by Lora Andrews
“It’s a unicorn,” she said, laughing, gliding one finger lovingly over the creature’s belly. Ewen couldn’t help but envy the bluidy thing. She looked up. “Did you make this for me?”
He tugged at his collar. God’s teeth, it was hot. “I—I couldna sleep.”
“I can’t believe…” She looked down, blinking, staring at the whittled unicorn in her hand like it was manna from heaven. When she raised her gaze to his, her green eyes brimmed with an emotion that pinned his body to ground. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
She cleared the cups to the side and crawled on her knees to sit beside him.
What was left of the saliva in his mouth ran south to join the herd of black kyloe goring his gut. He’d grown tired of guarding his heart. Every woman he’d loved, from his mother to Isobel, had been taken from him. Caitlin would be no different. Fate had already sealed her destiny.
And his.
It didn’t stop him from wanting another outcome.
It didn’t stop him from wanting her.
“My màthair’s tales”—he gestured to the carving with his chin because he couldn’t meet Caitlin’s eyes—“painted her as a noble and fierce creature undefeatable in battle. Not even the lion, her natural enemy, nor the elephant, nor even the wily snake who poisoned the waterholes, could usurp her reign. Her horn healed the wells, and she protected her people.”
“That must be why she becomes Scotland’s national animal in the future.”
“Ah. Perhaps. She is a symbol of strength and purity, wild, proud, and”—their eyes met—“beautiful.”
Like you.
Letting go of his restraint, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers, whisper soft.
She stilled, but didn’t move away, her shallow breaths beating in time with his. “We should take this slow.”
“Aye, we should.”
Her eyes were locked to his mouth. “So you can build your own memories. Get to know me.”
“I know all I need to know.” He threaded a hand through her hair and pulled her to him, the sounds of the wind and sea dimming until there was only her.
Until there was only the beat of her heart.
He kissed her, rolling her onto his body as he lay back, his hands gripped in her hair. Her moan sent shivers through his body. She straddled him, took control of the kiss, teasing him with each stroke of her tongue. Each rub of her body. The press of her breasts against his chest.
The horn blared.
He groaned.
Shite.
Caitlin broke the kiss, her chest heaving. Ewen touched his forehead to hers. Cursed luck. He slid his hand from her hair, down to the small of her back, and curled off the ground, cradling her in his lap.
One look at his face, and she threw her arms around him, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. “It’s time, isn’t it?”
“Aye.” He didn’t want to let go. “Braern has returned.”
“No, it’s too soon.”
He held her tight, chest to chest, hearts thrashing together, her breath tickling his neck.
She pulled back. Disheveled dark hair fell about her shoulders. Her mossy green eyes were lit to an almost emerald green, and her swollen lips made every part of him hard.
“Do your wedding feasts include dancing?”
“Dancing?” His brain was slow to process her words. “Aye.”
Flattening her palms to the sides of his face, she whispered, “Then I’ll save you a dance. I’ll save them all for you.” She pressed her lips to his. “Just come back to me.”
He kissed her, hard, driven by emotions he couldn’t name.
Because what she asked of him was a promise no warrior could make.
TWENTY-SIX
CAITLIN PUSHED aside the canvas flap and winced. There wasn’t a muscle in her body that didn’t hurt. Her abs were sore, her quads burned, and her butt felt like it had been put through a meat grinder every time she lifted her foot. Bruises peppered her exposed skin, along with a few tender spots to her ribs and kidneys. In the past twenty-four hours, she’d taken enough knocks, punches, and thrusts to last a lifetime. But she was learning. She’d walloped Brigid with a few good thwacks of her own.
Pretty soon, Caitlin Reed would no longer be the weakest link on the team. She searched the gray sky, squinting against the drizzling rain.
No sign of Ewen. Or his unit.
God, please let him be okay. Yesterday, up on the top of that wind-blown hill, he’d stolen another piece of her heart. She curled her hand around the unicorn in her pocket. If fate took him away from her again…
She didn’t want to think about losing Ewen MacLean.
