
MY IMMORTAL PROTECTOR
StrathwicK, Scottish Highlands 1597
It was another troubled night for Deidra.
Her father blamed it on the storm---the screaming wind, the driving rain, the rumbling thunder. But it wasn't the storm; at least not entirely. The storm made the creatures restless and frightened. And when they were afraid, Deidra didn't sleep. William MacKay sat on his daughter's bed in the candlelit room. He'd already checked under the bed and behind the screen and deemed them animal-free. Deidra believed him. She would know if creatures were in the room. She knew it was all very strange to her father. There had been a time when Deidra had been more comfortable with animals than with people, a time when the thoughts and feelings of creatures had comforted her.
Now they haunted her.
Her cries of terror had brought her father rushing to her room. He sat with her now, gazing down at her with furrowed brow. Rain danced against the shutters. Her new stepmother, Rose, stood in the doorway, red hair streaming over her shoulders, pale brow creased with concern.
"What is it, sweeting?"
Tall dog, tall dog, tall dog. The frantic chant filled her mind, pressing out other thoughts. She slapped her hands over her ears just as Billy, the large mastiff, nosed past Rose, searching for it's master. Once it saw that William MacKay was in Deidra's room, relief poured from the dog. He crossed the room to sit at William's feet. Unfortunately the chant continued, but now it was filled with adoration and hope of table scraps later.
Deidra couldn't stand it. She wanted them out of her head. Her body went stiff, eyes screwed shut and teeth clenched. Get out! Leave me alone!
Her father's hands circled her wrists. "Deidra? What is it?"
Rats were on the move, in the walls, heading for the kitchens, excited at the prospect of rummaging through the rushes for dropped food.
Something growled in her head, rumbling in her chest and growing louder, filling her like the thunder. No more, no more, no more. Her father took her shoulders and gave her a hard shake.
"Deidra! Look at me!"
"She's growling," Rose whispered, her voice hushed with concern.
Deidra twisted, hands gripping the sides of her head. "Make them stop, Da, I pray you!
Her father gathered her close, arms wrapped around her. "What is it? The animals?"
The rats, the dogs, even the horses, all of their thoughts filled her mind like a roar. She had no thoughts of her own; she was nothing but a container they filled.
"Aye," she whimpered. "Make them stop, please, Da, please, please, please]"
Her father's arms tightened. He didn't say anything, and, young as she was, Deidra understood why. There was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do. They were witches, and this was their lot. They could not undo what they were.
When you were born a witch, you died a witch.
"Why, Da, why? I don't want to be a witch anymore. Why are we this way?"
He inhaled deeply, his eyes shifting inward with thought. "My mother told me it was a baobhan sith."
"A blood witch?" Rose asked quizzically, approaching the bed.
William sat back and nodded, his hand still on Deidra's back. She liked it there; it was warm and strong and comforting. When he was with her, she felt mayhap she could bear the thoughts, mayhap even learn to ignore them one day.
She swiped at the tears that leaked from her eyes and tried to focus on what her father was saying. It was easier to ignore the animals when she had something else diverting her attention. She asked, "What's a baobhan sith?"
He smiled at her. "A witch that drinks blood and has many special powers. They derive power from the moon. My great-great-grandsire made a pact with one many years ago."
"I thought they killed men," Rose said. All the stories I've heard tell of them luring young men with their beauty and dancing, then draining their blood. You can talk to them?"
William shrugged and ran a careless hand over his graying hair, leaving it in disarray. He wasn't an old man, but his black hair had a metallic sheen to it from all the silver strands.
"Aye, apparently so," he said.
Rose sat on the end of the bed. "What sort of pact?"
"I don't really know, exactly. His son was dying.. .he asked for the magic to heal him...and the baobhan sith made him a witch," he said as he smiled down at Deidra, "a healer like Rose and I." He shrugged. "And we've had witches in the family ever since."
"A pact," Deidra whispered with wonder. It was so simple.
Her father rubbed his hand over her head. Aye, lass. That's from whence MacKay magic springs." He stood, planting a kiss on the top of her head. "You'll be fine now?"
Deidra didn't know if she would. She still heard the animals, but now she had something to ponder, something to distract her from all the noise in her head. She nodded, since she knew it would please him.
Rose and her father bid Deidra a good night and left her alone in the darkness. She closed her eyes and listened to the rain tapping against the shutters. Animals chattered in her head, and she thought about pacts and baobhan siths.
Her situation had seemed hopeless before. But suddenly she had options, possibilities.
If pacts could be made to create witches...perhaps they could be made to take magic away.
Twelve years later
For a while, Deidra thought Luthias had actually forgotten about her. Hoped. Prayed.
But she did not possess such blessings. Apparently he'd been no more than distracted, busy hunting other witches. Word had reached her of a spectacular witch trial and hanging in the lowlands---complete with torture and dunkings. The images it brought to mind made her want to crawl under her bed and hide like she had when she'd been a wee bairn. No doubt Luthias's stink was all over those trials.
Luthias Forsyth was a witch-pricker, a man well versed in the torture and execution of witches. The past few decades had been very prosperous ones for Luthias and very dangerous ones for Scotland's witches...and women. That was the difficulty with being a woman in Scotland. One did not have to be a witch to burn for witchcraft. One merely needed breasts.
That had changed for a time in 1597, when King James had rescinded his edict that had allowed witches to be hunted and killed like wild game. But King James ruled England now, too, and the Presbyteries had control of Scotland. Witch hunting was regaining popularity. Today, it had come to Strathwick. Again.
For the past three days Deidra had hid in the tower room of Strathwick, her family's home. It had been a while since she'd been forced to hide out in this manner. So long, in fact, that she'd begun to hope that perhaps the hiding was finally over.
She stretched out on the bed, reading by candlelight a chapbook about Saint George slaying the dragon. When she was younger, she had loved these stories, but the older she'd grown the less likely the stories had seemed. She had read her father's histories and attempted to read her mothers journals and herbals, but she couldn't stay awake while reading any of them. She had read and reread their translations of the Greek myths. There was nothing left to read but these chapbooks, and they just made her roll her eyes. She shut the book with a sigh.
A dog had followed her upstairs and now sat beside the bed, staring at her. When she turned even slightly in its direction it whined softly and shifted from foot to foot.
Deidra ignored it.
She never knew how long Luthias would nose around the village, asking questions about her, making sure she wasn't practicing magic. Checking up on her. Once, when he'd come, she had not hid. She'd been eighteen and feeling very idealistic and full of the need to cure injustice. She had imagined how, when he came sniffing around her, she would give him a flaying about all the innocent women he had murdered. She'd thought that somehow she would be able to make him see the error of his ways.
It hadn't turned out the way she'd planned. By the time he'd found her, she'd been surrounded by animals---dogs, cats, sheep, chickens. It had been difficult to explain them away when he'd asked why all the animals in the village migrated to Goodwife Anne's house, where Deidra assisted in the shelling of peas.
She had started out strong, telling him it meant nothing; they were pets, that he was the monster, not the girls he killed. His long angular face had hardened to granite, and he'd started in on her, calling her a foul witch who communed with the animal spirits, quoting the Bible and how she was a blemish on humanity. In the end, she had run away, more frightened and confused than ever. He had followed, harrying her home, promising that soon she too would pay, as all witches did.
Her father had run him out of the village and threatened to kill him. He'd stayed away for a time, but of course he'd come back. He always came back, and when he returned he brought reinforcements. From that day forward, when he'd brought a guard of mercenaries with him, rendering her father powerless. The only thing Deidra had been able to do was hide.
He was so persistent, so intent on her. She hadn't practiced any sort of witchcraft in more than a decade, and yet still he was obsessed with her. She didn't understand why he couldn't just forget, move on, hunt other witches. And she supposed he did in the time between visits, but he never forgot about her. Every year he returned, as reliable as the seasons, and stayed for several days. But this time nearly two years had passed with no sign of him, and she'd begun to hope.
There was a tap on the door. Deidra closed her book and twisted toward the door, "Aye? Come in."
Her stepmother, Rose, peeked her head around the edge of the door. "Are you hungry?"
Deidra swung her legs over the side of the bed and sighed. "Not really."
Ignoring this, Rose entered, balancing a tray, and crossed the room. The warm smell of herbs wafted to Deidra and her stomach rumbled. Rose set the tray on the bed.
"I heard that," she admonished. "Stop being a wee fool. You will eat my soup." Rose rarely took no for an answer. A strong woman, made of steel and as beautiful as a well-honed sword. Deidra wished she could be more like her. She doubted Rose would hide from Luthias.
Rose smiled as she uncovered a dish to reveal a savory bean soup, warm bread with jam, and dried fruit. All of Deidra's favorites.
Deidra sighed but gave her stepmother a grateful smile. Rose was an amazing woman and had more than made up for the years Deidra had been motherless. She had married William MacKay twelve years ago. She was still a relatively young woman---in her thirties---but her hair had turned almost completely white. Her face still held a youthful beauty, but neither William nor Rose could resist using their healing magic at every opportunity, and it aged them both. Yet another reason Deidra hated this witchcraft curse---it would eventually take away everything that mattered to her. It had already altered her father and Roses life in ways they'd not anticipated.
After they'd married, Rose had borne William a son, Ross. And had miscarried every pregnancy since. It was the healing magic; something about it made her different, made her unable to bear any more than Ross. And now Ross was gone, sent to King James's English court to learn English ways so he would not be a heathen like his parents.
Luckily, thus far Ross had shown no signs of magical ability. It appeared he might be like William's brother, Drake. Deidra envied him.
"Is Luthias still in the village?" Deidra asked.
Not meeting Deidra's gaze, Rose fussed with some currants that had spilled out of the little bowl.
"What is it? Its been three days and he's still here?"
Rose straightened and planted her hands on her hips. "I think you're just going to have to show yourself. He knows you're here somewhere and he's not going away until he sees you." Her voice and face softened. "It'll be just as it always is.
He'll see you are not doing any magic and go away."
Deidra dropped her chin on her fist and glowered at the wall. She did not want to show herself. A dozen years had passed since the incident that had sparked Luthias Forsyth's obsession with her, and Deidra was no longer a child but a woman...and yet she still trembled in his presence. She felt eight years old again, terrified and wanting to bury her face in her father's shirt.
"I should go away," Deidra murmured. "It brings danger to you and Da when he comes here searching about for witchcraft. There is plenty to find here. One day he will strike against you for sheltering me. I feel it." She shook her head, fear gripping her shoulders tight. "I bring danger on us all."
"What foolishness. Don't be ridiculous." Rose pushed the tray at her insistently. "You know we won't hear of it. You will stay here with us until you marry and that's the end of it."
Deidra chose to ignore that and picked at the currants instead. No man would ever marry her. She was one and twenty, and not a single offer had been made for her. Her parents took her to gatherings, but the men she met did not seem to find her looks pleasing or her person interesting. It was her hair. Wild and woolly, like a sheep's. She'd heard what the other lasses said about her. She was ugly and a mute, raised by animals. No, she would never find a man with such references.
She snatched a roll off the tray and stood, pacing the room. "I will live in the mountains, somewhere far away from here, on the Continent perhaps...the Alps, in a remote chalet where hell never find me and I bring danger to no one."
Rose made a dismissive sound and waved a hand. "That kind of behavior never brought anyone any happiness. Remember you Stephen Ross?" She raised her copper brows. "We all loved him well, but he was so miserable he couldn't see it. So away he went and now everyone thinks he's a monster, living in the mountains. No friends or family. People fear him."
Deidra did remember Stephen Ross. He'd been a young man when she'd been a child. Crippled in an accident, He'd tried to live among friends and family, but the pain and bitterness over what had happened to him had cankered his soul and made him unpleasant. Eventually He'd moved to one of his estates in the far north to live in isolation.
"People say he is a baobhan sith" Rose said. "That he traps unsuspecting travelers and drinks their blood. Would you like them to say that about you?"
Rose was clever, playing on Deidra's need for acceptance and approval. Deidra disliked the taint of witchcraft. But she ignored the question and slid Rose a dubious sidelong look. "I thought blood witches were all women."
Rose shrugged. "I suppose they can be either men or women. I know not." Rose smiled slyly. "Perchance Mr. Forsyth could tell you more about them. Go see him and find out."
Deidra scowled and returned to the bed, where Rose sat. "Is it true? Is Stephen Ross really a baobhan sith?" She still remembered the tale her father had told her as a child, about how her great-great-great-grand-sire had made a pact with a blood witch. She'd always found the story compelling but not particularly useful. After all, she'd assumed the baobhan sith were not real. A story told to children to keep them close to home.
When Rose didn't reply, Deidra pressed, "So...do you believe in the baobhan sith? Do you really think there is such a thing?"
Rose gave her a mildly condescending smile. "If you grew up in my family.. .and married into such a family as I did...well, you would understand that anything is possible."
This was true. Rose's sisters were both powerful witches. Rose herself had married a witch. And Deidra was a witch, though she hadn't used her magic in years.
At least not intentionally. To be precise, she had become proficient at ignoring it, and it didn't trouble her overmuch these days. But that mattered little in Mr. Forsyth's world. He knew what she was capable of. He had seen it with his own eyes. And even now, though she might deny her magic to herself and to others, the animals knew and would never allow her to forget it. They sensed it in her and flocked to her. Most of them did not have the capacity for reason. They did not understand that she would never speak to them again. They all wanted something, so they kept trying.
"Drake went to a blood witch."
Deidra nearly dropped her bread. Her jaw did drop. "Uncle Drake?"
Rose nodded, the corners of her mouth tight, her gaze turned inward. She obviously wasn't certain she should be speaking of this, but she had decided to anyway. "Do you recall when Ceara was ill? And your father and I could not cure her?"
Deidra remembered well. Aunt Ceara's deadly ailment was what had turned her parents' hair white through their constant attempts to heal that which not even magic could cure.
"He took her to the blood witch."
"And?" Deidra prompted, breathless.
Rose shrugged. "I know not. Ceara is dead. Drake is...different. But he did say that he saw her. So there must be such a thing."
The baobhan sith was real after all. Deidra was intrigued. Perhaps another path lay open to her, one she had not previously considered. However, the visit had not benefited Ceara. Perhaps she should go to the source, find out what had really happened.
Her mind turned to Stephen Ross. She'd not known him well. He'd been a good friend to the MacDonells, Roses family. He was the illegitimate nephew of an earl and very wealthy. He could afford to live off in some remote castle, far away from the stares. She remembered the way He'd limped, the lines pain had drawn in his youthful face. He'd not been born crippled, but Deidra had not known him when he'd been a whole man.
What Deidra remembered most of all when she recalled Stephen Ross was that he'd been beautiful. She'd found him angelic in countenance and particularly enchanting when he'd smiled, which had been rare. He'd never paid much attention to her, except once, when her animals had bothered him. He'd bellowed like a baited bear, terrifying her. She'd cut a wide swath around him after that.
But that had been a very long time ago. She was not a little girl but a woman, and he did not scare her.
Much.
Rose patted her knee. "Think about showing yourself, aye? Maybe then he'll go away."
Deidra smiled wanly. Even if Luthias did go away, he'd just come back. He would keep coming back until she could prove she was not a witch.
When Rose was gone, Deidra gathered up the rest of the currants and bread, wrapped them in a napkin, then stuffed the napkin into a canvas satchel. She placed the bowl on the floor. The dog preempted it's instinctive rush forward and sat back, staring at her with pleading eyes, flanks quivering with hope.
"Go ahead," she said.
The dog's nose disappeared in the bowl.
Deidra crossed the room to her clothes-press and threw open the doors. Scanning the interior, she grabbed fresh stockings and a clean shift. She started to close it then ran a hand over her wild, unruly curls. She snatched up her comb and stuffed it in the satchel with everything else before closing the doors.
She hesitated, standing in the center of her room, satchel in hand. She wanted to leave immediately, to get as far away from Luthias Forsyth as possible. She crossed to the bed and sank down on it. It would be unwise to leave now. Someone might observe her leaving and report back to Luthias. It would be a few more hours yet before the castle went to sleep. So she waited.
The dog finished eating and stared at her expectantly, trying to communicate with her. She could feel it pushing at the membrane of her thoughts, but she would not allow it entrance. She walled it out, just like she did all creatures. It had a name, but she refused to use it, refused to acknowledge it.
She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, the weight of time and her task pressing on her soul.
Luthias had grown tired of this little hamlet. Year in and year out he came here, keeping track of the animal whisperer. He slept in smelly crofts with the rustics, who stank and fed him food unfit for animals. He had never married, and he had no family save a sister he hadn't spoken to in a lifetime. His was not a life for a family man. He lived like a nomad. Still, he had a house in Edinburgh, and it would have been nice to have had a woman waiting for him there.
But it was not his lot. God had handed him this calling, this gift of rooting out witches, and he was obligated to use it in His name. Still, there had been a time when a wife and family had been possible. That was before the MacKays. Before Deidra.
Tonight he slept on a cramped mattress stuffed with heather and probably crawling with fleas, which he had paid far too much for His men had found stables around the village, though one slept outside this croft, protecting him. A blanket hung between Luthias and his hosts, but that did not block out the sounds of the smith rutting on his wife. They thrashed about, grunting and huffing and whimpering. He couldn't remember the last time he'd lain with a woman, but he was certain that when he had, it hadn't been nearly so noisy.
The blanket stirred, and a moment later a small face peeked around the side of it. The smith's son. Luthias glared at the lad and the face swiftly disappeared...but seconds later he was back, staring with wide, serious eyes, all the while the tanner strained and groaned on the other side of the blanket.
Luthias thought he might go mad.
He threw back the itchy wool blanket and struggled off the mattress, grabbing his cloak and rushing out of the croft into the cool night air.
He stood under the waning moon and inhaled deeply of the crisp air, thick with peat smoke. His legs twitched from agitation, and he jigged his foot impatiently.
He would leave in the morning. The witch hid from him and would not show herself. He usually did not back down from a challenge. He'd smoked witches out before, but this one's family was different. They were white witches. Luthias had long subscribed to the notion that the only good witch was a dead one, but that had been before he'd witnessed William MacKay heal a dying man. That could not have been the devil's work, for the man had been William's enemy---and that enemy had been doing God's work, trying to end William MacKays life. True evil would have let him die. True evil would have relished in the revenge. True evil such as Deidra MacKay.
She had been the murderer that day. She had set her hellhounds on the man, a whole horrifying snarling pack of them, and they had ripped the man's throat out while she'd looked on with approval. And she'd only been eight years old.
The image of such a small lovely child committing such a vile, inhuman act had haunted Luthias for twelve years now. God had made him witness to that horror for a reason. God haunted him with nightmares of the child for a reason. Every day since he had walked away from Deidra, he had regretted it. He had tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that trying a child was illegal and He'd honored the law. But he knew in his heart it had just been an excuse. God's law superseded any law created by man. He was God's servant, and Deidra MacKay offended God. It was his calling to keep her from committing any further horrors and to punish her if she transgressed. She was not a child anymore; had not been for some time. It was past time for him to set things to rights.
He took his calling very seriously.
The twitching stopped, but he didn't want to go back inside. He didn't think he could sleep in that croft tonight anyway. He crossed the dark yard and lowered himself onto a log. It was too dark to travel in such terrain, plus his men needed their sleep. Tomorrow they had a long journey ahead of them. He'd caught word of another witch in the lowlands. This one heard the voices of the dead and used her magic to find lost objects. Evil. He shuddered just to imagine the kind of evil that raised the dead for profit. He would come back to Strathwick and seek another opportunity.
As he sat contemplating his next assignment, he became aware of movement in the distance, near the castle. He sat very still, watching. A lone figure moved silently through the darkness. But he was wrong; he soon saw that it was not alone. In the distance behind it followed an entourage of figures low to the ground. Dogs, it appeared, or mayhap wolves.
Luthias recoiled inside, his lips curling. The animal whisperer, out skulking about after everyone else was asleep. As he watched, he noted she carried a satchel. She disappeared into the stables, then reappeared moments later leading a horse. He watched her until she was gone.
She was leaving Strathwick.
He felt an unfamiliar tugging at the corners of his mouth and realized it was a smile. He'd finally smoked her out.
A change of plans was in order. He would not be heading directly to the lowlands after all. God had finally rewarded his patience with opportunity. It was time to set things right.
Braighde Pele crouched upon a jagged black mountaintop. The castle was not far from MacKay lands, but it still took Deidra two days to reach it. Its name meant "hostage tower," and it was no mystery why the castle had acquired it. Craggy rocks and a thick forest surrounded it on all sides. The overgrown rubble of an abandoned kirk blocked the way to the south. This was dangerous and difficult terrain to traverse, discouraging all but the most determined.
An odd choice for a cripple...but not for a baobhan sith. In fact, it was the perfect lair for a blood witch---away from prying eyes. Deidra's pulse stepped up a few beats with hope and excitement. The idea that her life could soon be transformed from nightmare to normal was almost too much to contemplate. It swelled inside her, threatening to overtake her and make her reckless. The horse felt the excited trembling in her thighs and wanted to understand. It probed at her. She blocked it, her jaw set, shutting her mind against it.
It had been a difficult journey for Deidra. She loathed sleeping outside. Animals sensed her presence somehow and flocked to her, all wanting something. Unlike most people, she had nothing to fear from even the most dangerous beast, but that mattered not. She would rather fear them than be stalked by them.
The tower rose before her, reaching high above the castle walls. Many years ago---even before Deidra's father had been born, when the castle had been nothing more than a simple tower---it had been owned by the MacKays and used to hold pledges. When the MacKay lairds had kidnapped enemies and held them for ransom, they'd locked them up in the tower and forgotten about them until the ransom was paid. Sometimes it had been a very long time before that happened. Often, the hostages hadn't lived to see release, and so the ransom had had to be returned...or fought over. It was a place of death and darkness, and it made Deidra's chest heavy with dread.
The Rosses of Irvine had purchased the castle and the land around it many years ago and built the tower up into a grand estate. Stephen owned it now and had moved into it nearly a decade ago. Few had seen him since, though he did send occasional letters to family and friends.
As she drew closer, the sky seemed to grow thicker and darker above the castle. It was no more than her imagination, but the place exuded dread, as if cursed and forgotten. Deidra pulled her wool araisad closer to her neck. She didn't understand why anyone would choose to make such an unpleasant and isolated place their home---unless they had something to hide. A baobhan sith. He had to be one.
It was late afternoon by the time she rode beneath the portcullis and into the courtyard, tired and hungry. She'd been forced to dismount and walk the horse the last few miles. She couldn't guess what kind of hospitality to expect from Stephen Ross. In the Highlands, it was expected of a laird to extend hospitality to those of rank, regardless of the laird's circumstances. But Stephen Ross was not normal.
It didn't take long for Deidra to find out what kind of welcome she would receive. Servants rushed at her seconds after she entered the courtyard. Men crowded around her, grabbed her, and hauled her away from the horse. Her nervous excitement transformed into panicked confusion. She pushed at them, her skin crawling-Their hands were all over her body, patting her down as they searched for weapons. They confiscated the knife she'd strapped to her thigh.
"I'm here to see Stephen Ross," she said over and over, but her words elicited no response---not even eye contact. It was as if the men were mutes. Her horse was led away, and one of the men gripped her upper arm in a firm hold, leading her forcefully across the courtyard and into the castle. Her heart hammered in her throat, her breath coming in small gasps as terror tightened her chest. Baobhan siths murdered people---ripped their throats out and drank their blood. She had not told anyone where she was going. No one knew where she was. She could disappear and no one would ever suspect she'd come here.
Foolish. Foolish. Foolish. And impulsive.
The men led her to an enormous room, it's high ceilings carved with dragons and griffins. A huge chair, it's back to Deidra, crouched before a blazing fire. A bear skin draped the back of it, and more skins covered the arms.
The men shoved Deidra until she stood before the chair, her back to the fire. Sprawled in the thronelike monstrosity was Stephen Ross, but not the Stephen Ross Deidra remembered from her youth.
Even as a cripple Stephen Ross had not been a small man. He'd not been over-tall, but he had been broad and thick with muscle. The man that sat before her was enormous. He wore a white shirt that hung open, exposing a muscled chest furred with light blond hair that traveled down a hard abdomen, disappearing beneath a thick leather belt.
Pale blue eyes regarded her without emotion. His blond hair had grown long and hung loose over his shoulders and down his back. He was still an exceedingly handsome man, but pain had deepened the lines beside his mouth and eyes, showing the passage of years. Pale whiskers stubbled his chin and upper lip. He looked disreputable and dangerous. Not at all like a harmless cripple.
His arms rested on the chair arms, and he gripped a tankard in one of his hands. He stared at her beneath dark blond brows. The men exited the room, leaving them alone. Deidra stood mutely before Stephen Ross, trembling uncontrollably. The blasting heat from the fire at her back did nothing to dispel the chill fear that gripped her.
He took a long, thoughtful drink from his tankard, his gaze remaining fixed on her. Then he said, "I know you."
His presence overwhelmed her She couldn't form a coherent thought. She trembled from the inside out. Her mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.
He lowered the tankard to rest on the chair arm. His gaze scanned her from head to toe. "Are you from the village?"
Deidra managed a small shake of her head.
"What do you do?"
She blinked. "I---I don't understand."
He sighed with studied patience. "What do you do?" Each word was enunciated, as if she were an addlepate. "Do you work magic with your hands? Your body? Your mouth? What will it be tonight?"
Though innocent in experience, Deidra was not innocent in knowledge of what went on between men and women. Nevertheless, his comment struck her as so inconceivable that her mind scrambled for some meaning other than the one his words conveyed. He hadn't just assumed she was a common village trull. He couldn't have.
His brow lowered into a frown. "You'd think you would have cleaned up a bit first." He waved a hand at her, encompassing her travel-stained attire and ending with a baffled wave at her head. "Or combed your hair and removed some of the foliage." He slurred his words slightly, indicating that He'd drunk more than one tankard. He took another deep drink, watching her all the while.
Heat rushed to her cheeks. She patted at her hair self-consciously and felt the leaves stuck in there. She pulled them out, dropping them surreptitiously to the floor.
He wiped a hand across his mouth. "You'd better be impressive, sweet, or I'm not paying full price, not for a wench that wilna even pick the leaves from her last tumble out of her hair."
And with that bit of crudeness, there was no doubt what he inferred. Her jaw unhinged as she stared at him in stunned silence. It had been a very long time since she'd last seen Stephen Ross, and even then, she'd been a child and had not actually known him. Nevertheless, this was not what she remembered. In her memory He'd been a charmer, not a whoremonger.
He reached a hand out to her, strong fingers curved invitingly. "Come closer, wee dustball. Let us put that sweet mouth to good use."
She gaped at his hand. "You think I am a whore? That I came here to.. .to.. .to..." She was so appalled that she couldn't even say it. Her lip curled in disgust. "You make me sick."
He lowered his hand but didn't look terribly surprised at her indignation.
She swept her arm out to encompass the room. "Is this what you've become? A pathetic cripple, lying around drunk, paying whores to make you feel good for a few moments?"
His eyes narrowed to pale blue slits. "I assure you, lassie, it will take more than a few moments."
Deidra rolled her eyes. "You cannot help me. I can see that now. You are no baobhan sith. You are just a sad lonely man who has to pay for companionship."
He leaned back in the chair, rubbing his fingers over his lips. "And when she speaks, she spews forth poison."
At least I don't spew forth whisky fumes."
He glowered at her for a moment, then his mouth curved. A second later he chuckled. He raised his tankard in a salute to her.
"You are Rose and William's bairn."
This surprised Deidra. After a second she nodded, though inwardly she recoiled at being referred to as a child.
"I thought I recognized the eyes and the hair." He raised his finger as if to trace her features, then dropped it heavily so that his hand rested again on the fur-covered chair arm. "But it was the mouth that gave away your heritage. Only Rose has such a gimlet tongue."
"She is my stepmother, not my mother."
"She raised you since you were a wee thing." He held a hand out to indicate a child's height. "You obviously learned your razor wit from her."
Deidra loved her stepmother and normally would be proud to be compared to her...if the comparison had been made by anyone else. How dare such a waste of flesh pretend to know her? He knew nothing.
She crossed her arms over her chest. "The earl of Irvine is a well respected man. You obviously did not learn to be a sot and a lecher from him."
He feigned a scowl. "I sense disappointment. What is it you said before? I am no baobhan sith? What is that?"
Deidra sighed and looked heavenward. He didn't even know what a baobhan sith was. This was a wasted, useless journey. "A baobhan sith? A blood witch? Surely you jest. I thought everyone had heard the tales of the blood witches."
"No, not everyone." He shifted in his chair and glanced to his right. Another, smaller chair was beside him. He indicated it with a careless wave. "Pray, have a seat and enlighten me."
Deidra remained rooted to the spot. She had not forgotten his rudeness. She was still insulted.
He stared up at her, his pale eyes probing- "You're still in a chuff, aye? Well, I apologize. How's that? Smooth your fur any!"
Deidra's lips tightened and her arms folded closer to her chest.
Stephen sighed. "Come now. Accept my apology.. .or at least pretend to. What else will you do? It's late, you're in the middle of nowhere, and I offer you a hot meal and soft bed. Indulge me."
He had a point. Deidra didn't really want to, but it was late and she was stuck here for the night. She sank into the chair. The bone-deep ache from two days of hard travel and fitful sleep on a hard ground throbbed through her. Every muscle pulsed with exquisite pain as she relaxed in the chair. It was a fine, well made chair, just like everything else she'd seen in the castle thus far. The soft pillow she sat on had been skillfully embroidered, and a skin hung over the chair back and arms, cushioning the wood and making the seat extremely comfortable.
"Hungry? Thirsty?" Before she could answer, he gave a harsh shout. Seconds later, a man entered the room. "Fetch our guest some food and drink, and prepare a room for her."
The man bowed out and Stephen turned his attention back to her. He cocked his head slightly as he regarded her. "Deidra... aye?"
She nodded and he smiled, pleased with his memory, which apparently had not been impaired by the excess of spirits.
"Good. Deidra---tell me now the tales of the baobhan sith that I was deprived of in my youth."
Deidra leaned back in the chair with a contented sigh and looked skyward in thought. Truth be told, she was glad for a reason to sit and talk to someone about the baobhan sith. It wasn't as if she could tell anyone back home what she wished to do. But what did Stephen Ross care? And even if he wanted to, it was doubtful he could stop her.
"Well, the most common tale sings of four young lads on a hunting trip. They shelter for the night in an abandoned cottage. They are sitting around the fire, talking and singing, when one of them wishes for women to keep them company. Immediately women appear. They are beautiful women---" "like you?"
Deidra's mouth opened to respond negatively when she suddenly realized what He'd said to her. Her mouth snapped shut. His elbow rested on the arm of his chair, and his chin sat on his fist as he stared at her as if enraptured by her tale. Or by her.
Heat flooded her cheeks. Did he jest? She knew she was not beautiful. She had wild, unruly hair that she had given up on a long time ago. And as for her shape, she had none. She was small and unwomanly---straight as a lad. She was also considered strange and unfriendly by most people.
He was jesting...or drunk. Or both. Either way, she would not participate in the game.
She forced herself to speak, shaking her head and swallowing convulsively. "No, no, of course not. They...they were womanly.. .with long flowing hair, and fine shapes...womanly shapes. And voices sweet as nightingales."
He arched a blond brow as if he didn't believe her, but he said nothing.
"So," she continued, tearing her gaze away from his rapt stare. Her voice became strange and uneven, difficult to squeeze through her constricted throat. "The men danced and sang with the beautiful women...but soon the dancing became lascivious and wild. Then suddenly the women changed. Their eyes became catlike and they grew fangs and claws. They tore into the men, ripping out their throats and drinking their blood. One of the men was a papist and wore his rosary. The witch touched it and screamed an inhuman shriek. He took that opportunity to escape from her. She pursued and caught him. But he was canny this time and threatened her with the rosary, warding her off until morning.
When the sun came up, the blood witch had disappeared!"'
Stephen's servant appeared with a tray laden down with food and drinks. He set it on a table between their chairs.
"The ale is mulled. Have some." Stephen waved at the tray.
Deidra hesitated, then took the ale. She was hungry and thirsty. She drank deeply of the warm, spicy brew, then chose a bannock from the tray and bit into it, sighing deeply at the rich, warm taste.
He smiled, but there was strain around his mouth. He leaned toward the tray slowly, like an old man, and took the bottle of whisky, grabbing the throat of it and falling back heavily in his chair.
So he was still in pain. She hadn't been certain, as he looked well enough, but then again, he hadn't moved from the chair since she'd arrived.
"You traveled all of this way," he said. "A woman, alone, because you thought I might be a blood witch. And yet, by your own description, they are evil, dangerous creatures." He drank whisky straight from the bottle and wiped a hand across his mouth. "You want something only a baobhan sith can give you. And it is extremely valuable to you. Indeed, it is so valuable you are willing to risk your life for it. If I were a baobhan sith, I would be ripping your lovely throat out right now, aye?"
Deidra's hand crept to her neck. "Aye, I suppose so."
"It seems...oh..." He raised a shoulder and looked skyward, as if searching for words. "Mayhap a trifle stupid? And here Id always believed you to be an intelligent lass."
Deidra smiled ruefully. "You don't know me at all, and you certainly have no idea what I left behind. Maybe a baobhan sith would be welcome in comparison."
He raised both brows thoughtfully and nodded. Aye, I hadn't considered such a thing, sheltered as you are by both the MacDonells and the MacKays. They love their own, cosset and dote on them. But you're still unhappy." He inhaled deeply, leaning to the side to contemplate her. "So you left something bad behind you. What if it followed you? Did you think for a moment that I don't want your trouble? Why do you bring it to me?"
Deidra opened her mouth in protest, then snapped it shut. She supposed he had a point, and that had not occurred to her. "He didn't see me leave. I escaped without anyone's knowledge. Besides, he's after a witch...and you're obviously not one.
Stephen nodded. "You're the animal whisperer, aye? I remember that."
Deidra grimaced. "Not anymore. I stopped talking to them over a decade ago. Unfortunately, they haven't stopped talking to me."
"So the animals still talk...you just stopped listening."
"That's right."
He studied her. "Interesting."
Deidra shrugged. "Not really."
"Clearly, someone back home finds it fascinating. They know you're still a witch and will not let it go."
He was pretty sharp for a sot. She continued to reevaluate whether or not he was actually drunk, but he kept pouring the whisky down his throat and slurring his words. It was very confusing.
His gaze narrowed. "But why a baobhan sith? What can a blood witch do for you?"
Deidra smiled without humor. "You'll never know, will you, since you know nothing about them."
He smiled back, but his was full of mirth. "That's not entirely accurate, sweeting. I said I'd never heard of a baobhan sith, but once you explained what one was, I realized that of course I knew of them. I'd just heard them called other names."
"Really." Deidra's lips flattened. She felt strangely irritated that he was not ignorant of blood witches. "Such as?"
"On the Continent they are called strigoi. They are witches who died and came back to drink the blood of their families. Then there are the deargdul and deamhain flhola in Eire. Bloodsuckers both, but not terribly threatening, since a pile of stones atop their grave keeps them put." He shrugged as if bored by the subject. "And there are other names and stories." He rubbed his fingers over the stubble beneath his lips. "But I had not heard of a baobhan sith before today. So...you believe these stories, aye?"
Deidra hesitated. "I believe the story of the baobhan sith. Of these other creatures you tell of...the red thing and whatnot... well, I know nothing of them and cannot say one way or the other."
He kept rubbing at his lips, but she could see it was more to hide his smile than aught else. "But you have some proof of your bloodsucker, aye? Pray tell, if it pleases you."
She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. "What care you? You've already made up your mind that I am foolish and empty-headed."
His hand dropped and his eyebrows flew up in astonishment. "What?"
"Aye, I am no addlepate. I can see your smirk."
"I am not smirking." He recomposed his face to grave seriousness. "I do not think you are foolish and empty-headed. You are clearly a thoughtful and intelligent woman. And I vow that I am truly, deeply curious about your quest."
She didn't believe him. At least not entirely. She didn't think he cared one whit about baobhan siths or any other form of blood witch. However, he had to be rather lonely, sitting in his big room, drinking himself into a stupor and comforting himself with whores. She supposed he wasn't quite ready to lose her company. And for some reason, she felt reluctant to retire just yet.
"Very well." She sighed dramatically, as if it were much more trouble than it actually was. "I know because my uncle Drake met a baobhan sith."
Stephen frowned dubiously at her. "Drake, you say? I know Drake."
"It is true. He did."
Stephen's frown deepened. "Tell me."
"You remember his wife, Ceara?" He nodded gravely.
"She was very ill...like your back." Deidra lowered her eyes, unable to hold his gaze when speaking of his injury. She remembered how bitter Stephen had become when neither her father nor Rose had been able to heal his back. It had been a caustic dram to swallow. After all, that's what the MacKays did. They healed with magic, and yet they'd done naught for him. It was sometimes that way. They could heal many things, but not everything. Preexisting conditions, such as a ruined back that had already mended incorrectly---such a thing could not be undone because it had already healed.
The fact that it had healed wrong didn't make it any less healed.
"I seem to remember Ceara being ill, not a cripple."
Deidra glanced up. "No, she wasn't cripple, but still, there are ailments that are similar in the fact they cannot be healed. My father and Rose were able to help her temporarily, but it always returned. We suspected witchcraft but could find no evidence of that, even with Aunt Isobel and Aunt Gillian's help." She shook her head. "My parents did all they could. They healed her over and over...She is the reason they are both completely white haired. She was killing them. Finally, oneday, she told them to stop."
Stephen nodded thoughtfully but did not respond.
"There is a story about how the MacKays got their magic. My great-great-great-grandsire made a pact with a blood witch. Uncle Drake thought maybe he could make a pact with a blood witch, just like our ancestor did." She shrugged. "But I guess it didn't work out, because Ceara died anyway and Uncle Drake has shut himself up in Creaghaven for years...just like you. People say you're a baobhan sith, because you close yourself up here. No one sees you...stories circulate..." She gave him a sheepish smile. "Braighde Pele is on my way to Creaghaven...so I thought I'd try."
He smiled back, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sorry to disappoint. But I am just a man, and not even a whole one at that. If I were a baobhan sith, you wished to make a pact with me?"
"I thought if the baobhan sith can give magic, mayhap it can take it away."
"And your uncle's failure tells you nothing? Such as maybe there is no such thing as a baobhan sith? Or if there is, she doesn't grant wishes?"
Deidra's lips thinned mutinously.
"Why not go to your uncle? Find out what his experience with the blood witch was?"
"Well, that is what I plan to do tomorrow."
He propped his chin on his fist. "Well, I am glad for your mistake. Had you chosen another route, I would not have had the pleasure of your company this evening."
Deidra tried to take a drink of mulled ale to hide the trembling of her lips, but her throat closed up and she coughed and sputtered. At the moment, she was glad, too.
This was the Stephen Ross she remembered. The handsome charmer she'd been completely enamored of as a child. She found that she was not as immune as she had assumed she would be. She had a terrible time speaking to most men, but something about this evening, or about Stephen, had made it easy for her to talk.
Until now. Her tongue knotted up again.
She reminded herself that he was doing nothing more than making do with what he had available to him tonight. And now he was being flirtatious and charming in hopes that she would finish out the night giving him for sweet words what he would have paid coin for otherwise.
It was rather insulting when she considered it logically.
She found her tongue again. She set her tankard down and stood. "Thank you for your hospitality, but I must start out early in the morning."
He contemplated her from his seated position. His expression was enigmatic, strange, as if he found her the puzzling one. She squeezed her hands together to stop herself from wringing them. She wanted to say something but felt it was better for her to leave it at that. He must understand what she meant. She had made it clear that she was not here for his amusement.
After a long moment he braced his hands on the arms of his chair. His face set into hard, uncompromising lines. Then he hauled himself up. The muscles stood out on his arms and his jaw grew rigid.
He was even more formidable standing than he had been sitting. He stood nearly a head taller than her and twice as wide in breadth. His shirt still hung open, giving her an eyeful of tense, hard muscle. She swallowed and quickly averted her eyes to stop herself from staring.
When he stood, he let out the breath He'd apparently been holding. "I'll show you to your room."
He limped across the room. Deidra hesitated, then followed.
Outside his chambers, he led her down a corridor to a flight of steps. A lantern sat in a deep depression in the wall, giving them a dim, wavering light to see by. A rope banister was bolted into the stones. He took the stairs a bit slower, but still, Deidra was impressed with his mobility.
"You get along quite well," she commented. "I'd imagined you bedridden or some such, not nearly so...mobile." And muscular. In her experience, cripples were often wizened and weak. Stephen looked quite robust.
Aye, I suppose, for half a man."
Bitterness edged his voice as he gripped the rope railing. She understood why muscle layered his arms and chest. He used his upper body to compensate for the weakness in his lower limbs.
At the top of the stairs he paused, palm pressed against the wall. Deidra reined in the urge to place her hand on his back and ask if he needed her help. He wouldn't want it, she knew that.
He recovered quickly and led her to a door at the end of the corridor. He pushed it open, then stood aside so she could enter.
It was a huge chamber. The enormous bed was the centerpiece, draped with silk curtains. Her eyes slid past the bed to seek out the windows. There were two, and the shutters were open, allowing the cool breeze in.
"Will this be adequate?" he asked.
She turned toward him, nodding. "Oh, aye. Its very nice. If I don't see you in the morning, I wish to give my thanks again, and to wish you well."
He inclined his head. When he stood like that, tall and straight, it was hard to believe he was crippled, but then he turned and limped toward the door.
"Good night, Deidra." He didn't look back as he shut the door behind him.
As soon as he was gone, she rushed to the windows and closed the shutters up tight. The room was practically perfect. She turned a circle, pleased she was up so high. This was how her room was back home. She sometimes had problems with birds, but for the most part the height kept away any beasts that thought to trouble her.
She collapsed on the bed and closed her eyes. Tomorrow, it was off to see her uncle. She hadn't seen him in years and wasn't relishing the confrontation. She didn't know what she would say to him and couldn't imagine how he would react.
She was discouraged by her meeting with Stephen, but she reminded herself that his being a blood witch was nothing more than a rumor. The information she had on her uncle was more solid, as he had actually seen and spoken to a blood witch.
Still, it was difficult to sustain real disappointment. Somehow, her evening with Stephen had left her with a pleasant warmth, as if she had finally met someone who had somehow managed to see past the animal whisper to the woman beneath.
