone a lover's caress over her exposed skin.

  Suddenly, she was unbearably cold and couldn't stop the chattering of her teeth. At the same instant she hugged herself, she looked down at her linen shirt, practically invisible as its wetness clung to her like a second skin.

  Taryn Ingliss, a woman who had never cared what another human being thought of her, a woman whose career went before the needs of others, shriveled within as an inexplicable avalanche of shame crashed down on her.

  "Taryn, come down from there. Come here, lass."

  Every molecule of her being wanted to do just that. Wanted to feel his arms encircle her, and his body warmth take the edge off her chill.

  "Taryn?"

  He just wants to be rid of you, she wept silently.

  Pretending to obey, she traversed the rocks and landed on flat ground. When he stepped in her direction, she ran with all her might, blocking out his shouts for her to wait.

  Well beyond the other side of the crawlway, she continued her flight, determined to find a place to hide until she had better control of her emotions.

  Something had happened to her in the crystal forest. A large portion of the old Taryn died amidst those prismatic formations, and a newer, less sure-of-herself version emerged. As she ran blindly on, she realized she feared loneliness more than anything else, and that it had reigned over her most of her life.

  How could she return to her world and survive as she had in the past? She had nothing to show for her life but material things. Inanimate objects incapable of feeling. Of nurturing. Her family ties were tenuous at best. She had no friends. Acquaintances tolerated her. She had enough dirt on her peers to keep them in line—including her boss.

  Her obsession to control her life had gotten her where?

  Witnessing Broc's ritual had left her heart open to invasion, and invade it now he did. She didn't want to be alone in this world or her own.

  Crawling into a niche of volcanic rock, she folded her legs to her chest, buried her face in her arms, and wept.

  Across from her position, a solemn Karok watched her from the shadows. Moments later, his palms slid over his pointed ears to muffle her piteous sounds, and he sighed with what suspiciously sounded like regret.

  ***

  Vexed best described Broc's frame of mind during his search for Taryn. Karok’s domain was vast and, despite his long years of imprisonment, he had yet to visit every chamber and catacomb. Timelessness was both a benefit of existing in this world, and a hindrance. From birth, he was trained to respect and utilize allotments of time. Time and seasons and night and day. Man required organization in his life. Focus.

  Timelessness broke down definitions. He didn't age, but he also couldn't determine the passage of days, or day from night without frequently visiting one of the sun rooms. And time now, more than ever since his imprisonment, served to ignite a fierce sense of frustration in him.

  He'd lost count how many times he had returned to his chamber and left again to search for her, skirting farther reaches each venture.

  No Taryn.

  Numerous times he'd gone to Karok’s temple.

  No Taryn.

  Back and forth and round and round in dizzying circles, he'd hunted for the antagonistic woman.

  No Taryn.

  The information he'd garnered from the diary continued to gnaw at him. So many questions! And if they weren't enough, what had transpired between them in what he called "the singing" chamber? He could not get the picture of her standing in that waterfall out of his head. Grace and beauty configured into one devastating package, designed to bury his sanity in a bottomless pit of boiling tar.

  So much for convincing himself he only wanted to bed her for the sake of seeing Karok send her away.

  He felt compelled to find her. It was as if a part of him was connected to her moods. He sensed now she was distressed, wallowing in a misery that canopied his mindscape in impenetrable darkness. She was upset with him. Why, he didn't know, since when last they were together—prior to "the singing" chamber, that was—she accused him of being nice to her.

  She was disillusioned with the gargoyle. She'd grown fond of the beast, and Karok had hurt her.

  But the signal he was receiving encompassed more, as if she had given up hope of ever escaping. Not even he accepted eternity in this hell. Hope was all he had.

  He crossed the threshold to the temple. Off to his right, far across the room, he spied Karok engrossed in his latest stone etching. A visual sweep of the area told Broc the woman was not here, and he wasn't of a mind to question the creature as to her whereabouts.

  Once again, he headed in the direction of her chamber. Arriving at the opening, he felt a tug on his mind, reared back, and hastened down the passageway toward the nearest sun room. There, he found her, sitting cross-legged on the floor in a beam of bright sunlight, hunched over her lap and rocking to and fro.

