by Jayne Castel
“I did … in the beginning.”
That too was the truth.
Heather’s gaze didn’t waver from his face as her brow furrowed. Clearly, she found him even more of a mystery than he did her. “Did ye part well from yer kin?” she asked finally, her voice soft in the gloaming.
Maximus looked away, severing the connection between them. Heather had been open with him, but he couldn’t answer her with the same candor. “I don’t remember,” he replied.
Maximus urged Luchag into a brisk canter, through a meadow where the first of the spring flowers bloomed, a deep frown creasing his brow.
Heather was at risk. He needed to get her to safety, although he had a feeling they wouldn’t get as far as Dunnottar unhindered.
Galbraith would likely be hot on their trail by now.
They had successfully outrun their hunters for a day—but Maximus knew their luck wouldn’t last. Galbraith and his warriors would also be on horseback, and with each passing day, the warrior’s hunger for vengeance would grow. The longer it took for him to catch them up, the more dangerous the man would be.
The urge to watch out for Heather swept through Maximus. He’d only known the woman less than three full days, and already he was taking responsibility for her.
A chill swiftly followed this realization. Try as he might to resist her, Heather De Keith was getting under his skin.
He’d dismissed the pull he felt whenever she was near as lust. But it was more than that. The sensation that crept over him when he locked eyes with Heather was deeper—and infinitely more hazardous.
Maximus liked her.
He liked the way she talked to him, the way she responded to him. He rarely teased women, yet he had to fight the urge to do so with her. He enjoyed watching her jaw firm, watching her chin raise as she squarely met his eye.
A man could live a thousand years and never tire of a woman like that.
The thought brought Maximus up sharply. He could feel the softness and warmth of Heather’s body flush with his, her ripe breasts thrusting against his back with every stride the garron took.
The sensation had distracted him the day before, as it did this morning. But reminding himself that he was immortal, and the woman who rode with him wasn’t, was like having a bucket of icy water poured over him. He knew where this road led—he had to fight harder against his attraction to the comely Heather.
Cassian and Draco also had cautionary tales when it came to women.
Maximus knew Cassian had once loved a woman deeply, and that his heart had never mended in the centuries that followed. Meanwhile, Draco, after losing his lover during a brutal raid years earlier, seemed incapable of loving anyone now. Whenever they met over the centuries, Maximus had watched Draco grow increasingly hard and bitter.
Maximus didn’t judge his friend for that—immortality was a harsh curse. All three of them struggled to live with pasts that now spanned many lifetimes. Eternity heaped a number of regrets upon a man’s shoulders, and some were harder to live with than others.
Pushing aside his brooding thoughts, he urged Luchag on.
Galbraith would be drawing ever closer. Maximus didn’t share his worries with Heather, but he’d developed an instinct for such things over the years. His scalp had been crawling all morning, as if someone was glaring at the back of his head. Despite that he pushed his pony hard, it was only delaying the inevitable.
They wouldn’t outrun them. Sooner or later, he was going to have to turn and fight.
When they stopped at noon to eat the last of their bread and cheese, Maximus’s gaze shifted south.
He’d deliberately halted at the brow of a hill—the highest for miles around—with a view over the wooded valleys below. Luchag snorted as he grazed nearby while Heather chewed at her piece of stale bread.
Maximus didn’t touch his food. The prickling sensation upon his scalp now crawled down his spine.
He couldn’t take his gaze off the southern horizon.
“What is it?” Heather asked after a short while. “Ye have a frown so deep today it would frighten bairns.”
Maximus heaved a sigh. He didn’t want to alarm her, and yet the time was coming when he’d need to share his worries. Heather was brave and fiery, and he was sure she’d wield that knife he’d given her valiantly—the women of this land weren’t a cowardly lot—yet he didn’t want to put her in danger.
His lips parted to answer her, but at that instant, he caught a glimpse of movement to the south. And as he watched, a knot of riders crested a hill, dust boiling up under the hooves of their horses.