Not now.
Not ever.
Exiting the tent, Caitlin waddled across the field to the infirmary. She had a wedding feast to attend that required squeezing her body into a corset and wearing enough satin to wrap a small country. Okay...she was exaggerating, but she was not looking forward to wearing another gown after being in pants for two days. And the last thing she needed was a bunch of medieval people questioning the bruises on her arms and face. So, she sought Brother John in hopes he could heal the bruises discreetly. The muscles would need to repair themselves.
The grounds were empty.
Weird.
Ian had taken over training the warriors while Ewen was gone. By the sun’s placement in the sky, she figured it was about four or five o’clock in the afternoon. Most of the warriors were probably at the loch bathing, and the monks were at the refectory sharing a communal meal before their nighttime routine. The holy men lived simple and pious lives ruled by work. Lots of work. Up at the crack of dawn, praying, reading, working in the scriptorium before morning Mass. They attended daily meetings in the Chapter House where Caitlin supposed they decided on monkly stuff. Then more work—chores, gardening, warrior training, ale brewing, to name a few. The main meal followed High Mass. Then more work. And finally sleep, which consisted of mats on a dormitory floor, maybe a pillow and a light blanket.
Most of the brothers adhered to a code of silence, and those who didn’t were restricted to discussing ecclesiastical matters. The abbot was a stickler for this, and as a result, she’d gotten pretty darn good at reading gestures. And as much as she disliked Dominic MacKenzie, he was good to this flock and well respected by the monks. Brother John, his prior, assisted him with his administrative duties. He was also the only other monk on the premises, besides the abbot, with the magic to heal.
So all she had to do was locate Brother John and avoid the abbot.
Easy peasy.
Not.
Caitlin scanned the lawn around the abbey and shore. Was she the only one here? Where on god’s green grass had Deidre run off to? Dodging Kära?
Poor Deidre. The mermaid had taken a liking to her, following her around like a lovesick puppy. Kära’s thirst for knowledge bordered on annoying, but she was a sweetheart with an innocence about her that was endearing despite the cruelties she’d suffered during her incarceration. In no time, the mermaid had surpassed Caitlin’s swordsmanship skills, and her language abilities had grown astronomically. Caitlin wasn’t too proud to admit she had a serious case of mermaid envy.
Picking up speed, Caitlin moved onto the cobblestone path leading to the infirmary, her leg muscles crying with each hurried step. Maybe Deidre had snuck off with Ian. Things were weird between those two. No longer friend-enemies, they weren’t exactly in the we’re-a-couple stage yet, but it was clear to anyone with eyes that something serious was brewing between the healer and her best friend’s brother.
Knocking on the infirmary door, Caitlin called out, “Brother John.”
When the monk didn’t answer, she opened the door, the wood creaking, and peeked inside.
Empty. Which meant she’d have to wait until after the communal meal. The plan was to fly her and the others to Mull tonight, so it was now or never. But no way was she desperate enough to poke her head into the refectory and chance runn
ing into the abbot.
Ugh.
She was such a coward.
Caitlin closed the door, hurried the short distance to the Chapter House, and peered through the window into the empty room. Strike two.
Maybe the choir?
It was worth a shot.
She entered the Chapter House and exited out to the cloister. The memory of her near kiss with Ewen up against that very stone wall launched tingles in her stomach. Every memory. Every kiss, both in this time and hers, was hot in her mind. The cowardly part of her wanted to throw in the do-gooder towel. Let the gods and the monks handle Bres and a possible future apocalypse. She and Ewen could ride off into the Highland sunset and live happily ever after.
If only she believed in fairytales.
The murmur of voices snapped her back against the wall. She stilled, her breath too loud in her ears.
“Minun brenhines, with all due respect, I would tell her.”
Was that Dyn? His voice echoed from a small shrine-like room to her left.
“No. No.” Brigid’s tone was firm and cold. “The vision was clear. There was no other path. We stay the course. It’s for the best she not know.”