Stephen returned to his drawing room, but didn't sit. Lounging in front of the fire with a bottle of whisky no longer held the same appeal as it had just a few hours earlier. He imagined Deidra in his tower room. Her slight, feminine body, the wild, wonderful curls, her large, clear blue eyes. He'd seen many beautiful women in his life, and she wasn't one of them. She was not homely---far from it---but she was not a beauty either. She was intriguing, adorable, delightful. She would leave in the morning, possibly before he was even out of bed, and he would not see her again. Maybe never.
That was unacceptable.
She had come to him, sought help from him, and now he regarded her with a sense of ownership and responsibility. Logically, he knew she was not his responsibility and would never be his in any manner. But it didn't diminish the feeling.
Deidra MacKay had barged in and disrupted his uncomfortable but routine life. It was not a particularly happy life, but he managed. The monotony of it had lulled him into a sensation of being carried on a sea of inevitability, of fate. But not anymore. Deidra the animal charmer had swept the cobwebs from his eyes and revealed how empty his life really was.
He thought about the task she'd set for herself. Finding a baobhan sith. Upon initial examination it seemed absurd. But when he considered the matter more closely, it was not at all foolish. One would assume the stories of blood witches were naught but tales told to frighten children, but Stephen knew better. He had seen magic in his lifetime, in both his own family and his friends'. He'd grown up surrounded by witchcraft and magic, and it had never touched him. He'd remained immune.
And he was sick to death of it. If there was such a thing as a baobhan sith and there were pacts to be made, by God he wanted his share of the magic for once. He was weary of being a cripple, weary of the pain. Even now it dug and twisted in his back, like a stake rammed deep. For years he'd feared they'd somehow left the bullet deep in his spine, but both Rose and William MacKay had assured him there was no bullet in there---merely a spine that had healed crooked, causing him to suffer endless agony.
He snagged the neck of the whisky bottle and took several long swallows. It did little to dull the pain these days. He might be forced to resume taking the poppy juice. He hated the poppy juice---or, more aptly, he hated himself when taking it. The whisky didn't do him any favors either, but at least he could think straight when imbibing. When he took the poppy juice, he was not himself. His thoughts scattered and grew muddied. Sometimes he would write things, and when he read them later, they were senseless babblings.
He took the whisky to his bedchamber and called for a servant to ready him for bed. He could dress and groom himself, but a woman came in each night to work his back hard with her fingers and fists. It was blissful agony, exhausting him, but eventually it lessened the pain and usually helped him sleep.
Tonight it just hurt. Her hands were sharp little rocks, digging into his muscles and making the pain worse rather than better.
"Stop!" he finally bellowed, frightening her so that she backed away, hands clasped under her chin.
She was a big woman, with strong hands and arms, but she had an odd, feminine wilting-flower disposition completely at odds with her stout physique.
"I'm so sorry, sir. What did I do wrong?"
He slumped back onto the bed and buried his head in his forearms. "Nothing---just leave me."
He heard her scurry out of the room. He lay motionless on the bed, face pressed into his arms. The whisky dragged at him, pulling him down. He fought at the oblivion tonight. If he gave in to it, he would not wake early.
He pushed himself off the bed, teeth grinding, back screaming. He gathered some personal items, some poppy juice and whisky, then thought that perhaps he might need food, too. In the kitchen he wrapped bannocks in a napkin and tossed in dried meat and apples. He wrote a short missive and addressed it to Rose at Strathwick.
He went to the stables. There he told the groom he would be leaving in the morning and asked him to inform the steward. Before the boy left, Stephen gave the groom the letter to Rose, then sent him to sleep elsewhere. Stephen found a soft pile of hay, rolled up in a blanket, jammed another rolled-up blanket behind his back, and waited for the throbbing in his back to subside. It did, incrementally.
The groom would tell everyone how their master eschewed his grand soft bed to sleep in the stables, and they would all think. He'd finally gone over the edge. Stephen didn't particularly care. This was the only way he could be certain she wouldn't leave without him.
Judging by her response to him that evening, she would not want his company. Too bad for her. She would get it anyway. He might be crippled, but he was not an invalid. He could function quite well through the pain. Sometimes he was useless the next day, but that would likely work to his advantage as well. She was a compassionate sort and would not leave him to suffer.
He finally drifted off to sleep. It didn't seem as if he'd been asleep long when a soft voice drew him from his slumber. The dim stable swam in and out of his vision, and his stomach lurched. His back had locked into position. There would never be any jumping out of bed in the mornings for Stephen Ross. During sleep, his back tended to freeze. The next morning, getting out of bed was a nightmare. But it was a nightmare he'd grown accustomed to. There had been a time when he'd toyed with the idea of actually becoming an invalid. Putting himself through the misery of moving every single morning for the rest of his life had been almost too much to bear. But in truth, the longer he didn't move his back, the worse the pain grew. Daily activity, along with the rubs and exercise, had minimized the pain as much as possible. That and liberal doses of alcohol. He supposed the human body wasn't much different from any tool---regular use and the application of a lubricant kept it functional.
His stomach still heaved, and his head felt thick and foggy. He only hoped he didn't need to bock. It would be quite unpleasant, since he wouldn't be rising from the hay anytime soon. Lying in his own vomit was not an experience he enjoyed.
He lay still, listening to the voice, willing his mind and body to calm.
"Leave me alone." The words were ground out softly, steel girding every word. "You have a groom to tend you and besides, I don't care!"
A horse blew and stomped a hoof.
Was she leaving already? Stephen lay helpless, and slightly panicked, wondering if he could force himself out of the hay before she left. He was reluctant to begin thrashing about or call for help. He knew she already saw him for what he was---a cripple---but there was no need to rub his ailment in her face. He did have some dignity.
"Be silent!" she hissed.
Stephen could only imagine that she was speaking to the horses, since he had not said a word, nor had he heard anyone else in the stable. Her voice had taken on a hysterical edge, so he decided it was time to lighten the mood.
"Forgive me," he said. "I must have been talking in my sleep."
He heard a frantic scrambling, then she shrieked. "Who's there?"
"It's just me."
"Where? Where are you?"
"Over here in the hay, trying to get some sleep...and not having much luck with all the arguing."
She came into view, legs apart, hands on hips. "You've been spying on me."
Stephen's head was beginning to clear.
His stomach had finally settled. He shifted, getting an arm beneath him. His back gripped and he decided that was far enough for the moment.
"Hardly. I was here first, and I was asleep until you came in."
She scowled down at him. She had cleaned up since He'd seen her earlier. Her clean, scrubbed face was porcelain smooth, her cheeks pink with emotion. Her wild curls had been somewhat tamed and hung to her shoulders in soft corkscrews. Still, a few pieces of hay stuck in her curls, making her look as if she'd just had a tumble. His groin tightened at the sudden image of her in the hay, beneath him.
"I thought you didn't talk to animals anymore!"' he said.
"And I thought rich men slept in beds."
He smiled. "I suppose we both have some explaining to do, eh?"
"Humph." The sound was very derogatory.
In the hopes of encouraging her to talk to him, he decided to be honest with her.
"I came out here to sleep because I didn't want you to leave before I woke."
She blinked and took a step back. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"
"Well...I thought you might need some company on your journey---a companion. After all, you're a woman alone, and such an undertaking isn't safe."
She folded her arms over her chest and leaned back slightly, brows raised. "And you think you can protect me?"
He was accustomed to such insults. Nevertheless, coming from her, it still stung. But just a twinge.
"Well, aye. I may be crippled, but I'm not an invalid. I can travel and I can protect you."
She shook her head. "No, I don't need some rich man and his entourage. It will frighten the blood witch. And as a witch myself, I don't travel with anyone I am not sure of. I don't know your people."
"As you wish. They will remain behind." That would be inconvenient, but he really hadn't expected anything else. "You can trust me." "I don't know you."
"Aye, you do. I remember you when you were but a wee thing, talking to dogs and rats and whatnot. And your family, they know me and trust me. The MacDonells, they love me. Sir Philip is like a brother to me. My uncle is an earl. Really, need you better reference than that?"
Her mouth curved into a smirk. "That was before."
"Before what?"
"Before you squirreled yourself away on your estate, hiding so that everyone believes you to be a baobhan sith. No one really knows you anymore."
He didn't like her answer...mostly because there was some truth to it. Not much, but mayhap a wee bit. "I still see family and friends. And I write to them frequently." His back had relaxed, so he chanced pushing himself up farther. It locked again, but he was sitting now. He fought to keep the pain from showing on his face. He didn't think he was entirely successful. She was canny, and he noted that she studied his expression closely.
"Why do you really want to come with me?"
"Your family would cripple me for good if they knew I let you set off on your own."
She shook her head. "No. I don't believe you really care about me or them."
Now Stephen was taken aback. "There's where you're wrong, lassie. I care whether you come to harm and I care very much about Rose and William."
"You hate my parents."
Her words brought him up short. Pain knifed through him from the sudden movement, but he ignored it. "From whence did you get such a notion? Surely not from them."
She shook back her curls with a superior air. Hay fluttered to her shoulders. "You are bitter and angry that they could not heal you. So much magic and yet none for you."
His brow lowered. He had felt that way, but it hadn't mattered then and it didn't matter now. He was past that. Some things ran stronger and truer---and he knew that if Rose or William could have healed him, they would have. Just as they had aged themselves prematurely trying to heal Ceara.
No, he did not blame them. This was his lot. He'd been an outsider even in his own family. The bastard son of a bastard who'd died ignominiously, it was inevitable, he supposed, that his own life would end in a similar manner. The sins of the father's and all that. At least his father had had the decency to die well.
"You have some strange thoughts, lass. I hold no grudge against your family. I love Rose like a sister, and William the same."
Her aims dropped to her sides and lines creased her forehead, but she didn't appear entirely convinced. "Then why? Why would you undertake such a journey?"
Stephen sighed. "For the same reason you do."
She frowned. "To get rid of magic?"
"Not the exact same reason. I want something. If there is such a thing as a baobhan sith, then I want some of the magic too."
"But the blood witch didn't cure Ceara."
"Ceara was ill, not cripple." He shrugged. "At least I can come with you to
Creaghaven and see what Drake has to say about it."
Deidra considered him, her head tilted to the side. "You're sure you can sit a horse?"
"Oh, aye---for hours," he lied.
She chewed her bottom lip, contemplating the hay-scattered floor. Finally, she sighed. "Very well. You may come. But if you cannot keep up"---she pointed a threatening finger at him---"then I will leave you behind."
He snorted, standing with as much dignity as he could muster. He was pleased that he had convinced her, but that didn't mean he fancied the manner in which she spoke to him. He could hold his own. She would see. He might need some whisky and a wee bit of poppy juice to manage it, but she would eat her words before their journey was over.
Chapter 3
Already he slowed her down and they hadn't even left Braighde Pele. She should never have agreed to let him accompany her. She'd made a huge mistake. She berated herself as Stephen limped back into his castle, insisting they eat an enormous breakfast before they set off. She gritted her teeth and agreed, acquiescing only because it might be some time before they ate such a hearty meal again. Finally, as the sun rose, they mounted up and set off. It was good weather for travel. In May, the weather was warm and the trees were brilliant---every shade of green and white and yellow blossoms blooming over trees and shrubs.
Deidra watched Stephen warily from the comer of her eye. He had limped from the castle to the stables, insisting on carrying all his own gear, but now that he was mounted, he moved as naturally as anyone else. Perhaps this wouldn't be as terrible as she'd feared. That is, if it hadn't been for the irritating beast he rode.
The horse was insistent. It was an unusually intelligent beast and sensed that she was different. It continued to query her tirelessly, becoming agitated as she ignored it, blowing and shaking its head with frustration. Just like all animals, this one wanted something. Something about another horse, but Deidra understood nothing else as she blocked it out.
Stephen frowned down at the horse as it pranced. He gripped the reins tightly. "What's the matter with her?" he murmured.
"How should I know?" Deidra snapped. She worried that the horse would toss Stephen off and she would be forced to somehow get him home not just crippled but unable to even walk.
Stephen raised a brow at her. "I was talking to the horse, lass."
A dog barked in the distance. The morning was cool and foggy; the air was thick and damp. A gossamer layer of sparkling dew covered Stephen's blond hair.
He frowned, turning his head as if to look over his shoulder, but his range of motion was limited. The barking gradually grew louder.
"Damn!" he said under his breath.
Before Deidra could ask what he swore about, a small black bear burst from the underbrush. It bounded around Stephen's horse, barking and whining. Not a bear, but a dog. Black and huge and shaggy, its breed was unidentifiable.
"Och---down, Duke, down! You'll spook Countess!"
The dog continued to bark and bounce hysterically. Its excitement at discovering its master was palpable to anyone, she imagined, but she could feel more from it. It had a reason to be deliriously happy. Duke had thought Stephen was leaving never to return and now they were reunited. She felt a pang of sympathy for the dog, then angrily shoved it away. She was usually better at blocking the animals, but the infernal horse refused to leave her alone.
"Duke? Countess?" she snorted. "What did you name your cat? Princess?"
He scowled at her but didn't answer.
She let out a surprised laugh. "You did, didn't you?"
Stephen ignored her. "Go home, Duke!" He held his arm out straight, pointing back in the direction they had come from. "Go home!"
Duke ignored his commands and continued to dance ecstatically around the horse.
"Why won't he listen?" Stephen stared at the dog with consternation, then shifted his gaze to Deidra. "And you won't do me the quick favor of sending my dog home?"
Deidra returned his stare levelly. "I told you, I don't do that anymore."
He cocked his head slightly. "That's not true. You spoke to Countess last night."
Her jaw tightened and her gaze narrowed. "No, I did not."
"You did. I heard you." He considered her, lips pursed. "You hear the animals, you just don't respond. Interesting. How does it feel, running from what you are?"
"At least I can run." As soon as the words passed her tongue, shame flooded her, but she bit it back.
His brows shot up, but rather than become angry at her barb he appeared impressed. "Well, I guess if you can run, then you should, aye? I cannot argue with that."
She thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn't. "What if," he said, hand out and a shoulder raised, "your father's beloved dog was on its deathbed. You are the only one who can save it by communicating with it."
Deidra shook her head. "That would never happen. My father could heal it."
"What if he couldn't? What if it was some ailment beyond him---like your uncle's wife?"
She shrugged. "Then there is nothing I could do. We knew all of Ceara's symptoms and it did us no good. There was nothing she could tell us that could help us to help her."
His brow lowered. "AH right. Let us just pretend that your father cannot heal. The same situation."
"I cannot imagine such a thing."
He gave her a tight smile of strained patience. "Try. It's called pretending. You don't know how to imagine or pretend? I know you were a little girl once---I saw you."
Deidra rolled her eyes. "Why would I want to pretend? What foolishness. This is my life. There is no point in pretending it's not."
He shook his head at her, as if she were some odd creature he'd never encountered before.
She let out an exasperated breath. "Oh, very well. If such a thing was to happen, and my father had no healing magic, I still would not speak to the dog."
"But it's your father's beloved dog! He will mourn it dreadfully. It would cause him deep, deep unhappiness. And you have the power to prevent that, to bring him joy."
It was a simplistic argument and she shook her head at him, disappointed he thought she would cave to sentimentality. "Everything dies. That is a fact of life. Even my father can't keep a person alive forever. Magic can't subvert God's will. It is around us, always. It is the spider that traps and eats the fly, the kine that eats the grass---and you then butcher and eat the kine. That is life. It is not for me to meddle with and change. I am a witch. I would be changing the natural course of events. If the dog is meant to die, it will die. Anything else would be the devils work."
He didn't even blink. Duke had calmed somewhat and now kept pace with them, stopping occasionally to sniff at things on the ground.
"I never thought to hear such a speech from a member of the MacKay clan. Do you also believe that it is good and right to burn a witch? God's work?"
"No, I never said that."
"So you believe that your father and Rose do God's work."
She hesitated, then nodded.
"But you hold yourself to a different standard."
"Because I am not the same as my father and Rose. They do good work. They heal the sick. That is Christ's gift."
He shifted in his saddle, his forehead creasing with discomfort. "What about the MacDonells? Isobel can see into people's minds. Gillian speaks with the dead."
"That's different. Gillian speaks to lost souls and directs them to the light. Isobel's visions bring families together and help others to find objects lost to them."
"But the dead are dead and the lost are lost. Isn't that God's will as well?"
"You speak nonsense!"' Deidra said, cross with him. He confused her and made her belly uneasy. His arguments were too logical. She knew she was right.
Why else did Luthias Forsyth plague her so and yet leave the rest of her family alone? He believed he did God's work and had deemed her evil.
Stephen looked skyward and rubbed the underside of his chin thoughtfully. "I seem to remember a Bible passage---Numbers, is it? In which an angel speaks to a donkey and it speaks back. So the conclusion I would draw from that is that angels are the ones who speak to beasts, not mere humans and certainly not demons."
"When beasts speak, they are possessed by devils." Saying it out loud, it sounded absurd. She didn't believe Countess was a demon. Intelligent, mayhap, but not maleficent.
"Huh." Stephen gripped the saddle horn with both gloved hands but said nothing else.
As the silence drew out, Deidra's shoulders drew up tight. She didn't like talking about the animals. It made her uncomfortable. It brought Luthias Forsyth near, as if just speaking of it conjured him and now he was on her heels, following her. Reminding her that one slip, one single misstep, and he would be there to catch her.
Stephen's silence felt like a judgment, but how he judged her was a mystery. He didn't agree with her, but why? It pressed at her chest, the wanting to know. She slid him side glances, hoping to see some sign of his thoughts in his eyes or expression.
He pondered something as he gazed off in the distance, his eyes as pale blue as a clear Highland sky. His body rocked gently in time with Countess's walk. Deidra saw him then as he truly was---a man, whole and strong, not bacach.
And he was a fine one. Broad and strong, fine of feature. His nose was straight, his mouth full and wide, made for smiling. She remembered his smile, too. She'd received it a few times since she'd arrived at Braighde Pele. He would have had dozens of bastards if he'd been a whole man. He might have them yet. She wondered if his back kept him from lying with women
As if sensing her intense scrutiny, he turned his head and caught her stare.
Her cheeks blazed and she quickly looked away---then turned back, the words bursting out of her, unbidden. "What? You think me faithless to my family for holding such beliefs? Faithless to my true self?"
After a moment he nodded. Aye, I do. But more than that, I wonder who put such words in your mouth. They sound nothing like William or Rose, and they certainly do not sound like you."
"They are God's words, given to me by God's messenger."
"God's messenger!" Stephen covered his mouth, his eyes wide with shock, "Here? On earth? And who might that be?"
Deidra's eyes narrowed at his mocking. "God's messengers here on earth are pastors, reverends, the like, you addlepate."
"Oh." He let out a huge sigh of relief, then grinned at her sour look. "So you were told this by a pastor. No doubt a witch-hunting one."
Aye," She sighed deeply. "He sees the evil in me."
A witch hunter sees evil in a wean who crawls by kine if it stops giving milk. That's what they do. They hunt witches---that's why they're called witch hunters. And they wouldn't be very good at their chosen occupation if they never found any, so they see witchcraft in everything."
She shook her head. "No. This man is different. He has witnessed my father and Rose heal and knows it is the work of God. He does not want to bum them. And he has spared me for so long out of some odd courtesy to them. But he knows I am different. That I am not good as they are."
Stephen sighed and frowned at her. "You are wrong, lass. But I can see you're deaf to sense, so I'll not waste any more breath trying to convince you."
That stung. It didn't matter that he was right; he couldn't convince her, and the more he tried, the more she would argue her case. What bothered her was his lack of interest in trying. He didn't really care, not if he would give up so easily.
She closed her eyes and shook the foolish notion from her head. Why should he care? She didn't care about him! Again she regretted her foolish decision to allow him to join her. Not only would he slow her down but now he was making this journey miserable with his tiresome conversation.
She decided that she wouldn't listen to any more of it. She would shut him out as surely as she shut the animals out.
Stephen longed to stop for the night, but he refused to suggest it. He knew what Deidra thought. He was dead weight, slowing her down. And she was right. Fortunately he didn't particularly care what she thought. Still, he was determined to prove her wrong, which meant she would be the one to decide when to stop for rest and sleep.
Unfortunately, she had stopped talking to him. He must have annoyed her by telling her she was not evil and now she looked anywhere but at him, her mouth a thin line.
He prayed she would decide to stop soon and not make him break the silence. His back screamed. His belly cramped. The agony made him queasy, and he had nothing but whisky in his belly to boch. He had been dosing himself liberally from a leather flask He'd brought, but it was not helping.
Duke wasn't doing well either. At first he had run ahead, diving in bushes and chasing birds. But now he walked behind them, tail sagging and tongue lolling.
Stephen noticed that as the sun sank, Deidra's shoulders drew up tighter. Her gaze scanned the barren landscape around them, eyes wide and wild. It dawned on him with sudden sickening horror that she was not going to stop. She feared something, and if he didn't find out what, they might ride all night. The thought made him light-headed. He gripped the saddle horn hard, willing the nausea to pass.
"Deidra? Is something amiss?"
"No," she said too quickly, pushing curls off her forehead. They fell right back.
"The horses are tired. Perhaps we should stop for the night."
Her gaze darted around nervously. "I want to find a cottar...a shielding...something."
They hadn't passed a cottage in miles, and though it had been years since Stephen had ventured this far from home and even longer since he'd been this far north, he still recalled it being sparsely populated. In fact, he was relatively certain they had little chance of passing a cottage in the next couple of hours. He wanted to sprawl over his horse's neck with fatigue and disbelief, but his back would never allow such an extravagant range of movement.
He cleared his throat. "I think that's unlikely, Deidra."
She gave him a sharp look. "Why do you say that?"
"Because there isn't much out here. We haven't passed anything in hours."
"That only means that we're due to come across one." She desperately scanned the gloaming, her voice growing shrill.
She knew better than that. It meant nothing of the sort. Stephen frowned at her. There was something here he was missing. There was a reason the idea of stopping without a shelter made her so anxious.
"No, that's not what it means. A man could travel for days out here without seeing a soul."
Her mouth flattened. "There are things out here."
What things? Understanding dawned. She didn't want to sleep out in the open where anything could get at her. She claimed to ignore the animals, but she couldn't, at least not all of the time. She must be vulnerable when she slept---that was what had brought her to the stable last night. Countess shook her mane and snorted, eyes rolling toward Deidra. Deidra pointedly looked away.
He would wager his last drop of whisky that she didn't want to sleep anywhere near the horses. Things were suddenly much clearer and even more dire than he'd feared. Would they ride all night if they didn't find shelter? Stephen didn't think his back could bear it.
"Deidra, we have to stop."
She didn't respond; instead, her head turned, eyes scanning the horizon, skin pulled tight over cheekbones.
"Deidra, listen to me. We cannot just ride all night. The horses must rest. Duke is exhausted. We must rest."
She swung toward him, eyes wild, lips thinned. "No! I didn't invite your dog along. You are the one who must rest. I could ride all night." Hysteria edged her voice. Her chest heaved as she sucked in deep breaths.
"Peace. Just stop for a moment. Not for the night."
Her jaw hardened and he thought she might refuse. Then her shoulders sagged as if she could no longer hold up under the weight of this cross she bore. She drew rein. "Very well."
Stephen didn't relish dismounting in front of her, but there was nothing for it. He'd known the cost when he'd decided to make this journey.
He pressed the ball of his foot into the right stirrup. Pain lanced up his thigh, stabbing at the base of his spine. His mouth went dry and he couldn't swallow. He forced his left leg to swing over the horse's back. Pain slashed through him, shoving every other thought from his mind, removing shame and pride. His fingers curled into the saddle and he clung to it, hanging on so he didn't crumple to the ground. He pressed his face into the horse's withers. Sparks of light danced behind his eyelids. He couldn't move, couldn't breath, couldn't see.
Vaguely, in the distance, he heard a voice speaking his name. Hands touched his waist, urging him to the ground.
"No," he ground out into a mouthful of sweaty horse hair.
"Let go." Her voice was firm and her fingers wrapped around his, trying to pry them from the saddle.
He didn't feel like fighting. He released his grip and sagged backward. She grunted, catching his weight and keeping him from falling. She lowered him to the ground.
"A blanket," he gasped.
She scurried away. Soft whining and a wet nose pressed to his ear. Duke. He licked Stephen anxiously.
"Shoo---go away!"' Deidra said, returning a second later with Stephen's rolled-up blanket, Duke whined plaintively, but the wet tongue disappeared,
"Inside!"' he gasped, "there is a bottle."
His eyes squeezed shut, so he didn't see what she did. He couldn't hear much either over the pain screaming through him and his heart thudding in his ears. Every rock on the ground dug into his side. His back locked rigid with pain, breaking and twisting.
"I have it," she said.
"I need to drink some."
The smooth, cool lip of the bottle pressed against his lips. Thick, bitter liquid dribbled over his tongue and down his throat. He drank it greedily, then choked and fell into a coughing fit that nearly made him faint.
He heard Deidra's voice over him as if from a distance, tight and angry. "Damn you, Stephen Ross---you knew this would happen!" She still held him. She sat on the ground, one leg stretched out, his back resting on her thigh, her arm around his shoulders. He let his head fall against her shoulder. Soft curls pressed to his forehead. It soothed him, her arms, the soft texture of her hair, her breathing as her chest rose and fell.
Slowly, he began to feel his back again. At some point it had ceased to be an individual body part and had just been a screaming ball of knotted muscles. It still hurt like hell, but he could feel it: a spine lined with muscle, hips and buttocks. All accounted for and in agony.
She still harangued him angrily, but he found it comforting.
"I knew you would slow me down, but I let you talk me into this foolishness and now you cannot even move."
Stephen cleared his throat. "Calm yourself. And I will be able to ride just fine tomorrow."
She gave a short, sarcastic laugh of disbelief.
Aye, I told you, I'm crippled, not invalid. However, I cannot keep abusing my back all day and night without resting it for a tic, aye? So let's stay here tonight."
Her body stiffened, but she didn't say a word. She had to know they couldn't move, not in his current condition. If he'd been with someone else he might have cursed his injury, but the way he saw it, his current pain was her fault. Even she couldn't be immune to the effects of their day in the saddle. She just hid it better.
The poppy juice worked it's magic, making him loose and languid. "You ken," he said, "had you allowed me to bring servants, we would have had tents and camp beds and hot food. And tonight I'd have a woman to massage liniment into my back. But no, you cannot have anyone else along. Now see what happened?"
"You're blaming this on me!" She yanked out from beneath him, and his head slapped the ground. Pain jarred through him. He grunted and cursed.
"I can't believe you are trying to put the blame on me!"
"It was a jest, lass---a jest."
"No, it wasn't. Aye, you're right---we would have had all of that. And I am sorry, but if you need all of that you shouldn't have come along. You should have stayed in your castle where you would be safe and fed and pampered."
He lay on his back, staring at the stars piercing the sky. "Everyone needs to rest, lass. Even you."
She sniffed. "I'm fine. I could have ridden on for days."
Stephen shook his head slowly, a small smile pulling at his lips. She was stubborn. The poppy juice didn't make the pain disappear, but it made it easier to bear. Waves of lethargy swept over him. Duke belly-crawled to Stephen's side and lay his head on Stephen's thigh. Stephen rested a hand on the dog's head. He started to drift off to sleep when a small, cool hand slid beneath his neck. A folded blanket slipped beneath it to pillow his head.
He opened his eyes. Deidra leaned over him, her smooth skin smudged with road dust. "Would it help if I rubbed the liniment into your back?" she asked softly, blue eyes wide and anxious.
Her question stunned him. That was the last thing He'd expected her to offer. Was this some sort of poppy-induced hallucination? He'd had a few of those before, and they had prompted him to stop taking it.
Whatever it was, reality or fantasy, he meant to play along. He found his tongue quickly enough.
"Aye, that would be of great help in getting us on our way quicker in the morning."
She gave him a brisk nod. "Where is the liniment?"
He told her where she could find it. When she returned, she stood over him, staring down.
"You need to roll over, don't you?"
He grinned. "After you help me remove my shirt."
Her eyes narrowed, as if evaluating whether he was capable of lechery. Apparently deciding she had no choice, she shooed Duke away again and dropped to her knees where she set to work unhooking his leather jack. He helped her pull it off his arms, then she went to work untying the bottom laces of his shirt.
"There," she said, sitting back on her heels. "Now you can just push it up in the back."
He hid his smile by struggling to roll onto his stomach. He rested his head on his bent arm. She pushed his shirt up and gasped. He didn't have to look at her face to know what she viewed with horror.
"Did it hurt?" she asked in a hushed voice. Before he could answer, she answered herself. "What am I asking? Of course it hurt."
Her fingers touched the healed but mangled skin gently, tracing over the ragged edges of the scar. He shuddered with intense pain-pleasure, and she drew her touch away. The strong medicinal scent of the liniment tingled the inside of his nose. Her fingers, gloved in the greasy cream, dug into his back. He bit back a grunt of pain and squeezed his eyes shut. It always hurt at first. Her fingers worked at his knotted muscles, pressing and kneading, forcing the muscles to loosen.
She started to use her fists. His teeth bit into his bottom lip until he tasted blood. She was stronger than she looked. He imagined her in his mind, working at his back, sleek, slender muscles standing out on her arms, mouth grim, curls damp and clinging to the sides of her fine-boned face. She was beautiful, exotic, strange. He decided he wanted her, to taste and feel her. It had seemed a rather unlikely proposition at first, but here she was massaging his back. She was unpredictable.
Her hand rested on his hip. "Roll onto your side." She sounded out of breath.
He realized he was aroused, and he hesitated but did as she bid, pushing himself onto his side. His back was definitely improved from her ministrations.
She started in on his hip. This time he couldn't suppress his cry of pain when she ground her knuckles into the tight muscles. Pain radiated from his back and down both legs, and she was attacking it right where it hurt the most.
"With hands like yours, I can't believe you're not married."
She gave a short laugh. "What man would marry a woman for her hands?"
"I would."
She laughed again, but this time it was edged with bitterness. "It's not as if you have much of a choice."
His eyes sprang open. Had she just insulted him? A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You think I can't get a worthy woman."
"Well, you are a cripple. And a bastard."
"I'm also rich and pretty."
Her fingers dug hard into the muscles of his side.
"Ouch!"
"Forgive me," she said with false humility. "Unbuckle your belt."
His heart skipped a hopeful beat. "What?"
"So I can pull down your trews and rub the thigh."
"Oh." He did as she bid. If she noticed the state of his erection, she said nothing at all. He was surprised he could be so excited, considering the amount of pain He'd been in, but he was. He wanted her quite badly.
"So," he said as she worked the muscles of his thigh. "Why aren't you married?"
"Who'd have me?"
"Lots of men. You're fetching."
She snorted but said nothing.
He twisted his neck to look at her. Her cheeks had flushed dusky in the dark. She pointedly kept her gaze on her work.
"Are you telling me no man has offered for you?"
"Who would? I'm a witch."
"The MacDonell women are all witches and they had no problem finding good men."
"Aye, well, they're beautiful," she snapped, her fingers growing rough and careless.
He considered whether he should leave her alone---she could end up really hurting him if he continued baiting her. But he decided it gave him too much pleasure to forgo,
"And so are you," he said, meaning it. The more time he spent with her, the more fetching she became. She was lovely and smart and strong, and she had a kindness to her that she tried to hide but could not deny.
Her mouth pinched tight. "I pray you---false flattery out of pity is insulting."
"Its not false. You are very bonny."
The pressure her fingers exerted lessened momentarily- "Roll to your other side," she said.
He rolled onto his back, then toward her. Instead of moving around behind him, she pushed his shirt up and his trews down on his left side and started kneading the muscles.
She was very good. Much better than the woman back at Braighde Pele. And not nearly as modest as he would have imagined. He could see many benefits to keeping her around. Of course, if she was right about the blood witch, he would have no need for a massage very soon.
He studied her face as she worked his flesh, her eyes intent, her face grave. She had huge eyes, with long, heavy lashes. They gave the illusion of softness and delicacy, when she was really anything but. As if feeling his gaze on her, those thick lashes raised, and her gaze met his.
His breath caught on the look: smoky, indefinable.
"Who ever told you that you weren't beautiful?" he asked softly.
She held his gaze for a long moment, her lips slightly parted, then she shrugged and returned her gaze to her work with a swallow that drew her neck tight. "No one."
"Then why?"
Her lips curved into a bitter smile. "No one ever told me I was, either."
"I just told you."
She rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated breath.
He grabbed her wrist. "I suppose that means nothing coming from a cripple, but I have known many beautiful women."
She stared at her wrist, enclosed in his hand. She tugged at it. She was so small and yet quite strong. But not as strong as he was. He held fast to her wrist.
Her lips thinned. "I think the massage is over."
"But this conversation isn't."
She pushed off her knees and sat on her heels, glaring poison at him. "What do you want me to say? I remember you. You are a lecher. You pour out flattery like old wash water. It is meaningless."
There was some truth to what she claimed. He was known to give extravagant flattery---but he wasn't this time.
"Why would I lie to you?" he asked, his grip on her wrist tightening. "What would be my purpose?"
She yanked on her arm, but rather than loosing his hold, it set her off balance and she fell to her knee. "I know not---mayhap you mean to flatter your way to more back rubs?"
He pulled on her wrist, bringing her down closer to his level. "I didn't ask you to rub my back."
She strained away, the cords of her throat standing out in panic. "Then---then you think it's some warped way of thanking me."
He arched a brow. "If I wanted to thank you, I could think of a better way."
She was so close he could smell her. Her skin, her sweat, the sweetness of apple on her breath. And lust flooded him, all at once, powerful. Her pulse thudded wildly at her throat, her eyes locked on his. She saw the change. The rate of her breathing increased.
"Let go of me." She ground the words out between clenched teeth, but her eyes were wide, the whites shining in the gloaming.
He considered letting her go. He was not the type of man to ever force himself on a woman, but she nettled him. She thought she was above him somehow. Better. And maybe she was, in a sense. She was whole. Had painless use of her body.
But she was a witch, an outcast, too. They were more alike than she cared to admit.
His other hand slid around behind her neck and drew her in. He didn't apply enough pressure to her neck to stop her from breaking away if she really wanted to. Apparently she didn't. She resisted, leaning back, but not enough to stop him or even slow him. His lips touched hers, gently at first, testing and tasting.
She exhaled softly, as if surprised, and her lips trembled. She tasted wonderful, sweet and warm. His mouth moved over hers, feather kisses. When her lips relaxed, he slid his hand to the side of her neck. The skin there was as soft as down and he rubbed at it, wallowing in the exquisite sensation. She shivered and tilted her head but still didn't pull away.
Her lips parted and he kissed her deeper. His original purpose in kissing her now eluded him. He wanted more. He wanted her body, warm against his. Skin to skin. He tried to draw her closer. She came to him at first, sweet and willing, then suddenly the muscles in her neck wired tight and she jerked backward.
He opened his eyes and looked up at her, surprised to find himself breathing hard. His body ached now---not with pain but with arousal cut short.
She stood on her knees, the back of one hand pressed against her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.
"Deidra," he said, reaching a hand toward her, his voice rough and cracking slightly.
Black curls bobbed as she shook her head, mute, throat working. She scrambled to her feet and turned away, walking rapidly until she disappeared into the darkness.
Stephen sighed, supremely irritated with himself, and sank back to the ground. Duke returned to his side and stretched out, pressing warmly against his side. Kissing her had been a huge mistake. Certainly not the first He'd made, but in such a situation as they were in, it was one of the stupider ones. He hoped she planned to return.
Deidra paced in the darkness, torn between her fear of the dark and her reluctance to return to the camp with Stephen. She kept the fire she'd built in sight and paced a wide circle around it. She didn't really understand what had happened earlier. The entire episode---his back giving out, her inexplicable offer to rub it, and the subsequent kiss---was incomprehensible to her. She didn't know what to think or do; in fact, she hadn't been able to think or reason at all. So she had run.
Putting distance between them had given her the ability to review what had happened. In retrospect, she realized that regardless of what he'd said, the only reason he had kissed her was that he'd wanted something. Not the obvious thing a man wanted from a woman. He wanted something more from her.
Crippled or not, he was a rich, handsome man, accustomed to having his way in all things. And what he currently wanted was Deidra MacKay at his service. She had made his life difficult by denying him the comforts of home---no servants, no comfortable bed, no hot food or woman to rub his back. All of it was Deidra's fault.
But she was here, able-bodied and fully capable of supplying him with the things he was accustomed to. He knew she would never do it for money, but she might do it if she was smitten. Did he really believe she was a silly girl who would lose her head over a bonny face?
The idea made her pace faster, hands on hips and mouth tight. The moon hung high above her, and a chill wind cut through the thin material of her dress. She pulled her araisad closer, turning back in the direction of camp. She wondered if He'd been able to get a blanket to protect him from the biting wind.
Her mouth drew tighter the moment the traitorous thought crossed her mind. She widened her circuit around the camp. Why was he doing this? Did he really believe there was a blood witch and that the blood witch could heal him? Or was this something else? A game because he was bored?
Well, she was not the smitten, silly fool he thought she was. At least, not entirely. So she had temporarily lost her head, but it was back now, firmly on her shoulders. The kiss had been unexpected, that was all. Never in her imaginings had she expected to feel his warm lips pressed to hers, nor had she expected them to be so soft and supple. And his hand, when it had gripped and caressed her neck, had scattered shivers down her spine. It was as if He'd found touching her irresistible. She shuddered, and her jaw locked in irritation.
It wouldn't happen again---she knew that much for certain. She knew what to expect now and would not behave with such wanton abandon. Now that she better understood what had caused her to respond in such a manner, she felt better---well, enough to return to the camp. She squared her shoulders and marched back to where she'd left him.
He had settled them into the camp, unsaddling the horses and building up the fire. Her strong stride faltered. She had expected him to still be lying on the ground where she'd left him, but he wasn't. He sat upright, eating a bannock and tossing pieces of dried meat to Duke.
She did not meet his gaze as she crossed to where he had put her things, near his. She moved them farther away.
She prepared a bed for herself using a thick wool blanket and a leather satchel for a pillow. She could see him out of the comer of her eye, watching her every move. It felt like a touch almost, making the hair stand along her neck and arms. But when she chanced a quick look, he was not looking at her at all. She scowled at him as he dug through a sack.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, pulling out more dried meat and dried fruit.
Her stomach rumbled. "No." She rolled herself up in the blanket and put her back to him.
"You haven't eaten all day."
"So?"
He made a soft sound of exasperation. "You have to eat."
"I don't have to do anything."
"Och, is that what this is? You're starving yourself to spite me because I kissed you? Surely you can think of a better way to get your revenge."
Her teeth clenched. She didn't want to admit even to herself that he was right, so she grumbled, "I am not hungry." This time her stomach rumbled loud enough to be heard from where he sat.
He laughed. "Fine, then. You're not hungry."
She did not respond. She lay there, her back to him, mouth drawn tight. She listened to him move around, eating and then preparing for bed. Her belly cramped with hunger. She was being a stubborn fool and she well knew it, but there was no help for it now. She willed sleep to come so she could wake up refreshed and finally get a chance to eat, but sleep was elusive. Her mind refused to rest. Witticisms shot through her mind---things she wished she had said to him earlier. Worry also plagued her. What would happen when she fell asleep? She was outside. There were creatures in the darkness---and that annoying horse. They pressed at her now. She felt them, in the wood around her. They had been aware of a presence for some time and were edging closer to investigate. She tried to ignore them, but it was hard when they frightened her.
As she lay there wide awake, a plan nagged at her. She should wait for Stephen to fall asleep, then sneak food. He would soon be oblivious from taking the poppy juice, if he wasn't already.
So she waited, straining to hear any sounds from him in the darkness. At some point she must have worried herself to exhaustion, because she did fall asleep.
Her dreams were vivid and strange, full of light and movement. Stephen was there and he kissed her. It was exciting at first. Her heart pounded in her throat and her head was muzzy and dreamy, but then something went wrong. She sensed it. He held her too hard, his mouth felt strange and wet. She jerked back to look at him. He was no longer a man at all but a hideously disfigured monster, and just like all the beasts, he wanted something from her. He held her by her shoulders and shook her, demanding in a strange, wet language, which she somehow understood, that she hear him.
She screamed and struggled to escape his iron hold but he held her fast, repeating, "Talk to me, Deidra, hear me," over and over and over in his monster voice.
Wolves surrounded them, watching, waiting, sniffing at the air eagerly. They whined and crept closer, tails between their legs.
Deidra fought against their thoughts, threw up a wall to block them, but she was vulnerable during sleep. She wanted to shout at them with her mind, so loud it would terrify them into silence. She knew she could, she'd done it before many years ago---but that would only open her mind to them. She shook her head, eyes burning with fear and confusion. The air sparked around her, acrid smoke blocked her nostrils and filled her throat. A murmur grew around her, uneasy. Hot, hot, bad, bad, fire. Move. A fire.
Deidra woke with a start. Her chest heaved as she fought to draw in clean air, not the dream fug of smoke and soot. Damp hair clung to her forehead and temples. She lay very still, afraid to move, staring at the moon and trying to calm her racing heart. She strained to hear over its liquid thudding in her ears. Were they around her, the wolves? Or had it really just been a dream? And what of Stephen? The memory of his monster mouth sent the hair prickling all along her back and arms.
She turned her head to the right. A large velvet muzzle was in her face. It blew hot and wet against her cheek.
Fire. Must go.
Deidra let out the breath she'd sucked in and shoved Countess's nose out of her face. It was just the stupid horse. She rolled onto her side, putting her back to the irritating creature.
But Deidra wasn't a fool. She tested the air, lifting her head and smelling. The air was clean and crisp---no trace of smoke. Nothing more than a dream.
She crawled over to her leather satchel, glancing over her shoulder at Stephen. He was a wool-covered lump a few feet away. A rolled plaid was jammed into his back. She wondered how he'd accomplished that without assistance. A pang of guilt stabbed her. She should have helped him get situated for the night. Instead she'd sulked like a child and left him to himself.
She stiffened her spine to the thought.
She was not his servant, nor would she be. He had shown himself perfectly capable of caring for himself.
She returned to her bedroll with her satchel and rummaged for food.
Countess batted her in the head with her muzzle. Deidra tried to ignore the horse, but she kept knocking her nose against Deidra's head periodically. The horse was most insistent, trying to communicate the danger of a fire.
Deidra stood and walked the perimeter of the camp, but there was no orange glow on the horizon, nor was there the faintest scent of smoke. She wanted to convey this to the horse, but that would have required speaking to the animal, and
Deidra would not do that.