  Broc slowed his steps. The hairs at his nape and along his arms, stirred against his sensitized flesh. As he neared the beam, he detected soft sobs. The sound created a fist behind his chest, pressing on his heart and lungs. He stood behind her, clenching and unclenching his hands, pondering what had broken her spirit.

  "Lass?"

  Her rocking didn't cease.

  Drawing in a steadying breath, he lowered himself beside her, squinting against the light bathing them. He couldn't bring himself to look at her. He couldn't shuck off the burdensome mantle of gloom her sorrow unwittingly projected.

  Several attempts to speak resulted in croaking sound. Clearing his throat and striving to keep his tone light, he said, "Tis a woeful day when a wee fire spirit as yerself, loses her flame. Be I truly tha' disgustin' to ye?"

  She stopped rocking and inhaled shuddering breaths. Her head remained lowered, her hands fisted atop her lap.

  "Lass, I know tis been difficult for ye."

  Silence.

  "Be it me or the beast wha' hurt ye last?"

  "It doesn't matter," she murmured, and sniffled.

  "Weel," he said lightheartedly, "on the grand scale o' life, mayhaps no'."

  She lifted her head, squinted a glower at him and swiped the back of an arm beneath her moist nostrils. "Why am I here?"

  Broc frowned and shrugged his broad shoulders. "In this room, or—"

  "In this underworld."

  "Ah. Weel, I believe I told ye," he said, avoiding eye contact.

  "I'm here to punish you."

  He nodded.

  Taryn shut her eyes tightly and struggled in vain to staunch her quaking.

  Broc grimaced and scratched his crown. "Couldna we discuss this elsewhere?"

  "Like where?"

  "Yer chamber. Mine. Doesna matter. The light be achin' ma eyes."

  "Sunlight," she whimpered and lifted her face to the warmth of the rays.

  "Come wi' me," he said, holding out his right hand.

  When she hesitated, he wrapped his fingers around her left fist and gently urged it from her lap to his thigh. "We need to talk, lass."

  "You killed his mate," she said flatly, flexing her fist within his hold.

  "Aye. Worse, though, wha' ma cousins and I did...weel, tis a long story, and I need to leave this light. Will ye come wi' me?"

  "I need to know why."

  "I promise to tell ye, and a MacLachlan never breaks a promise."

  Her eyelids at half mast, she stared off into space. She released a long breath and offered a single nod. Broc stood and helped her to her feet. No sooner did they step from the beam, her knees buckled. She gulped back an outcry when he swept her up into his arms. He headed for the main passage, his eyes riveted on the path ahead.

  "I can walk."

  To her surprise, a lopsided smile appeared. "I be no' always a barbarian," he said affably, and briefly met her gaze. "Sometimes, I do remember wha' ma mither taught me."

  "Obviously, not abo
ut bathing. I believe you learned that lesson from me."

  Broc wrinkled his nose. "So...ye are feelin' a wee better."

  "Sorry," she said in a small voice.

  "The truth be, ma mither was a verra strict womon. She didna take kindly to squalor. We menfolk took a dookin' a week, or she wouldna let us into her kitchen."

  Silence prompted Broc to look down. Taryn lay with one side of her face pillowed by his chest, her lids closed, her breathing shallow. He slowed his pace so as not to jostle her and, entering her chamber, laid her upon her bed of leaves. Slipping a few fronds over her, he sat across from her, his back braced by the wall, his arms linked around his raised knees. The soft blue glow emanating from the basin cast the room in fanciful light and shadows.

  He stared in wonder at her peaceful features. A smile was turning up the corners of his mouth, froze, and grew lax within moments. The truth struck at the center of his heart and twisted like a serrated blade in the muscle.

  When did it happen? he lamented. How?

  His mind raced over the past months, searching for a clue, for some indication of when he had been cast from the protective confines of his emotional keep.

  At what point had he come to love this woman?

  Tis daft! Me no' in lust but...love?

  He slapped his palms to his temples, moaned, and glowered at his lap—rather, what lay beneath his kilt.