Who should not know? Me?
A soft bang was followed by shuffling.
Caitlin contemplated stepping away but…
“If she’s equipped—”
“No, Dyn. We cannot risk Bres finding her.”
Silence.
“My queen, you cannot compare the two,” Dyn said. “Ruadan...he…”
Who the hell was Ruadan? God, she was so confused.
“If there is to be no wavering from your path, will you give consideration to schooling her in magic?” Dyn suggested. “If the torque cannot be removed in time, we are at a significant disadvantage against the Norns and Bres without your power.”
Dammit. If access to magic was available, Caitlin wanted in. Pronto.
“I will find a way.”
Of course, you will.
Dyn snorted. “You cannot delay the Elfenni’s aid. As much as you would prefer to close your eyes, my queen, you have no choice. Not when time is our enemy.”
“Leave it to you to always state the obvious, my friend.” Brigid’s voice softened. An audible sigh was followed by more shuffling. “I am tired, Dyn. I do not have the strength to negotiate with the Dark Ones.”
Caitlin edged closer to the door and caught sight of Dyn’s arms around the goddess. Her mouth popped open. They were a couple?
“She has fire and determination,” Brigid said. “Did you see her disarm me?”
Oh. My. God. Was that pride in the ice goddess’s voice?
No way they were talking about her.
Laughing, Dyn said, “Aye, that she does. And a scream that can silence sirens.” Brigid’s soft laughter mixed with the griffin-shifter’s. “I practically busted my breeches when you hit the ground. The look on your face could have frozen the seven hells.”
Bridget giggled.
Giggled!
“I may have to see the abbot to tend my injury,” the goddess said, her voice muffled.
Wait…
I disarmed her.
Holy hell. They were talking about her!
Impossible. What the heck were they smoking in there?
The door to the refectory opened, and monks poured into the cloister, two by two, walking their customary path to the cathedral.
Shit.
Caitlin stepped away from the wall and walked a few steps pass the shrine entrance. She stopped and feigned surprise at seeing Brigid and Dyn. As nonchalantly as she could, she asked the pair, “Hey, have you seen Brother John?”
Meanwhile, her heart did three-sixties inside her chest. She was no James Bond.
Rolling her sleeves up her forearms to reveal the assortment of nasty looking bruises, Caitlin gave Brigid her best bitch face. “I’m thinking these will need to be healed before the wedding, right?”
Dyn laughed. “Little one, it would seem you and my queen share a similar affliction.”
Brigid shot him a shut-up look, marched out of the shrine, and led the charge to find Brother John.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Mull, Scotland, the next day…
CAITLIN SEARCHED the sea of heads gathered at the church to witness the exchange of vows between Catherine Campbell to Lachlan MacLean, the future Chief of Duart. Absent among the many lords and ladies present was Ewen’s dark head.
She squeezed the unicorn in her hand.
Where are you, Ewen?
Deidre nudged her elbow. The bride and groom were entering the kirk for the second part of the ceremony. Guests ushered baskets of food inside. Caitlin turned around and scanned the crowd, craning her neck to peer through the opened door to the road leading to the castle.
“He should have been here by now.”
“These things take time,” Deidre said, but the look on her face said otherwise.
The priest blessed the food. The smell of incense filled the small room. The lords and ladies were dressed in their finest garb, and Caitlin was hit with the surreal sense of passing through a Shakespearean play or a renaissance fair. High-waisted gowns, headdresses, bright colors, men in fancy doublets and fur-lined cloaks or robes, the sounds and smells overwhelming her senses.
She fortified her mental shields. That was one thing she could thank Bres for. Since their rooftop battle, she’d mastered the art of protecting her mind. For the most part.
Small miracle.
Caitlin reached for her hair, then stopped. Deidre had spent a good hour braiding and battling her wavy locks in an attempt to assemble her unruly hair into a proper medieval hairstyle. She lowered her thumbnail to her mouth and gnawed. What if the missing healer had been a trap to lure Fionn, and Ewen had gotten caught in the crossfire?