She returned to her bannocks and apple. Countess whinnied and stamped her forehoof. Stephen mumbled and moved. Deidra froze, bannock halfway to her lips, her breath held until he lay still again. She glared at the horse and haughtily gave the beast her back.
But it didn't matter. The horse could not read her body language, and even if it could have, Deidra doubted it would care. Countess continued to harass her, batting at Deidra's head with her muzzle and blowing at her. Deidra didn't know how much more she could take. She wanted to scream and pull her hair in frustration, and worse---she wanted to talk to the horse, to tell it to leave her alone.
She didn't want this---she had never wanted any of it. Not Stephen's troubles and kisses, or his horse's determination to make her miserable and make her an outcast and murderer again.
Deidra stared blankly into the darkness, rocking rhythmically every time Countess knocked her in the head, wondering why she was doing this. Why had she agreed to let Stephen Ross tag along? She couldn't even remember now. She looked over at him, sleeping. He was far more able-bodied than she had expected. He'd also assured her he would be fine by morning. In addition, he had managed to unsaddle and hobble the horses all by himself.
He didn't need her.
And that made what she had to do next easier. She stood and quietly gathered her things together. Countess grew agitated and tried to follow, but Deidra secured her to a tree. She released her own much quieter and more docile horse and, without a backward glance, crept away into the night.
It was still dark when Stephen woke. His back didn't hurt as long as he lay still. He listened for Deidra but heard nothing, only the soughing of the wind in the trees. He tucked in his chin and rounded his back, hissing through his teeth at the pain that clamped around his tailbone. He closed his eyes and exhaled, working his back with slow stretches to warm it and wake the muscles. There was still no sound from Deidra.
He hoped she was asleep. He did not want her to witness his waking ritual. He imagined her watching him, wondering what the devil he was doing. He supposed it was unavoidable that she would see him doing this at some point, but he hoped it would be later, rather than sooner.
When his back felt sufficiently limber, he sat up, immediately looking over his shoulder. Countess was tied to a tree. He frowned, scanning the clearing.
Deidra was gone. No horse, no things, no Deidra.
She'd left him.
The idea struck him dumb for a full minute, and he found himself searching the camp again, wondering if He'd somehow missed something in the dark. But no, she was really gone.
He rubbed a hand over his forehead and laughed ruefully.
So he shouldn't have kissed her.
Damn it. His hand curled into a fist and he pressed it into his forehead. He knew better. He'd known it had been a bad idea at the time, for too many reasons to count, but none of those reasons had included being abandoned.
In truth, he hadn't contemplated such an outcome. He hadn't believed she had it in her.
Obviously, he'd been wrong. He dropped his hand and shook his head, smiling again. It was amusing, really. Had she expected him to be so dejected by her defection that he would run home with his tail between his legs? Or maybe she didn't care at all---she just wanted to be quit of him.
As he got to his feet, his smile faded from the stiff pain momentarily paralyzing his lower back. He forced himself to breathe through it. A few deep twists and he worked the worst of the pain out. But only temporarily. A few hours on horseback would bring the gripping pain back, and no amount of exercise would get rid of it. Only the deep massages that another could provide would alleviate a modicum of the pain, but that wouldn't happen anytime soon. It didn't matter. He was going anyway. A chance to be free of this pain forever---even a slim chance---was worth trying. And at least now he would be able to travel at his own pace. He could stop whenever he needed to, to rest and work some of the tightness and cramping out of his back. He told himself that if he could bear it just a little while longer, he might be free of it forever. He refused to contemplate failure. He'd been down that road before and would deal with that if it occurred. But for now he just had to keep moving.
He gathered his things together, still somewhat amused by Deidra's flight. He knew where she was going. She knew that he knew. He might be a cripple, and therefore slower than she was, but they were both going to the same place. So she had surprised him. He'd underestimated her.
But then, she'd underestimated him, as well.
The sun rose before her, warming the chill from her bones. She thought of Stephen back at the camp and wondered if he was awake yet and what he had thought when He'd realized she'd deserted him.
She felt horribly guilty about leaving him behind. It didn't help a bit that he had been right last night. She had gone miles without seeing a single sign of life. It was only as the sky lightened that she began to see indications of human activity. A peat bog, with a long trench dug in it. The peat was stacked to dry farther along her route. And not far beyond that were a dirty-faced boy and his dog, set to watch the peat. He stared at her as she rode by but didn't say a word.
She wished she could stop thinking about Stephen. She regretted not having woken him before leaving---to say good-bye and to see if there was anything he needed.
And to give him the chance to talk her out of going on alone. No, no, no. She'd done the right thing by leaving as she had. Perhaps it had been cowardly, but was it not said that discretion was the better part of valor? She was probably twisting that adage to assuage her own guilt, and it did little to comfort her.
She came to the top of a rise and reined in her horse. A village crouched in the glen below; the largest concentration of cottages clustered about the loch. Relief rushed through her, and the tightness in her shoulders lessened the slightest bit. She was glad to finally find a safe haven to rest in for a while where she wouldn't have to fear the creatures in the wild.
She tapped her horse's side and rode along the top of the rise until she reached the road. A crossroad loomed in the distance, marked with a huge blackened pile of rocks. The air smelled foul---like soot and burned meat. It reminded her of her dream from the night before. A spring wound tight behind her breastbone.
As she rode closer, she realized the blackened pile was not rocks, as she'd first assumed. It had been kindling, piled high around a stake. The spring wound tighter, making her gasp to catch her breath.
There had been a fire last night. The scent of it still burned her nostrils, though the smoke was long gone. And Countess had been right. The fire had been a danger to her. What she didn't understand was how the horse had known about it.
As Deidra passed the stake, a wind rose and blew across the tumbled, blackened wood, sending ashes spiraling through the air to clog her throat and burn her eyes. Her vision swam in and out as moisture built behind her eyes.
The village had burned a witch last night. Her blackened skeleton was tied to the stake still. It seemed strange to Deidra that the witch's clothes and hair and skin had all burned away but the rope that had strapped her to the stake, though blackened, still held fast, keeping her upright for all who passed to see. Her head tilted back, her bony jaw open in a silent scream.
The spring in Deidra's breast wound so tight that she feared it would burst. It squeezed her heart, made her struggle for air. Her stomach lurched as she rode past the horror, hating the sight but unable to avert her eyes.
She reined her horse in, staring at the distant village with trepidation. Should she go around it? This was no safe place. But finally the urge to rest won out. How much trouble could she get in at the inn, asleep? She would not stay long.
A somber atmosphere lay over the village like a thick fog. The people she passed on the street watched her with tight lips and grim eyes. Deidra felt as if everything about her screamed witch, even though she knew that was impossible.
Food first, then sleep.
She came to a common house that served ale and food, and she tethered her horse in front of it. A fire blazed in the center of the dwelling; long tables were situated around it. She sat at an empty one and was brought mulled ale and barley stew as soon as she showed her coin. The brew was warm and the food felt good in her empty belly. She sighed deeply as she emptied her bowl and asked for more.
Her server was a large woman, but kindly, and brought her a slice of dark bread with the next bowl and charged her nothing more. Deidra supposed she looked pathetic, small and thin and starving.
A dog wandered inside. Every rib showed through it's scraggly brown fur. Its droopy ears cocked, and it scanned the room. Deidra thought of Duke, which reminded her of Stephen, and the spring in her breast, which had been loosening, wound tight again.
She turned away. A moment later the dog appeared beside her, whimpering up at her. It laid it's head on her thigh, and she jerked away. So it lay at her feet.
She tried to ignore it, continuing to shovel down the last spoonfuls of stew. But in the end she sopped up the juice with her bread and dropped it on the ground without looking at the dog. She heard it swallow the bread in a single gulp.
She sighed. She was a lodestone wherever she went, attracting any stray animal that happened to be wandering about.
She was nearly finished with the rest of her bread when a shadow fell across the table, blocking out the firelight. Deidra looked up from her meal. Her heart jumped up into her throat, making her choke on the food she attempted to swallow. She coughed and gasped, her eyes bulging and her legs tense with the instinct to run.
"Deidra MacKay. Fancy meeting you here."
At the sound of his voice, paralysis gripped her. She hadn't been truly alone with him without the protection of her family in twelve years, and it had been her dearest wish never to be again. But here she was, alone with Luthias Forsyth.
She went dumb, unable to speak or move, only able to stare at him in horrified silence. How was it he was here, when she had left him at Strathwick?
He seemed taller than she remembered. He hadn't been a young man when they'd first met, but neither had he been old. Frighteningly, he didn't appear to have aged a single day since that long-ago day when He'd tortured her father, then tried to burn him. He had less hair on either side of his shiny pate, and he was still tall and thin, but somehow he was not weak at all. He looked powerful and fearsome. He stared down at her with intense gray eyes that seemed to see straight to her soul.
"What's the matter, Deidra? Cat got your tongue?" He looked down at the dog that lay patiently at her feet. "Or should I say dog?"
Evil, evil man to say such a thing. But the reminder of all that was suddenly at stake galvanized her to action.
She shook off the shocked stupor. "Of course not," she snapped.
"Ah, she speaks. And what are you doing so far from home, Miss MacKay?"
Deidra swallowed and tried to appear nonchalant. "Just passing through."
"On your way to...?" His thin gray brows rose in question, wrinkling his high forehead.
She wanted to tell him to stay out of her business, but she didn't dare anger him. Instead she said, "On my way to see my uncle."
"All alone?" He drew back in scandalized shock. "It's dangerous for a woman to be traveling alone."
"I can take care of myself better than most men."
He smiled as if He'd caught her in a trap. "I can attest to that!"
Her lips hardened, but she did not respond to his taunt. The dog at her feet whined but didn't otherwise move.
Luthias tilted his head to study her. "Few fathers would allow their daughters to travel alone and unprotected. I do not believe your father is one of them."
He was right, of course. William MacKay was probably frantic, wondering where his daughter was. In fact, he was probably searching for her. But Deidra didn't think it was wise to admit anything. Luthias obviously assumed she was alone and unprotected, but he didn't know, and she didn't intend to confirm his suspicions.
When she didn't answer, he pulled out the bench opposite her and sat down, adjusting his immaculate black robe. He looked so out of place in this rustic common house, surrounded by crude furniture and smoke from the lard lanterns. He was obviously not the common laborer that frequented this establishment, or even a villager. This was a city man, a lowlander with means.
"How long will you be here?" he asked, his voice smooth and pleasant.
Deidra swallowed, her mind racing ahead, trying to decide the best response to get him to leave her alone. She most assuredly did not want to remain in this village any longer than necessary, and yet leaving no longer felt safe. She would be all alone and unprotected. But to stay here was to also put herself in danger. This village had just burned a witch and now she understood why. Luthias was in town. If anything went amiss while she was here, fingers would point and Luthias would be more than happy to tie her to a stake.
What continued to confuse her was how He'd managed to get here so quickly. When she'd left Strathwick, He'd been in the nearby village. He must have left when she had and come straight here. Had he come here because He'd known there had been a witch inhabiting this little hamlet? Or had he just lucked upon her?
"Who was she?" Deidra asked, hoarse, as if she'd been screaming, but the screaming was only in her head.
Luthias smoothed a finger over his eyebrow. "Who?"
"The woman you burned last night," she hissed through clenched teeth.
"Oh, her. She was a witch."
And he dismissed a woman's life just like that. Just a witch. No name. Fear and anger mixed inside of Deidra to create something reckless.
"By whose definition?" she pressed.
His thin lips curved condescendingly.
"Whose do you think, Deidra?" He shook his head, as if deeply disappointed in her. "Do you truly believe I am the one to make these laws? It is God's law, enforced by the kirk and king."
"The king lives in England now, and I have heard that there they do not burn witches so zealously."
His smile became genuine. He leaned forward slightly. "We're not in England."
Deidra started to stand, but he stopped her, placing his hand on her arm to hold her in place. The touch of his hand went through her like a knife, cold and repellant. She was too appalled to move away.
"I have been waiting for this for a very long time."
"Waiting for what?" she asked, her voice rising shrilly. A handful of villagers was scattered about the common house, but not one of them intervened. They all watched surreptitiously, none of them daring to stare openly. Luthias had obviously put the fear of God's cleansing fire into them.
The dog sat up, whimpering and thumping its tail. Luthias shot it a narrow look. "Is this your hellhound? Will it try to rip my throat out?" He didn't look terribly frightened by that possibility.
"No---I know not. It's not my dog. I don't know what it wants."
He snorted dubiously. "I have men ready to snap its neck if it so much as growls."
Deidra's throat tightened. She wanted to send the dog away, but she feared it would only become more protective if she finally acknowledged it.
"What have you been waiting for? Why not just bum me and get it over with?" Deidra asked, successfully distracting his attention from the dog.
"Surrounded by your MacKays, protecting you? No, I had to bide my time and be patient. I knew God would eventually reward me. He would not put me through such tests for no reason."
Her stomach dipped. This was his reward? "Let me go." She tried to pull her arm away, but he held it flat on the table. He had her, away from family and aid, and he didn't mean to let her escape.
Memories from a dozen years ago flooded her. Her father's hand clamped to a table as Luthias beat it with a mallet until it was a bloody pulp, the crack of bones, the gush of blood, the pain that distorted her father's face. Luthias had been righteous and excited while he'd tortured her father. He loved his work and believed in it.
To her, he had been terrifying, monstrous. Even though her father had healed completely, seeing him beaten in such a way had affected her. She'd had nightmares for a long time. Sometimes when she looked at her father, all she saw was a mangled hand, even though his was whole. She had thought the old wounds had healed, but she could see now they'd only scabbed over. And here was Luthias Forsyth, pick, pick, picking at the scab.
Her breathing grew shallow. Her hand tightened into a fist. "What do you want?" she whispered, appalled at the whimper in her voice.
"Justice," he said with no malice, only confidence and faith in his beliefs. Justice for the long-ago day when a mere eight-year-old had held him hostage with her magic. She had called the animals to rescue her and her father, but she had given them no direction. However, they had felt the intensity of her fear. They had seen her as a deity of sorts---a divine leader---and had been willing to kill and die for her. And that day they had done just that.
It had sealed her fate with Luthias forever.
Deidra wrenched away, yanking her arm from his grasp and stumbling backward. The bench toppled over, and she came down hard on her shoulder, knocking her head against the floor.
She was momentarily dazed, but she was free.
She rolled to her feet. He rushed around the table in pursuit. Deidra spun around to run the other way, but a man appeared at the door, arms crossed over his chest, blocking her way.
Heart throbbing in her throat, she tried to dart to the side as Luthias snatched at her. The dog was there, standing beside her, hackles puffed out, making it appear twice it's size. It growled, loud and menacing, lips peeled back to expose wicked, sharp teeth.
Deidra reared back in surprise as it leaped at her. She flung her hands up to protect her face, but it flew past her, catching Luthias's arm between its jaws. Dog and man crashed to the floor.
"No!" Deidra shrieked. In her panic she couldn't even remember how to speak to the dog so it would understand---she had not done it in so long, "No! Leave him alone!"
Men appeared---the same men he had threatened her with earlier---and converged on the growling, slathering melee on the floor. They drew enormous knives from their belts and hacked at the dog-It yelped and went silent. No! The scream rose in Deidra's chest but did not pass her lips. She stared at the bloody, hairy mass on the floor, hands clamped over her mouth, muscles rigid with horror. Why? Why? Why? She hadn't asked it to protect her. She hadn't wanted its help. Now it was dead and Luthias's belief in her wickedness had been validated.
Luthias still sprawled on the ground, dusty robes askew and torn, face flushed. He looked at his arm, at the torn, bloodstained sleeve, and then back at Deidra. His brow lowered and his lips thinned into an uncompromising line.
He got to his feet and straightened his robes, his dignity restored. "Take her into custody."
His thugs grabbed her arms. She struggled to escape, though she knew it was futile. "What did I do? I didn't do anything!"
"You set your hellhound on me. You tried to murder me through witchcraft."
"It's not my dog! I've never seen him before today." She writhed and twisted, but it was no use. He was deaf to her protests. The men dragged her from the common house and shoved her through the streets before tossing her unceremoniously into a hole behind a large house.
It was dark and damp in the hole. A grate was dropped over the top, creating a patchwork pattern of light on the ground. As her eyes adjusted, she realized she was in a cellar. Barrels lined the wall, and crates were stacked beside them. Deidra sat on a crate, shoulders slumped, and stared into the darkness.
She had denied her magic for so long, for no other reason than to avoid this very situation she now found herself in. She couldn't quite comprehend how she'd managed, in spite of her very best efforts, to end up this way. Luthias was right. It must have been God's plan for her all along. He was working through the witch hunter.
A voice in her head taunted that she should never have left Stephen. But really, what could he have done to prevent this? He was a cripple. And besides, the true root of the thought was that she had never felt so alone in her entire life. And for a little while, with Stephen, she had not been alone. Though she had rejected his company, he had wanted hers. It hurt now to admit it, but she regretted leaving him, regretted her stubborn streak of independence. No, not independence. Isolation. She was no better than he was, walling herself off and driving away those who tried to tear down the walls.
But those were selfish, self-pitying thoughts. Stephen was an innocent. Better he not get caught up in her mess. She was the witch. If she was to be punished for it, she must face it alone.
Chapter 5
Stephen was relieved to arrive at the village, even if the welcoming committee was a charred corpse strapped to a stake. He knew Deidra had come this way because he'd tracked her. He doubted she'd stopped anywhere for the night, so he looked for the telltale signs of fresh horse dung. And Duke was an excellent bloodhound, too, keeping him on track. He wondered what Deidra had thought when she'd seen the corpse at the crossroads. Coming as she did from a family of witches, it must have been troubling. He wondered if her desire to sleep in a village had overridden her misgivings about the dead witch.
Only one way to find out.
The town was subdued as he entered on foot. It had been at least a mile since he'd been able to sit a horse. At the point where it had begun to feel as if a white-hot rod had been rammed up his spine, he'd dismounted to walk it out.
Unfortunately, walking was only a temporary solution. He leaned heavily against Countess as he limped into the village. Jagged teeth had sunk into his spine and held there. Pain radiated down both legs.
He tried to greet folks he passed on the dirt main street, but no one would meet his eyes. He stopped outside a cottage that was obviously inhabited by a tanner, judging by the skins hung to dry all over the walls.
A man stood before a skin stretched tight over two beams. He scraped rhythmically at it with a curved knife and was so engrossed in his work that Stephen had to clear his throat several times before the man turned.
"I'm witch hunting, my friend, and was told there was a baobhan sith out this way."
The man's brows drew together and his mouth snapped shut. After a moment he shook his head. "I know not of that matter." Before Stephen could say another word, the man walked purposefully into his cottage and shut the door
Stephen glanced around. There were few people out and about, and he decided that mayhap it wasn't the best time to be asking about witches, not with a burning still fresh in their minds. It might somehow be misinterpreted and go badly for him, and he was in no condition to be running for his life.
He limped on, leaving the tanner's cottage behind. Farther down at the end of the dirt lane sat a long house with a sign out front depicting a crude drawing of a large cup with a white substance overflowing the top. The alehouse. He would have more luck in there, he hoped.
The murky interior stank of lard candles and barley stew. His belly cramped in response. He was hungry, but not for that. The pain in his back had managed to conceal his hunger, but now it would not be ignored.
He slid onto a bench and grunted, head cradled in his hands as the tension ebbed and throbbed painfully out of his spine. He breathed in and out, slowly, and focused on the sensation and sound of his breathing. He sat that way, knuckles pressed into the hollows of his eyes, concentrating on his breathing until the pain became manageable again.
He raised his head. A stout, red-faced woman stood before him, hands on hips and hairy brows raised expectantly,
"What's there to eat?"
"Soup and ale."
And that was it, he supposed, since she gave no further options.
She trudged away, returning moments later with a big bowl of barley stew, a tankard of ale, and a crust of bread. The stew looked better than it smelled. He wanted to dive into it, but first he needed some answers.
As he dug through his bag for his spoon, he asked, "Has a young woman been through the village recently?"
She gave him a sharp look and her thick chin raised a notch. "Now, what would a young woman be doing traveling all alone?"
Stephen's brow arched. "I don't recall specifying that she was alone?"
The woman was not so easily trapped. "You didna say she weren't either. And ye asked about no one else."
He inclined his head. "Very well. Has a young woman with dark curly hair---traveling alone---passed through here recently?"
The woman's brows drew together into a single furry line. "Why would a young woman be traveling alone? 'Tis just not safe."
Stephen was growing mildly irritated at how she avoided answering the question. Her avoidance also indicated that she probably had seen Deidra but didn't want to tell him. That could mean nothing good.
"She's daft, a wandering idiot. Well. Not usually. We try very hard to keep her from wandering."
She stared at him blandly. "Or maybe she's running away from something."
Stephen shrugged. "Mayhap aye...mayhap no."
"Mayhap she's not daft. Mayhap she's running from you. It wouldna be kind of me to be giving up a woman on the run. Mayhap you'll knock her around a little for wandering off, or kill her."
"Mayhap she's my wife or daughter? Then by rights I own her and can do whatever I please."
The woman snorted and planted a hand on her hip. "You're too young to be her father, and---"
"Hal" Stephen pointed at her and laughed with victory. "You have seen her! Where is she?"
The woman's lips pursed, her expression sour. She crossed her arms over her chest and said grudgingly, "We're not to speak of it."
Stephen's heart skipped. That sounded very bad. Worse than he'd feared if the whole village had been instructed not to speak of it.
Working to keep the urgency from his tone, he asked, "Why is that?"
Her mouth pursed even tighter, becoming a thin, wrinkled slash. But her throat worked as if she was about to burst with the desire to spill everything she knew.
Stephen removed his purse and dumped the contents on the table. The woman's eyes grew round at the sight of the pile of shiny coins. It was probably more coin than she had seen in her whole life.
He met her gaze, his own serious and steady. "What happened to the woman?"
The woman looked from the coins to Stephen and licked her lips. When her eyes met Stephen's again, they held, and he could that see she was about to give him the information he sought. But then something changed. Her gaze rose to look at something above his head. Her face closed. She lowered her eyes and mumbled something, then turned away and left him.
Stephen sighed grimly and glanced over his shoulder, scooping up his coins. A tall, narrow man stood in the doorway, his shiny bald head brushing the top of the doorframe. Cold gray eyes fixed on Stephen. Chips of dirty ice. Stephen met the man's gaze, then noticed the rough-looking men who had entered before him. Mercenaries. They situated themselves strategically around the room.
A knot of foreboding formed in Stephen's gut, but he was no stranger to such situations-It had been awhile, back when He'd been a whole man, but there had been a time when he hadn't been able to stay out of trouble no matter how hard he'd tried---and the odds had never been good. Of course, that's what had gotten him cripple. Lousy odds.
He located his spoon. This might be his last good meal for a while, and he was not about to let it go to waste. He turned his attention to his food and, after taking a deep pull of ale, began spooning down the thick soup.
Within minutes the robed man circled the room, coming to stand in front of Stephen. Stephen continued to eat, acknowledging the man only with a nod. He knew his dismissive attitude would not dissuade the man, but he nevertheless continued to ignore him until he had finished his meal.
As he washed his coarse bread down with a swig of ale, the man said, "Are you finished?"
Stephen slammed his tankard down with exaggerated force. Aye."
The man did not appear intimidated. No doubt it was his lurking mercenaries---either that or he knew Stephen was a cripple---because Stephen knew that he was formable sitting down. He continued to keep his body in the best condition possible, focusing primarily on his upper body, for if his legs finally went, that would be all he would be left with.
"You've been looking for someone," the man said.
Stephen wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. "Aye. What care you?" But before the man could answer his query, Stephen added, "And who are you, eh?"
The man smoothed a hand over his black robes, clean and crisp and entirely out of place in this Highland hamlet. Impossibly, the man squared his already square shoulders and announced, "I am Luthias Forsyth, a visitor to this village. And you are?"
"Stephen Ross. A visitor also."
"Ah, good." The man smiled, a per-functionary stretching of thin lips, completely devoid of any real feeling. "We are both strangers here. We should be friends."
Stephen glanced over at Luthias's thugs, who were unsuccessfully trying to blend into the shadows at the back of the room. "You have enough friends, methinks."
Luthias's smile grew, but it was still empty. Stephen imagined that it hurt him to smile that way, as if his lips would split from the strain.
"One can always use more friends," Luthias said through his smile, "when doing the Lord's work."
Stephen considered Luthias, more uneasy than ever. By words and attire the man was clearly a holy man of some sort---or at least imagined himself to be. Stephen's dealings with holy men were generally disastrous. They didn't agree on much past the idea that there was a god, and that's where any similarity in philosophy ended.
Nevertheless, with a blackened corpse on the crossroad and Deidra's whereabouts still a mystery, Stephen couldn't dismiss the man as he'd like to.
He waved a hand at the bench opposite him. "Have a seat then, friend."
Luthias slid onto the bench across from Stephen. "I was told you are a witch hunter.
"News travels fast!"' Stephen murmured. The tanner must have run straight out his back door to tattle as soon as Stephen was out of sight.
"Its a small village and they feel particularly...indebted to me today."
"That was your handiwork at the crossroads, aye?" Stephen queried.
Luthias inclined his head.
Stephen thought he was beginning to understand Luthias's interest in him. Perhaps this wasn't as dangerous as he had initially assumed. If he played the man right, he would get out of this with his skin intact, and a bit of information to boot.
He kept his expression bland. "Am I encroaching on someone's hunting grounds?"
Luthias held up a placating hand, his chin dipping as if to protest, but Stephen pressed on.
"I am not hunting a typical witch---not the kind that sours milk or causes crops to fail. No, I am hunting a rare breed. The baobhan sith"
Luthias's smile returned, but this time it was not entirely dead. There was a spark of something in his eyes. Interest. "I am not concerned, friend. I welcome more warriors in God's army. I only wish to assure myself we are both achieving the very best results for the Lord. The only way to be certain is to share information."
Stephen narrowed his gaze. "What sort of information?"
Luthias spread his palms on the tabletop. "A witch is a complex creature. They can disguise themselves and appear quite normal. Because of this one must have a care not to inadvertently harm the innocent."
Stephen nodded, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. He could no longer guess where this conversation might lead. Since when was a witch hunter concerned with the innocent? It set him off balance, and he didn't like that.
Luthias continued. "I have spent more than a score of years educating myself, and honing my knowledge of witches and their ways. But I freely admit that there are areas where my expertise is sorely lacking. I'm sure the same applies to you, Mr. Ross. I would very much like to learn more about the baobhan sith. If you are willing to share, that is."
Stephen frowned, continuing to rub at his whiskered jaw. He thought it unwise to appear eager. After a long moment he said, "So you want me to teach you what I know?"
Luthias gave a dry, humorless laugh. "Well, aye. But more important is what I can teach you."
Stephen smirked. "You believe there is actually something you know that I am ignorant of?"
"Most assuredly." Luthias glanced around them, then leaned forward slightly and said in a low voice, "I am writing a book...a sort of...supplement to Malleus Maleficantm, if you will."
"A book, eh?" Stephen was mildly amused. But this man's knowledge could be useful on many levels, and since he was clearly the source of the villagers' odd, subdued behavior, he was likely the only one who would actually tell him Deidra's whereabouts.
Stephen nodded slowly, as if the decision had been a weighty one to consider. "Very well. Show me what you've got."
Stephen didn't know what to expect of Luthias's "teaching." Considering the subject matter and the tavern wench's reluctance to talk about Deidra, he feared the worst.
They stepped out into the cool, moonlit night. Duke rose from where he had been waiting patiently and danced around Stephen's legs, yipping. Stephen scratched his head and crossed to Countess. He removed his ebony cane from where he'd tied it to the saddle.
"Where are we headed?" he asked, leaning on the cane.
Luthias surveyed him critically, his gaze lingering on the cane. "I do not believe a walk to the crossroads would be wise tonight. I can gather the ashes tomorrow."
Stephen couldn't fathom what he meant by that, but he was glad he wouldn't be forced to hike back to the crossroads tonight. It was cold, and his back throbbed angrily. What he really wanted was some whisky and a bed---and maybe a whore willing to rub the knots from his back for the right price.
They made their way slowly down the dark, dusty street. Luthias kept pace with Stephen's slower, limping gait. Stephen considered asking about the ashes but decided against it. Luthias assumed he was also a witch hunter, which meant he expected Stephen to be knowledgeable in matters of the hunt. Since Luthias offered no further explanation on the gathering of ashes, Stephen could only conclude it was a common aspect of witch hunting and not worthy of comment. He would only reveal himself as a novice or, worse, an imposter, if he asked about it.
"What brought you here?" Stephen asked. "Yon witch at crossroads?"
"Not precisely!"' Luthias said. He strolled beside Stephen, tall and ramrod straight. "I actually came for another witch but did not find her immediately." He held up an instructive finger. "However, God always provides. He made my visit purposeful. He placed another witch in front of me to detain me here, keeping me in the path of the one I sought."
The uncomfortable uneasiness returned to Stephen's belly. Whatever it was that Luthias wanted to show him would not be pleasant. "How do you mean?"
"I arrived here to find that several local rustics had fallen ill with a strange malady. Strange because it was unlike aught Id witnessed before---"
"You're a physician, too? Have you seen a great many ailments?"
Luthias hesitated, frowning with disapproval at the interruption. "No," he answered, drawing out the single syllable. "I am not a physician, but I have seen much illness and death in my life."
Caused it, no doubt.
"The victims' eyes were swollen shut and their entire bodies had swollen like bladders," His lip curled. "It was really quite disgusting."
"What led you to believe this was an act of witchcraft?" Stephen pointed the tip of his cane toward the crossroads, invisible in the darkness.
"I questioned one of the victims, then others, and discovered that all of the men had fornicated with the witch. During the questioning it was revealed that she had bewitched them---"
Stephen put his cane out, stopping Luthias. "These men were all married, correct?"
Brow furrowed, Luthias stared down at the cane held across his chest, then fixed his gaze on Stephen. Aye."
Stephen lowered the cane. "Why do you ask?"
Stephen smiled. "I have found that married men are unusually predisposed to bewitchment."
Luthias nodded wisely. "Aye, I have noted this too."
And yet the witch hunter had drawn no other conclusion than believing that the men must have been telling the truth. They couldn't possibly have been lying to keep their wives from gelding them.
Stephen limped forward. "How did you discover the fornication?"
"The witch attempted to bewitch me during the interrogation, but I am immune to such magic. So I inferred that she had done so before. When I probed deeper, I found that aye, it was so." His narrow chest puffed out when he said the last.
Stephen raised his brows and nodded appreciably. "Immune, eh? Interesting. Once she realized you were immune, she then told you everything?"
"Aye---and with a wee bit of help from the Lord."
"Prayer?"
"Ah, no." Luthias seemed confused by Stephen's question. Apparently prayer was not an aspect of witch hunting.
Stephen stopped in his tracks. "What then, if not the Lords word?"
"I never said that I didn't use the Lord's word---just not that alone. I also dunked her in the loch and laid stones on her chest." He cocked his head to the side. "Do you use prayer alone?"
Stephen nodded. "Naught else works on the baobhan sith. You see, you cannot harm them. They heal rapidly and do not die. So torture is useless. But they are evil, and God's word curdles their blood."
They stood beside a large house, the largest in the village. On the ground at their feet was a wooden grate. Luthias stared down at it, deep in thought, and too late Stephen realized the error of what he'd said.
"Blood witches have healing magic?" Luthias asked in a tight voice, his eyes locked on the grating.
Stephen gritted his teeth, but there was no turning back now. To recant would only introduce suspicion.
"Aye," he answered faintly.
Luthias's nostrils flared. He was breathing hard, impassioned. "What you are about to see is the culmination of more than a decade of work. The final chapter in my book."
Stephen nodded at the grating. "That? In there?"
Aye, I was a godly man before I became a witch hunter, but I found my calling when our parish became infested with witches and I was recruited to help smoke them out. I realized then I had a gift. God would not give me such a gift, then not expect me to use it in his service. But one day I was presented with a dilemma, something that in all my years of interrogating witches I had never encountered. White witches. Until that day I would never have believed such a thing existed. But their child..." His gaze turned back to the grate. "Their child was the spawn of evil. It taunted me, tried to kill me. But God protected me. Saved me so that I could keep the evil in check.
Brought me here so that I could finally smote it out."
He gestured into the darkness, and three of his mercenaries materialized. "Bring her up. It's time for a little talk." One of the men reached for the grate, but Luthias held up a hand. "First lock up the dog."
Duke sat beside Stephen's cane and looked up at them, as if he knew he was being discussed.
One of the mercenaries looped a rope around Dukes neck. The dogs lip immediately curled, and a low growl emanated from his chest as he set his haunches to resist.
Stephen placed a hand on Dukes head to soothe him. "Its all right, laddy---go on.
Duke whined but let the man lead him away.
The other two men descended into the hole. Stephen's jaw grew rigid. If Luthias's story hadn't convinced him, the removal of Duke made it clear that the witch being held captive in the hole before them was Deidra. This might go very bad for them both if she recognized him.
His pulse sped up as he waited for the men to emerge from the hole with Deidra. Though he schooled his expression to show nothing, his mind played out various scenarios. In his mind he was able and quick: heroic. But he knew the truth. In every scenario he could imagine they both ended up dead because he was a cripple.
The ladder creaked as they ascended. His mouth dried out when the first head appeared. One of Luthias's men crawled out of the hole. He turned and grasped a pair of delicate wrists, forcibly hauling a slight woman out of the hole and setting her on her feet in the moonlight.
It was Deidra, looking as skittish as a rabbit. She shrugged the man's hands off her and turned, her gaze passing over Stephen to Luthias before jerking back, eyes wide with shock and recognition.
Stephen's heart sank. He turned to gauge the damage, but Luthias had not been watching Deidra. His gaze was on Stephen.
"It calls itself Deidra MacKay. Have you heard of the Strathwick MacKays?"
Stephen nodded, frowning. "Aye, I have...In fact," he said, getting an idea that he hoped would buy them some time, "I've seen this woman before."
Luthias drew back, looking from Stephen to Deidra with suspicion. "You know her?"
Nothing showed on Deidra's face now except fear. She huddled back against the man who held her, watching Luthias.
"I don't know her. I've seen her before. Her father is a healer, known throughout the Highlands. I went to him to cure my mangled back, but, as it turned out, he was naught but a charlatan!"'
He hoped that his statement would fix any damage he'd done to the MacKays by his earlier careless remarks, as well as explain Deidra's recognition of him.
"Charlatan?" Luthias said dubiously. "I don't understand why William MacKay could not heal you, but I have seen the MacKay magic with my own eyes. It is not false."
"Really?" Stephen said, and this time it was his voice that held doubt and disbelief, though in reality he was dismayed. "Hmmm...are you certain of what you saw? Some frauds are gifted in the arts of
Luthias shook his head. "No. I saw it. With my own eyes. Do you not believe me? Do you think I do not know what magic looks like? What do you think it is I spend my life doing?"
Stephen didn't know how to respond, especially since the witch-pricker was beginning to sound offended. He glanced at Deidra. She watched him, her face clear of aught but wariness. Good girl.
Stephen rubbed at his jaw meditatively. "If he was a witch, why did you not try him? I don't think I comprehend."
Luthias's lips drew into a thin line, and he lifted his chin slightly. "Because he is the one I believed was a white witch, or some sort of saint."
Stephen raised a brow, not liking the sound of that. "Your opinion has changed?"
Luthias nodded. He was looking not at Stephen but at Deidra, his intense gaze fixed on her, his eyes narrowed.
She shrank farther back from him and looked as if she'd bolt if not for the two enormous men who held her captive between them.
"I did not know of the baobhan sith until today. I had heard of them, but Id thought it was a story, not real. You have shown me much today, Mr. Ross. I fear I have been deluded all of these years. The MacKay was no saint at all but a baobhan sith"
That was not what Stephen had intended. Before he could say a word, Deidra screamed, "Falsehoods!" She surged forward, straining against her captors as if she would attack Luthias. "My father is a great man! And he is good, unlike you. You are an evil murderer, doing the devils work, and you don't even know it. You are the one bewitched."
"She speaks," Stephen said lightly, smiling. He turned to Luthias and was chilled by the hatred and hunger he saw in the other man's countenance as he gazed upon Deidra. This went beyond duty to the Lord; he wanted her. She was his obsession, the thing he had worked for. And this was his moment, the one that made all the waiting worthwhile, Stephen understood that there was nothing short of his or Deidra's death that would stop this now that it had started.
Stephen looked between the two of them, trying to stem his rising anxiety. He wanted to snatch her away, get her as far from this place and this man as possible. But that would not be happening, of course. He was a cripple, and nothing but his wits would save them tonight.. .which didn't leave him feeling particularly optimistic about their chances.
"I have met the MacKay," Stephen said, "touched him, in fact. He is no blood witch."
Luthias turned to face him. "How can you be so sure? He was able to heal himself, as you claim blood witches do."
"Blood witches have many characteristics. She is his daughter, correct?" Stephen moved to stand before her and touched a lock of her curling chestnut hair where it brushed against her cheek.
"Aye."
"Then she would be a blood witch, too." This was not something he knew at all. Did blood witches reproduce in the traditional way? He didn't think so, but then again, he didn't know. He knew, however, that Luthias did not know, so he could fabricate whatever he wished where blood witches were concerned.
Luthias's brow furrowed. "You are sure of this? How does one identify a blood witch? Dunking?"
Stephen shook his head and waved a dismissive hand. "No. Torture has no effect on them. She may cry and scream like a mortal woman, but it is all an act."
"That is no different from other witches." Luthias stared at Deidra, deep in thought. "If traditional methods do not work, what does?"
"Prayer. Holy objects."
"Idolatry," Luthias hissed, scandalized. "Heresy."
Stephen raised a shoulder. "Sometimes God chooses to work through these instruments. But primarily it is his word."
Luthias considered Deidra carefully, his jaw working. Finally he said, "Let us try my way first."
Stephen's muscles went rigid as the whites of Deidra's eyes flashed at him, but he just shrugged. Damn. He'd hoped to save her from this, to buy them some time so he could think of a better plan.
Luthias gestured to the mercenaries to lead her away, then followed more slowly, keeping pace with Stephen.
"What manner of witchcraft does this woman do?" Stephen asked.
To Stephen's surprise, the thin man shuddered. "She has the devil's own powers to command beasts to do her bidding."
"Truly? Why doesn't she call on them now to aid her?"
Luthias tapped a finger against his temple and smiled. "Because I am wiser this time. She nearly killed me the last time I trapped her. She had me surrounded by wolves, and the only thing that saved me was a knife to her throat."
Stephen asked, aghast, "She was only a child then, aye?"
Luthias snorted. "A demon in disguise. I do not make the same mistakes twice. All the beasts in this village have been restrained. I have men surrounding the hamlet, ready to kill any wild creature that dares to enter."
Stephen forced a smile. "You have certainly prepared for this moment."
They stopped in front of a stone cottage. Luthias's gaze fixed on some faraway point, and he inhaled deeply. "Aye, I have. I feel as if God has been preparing me for this my whole life."
Looking into the man's passion-glazed eyes, Stephen said a silent prayer for them both. They were well and truly trapped.
Deidra had been stuck down in that hole for hours and had hated every single moment...and yet she had been nauseated with fear anticipating when Luthias would finally come for her. When the men had finally come, she'd fought them, terrified and confused. It had been too soon! She hadn't been ready yet! Memories of her father's interrogation had crashed through her mind, fresh and vivid as if it had just happened yesterday instead of twelve years ago. She saw his hand, trapped in the pilliwinkes as Luthias drove wedges into the device with a mallet---the bright red of his blood, the wet crunch, the smell of his sweat and grunts of pain. She had been the reason for his suffering because he'd been so afraid of what Luthias would have done to her if he hadn't submitted.
And so she'd fought Luthias's men with mindless panic, knowing she couldn't win, but fighting the inevitable anyway. She'd known what came next; everyone knew. Torture and death. If you were lucky, they might strangle you before they burned you. The men had laughed at her ineffectual struggles until she'd landed a good kick in the fat one's crotch. So he'd backhanded her, dazing her enough to shove her up the ladder and into the cool night air.
Luthias had been waiting for her there, and he'd not been alone.
Stephen was here. A painful arrow of hope shot through her. But how could he possibly help her without incriminating himself? It was hopeless. Luthias was too powerful.
And yet, he came, he tried. He gave her hope. Her heart seemed to swell with hope and something else---affection for him.
After her initial shock, she'd managed to mask her surprise, but Stephen had seen it and played it off beautifully. She wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him.
She was shoved into a small cottage reminiscent of the one Luthias had tortured her father in while she'd cowered behind his chair. Panic seized her again, gripped her by the throat. She turned and tried to duck beneath their arms, but they shoved her across the room.
She crouched on the floor of the small dark cottage with the two guards, waiting for Stephen and Luthias to join them. One of the men went around the room lighting lanterns. The yellow light did nothing to dispel the shadows from the comers. It lent a dingy hue to the rough table and benches that inhabited the sparsely furnished room. A blanket strung from a rope served as a screen dividing the room into sleeping and living quarters.
Deidra clasped her hands together in an attempt to quiet her uncontrollable trembling, but it did no good. By the time Luthias and Stephen entered, she had to clench her teeth together to hide their chattering. Stephen's grim countenance---tight jaw, averted gaze---did nothing to improve her shaking.
She had broken with her conscience while imprisoned in the damp hole. She had called to the animals. And they had not answered. Perhaps it had been too many years and they no longer understood her. She didn't know the reason. She knew they still talked to her, that they still sensed something in her, because even though she had worked most of her life to ignore them, she was still sometimes unsuccessful. But it had been more than a decade since she had talked back. Maybe she had forgotten how.
Nevertheless, they'd always been there, a dull noise in the back of her mind, but now there was nothing but silence. They had abandoned her, just as she had abandoned them.
"Have a seat, Miss MacKay." Luthias gestured to a bench against the wall.
Deidra didn't move. Her gaze fixed on the bench across the room, just like the one where her father had once sat. She scanned the room, her gaze falling on the table a few feet away. A towel was spread on the table, concealing something beneath, but she could see the outline of long implements---knives and other instruments for poking and cutting.
She was rooted to the floor, her gaze fixed on the table, her heart throbbing in her throat. Her breath wheezed out of her as if her throat was too small, and her knees weakened.
Hands grabbed at her arms, dragging her to the bench. Panic unfolded in her chest, it's wings beating frantically. Her gaze fell on Stephen as the men's hands pressed on her shoulders, forcing her to sit. Do something. But what could he do?