  Och! Ye weak, bloody worm, ye! Yer needs have infected ma heart and mind!

  How many times must I tell ye, We canna have all we want? Do ye listen? O' course no'! Ye live to piss and for pleasure. Again and again I warn ye, dinna rise on ma account. Tis no' me wha' needs mair complication in ma life!

  Ye're in league wi' Karok, arena ye? Ahh, o' course ye are. He kens yer bloody weakness, he does. He kens ye will convince the mind it needs to love—to have a womon!

  Aye, ye squirm, ye useless whorin' instrument o' the devil! I'll no' consider ye a friend again, I willna.

  Broc scrubbed his hands up and down his face, his vexation lava beneath his skin. "See wha' I be reduced to? Talkin' to ma Gabby, bloody hell!" He expelled a breath and slanted a dark look at his lap. "Wha' possessed me to name ye Gabby? Tis me who's daft. Too long alone. Why else would I consider a body part a friend?"

  His gaze crept to Taryn's face. Contentment washed over him as he studied each detail of her face, branding them on his memory for those long years to come after her departure.

  "Och, ye're the sorriest bastard to walk Gawd's green earth," he whispered.

  Although the insides of his lids were scratchy and his eyes tired, he remained awake. And eon seemed to pass before she began to stir, moaning, and languidly stretching her arms and legs. When she saw him watching her, she sat up, maintaining the visual lock as if distrusting his presence.

  "Hello," he said.

  Taryn went to the basin and thoroughly rinsed her face then popped into her mouth one of the abrasive, thin leaves. She turned to him, arms folded against her chest, and her tongue moving the leaf over her teeth to clean them. Broc observed her, prepared to flee the den should she jump into one of her tirades.

  When she was through with the leaf, she spat the wad onto a small pile to the left of the basin.

  "Feelin' better?" he asked hesitantly.

  "Yes. I can't believe I nodded off."

  "Sleepin' the sleep o' the dead be mair like it," he said humorously.

  She nodded while rolling her eyes heavenward. "Ah...do you ever wear underwear?"

  "Wha'?"

  "Trews," she said, flicking a glance his way.

  Broc frowned until her meaning struck home. Feeling a heated flush spread from his neck to his face, he flattened his legs to the stone floor, drew the kilt over his knees, and stared off to one side.

  "I-ah, didn't m-mean to embarrass you."

  "Twas no' a proper way to sit wi' ye—"

  "Staring up your skirt?" she chuckled.

  "Kilt, womon. Tis a kilt, no' a bloody skirt."

  Taryn returned to her bed and sat facing him, her expression pensive, her mood unreadable. Broc tried not to fidget beneath her scrutiny, but he was uncomfortably warm and...self-conscious.

  "Why were ye weepin' in the sun room?"

  "It's just one of those female things," she said with a hint of bitterness.

  Broc's eyebrows climbed upward. "Ye dinna strike me as a lass who easily cries."

  "I read the wall," she said, staring into his eyes with such intensity, weightiness built in his chest. "I won't pretend I understood it all, but...you did say you killed his mate."

  Broc nodded.

  "What happened?"

  "The Sassenachs threatened—"

  "The what?"

  "The English. They were plannin' to take part o' Scotland to sell to—" His mouth formed a sneer. "—the English 'gentlemon' farmers. We didna have the money to buy back our land."

  "Go on."

  "Ma clan was desperate to hold on to wha' we had. Too desperate, I think now. Anyway, one o' our village men, Siras—an old, demented coot—told tales o' a hidden treasure beneath these standin' stones. Ma cousins and I set ou', hopin' if we found such a treasure, we could save our village."

  Broc slid a hand down his face, and slumped against the wall at his back. "We searched the grounds above for days and found naught. One o’ ma cousin, in a fit o' frustration, struck a rock with his sword. Next we knew, the ground parted, and descend we did into this world. Aye, we found treasure. Mair'n we could all carry. We hauled wha' we could up the steps, but afore we reached the top, a creature charged at us. I didna think, lass. I didna see clearly wha' threatened our retreat. So quick were ma companions slain, I could do naught but draw ma sword, and I slashed at the beast then plunged ma blade into the breast o' the flyin' monster. As it fell from the steps, anither caught it up and carried it off, howlin' in such anguish, I canna shake it from ma mind, even now.