Maximus whispered a curse, his gaze fixed upon the approaching company.
Heather uttered a curse of her own and leaped to her feet, casting aside the remnants of her meal. “It’s Cory?”
Maximus nodded. “I sensed he was near.” He swung his gaze around, spearing her. “Go now, Heather. Take Luchag, and ride into those woods.”
Her lips parted. “I’m not going to let ye face them alone.”
Maximus favored her with a humorless smile before he went to his garron and retrieved his sword, buckling it around his waist. The rasp of steel filtered through the warm air as he drew the weapon. “I can handle them.”
“Six men against one … this is madness.”
“So is letting you fight at my side.”
“Excuse me?” Her nostrils flared, her anger rising. She then reached for her knife. “I’m not abandoning ye!”
“Enough,” Maximus barked, his patience fraying. “This isn’t a request, but an order. Get your backside onto that saddle now, woman!”
Their gazes fused for a heartbeat, Heather’s grey-green eyes narrowing. His manner had angered her, but there was no time for discussion.
Panic flared within him, his heart slamming against his ribs. She had to go. Now.
Heather’s mouth thinned. She then went to Luchag and swung up onto his broad back with ease.
“Maximus, I don’t—” she began. But he moved toward her, closing the gap in two strides, and slapped Luchag hard upon the rump. The garron squealed and surged forward, bolting toward the line of trees to their left.
Satisfied Heather was taken care of, Maximus then turned and watched the riders gallop toward him.
XVI
BLOODY
THEY THUNDERED TOWARD him. Maximus tensed, his shoulders rounding as he braced himself to be run down. It was just as well he’d sent Heather and Luchag careening into the woods.
This wasn’t going to be a pretty sight.
Just because Maximus couldn’t die, didn’t mean he looked forward to an unfair fight. He was a skilled warrior, but being outnumbered like this wouldn’t end well for him.
And it would hurt.
Maximus’s belly clenched in anticipation. He’d learned early on that the worst part of dying was the pain. The bandruí’s curse was especially cruel, for she hadn’t robbed him and his friends of the ability to fear or to feel agony. Maximus felt every stab, every slash just as much as mortal men did. But unlike them, he could not escape pain through death.
Pushing down icy dread, Maximus held his ground.
The pounding hoof beats shook the earth, yet he didn’t move. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword. His gladius was an old friend—the legionary sword had been with him through the ages. Its wide blade had sent many men to their maker, and it would sing once more today.
However, the riders didn’t run him down. A few yards back from Maximus, Cory Galbraith pulled up his courser. The chestnut mare was breathing hard, foam splattered across its neck and shoulders. Galbraith had pushed the beast to the limit.
Behind Cory, Maximus recognized two of the men—one dark and wiry, the other blond and heavyset—as the two he’d fought at The Bogside. Three others reined in their horses behind the laird’s son.
A swift assessment of the band and Maximus saw that they were all heavily armed with claidheamh-mòrs—great Scottish broadswords. The blades were so heavy that war
riors had to wield them two-handed.
And it was safer to fight on foot when doing so.
Galbraith swung down from the saddle, followed by his men. Maximus watched, unspeaking, as they all drew their weapons. He noted too that each man carried a dirk at his hip.
Maximus’s mouth compressed, and he readied himself for what was to come. This is going to get bloody.
Cory Galbraith spat on the ground between them. “Ready to face us again, filthy cèin?”
Cèin—foreigner. All these centuries in this land and Maximus still stood out like a wolf amongst sheep here.
Maximus shrugged. “I thought I’d give your horses a rest.”
Galbraith took a threatening step toward him. The man’s left hand was tightly bound. He would need both hands to wield his claidheamh-mòr. This fight was going to hurt him. Maximus had noted too, how Galbraith winced when he dismounted. His knee was also bound, yet it pained him.
Cory Galbraith’s narrowed gaze scanned the hillside behind Maximus. “Where is she?”