"No!" she cried and fought against them, twisting so that instead she dropped to her knees. "No!"
Stephen watched, face expressionless, hands clasped behind his back. He could not help her now. Perhaps he could later, but to do something now would be foolhardy and the death of them both. They both knew she would not die from whatever Luthias did to her today. And if the result of the torture was bad, and they could get her to her father before the wounds healed, she could be as good as new.
But that was a big if.
She swallowed hard and rose to her feet. She was about to obey Luthias's command to sit on the bench when she caught the almost imperceptible shake of Stephen's head. She hesitated, uncertain of what that negative head shake meant. Was he telling her to disobey? To continue her defiance?
She turned her attention to Luthias, who watched her patiently, his chin raised slightly. He assumed obedience.
They were stronger than she was, every one of them. They could force her to do anything they wanted...if she was cognizant. If she was cognizant They couldn't make her do a single thing if she was unconscious.
She made her decision. They couldn't very well interrogate her if she was insensible. But Luthias was a savvy man and would not easily be fooled. Pretending was too dangerous and would probably net her more harm. So rather than even try, she released the thread of control that had held back the flood of panic threatening to overwhelm her.
She thrust herself backwards, away from the bench as the men shoved her forward. They grasped her arms and tried forcing her to the bench. She went wild, screaming, kicking, scratching, biting. She let the fear and wildness take her. There was nothing she wouldn't do now that she'd released it. The men yelled at her. Luthias yelled at her. She understood nothing over the roaring in her ears. She fought so violently that she hurt herself. Pulled so forcefully, she felt a pop, and then her body hung bonelessly between the men. A scream of pain rose in her throat, choking her and mixing with helpless cries of fear.
Her limp worm-arm was yanked. Her head exploded with pain, enveloping her in a black, hot cloud, pushing it all away and sending her sinking into blissful unconsciousness.
Stephen, Luthias, and the two mercenaries stared down at the woman on the floor, all of them equally stunned by what had just transpired.
Stephen had known Deidra was an exceptionally bright woman. She had read him well. Too well. He had wanted her to fake a faint, but she'd done far more, rightly assuming a man like Luthias could tell the difference and would test it if he was uncertain. So she dislocated her own shoulder, collapsing into a heap and leaving her captor to stand there holding her arm awkwardly. It was all Stephen could do to stop himself from shoving the man out of the way.
But he held back, staring dumbfounded with the rest of them at the crumpled woman on the floor. Her hair was wild, her face scratched and bleeding. She looked the part of the crazy village witch.
"Jesus God!"' Luthias muttered. "Methinks she has a bit of the beast in her."
Stephen rubbed a hand over his face and let out an amazed breath. "There'll be no interrogation tonight. Is there a healer who can tend to her arm?"
Stephen noticed the look the mercenaries exchanged. Luthias's lips pursed together as he shook his head.
Stephen raised his brows. "Och, was that her? At the crossroads? You burned the village healer?"
Luthias's brows lowered. "She was a witch and would have done us no good anyway. Healer" He spat out the word. A pretty word to hide what they truly do---poison their innocent victims with evil."
Stephen sighed, but he didn't feel exasperated at all. God rest her soul, but the healer's death was the best thing that could have happened to Stephen and Deidra.
"Carry her to the cot," Stephen ordered the men.
One of the men obeyed without question, picking her up and carrying her across the room to where a blanket hung.
Luthias crossed to a table Stephen hadn't noticed and threw back a towel. Silver instruments gleamed in the faint lantern light. Knives, pointed rods, clawlike implements. Luthias examined them, his brow wrinkled in thought, then selected a long, pointed pick.
Stephen clenched his fist, his chest tightening, but only asked, "What are you doing?"
"Making certain," Luthias murmured. He approached the cot and stood over her. Without warning, he jabbed Deidra in the thigh. She didn't move. Stephen bit the inside of his mouth, his muscles rigid. That's enough. Luthias jabbed again.
"I think she's out," Stephen said conversationally, though in truth he was ready to toss the man across the room.
Luthias watched her a few seconds longer before nodding and taking a step back. "Aye, you're right."
"Leave her," Stephen said. "If she's a blood witch, the shoulder will heal itself in a day or so. If she is not, it will swell. She'll be in such pain that a mere touch will cause her excruciating agony." He shrugged. "Should make interrogation effortless."
Luthias nodded thoughtfully. "We'll set a guard on her." He extended an arm toward Stephen, open-palmed. "Come, let us find a meal and a bed and take up where we left off on the morrow."
Deidra's eyes opened to thick blackness. She did not know where she was or how she'd gotten there. No lanterns were lit. Her entire body---nay, her entire world---had been reduced to the screaming pain in her shoulder. Her stomach heaved and she tried to roll to her side, afraid she would choke on her own vomit, but she couldn't move without pain exploding throughout her body like a shock.
She lay still, drifting in and out of delirium. Animals inhabited her mind, small ones. They came to her, inquiring, feeling her presence. She heard them scuttling beneath her cot. Most had busy, senseless thoughts, focused on food and predators. But there were other, more intelligent thoughts interspersed with the mindless. The rats.
When she was a child, rats had been secret companions to Deidra. They were intelligent animals. Curious and friendly, with good memories. She had shut them out for so long that it was a comfort to hear their thoughts in her head again.
She asked them if men were near. The answer came quickly enough---a man stood outside, in front of the cottage. Deidra's head rolled to the side. She tried to think of how she could use the rats, but the pain was too much; she could barely think. The rat scratched at the cot legs, trying to climb up to her. She warned it away and it dropped back to the ground.
She drifted again into the fog of pain. Time had no meaning. She sensed so many different animals now that her mind was wide open. Some were aware of her, others were just there, and her mind marked them, though they were not aware of her. Duke was near. Her horse, which had a name, but she did not know it. Countess was here also, securely tied and hobbled. When their minds touched, the horse grew excited.
Deidra's mind was wandering aimlessly through a confused fog when a familiar voice suddenly brought it all back into focus.
"Deidra."
Her eyes fluttered open. It was still dark. A blanket hung between her cot and the rest of the room, shutting out all of the windows and blocking any light.
"Stephen?" She tried to say his name but it came out a croaking mumble through her cracked and dry lips. Her tongue seemed too large for her mouth.
"Here, drink this!"' he whispered near her ear.
A cup pressed to her bottom lip and a cool beverage slid down her dry throat. She sucked at it greedily. It soothed her parched tongue. He pulled it away too soon. The drink left behind a bitter taste, but she didn't care---she felt better already.
"Let it settle," he whispered. "I'll give you more in a moment, when I know you won't bring it right back up."
She was almost giddy from the sound of his voice, the exquisite comfort she felt from his mere presence. It almost made the pain and fear bearable.
"How are you here?" she asked, her voice cracking on every word. "He'll discover us. It can't be safe."
"The guard offered me twenty minutes alone with you for two crowns. I gave him five. He won't bother us."
A jolt of shocked disgust shot through her. "What?"
Aye, sick bastards, but it is common enough, and it is why I must get you out of here tonight. Believe me when I say that I will not be the last he makes the offer to."
Deidra squeezed her eyes shut, a new horror entering her world. Men would pay to rape her before they burned her. That man out there would make profit off of her violation when she was helpless. It was vile. She thanked God for Stephen. Thanked him for sending her to him first before she started this foolish quest. She wanted to ask him why He'd come for her, why he was doing this when she'd abandoned him, but she was afraid of his answer.
For her father, for her family. Not for her.
His hand slid beneath her neck, tilting her head up. "Here, drink some more."
She sipped at the drink. Whatever it was, it was drugged. She tasted it now, but she didn't care. Anything to take the edge off her agony.
He withdrew the cup again and she asked, "Will there be more men after you leave?"
"No." He ground the word out in such a way that the single word was infused with so much conviction, such arrogant knowledge, that she almost smiled. He added, "You won't be here anyway."
Her heart sped and she reached for him with her good arm. He caught her hand in the darkness and brought it down to rest on her belly, enveloped in his. He was an anchor. She felt grounded with him here, beside her, holding onto her.
"How?" she whispered. "I'm not even sure I can walk."
"You'll be able to run when I'm finished with you." She heard a smile in his voice. "Drink more."
She did as he bid. Her body relaxed as the drug took effect. Her pain began to recede. His fingers were warm around hers, strong and reassuring. She trusted him completely, she realized. She would do whatever he asked of her right now. It felt strange and foreign to give her trust away so thoroughly, but nevertheless she was.
Her head was thick and pleasantly fuzzy, so without a thought, she said, "Stephen, I am afraid."
Before tonight, she would never have admitted such a thing to anyone. But now it seemed natural to share such things with him.
"I know!"' he said. "But I won't let anything happen to you. I vow it."
His voice, his promise, caressed her ears, the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard. His breath feathered against her cheek, his lips pressed a kiss to her forehead. She tilted her head so that his lips brushed her nose. He paused. His breath was uneven against her face. He didn't ask what she was doing, or what she wanted. He knew. His mouth touched hers, warm and inviting, and she drank him in, deeper than the drug that loosened her limbs.
His kiss was long and deep, tasting and probing. She made a soft sound, a moan of longing. It came from deep in her chest. He pulled away too quickly.
She wanted to whimper and plead, but she did not.
He sighed deeply, regret in his exhalation. "This is going to hurt."
Before she could ask what he meant, he took her wrist in one hand and placed the other on her shoulder. He gave a push and a twist, and it felt as if her shoulder had been skewered with a red-hot poker. Pain radiated through her body, all encompassing. She couldn't suck in enough air, and she lost consciousness.
When she woke it was still dark. She blinked and turned her head toward where she'd last seen Stephen.
"I'm here!"' he said, as if reading her mind. "Try moving your shoulder."
Her jaw tightened. The memory of the pain she had experienced before fainting came flooding back. She didn't want to move it. It would hurt too much. But she knew he'd only done what he'd felt necessary, so with a small grunt, she forced her arm to move.
And was astonished when it did. It hurt, quite badly still, but it was not beyond movement. In fact, at the moment the pain was completely bearable.
"You fixed it," she breathed, pushing herself to a sitting position. "How did you fix it?"
"It matters not now. Listen very carefully. We are running out of night, and darkness is our only friend. When I distract the guard I want you to quickly slip out the door and around the side of the cottage. From there you must tread carefully. Luthias has locked away most of the village's animals to protect himself from you, but there might still be some animals that could give away your presence." His hand closed over hers, hard and urgent. "You must speak to them, Deidra, let them know you mean no harm and they must be quiet."
She nodded.
His hand continued to grip hers firmly. "Get as far away as you can before dawn. I don't care how you manage it---steal a horse if you must, run all night---it matters not, just move fast and do not stop. No rests. Continue northwest until you arrive at Drake's lands. Only then should you rest. Once---"
"Wait!" Deidra hissed, overwhelmed by his insistent instructions. "Were will you be? Must I do this alone?"
His hand tightened on hers. "Aye, you must. I will stay here and send Luthias's witch hunt in the opposite direction. Away from you."
Panic streaked through her. She grabbed his arms, clinging to him. "No! I'm not leaving you. The guard will tell---I don't care how much you paid him. I'm a witch and you're the last one with me before I escape. Luthias will torture him and he will tell."
"No, he won't. He will disappear tonight, never to be seen again. They will assume you did it, some soil of witchcraft." He paused. "Besides, you didn't have any problem leaving me before."
Her eyes burned and her breath caught. She released him abruptly, angry and hurt that he would throw that in her face, yet knowing he was right. "That was different," she said, her voice a choked whisper.
He let out a rueful breath. "No, it was just the same. I slowed you down then and I still will. Nothing has changed. I am a cripple."
"I'm a cripple now, too."
His soft laugh was bitter. "You're hardly a cripple. Even with a sore shoulder you can move twice as fast as I can." His tone changed, deeply serious. "Make no mistake. Your shoulder feels better now, but it will swell and stiffen. Willow bark is the best thing for it; have Drake brew you some. But you must keep moving; it will keep the stiffness at bay, for a while at least."
Her eyes burned, her face felt hot and tight. Terror froze her limbs. She didn't want to leave him, to do this alone.
He gripped both of her hands. "You're strong and smart and beautiful, Deidra MacKay. You'll be fine. You do not need me or any other man!"'
She sniffed. That might or might not be true, but she still wanted one---she wanted this one. "What will you tell them?" she asked.
"When it is discovered you've escaped and the guard disappeared, I will tell them that I was correct---you are a blood witch. You healed yourself, then transformed your guard and yourself into animals to escape."
"Can blood witches do that?"
"I know not---but neither do they."
Deidra shut her eyes tightly, her heart contracting painfully in her chest. His boots scraped as he stood.
"Let's go."
He helped her to her feet. Pain radiated through her shoulder, but it was contained to her shoulder and she could move. She was no longer immobilized with pain. She became aware of a burning in her thigh. She lifted her skirt and touched the top of her thigh. It was crusted and tender.
"What happened to my leg?"
"Luthias stabbed you...to be sure you were truly insensible. You'll need to take care of it as soon as you're safe."
She dropped her skirt. She wanted to protest, to insist he come with her, but he was safer this way. If caught aiding her, he would be tried with her. And his idea to send them in the wrong direction was an excellent one. Perhaps when they didn't find her quickly he would be able to leave and join her at Drake's.
He led her to the door. She noticed that his limp was more pronounced, and guilt stabbed her afresh. No doubt her predicament had put additional strain on him. When had he last slept? He was right; he truly would slow her down.
Oddly, that knowledge did nothing to dampen her desire to be with him. It was strange that she had formed such a strong attachment to him. In spite of his back, he made her feel safe and cared for wanted. It moved something deep in her chest that he'd gone to so much trouble for her, placed himself in such danger.
He cracked the door, and a sliver of moonlight limned his profile, strong and handsome. What had he been like before the accident? As a whole man, he would have been beyond the reach of someone like Deidra MacKay, but now, altered as he was, he saw her and cared for her.
He closed the door and turned to her. Are you ready?"
She closed the distance between them and placed her palm against his chest. He went very still. She lifted onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. For a single heartbeat he did nothing. He didn't move or breathe. Then his arms came up around her, pulling her into him, his mouth warm and soft. She clung to him with her good arm, fear and lust twisting into something sharp in her belly. She was afraid of what would happen next, of losing this man and this feeling. His hands moved up her back as he kissed her, his tongue sliding warmly against hers. She shuddered, the sensations whipping through her, new and delicious.
When his hands cupped her shoulders, pain seared through her like a jagged piece of glass. She turned her head with a small cry, ending their kiss as she buried her head in his shoulder.
His whispered apologies ruffled the curls at her temple. His arms still held her, but delicately now, as if she were fragile as an eggshell.
"I'm fine," she said when she regained her breath. And she was---at least in comparison to how she'd felt earlier.
He set her away from him, his hands still rubbing her shoulders gently.
"You should go before the joint swells any more. Go to Drake and all will be fine. He can protect you." He pressed a fervent, lingering kiss to her forehead. Her heart reached out to him. What if she never saw him again?
As if reading her thoughts, he said, "I will see you again, Deidra, I vow it."
She nodded. She choked on the words; they stuck in her throat. There was so much she suddenly wanted to say to him, but there was no time.
He turned back to the door. After another brief peek outside, he opened the door wider.
"Now go," he said in an urgent whisper. Around the west side of the cottage---and do not stop until dawn."
He pushed her in the center of her back, breaking her inertia. She was out the door and moving quickly but silently around the side of the house. Her steps were inaudible in the soft grass.
She trusted him to take care of the guard, trusted him so much that she never even looked back. She turned the comer of the house and headed north.
The cottage was on the edge of a cluster of cottages. She only had to pass two more unseen, and then another hundred yards to the fields, where the wheat was tall enough to hide her if she bent low. And beyond that, the wood.
When she was at the last cottage, pressed against the outer wall, she finally looked back. But not because she was afraid or worried; because of the longing that tugged at her heart. She didn't want to go on without him. What would happen if Luthias figured it out? What would he do to Stephen?
So intense was the worry and longing that she almost turned back, but she stopped herself. He had gone through a great deal to help her. Her return could ruin everything.
She believed in his promise to see her again. She took a deep, cleansing breath and braced her shoulder with her hand---then ran as fast as she could toward the wheat and freedom.
Chapter 7
Wake. Wake. Danger. Hide. Deidra's eyelashes fluttered. Wake. Now.
She came awake immediately and lay very still. The moon hung low overhead, visible between a gap in the trees. She turned her head toward her companion.
The wolf stood just outside the pale light of the moon. She watched Deidra, eyes gleaming yellow.
Deidra had decided, while hiding in the waist-high wheat, breath sawing in and out of her burning lungs, that since she was suffering for magic she didn't even use, there was no more sense denying it. She was damned no matter what she did, so she might as well embrace it. Then, at least, if she burned for it, they would be justified.
She asked the wolf where the danger lay.
Animals did not communicate as humans did. There was no east or west to them; they did not perceive direction in such concrete terms. The wolf communicated senses and thoughts to her. This wolf sensed danger from the direction of the village she'd escaped from the night before. They were after her. Time to move.
She was on her feet, but unafraid. As long as she remained aware of her surroundings, she could stay one step ahead of the danger. The animals would help her with that.
The wolf turned and disappeared into the trees. Deidra followed. The wolf had come to her last night, in a dream, and when she'd awakened, there had been her new friend, sitting nearby, watching her. It didn't frighten her at all. Such things happened to her frequently. In the past she'd ignored it, which had puzzled the animals, since she had communicated with them in her sleep.
The wolf had a keen sense of direction and was able to understand where Deidra wanted to go. It had led her all day yesterday and had even fed her, bringing her a dead hare as an offering. Deidra normally did not eat flesh, but she made an exception out of respect to the wolf and uncertainty about her next meal. It had apparently watched over her all night.
Deidra didn't want to imagine what Luthias would make of this new development. Nothing that he didn't already believe, she supposed. It was too late to even care. She'd made her decision, and there was no going back.
Leaves and twigs crunched and cracked underfoot, sounding obscenely loud in the silent forest. Her wolf companion tread silently, not a single sound coming from her soft padding. Deidra paused, suddenly aware of how odd the absolute silence was. No a single sound, not even the soft buzzing of insects, broke the quiet. She scanned her surroundings cautiously, overwhelmed with the sensation of being watched. She looked at the wolf, but her friend had disappeared.
Deidra's heart leaped, and she called out to the wolf in her mind, panicked at being alone. A branch snapped loudly to her right. Deidra whirled toward the sound.
A boy appeared from the trees and froze the moment he sighted Deidra. His eyes widened so that the whites glared at her and his mouth opened and closed, though no sound issued forth.
Deidra shook her head frantically. "No, no. Shhh!"
But the boy paid her protest no mind---he was working up a scream. He dropped the bow he held and opened his mouth, his chest rising in spasmodic gasps as he prepared to let loose. But before a single sound issued forth from his lips, the wolf flew out of the trees and knocked the boy off his feet.
A shock reverberated through Deidra, almost as if the wolf had attacked her, and she rushed forward. No, her mind screamed at the wolf, but it was too late. The boy had never had a chance. His feet twitched, then went still.
Deidra froze, hands clapped to her mouth. No, no, no, oh, God no. The scream rose in her mind, spiraling around so that she thought she might be sick. How could she have been so arrogant, so foolish? This was why she'd stopped communicating with animals all those years ago. They thought she was one of them; one of them, but more. A leader, a god, and they protected her as such. Her fingers curled into her face. Did she really think anything had changed? She could not control the beasts.
Her feet were rooted to the ground, her heart squeezing in her chest as she stared at the boy, at his still feet, and the wolf feeding on him, ignoring her pleas to stop, stop, stop, please stop. It was ruled by the bloodlust now.
"Adam?" The voice rang out through the trees.
The wolf's bloody snout jerked up, its ears pricked forward. Danger.
Run, Deidra ordered. The wolf darted into the trees. This time Deidra touched the creatures mind as it left, assuring herself that it was not just hiding for a new attack. She implored it to keep moving and wait for her somewhere ahead, then prayed that it would obey her this time.
She tried to look away from the lad, from his bloody rended throat glistening wetly in the moonlight. The wolf had done that to protect her A lone wolf did not attack without provocation. Although she was repulsed, she also knew the wolf was not to blame. It was her fault. She had not made her wishes clear.
This...this senseless death was what happened when she meddled with things she couldn't control.
"Adam!" The call came again, forcing Deidra to move.
She ran blindly into the wood, following the wolf. Branches slapped at her face, brambles and roots caught at her feet. The sound of her heart and her breath heaving in her chest filled her ears. Her foot caught on a rock and she went down hard.
She lay on the ground, the horror of what she was responsible for wringing sobs of revulsion from her. She didn't have the energy to go on, to even move, so she cried there, face in the dirt, tears wetting the ground until there were no more. And when they finally dried up, she just lay there, exhausted, not having the strength of heart to do any more. She didn't care if they caught her. She deserved it. Perhaps she should go back and give herself up.
A wet, cold nose nuzzled at her hair, and she shrank away. She came to her feet and wiped the wet grime from her face. Yellow eyes stared back at her. Though the wolf could not articulate it's thoughts in language, it understood what she contemplated and chastised her for a fool by sending her an image of herself engulfed in flames. The wolf was right; she didn't want to bum.
Time to move again.
After lying motionless on the cold ground, her shoulder and thigh protested movement. She gritted her teeth and ran after the wolf through the night. Her sides ached, her chest burned, her shoulder and arm were one blazing limb of fire, and the wound in her thigh throbbed, but she didn't stop until the black towers of her uncle's stronghold were in sight.
Creaghaven was an ancient keep, destroyed and rebuilt over the years. It sat on a man-made motte and was surrounded by a sea of jagged creags jutting up out of the ground on every side. Even a well-shod horse could not easily make it to the gates, at least not with any speed. And forget about maneuvering siege machines anywhere near the walls. The price of such safety, however, was isolation.
She picked her way wearily through the forest of rocks, limping slowly and wincing when she stepped on a sharp stone protruding from the ground. There was no sign of life outside the castle or on it's walls---not even a lit torch. No doubt her uncle had few visitors to this remote and barren location and saw no point in wasting the fuel. She had arrived from the east, through the forest rather than the main road. She'd had to walk the berm and circle the curtain wall before arriving at the front gate. Perhaps they just hadn't seen her.
She pulled the rope that dangled down beside the portcullis. A sharp clang shattered the quiet. She rang twice, then waited.
It was evening; he should be up and about. Even if he wasn't, he had servants who would be.
It seemed a very long time before the porter's window opened in the door beside the gate. An unfamiliar face peered at her from beneath thick brows. It was night, but the moon was bright. Still, they were in the shadows, and his eyes looked like empty black holes burned into his head.
"Whot?" he snapped. "I am here to see my uncle, Drake MacKay."
The thick brows lowered. "Uncle, eh?" His head moved as he scanned her from head to toe. She didn't imagine he could see much more of her than she could of him. "Your name?"
"Deidra MacKay."
The window slammed shut, and Deidra was left to wait again.
The exercise of travel had kept her warm, but now, waiting in the darkness, the chill seeped through her clothes. She shivered, running her hands up and down her arms.
Drake had always been very different from her father, but He'd never been the "odd" one. No, that had been reserved for William MacKay, a witch. Drake had been born perfectly normal and nonmagical. But nevertheless he had not been able to escape the family's legacy of oddness. It had happened seven years ago, when his wife had died. It had been an unusual situation for many reasons---the first being that friends and family of the MacKays died infrequently. In fact, far less frequently than everyone else. They tended to live to ripe old ages, usually ailment free. Except Ceara.
Drake had been distraught over his brother's failure. So He'd taken her to a blood witch to make a pact. No one knew anything past that. Whatever had happened, Ceara had died.
Drake had not been the same afterward. His visits had become infrequent and had finally stopped altogether. He'd retreated to this stronghold in the more remote area of the Highlands, and the rumors had flourished. Drake kept the dead body of his wife preserved in salt and he still searched for a cure. He was mad and didn't realize she was dead. He dressed her corpse and conversed with it. Deidra didn't believe the stories.
A great amount of time passed while Deidra paced outside the gate, trying to stay warm and growing increasingly concerned. She was about to ring the bell again when the slide of the latch made her straighten. The door swung open with a creak.
Her uncle filled the doorway, staring down at her as if she was a ghost.
He had changed---so much so that she could only stare at him in astonishment. The first and most remarkable thing that she noted about his appearance was his beard---full and lush and black, it hung down his chest in a tangled riot of curls.
His hair had grown long too. He tied it at his nape, but locks of curls escaped to hang beside his face.
They stared at each other for a long moment before Deidra broke the silence with a tentative, "Uncle Drake? Is that you!"
He blinked as if coming out of a dream. "Deidra? What are you doing here?" His voice was rough and cracked when he spoke, as if he didn't do it very often.
Deidra's mouth opened, but nothing came out. She didn't know where to start. Finally she said, "I'm in trouble."
Drake stepped back and opened the door wider so Deidra could enter. She hurried in, the fear and watchfulness falling away like a cloak. She felt safe for the first time in days.
"Are you being followed?" he asked.
"I know not.. .but I don't think so."
He gestured to someone on the walls, and moments later a handful of men appeared. "Secure the perimeter around the castle."
The wolf was still outside the castle. It had become alarmed at her entrance into the curtain walls. Deidra soothed it with her mind and urged it to go out on its own. She warned it about the men and told it to get far away from here. She didn't know if it obeyed.
Drake led her into the keep. It was an old structure, built many years ago.
Rather than fireplaces lining the walls like the more modem structures, fire pits ran up the center of the great hall, all of them currently cold.
From the great hall he led her to a staircase. They climbed to the next level. At the top of the stairs was a large room hung with colorful tapestries. Fur rugs covered the floor, and a fire blazed in a new stone fireplace, obviously built within the past decade.
He sat at a long wooden table and gestured for her to do the same. She winced when she sat, and he asked sharply, "You are hurt?"
"My shoulder. Dislocated. Stephen reset it.. .but it still hurts."
Drake nodded and gestured to someone across the room. "A willow bark infusion, posthaste."
The woman returned a few minutes later with a small pot and a cup. She poured the infusion for Deidra and handed her the cup. Deidra smiled gratefully, wrapping her hands around the warm clay and sipping the healing beverage.
"So," he said when she was finally settled in the chair opposite him. "What sort of trouble are you in?"
She recounted the whole story, beginning with Luthias sniffing around Strathwick and ending with her escape from the village.
Drake listened pensively to her tale, combing some of the tangles from his beard with his fingers. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed a finger at her.
"There is something else---something you left out."
How could he know that? Her gaze dropped to her hands, wrapped around the cup. She feared it was all there anyway, all of her sins, written in her eyes. "I...I killed a boy."
When he didn't respond, she looked up. His hand had paused in its combing.
"You killed a boy? How did such a thing occur!"
She swallowed, eyes downcast again, fixed on the empty bottom of the cup. "I am speaking to the animals again!"' Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. "A wolf led me through the forest...helped me.. .protected me.. .then killed for me."
"Ah..." The word was released on a breath of understanding. "You ordered the wolf to kill the boy."
She shook her head vigorously. "No, never."
"So the wolf killed the boy without your consent?"
Her head jerked up, her mouth a thin line. "I did not give my consent, but I may as well have given the order."
"But you didn't. And you wouldn't have, would you?"
Her mouth grew tighter, harder. When she didn't answer him, he smiled grimly.
"No, of course you wouldn't. You're not like me. I'd kill for much less."
Deidra sat back in her chair, taken aback by his admission. He did not elaborate.
"Stop being a martyr and move past it. It wasn't your fault. Trial and error---this is the way of all learning, and you, my dear niece, are relearning your gift."
"It's a life, not an error," she said through gritted teeth. "That boy is dead"
Drake smiled back, his white teeth bared in his black beard. "Aye, and we are the MacKays; we play with life and death. That is what we do. So move past it, lass, or you will never make it in this world."
Deidra's lips trembled with anger and guilt, but she said not another word.
After a moment Drake exhaled a loud sigh. "We have two problems. Stephen Ross's safety and your nemesis, Luthias Forsyth. Assuming Stephen is as clever as I recall---"
Deidra nodded confidently. He was very clever. "Oh, he is."
Drake's brow twitched before he continued. "Then he is probably still safe and Luthias thinks they are the very best of friends." He looked skyward, fingers toying with the hair beneath his bottom lip. "There is really only one thing to do. Luthias Forsyth must disappear. Forever."
Deidra swallowed hard and nodded. He was right. She didn't relish the idea of murder, but in this case, if she didn't, he would kill her. And from the way he'd spoken, he no longer had any qualms about coming after her parents. He was a danger to all of them now.
"What about this other notion---of the baobhan sith? Have you given up on it now that you're communing with beasts again?"
Deidra sighed and shrugged. "I know not. Stephen is more determined than ever to find the blood witch."
Drake frowned slightly. "What has that to do with you?"
"Well, I...I...," she stuttered on for a moment before clamping her lips shut.
He watched her patiently with raised brows.
She exhaled impatiently through her nose and continued, "I don't see what a blood witch could possibly do for him."
"A great deal," Drake said. "End his pain, for one. His back injury---he doesna fake that for sympathy, Dee-dee." He leaned forward, dark blue eyes intense, mouth a grim line in his beard. Only her father and Drake had ever addressed her by that endearment, and she shrank a little in her chair, feeling like a child again. "Do you know what it's like to live alone, to suffer in silence because no one cares?"
Deidra shook her head. "What are you saying? Many people care about Stephen.
He is the one who chose to live a recluse, shut away from the love of---"
"Love?" Drake's voice rose angrily. "Pity is not the same thing. Do not confuse them."
Pity. Deidra's brows lowered in confusion. They were clearly not speaking only of Stephen.
"Who are you talking about, Uncle Drake? No one pities you. You choose to stay away."
He sat back in his chair and looked to the side. "That's because no one understands. No one can ever understand until they live it."
Deidra certainly didn't understand. He was comparing his situation to Stephen's, yet their situations were nothing alike.
"How is becoming a bloodsucking night crawler a good alternative to being a cripple?"
Drake's mouth flattened. "It's better than a half-life or no life at all."
"So you think he should go to the baobhan sith and become one?"
Drake turned back toward her, the tight set of his shoulders relaxing as the fight drained out of him. "I know not without talking to Stephen. But it matters not. It would not serve him. She will not help anyway."
The breath left Deidra in a rush. "So the baobhan sith is real?" Drake hesitated a moment before shrugging. "I assume so. In truth, I saw no proof that she was a blood witch. But the surrounding villagers believed she was and left offerings to her."
"Offerings?" Deidra frowned dubiously. "That sounds primitive. Why would they tolerate a witch in such a climate as ours? They could easily have her killed with no repercussions."
Drake smiled. His gaze was fixed on something above and beyond her. "Aye, you'd think. But she has them scared. They said they'd tried it before and it had ended badly for the leaders of the revolt. So now they are obedient wee sheep."
This worried Deidra. It was not safe for Stephen to travel so far and into such treacherous country. Especially if it was all for naught.
"We should try to stop him!"' Deidra mumbled.
Her uncle gazed at her, his brows drawn together in a perplexed frown. "Methinks, lass, you have more important things to worry about. For instance, how we're going to make Mr. Forsyth disappear."
Deidra's cheeks flamed. She raised her chin and said, "Of course. I thought you had a plan already."
"Well, nothing so solid as stone yet. We need your father. And mayhap Philip Kilpatrick. The earl of Kincreag would be useful too."
Deidra shook her head. "There's no time for that."
"Does your father even know you're here?"
Deidra cast her gaze downward. She had tried very hard not to think of her father. She knew he was worried sick and probably angry that she had not trusted him. She did trust him, but she didn't want him involved with Luthias. She didn't want Luthias's obsession to encompass her father. But it was too late, and the only way to protect her father was to kill Luthias.
"He doesn't know."
Drake cursed under his breath and stood. "Well, we cannot do aught until we send him word and he arrives."
"No." Deidra stood too, palms on the table. "Luthias wants him and Rose now, too. We must leave them out of it. I pray you."
She saw the concern in her uncle's eyes and knew she had won this round.
He nodded thoughtfully. "Whatever we do, we will have to use you as bait."
"Me?" Deidra sagged back in her chair, dread settling on her chest. "Why?"
"Because he is obsessed with you. You are the elixir that frames his existence. He wants you badly enough to do something foolish if he thinks it will gain your capture."
He was correct, of course, though she hated to admit it. "So how do we do that? He doesn't travel alone anymore. He has guards, mercenaries. I don't know how many."
Drake waved this away as insignificant. "I have men, too. I am not worried about his mercenaries. But we do need him somewhere remote. We do not want witnesses."
Deidra felt unclean, sitting here plotting a man's death. But there seemed no other alternative. It was him or her, she reminded herself, so she must get past the guilt. It certainly didn't seem to faze her uncle. He looked thoughtful but not the least bit disturbed.
The boy from the woods appeared in her mind, his face, trying to scream. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the image away, but it was burned in her mind. Maybe she deserved whatever Luthias Forsyth wished to do to her.
Drake stood. "Come, you are tired, no doubt, and in need of a bath and a meal, and more willow bark tea. Once you are clean and fed and get some sleep, your mind will be clearer."
Deidra sighed and rubbed her hands over her face. He was right. She hadn't slept well in weeks. Her shoulder did feel somewhat better, but sleeping in a comfortable bed would speed the healing process more than anything else.
She blearily followed her uncle as he led her through the keep. He deposited her in a small but comfortable room, and moments later a woman came in with soup and bread and fresh water to wash with.
With a full belly and clean face and ears, she slid beneath the fur blankets and tried to sleep. Her eyes burned with exhaustion, her head hurt, but sleep eluded her. The boy...had his body been discovered? Did Luthias suspect it was her? Of course he did. And where was Stephen? Was he safe? Or was he paying for helping her with his life? How would she even know?
She touched her mouth, remembering that last kiss and how she'd wanted to cling to him. She sent up a prayer. If there is a God and He listens to witches, please don't let that be our last kiss.
Stephen had meant to follow Deidra the very next day. Unfortunately, all that exercise had done nothing for his back. It was stiff and aching, and when he woke that morning he could barely walk without knives of pain shooting down his thighs. There would be no travel for him today.
No, his first priority was laudanum. He had given the last of his stash to Deidra when He'd reset her shoulder. Unfortunately, in a village such as this, there was none to be had, and with the healer gone, there was no one to treat him with the local fauna. In lieu of poppy juice, he usually medicated with whisky, but he couldn't take the chance of acting foolishly and talking out of turn.
There was precious little he could do but bear up and wait it out. He had expected some questions from Luthias about Deidra's disappearance, but losing the guard had been a stroke of brilliance on Stephen's part. Luthias had assumed her escape had been a product of magic or the guard's treachery. Either way, Stephen was in the clear.
Stephen currently lodged at the baker's, paying a king's ransom for a heather mattress on the floor and as much bread and ale as he cared to eat. Luthias visited him there the next morning.
With the help of the bakers wife, a rolled blanket was pushed beneath Stephen's back so that he could sit. Duke reclined on the floor beside the bed, but when Luthias appeared, the dog got to his feet and trotted out.
Luthias didn't seem to notice. He pulled up a stool and seemed uncharacteristically unaware of his surroundings. He rubbed his hands together, his lips a thin, harsh line, gray eyes darting about the room. His leg jigged nervously.
"You say that the baobhan sith are capable of such rapid healing? What of the guard?"
Stephen shrugged. "I know not. Perhaps she turned him into one."
Luthias's head turned sharply as he pinned Stephen with a surprised look. "She can do that? Transform humans into blood witches?"
Stephen nodded.
"And does one then bow to her wishes? Become her slave?"
"Slave?" Stephen considered this. Why not? He was creating this fiction as he went along anyway. Aye, though slave isn't exactly how I would term it. They have a will of their own, but they see her as their creator and owe her a debt."
Luthias's slate eyes slanted right and left with alarm. "She could create armies of blood witches, all under her command."
Stephen watched him, trying not to reveal his unease. It seemed everything he said led Luthias to some unanticipated and very unhelpful conclusion. Luthias was becoming genuinely anxious, and in such a man, anxiety led to only one thing: action.
Stephen had to get out of here.
"No doubt she returned to her home, the seat of her power." He would send word to the MacKays, warn them to dispose of this nuisance of a human once and for all, while he found Deidra and went on to the blood witch.
Luthias's gaze focused on something far away. His brows furrowed. "Mayhap not. She can surround herself with underlings and animals any time she pleases. She has no need to go home." He rubbed a hand over his face. "No, I don't believe she has gone far. My men are searching the surrounding wood. I will let you know if we find something."
And he left. The man's obsession irritated Stephen. He would never give up. He would stalk Deidra until one of them was dead. Stephen would make sure it was Luthias.
He prayed she was on her way to Drake's and would soon be safe. In fact, it surprised him to realize how fervently he wished for her safety. She had come to depend on him, and to someone like Stephen that meant a great deal. He would not fail her.
He cursed his back and decided to hell with it---he was going anyway. This was too important. It couldn't wait on his damned back. He packed his things, moving as fast as his pain would allow, and fetched Countess. He was beginning to think they would make it out of the village unharassed when the sound of pounding hooves made him draw rein and bring Countess around to see who followed.
It was Luthias, with a handful of men behind him.
Stephen mentally braced himself but gave the witch hunter a pleasant look. Duke, however, was not inclined to fake it. The dog lowered his front paws and barked incessantly at Luthias.
"Leaving so soon?" Luthias said, nearly shouting to be heard over the din of Dukes barking. "We haven't even found her yet."
Stephen gave Duke a sharp command and the dog fell silent. He lay on his belly, head erect, watching Luthias closely.
"Aye, but I have my own theories. Methinks she returned to her family, so that's where I am headed. And if not..." Stephen shrugged. "You said her family is blood witches, too---so I find what I search for either way."
"I wouldn't recommend going there alone."
"I can handle them."
Luthias shook his head, a small smirk on his lips. "Write me if you have any success. I'll add it to my book."
He turned his horse neatly on it's hocks---a move that hurt Stephen's back just watching it---and returned to the village with his men.
MacKay lands were actually in the opposite direction from where Stephen really wanted to go. But he couldn't chance leading Luthias toward Drake and Deidra. So he went several miles out of his way before heading west. It would take him longer this way, but there was no help for it.
By the time he stopped for the night, he felt as if he had made no progress at all past killing his back. All He'd done was circle the town---south, then west, and finally north again. He stared into the fire, wondering if it was possible to stop Luthias, wondering if he should turn back now and kill the man with his bare hands. Duke whined and curled closer, as if sensing Stephen's violent thoughts. Stephen sighed and lay back, imagining Deidra's hands on him, rubbing the ache from his muscles and then laying with him, her body pressed close to keep him warm.
They'd gotten lucky this time. Luthias would not be so easily fooled again. And the only way Stephen stood a chance against him was by being a whole man. More than whole.
A baobhan sith.
Two days had passed at Creaghaven, and Deidra was growing restless. Her shoulder had improved. Drake had kept a steady infusion of the willow bark in her belly and urged her to rest. As she had nothing better to do while waiting for Stephen, she complied without argument. Her shoulder still ached and it was a bit tender, but she didn't feel it would hamper travel. If not for Stephen, who knew what condition her shoulder might have been in? That made her laugh. If he had not rescued her, her shoulder would have been the least of her worries. She probably would not even be alive.
Her humor faded in her concern for him. She had spent the morning on the curtain wall, gazing out over Drake's lands as far as the eye could see, searching for Stephen. Was he alive? And if he was, would he come here? Or go straight to the baobhan sith? He had vowed that he would see her again. Vowed. She believed him. She just didn't know when he planned to see her again.
That thought gnawed at her belly. As the day wore on, Deidra grew anxious for action, certain that while she idled about, he'd gone off to see the blood witch without her. That's when she remembered something she had done as a child---a game of sorts. She sent her mind out like a net, touching the minds of animals near and far, trying to determine if they had been startled by a stranger nearby. Not even the most intelligent animal could identify Stephen without having known him before, but they could acknowledge that someone new was nearby.
She was about to give up when a hawk replied with an image of a man on horseback, a black dog trotting along beside them.
Stephen.
And he didn't look well. Countess moved very slowly, and Stephen slumped forward in an unnatural position. She touched Countess's mind and found the horse distressed by her master's behavior. Countess knew something was wrong.
Heart pumping and breath coming in short gasps, Deidra hurried down the ladder and into the stable, crashing into her uncle. He grabbed her shoulders to steady her.
"Ho, now. What is it, lass?"
"Stephen! He's here. And he looks hurt." She wrenched away from him and led her horse from its stall.
Drake grabbed her again. "Wait just a tic, lassie. What mean ye to do? Carry him on your back?"
She tossed curls out of her eyes. "If I must."
"Just calm yourself. Let me get a wagon and well go fetch him."
"Get the wagon and meet me." She yanked her arm away amidst his irritated cursing and slid onto the horses back, saddle-less. Hands wrapped in the mares mane, Deidra tapped her sides and told her where to go.
Since she had begun speaking to animals again, she'd become acquainted with her mount and had even named her. Blue Bonnet, or Blue for short. The horse had a fascination with eating flowers. Deidra found riding so much easier when the horse could communicate with her about weight shifts and what was more comfortable. Currently, Blue didn't care for being ridden bareback but understood the urgency of the matter.
Deidra slid off the horse's back the moment she spotted Stephen. He didn't look nearly as poor as he had from the bird's-eye view; in fact, he was surprised to see her, straightening in the saddle and drawing rein.
"Deidra! Greetings." He extended a hand to her, pleasure lighting his pale eyes.
She clasped it in both of hers. Duke danced and yipped around her legs. With her mind, she asked the dog to calm down, and he immediately sat down on his haunches.
"How are you?" she asked. "Are you well? Uncle Drake is bringing a wagon for you to ride in the rest of the way."
The pleasure disappeared from his eyes and his brows lowered. "What is this? A wagon?" His jaw tightened and the skin of his neck flushed. He pulled his hand away from hers. "Why don't you just bring a litter for me to lie in?"
Deidra hesitated. He did not seem pleased by her concern. "Would that have been better?"
"Do I look like I need a wagon?"
Deidra's brows raised nearly to her hairline, uncertain how to answer him. She knew how the ride had worn on him. She knew he was in pain, regardless of how he currently looked.
He studied her face and his mouth hardened. "I told you I could make this journey and that I would be fine."
Deidra took a step back. "But you weren't that first night---"
The sound of hoofbeats and the creak and crunch of wagon wheels approaching drew their attention. Duke started to stand, an excited bark rising in his chest, but again Deidra stayed him. He was growing unhappy with her interference.