  "I returned to our village a hero. I remember the pride in ma da and mither's eyes, as if I was some wee blessin' they'd only just discovered. It meant everythin' ta me—efter so long they shunnin' me—and the whole village celebrated hearty tha' eve. Ma aunts werena really angry their sons be dead, nor the Campbell folks who lived in our village. No one cared for aught but the treasure. We were all rich—wealthier than the king, hisself."

  He lapsed into brooding silence, his gaze lost within some faraway world. Coldness nipped at Taryn's spine, and she hugged herself.

  "Did you return here for more treasure?"

  "No!" he snapped, his dark eyes boring into her. "No' for treasure!"

  "Then why?"

  "Durin' the night, a great beast came to our village and snatched ma cousin Kennaugh. I was drunk, aye, but awake enough to witness him carried off into the night. And I recognized the craiture wha’ took him.

  "By dawn, the elders convinced the villagers the craiture would return and murder them one by one till the treasure was returned."

  "You brought the treasure back."

  He nodded and sucked in a wavering breath. "Aye. Twas ma plan to seek the treasure. Twas only fittin' I return wha' we had stolen."

  "Even knowing what was here? The gargoyle, I mean."

  "The booty was sacked and strapped to ma back. A few gems were kept, enough to pay for our village, and so little we thought the craiture wouldna notice."

  "You came back alone?"

  "Aye. He was waitin' when I arrived. Kennaugh was hurt but alive, and the craiture cast him above and sealed the ground behind us. I returned the pieces as best I could remember. The beast knew things were amissin'. Gems were amissin', then...he raged abou' a lost key."

  "You understood him?"

  "I did and I didna. Somehow, he made it known the key was mair precious than the gold and gems we'd taken. But I didna know o' a key."

  "What was the key for?"

  "A gateway to his heaven, is the best I can translate. When I...killed his mate, I unknowingly ended his line. Ma act left him wi�
��ou' clan. Left him stripped o' a future amongst his own. He be the last."

  "But you were only defending yourself!”

  "Och, aye, tha’ be true, but we were trespassin’ and thievin’."

  "So...you don't hate him?"

  "Hate?" Broc smiled tiredly. "Aye, I do. And I dinna. Hard to say wha' I would've done if someone killed ma womon and left me hopeless o’ faitherin' a child. Mayhaps I wouldna shown his restraint, for I expected him to end ma life. Despite all, he be no killer. Tis only fair I give him tha' due."

  "How long have you been down here?"

  He locked eyes with Taryn, and she read something in their depths she couldn't understand. Perhaps it was something akin to desolation. Perhaps a regret so profound, it went beyond her comprehension. Whatever his inner turmoil, it affected her in ways she never thought possible.

  "Too long," he said finally.

  "Will he ever free you?"

  "Do ye care, Taryn?"

  His soft tone caused her heart to flip-flop. For the first time, she saw him as a vulnerable man, who, like herself, was only trying to survive against impossible odds.

  Getting to her feet, she crossed to the basin, knelt, and splashed cold water on her face. She drank some, biding time to rally her thoughts.

  Emotions swept through her, creating aches behind her breast, her belly, and at her temples. She lowered her buttocks to her heels and stared into the cascading water above the basin, hoping to break the spell of despondency.

  "I trimmed ma beard. Does it please ye?"

  "It's a big improvement," she murmured.

  Silence hung heavily in the air for a time.

  "Wha' are ye thinkin', lass?" he asked softly.

  Tears misted her eyes so quickly that she had no time to will them back. She rubbed the area over her heart, the organ heavy with sorrow. "I was uh...asking myself why I'm so unlovable."

  A grin of surprise flashed across his face before it became lost beneath a mask of perplexity. "No' so verra," he murmured.

  Taryn sighed and continued as if she hadn't heard him. "I know I make it hard for people to get close to me. It's some ingrained barrier I conjure up whenever anyone tries. Ironic, because I hate to be alone. I hate my own company."