A little of the tension in Maximus’s chest uncoiled as he realized that they hadn’t seen Heather and Luchag gallop away into the woods.
“Who?”
“Don’t act the lackwit,” Galbraith snarled. “Heather. Where. Is. She?”
“How should I know?” Maximus gave another shrug, aware that it would infuriate the man before him. “We parted ways in Fintry.”
“Liar. I saw her in Stirling. Ye are traveling together.”
Maximus cocked his head and favored Galbraith with a hard smile. “And yet, here I am … all alone.”
“Scabby, shit-eating cèin,” Galbraith growled back. “I’m gonna cut that smirk off yer face.”
Maximus widened his stance before he flipped his sword and caught it by the hilt—a flourish that usually enraged an aggressor.
Cory Galbraith was no exception. With a roar, he raised his broadsword and charged.
And the moment he did, battle fury descended upon Maximus in a crimson haze.
Fighting was timeless. How often had he swung his sword since the bandruí had cast her curse upon him? Too often to count, and yet every time he did, he was back in the misty, pine-clad mountains of northern Caledonia—many centuries before this land would be known as Scotland—under the shadow of a ruined Roman fort.
The instant blood lust took him, the fear of the pain to come subsided.
Maximus gave a hoarse bellow of his own. For a few instants, the years rolled back. He was young again, leading a cohort of soldiers into battle for the glory of Rome.
Galbraith was skilled with a blade. Although young, he was big and broad-shouldered. He swept the claidheamh-mòr in a deadly arc at his opponent’s head—a strike that Maximus ducked, before he raised his own blade to block a killing blow from his right.
Galbraith’s men surrounded him now, each looking for a way in.
Maximus whirled, ducked, blocked, and stabbed—in a dance that he knew as well as the thunder of his heart against his ribs. He thrust his sword under a warrior’s guard—the stocky blond man he’d head-butted in the tavern—and slammed his blade up under his ribs.
The warrior crumpled, his cry echoing through the spring sunshine.
Maximus battled on, felling another warrior moments later. But even as he fought, he felt the bite of steel against his left flank.
Agony lanced down his side.
It was four against one now, and the warriors remaining fought like cornered hounds. Pain throbbed across Maximus’s back and bit into his right shoulder—but still he fought on.
It didn’t matter how many blades they stuck him with, the curse was stronger than any of them. They could reduce him to a bloody pulp, and he would live to see the next dawn. He always did.
These men, however, were mortal. Just one blade in the right place and they would go to their god.
A howl rent the air as Maximus slammed his sword into a warrior’s belly. He drew his pugio with his left hand, spinning around to face his next attacker. As he did so, he saw that his hand was slick with blood. Someone had stabbed him in the shoulder, and he hadn’t even noticed.
On and on they fought—grunts, cries, and curses filtering across the hillside—and one by one, Maximus’s attackers fell while he remained on his feet.
But he was staggering now, his body wracked with agony. He didn’t know how many times they’d stabbed him across the back and shoulders, yet his entire torso felt as if it were on fire. He felt sick with it.
And then, finally, only Cory Galbraith was left.
The laird’s son was injured. Maximus had sliced him across the cheek with his dagger and cut him deeply upon his already injured leg. Galbraith now dragged the leg after him, pain rendering him savage.
Weakness flooded through Maximus as he staggered back, clumsily blocking the next blow. He was bleeding heavily now, and nausea pulsed through him. It was almost over—he had to kill Galbraith before he fell.
He had to know the bastard wouldn’t live to hunt Heather down.
Howling curses, Galbraith lunged for him. He’d abandoned his broadsword and slammed into Maximus, knocking him onto the grass.
And then he stabbed him in the belly with his dirk—again and again.
Maximus choked out a breath, agony knifing through him.
Great Bull-slayer, why did it have to hurt so much?
Darkness clouded the edges of his vision. Damn him, but he was going to lose consciousness before he finished Galbraith off.