Drake rode on horseback beside a narrow wagon driven by an old man. It was slow going with such treacherous terrain.
When Deidra looked back at Stephen, his face was an emotionless mask. He gave her one last empty stare and tapped Countess's sides. He rode right past Drake without a word. His posture was erect, and Deidra could only imagine the pain it caused him to maintain it. Loyalty won out and Duke raced after him.
Drake and the wagon driver stopped and watched Stephen's retreating back before turning back to Deidra.
Deidra slowly walked toward her uncle, though her gaze remained on Stephen.
"He looks well enough to me," Drake said.
"He hides his pain." Deidra's chest hurt. She was confused. He was angry, she could see that, and he was in pain, and somehow it all felt like her fault.
Drake stroked at his beard. "Do you think he recognized me?"
Deidra shrugged, remounting Blue. She returned to the castle, riding beside her uncle. "I think he is vexed with me."
"You think?" Drake said, his tone dry.
"You agree with his ire?"
"Well, I ken I would be a bit irritated if I was treated like an invalid by a bonny woman when I'm clearly not."
Deidra let out an exasperated breath. "What do you mean? I was showing concern for him. I was trying to help."
"It doesn't feel too manly when you have to be carted about like a wean.
Especially if your woman thinks you're so weakly."
Deidra's face flushed. "What?" Her voice cracked on the high warbling note, and she averted her eyes from his perceptive stare. "I am not his woman. And I don't think he's weakly. He's very strong. It's just his back.. .it hurts him."
When she glanced back at her uncle, he smiled slyly at her in his beard. "You're right, lassie. You'll never be his woman if you keep coddling him."
Deidra's throat tightened and her cheeks flamed. She kept her gaze straight ahead the remainder of the ride. But what Drake said had struck a nerve and rubbed it raw.
His back felt as if a swarm of angry bees had stung him over and over and over again---were in fact still trapped in his shirt, stinging and stinging. But he bore up through it all. The castle gates were still open and he passed through without harassment, riding Countess straight to the stables. He had a few minutes alone there, and he intended to use every second dismounting without an audience.
He was standing beside Countess, face pressed into the saddle, still waiting for the throbbing pain to abate just the slightest bit, when they entered. He forced himself to straighten.
He couldn't even look at Deidra. He'd thought about her every step of the journey, worried about whether or not she had arrived safely and how her shoulder fared. And then she'd ridden out to meet him. It had surprised him, pleased him excessively.. .until she'd informed him of the wagon on the way to fetch him.
He had hoped, after all that had transpired between them, that when she looked at him again she would see something other than a cripple. Unfortunately, nothing had changed. Except now, instead of being impatient with him, she pitied him, felt a sense of responsibility.
He unsaddled Countess with rough movements, ignoring how every movement sent pain lancing through his back. They all worked in silence. Drake and his servant unhitched the horse from the wagon. Deidra and Stephen brushed the horses and gave them fresh hay and water. Deidra sent him furtive looks the whole while. She knew he was upset, but he wondered if she even knew why. He wasn't about to tell her now. He could barely think through the pain. He needed rest before he could contemplate anything else.
Thankfully, Drake said, "You must be hungry."
The three of them had gathered near the stable door.
"Aye, I am," Stephen said. "But it's been a long ride. A bed would not be unwelcome."
"I'll get you some food. Deidra? Why don't you find him a bed?"
Stephen barely managed not to groan. Now he would have to be alone with her and she would want to talk. He had nothing to say to her now, not when he used every last ounce of energy to hide the fact that the bones of his spine were rubbing together like gravel. He followed her into the keep, keeping his face stoic and emotionless to discourage conversation.
"How did you get away from Luthias?" she asked.
"I just left."
She glanced at him over her shoulder.
Concern filled her huge blue eyes. She was so beautiful it almost hurt his eyes to look at her. Her hair was clean and springing with dark curls, her fine-grained skin glowing with health, her bottom lip red and swollen from gnawing on it with worry. He wanted to take that lip between his teeth---
"He didn't suspect anything?" she asked, tearing him from his fantasy and back into the world of pain.
"No," he said, scowling at her. "I told you I could handle it, that it would all be fine. Do you not believe me capable?"
Deidra shook her head. "No, that's not it at all. I was just worried. I don't know what I would have done without your help." "Burned."
She swallowed hard, hand on a door latch. Quite suddenly the anger hit him like a fist in the gut. Once he had been strong. No one had doubted what he was capable of. But now he was pitied and forced to accept help from people that by all rights should need him. And she did need him. She would have burned if not for him, would be dead now, and yet still she treated him like a mewling child. He was sick of it. Not just from her but from everyone. It was why he had retreated to Braighde Pele. He wanted to grab her and shake her and show her exactly what he was capable of. Instead he brushed past her as she swung the door open and dumped his things on the floor.
The room was small, in keeping with the rest of the keep, but well tended. A large, comfortable-looking bed sat in the comer, and a table and chairs were placed against the wall near the door. Deidra lit the brazier next to the bed to warm the room.
"This will do." It would more than do. He gazed longingly at the bed, wanting her gone so he could collapse onto it. Hopefully, a woman would come with his food and he could entice her into a deep back rub.
As if reading his mind, Deidra suggested tentatively, "I could rub your back."
The muscles around his spine contracted painfully at the very thought. God, he wanted her to. She was good at it---better than good, sinful. But no. She offered out of pity and the need to repay him for what he'd done. He'd had his fill of pity.
"Just leave."
He kept his back to her, to hide the pain contorting his face. Leave. Just leave.
She didn't leave immediately, and he nearly growled at her again to go when he heard the quiet latch of the door as she shut it.
His shoulders sagged and he let his head drop forward. God, he hurt. He trudged to the bed and knelt on it.
"Here, let me help you!"' Deidra said as she grabbed his boot.
He did whirl then, startled and angry. He'd thought she was gone, but she'd stayed, damn her. "I told you to leave!" His words came out harsh and angry because the move had wrenched his back.
She didn't back down but stood before him, chin thrust out. "You need me. You need help."
He leaned forward so that his nose nearly touched hers. "Not how you think, lass. You stay and you'll get more than you wagered for."
"You're all threats."
The fury bubbled up inside him. She was partly right, and that's what chafed. He was full of steam and threats, and she knew that he was in too much pain to carry them out. But damn it, that's what made him so angry. She thought she knew him. Thought she knew all he was capable of because he was crippled. She knew nothing.
The anger throbbing in his temple dulled the pain in his back, sent power to his limbs. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her hard against him. A small, satisfying gasp of surprise escaped from her lips before he crushed them with his own.
She was stiff with surprise, her palms pressed against his chest. He worked her lips, kissing and nuzzling, pressing into her mouth with his tongue. Her body softened, her lips parting for him, letting him in.
A groan of pleasure rumbled through him and his hands slid down to stroke her back, to press her in closer to his aching erection. He could do this and more, just as well as any other man. Her arms wrapped around him, slim fingers sliding beneath the leather of his jack, cool through the linen of his shirt. His pain faded to a small ache, and he thought he might die if he couldn't be inside her, whatever the cost to his back later.
Using his fingers, he pulled her skirt up until his fingers brushed bare thigh. He slid his hand up over her skin, open palmed. It was soft as silk, and firm. She whimpered, her breathing coming faster. When he cupped her bottom, her leg came up, wrapped around his thigh, and he couldn't wait another moment.
He backed her toward the bed, tasting her small, perfect chin, the smooth line of her throat. The backs of her thighs hit the bed, but before he could push her backwards, she gripped his biceps hard and pulled back.
"Wait," she said, gazing up at him with lust-hazed eyes.
His fingers slid between her legs, stopping her thought instantly. He saw her eyes go blank as he stroked at her. Her fingers dug into him, and the leg wrapped beautifully around him tightened and flexed. Ah, yes, he could see that she had forgotten he was a cripple, or anything else. She only knew that he could make her feel wonderful, just as she sometimes made him feel. And for this one small moment, that was enough.
He slid a finger inside her and burrowed his other hand under her skirt to rub at her nub. Her body contracted around his finger and her head fell back. She cried out, her head snapping back to bury against his chest as her body climaxed. She shuddered against him for a moment before raising her head and blinking dazedly at him.
He kissed her again. She was ready for him now. He wanted to be inside her, those legs wrapped tight around him. His cock ached in anticipation. He would take her hard and quick the first time, but then...
He started to ease her back on the bed, but she stopped him again. "Wait, Stephen."
He sighed with strained patience. "What is it, sweet?" He kissed the corner of her mouth, the tip of her ear. He stroked at her thighs, showing her it wasn't over---it was just beginning.
She swallowed hard and said, "What about your back? Surely this will make the pain unbearable..."
And she twisted the knife in his pride, making him less again. He released her abruptly and moved away, raking a hand through his hair. He felt sick with anger and disgust. He could tell her the truth---that there were ways to make love that would not hurt him at all. But that would involve admitting that he had to take certain precautions because he was a cripple. He would not do that. Not with her.
"Get out, Deidra."
"But Stephen---"
"Get out." He ground the words through his teeth, cutting off any protest from her.
"And Lord help me, if I turn around after that door closes and still find you here, I cannot be responsible for what I might do."
He waited, hands on hips, and a second later the door closed. He turned, the anger and frustration still built up in his chest, making it feel too tight.
This time she was gone.
Deidra woke to a flood of shame and anger the next morning. She lay on her bed, eyes closed, the day before playing out over and over again behind her eyelids. She still was not certain what exactly had happened. She pressed her cold palms to her hot cheeks, but it did nothing to cool the bum in her body.
She had only been trying to help him. Why couldn't he see that and understand? Everything she did to help only seemed to make him angrier. And what really confused her was the fact that he had allowed her to rub his back once before. He had quite enjoyed it then. What had changed? Now her offer only infuriated him.
She sensed her companions before she actually saw them. When she sat up, they were clustered around the room---animals. Duke had found his way into her room and now sprawled at the end of her bed. His pleasure at her finally being awake was palpable. He licked the air, then belly-crawled across the fur blanket to her so she could scratch his ears.
Another dog lay on the floor near the door, along with several cats and a bird.
Deidra knew there would have been even more if there hadn't been so many predators gathered in one place. The small ones hid.
The other animals reacted to Deidra's rousing, sitting up, tails wagging, approaching the bed. The bird, a small brown-and-yellow thing, chirped and bounced on the windowsill.
They usually wanted nothing more than to be close to her. It had pleased her as a child that they'd thought of her as some kind of mother god. It distressed her as an adult. Too frequently, she had to guard her thoughts because the animals would act on them without her making any requests at all.
Deidra knew there would have been even more if there hadn't been so many predators gathered in one place. The small ones hid.
The other animals reacted to Deidra's rousing, sitting up, tails wagging, approaching the bed. The bird, a small brown-and-yellow thing, chirped and bounced on the windowsill.
They usually wanted nothing more than to be close to her. It had pleased her as a child that they'd thought of her as some kind of mother god. It distressed her as an adult. Too frequently, she had to guard her thoughts because the animals would act on them without her making any requests at all.
phen vigorously rubbed his hand over the dogs ears and back.
"You look like hell, Dee!"' her uncle said, eyes narrowed on hers. "Did you sleep at all last night?"
Deidra's mouth flattened, irritated that her uncle had called attention to the dark half circles under her eyes. "I slept fine." Which was a lie. The animals had been in her head last night, all night. And then of course there had been the incident with Stephen. She had left him, aroused and hurt and confused---none of which had been conducive to sleep.
Stephen watched her but said not a single word. Her eyes met the question in his, then darted away. Being near him made her suddenly and excessively nervous. She took a piece of bread from the basket and tore off the crust.
"So, uhm...what are we going to do?" she asked, nibbling on the bread crust.
"I told you," Drake said. "We have to lure Luthias here or somewhere near, at least. Then kill him."
Stephen rubbed the back of his hand against his chin, and it rasped along the whiskers. The memory of those same whiskers chafing the sensitive skin of her face, of those hands slipping between her thighs, made her face flame, and she prayed he did not notice. She had to look away, down at her bread. She tore off several more pieces, but her stomach was too knotted to actually eat them.
Stephen said, "The witch hunter is obsessed with her. So long as he knows Deidra is here, he will come." He paused. "I can send him word that Id heard you came this way."
He was addressing her directly. She glanced up, found that pale blue gaze on her, and looked right back down at her bread.
She was grateful when Drake spoke---something nonthreatening to look at. "No, a letter is no good. Someone else might read it. It could get lost or left behind. If discovered, the finger could be pointed at either one of you---or both, if they know you are..." Drake's brows raised, and he sat back in his chair. "Well, whatever the two of you are."
Deidra looked quickly between Drake and Stephen, stunned and embarrassed that her uncle had said such a thing. Stephen only watched her closely, his own face expressionless.
When Deidra could finally speak, she sputtered, "What do you mean? We are nothing...er, friends. That is all."
Her statement was met with silence from both men. She searched frantically for something to say, her mind dwelling on the interlude with Stephen last night, his mouth, his hands...hardly the marks of mere friendship.
Her uncle placed a hand over hers, stopping her frenzied bread shredding. "It's only a piece of bread, Dee, have mercy on it."
Deidra sat back in her chair, an idea occurring to her. "The animals. I could send animals to fetch him."
"Fetch him?" Stephen said dubiously. "Seems rather obvious. He's not stupid. And methinks he is not overfond of beasts, thanks to your tutelage."
Deidra shrugged. "Still, I think the animals can help. Perhaps I could send some to do something suspicious...such as watch him, follow him...but they would be conspicuous. Naturally, he would think it was my doing and follow the animals."
Stephen nodded appreciably. "Aye, she's right." His gaze turned to Drake. "What will you do when he's near?"
Ambush him and his men." Drake scratched at his chin, deep in his beard. After that, you'll have no more worries, m'dear." He patted Deidra's hand.
Deidra wanted to skip over that part in her mind and get to the part where he was no longer a thorn in her side.
Stephen slapped his hands on the table and stood. "Very good, then. It looks like all is in order here." He inclined his head to Drake. "Thank you for your hospitality. I hope you'll come to Braighde Pele one day so I can return the favor." He turned to Deidra. And it was good seeing you again---alive, that is. Prithee, listen to your uncle and try to stay that way."
His smile was completely and utterly false. Deidra searched his face, confused by this speech that appeared to be a good-bye.
"What...? Are you leaving?"
Aye. I vowed to see you again, to be certain of your safety. And I see you are in excellent hands. Its now time for me to be on my way."
He limped away from the table, Duke trotting beside him. Deidra stared after him, slack-jawed. She looked at her uncle, perplexed.
Drake watched her meditatively. "Didn't expect him to leave, eh?"
Deidra let out a confused breath. "Why would I? I thought he came to help."
Drake bit his bottom lip and shrugged. "Not much he can do, crippled as he is. I wager we'll manage without him."
A lump of indignant anger rose in Deidra's throat. "You'd be surprised at what he could do. I would not be alive right now if not for him."
"Hmmm" was all Drake said.
Deidra stewed for a moment, picking at her piece of bread before standing decisively and following Stephen. She found him in his chambers, stuffing his things into a leather sack.
"Why are you really leaving?" she asked.
He continued what he was doing without even looking at her. "I came for the blood witch, remember? I am a cripple. I'm of no use here."
"Drake says he doesn't believe the blood witch will even help you."
Stephen shrugged. "I'd like to find that out for myself."
"I thought we were going together."
"Was that why you snuck away in the middle of the night?" His face was bland, his stance slightly challenging.
She stepped toward him, fists clenched. "I was afraid. But I'm not anymore." Because of you. But she couldn't say it, not when he looked at her so uncaringly.
"Good. Then mayhap you'll step up and do what is necessary. Kill Luthias and stop running from yourself. For myself, I'm going to see a witch about my back, and I dinna intend to return half a man."
What did that mean? Her heart jumped a little at the implication. If the blood witch couldn't help him, would he return at all?
She reached for him. "Stephen, I know you hurt, but---"
He threw down the boot he held and said through clenched teeth, "My God, spare me your compassion and just leave me the hell alone!'
She recoiled as if he'd slapped her. He might as well have. It took her a moment to catch her breath from the shock and hurt of his words. His face was twisted, lip curled, brows lowered. It was as if he hated her, couldn't stand the sight of her.
She backed away, out of the room, and left him.
After getting directions from Drake, Stephen set out, heading north. Drake had been skeptical of Stephen's quest, warning him that the blood witch would not help him. But Stephen had no intention of giving up until he tested the theory for himself. Though he had not seen Ceara for himself before she'd died, it sounded as if something horrible had ailed her, and no doubt the baobhan sith had wanted nothing to do with plagues even a witch could not cure. And besides, Drake was not known for his charm. No doubt he'd ordered charity at sword point and offended the blood witch. Stephen thought that with a bit of charm, he might have a better chance at convincing her.
He had nothing to lose. He'd already lost everything the day the bullet had lodged in his back. It had not been an accident. The man who'd shot him couldn't have cared less if he'd lived or died---he'd just wanted Stephen out of the way. Stephen had been protecting his best friend, Philip Kilpatrick. He had failed at protecting his friend that day, but his strong constitution had kept him alive long enough to send help and Philip survived.
But part of Stephen had died that day. His back had been ruined, and there had been nothing anyone could do to change that. Not for lack of trying, however. Stephen's uncle was a powerful earl who had used his power and position to bring every healer of renown to Stephen's bedside. But none had been able to help him. Not with witchcraft or with science.
Stephen had given up trying long ago. This was his last hope, and he couldn't think past it, couldn't let himself contemplate another failure.
And so he kept on, focused on his goal and nothing else.
The terrain only grew more difficult the farther north he traveled and the weather grew colder. He wore a plaid as the Highlanders did, wrapped around him and pinned to his shoulder, with woolen trews beneath. It helped to appear local, and besides, the Highlander style of dress suited their environment. It kept him very warm.
Small game was plentiful---badgers, squirrels, hare, deer. He managed to snare a hare with his latch, the small crossbow that hung from his saddle. He thought of Deidra as he skinned and cooked it, wondering if she was able to eat the creatures she communed with. It seemed rather morbid when he considered it that way---cannibalistic almost---and he nearly lost his appetite. But he needed his strength and didn't know when he might snare another, so he finished his meal, throwing the bones to Duke.
The next day he had to cross the mountains. He did not relish it, but at least he could go at his own pace and stop as needed. Attempting to go around the mountains would add days, maybe weeks, to his journey. He was muscling through the pain because it was necessary, but he knew there would come a point when he simply could not go on. He hoped to get to the blood witch before he reached that point.
He rode Countess as far as he could, then dismounted and led her up the treacherous slope. It was slow going, as there was no road or trail this way. He had to find their trail through the jagged rocks rising higher and higher. Duke led the way, running ahead for a while, then coming back to walk with Stephen for a short while before scouting ahead again.
On more occasions than he cared to count, Stephen found himself immobilized with pain while in a precarious position---pressed against a cliff side, or maneuvering around a jutting creag with a narrow lip of rock that dropped off in a sheer drop. He was beginning to wonder if this had been a really bad idea. Maybe he should have gone around the mountain---at least then he might make his destination alive.
Eventually he had to cut Countess loose and hope she would find her way home or back to Deidra, but the way was no longer safe for her. He looked back once to see that Countess was trying to follow. She had come to two jutting rocks, and the only way forward was between them---a tight squeeze for a man, but impossible for a horse. He tried to ignore the tug of guilt as her eyes followed him until he was out of sight. He wished for Deidra's gift then so that he could explain it all to her, but she probably wouldn't understand anyway.
He continued on foot, keeping an eye out for hares and other small game. Duke had run off ahead so long ago that Stephen was starting to worry that he had fallen or hurt himself. There was nothing he could do about it unless he actually came upon the dog.
He managed to shoot another hare on his downward descent. It continued to bound, arrow quivering from its ribs, disappearing between two sharp rocks stabbing upward through the ground. Stephen followed, peering around the stones. The hare had come to rest on the edge of a crevice in the rock. He stared at it, lips compressed with displeasure. There was no way to retrieve the hare except by circling the rim. If Duke had been here, he could have sent the dog to fetch the hare. He called out to the dog and waited, but Duke didn't come.
He held on to the sides of the rock as best he could, though there were no depressions or handholds, and slid around between them.
The hare had stopped moving. The sides of the rock were concave and slick from a small mountain stream that trickled down the mountain and emptied into the crevice, where it traveled onward.
Stephen stood beside the rock, listening to the soft bubble of water, considering how badly he wanted the hare. Wildlife had grown scarce now that he was in the mountains, and once he reached the bottom of the mountain there would be several miles of barren moorland. He needed this hare.
He unstrapped his satchel and sword from where they were buckled across his chest and tossed them to the ground.
He braced himself and edged along the narrow ledge, his back and palms pressed to the wall behind him. Slow and steady, he crept along the ledge until the hare was almost within reach.
When he was within arms length of the animal, he braced himself and bent his knees, crouching and reaching for the carcass. And just as he feared, his back seized as his fingers grasped the arrow jutting out. He clenched his teeth and froze. He kept his weight back against the stone behind him to keep from toppling into the crevice.
But he was strong. This was the reason he worked his body so hard, so that when necessary, he could muscle through any situation. He stayed there, head pressed hard against the stone, back twisted in anguish. He heard a far-off crack but couldn't think enough to care what it was.
He didn't know how long he stayed there, jagged knives impaling his back and holding him prisoner, but at some point the pain lessened and he thought he could move.
He opened his eyes and tried to straighten. A weight in his hand moved. He looked down. He had broken the arrow in his clenched fist. The hare, impaled on the arrow, dangled from the thin piece of bent wood that held the broken arrow together. Stephen only hoped it held until he made it to the other side of the crevice and safety.
In increments, he straightened, grunting and groaning until he stood again. He edged along the ledge, the hare jiggling each time he took a step. He was almost to the other side and safety when the thin strip of wood snapped and the hare fell. Stephen reached for it reflexively---a very bad move---throwing off his balance. His foot slipped on the slick rock and he was falling, slipping down the slope. He twisted, fingers scrabbling for a handhold, trying to catch himself through the pain, but he crashed to the bottom of the crevice, landing on his side and arm.
Though he was not unconscious, the pain from the fall did render him insensible for a time. It radiated through his body and down his legs. Sparks of light flashed behind his eyelids. His stomach lurched and he imagined that soon he would be laying in his own vomit.
Slowly, coherent thought returned and he feared he had done serious damage to his back again---perhaps broken it. And damned if those MacKay witches were too far away to help. Again. He laid his head against the damp stone and closed his eyes. If he lost the ability to move, then that was it for him. It was over. He gave up. He would just die here without a fight.
But eventually the twisting sword of pain diminished to a manageable throb, and he pushed himself up. His arms shook. The hare was an arms length away, but any supplies for skinning and cooking it were up at the top of the crevice in his satchel.
Gingerly, he climbed to his feet and peered upward at the eye of fading light above him.
The lip of the crevice didn't seem that far away. A normal man, with a normal, functioning back, should be able to climb out of the hole, albeit with difficulty.
Unfortunately Stephen was not normal, nor did he have a properly functioning back. Nevertheless, he had overcome bigger obstacles than this.
He slid his hands all over the rock face in front of him, even standing on his tiptoes, searching for some kind of handhold. There was nothing. The walls bowled in all around him. He had fallen into a hole with nothing but a dead hare and a small puddle to keep him company.
Hands on his hips, he stared hard at the fading light above him. If he could just jump high enough, he could grab the lip of the crevice and pull himself up. Unfortunately, jumping was not something He'd been able to do for a very long while.
He prepared to try anyway, his heart speeding with anticipation of the pain to come, teeth clenching. He bent his knees and thrust upward, arms extending.
He felt it immediately in his back. Pain wrenched it, streaking down the backs of his thighs. His fingers brushed something, but he couldn't see or hear or make his fingers curl around it. He landed on his feet, but they collapsed beneath him, and he crashed to his knees.
The cold stone bit through the wool of his trews. Head lowered, he heard a rumbling sound, like a wounded animal, and realized it was him---moaning deep in his chest at the pain racking his back and thighs.
He didn't think anything would be able to bring him to his feet anytime soon. But he was wrong.
A voice called down to him, "Stephen? Are you down there?" It was both the sweetest sound he'd ever heard and poison to his heart.
He opened his eyes. Blocking the light was a riot of curls gilded to golden fire by the light behind them. The face was dark and shadowed. But he knew the voice, the hair, the curve of her face like he knew his own heart.
Deidra.
Chapter 10
Deidra knew her behavior was irresponsible and that Stephen might never forgive her. Still, it didn't matter---she would rather he be alive and angry with her than dead with foolish pride intact. Certain that something terrible would befall him, she had fretted nonstop since he had left. So as a precaution, she'd kept in contact with Countess and Duke. She had not liked the route he'd taken north, but as long as Countess had reported nothing amiss, Deidra had not become alarmed.
Meanwhile, Drake had sent out a scout to discover the current whereabouts of Luthias. The scout had just returned with the information when Countess's thoughts had changed.
The horse had been alone and distressed. Stephen had left her behind, and she hadn't known what to do. She'd tried to follow but hadn't been able to and was currently wandering around the mountain.
It had been rather surprising to discover there really was no anguishing over what to do, no indecisiveness. It had required no thought at all. She'd packed a bag and left just as Drake had been formulating a plan of attack.
She hadn't told Drake she was leaving---he would only have tried to talk her out of going or perhaps even physically stopped her. She'd left a letter, explaining to him that she would be back soon, but she needed to be sure Stephen was safe.
Luthias would still be here when she returned. Stephen's safety took precedence over everything else.
And now, she was nearly weak with relief that she'd been so decisive. She'd met up with Countess and left her with Blue, some oats, a half dozen apples, and instructions to head back to Creaghaven. Then she'd followed Duke's thoughts.
The dog had been ecstatic to see her, leaping in the air and almost knocking her off her feet.
Take me to him, she'd ordered Duke, and they'd been off, racing up the treacherous mountainside. Duke had been surefooted, leaping among the creags like a mountain goat. Deidra had followed much slower, though they'd remained connected mentally the entire time.
She had been climbing for more than an hour when she'd come upon Duke, sitting beside a leather bag, a sword, and a latch. The dog had stood, tail wagging, at her appearance.
"Stephen?" she'd called out, hurrying to the paraphernalia.
There had been no answer. A few feet away, from a crevice in the rock, rose the sound of a man moaning in pain. Her heart had squeezed convulsively.
"Damn," she muttered, dropping to her knees at the edge of the crevice and peering down into the cave.
"Stephen?" she called again.
The sun streamed down into the cave in a single shaft of light, and everything outside the oval-shaped shaft was too dark for her to see.
She heard a scraping, and then into the light limped Stephen, head tilted back to peer up at her. He was dirty and scraped. His long hair had come loose from the cord He'd used to tie it back, and tangled, blond locks fell over his shoulders. Still, he was the most beautiful sight she'd seen.
"Damn you, woman," he growled. "What are you doing here?"
"Countess told me you'd left her. I was worried."
The tight squeezing of her heart relaxed. He was well. By the tight set of his face, she could see he was in a great deal of pain, but he was standing, and that was reason enough to rejoice.
"We have to get you out of there."
He shook his head. "Not tonight, lass. My back will not tolerate another attempt."
"What do you want to do?"
"There is rope in my bag. Take it out and then throw the bag down to me."
Deidra did as he instructed.
"I have a blanket, liniment, and some laudanum your uncle gave me in here." He held the sack up. "I need to rest a bit, and then you'll have to tie the rope to something that will hold my weight. I'll climb up it."
Deidra didn't want to wait. She wanted him out of that hole now so that she could rub the pain from his back, but he was right. Trying to get out now, when he was probably in excruciating pain, was rash and stupid and would only make things worse.
"What about food and water?" She grabbed her bag and started rummaging through it. She had brought extra for him.
"I have that in here. Fash not. Get some sleep yourself, and we'll try again in a bit."
Deidra sighed. She wasn't really tired, but she unrolled her blanket anyway. Duke lay down beside her, his body warming her. He was concerned for his master. He didn't understand why Stephen stayed down in the hole. He wanted Deidra to do something. Deidra communicated to the dog that Stephen couldn't come up right now and that they would help him out later.
The dog whined, distressed, staring down at his master.
"I'm fine, laddy," Stephen called from below.
At the sound of his voice, Duke barked.
"Deidra, let him know I'm fine."
Deidra tried to communicate this to Duke, but she wasn't entirely successful, as the dog felt her anxiety. He did quiet down to lie on the lip of the crevice, his snout hanging over the side so he could watch over Stephen. His body was tense, ready to spring into action at one word from Deidra or Stephen.
Sleep didn't come. Deidra lay on her back, scanning the rocks around her to determine the appropriate one to secure the rope to.
"Deidra? Are you awake?"
Deidra rolled to her side. "Aye."
"What about Luthias? I thought you and Drake were going after him. Does Drake even know you're here?"
Deidra hesitated. "I left him a letter explaining...and Luthias isn't far. He is still looking for me. We can do it when I get back."
"Providing he doesn't find you first."
"He won't. The animals, they warn me of intruders."
"Deidra." The single word drifted up to her, full of exasperation and affection.
Her heart contracted painfully at the sound. She asked, "What will you do if the blood witch refuses to help you?"
"I don't know. I cannot think of that now."
Her heart sank. Deidra didn't know what she had hoped he would say, but that wasn't it.
"What will you do if she can help you?"
Her heart tripped into the silence as she waited for his response.
And waited.
In fact, he was silent for so long that she thought maybe he had fallen asleep.
"Stephen?" she said in a loud whisper, not wanting to wake him if he was asleep but desperately wanting to hear his answer. If he was whole again, what would he do?
Aye, I'm here."
That didn't answer her question. She bit her lip, wanting to ask again, but feeling foolish and transparent. Her feelings must be obvious to him; she was a moon-eyed puppy following him about.
"There are so many things I would do, Deidra. More than I can count." His voice was wistful, a great weight in it.
"Is it really so different? Is there really so much that you cannot do?"
"Aye, lass, it is." The silence ensued again.
Deidra curled on her side, her heart heavy. She couldn't have him either way, it seemed. It was hopeless.
"For example," he said, continuing their conversation. Her heart jumped, surprised, but she didn't move or say a word.
"The other night, at your uncle's. We would not have stopped with the kissing."
The air left Deidra in a rush. The memory of that night fired her cheeks and sent lust spiraling to her core. She closed her eyes on a shuddering breath, instantly aroused.
"I shouldn't have stopped then," he said, his voice musing. "You think I am a cripple, incapable of the simplest feats, but I assure you, that is one we can still carry out."
Deidra's breath came short, her hand sliding down to press against the ache between her legs. She had thought a great deal about that night. Relived it in her mind, wondering what would have happened if she had just kept her mouth shut.
"No, we could have both slept well that night. But if not for this back that you love throwing in my face, I would have had you on that bed and made you scream my name."
Her mouth was dry, eyes now gazing sightlessly into the gloaming. "Really?" she asked hoarsely.
She hadn't realized she'd said the word loud enough for him to hear until he replied, "Aye, really."
Her heart tapped rapidly in her throat, making thinking difficult. She scooted closer to the edge of the crevice. He didn't say any more, but she didn't want this conversation to end. She'd been haunted by that night in his room when he had kissed her and touched her. She had tried to touch herself as he had, tried to re-create the sensations coursing through her body, but it hadn't been the same without that one important ingredient: Stephen.
Maybe it was the dark, or the fact that he was in a hole and therefore she wouldn't have to look him in the eye, but something made her bold. Bold enough to ask, "How would you do that?"
She swore she heard his sharp intake of breath, even from her perch above him.
"That's a dangerous question. When I get out of this hole, I'll show you."
A smile tugged at her lips. "Tell me now."
After a long, heavy silence, he said, "I'd start by looking at those pretty breasts this time. I regret neglecting them before. I felt them pressed against me, and they're perfect, methinks. Round and soft. Your nipples are probably pink and taste sweet, so I would kiss them next."
Desire knifed through her, sharp. She closed her eyes and rubbed at the ache with one hand, felt the weight of her breast with the other, imagining how they felt to someone else, and imagining how it would have felt if it had been his hands cupping it.
"It will be hard to tear myself away from them." His voice had grown deeper, rougher, and it sent a thrill of excitement through her.
"I know this already," he continued, "but your mouth will be calling to me---and not just with words, though I plan to make you forget every word but my name. The memory of their taste would bring me back to them."
She swallowed hard and whispered, "Aye, I remember that, too."
"What, sweeting?" he said. "You'll have to speak up if you wish me to hear you."
Did she? This lewd talk frightened her a bit. She was a virgin, had done little more than exchange a few kisses with a village boy, and now she talked about things a man only did with his lover. It both frightened and exhilarated her, and she realized she wanted more.
"I said, I remember that too...when you kissed me."
"I'll do it again and again, don't fash on that. Then I will kiss other places."
Her breath caught as her heart tripped in her chest. Though he'd not been specific, the image of his mouth pressed to other parts of her body caused her legs to go weak and her lashes to flutter.
"Where?" She realized she'd said the word so softly that he couldn't possibly have heard her, so she cleared her throat and repeated herself. "Where?"
He made a deep sound, a soft laugh, but a lecherous one, as if he was as eager to carry out his scenario as she was to hear it. "Everywhere, sweet. Your neck and the porcelain skin of the insides of your arms... your smooth belly, your thighs.. .and between them."
Her fingers pressed harder as her body clenched. She shut her eyes, unable to believe that his voice and his words made her body spasm with pleasure. She gasped, rubbing harder and faster.
"Stephen..."
"Aye, sweet---I wish I were there, too."
When the sensations coursing through her faded, she turned her hot face into her blanket, mortified. He had known what she'd been doing. Had known and encouraged it.
"Deidra?" His voice floated up to her.
She didn't want to answer now, for she was too embarrassed. But she couldn't ignore him, so she said, "Aye?"
"I meant every word. But now I must sleep so I can get out of this hole."
She bit her bottom lip, smiling with eagerness. Her body was languid and loose now and she was surprised that sleep slowly crept up on her. The last thought to occur to her as she drifted off was that he had never truly answered her question. She still didn't know what he would do, past ravishing her, if the blood witch could make him whole again.
After a fitful night, Deidra was up with the sun looking for a rock to which she could secure the rope and still have enough slack to reach Stephen.
"How are you feeling this morning?" she asked as she tossed the rope down to him.
"Better," he said, but the word was short and clipped, indicating that though he might be better, he was still in pain.
She peered down over the edge of the crevice and watched as he looped his sack over his shoulder, gripped the rope in both hands, and pulled himself upward.
For Deidra, it would have been easier to hold the rope and use her feet to climb, but apparently Stephen's legs were not necessary. He lifted his weight solely with his arms. Veins stood out along his thick forearms, and in no time he hooked the edge of the crevice with his forearm and lifted himself out with a grunt, rolling onto the rocks beside Deidra. Duke immediately licked his master's face, whining excitedly. Deidra told the dog to stop. He moved a few feet away and sat, watching Stephen with barely restrained joy.
Stephen lay on his back, staring up at the sky and breathing hard. Deidra did a visual inventory of him as he lay there. Some scrapes and bruises, but it didn't look as if he was seriously harmed.
As she sat there, waiting for him to recover himself, awkwardness settled over her. After what had happened the night before, she suddenly had no idea what to say to him. Her face flushed at the memory, and her belly dipped.
She got to her feet and gathered up the rope, keeping her face turned away from him. Once it was coiled, she turned back toward him to find him sitting up, watching her.
Are you ready?" she asked, hoisting her own bag over her shoulder.
He continued to stare at her, a bemused smile on his face. "Where are we going?"
Deidra exhaled with exasperation. "To see the baobhan sith, of course."
He scratched at the thickening whiskers on his jaw. "I thought you'd changed your mind about that."
She shrugged. "I don't know."
He smiled ruefully. "Coming along to dandle the cripple? Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid and kill himself?"
Deidra's mouth tightened and her eyes narrowed. Essentially what he said was true---except the stupid part---but he put such an unpleasant spin on it. What did it matter if she did care? So he'd injured his back and needed a bit of extra care. She wanted to give it to him. Why did he have to be so difficult about it?
"I know you're not stupid; you're very clever. Mishaps on such treacherous terrain can happen to anyone, Stephen, cripple or whole. That is why most people prefer not to travel alone."
"You have chosen to travel alone on more than one occasion in recent weeks. How do you manage not to have such mishaps?"
"The animals help me."
He got to his feet with a grunt and a grimace, and sighed. "I suppose the company would be welcome."
She let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding and waited for him to join her.
"Is it far?" she asked. "It seems a long way to go on foot."
"No, once we cross the moors at the base of the mountain it's only a few miles. The baobhan sith lives off the coast, on a small island."
"Are you well enough to travel?" she asked hesitantly, not wanting to further irritate him but wanting to make sure he was ready and able to travel. "Would you like to rest for a while first?"
He raised a brow and gave her a long, reproachful look. "Let's go." He limped past her. Duke bounded ahead, up between the rocks, and Stephen followed.
Deidra sighed and readjusted her bag. This would prove to be a long trip if he didn't accept her help. But at least he wasn't going it alone.
Chapter 11
Two days later they reached the base of the mountain, then took two more days to cross the moor before arriving at the fishing village on the coast. Stephen wanted to fall to his knees and cry with joy. It had been a very long time since he had experienced such agony. After climbing out of the crevice four days ago, his back was still rife with pain, but he was loath to let Deidra see his suffering. She had seemed impressed with the way he had climbed out, and he wanted to continue to seem strong and capable to her---especially after the emasculating experience of being rescued by a woman. At least all he'd needed from her was a rope. It would have been far worse if he'd needed her to pull him out.
The past four nights, when they'd stopped to rest, she'd offered to rub his back with liniment. There was nothing he'd wanted more than her fine hands working the knots of pain from his muscles, but his pride had made him refuse. All he could think of was the way he'd kissed her and touched her, and the questions she'd asked him while he'd been trapped in the crevice, too far away to lay hands on her. He'd talked big then, and though he was sure he could follow through eventually, he didn't know if it was possible in his current condition. Now that they were finally here, and he stood within arm's length of her, she watched him with that anxious look on her face, the one that made him furious that he warranted it.
No, he did not want her pity. He was not some wounded animal that needed nursing. But his pain was too great to do what he really wanted to do-kiss away that concerned look on her face, make love to her until she forgot there was anything wrong with him.
They had both grown quiet these past few days, hardly speaking past necessities. He knew Deidra didn't know what to say to him after what had passed between them, and he didn't want to do or say anything to break that spell that he'd created and make himself seem weak to her. Soon he would be a man, a whole one, and things would be different.
So he'd refused her offer and taken too much laudanum to dull the pain. When he'd woken each morning, his head had felt fuzzy and thick and his belly queasy. But he'd been able to sleep, which had made continuing on the next morning possible.
And they had finally made it. Tomorrow morning he would go to the baobhan sith and end this hell on earth forever, God willing.
They found an inn with a room for rent. He felt Deidra's gaze on him as they ate in the common room. The fare was mutton and turnips---warm and filling, and so much better than dried fruit and hard bannocks. Deidra ate the turnips and bread but didn't touch the mutton he'd ordered for her.
"Is something wrong with your meal?" he asked without looking at her.
"No."
"Then why aren't you eating your meat?"
When she didn't respond, he looked up to see her staring at him with wide eyes.
"What?"
"I rarely eat meat. Only when nothing else is available. It's difficult when I can hear them."
Stephen nodded. "I had wondered about that." His own mutton suddenly seemed a little less appealing, but he continued shoveling it in. "When did you stop eating meat?"
"I've never really eaten it. My parents said I refused to eat meat as a child. I suppose I knew even then, though I don't remember."
He eyed her critically, wondering if the lack of meat affected her adversely. She stared back at him with clear blue eyes. Though pale, her color was still good, pink in the cheeks. She was rather small, though. Still, many cottars rarely ate meat and they survived, though smaller than most chieftains and clansmen.
She said, Tin very healthy and strong...for my size."
He'd felt her body. It was strong; slender, but strong. He cleared his throat. "If you're finished, you can wash up and go to bed. I'll be up in a bit."
She shook her head. "No, no---you take the bed. I'll sleep on the floor."
He gave her a slow smile. "Who said anyone was sleeping on the floor?"
Deidra's mouth opened, but no words came out. As she stared at him, a blush rose up her neck to stain her cheeks. "I see!"' she finally said, her voice cracking. He laughed softly. "It's hardly different from the past few nights, aye?" They had lain near each other, wrapped in their own blankets. But somehow they both knew that sleeping together in a bed was different. Intimate. She broke eye contact and her eyes darted around the room, as if looking for escape.
He doubted he was truly capable of anything lascivious tonight, but it was a pleasure to see her so flustered at the thought of sharing a bed with him.
She stood. "Well, uhm. I...uh, guess I'll head up then." She turned, still not looking at him, and scurried away.
He ran a hand over his chin and jaw, staring after her. And amazingly, there was a stirring down below. He had truly thought he was in too much pain to even think about lying with a woman, even one he wanted as much as he wanted Deidra, but damned if he'd been wrong.
He downed the rest of his ale, still staring contemplatively at the doorway where Deidra had disappeared. No matter how much he wanted it, this back was going to give him a problem. The tavern wench came by his table, inquiring if he wanted another tankard. Her hands were strong, forearms muscled from carrying platters of food to the patrons. And she had a look about her that said she did some extras on the side for the right amount of coin.
Stephen smiled at her. She smiled back and shifted a hip out. She placed a hand on her hip and thrust her bust forward so he could get a good look at her ample cleavage.
"Or mayhap there's something else yell be wanting?" she asked, a red brow arched.
Stephen jingled the purse at his waist with a smile. "Aye, I think there might be."
Deidra had lain awake for more than an hour, alternately terrified and excited. But as the time had dragged by and Stephen hadn't come, she'd begun to grow concerned. Was he hurt? Maybe he couldn't come upstairs? She was close to throwing back the blanket and going back down to look for him when the door opened. Duke padded in first and flopped down beside the bed.
A war raged between her mind and her body. She wanted to ask him where he'd been, what had taken him so long, but she couldn't move, couldn't speak, could only lay paralyzed, waiting for him to come to bed. What would happen next?
The room was dark, but her eyes were squeezed shut anyway. Her ears strained, listening to him moving around the room.
The mattress shifted beneath his weight and her breath hitched. He was on the bed. His hand was on her shoulder, warm and wide.
"Are you afraid, Deidra?" he whispered.