She needed to do something.
“Breathe, Caitlin,” Deidre whispered. “I can hear your teeth grinding.”
Caitlin released the air trapped in her lungs. “I’m feeling claustrophobic.”
Deidre gave her a funny look. “The ceremony is almost over. Hold my hand if you must.”
“I’m okay. It’s just standing here…”
“I know. ’Tis difficult to be on the receiving end, waiting for news of our loved ones.”
Caitlin squeezed Deidre’s hand. “Thank you. So who are the people near the bride and groom?”
“I only know John of Coll, Ewen’s older brother.” She nodded in the direction of a tall man. “And that would be his wife, Isobel.”
Isobel? Why did that name ring a bell?
A rich blue gown draped the woman in question, the color a near identical shade to her heavy-lidded eyes. Flawless skin. Pouty pink lips. A headdress hid what had to be sun kissed blond hair, unless her perfect brows were dyed. Standing all of five feet with an incredible body beneath the yards of fabric, Caitlin felt downright Amazonish and dowdy in comparison. Isobel’s husband looked nothing like Ewen. He had a ruddy complexion, hard brown eyes, and strands of silver patches at the hairline of a severe queue.
“... next he’ll give her the quaich.”
“The what?”
Deidre pointed to the two-handled cup the priest handed the bride. “It symbolizes their shared lives. She will drink first, then Lachlan. Holding the vessel requires two hands. It leaves him vulnerable for attack because he canna defend himself. So you see, he must trust his wife’s clan to not slaughter him in the middle of the kirk.”
Caitlin stared at Deidre. “I suppose this is another Highlander code thing?”
“Aye.”
Oookay. Good luck with that. They were surrounded by Campbells, and for all Caitlin new, Bres was in the room watching her. A shiver ran down her back. She rubbed her arms. Young Lachlan drank then passed the cup to his father, who would then pass it to the Campbell chief and so forth until all the leaders in attendance had imbibed.
She glanced back at the kirk doors. Still no sign of Ewen, but she spied Brigid an
d Dyn at the back of the church. The goddess acknowledged Caitlin with a slight nod of her head. Like Caitlin, she’d refused to wear one of those weird cone headpieces on her head. Dyn stood beside her, looking quite dandy and regal.
Caitlin tipped her head and turned around. Then frowned. Was Brigid’s nod simply a hey-we’re-here nod or was it more of a hey-he’s-landed-safely-so-don’t-worry nod? Sheesh. Maybe it was a prepare-yourself-we’re-all-going-to-die nod.
The second-guessing was killing her.
The bride and groom exited the church. Young Lachlan was blue-eyed like his father, but lacked the fire and intensity of her Highlander’s gaze. With a mop of brown hair several shades lighter than Caitlin’s chestnut, Ewen’s youngest brother was tall and lanky. If Caitlin had to guess, she’d say he was eighteen, maybe younger. And the bride was no older. Fair skinned and brown-eyed, the petite Catherine Campbell had honey-blond hair, stood proud in her burgundy gown, and was clearly not in love with her groom but resolved to her fate.
God, that had to suck. Arranged marriages were common to the nobles of this time, but still, Caitlin couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the girl. Taking advantage of the mass exodus from the church when the ceremony concluded, Caitlin searched the grounds. She spotted Ian walking beside Ewen’s father, both men tense. Ian’s blond head was angled to the chief’s ear. Lachlan nodded and scanned the crowd, appearing to focus on the cluster of Campbell’s walking along the edge of the well-worn path.
Bres could be one of those Campbells parading as an uncle or brother, especially when one considered the fact the bride’s mother was the daughter of the Lord of Lorn—yep, the very same Lord that Ewen had gone to see in Oban.
God, she could scream.
Pull yourself together, Reed.
She sucked in a breath and followed the crowd up the stairs into the great room, steering her mind away from images of Ewen’s bloody corpse. The unicorn’s horn dug into her skin. She slid the carving into the hidden pocket of her dress before she lost it.