Rage flooded through Maximus, piercing the pain, as he struggled against his attacker. Then Galbraith stuck him in the ribs, and suddenly he couldn’t hear anything against the roar of blood in his ears. His vision speckled, and just for a moment, Maximus wondered if the curse was indeed broken.
Maybe, this time, he would die?
Galbraith’s mouth was working, he was screaming insults at him while he stabbed once more. But Maximus couldn’t hear him.
And then, Galbraith froze.
The young warrior’s green eyes widened, his mouth gaping. Maximus’s vision was blurring now, yet he still saw the thin blade that protruded from his attacker’s throat. The knife blade drew back, and Galbraith slumped sideways onto the ground.
Behind him stood a comely figure with thick light-brown hair. Heather’s eyes were huge on her pale face—and in her right hand, she grasped a bloodied blade.
The one he’d gifted her.
Yet Heather didn’t pay the knife or the dead bodies that lay scattered around them any notice. Instead, her attention was upon Maximus, horror etched upon her features.
“Dear Lord, have mercy!” she gasped. An instant later, she was at his side, her hand gripping his. “What have they done to ye?”
XVII
TIME FOR WEEPING
“I TOLD YOU to run,” Maximus croaked, staring up at Heather. “Why are you here?”
“I couldn’t.” Her voice cracked, betraying her. “I couldn’t let ye face them all alone.” Heather’s gaze gleamed with tears as it swept down his bloodied torso. She made a soft choking sound. “Oh, Maximus … I’m so sorry.”
“Why?” he grunted, his breath bubbling as blood surged into his throat. “This isn’t your fault.”
“Aye, it is.”
“Enough.” It was difficult to speak now. “We can’t … stay out here on the road.”
She stared down at him, tears trickling down her cheeks. “What do ye want me to do?”
“Drag the bodies away … hide them … in the trees.” Maximus’s gaze fluttered shut. “And set the horses free.”
That was it. He was done for now. Pain cocooned him. He couldn’t summon the strength to speak again.
Heather was saying something else, but he couldn’t make out the words. Her voice sounded as if it were coming from far away. He just needed to rest, to take refuge from the agony that wracked his body.
With a groan, he let darkness swallow him.
Heather stared down at
Maximus and choked back the sob rising in her breast.
She’d never seen injuries like this. His chest and belly were slick with blood and riddled with gaping wounds. Dark blood pooled out around him, staining the grass.
He’d die soon, but she’d do her best to make him comfortable.
For now, she had to do as he’d bid.
Trembling, she rose to her feet and set about dragging the dead warriors into the trees. They were heavy, and by the time Heather had finished the task, sweat poured down her face and back. She then removed the saddles and bridles from their horses, which grazed nearby, and let them go. She threw the tack into the undergrowth as well.
Apart from Maximus’s prostrate body and the pools of blood and gore on the hill, no one would know a violent fight had taken place here.
Approaching the fallen man, Heather knelt beside him. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d died in the interim, his wounds were certainly bad enough. However, Maximus’s eyes flickered open when she stroked his blood-streaked cheek with the back of her hand.
“It’s done,” she murmured. “Now, I need to get ye off the road.”
“Help me up,” he replied, his voice a wheeze. Heather knew that sound—‘the death rattle’ healers called it. The sound that meant the Grim Reaper was coming for him.
“Ye won’t be able to stand,” she answered, her throat constricting. This man was tough, stronger than any she’d ever met. Yet even he couldn’t fight death.
“I can … if you help me.”
Heather didn’t have it in her to argue with a dying man, and so she helped him sit, and then placed a shoulder under his armpit so that he could stagger to his feet. Frankly, it amazed her he could even manage it. Now that he was on his feet, she saw that he bore a number of stab wounds to his shoulders and back.
She led him into the woods, taking him to the clearing where she’d left Luchag.
The garron greeted them with a snort, clearly relieved that it hadn’t been abandoned. But Maximus didn’t greet his mount.