She couldn't lie. Duke sensed her agitation and came to stand beside the bed, whining and shifting from paw to paw, his claws making a soft, scraping sound on the floorboards.
Aye," she said.
"Don't worry," he whispered. "I won't touch you. Do you wish me to sleep on the floor?"
She turned quickly and put her hand on his arm. "No, no, I'm fine. You can sleep here, if you want."
"I want." His voice was low and rough, with an undertone that said he wanted more than just to sleep beside her.
She turned back toward the wall. Her heart hammered wildly, her body weak. She wanted, too. He stretched out beside her and placed a hand on her hip. She felt it throughout her body, like fingers of lightning, streaking through her. She tried to force a swallow past her constricted throat.
She coughed, then found her voice. "You seem much improved."
He sighed deeply. "Aye, I am."
She frowned and sniffed, catching a pungent scent. "Is that liniment I smell?"
"It is." His hand moved, stroking her hip. His hand was large and strong, and her body melted like butter next to a flame. Her head fell back. She drew in a shuddering breath.
His breath warmed her neck. In her mind, she imagined his mouth, a hairs width from her skin, so close, almost touching-She trembled inside, waiting, wanting.
The clean scent of him, along with the sharp scent of liniment, filled her nose.
"You didn't have to put it on yourself," she whispered. "I would have, had you just asked me."
"I didn't." The words blew across her skin, followed by the feather touch of his lips gently kissing. Her loins loosened as she sank deeper into the bed.
"I know you didn't ask me. But you should have."
"No, no, I mean I didn't put it on myself."
She froze, brows drawing together. "Then who did?"
He still kissed her, soft lips on her jaw and ear. "The woman downstairs, Anne is her name, I believe."
Deidra's stomach plummeted and nausea rose. She had seen this Anne. That woman looked like a whore. Deidra doubted very seriously that the only thing she'd done had been to rub his back. And now here he was, in bed with her. His breath tickled her neck again, and her skin crawled. She slapped at the skin on her neck, trying to wipe away the sensation. Her curled fingers collided with his mouth. He jerked away with a muffled grunt.
"What the hell was that for?" he asked. He'd moved his head back, but his hand was still firmly planted on her hip, holding her in place.
"Why didn't you just ask me?" Deidra's face burned with indignation. The more she thought about it and imagined it---that woman, rubbing her hands all over him---the more her belly twisted. She feared she might be ill.
Before he had a chance to reply, she continued, her voice too loud, trembling slightly, "I've offered over and over again and you refuse. All I want to do is help and you won't let me. Instead you hire a whore to do it. What else did she do?"
He said nothing, only held very still.
Deidra turned, anger making her movements exaggerated, and pushed at him. "Get off me."
His hand held her hip tighter. She tried to climb out of the bed, but he held her down. It was too dark to see.
"Let me up," she ground out through clenched teeth.
"No." He pressed with his palm, surprisingly still holding her in place. He was very strong. "She did nothing more than rub liniment into my back. I knew you were tired. I didn't want to ask you to do that."
"Liar! You just don't want me to touch you. You'd rather lay with that...that...woman with the breasts. I am the strange woman, the animal woman with crazy hair and no breasts---that's why---"
His hand moved from her hip to cup her breast. She inhaled sharply, her thoughts scattering like dropped pebbles. His fingers kneaded, palm sliding beneath and holding her breast, as if weighing it.
Deidra couldn't seem to catch her breath. She had just been sick with anger, but now she couldn't remember what had made her so angry.
"They feel like breasts to me!"' he murmured. "And very fine ones, so your babbling makes no sense."
Her response was a shuddering exhalation. The ache from the other night was back, throbbing between her thighs. But her memory was also back---he had hired a whore to rub his back.
"You shouldn't have!"' she whispered.
"Maybe not, but I wanted us both rested."
Her belly dipped and she immediately forgave him.
His hand left her breast, only to reappear on the strings holding her shift closed. He pulled slowly on each one until the air cooled her hot skin.
His hand slid inside, over her bare skin. Deidra's eyes closed and she bit her lip.
"What was it I said I would do?" When she didn't answer, he asked reproachfully, "You don't remember?"
Oh God. She remembered every word he'd said that night, imagined it over and over again until she'd ached with unsatisfied lust.
She swallowed hard, trying to find some moisture in her mouth. "You said...you said you'd kiss...them."
"Them?" he asked quizzically. His thumb rubbed lazily over her hardened nipple. Each time it swept across her, it was as if he strummed an instrument between her thighs. "Oh, you mean these" he said.
Even though he couldn't see her, she nodded vigorously. He must have heard the sound of her hair against the pillow, because he asked no more questions. The bed shifted slightly, and then his tongue replaced his thumb.
She made a sound in her throat, part choke, part gasp. It felt so good, but she wanted more. Her back arched so that she pressed her breast hard into his mouth.
"Mmmm...," was all he said and sucked harder.
Yes. That was what she wanted. Her body ached and throbbed. She felt swollen down there, as if she was about to burst. Her hips moved against his leg. His hand touched her bare calf, then slid upward, under her shift, pushing it up as he went.
Oh God. Yes, touch me there. She was afraid to say it aloud, afraid to hear her voice, heavy and strained with excitement, but she wanted him to know, know like the animals knew her thoughts.
His hand slid up her thigh to her belly, barely brushing the curls. Her legs had loosened for him, knees falling apart. She made a frustrated noise.
He released her nipple with a soft chuckle.
"What did I say I would do next?" His breath blew cold across her damp nipple and she shivered.
"Kiss me," she whispered.
His mouth covered hers, tongue meeting hers. She gripped his neck, holding him to her as she met his tongue, explored his mouth. Her leg hooked over his, pressing closer.
He pulled away. His labored breath feathered the side of her mouth. She panted now too, ready to explode. She needed him to do something, to touch her, to be inside her.
"What next, Deidra?"
Her mind was blank, she could barely think. She shook her head.
"Think, sweet, you must remember." "Uh...you said you'd kiss me...everywhere."
He made a deep sound of appreciation, then kissed her jaw. The tip of his tongue teased her ear, drew the lobe between his teeth.
She gasped, desire stabbing her low.
He kissed her neck and her collarbones.
"Everywhere?" he whispered.
"Aye, yes, I pray you!" The words burst out of her, urgent, pleading.
He pushed her skirt up farther so that it was gathered around her chest, and then his lips, warm and soft, pressed to her belly. The muscles quivered beneath his mouth. He kissed and licked as his hand slid between her thighs, pushing them open.
Please, please, please. The refrain cycled over and over in her mind, and she didn't even know what she begged for. All she knew is she needed him lower, touching, inside...and then he was, his fingers stroking between her lips, opening them, then his tongue licking at the nub.
She gasped, light flashing behind her eyes, her hips pressing up. Pleasure made her heart and belly tremble. She didn't know if she could stand much more, but it was wonderful, impossible, her body felt barely able to contain the sensations. His finger slid inside her and his tongue continued to lick. The air left her lungs.
She gasped. Her body convulsed. The pressure that had been building reached a crisis and she cried out as it washed over her, over and over again.
And when the strange squeezing pleasure lessened, she let out a shuddering laugh. Her body felt heavy and loose, tiny shocks of pleasure still radiating from her core.
"You found that amusing?" he said, humor in his voice.
"No...no...just...I do not have the words."
He laughed softly. "We're not finished yet.
No, she didn't suppose they were. She knew there was more to lovemaking than what they had done thus far, even though that seemed like quite a lot. She lay there, her skin damp, her body weak, waiting.
He rolled heavily onto his back. "That was quite a lot for my back, lass. If you want me to finish, and I know I do, let's do this."
His hands spanned her waist, and he pulled her on top of him. Her leg snaked over him so she straddled him. He slid one hand along her lower back to her bottom, pressing her into his erection. And unbelievably, the lust stirred in her again. His other hand gripped the back of her neck, pulling her mouth to his.
He pulled her up so that his cock pressed into her, stretching her, filling the ache that had reappeared. She felt a moment of pain, and her body stiffened. He held her, whispered to her and kissed her chin and mouth and neck. When he moved again, the pain was gone. She relaxed. She pushed against his chest so that she was nearly sitting up. His hands pressed her hips down so that he went deeper, filling her.
And then he lifted her, pulling out halfway, then thrusting up into her. She moaned, catching his rhythm and matching it. His cock rubbed against something inside her, and each time it did, the pressure wound tight and tighter. She rocked against him, working him deeper with each stroke, their bodies moving like one sinuous animal.
Stephen groaned, his hands stroking up her ribs to rub at her breasts. She covered his hands with hers, loving the way he felt inside her and all over her. She shifted and pressed, the pleasure winding tighter and tighter. Stephen cried out suddenly, his hands sliding around to her back and pulling her onto his chest. His mouth covered hers and her body tightened around him as they both climaxed, bodies and mouths locked.
She collapsed on his chest, head resting beneath his chin. The sensations pulsed through her in waves, centering in her core and radiating outward. She couldn't think or see; she could only lie there, completely wrung out. She was asleep within minutes.
She woke sometime later, her body chilled. Stephen had pulled her shift down over her body, and his hands traced lazily along her shoulders and back.
"Am I keeping you from sleeping?" she asked, rolling off of him so she could lie beside him.
"No, I wasn't tired." Liar.
"I mean it... tomorrow... everything changes."
His words were like a door slamming in her heart. Though she hadn't expected him to change his mind, she had managed to forget about it for a while. She turned her back on him and faced the wall. This was why they had come. The only reason. And if the blood witch agreed to change him, everything would change.
His hand rested on her arm. "It will be fine!"' he said, stroking her skin. "I promise not to do anything stupid."
"I don't care what you do. I was only making sure you got here safely." The words were out of her mouth before she could even think about them. Stupid, stupid. Of course she cared. She would not be with him in this bed if she didn't.
"If you do not care, then why do you care whether I'm safe or not?"
"I don't!" she hissed. "At least not anymore."
He sighed, his hand dropping away. "Very well. We'll talk about it later, then."
She bit her lip to stop herself from saying anything else.
Are you coming with me?" he asked.
Her vision blurred. She didn't know what she wanted anymore---except that she didn't want this to change. Not him, not the way they had felt together tonight. Now that she spoke with the animals again, she was reluctant to give it up. It didn't matter to Luthias whether she actually did or not. He believed what he believed, regardless of proof otherwise, so why should she give up the one advantage she had?
After a long moment she said, "I will wait here."
He sighed again but didn't say another word.
They lay the rest of the night in silence. Deidra's thigh muscles ached, his seed still damp between her thighs. Uneasiness filled her. Change was in the air, she felt it. She feared that the change was Stephen and that his changes would leave no room for her.
Chapter 12
Stephen didn't think Deidra was asleep as he prepared to leave the next morning. He hadn't slept much, and he didn't believe she had slept at all. He stood over the bed, staring down at her small figure curled away from him.
Duke sat beside him, whining.
Stephen shook his head at the dog. "No. You cannot come with me."
Duke lay on his belly, nose between his paws, and didn't make another noise. Stephen suspected Deidra had spoken to the beast. He usually wasn't so well behaved.
Stephen wanted to say good-bye to her, but she was strange to him suddenly. This had been her quest. Now that she had changed her mind, it seemed she expected him to as well. But their problems were nothing alike. She was a still a whole woman whether she spoke to animals or not. He loved her. He wanted to be the man she deserved---a whole man. She would see when he returned that it would all be well.
He turned to leave when her voice stopped him. "I left something for you on the table, by the door. Take it with you." Her voice was flat, emotionless.
He crossed to the table. A simple wooden rosary lay upon it. He lifted it, puzzled. "Papist idolatry?"
"In the stories, it is the only thing that will protect you against a blood witch."
His hand curled around the rosary as he looked back at her. More protection. It angered and touched him at the same time. He didn't know what to do with this woman. He only wanted to be a man, and she continued to mother him. Still---who knew what would happen next? He took her offering and left without a word.
The village sat on Scotland's northern coast. The baobhan sith's island was a few miles out. Unfortunately, there were many islands to the north. He would need directions and a vessel. The wind blew hard, cold, and salty coming up off of the water, pushing up high, jagged sea caps. Fishermen at the waters edge prepared their vessels to head out, regardless of the rough water. Stephen didn't want to ride with a fisherman. He wanted his own boat. And besides, he doubted many people visited a blood witch.
He walked along the shoreline, inquiring, until he found a fisherman with a boat to rent.
The man scratched at his head, tan and shiny, a sharp contrast to his face, which resembled a walnut. Ayuh," he said. "I hiv a skiff. Whot hiv ye for barter?'' He looked Stephen over dubiously, apparently thinking he couldn't have much worth trading in his single leather satchel.
Stephen removed the leather purse from his waist and shook several coins out in his palm. "How is this?"
The man's gray and wiry brows rose as he contemplated the coins. "Ayuh. That'll do."
Stephen turned over the coins, and the fisherman led him to a small skiff.
"Have a care!"' the man said. "The sea is angry today. Where are ye headed?"
"To see the baobhan sith"
The man drew back, eyes wide, as if Stephen had drawn his weapon.
"You jest?" he hissed, voice low.
"Nay, Does she not receive visitors?"
The man barked an incredulous laugh. "Visitors? By God, no. Not unless they are not coming back." He wiped a hand over his mouth and looked around him at the other fishermen. He turned back to Stephen with a considering look. "Ye ken, yell not likely be coming back from there yourself."
Stephen shrugged, climbing into the skiff and setting on the cross-boards gingerly. His back ached, protesting last night's activities. Stephen wouldn't trade that ache for anything. It reminded him of how\* he'd finally possessed Deidra. And soon enough the pain would be over forever.
"Which island is it?" Stephen asked, looking out to the dozen islands both near and far in the distance.
"That one." The man pointed to a small rocky island several miles away.
Stephen stared at the tiny island, a pebble in the vast sea. He had a lot of rowing ahead of him.
"Gude luck to ye!" The fisherman pushed Stephen's skiff away from the shore. "But if ye meet with only foul luck, ye canna say I didna tell ye so. So I'll not mourn ye."
Stephen laughed softly. "Aye, well, it'll be my own fault."
The fisherman stood on the shore and waved, grinning now, a blackened, crooked smile. "Aye, lad, that it will. That it will."
The man's behavior did not bolster Stephen's confidence, but he had come this far. He was not stopping now. If he didn't come back, maybe it was for the best. His life had been purposeless, aimless until Deidra had shown up at Braighde Pele with her stories of the blood witch. He didn't want to go back to that. He'd rather die.
Deidra. The thought of his death after her warnings made him feel a little ill. He redoubled his efforts on the oars. The skiff cut through the water. The salt and damp clung to his lips and hair. Seals dipped and bobbed past his skiff, heading for an island farther out.
His shoulders ached by the time he reached the little island. He dragged the skiff ashore and climbed the rocky slope. There were no trees on this island, only rocks and grass. At the top of the rise he was confronted with more rises...and a lamb.
The black-faced lamb bleated at him and trotted away, up and over another rise. Stephen followed. As he climbed the rise, he grew aware of a sound that grew with each step he took. Bahhing and bleating. It waxed and waned with the wind, but nevertheless grew stronger.
At the top of the next rise he looked down over a flock of woolly black-faced sheep, their horns curled like seashell ears. Past them was a house built into the hillside. The door was currently shut.
The lamb he followed reached the bottom of the hill. Instead of joining the rest of the sheep, it disappeared into the hillside.
The hill Stephen currently stood on housed the stable. Stephen continued down the hill, twisting and stretching his aching back the whole way.
The entrance to the stable was twice as wide as the door to the house. The fence was open so the sheep could come and go as they pleased. Stephen stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.
It smelled musty inside, of hay and dirt and dung. The interior of the stable was much larger than it looked from the outside. Two long troughs separated the room into halves. Near the back, scattered hay led to a large pile.
The lamb had gone to this pile. A full-grown sheep lay there on her side, her distended stomach heaving with labored breaths. She was giving birth.
Stephen crossed to her and knelt beside her, placing his hands on her belly. There was movement beneath his hands. The sheep raised her head slightly to briefly look at him, then rested it back in the hay.
Odd business for a blood witch to be in.
Or so he assumed. He didn't really know all that much about blood witches. He supposed they needed a source of income just as everyone else did.
He straightened with a grunt and left the stable, crossing the open valley. The grazing sheep gave way for him, bleating their annoyance at his trespassing.
When he stood in front of the door in the hill, he knocked sharply. "Hello! Is anybody there?"
It would be a lie to say that he was unafraid. The little farm was not what he had expected, and it made him uneasy---that, combined with the lack of response from his knock. There was no door latch on the outside of the door. He pushed against it and knocked again, but there was no response.
Stephen turned to survey the valley and sheep and stable, scratching at the whiskers on his jaw. He could sure use Deidra right now, to talk to these beasts. Maybe they knew something.
He didn't fancy breaking the blood witch's door down. That would no doubt set them off on the wrong note. And besides, he thought, glancing back at the door, it looked pretty solid. It might do more damage to him than he could do to the door.
With a sigh he continued his inspection of the island. He found nothing of note. There was another grassy hill behind the one with the door, and beyond that, sea.
More islands were visible in the distance. Stephen wondered if she had left for the day. But when he squinted up at the sun, he recalled that blood witches didn't fancy sunlight, and it was a bright day.
He turned quickly back toward the hill. She was here---inside the hill-house. Mayhap she locked herself in and the sun out during the day. It did not behoove him to hammer at her door anymore. It might anger her. He returned to the stable.
The sheep was straining now and blowing harshly through her nose. Stephen knelt beside her, hands spanning over her stomach again.
He was no farm boy. He had been raised by his uncle, an earl, and treated as if He'd been his son, even though he had been conscious every day of his life, since his father had died, that he was not the son of an earl but the bastard son of a bastard living on charity. Nevertheless, he had not been expected to work in the stables. Stephen didn't know if the sheep was in distress or if her state was normal. It would certainly reflect well on him if the blood witch woke to find he had helped birth one of her lambs. He built the hay into a bed and lay near the sheep, to watch over her until the baobhan sith awakened.
Deidra lay in bed for a long time after Stephen left, waiting. What she waited for she wasn't entirely certain. She knew all he wanted was to be "whole." But suddenly she couldn't stop replaying the stories from her childhood over and over again in her head. Blood witches were cunning, bloodthirsty. They enticed the unknowing, then ripped their throats out. How did you make a pact with an animal? If Deidra knew anything, she knew animals, and one did not reason with bloodthirsty ones.
At noon the ostler banged on the door, demanding that she either pay for another night or get out. She packed her things and left the inn, Duke at her heels. She couldn't sit here all day, not with these thoughts. She would go to the beach and wait.
She took the long way, walking through the main village lane, searching for Stephen's distinctive limp and long blond hair among the other people milling through the streets, but he was not to be found. She sat by the water's edge, Duke at her side, and scanned the coastline, watching all the boats that came in with a hopeful heart, only to slump dejectedly when they did not contain Stephen.
She waited until night fell, but there was still no sign of Stephen. With a heavy heart, she stood. She might miss his return in the dark. Or he might not even return until morning, since rowing alone at night was risky.
She returned to the inn to wait there. The ostler was busy talking to a tall, balding man. Deidra's heart stopped. The ostler noticed her and pointed. The man turned, and her suspicion was confirmed.
Luthias Forsyth.
Duke sensed her fear at the sight of the man and hunkered low, snarling and barking. Luthias's eyes narrowed on Duke. With a gesture, men appeared beside her with raised clubs.
Run, Duke, run! Deidra screamed in her mind. The dog spotted the men and heard her demand. He leaped back when the first club smashed down, barely escaping a crushing blow. He bounded out the door and raced away.
The men grabbed her arms as Luthias approached. "Miss MacKay. Fancy meeting you here. And look at you, completely healed, as if your arm had never been broken."
That wasn't entirely true. Her shoulder still ached from time to time, but it was much better. Instead of addressing this, she said, "You've been following me."
Luthias smiled, hands steepled before him. "But of course. What came as a surprise to me is that you're here with a man.. .the same man who duped me into believing he was a witch hunter." He leaned in closer to her. "Where is he, Miss MacKay?"
She yanked on her arms, fear bubbling up in her chest. Oh God, she shouldn't have returned. They would have thought that she and Stephen had left town and they would have followed; now they would wait around to trap Stephen.
"Who?" she said, still struggling. "I don't know who you speak of. I travel alone."
"Oh, come, Deidra, do you really think me stupid?" He waved a dismissive hand at her. "Never mind. We will find him and he will be tried as your accomplice."
"My accomplice? I have no accomplice!"
"He set you free when I had you in my hands," He curled his raised hand into a fist and shook it at her.
Her heart squeezed in her chest as she shook her head frantically. "I don't ken what you're talking about."
He motioned to several more men stationed around the room. "Search the building and village for him. He might have seen us and is hiding. Have a care---the crippled man' was likely an act. He is probably much stronger and faster than he let's on."
He turned his gaze on Deidra. "Come with me, Miss MacKay. I have a few questions for you."
He turned, walking deeper into the inn. Deidra's captors pushed her along after him. Deidra gave the ostler a pleading look as she was shoved past him, but he averted his eyes and turned away.
She was all alone.
Stephen slept the day away. He woke once and saw that the sheep had given birth to a lamb. He lay there in excruciating pain for a while, staring at lamb and mother, breathing in the odor of hay and manure. He contemplated getting up, but instead he fell back asleep.
When he woke again he sensed immediately that something had changed. He was not alone. But it wasn't the presence of animals he sensed. It was something else, something dangerous.
It was dark; no light illuminated the stable. He blinked into the darkness, his heart thudding with fear and pain. His back felt as if a spike had been jammed into the base of it.
Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and he could make out shadowy figures. A pale lump---the sheep and lamb; darker shadows in the center of the room---the troughs; and something very dark and dense just to his right.
"Good evening," said a soft, feminine voice.
The surprise snatched at his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push back the pain and remember why he was here. The pain, that was why.
His heart beat overtime. "You are---you are the baobhan sith?"
"You know that I am. Who are you?"
"I am Stephen Ross. I came for your help."
"Help?" She laughed softly. Her voice was rough, husky. "Not many come to me for help. And they are all disappointed."
Stephen bit the inside of his lip as he forced himself to a sitting position. Her hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"Stay. You are hurt. I am not a healer. I cannot fix this ailment. I've heard of some that might. The MacKays of Strathwick. They might be able to help you."
Stephen let out an incredulous breath, then laughed. The irony was such that laughing seemed the only alternative. The derisive humor bubbled upward and he laughed harder, wondering what Deidra would think when he told her. He laughed until it hurt his belly and back.
When the pain finally dulled his humor, he sighed, resting his forehead on the floor.
"You have humor," she mused. "And you're comely. Your body is strong." Her hand ran over his arm and shoulder. "Despite this.. .weakness."
He tensed, the hair along his neck stiffening. He wanted to shrug her off but didn't dare.
"You can see me?" he asked warily.
She laughed now, a knowing, sensuous laugh, but she didn't answer. "Maybe I can help you, Stephen Ross. Come."
"One moment, prithee," he said, and readied himself to make another attempt at standing. But before he could even try, she lifted him, effortlessly, it seemed, until he stood, then pressed his back against the wall.
His eyes screwed shut and he let out a broken cry of pain.
"Can you walk now?" she asked.
He pressed the back of his head to the dirt and rock wall. No, not yet He shook his head. She waited, still supporting him with a fist wadded in his jack, pushing him against the wall.
She was unnaturally strong.
Stephen took a few deep breaths, then pushed at her hand. She released him and he slumped forward, remaining upright under his own power. "I'm fine."
"Good, follow me."
He sensed rather than heard her movement away from him. He guessed that she was leaving the stable. This was confirmed when he saw her silhouette standing in the stables open doorway. Tall and shapely she stood, waiting. The breeze moved her hair that hung loose to her waist and the bottom of her thin dress.
Stephen limped after her. He had lied---he wasn't fine. His back and legs were stiff with sharp spikes of pain radiating from his spine down the backs of his legs. Each step felt like a mallet driving the spikes deeper into his hips.
He joined her in the fresh night air and inhaled deeply to clear his head. In the moonlight she was beautiful. Red hair hung in a glistening waterfall over her shoulders and down her back. Large, dark eyes stared at him from an expressionless, heart-shaped face. Her skin was pale and fine, unmarked, and the dress she wore, made of gossamer or some such thin material, left little to the imagination. She was well made, too.
They traversed the valley. She adjusted her speed so that she didn't get too far ahead of him. He wanted to fall to his knees and praise God when they made it to the open door at the other end of the field. She disappeared inside, and seconds later a candle was lit. He stood just inside the doorway and watched as she circled the room, lighting candles until the entire room was lit with a circle of them. She was clearly not lacking in luxuries.
Despite being built into a hillside, it was a comfortable house. It appeared to be a single room, but Stephen couldn't be sure, as parts of it were in complete darkness beyond the candles. The floor was dirt and spread with rushes, and her candles were beeswax, not lard. A long table against the east wall held nothing but a salt cellar. An enormous curtained bed was at the far end of the room, and a stool sat to the west of the bed, with a tapestry loom before it. Not far beyond that was a chair with a blanket and a book on the seat.
"So, Stephen Ross." The baobhan sith turned, blowing out the long thin flint match she used to light the candles. "What is it you believe I can do for you?"
She was a beautiful woman. She approached him slowly, her steps measured and flowing---gliding almost. When she stood an arms length away, he saw that her eyes were a deep green, her skin flawless.
"I have heard that you do magic in return for certain..." He rotated his hand at the wrist to indicate his inability to pin a good word on it and finally finished, "obligations"
Her brows drew together in confusion. "Obligations? Magic? This is very strange. What sort of..." She waved her hand in an exaggerated parody of his fumble for words. "Obligations?"
"The MacKays---it is said that a baobhan sith made them witches. Many generations ago a MacKay came to a baobhan sith seeking aid. His son was dying. He made a pact with the blood witch. In return for his sons life she made him a witch, and it is carried in his line to this day."
Her smile was small and condescending. "I don't know of this pact you speak of, but I assure you, your story is mangled."
Stephen's mouth drew up into a tight smile. "I assure you. I have not made this story up. I know the MacKays, and they are witches."
"I believe you, Stephen. Peace. But we are not demons. I am not Satan with whom you can sign a bloody contract."
Stephen's brow arched and he glanced around the room. "Do you call on him, then?"
She threw her head back and laughed. It was a full, throaty, feminine sound. "You are very amusing, Stephen. I shall like having you around."
Her words sent a chill through him, especially when he recalled that she had lifted him from the ground with one hand and no effort. He did not want to stay around. He had plans.
"Why am I amusing?"
"You think I know Satan?" She pointed to her breast as she turned away from him. She crossed the room, hips swaying, and disappeared into the shadows.
Stephen stood nervously, waiting. His back still hurt, but it wasn't so bad. He had some laudanum, but he would not take it when his situation was so uncertain.
When she didn't reappear, he called, "Miss...er..He realized then that he had never gotten her name. "Baobhan sith?"
He started to follow her into the dark shadows where she had disappeared when a cold wind stirred his hair from behind. He turned.
She stood behind him with a tray laden with cheese, dried fruit, sweet meats, and nuts. He startled violently at the sight of her there. He had not even heard her approach.
"Eat!"' she purred. "You must be hungry-"
"Where were you?"
She lifted the tray higher. "Fetching this for you." She brushed past him with the tray, set it down on the long table, then pulled out two chairs. He followed and sat down. After a seconds hesitation he began to eat greedily.
"Why do I amuse you?" he asked again when she sat across from him.
"Because you think I know Satan" She gave a silent, derisive laugh. "That I would even know him." She tilted her head to the side. "You have ingested all of the witch propaganda, have you not? All witches consort with the devil. What of the MacKays? Have you seen them commune with Old Nick?"
"No. They are not evil."
She sat up straighter, palms on the tabletop and brows raised. "But I am?"
Stephen lifted a shoulder. "I don't know that yet, do I?"
Her brows lowered and her mouth flattened. "What do you want? Hmm? What favor do you ask of me?"
He could see he was not charming her. He tried to give her a winning smile without overdoing it. "I am willing to become a witch, if it will make me whole."
She stared at him as if she expected him to say more. When he didn't, she frowned and gave a little shake of her head, as if confounded. "That's it? How does this benefit me?"
Now Stephen was confused too. "What do you want? I thought you would name your price. Give me your terms."
"What do you have that I would want?"
"I am a wealthy man. I can give you lands or money."
She spread her hands to indicate their surroundings. "I have a whole island...and what would I do with money?"
Stephen ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "Then you tell me. What do you want? If I don't have it, I can probably get it for you."
She licked her bottom lip and surveyed him appraisingly. The way she looked at him, like a horse for sale, made him uneasy. He wondered if she would want him to lay with her. She was a beautiful woman, and normally the idea of being with someone like her would be a welcome distraction, but not anymore.
It felt...well...wrong. Such a thought seemed absurd on the surface, but when looked at deeper, it went back to Deidra. It felt like a betrayal. She was the one he wanted---not in some illicit affair, but as his wife.
But he didn't want to be with her if he was only half a man. He would do anything to be whole again, and sleeping with a beautiful woman was a small price to pay.
"The only thing I am lacking is a companion. I am alone on this island, except for the occasional weeping sacrifice the villagers send over. Halfwits, all of them, sent because they want to be rid of them." She laid a palm on her breast. "What am I to do with them? They are as useless to me as they are to them."
Stephen asked, "So...what do you do with them?"
Her slow, enigmatic smile made his throat tighten.
"I cannot tell you that.. .at least not yet. So, what do you say?"
"You want me to find you a companion? What are you looking for?"
Her look was condescending. He was not that dull; he knew who she wanted, but he didn't want to volunteer for the job.
"A man.. .comely, intelligent, amusing, able to satisfy a woman." A perfectly shaped red brow arched suggestively. And just such a man is here, in my home, wanting something from me."
Stephen's heart sped up. She was going to do it. She would grant him his wish if he would stay with her. He would never be with Deidra either way, it seemed. If he had to go on without her, he'd rather do it without the excruciating pain.
"Before you make your decision," she said, leaning back slightly and giving him a view of her breasts---the thin material of her gown did not camouflage her jutting nipples the slightest bit, 'let me tell you a bit about what it means to be a baobhan sith" She reached across the table and chose a piece of cheese, turning it in her fingers while looking at it. "This cheese has no taste for me. When I eat it, it tastes like dust...just like everything else." She dropped it back on the tray with an air of disdain. "I can smell it better than you can smell. It smells delicious. And if I force myself to eat it, it gives me no sustenance. My body rejects it."
Stephen shook his head. "Rejects it?"
"I bock it up."
Stephen picked up the cheese she'd dropped and examined it thoughtfully before popping it in his mouth. He shrugged. "Its not that good. Not worth the price of a good back."
Her smile was small and wistful, her eyes far away. "That's what you think now, lad. But there might come a day when the crisp bite of a fresh apple in autumn seems an elixir of the gods. The memory more powerful than the love of a child or a good man." She opened her palms and looked down at them. "And right there, in your hands when child and man are both dust." Her eyes met his and her smile twisted ruefully. "Not that I would know about either."
"If that's all there is to being a baobhan sith, then I willingly give it up."
"No, that's not all there is...there is the matter of the sun."
"The sun?" Stephen remembered the story Deidra had told him that first night she'd shown up at his home looking like a dustball. The beautiful women with voices like nightingales. They entranced men, then fell on them, ripping their throats out and drinking their blood. One man survived---because of a rosary and the sunlight. Stephen's belly tightened. It was night. He was suddenly thankful for the goodluck charm Deidra had given him before he'd left. He unhooked the front of his jack and casually scratched at his chest. The bulge of it in the pocket sewn into the inside of his jack brushed the back of his hand and reassured him.
"Aye, the sun!"' she said. "A blood witch is very strong.. .the sun saps our strength, whereas the night fuels us. We are strongest---and hungriest---when the moon is full."
Stephen let out an internal sigh of relief that the moon was currently not full. All right. So that is why you locked yourself into your home during the day?"
She smiled and nodded. Aye, I sleep during the day."
"But you can go about during the day?"
She inclined her head. "Aye, a baobhan sith can live amongst others...the great lords do well as baobhan siths. They drink and carouse all night, then merely seem incapacitated from the nights activities. No one thinks a thing about them lying abed all day. Women, however, don't do so well. They can seem invalids during the day, but at night, when they are strong and"---her eyes scanned him with increasing interest---"hungry, people get suspicious."
Stephen stared back at her. "It seems a small price to pay for strength and wholeness."
"To be hunted? To live long after all you have loved has passed away? To subsist on nothing but living blood? To feed like an animal?" She shook her head. "You show your ignorance." She smiled and leaned across the table. "You think I am a fool, do you not? You think I will change you and then let you leave? You will be mine." She leaned back in the chair and shrugged nonchalantly. "You're mine either way. You will not leave this room without my blessing."
"What do you mean, I'll be yours?"
Her mouth curved into a smile. "Mine to do with as I wish." She touched her neck, trailing her fingers from neck to bosom. "My blood will be in you. You will be stronger, aye, but not as strong as me. Your mind will be mine."
Stephen frowned at her. "And who do you belong to?"
Her head tilted slightly. "You are clever." She nodded slowly. Aye, I had a sire once, but she is dead now, so I am released of her!"'
Stephen contemplated what it meant. To be an animal that lusted for blood, but to be strong and pain free. This woman didn't seem animal-like. She retained thought and intellect and, judging by the loom and books, an interest in life. She wasn't some walking dead, a monster. But he would be bound to her. He would have to give up Deidra unless he killed this blood witch. He had thought that he didn't want to be with Deidra unless he was a whole man, but the thought of never being able to hold her again, or touch her...or even talk to her made his chest feel as shoveled out as an empty grave. He thought of the rest of his life stretching out before him without her. Empty, pointless.
And suddenly, when it came down to the choice between his back and Deidra.. .he finally knew what he wanted more than anything else.
But he was here and the blood witch was dangerous. He could keep her talking till morning, but he didn't know how many hours away dawn was. The island was small and he was slow. Even if he could get away he couldn't row back to the mainland in the dark.
It didn't look good for him.
"I see you are thinking a great deal, Stephen." She smiled. "I can see the cogs turning behind your eyes."
"There is much to think about...such as how do you know you want to spend the rest of your life with me?"
Both thin red brows rose nearly to her hairline. "Rest of my life? My goodness, that is not what I had in mind."
"What do you have in mind?"
"Until I am bored of you."
"That could take forever," he said with a smile.
She laughed. "Oh, you have a high estimate of yourself. You will amuse me."
"I certainly hope so." Stephen didn't think they could keep up this banter the whole night, so he decided the best way to stall for daylight was to ask her questions. "Why all the sheep?"
"I trade their wool for goods and money. And they are food as well."
Stephen raised a brow. "Food? I didn't think you ate."
"I do not eat their meat. I drink their blood. And I have guests, the people I trade with...you, that I feed. It is wise to have such things on hand."
"I thought you drank human blood."
Her lips curved again. "Blood is like wine...there are many flavors and qualities. The blood of a healthy child is like the finest Pinot Noir, whereas, say...a rat is vinegar---and then there is every variety in between. But they are all sustenance, and we consume what is available and what is safe."
"What about me?" Stephen asked. "What kind of wine would I be?"
She tilted her head to examine him. "You're not an old man, but pain has taken its toll on you...you are healthy though, your body is strong, but I have never enjoyed biting through tough muscle... The poppy juice you drink and the whiskey you consume to dull the pain taint your blood. You're no better than an old wife's honey mead, methinks."
That sounded promising. He apparently wasn't a very appetizing meal. Perhaps he would be safer if he just told her he'd changed his mind. Still, daylight was too far away to reveal that yet.
"What do you think, Honey Mead?" She watched with a small, interested smile reminiscent of a cat toying with her meal.
"I have a choice?"
"One would assume your journey here represented a choice already made."
"That was before I knew I could never leave."
She pushed the curtain of red hair over her shoulder. "I never said you couldn't leave. In fact, I would very much like to leave this island. With a companion. Perhaps relocate to France, There are many baobhan siths there and no one suspects a thing. Or Rome."
"I don't really want to leave Scotland."
She shrugged. "Edinburgh, then." Stephen smiled. "Can I bring a lass I fancy?"
She leaned forward with a wide smile and he saw a flash of them then---sharp incisors that gleamed in the candlelight. His innards shriveled at the sight, and he swallowed hard.
"Only if you share!"' she whispered.
Stephen stood. There was a lantern in the skiff. He could read the stars. He didn't particularly care. He had not thought this through properly. Or, more accurately, he had, but then he'd fallen in love with Deidra. Before her, such an offer would have been more than acceptable---but now, he'd rather die.
"I think I'll be going," he said, backing toward the door, feeling the weight of the crucifix in his pocket.
She didn't move, and her expression did not change. "Where will you go? It's the middle of the night and you're a cripple on an island."
"I've sailed before. I can navigate by the stars."
He reached the door and fumbled behind him for the latch. His hands were unsteady, so he turned to see what he was doing. He opened the door, and it immediately slammed shut in his face.
Stephen whirled around. She was right there, palm on the door, holding it closed. He had heard nothing---not a single sound---and yet here she was. His heart thundered in his chest as he reached inside his jack.
She caught his wrist. "What have you in there, Honey Mead, aye?"
He tried to jerk his hand away, but she was strong, her grip like iron.
"You didn't think I could just let you leave, did you?" She shook her head as if he was such a little fool. "So you could bring them back for me?"
He brought his other hand up and grabbed her wrist, trying to pull her hand away. Her other hand snaked around behind him and grabbed his hair, pulling his head to the side.
"You wouldn't really leave without giving me a little taste, would you?" Her green eyes, so intense they nearly glowed, fixated on his bared neck. Her mouth opened, incisors sharp and gleaming. She was so unnaturally strong that she immobilized him. Her teeth sank into his neck and he groaned as pain seared him. She pressed her body against him, sucking at him.
He didn't want this. He wanted Deidra. A fog clouded his mind as she sucked at him; his legs grew weak, as if drugged. He felt his body going limp. Soon he would be lost, her slave. He abandoned the idea of the crucifix and instead released her wrist and snapped his dirk from his belt. He jammed it into her stomach.
Her scream was inhuman. She ripped her teeth from his neck and pushed him aside. Stephen slumped against the door, panting and scrambling for the crucifix. She stared down at the dirk hilt protruding from her stomach. Blood stained her gown, slick and wet, and dripped from her mouth.
Her screaming stopped. "You thought this would stop me?" she asked, yanking the dirk from her body. She tossed it aside. "Now you've made me angry. I won't change you now, I'll just drain you dry and throw your body to the fish."
She came at him again. He pulled the rosary out and held it before him. She reared back, lips curled and hissing.
"Not evil, eh?" Stephen wheezed. His neck hurt, but his mind was starting to clear. "Not of the devil? Then why does this blind you?" He took a step forward and she stepped back, hands rising to ward him off.
Stephen slowly began to back away. She stared at him, bloodied lips closed. He opened the door and limped into the darkness. Sheep bleated around him, and the wind blew across the grasses. He shivered, the cold cutting him bone-deep, unnatural.
He drew the rosary beads over his head so the crucifix hung over his heart, and he limped across the island as fast as his crippled legs would take him. Too slow. He cursed his damn back for bringing him to this and now making escape impossible. She could just walk fast and catch him.
Fortunately, she didn't even follow.
He looked behind him constantly, blood roaring in his ears, but there was no pursuit.
It wasn't until he was a safe distance from shore that he dared stop and light the lantern on the skiff. He stared back at the island but saw nothing. He lowered his head into his hands and let out the shuddering breath he'd been holding. God's blood, that had not gone well.
Home. That's all he wanted anymore. To fetch Deidra and take her home.
Chapter 13
Drake stood in the shadows of a large fishing vessel, watching as Stephen rowed in slowly in the wee hours of the morning. The sun had not risen, and only the earliest risers were out preparing their vessels for the morning catch. Stephen stopped rowing when he was about fifty feet from the shore; from there he just drifted.
As Drake watched him drift, he became increasingly concerned. There was no movement from the slumped figure in the skiff. He ran around to the shoreline and cupped his hands over his mouth. "Stephen!"
Stephen was illuminated by the lantern that hung on the stem of his boat; it circled him like a halo. His head rose. Drake couldn't make out his face, but he imagined Stephen peering at him.
"Stephen! It's Drake."
It seemed as if the effort of looking at Drake was too much for Stephen and he began to sway. To Drake's horror, he swayed so far that he toppled to the side, splashing into the sea. Drake stared, dumbfounded for a heartbeat before ripping off his boots, throwing off his sword and dag, and diving into the water.
He swam hard, his panic increasing when Stephen's head didn't reappear. When Drake was close to the skiff, he dove beneath the surface. The water was too dark to see anything, but he reached in front of himself as he swam, feeling for Stephen until he touched wisps of hair. One more stroke and he grabbed the leather of Stephen's jack.
He curled his fingers into it and kicked upward, dragging him along until they broke the surface. Drake took a gasping breath, pulling Stephen's head above the water, then immediately began swimming back to shore, one arm hooked around Stephen's neck. He was dead weight, dragging at Drake.
"God damn it, Stephen, wake up!" Drake ground out, a band of fear crushing his chest.
They were nearly to the shore when Stephen coughed and sputtered, and the fear crushing Drake's chest finally eased.
"Get your feet under you," Drake said, struggling to stand himself without dropping Stephen into the thigh-high water.
Stephen managed to stand, still coughing and leaning heavily on Drake's shoulder. They struggled the rest of the way to the rocky shore, where Drake lowered him to the ground. Stephen coughed and panted, blinking blearily.
"What happened?"
Stephen shook his head, rubbing at his eyes. "I know not...how did you get here?"
"I followed you and Deidra. Did you see the blood witch?"
Stephen nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. Obviously it hadn't gone well.
"Damn it," Drake cursed, and the anger flooded him fresh, as if it had just happened, as if he'd just rowed his dying wife across the water. "She probably isn't even a real witch."
Stephen pulled his collar aside, revealing two ragged puncture wounds in his neck. The leather of his jack was stained dark, as was his shirt beneath. He had lost a lot of blood.
"Jesus...!"' Drake breathed. His stomach churned as he imagined how Stephen had gotten such odd wounds. "What the hell happened?"
"She's a baobhan sith." He touched the puncture wounds on his neck. "She---It...is a monster...like the tales. She is beautiful...and unnaturally strong. She drinks blood...and the rosary stopped her." He grabbed the rosary in his fist and held it tight.
Drake's gaze narrowed as he stared into the darkness where the far-off island lay. So she was a baobhan sith. She could have saved Ceara yet had chosen not to.
Bitch.
"How is Deidra?" Stephen asked.
"I know not. I've been here, waiting for you since yesterday."
Stephen slowly got to his feet with a grunt. Drake stared back at the sea. The need to go to the baobhan siths island now pulled at his chest. But he had preparations to make first---and Deidra's problem to take care of. The blood witch would wait. But she had much to answer for.
Drake followed Stephen's slow progress to the inn, where they were greeted exuberantly by the innkeeper.
"Oh, aye, she's still here," he said, nodding enthusiastically to their query about
Deidra. "Would you like to go up and see her?"
Drake thought the ostler's behavior odd, but Stephen didn't seem to notice. He limped wearily toward the stairs.
Drake stopped him with a hand on his arm. He was sure he was not needed for their little reunion---and besides, Stephen would need rest and recovery before they could continue on.
"You go on up and get some rest, I have some business to take care of. Let's plan on leaving tomorrow morn, aye?" That gave Drake nearly twenty-four hours to do what he needed to do.
Stephen stared at him uncomprehendingly. In fact, it was as if he'd been listening to something else. Drake glanced around the room, but it was empty except for two other patrons, and they were not speaking.
After a moment, Stephen nodded. Aye, tomorrow."
"Can I have that rosary?"
Stephen's hand slid inside his jack, and he pulled the black wooden beads over his neck, dropping it in Drake's hand. Without another word he turned and continued on up the stairs.
Drake watched his friend, concerned by his bizarre behavior. It was as if He'd been walking in his sleep. He'd lost a lot of blood and was probably in pain. Tomorrow, after some rest and food, he would better...and hopefully Drake would have some very good news for him.
What surprised Stephen the most was that there was very little pain. In spite of all he had just been through, as well as the probable strain he'd put on his back by rowing, his back hurt no more than usual. More than anything else, Stephen felt numb and stiff. He also felt like he'd taken too much laudanum. The steps before him stretched on and on. As he dragged himself upward, only one thought kept him climbing. Deidra was somewhere at the top. Something was different, and Stephen didn't understand what it was. He felt different. It was the blood loss, no doubt. Though the wound to his back had happened twelve years ago, he still remembered the pain and the weakness from the blood loss. Nevertheless, it had not been like this. Or so he remembered. He had been completely incapacitated that time, unable to walk. And the blood fever had gotten him for a time.
Perhaps that's what it was. The blood witch had infected him with something. His head seemed to be in a tunnel, sounds came to him from far away. Walking was strange, too, as if there were a buffer between his feet and the steps as he climbed the stairs.
And he heard things: a voice in his head---thoughts, really, but they weren't his own. The voice told him to return, go back to the island and to the blood witch. Each time the thought drifted through his mind, it exerted a physical pull over his body, dragging him down, making each step harder than the last. Pulling him back to the island.
But he kept on. Deidra. He had to see her, had to hold her and talk to her. At the top of the stairs he realized something was wrong. He'd been so preoccupied with his own strange state of mind that he hadn't paid much attention to aught else. But now he felt it.
He was being watched.
He turned and frowned down the stairs. The ostler stood at the bottom of the stairs watching his progress. The moment Stephen caught him watching, the ostler smiled and nodded and waved Stephen up.
"Can I bring you something to break your fast, sir?"
Stephen started to refuse, for he wasn't hungry. In his recollection, the ostler had not been nearly so hospitable when he was here before, but he realized he needed to feed his blood, regain his strength.
"Meat. Bring me meat---and don't overcook it."
The ostler nodded and backed away.
Stephen continued down the narrow corridor until he reached the room where he and Deidra had stayed the night. He knocked briefly before pushing the door open.
His mind was such a thick muddle that it took him a moment to comprehend the scene before him.
Deidra was tied to a chair beside the bed, arms bound behind her, ankles bound to the chair legs, her mouth gagged. Something was wrong with her head...her wild curls were wilder than usual, and a red band marked the clear smooth skin of her forehead. Luthias Forsyth stood beside her, turning at Stephen's entrance. A rope dangled from one hand.
"Stephen Rossi So good to see you. Did you find your blood witch?"
Stephen's mind struggled to grasp what was happening, to find a quick and effective solution for this predicament, but he could not focus on anything except Deidra. Something shifted in his chest; the leaden feeling made way for something dark and primal.
His eyes fixated on her forehead, the raw wound. The rope in Luthias's hand.
She'd been thrawed.
And the strange lethargy that had gripped him broke. He ran at Luthias, grabbing the front of the man's robes and throwing him across the room.
It was clearly the last thing the witch hunter had expected from a cripple, judging from the stunned look on his face as he crashed into the wall and crumpled to the floor.
Stephen reached for his dirk, but it was gone. He'd left it in the blood witch's belly. He went to Deidra's chair, some part of his mind wondering at his diminished---though not absent---pain. He fumbled with the gag at the back of her head.
Luthias started bellowing. "Kyle! Boyd! Get up here!"
The clamber of boots on the stairs meant Luthias's henchmen were coming for him. Stephen's fingers tugged urgently at the knot. He finally worked it loose and removed the gag. Deidra gulped a deep breath and blurted out, "Your back! It is better!"
He had no time to respond. Luthias attacked him from behind, clasped fists slamming down across his back. Stephen barely felt it. He whirled and backhanded the witch hunter, who stumbled back into a wall.
The door burst open and four men crowded into the room.
"Get him!" Luthias cried.
The men rushed Stephen and knocked him to the floor. Once he was down, they kicked him. He was again surprised that he didn't feel more. He heard Deidra crying and begging them to stop, but that seemed far off, in the distance. The blows kept coming---to the back and ribs and head---until his odd, altered consciousness finally slipped away.
Chapter 14
Deidra's eyes squeezed shut and tears streamed down her face as she called out to every animal that could hear her. Help me. Her forehead stung, the skin raw from the rope Luthias had wrapped around her head and twisted tighter and tighter until the rough hemp had broken the skin. A thrawing was not much, considering, and she knew there was far worse to come.
Luthias was on his feet again, rubbing his jaw gingerly and wincing. "Drag him downstairs and put him in the wagon."
Deidra opened her eyes to see the men dragging Stephen out of the room. "Stephen!"' she whispered, but he was past hearing. He had returned to her only to die. She should have stayed at the beach. She should not have come back. Luthias would not still be here and Stephen would be safe.
But there was no point in dwelling on what-ifs. She had done none of those things, and now they were both in serious trouble.
Luthias watched her, saw that she still gazed at the empty doorway. They were alone in the room. Rage filled her heart as she stared up at the man who systematically destroyed her life.
"You can't save him now!"' he said. "And you can't save yourself this time."
She only stared, her eyes narrowing.
"There it is!"' he mused, gazing down at her but keeping his distance. "There is the evil I knew lurked behind those angelic eyes. You want to kill me,"
"One doesn't have to be a witch to want you dead. One has only to know you, and know what a flat-minded man you are."
"Hmm.. .I'm not so sure about that."
There was no sense in talking to him. He heard what he wanted and twisted all else to fit his warped view of the world.
She sat up as straight as she could, tied to a chair, and met his gaze directly.
"What will you do with Stephen?" she asked, keeping all fear and uncertainty from her voice.
He paced away, fingers steepled in front of him. "In many ways, Miss MacKay, he is worse than you are. He aids and abets a witch using trickery and lies. You were born evil. Perhaps you cannot even help what you are. Mr. Ross, however, made a conscious choice. He chose evil."
She shook the stray curls out of her eyes and raised her brows for effect. "Maybe I bewitched him."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Aye, that is possible. That is what we shall find out."
She gave him a narrow stare. If cursing was in her power, she cursed him now.
Let all you do to others be visited upon you. "If you hurt him, I vow you will be sorry."
"You think I am stupid? I know you. I have watched you for twelve years. If not for your creatures, you are as powerless as any other woman. And I would never be so stupid as to allow an animal around me when you are near."
Deidra was well aware of that. She had called to the animals, but they had not come. She felt them, but they were not near and they could not come near, though some tried. Duke lurked outside the inn, waiting for his opportunity, but a man with a club guarded the inn, and he swung it hard every time Duke came near. It seemed hopeless. She wanted her father, who seemed invincible. She wanted him to hold her while she cried, then make it all better, but she was alone and beyond tears, at the brink of a hollow cavern of despair that she was tempted to fall into. This man had made her his life, made it his lifelong purpose to destroy her and everything she loved. He was the evil thing. Ubiquitous, destructive, driven by hate. And he couldn't even see it.
One of the men clomped back up the stairs. His eyes bounced off Deidra, afraid to meet the witch's gaze.
"Untie her," Luthias ordered.
The man shuffled forward and knelt beside her chair. His fingers worked the knots at her ankles, his gaze watchful, as if he expected her to leap at him even though her wrists were still bound behind her. He circled the chair and untied her wrists. She stood and backed away, rubbing the circulation back into her cold, numb hands.
The man grabbed her arm and pushed her out the door, "Where are you taking me?" she asked.
"To trial," Luthias said behind her.
"Here? How can you try me here? No one knows me! Who will testify?"
"You'd be surprised. You've had contact with a handful of people since you've been in town."
She tried to look over her shoulder incredulously, but the man shoved her harder, and she almost fell down the stairs. "And what would they testify to?"
"I cannot reveal my case. If I take you home, your blood witch parents will try to kill me. And unlike you, they might succeed. But worry not; they are next once I'm through with you."
Fresh panic clawed at her chest. This idea that her parents were blood witches was preposterous, and yet, just like his obsession with her, he seemed married to it, unable to see reason or logic. "What have William and Rose ever done to you? They've never harmed you and have helped so many!"
Downstairs the ostler averted his gaze.
The other patrons kept their heads down, but Deidra felt their stares as they passed.
"They offend God!"' Luthias answered. "So they offend me. It is unnatural. Those people they allegedly healed are not truly healed; they are now the devil's servants. Witches just like them."
Outside it was cool, the smell of salt and fish strong in the air.
"Then you have much work before you, because they have healed hundreds of people."
"Aye," he said, his voice taking on a deeper tone. "It is a war I and other God-fearing men fight. I have always known God created me for something great, some important task, and it has finally become clear to me in these past weeks."
They stopped at a wagon. Stephen was sprawled in the back, still unconscious. A horse was harnessed to the wagon. Deidra considered her options. Duke was nearby; she felt him. The horse was not intelligent, but it was wise to her. It would do whatever she ordered. Tail swishing, the horse turned her head to look at Deidra. Men stood on either side of the animal, holding its reins and harness. It was old, a nag, and just getting free from the men, if it was possible, would no doubt injure Stephen. And if the horse did get away and was caught, it would no doubt be killed. No, Deidra needed to wait for something that had a chance of success.
Luthias watched her closely, as if he anticipated an escape attempt. Deidra climbed into the wagon beside Stephen. She lifted his head into her lap and pushed his hair out of his face. After a moment the cart moved, taking them through the village.
He was so pale, and his skin was cold. Her heart contracted with the sudden intense fear that he had died. She put her fingers to his throat. There was a pulse. The band squeezing her heart eased, leaving her skin feeling odd and prickly and her limbs shaky.
She brushed his hair back, wondering what had happened on that island to make him so ill. Was he hurt? Then she saw the marks on his neck. Two circular scabs. They looked like a bite---jagged and red around the edges. She touched them, wondering if they would infect his blood. He felt far from feverish, though.
The wagon halted in front of a building.
"Get out," Luthias snapped.
Deidra started to remove Stephen's head from her lap when he groaned, his brow furrowing and his head turning to the side,
"Stephen," she whispered, placing her palm against the side of his face. "Stephen, can you hear me?"
His hand came up, touching hers. "Your forehead..."
"It's fine." And it was, for now at least. She was so overwhelmed by all that was happening that her forehead was the least of her concerns, "I'm going to get us out of
this."
He gazed up at her, eyes so pale and blue as he said, "I love you, Deidra. I came back because I love you."
She wanted to respond but couldn't. Her throat thickened, clogged with tears, and she couldn't squeeze the words past. She managed a tremulous smile and mouthed, I love you. too, but then her arms were seized and she was yanked from the wagon. Stephen's head hit the bottom of the wagon with a thump.
Her mind scanned the area, but there was nothing of use to her. Some cats and rodents. All of the dogs were locked up. All of the large beasts had been herded out of town or were locked up in barns and paddocks.
This horse and Duke were all she had. She would find a way to make use of them.
They dragged Stephen out of the wagon. He was able to get his feet beneath him, though he seemed unstable. Luthias's men pushed them both into the building.
It was a meeting house of some sort. A long table sat at the front of the room, and benches filled the rest of it. Two men with long, square beards were already seated at the table, and they stood when Luthias entered. Two other men and a woman sat in the "audience."
A black robe lay over one of the benches. Luthias picked it up and swung it around his shoulders, becoming official. He lovingly smoothed his palms over the robe and picked a piece of lint off the front before going to the center chair at the table.
"We are here today to review the matter of Deidra MacKays complicity with the devil in witchcraft and the involvement of Mr. Stephen Ross," he intoned. He took his place at the table, and the bearded men sat when he did.
Stephen and Deidra were brought forward.
"Miss MacKay, how do you plead to these charges against you?"
"I ken not of the devil, sir. I am a Christian woman."
His eyes narrowed on her. He turned his sharp gaze on Stephen. "And you, Mr. Ross?"
Stephen swayed like a reed in the wind. He squinted across the room for a long moment, then said, "What was the question?"
Luthias's mouth thinned in irritation. Are you Miss MacKays accomplice in carrying out the devil's work?"
Stephen scratched his head, as if confused. "I do not understand the question."
Luthias rolled his eyes. "You are not a dunce. Prithee stop acting one; this part is not nearly so convincing."
"She just said she did not know of the devil!"' Stephen protested. "So how could I help her do something that she knows nothing about? You see? Your question is what makes little sense when looked at logically."
Luthias gestured to someone in the audience. A woman came forward and stood close to the table. She was an older woman, her graying black hair pulled back into a tight chignon at the base of her neck. Her lips and the skin on her throat were drawn tight, as if she was very nervous, and her hands contributed to this impression by being clasped very tightly in front of her.
Luthias said in his most polite and interested voice, "Tell me, Dona, what you saw when Miss MacKay came to town."
"Well, sir," she said, turning her body so she faced Luthias and no one else. "That woman came into town with that man. I was catching a chicken to prepare for dinner when they passed my house. All of the chickens went mangit, racing after her and squawking in such a manner ye wouldna believe. I called my dog to go out and herd them back, but he were already gone, racing after the couple. My cat left, too."
"You are saying that with the appearance of this woman"---Luthias pointed to Deidra---"all of your normally obedient and well-behaved creatures showed signs of dementia by racing after her."
The woman nodded without even looking at Deidra. "Aye. When we finally rounded them all back up, they were outside of the inn, as if waiting for her."
"Were yours the only animals outside of the inn?"
"Oh, no, sir. There were many. In fact, many found themselves there that day, rounding up beasts and bringing them
Luthias nodded to the woman, and she scurried back to the benches. "What have you to say to that, Miss MacKay?"
Deidra shrugged. "I didn't notice." Of course she had noticed. But she had no other explanation for the phenomenon other than the truth, and that, of course, would have been a bad thing to admit.
"It's my fault," Stephen said.
Luthias raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Yours?"
"Aye...I rub bacon fat into my boots to keep the water out. The animals smell that and come running."
Luthias's mouth compressed as if bored and annoyed. "I was not aware that chickens ate bacon."
"Och, they do not, but I had a hole in my bag and bannock crumbs were falling out of it."
Luthias gave him a long-suffering smile. "I see. Can you also explain why Mr. Keiths horses broke out of their stable to set up vigil beneath your window? Or why Mr. Elliots sheep were found sleeping outside the inn?"
Deidra turned to look at the two men, who both nodded gravely.
Stephen spread his hands. "Why when men cannot control their own animals does it become a case of witchcraft?"
"Because, Mr. Ross, this is not an isolated event. This happens everywhere Miss MacKay goes. She speaks to the animals, commands them, and they obey her."
Not really. Deidra wished they would obey her now. Duke was not alone...she didn't know who was with him, but it was someone familiar, someone he felt safe with, and he didn't want to leave. And the horse was just stupid. Every time it tried to obey her and walk forward, it felt the wagon harnessed to its back and stopped, puzzled.
What good was this gift if the animals were too stupid to be of use?
Stephen had grown silent---no witty comeback to Luthias's latest accusation. Deidra looked over at him and saw him swaying on his feet. His skin had gone ashen. He dropped to his knees and then onto all fours. Deidra tried to drop down beside him, but the men grabbed her arms and held her back.
Stephen's breathing was loud and labored. Deidra felt her breath growing short, as if in sympathy. What would she do if he died? Her parents were not here to heal everyone. They didn't even know where she was now. Even if they searched for her, how would they guess she had come here? She had, in fact, never lost anyone close to her. Her mother had died during childbirth, so she had never known her. She didn't know if she could bear losing Stephen.
Luthias unfolded his long body and circled the table, eyeing Stephen warily. He placed a shoe on Stephen's shoulder and pushed. Stephen's arms and legs collapsed, and he fell to his side. Luthias knelt beside him and lifted an eyelid, peering into Stephen's eyes. Stephen shook his head and weakly tried to push Luthias's hand away.
Luthias rested his forearms on his knees. "Take them both to the back room. Secure her and keep a guard on her at all times." He stood. "Methinks this one is ready to confess."
It was daylight by the time Drake reached the island. Good. He wanted her weak.
He grabbed his ax out of the bottom of the skiff and jogged across the little island, memories of the last time he was here slamming through him. His wife, so frail and weak. His begging. That monsters cold refusal. And now this. She had not only denied Stephen but she'd also tried to kill him. To eat him. Drake wouldn't leave her for the witch hunters. She was his.
The sheep bleated fearfully and stumbled away as he raced through them, the black cloud of fury building each time his boots thudded on the rocky ground. He realized he was smiling, but there was no humor in his smile---just an angry baring of his teeth. When he reached her door, he didn't stop to knock; he swung the ax with a grunt of pleasure. It slammed into the wood with a satisfying clump, and wood chips flew.
He hacked and hacked at the door until the boards busted inward. He kicked them until they cracked in, then reached his hand through the hole he'd made, feeling for the latch. A deafening blast sent him reeling away from the door. He yanked his hand out, scraping his arm. There was a new hole in the door.
The bitch had a dag. Luckily she'd missed him. His fury mixed with excitement at the chase, and he started hacking at the door again with new vigor, staying well away from the exposed holes. She'd had plenty of time to reload, and since he doubted she planned to miss him this time, he made certain he hacked that door to pieces. It was easier than he'd imagined. His body was flooded with strength, like some mad berserker. All he wanted was to kill this creature that murdered his loved ones.
When he felt as if the door was sufficiently weakened, he took several steps back and came at it at a run, shoulder first, head tucked. He barreled forward, crashing into the door. His momentum paused only momentarily as the door gave way and he crashed forward. The gun exploded again, deafening him. He fell to the ground and rolled, immediately coming to his feet, ax in one hand, dirk in the other.
He scanned the room, doing a mental inventory of his body. He was pleased to note that she'd missed again. Part of the wall had been blasted out next to the door.
He spotted her near the back of the room. She didn't look like a monster at all but like a terrified little girl. Long, red hair hung wild around her shoulders. She held a long-barreled dag in both hands; it hung in front of her gown, barrel drooping toward the ground. The gown snagged his attention, disturbing him. It was stained a rust color. Dried blood.
She seemed pale and weak. She dropped to her knees, the dag thumping to the ground.
Drake advanced cautiously. It was probably a ploy to gain his sympathy.
"Get up."
She stared up at him but didn't move. Her eyes seemed enormous, too big for her face.
"What's the matter with you?" he growled.
"Kill me." Her voice was empty, devoid of emotion. "I can't fight back. Just make sure you cut off my head and burn it. I do not want to come back to this life,"
Was this supposed to elicit his sympathy? He wasn't stupid. "So you want to die now, aye? Likely story. Get up. Or I swear
I'll make living painful."
She stood slowly, her large green eyes unblinking. She left the dag on the ground.
"Turn around and put your arms behind you."
She did as he requested, going so far as to cross her wrists so he could tie them together with ease.
He turned her back around and frowned down at her. She stared back, unblinking. The front of her gown was stained with dried blood. He pulled it away from her body and saw the hole in the material Stephen's dirk had made when he'd stabbed her. He peered through the hole and saw that the skin of her belly was marred---but not with a fresh wound. This wound looked as if it had happened weeks ago and was healing.
He released her gown as if it had been on fire. When he met her gaze, a single fine red brow was arched.
"I should kill you now!"' he said, his voice low as the anger welled in his heart again.
"You'd better do it now, because come night, you won't be able to." She smiled, sly and unpleasant. "And I will not be so merciful this time."
So she remembered him. He wondered if she had. He wasn't afraid of her. A person had to have a reason to live to fear for their life, and his reason was about to be served.
He grabbed her elbow and pulled her toward the door. She stumbled along after him. He noticed she didn't have any shoes on.
"Where are your shoes?" "I don't wear them."
He studied her placid expression. "Do you feel anything? Are you dead inside?"
The smile she gave him was slightly sad. "I feel everything---more than you could possibly comprehend."
A snide remark slid to the end of his tongue but went no further. Something about the joyless curve of her lips stopped him. It immediately irritated him that he would feel any measure of sympathy at all for such a thing, so he dragged her out the door and down to the skiff with a bit more force than was necessary.
He took extra precautions in the little boat, tying her hands to the plank she sat on so she couldn't attack him while he was rowing. She didn't fight him or speak at all.
She watched him as he rowed, never taking her eyes off him, hardly even blinking.
"What?" he finally barked, unnerved by her stare. "Are you cursing me?" "We will not make it." "What are you blathering about?" "We are too late already."
Her words created a knot in his gut, but he kept rowing as if unfazed. "Too late for what?"
"Your friend Stephen Ross. He has found trouble that he is not equipped to handle."
Drake stopped rowing. "How do you know?"
"His blood is my blood now. I hear his thoughts and he hears mine...well, the ones I want him to hear. He is in trouble. He and another."
Deidra. Stephen and Deidra were in trouble. If anything happened to Deidra, her father would kill him. He had sent William word. Told him not to worry, that he would take care of Deidra and keep her safe.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
She shrugged carelessly. "I know not. Our link is weak. He hasn't tasted my blood."
Drake rowed harder, glaring at his prisoner. Her words disgusted him. "You will fix this."
"What am I supposed to do? I am weak. The sun saps my power."
"I don't know!" he yelled, fury and despair exploding in his chest. "But this is your fault---all of it, ever since you killed my wife, and by God you will fix it or I will make you pay."
Her green eyes narrowed. "You can't do---"
"Do not even say it. Because blood witch or not, I will make you pay for destroying my life. I will extract it from your sorry, useless hide if I have to."
Her mouth snapped shut. After a moment she sighed and shook her head. "I will help you, but you should know, I do nothing for free."
The pressure crushing his heart eased. "I can pay you. I told you that before, and you didn't want my money."
She smiled, slow and strangely satisfied. "Oh, it's not money I want."
Chapter 15
Stephen wasn't certain what was happening to him, why he felt so oddly detached from his body and the events occurring around him. Loss of blood, loss of blood. His body had grown very cold. It was not a typical chill that one got from being out in the damp cold overlong, but a bone-deep cold, past shivering. Another blanket or a pair of warm wool hose would not remedy this. It was in his marrow, chilling him from within. He'd fought to think clearly throughout the mock trial, but a fog had settled over his mind and He'd no longer been able to sift through it.
One thing kept him going when the voice in his head urged him to give in to the lethargy threatening to overwhelm him: Deidra's presence. He was hyper aware of her in a way he'd never been before. Surely he imagined it, but it seemed so real. He could smell her, the musky scent of her skin, the blood that flowed beneath it. He could feel her, the heat from her body, though they didn't touch. And strangest of all, he could hear her. Not her voice, since she did not speak, but her breathing, her heart, pumping blood through her body.
And he smelled her fear---a sharp scent, cold, unnatural sweat, the accelerated pumping of her heart. She needed him. He could not give in to this.
They sat him in a chair. He was too weak to hold himself up for more than a few seconds, and he slumped forward, sliding onto the floor. His body crashed gracelessly. It should have hurt all over, but most especially his back. And yet it did not. He felt no pain, just a cold numbness.
The men hoisted him up off the floor and replaced him in the chair. This time one man held him upright while the other wrapped a rope around his chest, securing him to the back of the chair. His head hung down, his chin resting on his chest. With enormous effort, he managed to raise it, his eyes seeking Deidra.
She was across the small room. Two men held her arms. She stared back at him, her eyes enormous and wild, the color drained from her face.
They started with his hands. His chair was dragged to a nearby table, where one of Luthias's thugs held his arm down. Luthias removed his robe and hung it on a peg near the door. He approached the table and chose a small hammer, suitable for crushing stones.
"Mr. Ross," he said in a pleasant voice, tapping the hammer against his open palm. "Tell me, did you assist Deidra MacKay in escaping from my custody a sennight ago?"
"Aye!"' Stephen said, unable to take his eyes off Deidra.
She stood across the room, watching him. Her heartbeat increased, racing now, so that he feared for her. Her breathing had grown shallow. It amazed him that he could sense all of this. Visually she was alarming as well. Her eyes were large and round, but she didn't seem to be seeing him. She looked light through him.
And you did it under her command."
Stephen shook his head. "No, I did it because it was the right thing to do. She is no witch."
Luthias's eyes narrowed, his thin lips becoming thinner. But Stephen knew more, he saw so much more now, and Luthias was not displeased, though he'd have liked everyone to believe he was. Perhaps he even believed it on some level, but Stephen knew better. Luthias wanted to hurt Stephen and Deidra. He was glad Stephen was being difficult.
The hammer came down, crushing Stephen's pinky. Stephen's detachment broke. It hurt. He cried out but quickly clenched his teeth closed, hissing through them. His smallest finger, and all the way up his hand, felt as if it had been ripped off, as if it were still being ripped off.
"God." The curse tore out of him, long and drawn out and full of agony.
Deidra's lips drew back, but no sound came from her. She only stared at Stephen's hand. His own anguish drowned out all the other things he had just been sensing, but he was aware that her heart skidded along even faster. She was having a hard time breathing.
Luthias's voice came to him from far away. "I'll ask you again, Mr. Ross, did she command you to aid her?"
Stephen took a deep breath, bracing himself. "No, she did not."
The hammer came down again on his pinky---the same one. The crushing pain twisted his body, but this time he made not a sound, just bit at his lips as agony throbbed and stabbed through him. He was aware of nothing else now, could sense nothing except the black-red pain that blinded him, shutting out everything else.
He waited for the intensity of the pain to subside, but it seemed to go on forever. His vision swam, refusing to focus. Slowly, after what seemed a very long time, the pain lessened incrementally.
Luthias paced back and forth between Deidra and Stephen. When he noticed Stephen blinking blearily at him he asked, "Mr. Ross, are you in league with the devil?"
"The devil, you say?" Stephen slurred. "I know not---do we have a pact, you and I?
Because if so, then aye."
Luthias narrowed his gaze on Stephen. A voice spoke in Stephen's head, urging him to keep pricking at the witch hunter, infuriate him so that Luthias would just kill him. All that stopped him was Deidra. He wished he could spare her this. She slid down the wall, knees to her chin, enormous blue eyes staring at his bloodied hand.
Luthias moved in front of Stephen's chair so that he could no longer see Deidra. Stephen closed his eyes and kept her in his mind. His head fell forward. So very tired.
Luthias grabbed a wad of Stephen's hair and yanked his head back. "Have you witnessed Deidra MacKay communing with animals?"
Stephen bared his teeth. "No."
Luthias hit him in the face with the hammer. Stephen's head snapped back, pain spiking through his cheek to his nose and skull. He felt and heard the crack of his cheek. A dull ringing filled his head. He tried to think, to remember what he was supposed to do next, but all he could think was defiance.
"No!" he yelled again, through the pain blinding him, clouding all thoughts from his head. His voice sounded strange and thick.
"Liar!" Luthias screamed, pulling harder on his hair.
"No! No, no, no, no!"
The hammer came down again, cutting off his garbled shouts, and again, hammering coherent thought from his head until blissful nothingness finally superseded the pain.
Breathing had grown impossible for Deidra. It was as if her chest had crumbled inward, restricting the movement of internal organs. She wheezed, eyes fixed on the man in the chair. He hung to the side---the only thing keeping him upright were the ropes binding his torso to the back of the chair. Blood dripped from his fingertips to the ground. But that wasn't the only place leaking blood. It dripped from his face...or what should have been his face. Luthias had beaten it unrecognizable.
Her hands gripped her throat, as she tried to suck in more air, but her vision clouded at the edges. The scene before her wavered and merged with another scene, an older scene, but one just as gruesome. Her father secured to a chair, his hand clamped into the penniwinks as Luthias crushed every bone in his hand. Blood flowed down the table, pooling on the floor beneath him...beside her. She had crouched on the floor behind her father's chair, hands over her ears, trying to block out his grunts of pain and Luthias's shouted questions. But when she would open her eyes, she saw it anyway, her father's blood sliding across the floor. Growing into a puddle. Soon it would overtake her, drown her.
Then she was back in the room with Stephen.
Stephen was not her father. Stephen could not heal himself. She didn't want to struggle to breathe anymore, didn't want the burning throat and lungs. She wanted to be strong and brave, like her father and stepmother. And Stephen.
Luthias stood to the side of Stephen, bloody hammer still gripped in his fist. He looked down at his handiwork then turned to Deidra, huddled on the ground, wheezing pitiably.
"He gave his life for you, witch. Your magic is strong to command such obedience."
Magic? No, not unless love was magical. And she supposed it was. It was love that had given Stephen the strength to die for her. She would rather him not love her at all than die in such a manner for her.
She didn't want to go on like this, hunted, everything she loved cut down because of her. If she must die, then she would die well, on her own terms. She let her head fall back, eyes shutting, and she stopped struggling for her next breath. Within moments, the tightness in her chest loosened and the air came easier.
But as her head cleared, the impact of Luthias's words penetrated her mind. Dead. Stephen was dead. Luthias had killed him. Beaten him with a hammer.
Rage built, black and faceless, like her love. There was nothing left for her now. He had crushed her future, her love, her heart into nothing. Dead.
She opened her mind and her soul and felt them. They were here, in town. They had always been here. Luthias had moved them to the outskirts of town or restrained them, but they were still there, waiting. She had felt them all along, but her reluctance to use them, to put any life in danger, had built a wall, a restraint that had kept her apart from them.
But she was past worries and guilt and fear Power flooded her as she heard them all, felt them all. Was one with all of them. Each and every creature within miles lifted its head and waited. If she asked, they would die breaking free from their restraints and kill their captors. Just to obey her.
She called them all, her eyes locked on Luthias.
And he saw something, saw the change, because his eyes narrowed and he walked toward her, raising his hammer. "Now, lass. It's just you and me." That wasn't entirely true---his mercenaries were still in the room, watching. "Do you commune with the animals?"
"Aye!"' she said, and it wasn't her voice that spoke---it was the creatures, speaking with her, through her. She was more than Deidra MacKay, greater, stronger, "I do. And you'd better run,"
His head tilted to the side, her unexpected confession setting him momentarily off kilter. Then he straightened, his eyes darting around the room, though he did not move his head.
"Why?"
The answer came, in the form of growling outside the door. Luthias jerked around, wide eyes fixed on the door. A cacophony of barks and snarls of dozens of dogs. It sounded like hell was outside, crazed to get in. The door shook as the dogs launched themselves against it, snarling like rabid animals.
Luthias's entire body jerked with each heavy thump at the door.
"Make it stop." His voice shook, spittle flew out of his mouth. "Make it stop now!" He came at her, hammer raised.
She forced her numb limbs to move, and she rolled to the side. Glass shattered, and the snarling took on a viscous quality. The iron windowpanes held, keeping the beasts out, but jaws snapped through the open spaces where glass used to be.
No one guarded the door. Luthias's men stood back from the doors and windows, weapons held at the ready, looking around them in baffled terror. They were far more concerned with what was outside the doors than what was inside. Deidra darted for the door.
"Stop her!" Luthias shouted.
The men started to obey until the low roar of thunder stopped them all. It rose from all around them, shaking the table so that Luthias's metal instruments trembled and clinked.
Luthias's head whipped around as the thunder grew.
A smile pulled at Deidra's mouth, hysterical, pleased. She must look like a true witch now, evil and maniacal. He was terrified. She wouldn't be surprised if he had pissed himself. She had finally lived up to his inflated opinion of her. And it felt good. Evil witch? She would show him evil. She would call up the animals to maul him to death, and she would laugh and dance on his grave.
The thunder peaked with a crash against the wall. The stone and wood of the building groaned and creaked. It reverberated through her bones and chest. Dust sifted down on them from the rafters.
"Stop it," Luthias ordered.
Deidra ignored him, so intent was she on the magic she created. Keep coming, keep coming. I'm in here, I need you.
"Stop!" Luthias's voice rose, high and wavering, "In God's name I order you to stop!"
The Lord was apparently not listening to the pleas of witch hunters today. Luthias's face had gone ashen, and he had lost his hammer. The thunder grew, and the animals crashed against the wall again. This time stones tumbled from the wall.
"Do something!" one of the men shrieked. "Make them stop!"
Luthias fell to his knees, hands clasped before him, and he began to pray, exhorting God to save them, to stop the evil witch's villainy.
The crash came again, and this time the wall gave way. Deidra ran to Stephen and wrapped her arms around him, shielding him with her body as the roof tumbled in and livestock stampeded into the building.
Dust choked the room, laying over Deidra and Stephen like a blanket. She squeezed her eyes shut and coughed. She only dared to raise her head when she felt animals pressing against her. The dust had settled somewhat, though there was still a haze to the air. Animals---sheep, kine, horses, and goats---filled the small room. They surrounded her, making it impossible for Luthias or his men to get near.
Luthias, his balding head covered in dust, a red slash across his forehead, gazed about the room in bewilderment. Two of his men picked themselves up off the ground, but the other two that had been in the room with them were nowhere to be seen---they'd either been trampled or they'd slipped away.
Luthias shook off his bewilderment and tried to cross to her anyway. He pushed at the beasts, trying to move them. "You cannot get away with this."
Growling and snarling brought him up short. The dogs had found their way in. Deidra held them back with her mind. They were dogs, not wild animals, and therefore easier to control.
Luthias turned toward the sound, his throat working.
"I think," Deidra said, "that I already have gotten away with it."
He turned his head slightly so that he could see her while still keeping an eye on the dogs.
"Take your men and leave, or I will loose them on you," she said calmly.
He raised his hands, open-palmed, in a placating manner. "You only make things worse for yourself. We have an entire town of witnesses now."
He was an obstinate, stupid man. Of course she had made it worse for herself. There was no getting out of this one. She was a witch, and everyone knew it. But what he didn't understand was that she no longer cared.
She let the dogs advance closer---they rushed forward and stopped, as if restrained by an invisible leash. They growled and snarled with renewed enthusiasm.
Luthias tried to back away from the threatening beasts, but the livestock bunched around him made movement impossible.
"Very well," he said. "Until next time."
And there would be one, of course. He would not stop until one of them was dead. She should kill him now, let the dogs loose to rip his throat out. But she couldn't. The rage had drained from her body, and she gave him safe passage. As long as he left, she would honor her word. She might be a witch, but she was not false.
So she watched him and his men leave.
And when they were gone, she finally dropped her guard. Surrounded by the warm comfort of the animals, she sank to her knees beside Stephen's chair, laid her head against his thigh, and wept. She wept for the man in the chair who had sacrificed so much for her only to die. Her heart wept for love and future lost, all dust and ash. And most of all she wept because of her own culpability. If not for her cowardice, Stephen would not have died. If she had not been so afraid, she could have called the animals sooner and stopped this before it ended so tragically.
She clutched at his legs, the grief ripped from her chest in painful sobs. She had done this to him. He had come back to her, and she had killed him.
"Deidra!" The shout brought her head up. "Deidra.. .Stephen? Oh my God."
It was her uncle.
"I'm here!"' she called out, her voice wavering and strained.
Her shoulders were grabbed, and she was yanked to her feet and into a tight hug. The contact, warm and strong, brought fresh tears to her eyes, and she sobbed harder.
"I ken, Dee-dee, I ken, but you must bear up now. We cannot stay here."
"B-b-but Stephen---"
"I ken." Drake said to someone else, "Is he dead?"
"Aye!"' a female voice answered.
A new wave of anguish washed over Deidra. Even though she'd known Stephen was dead, having it verified by a third party shredded her heart anew. Drake held her tighter.
"Will that matter?" he asked.
"Nay!"' the woman said, her voice smoky and deep, but feminine. "Its better that way."
Deidra lifted her head, rubbing the tears from her eyes with her sleeve. "What are you talking about?"
"Later," Drake said. He gently set Deidra aside and circled Stephen's chair. He untied him, then hoisted him up and over his shoulder. "Let's go---now,"
Drake led the way out of the destroyed building. The woman with him was striking. Pale skin, long red hair that hung loose down her back. She wore a filthy stained chemise, and over it a man's shirt and araisad.
Four horses were hobbled outside the building, where a fearful crowd had gathered. When the four of them appeared, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Several villagers actually turned and ran back the way they'd come.
"Aye!"' the red-haired woman called out, "that's right. Get your arses back inside. Not a thing to see here." More of the townsfolk dispersed, all of them averting their eyes.
Deidra mounted one of the horses, Drake came to her and laid Stephen's body across the front of her saddle. "Here---we haven't time to tie him to the other horse, and you're the smallest." He gave her an apologetic look. "It won't be long, I vow it."
She nodded, her throat thickening. His body weighed heavily against her. She clutched his belt in one hand and the reins in the other and spurred her horse forward. They rode for at least a mile, Deidra fighting to keep Stephen's body across her horse. When they were a good distance from the town, Drake drew rein and moved Stephen's corpse to the fourth horse, tying it securely to the saddle.
Deidra couldn't seem to stop crying, couldn't seem to stop staring at Stephen's lifeless body. Her eyes and her head hurt. Her body felt weak and drained. It seemed impossible that she still had so much water in her body, but it was true. The tears just kept leaking out of her.
They headed west for several miles until the sky began to darken. Drake led them into a stand of trees, then dismounted. He untied Stephen from the horse and laid him out on the ground.
The woman approached Stephen's body slowly, and Drake took several steps backward.
"We have an accord, you and I?" she said in that deep husky voice, her head tilted inquiringly. Drake nodded.
She removed her araisad, then knelt beside Stephen. Deidra came to stand beside her uncle.
"What is happening?"
Drake nodded to the woman. "The baobhan sith"
Deidra's eyes widened and her heart stumbled as she fixated on the woman pushing up her shirt sleeve.
Like a fist, hope gripped her heart. "Will she.. .Stephen?"
Drake nodded. "She says she can." His mouth flattened grimly. "We'll see."
The woman withdrew a dirk that had been strapped to the inside of her arm. Deidra recognized it as Stephen's. She drew the sharp edge of the blade along the inside of her forearm, cutting herself.
Blood welled up, spilling over her arm. She pressed her open wound to Stephen's mouth, sliding her other hand under his neck and tilting it so that his mouth and throat opened.
The scene before her was so grotesque and obscene that Deidra had to look away.
"What is she doing?" Deidra asked hoarsely, keeping her eyes averted.
"Vampires subsist on blood. She is...feeding him." Drake's voice was thick with distaste, but he did not look away.
After several minutes Deidra chanced a look back. The woman pulled her hand away and wrapped the sleeve of the shirt around her wound. She rose to her feet gracefully and turned to face them.
Drake looked from the woman to Stephen's still body. "Well? He still looks dead to me."
"Patience. Come, start a fire and let us sit and rest. We must talk."
Drake gave Deidra a look that said he didn't trust this woman, but then he shrugged and began walking around the clearing, picking up kindling.
Deidra did the same, all the while stealing glances at Stephen. Her eyes deceived her, sending her heart leaping when she thought she saw his chest rise, only to realize it was all in her mind. The baobhan sith had restored hope to her heart, yet Deidra was afraid of what would happen next. Nothing? Would he remain dead? Or would he wake as something terrible? She tried to imagine Stephen subsisting on blood, and the idea---so contrary to her own life---was repellent.
When a fire crackled, the three of them sat around it in silence. Drake ate bread and cheese and dried meat, while Deidra picked at a bannock. The baobhan sith ate nothing.
"When he wakes," she said, breaking the silence with no preamble, "he will be hungry. He will not know himself, and he will not know any of us."
Drake stopped chewing and stared at her. "What are you saying?"
"I am saying that you both are potential food for him. He will not touch me." The woman's large green eyes turned on Deidra. "I sense that you love him very much. Will you make this sacrifice for him?"
Deidra's mouth dropped open. It closed and opened several more times before she could form a coherent sentence, "You mean.. .let him feed on my blood?"
"Are you insane?" Drake shouted, standing up, hands fisted, body leaned forward as if ready to strike.
The baobhan sith rolled her eyes. "Sit down. I do not mean that she must die. She can simply let him partake of some of her blood. Or she can become one of us."
Deidra closed her eyes, her stomach turning at the idea of drinking blood every day.
"Don't look so disgusted, child. You would be able to be with him forever."
The woman's expression did not match her tone. She looked bitter and disillusioned, her smile more of a smirk. She didn't believe her own words.
"I don't really know that living forever is such a good thing," Deidra said carefully.
The woman's lips curved appreciably. "You are clever. It does have its drawbacks."
She raised her brows quizzically, looking from Deidra to Drake. "So what are we to do? He needs blood and soon."
"Will animal blood work?" Drake asked.
She nodded. "So long as it is fresh. Very fresh."
Drake stood and grabbed his latch and arrows. "I'll be back." He disappeared into the trees.
Deidra wrapped her arms around her knees. She was so weary. Her eyes burned from all the crying. Her mind buzzed, overstimulated. She'd passed the point of exhaustion and wouldn't have been able to sleep or relax now even if she'd wanted to. And she didn't want to. She needed to be awake when Stephen woke.
The woman stared at Deidra with such frank curiosity that Deidra felt her face flushing. She laid her cheek on her bent knees, hiding her face. The woman was beautiful, even as filthy and road-worn as they all were. Deidra felt like a dustball.
She rolled her head so that her chin rested on her knees. "What's your name?" she asked the woman.
The woman straightened, surprised and wary. "My name? Why?"
"Because I don't know what to call you."
This seemed to give her pause. "Why not call me what everyone else does? Vile witch. Blood sucker. Filthy leech. Dead thing."
Deidra managed a weak smile. "I'd rather not."
"Well then, you can call me Hannah."
"Hannah. That doesn't sound Scots."
"No. I'm Irish. It probably doesn't sound Irish either. My name is Aedammair. It means 'fire.' But I haven't been called that in..." She scanned the sky, as if it held the answer, then shrugged. "In a very long time."
Deidra could see that. Fire. Her hair was such a brilliant red that it looked like a sunset. It caught the light from the fire like metal.
"How long?" Deidra asked.
"Too long."
"Why Hannah? That sounds nothing like Aedammair."
Hannah sighed heavily, as if the thought of unloading such a story wearied her. "Some other time, mayhap. Your lover is waking."
Deidra's heart jerked, her head swiveling to the ground where Stephen still lay. She saw nothing at first, just the dark oblong shape of him, lying motionless. Then a groan and the shape shifted.
The frantic fluttering of Deidra's heart brought her to her feet. "Stephen?" She took a step forward. She needed to see him, to touch him, to know she had not killed him.
Hannah rose in one graceful move and put a hand out, stopping Deidra. "Do not go any closer."
Deidra's belly knotted. She laced and unlaced her fingers, eyes locked on the moving darkness. He had just been dead and now he wasn't. It was a miracle.
"Where is Drake?" Hannah muttered, eyes scanning the trees around them.
"What's the matter?" Deidra asked. Hannah's unease transferred to Deidra, making the lacing of her fingers change to a twisting.
"He's waking and Drake has not returned. This is not good."
"Is he dangerous?" Deidra asked, straining to see Stephen in the darkness.
Hannah's mouth flattened. "You may get to be a blood witch whether you wish to or not."
A shock went through Deidra and she took a step back, hands to her throat.
"What?"
Something rustled and moaned in the darkness. This time it sounded anguished, as if he was in terrible pain.
Deidra stepped forward again, concerned. "What is the matter with him? He doesn't sound well."
Hannah turned to her, her eyes grim. "He's not. He's just been dead, remember? But he will be fine, so long as he doesn't do anything he later regrets."
"What the hell!" Stephen shouted from the darkness, then moaned again. He sounded hurt and confused, and it tugged at Deidra. She wanted to go to him, to help him.
The dark shape rose from the ground. He was on his feet. Hannah moved in front of Deidra.
"You," he said, his voice low and menacing. Stephen but not Stephen. "What did you do to me?"
Deidra was confused, too. How could he see anything in this darkness? She couldn't make out any more of him than a darker shape in the darkness. But he apparently saw and recognized Hannah.
"Stay back, Stephen," Hannah said. "Someone is returning with something that will make you feel better."
"You did this to me," he growled furiously. "Make it stop. Now1." His breathing was loud and deep as he continued to advance. "What is that behind you? It smells sweet---oh God, I can almost taste it."
Deidra's chest squeezed like a fist, and she grabbed the back of Hannah's shirt in panic. The longing and hunger in his voice unnerved her. That was not her Stephen.
"Stephen," Hannah said, her voice full of authority, "that is not for you."
And suddenly he was right there beside them. Deidra had not seen him move, had heard nothing. Startled, she sucked in a gasp and stumbled backward, dragging Hannah along with her.
Hands grasped at her and Deidra fought, pushing and slapping. In the firelight she saw fangs, animal-white and sharp. Hannah's body stood between them, blocking his access. Deidra put her hand up, shoving his chin away, trying to keep his fangs as far from her flesh as possible, but she knew that he would overpower Hannah and then kill her.
And then his hands were gone. Deidra fell onto her backside and scrabbled backward like a crab.
Stephen and Hannah stood in the firelight. Her arm was out between them, as graceful as a swans neck, her fore and middle finger pointing to a spot between his eyes.
"Do not move," Hannah commanded. Deidra did not know whom she spoke to---her or Stephen---but she froze.
Stephen did not move either. He stood, stonelike, his face strained and pale, his eyes fixed on Hannah. Deidra gasped. His face. It was marred by dried blood and a red wound, but it was no longer ruined.
Deidra's eyes scanned the trees, her mind going out to the animals, looking for information on her uncle. She had avoided contact with them, her mind shying away; Drake needed to kill one, and she couldn't in good conscience lead the prey to him, though that would likely happen anyway once they sensed her.
Drake was coming. The animals had all fled, smelling the hunter, but he had captured something, and it was alive and in pain. It wanted her help.
She heard footsteps, then Drake burst into the clearing, a red fawn draped across his arms like a child.
It lifted its head toward Deidra. She blocked it's thoughts, just as she used to before this mess. There was nothing to be done for it.
"Bloody hell," Drake muttered, his gaze on Stephen. He approached slowly. "What's wrong with him?"
"Take the fawn, Stephen," Hannah said, ignoring Drake's question.
Stephen reached out and took it from Drake.
Hannah dropped her hand, her shoulders sagging, and Stephen blinked, looking around as if he'd just woken from a dream. His eyes scanned them all, registering no recognition. Then his gaze dropped downward to the dying animal in his arms. His face distorted into a ravenous snarl.
He fell to his knees, burying his face in the fawn's neck. Deidra turned her face away, hand clamped over her mouth. She was sickened beyond belief. Her stomach heaved, and she was glad she had not eaten anything. But the animal felt almost nothing---a moment of fear, some mild pain, then its mind dulled, as if clouded with drink.
Drake's hand rested on Deidra's shoulder. "How are you, Dee-dee? Did he hurt you!"
Deidra shook her head, unable to remove her hand from her mouth. No, she was not hurt---not in any way that could be seen with the human eye, at least. Her heart felt battered, possibly damaged. This was not the Stephen she had fallen in love with. She didn't know what this was---a predator, an animal---but it frightened and disgusted her.
"This is only temporary," Hannah said, joining them outside the firelight.
"What the hell is wrong with him?"
Drake asked in a loud, angry whisper. "He's like a beast, inhuman. That is not normal."
"His blood has been drained; he must replenish it. So long as he feeds regularly, he is no different from me. A baobhan sith only becomes feral when they do not feed."
Feral. A word used for animals gone wild. Animals that must be killed.
"There is much for him to learn and understand." Hannah rubbed a hand across her eyes. "Is there a safe place we can go?"
Drake nodded, distracted. His frowning gaze was fixed on Stephen. "When can he travel?"
"When he's finished he'll be disoriented, but he should be able to ride a horse." Hannah's gaze scanned Drake from head to toe and apparently found him lacking. "Better than you, no doubt."
"Does he know who we are?" Deidra asked tentatively.
"He knows who I am," Hannah said. "You both he probably recognizes, but is confused.. .cannot find a name to match the faces. Fash not, it will all come back eventually. He was dead, after all."
Deidra tore her gaze away from Stephen to look at Hannah. "This happened to you once?"
"It was a very long time ago." She studied Deidra's expression. "Can you love him this way?"
It was a bald question, one Deidra did not have an answer for. She opened her mouth and closed it. She turned and looked at the man hunched near the fire, drinking animal blood. The fawn was dead now. It had been a painless death. Stephen had somehow drugged the animal as he'd fed on it. Deidra looked back at Hannah's knowing eyes, then at her uncle, who averted his gaze to the ground.
"I know not," she finally admitted. Hannah let out a soft, breathy laugh. "Well, at least you're honest." Deidra's throat tightened.
Hannah tilted her head to the side. "You regret I did this? Because I can kill him. Now is the best time. After tonight he only grows more powerful."
Deidra shook her head vigorously. "No, no, that's not what I want."
Hannah still studied her, as if gauging the validity of that statement, then her eyes shifted behind Deidra. And there he is," she said softly.
Deidra turned. Stephen sat beside the fire. It limned his face in black and red, the blood-black smudges on his mouth. He stared down at the fawn he had just mauled. He dropped it, as if it had burned him, and stared at his bloody hands. He stood abruptly, leaning back on his heels and straightening-It was a fluid movement, something that Stephen's back never would have allowed him to do.
Deidra's mouth hinged open. Stephen seemed to realize this at the same time she did, because one of his hands went to his back.
"Stephen," Deidra gasped, coming to her feet and taking a step toward him. "Your back---it's healed."
He turned, his eyes scanning the three of them. He showed no signs of recognition until his eyes rested on Hannah, and then they narrowed. He held his bloody hands out to her.
"What the hell have you done to me?"
"You wanted this." Hannah's voice changed when she spoke to him; it became firm, commanding-A master addressing a servant.
He shook his head. "I don't remember that."
Hannah stood and smiled, as if he was a forgetful child. "Well, Stephen, you do not remember much, do you?"
His eyes moved to the side as he searched his mind. After a moment his gaze moved to Deidra. "I know you."
Deidra's hand went to her neck, her heart fluttering. Aye!"' she said softly. "You do."
His gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he took a deep breath and looked down at his hands again. "I need to wash."
Drake came to life from his silent and motionless state. He stood. "Come with me. There is a bum not far."
Drake glanced at Hannah, one brow raised in question.
She inclined her head. "He is safe. For now."
Chapter 16
Stephen followed the bearded, black-haired man away from the campsite. The women watched him silently as he passed. He felt strange and exposed in his current condition, drenched as he was in blood. It sickened him, and at the same time the taste of it was still in his mouth, warm and delicious.
His mind was fuzzy, a fog he couldn't quite sift through. There were hazy images. The woman with the black curly hair and large blue eyes. A dog. A tall man with a hammer. The memory of pain flashed through him, throbbing in his hand.
He lifted his hand. It was covered with blood, but not his own. It was whole and functional. He bent each finger to test it. Red marks marred the skin, but they were old and healed. And yet the memory of excruciating pain spiking through his hand was fresh. He dropped his arm and looked around. The man had led him to a bum.
The bearded man stood beside it watching Stephen cautiously.
Stephen felt as if he should know the man, and yet he could not locate a memory associated with him. But it was there. Somehow he just knew. Like a curtain he could pull back and all would be revealed.. .except he couldn't find the curtain. He knelt beside the bum and scrubbed his hands in the water, plunging them into the soft sand and pebbles along the bottom and using that to scrub the blood off. When his hands were clean, he did the same to his face.
He sat back on his heels and looked upward, blinking the water from his eyes like tears. He was so confused. The one thing he was sure of was that he was what had changed. Everything around him had stayed the same. He also knew that he was stronger than he had ever felt. And that he had been crippled before. He had lived a useless life; he had been weak and angry. Now he was whole and strong.
He felt good. Amazing. And that woman...the black curls, the beautiful eyes, they excited him. He'd wanted to taste her, drink her blood. That was wrong. He knew that now, but such a thing had not even entered his mind before. He'd been so hungry. It had been unlike any hunger he could ever remember. As if his stomach had shriveled into a currant, dry as ash. It had hurt, so that all He'd been able to think of had been easing the pain.
He took a deep breath and looked up at the man beside him.
The man had never taken his eyes off him. He was watchful, curious. His hand rested on the dirk at his waist. "You look well, Stephen."
Stephen said nothing. His gaze turned to the water.
The man tapped his fingers on his dirk hilt. "Do you know who I am?"
Stephen shrugged. "I know I should."
"My name is Drake MacKay. And aye, you do know me. Very well."
That sounded right to Stephen. He nodded slowly. "The woman, the one with the curls..." He touched his hair when he said the last. "I know her very well, too."
Aye," Drake said. His voice was low and full of meaning, making Stephen wonder if she was perhaps his wife. That felt right, too. He wanted to ask, but that somehow seemed disrespectful. If she was his wife, surely he would know that on some level.
Drake said, "She is my niece. Her name is Deidra." He watched Stephen closely, then said, "She is a witch."
Stephen nodded meditatively. "Aye... and she is hunted."
Drake snorted. "You will both be hunted when they get a look at you."
Stephen looked up at him quizzically.
Drake slapped him on the shoulder. "You died, man."
Stephen searched his memory, but he had no recollection of dying. Of course, he had no recollection of much of anything.
Drake laughed. "Och, aye, man. You are a witch, too. The walking dead."
Stephen got to his feet, surprised by this information. This, of all the things that had occurred tonight, felt wrong.
Drake turned and walked back toward the fire glinting faintly through the trees.
"Fash not on it. You're in good company
Luthias left the coastal village immediately after the witch had called upon her hell beasts to trample him. Running away with his tail between his legs had not been his first instinct. His nature was to stay and fight, to regroup. But He'd remembered the thunder and the animals and the broken bodies of two of his men, and He'd decided that here, so far from his resources, was not the proper place or time to take another stand.
So he retreated. She had merely won a skirmish. God would never let such a creature win the war. This was only a test of Luthias's resolve, and he would not fail. The decisive battle was yet to come. He had preparations to make.
This time he took witnesses---villagers. They had not wanted to come. They'd been argumentative, complaining about crops and livestock and other responsibilities they'd felt were more pressing than
God's calling, Luthias had managed to persuade them by reminding them that he did the king and kirks work and if they were not cooperative, then both king and kirk would be informed. This had motivated them to set aside their obligations and travel with him.
They traveled south. It took nearly a week, but Luthias had no choice---the nearest lowland city of sufficient size was Sterling, and he very much needed the aid of real Scots, not these Irish hybrids that wore women's skirts. He needed real God-fearing men, not bare-legged papists.
In Sterling he sought out a kirk session to state his case. He was fortunate. The king was in one of his witch-hating periods. King James had done several policy about-faces in the past decade, all of which had affected Luthias's fortunes. His fortune was currently on an upswing. And even better, the king was strongly anti-Highlander. He hated them. In fact, he insisted that the Highland chieftains' firstborn sons be sent to the lowlands or England for schooling so as not to be poisoned by vulgar Highland ways.
Luthias and his witnesses stated their case to the elders. Witches had infested the Highlands. It was anarchy. He needed reinforcements, and he needed to get to the root of the problem. Strathwick was a nest of evil and it was growing, spreading throughout the region.
The root of the evil were the MacKays. Luthias then told them about the blood witch. Again, his witnesses were useful in testifying to the presence of a blood witch in their village, enumerating her attributes and confirming that she was in league with the MacKays.
It was then that Luthias made his most audacious and dangerous accusation---that the head of the Strathwick MacKays was nothing less than a blood witch, as was his wife. And that they must be exterminated before spawning any more witches.
This was not welcome news to the elders. The MacKay was not a lord, but neither was he a commoner. He was a landowner who commanded many men. What was more, the king looked upon him favorably, in spite of his being a Highlander. His firstborn son was currently at the English court in London, and it was said the king was fond of the boy because of his fair countenance.
The elders murmured amongst themselves for some time. When still they seemed undecided, Luthias drew his trump card. He brought the broken bodies of his men forward and showed them what the animals had done.
The elders were moved.
They issued a warrant for William MacKay and his daughter, Deidra. The elders stressed that a man of MacKays stature must be questioned by the king. Luthias was only to apprehend him. There would be no independent investigations.
That was all Luthias needed to draw Deidra to him. With her lover broken, he suspected she was headed south anyway, bringing him to her home to have him healed. Though Luthias had told Deidra that Stephen Ross was dead, at the time he hadn't really known. It wasn't as if he'd had the opportunity to hold a spoon to his mouth. In fact, he doubted Stephen had actually died. He had seen men live through far worse than what he'd dealt Stephen Ross. If alive, he wouldn't be for long, and there was only one place where he could be made good as new. Strathwick.
Chapter 17
Drake led them all back to Creaghaven. They made the journey in record time, in spite of the fact that they took an easier, yet longer, path through the mountains. Stephen and Hannah could ride without stopping, showing no signs of fatigue. Deidra and Drake pushed themselves just to keep up with their grueling pace. They did not need to stop for the night, and Drake thought it best that they just keep moving. They took short sleep breaks during the day but otherwise pressed forward.
Deidra dreaded the baobhan siths' feeding time, dreaded seeing Stephen become feral again, but it never came. Neither Stephen nor Hannah ate anything at all on the journey, and they didn't seem worse for it. Perhaps they were not like humans and didn't require daily sustenance. She didn't ask.
She did not know if Stephen even remembered her. He recognized her, but that wasn't the same as remembering her. His behavior gave away nothing. He was quiet most of the time. He did not eat the food that Drake offered him. He did not talk except when necessary. And worse, he seemed to be avoiding her. She did find him watching her sometimes, but the sensation unnerved her, making her feel like an animal being stalked. Then she recalled how he'd tried to attack her, and she found herself unable to meet his gaze for more than a few seconds.
She felt as if she'd lost him all over again. Now that he was a "whole man," she didn't matter...except as food. It was worse than what she'd feared. She wanted to be happy for him, because he was clearly cured. He was no cripple now. But it was difficult when he didn't seem to be the same person.
When they arrived back at Creaghaven, Duke, Countess, and Blue were all there waiting for them. Deidra was relieved that they had found their way home. She'd told them all where to go, but even humans lost their way, and with domesticated animals it was not always certain they understood.
The animals were all pleased to see them, but when Stephen called Duke to him, the dog tucked his tail between his legs and tried to slink away. This alarmed Deidra more than anything that had happened since Stephen had woken. The dog was frightened. He knew it was his master that called to him, and yet his master smelled all wrong, like a predator. Stephen called the dog again, this time with steel command in his voice. The dog belly-crawled to him and lay flat, nose to the ground, while Stephen patted him. Stephen stood to frown down at the dog, and Duke took the opportunity to run over to Deidra and press his head into her leg.
Deidra put her hand on Dukes head and tried to soothe him. Stephen frowned at the dog in wounded confusion.
Well, he remembered his dog.
His gaze rose from the dog to meet Deidra's eyes. His own were accusatory, as if she had had something to do with Duke's defection. Then he turned and followed Drake into the keep, where they all went to their respective chambers.
Deidra was so very tired and dejected that she longed for the obliviousness of sleep, but when she closed her eyes, her sleep was troubled with vivid dreams of Stephen kissing her, his lips warm and hungry. Her heart swelled with bittersweet joy that she was in his arms again and he touched her and loved her; that he was not lost to her.. .and yet some part of her understood that this was fleeting, not real.
Still, she took it, grasped the moment with both hands, wrapping her arms around him. He pushed her backward, onto the bed, his hands sliding up her thighs, raising her shift as his body pressed between her legs. Yes, oh yes. Her body ached and throbbed for him. She wanted him deep inside her, to give her surcease. She wrapped her thighs around him and moved against him, waiting for him to penetrate her, to end this wanting, but he didn't.
He kissed her deeply, his hips thrusting into hers, driving the ache deeper until she moaned from it, but it did not satisfy, it only made it worse, made her frenzied. His mouth moved over her chin, to suck on her neck, and then she felt it, the sharp piercing of his teeth, sinking deep.
But rather than hurt, it sent her over the edge. She cried out. Her body shuddered and convulsed as his teeth sank in deeper. Waves of ecstasy flowed over her as he sucked, and as he did, he finally pushed inside her, and she screamed.
She woke with a start, body still throbbing with unfulfilled desire. She lay staring at the ceiling, her hand clamped to her throat. Her hair was damp, her breathing labored. She had never had such a dream before. Was that what it meant to be with a blood witch? Pleasure and pain? She rolled onto her side and curled her legs up, willing the gnawing deep in her belly to subside. She still wanted him. But she didn't think he wanted her anymore. He had the beautiful Hannah, and they were exactly alike.
Eventually Deidra's racing heart slowed and her breathing evened out. The calm brought clarity of thought, but no answers to her dilemma. The longer she lay there, the worse she felt. She loved Stephen Ross no matter what he was. It was the who he'd become that troubled her. She didn't even know if this was the same man.
Though it wasn't yet morning, she rose from the bed and dressed. Duke stood, tail wagging happily. He had officially defected, refusing to go near Stephen and sticking to her side like a leech.
She led the dog through the castle and out into the small garden behind the kitchens. The squat stone well stood in the center of the herb and vegetable garden. She dropped the bucket over the side and hauled up water. Duke nosed around in the bushes but came running when she signaled water to him in her mind. She leaned against the stone well, staring up at the stars, while the dog drank. As soon as he had his fill, he raced away again. The mild scent of garlic and onion filled the air, making her stomach rumble.
She had been standing there for several minutes, her body still humming from the residual sensations and emotions the dream had left behind, when she suddenly realized that she was not alone in the garden.
She turned abruptly.
And saw nothing. She searched the grays and blacks of the garden. If someone was there, they could easily hide in the darkness beside the castle walls. She felt exposed. She started back toward the door that led back into the castle, calling out to Duke in her mind. She was even more disturbed when Dukes response was an unequivocal refusal to return to the garden.
Stephen was here.
Deidra swallowed, excited and fearful. She wanted to see him, to speak with him alone. But she couldn't seem to get the memory of his attack out of her head.
She turned in a slow circle, scanning the shadows around her. "Stephen?" she said, cursing the tremor in her voice. "I know you're here."
She waited, heart pounding so loudly that she was sure he could hear it. Her gaze jerked from left to right. Panic built in her throat. She felt as if she were being stalked. She was about to call out again when the darkness near the corner shifted. Her heart jumped as a figure moved forward, into the moonlight.
"How did you know?" he asked. "Did the animals tell you?"
Her breathing relaxed the slightest bit. He sounded calm, thoughtful. Unthreatening.
"Aye. Duke. He won't come back so long as you're here."
Stephen came no closer. He was still a shadow... a tall, broad-shouldered shadow, so reminiscent of the dream-Stephen that Deidra's cheeks flamed.
"I've noticed!"' he said, "that Duke is not the only one who shies away from me."
Deidra swallowed and raised her chin. "I don't know what you're talking about."
He took a step forward, and against her will, Deidra took a step back.
"No, of course you don't." His voice was derisive, bitter.
Her jaw clenched. "What do you expect, when you are so different now?"
He took another step forward, and this time she held her ground.
"Am I? How do you know? What has changed about me?" He kept coming forward, slowly and inexorably.
She fought the urge to back up. Her heart raced again, excitement and fear making a heady combination, and her mind muddled with it. She wanted him closer and yet didn't know if he was still the man she wanted.
"Because I can walk without a limp?"
"Don't be absurd," she said, appalled that the tremor in her voice had turned to a shake.
His voice lowered. "You are afraid of me." He sounded wounded. "No, I'm not."
"You are a bad liar; besides, it is foolish to try. I can hear your heart beating faster and faster the closer I come. I can smell that you are afraid."
Deidra's hand rose to her chest. Her heart pounded against her ribs so fiercely that she felt it through to her fingers.
"Very well. I am afraid. You are different...and you attacked me."
He stopped an arms length away from her, and she could see his face. It was the same face she had grown to love, mysterious in the darkness. His eyes were shadowed and unreadable, his mouth a sober line. But the lines pain had wrought beside his mouth and between his brows were gone. He looked ten years younger in the darkness.
"I wasn't myself then, but I am now."
A creeping moved up the back of her neck and her shoulders rose. "Who were you then?"
He closed the distance between them. He touched her cheek. Her lashes drifted shut as her heart dipped, but she immediately opened them, too hypervigilant to let her guard down.
He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, his gaze following the movement of his hand. "I will not lie to you, Deidra, there is something else sharing this body with me now." He met her gaze. "But I am still here, and I would never hurt you."
Deidra heard what was not said. He might not hurt her, but he couldn't vouch for whatever shared his body. He searched her face, taking in her wide eyes and tremulous mouth.
He dropped his hand and turned away. "I don't remember much about waking now. I don't know why I did it. I was hungry and I needed the blood...there wasn't much thought past that."
Deidra folded her arms across her body, gripping her elbows. "Is that what happens every time you grow hungry?"
Back still to her, his shoulders hunched. "No!" He let out a frustrated breath. "I know not. I have not needed to...feed"---he said the word as if it were dirty---"since that night. Hannah said I would need to...feed about once a month."
"What do you do the rest of the time?" He turned back toward her, but his expression was obscured by the darkness. "I cannot taste anything. Liquid sometimes quenches my thirst, but it has little taste."
"Is everything that way?"
"What way?"
"Tasteless. Unsatisfying."
He smiled. Her heart fluttered and she nearly smiled back.
"Oh, no." He closed the distance between them and touched her face again, cupping it as he gazed down at her, as if she were something precious and amazing. "Your skin.. .feels.. .unbelievable. So soft, so fragrant...I can feel and smell and see things that I never could before. This dark is nothing to me. I see you clearly. And I am not just whole...I am better than whole."
She was so caught up in his words, in his touch. This time, when her eyes drifted shut, she left them that way. She wanted this to be real, for this man who stood before her, touching her, to be the same man she'd fallen in love with. It was too good to be true. There must be some consequence to this defiance of God. He had been dead. And now he stood here, touching her.
But at the moment she didn't care. She had Stephen and she was happy.
His body moved up against hers, his other hand circling her waist. "Has so much changed?" he asked softly, his breath fanning across her face.
His lips touched hers. They were cooler than she remembered but not corpse-cold, as she had expected. She sank into the kiss, her lips warming his so that there was no difference. Memories of her dream rose unbidden and sent heat down to her toes.
He kissed her cheek and pressed his mouth to her ear. "I did not choose this, Deidra. I knew it would not make you happy. But now that it's happened, I am not sorry."
She wasn't either, not now, not with his mouth pulling at her earlobe so that she thought she might melt into a heap at his feet if not for his hands supporting her.
She could not be sorry when his tongue traced her jaw and licked at her neck. She could think of nothing but her own pleasure that he was alive and here with her, wanting her still.
In her mind Duke whined. He wanted to return but was afraid because of Stephen. This single thought shot through her like an arrow and she jerked, her chin bumping Stephen's head.
He bit her.
It burned across her throat like a thorn. Deidra let out a little shriek and shoved him. He held her fast, as if she weighed nothing and her strength was nothing, but he lifted his head to look down at her.
He frowned at her, confusion and alarm in his eyes. "Deidra, peace."
Her gaze moved to his mouth. Blood stained his lip, sending fear spiraling through to her belly,
"Let me go!" She struggled, her heart beating wildly, as if a bird were caught in her chest and it's wings flapped frantically against her ribs. "Help!"
His hand clamped hard over her mouth. Panic shot through her. He was going to bite her in the neck and suck all of her blood out. She screamed so hard behind his hand that she went limp with the effort. Animals raced into the garden. A chicken and a goat, but they did not know what to do. Duke barked excitedly, wanting to help Deidra but deeply afraid of the Stephen-thing.
"God's blood, Deidra! Stop your damned screaming."
The blood was gone from his mouth. He seemed normal again, but she couldn't be sure of anything. She nodded shakily to indicate she wouldn't scream. He removed his hand. His arms loosened around her. She touched her neck, then looked at the blood smeared across her fingertips.
Stephen leaned back, brows furrowed, to see her neck. His head jerked up, gaze meeting hers. "You don't think...?"
But he saw that she did.
His arms dropped away and he stepped back. "Its but a scratch, damn it." He bared his teeth, showing razor-sharp incisors. Tm not yet used to these things, but I would not bite you. I would never hurt you." His voice was full of wounded anger, his mouth hard, jaw rigid.
Deidra worried her bottom lip, confused, frightened. She wanted to believe him, but she didn't know how much she deluded herself. Did it just look like Stephen? He saw her indecision, her hesitance to reassure him.
"Never," he repeated firmly. He exhaled loudly and shook his head. He seemed as if he wanted to say more, but finally he turned and left the garden.
Deidra didn't move. The darkness had lessened as morning eased away the night. Duke nuzzled at her hand. Deidra touched her neck again, tracing her finger along the tiny raw line on her neck. A scratch, not a puncture, and it had already clotted and scabbed over.
The garden was cold and empty except for herself and some animals. And that, she feared, was how it would always be. Deidra and the animals.
She had never felt more alone.
They all reconvened in the hall after the sun rose. Stephen was finding it difficult to assimilate to this life. In some instances it was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to him. He was stronger, faster, pain free. He could see better, smell better, hear better. He even sensed the presence of other living things in a way he never had before. And yet...
He couldn't sleep at night. It was impossible. Something about the moon energized him. This might not have been a problem, except everyone he wanted to talk to was asleep. And as day wore on, it became increasingly difficult for him to keep his eyes open. He was not as alert, he was not as strong. During the day all of his amazing new talents were gone. Though his back did not pain him, he still felt less than an ordinary man because he was so tired.
But he was pain-free. That was something.
He sat at the table across from Hannah. She stared at him, her face expressionless. She was an enigma. He had been afraid that she would try to enforce the deal she had initially set forward, that he would be some kind of companion-slave to her. And she was entirely capable of it---that was the frightening part. She had somehow immobilized him back in the forest after He'd awoken and controlled his will, even entering his thoughts. He suspected she could do it again if she wished.
He met her eyes, then looked away as if bored. He wanted to make sure he remained undesirable to her. Of course, in his experience, perhaps he should state his feelings and kiss her, since that seemed to have the opposite effect on the woman he did want.
But Deidra was here, too, picking at her food, as she had begun to do of late. Already a small woman, she was growing thinner. It did not please him. She wasn't eating due to her distress, and he was the source of her distress. Though he watched her, she did not look up.
Drake was the last to the table, and he pulled out the bench beside Stephen and commenced eating.
The table was set with bread and cheese and porridge. Drake was the only one to partake, and he ate with gusto. Stephen looked at the fare longingly, but Hannah had already warned him that eating was pointless. He had not yet tested this theory because he simply didn't feel hungry. It was a bizarre feeling, as his body had been ruled by hunger for so many years.
Drake finished his bowl of porridge and had another. Everyone waited for him to finish. Silence reined except for the sounds Drake made while eating. Hannah watched Drake now, her gaze thoughtful, but he didn't so much as glance at the woman.
When finally Drake pushed the empty bowl away and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, he said, "So. What are we to do with Luthias Forsyth?"
Hannah arched a thin, elegant brow. "Dinner? Though I suppose his blood is bitter, old and thin as he is."
Drake glowered at her. "I'm not sure if you noticed or not, but we were a bit outnumbered. The entire town was there as witness. We need to get Luthias alone or with as few of his mercenaries as possible."
"First we have to find him," Stephen said.
"I sent men after him. They should be reporting back to me very soon as to his direction."
Deidra looked up finally. "So many people have seen us. I don't see how he can just die now without suspicion falling on us." She shook her head. "It's too dangerous. I think I should leave the country."
Stephen clenched his jaw and exhaled through his nose. She didn't want to leave because of Luthias. She wanted to leave because of Stephen. Because she was afraid he would attack and kill her in a weak moment.
Drake frowned at his niece. "That seems a little excessive, do ye not think? Your folks would certainly be furious to hear you've up and left the country."
Deidra met his eyes, her face rigid with anger. "It's better than them hearing that I am dead. He will never stop. We cannot kill him without hurting ourselves. The only answer is for me to leave."
"There has to be another way!"' Drake said, his brow furrowed deeply.
Stephen had an idea, he just didn't know if anyone would think it was a good one. He cleared his throat, drawing the attention of everyone at the table. "I died."
They all looked at him, waiting, though Hannah had a sly smile toying with the edges of her mouth.
"And yet, I am not dead."
"You think we should turn him into a baobhan sith?" Deidra asked incredulously.
"How is this punishment? You are stronger than ever."
"Because he will be a witch" Drake answered before Stephen could say a word. He sat forward, eyes intense. "He will become everything he loathes. He will be hunted. He will know what it feels like to be the thing he devoted his life to terrorizing."
"And who will do this for you?" Hannah asked, one red brow arched.
Drake met her gaze, and Stephen could have sworn he saw Drake's jaw lock beneath his beard.
She showed no expression. "I am here because you compelled me to be. But I am not your friend or ally, and certainly not your tool."
Drake's eyes darkened, and his mouth twisted into an unpleasant smile. "Stephen will do it,"
Stephen's brows shot up, but he didn't deny it. It was his idea, after all.
Hannah leaned forward, toward Stephen. "Are you ready for that, Stephen? To take a life, to bite through skin and muscle, to drink the warm blood until the body is an empty shell?"
Stephen wanted to be disgusted by her words, but he wasn't. Instead his stomach made a rumbling sound.
Deidra stood abruptly, her face pale, as if she might vomit, and left the table.
Hannah watched her go and smiled, satisfied. "Squeamish, isn't she?"
Drake pinned her with his hard stare for a long moment before he stood and left, too.
Stephen wasn't too pleased with Hannah either. What was she trying to prove? She had made it clear for all what he was. An animal. She had reminded Deidra, yet again, of how he'd attacked her. He wished he could remember it. He had only fleeting memories of waking as a baobhan sith. There had been the sensation of spiraling up ward... no, being dragged upward through mud, fighting for each breath, and when he'd finally emerged everything had hurt. It had hurt to breath, it had hurt to see, and it had even hurt to speak. He hadn't been aware of anything when he'd woken. He'd had no memories of anything except Hannah. She'd been the only thing he'd been aware of. Her mind had been in his, talking to him, telling him that he must be calm, that he must be careful, that he must wait.
But he had not been interested in her witchery. He had refused her offer, so what had she been doing in his head? It had only made him angry and confused.
And then he had smelled it. Warm and sweet. Blood. And his body had ached worse. He knew then what had ailed him.
Hunger.
He'd needed blood. Once he'd realized that, the pain had centered in his gut, gnawing. The smell of the blood had only intensified the pain. And he'd heard the blood rushing. He'd thought he would die if he couldn't have it posthaste.
He remembered very little after that. A struggle. Then there had been blood and he had been better. He'd begun to come back to himself.
It had been a slow process, several nights in fact, but it had only taken him one to remember Deidra and what she was to him. That she was what had brought him to Hannah in the first place.
"Love is so fleeting," Hannah sighed. "See how strong her affection was? It died with you. It always does."
Stephen glared at her.
Hate me. But you will never be free of me.
"Get out of my head," he ground out through clenched teeth.
"Then get into mine."
He frowned at her, irritated and confused.
"You can, you know."
"Why would I want to? It would be like drowning in a cesspool of evil."
Her lips twisted into a jagged smile. "You'd better start treading water, Stephen. Because you are not one of them anymore, and I'm all you've got."
Chapter 18
It took Drake's scout several days longer than expected to return with news of Luthias. And the news of his whereabouts was far worse than any of them had imagined. He had been in Sterling petitioning the kirk assembly for a warrant to arrest the Strathwick MacKays.
Deidra's knees seemed to give at this news, and she had to find a place to sit. The fireplace was behind her, and she fell heavily onto the hearth, her fingertips pressed to her lips. Her father. Rose. They had never harmed a soul, only healed others, to their own detriment. Tried. Burned. All because of her. This had gone too far. So far that Deidra didn't know if there was any way of stopping it anymore. Luthias had a warrant. The king would soon be made aware that they were witches and her whole family would be hunted---outlawed, like the MacGregors.
Stephen knelt beside her. "Nothing has happened yet. It's too soon for him to have reached Strathwick. If we leave now, there is still time."
Her throat was choked with tears; they blurred her vision. Impotent fury rose in her chest like a swarm of angry bees. The dogs in the hall stood and began to bark. She had missed so many opportunities to stop him; she'd let them pass her by. No more.
When she could speak, she said, her voice low and shaking, "I will kill him this time. And I don't care who is watching."
They were not expecting him. They had grown complacent, wallowing in their evil ways. He was able to walk right up to William MacKay, who was in the little hamlet that crowded around the castle and loch, holding a wean, bouncing it and laughing at something someone said---until his attention was called to Luthias and his men's approach. William turned, his expression immediately transforming from magnanimous overlord to grim warlord. He handed the baby off.
Luthias had never liked William MacKay, even when he'd thought the chieftain had been doing the Lords work. His magic gave him a brazen confidence. He believed himself beyond harm, beyond reproach. Invincible. And he had been, Luthias supposed. But not anymore.
William did not walk to meet Luthias, standing his ground instead, hands clasped behind his back, watching as Luthias and his men marched to him. His hair had gone completely gray. It was unnatural on such a youthful face.
"William MacKay!"' Luthias said in his loudest, clearest voice so everyone around could hear. "I hold here a warrant for you and your daughters arrest." He held the warrant up, the yellow seal clear for everyone to see. "By order of the king."
William's gaze passed over the warrant, disinterested. "On what charges?"
"Witchcraft."
"What witchcraft? I am merely a healer.
"No," Luthias said. "You are a baobhan sith."
William's brows shot up. "Am I now? And where did you come by this information?" He reached for the warrant, studying it with new interest.
Luthias pulled it back, out of his reach. "Never mind that. All will be revealed during the trial."
William's eyes scanned the order from a distance. "I'm to be tried in England?"
Luthias pursed his lips, irritated that William MacKay didn't seem at all disturbed by any of this. Aye!"' Luthias said reluctantly.
"Good," William said. "My son is at court, and I miss him. 'Twill be good to see him again."
"Do not start packing yet." Luthias rolled the document up and handed it to one of his men to slide into the protective leather tube. "We are not leaving for England until we have your daughter as well."
William lifted his shoulders. "I cannot help you. She has been gone a full moon without word."
Luthias smiled. "Mayhap she is on her way home."
William's jaw tightened, giving Luthias a measure of satisfaction. "Let me tell my wife." He tried to walk past Luthias, but Luthias's men stopped him.
"You stay with me," Luthias said. "I'll send someone to inform your wife and collect your things. If she wishes to visit you, she can come to us."
William shook his head, his mouth grim. "You will regret this. Mark me."
"I think not," Luthias said. "The only thing I regret is not pursuing you twelve years ago."
William stared at him defiantly, communicating with his eyes promises to kill and maim. Luthias motioned for him to be taken away, then he gave orders to shoot every animal in the village. Since they could not set up a normal camp without alerting his daughter and her cohorts the moment they arrived, he and his men would have to lodge with the villagers.
Luthias sighed, resigned to the fact that he would be sleeping on a heather-stuffed mattress crawling with lice for a while longer. He would bear it and more. The Lord had tested many men in worse ways. Job had lost far more than Luthias at Satan's hands. God would reward him tenfold, and all of this would be naught more than a bad dream.
Chapter 19
They rode without stopping, and this time Deidra didn't miss the rest. The horses couldn't move fast enough for her liking. But they understood her urgency. She communicated it to them constantly---and they pushed themselves harder. Drake had also sent word to the MacDonells. Deidra's stepmother was a MacDonell, so surely they would lend them aid. Unfortunately, their help might come too late.
When they were still a few miles from Strathwick, Stephen made them stop to formulate a plan. They had been riding without any idea of what they would do when they arrived at Strathwick.
"We can't just go in there, swords waving, animals snarling," Stephen said as he gave Deidra a pointed look, "else someone will end up dead."
They let their horses graze while they gathered in a small circle. Drake squatted on the ground and Deidra collapsed beside him, sitting cross-legged. Stephen and Hannah stood above them.
"It will not be me who dies," Hannah said.
"Is that so?" Drake said sarcastically, head tilted to the side to look up at her. "If you plan to sabotage us, then think again."
"Enough!" Deidra said. She thought her head might explode if she had to listen to another moment of their bickering---or, more accurately, Hannah's baiting and Drake biting back.
They both fell silent.
Hannah folded her arms beneath her breasts. At Drake's she had managed to find more suitable clothing and now wore a wool gown suitable for travel, though a little too large for her slender frame, with an araisad wrapped around her shoulders and pinned at one side. She wore leather cork-soled boots. Yet still she looked different, more refined than any Scots-woman Deidra had ever seen.
Drake had brought a score of men, but they all seemed uneasy, watching Hannah and Stephen with wary eyes. They knew there were baobhan siths among them. They made signs of protection when Hannah or Stephen came near to protect themselves from evil.
"We should split up," Stephen said. "Deidra and I will see to the rescue of her father, and you two take care of Luthias."
"How are we supposed to do that?" Deidra asked, leaning back on her hands. Though she had not noticed it before, every muscle in her body ached. "We don't know where they're holding him."
"Luthias came to Strathwick for you!"' Stephen said. "William is merely bait."
"And that," said Drake, "is why we cannot just jig into the village and give ourselves up."
Deidra worried her bottom lip as a plan occurred to her. She didn't particularly like it, but her father and stepmother would be near, so even if one of them was harmed there was an excellent chance the damage would not be permanent.
She looked up at Stephen and then at her uncle. "I'll give myself up." Drake and Stephen immediately began to protest, but Deidra raised her voice to cut them off. "He will think I returned alone in defeat. He thinks Stephen is dead, and he doesn't know about you and Hannah. Once I am in his custody, he won't be looking for anyone else."
"How will we know where you are?" Stephen asked.
Deidra was warming to the idea. She sat up on the balls of her feet. "I'll send an animal to you. Luthias will have taken even more precautions than he did before. There will be no animals in the village." She smiled. "But even he cannot get rid of the rats. I will send you a rat."
Hannah's lips curled in disgust and she rubbed her hands over her arms.
Drake's brows drew together in confusion. "A rat will be intelligent enough to carry this out?"
Deidra nodded. "You would be surprised. They are smarter than most dogs."
"It's a sound plan!"' Stephen admitted reluctantly. "But I do not like the idea of Deidra going in alone. I will go with her,"
Deidra shook her head. "He thinks you're dead. If he wanted to burn you before, seeing you walking and whole after he killed you will make him certain that you are the devil himself."
Stephen shrugged. "It will go to the grave with him, so what care I?"
Drake considered Stephen for a moment, squatting, elbows resting on his thighs. He nodded slowly. "I think you're right." He turned to Deidra. "I would feel better if he accompanied you anyway.
And besides!"' he said with a deep breath as he stood, "it will be good to have Stephen on the inside, and it will keep Luthias busy, distracted."
Deidra looked up at Stephen, wondering what prompted him to make such an offer. Love? He looked back at her, unsmiling, and she just didn't know. Whatever it was it warmed her. She would not admit it---not after the morning in the garden---but she felt safer knowing he would be with her. It seemed ridiculous after her fear of him, but he'd had the opportunity to hurt her and he hadn't.
Her hand went to her throat, touching the place where his sharp incisor had scratched her. It was gone, not even a scab now.
Stephen's gaze dipped, registering her action, and his mouth thinned. "Let's go," he said gruffly and turned his back to her.
Luthias was washing his face in a rain barrel when she arrived. She rode into the village as if she owned it, she and her companion, and he supposed she had reason for that. Strathwick, after all, was Deidra MacKays home.
Luthias moved surreptitiously back so that his body would be hidden behind the cottage stones. His eyes narrowed as the villagers rushed out of their homes and waved at them. One grabbed the bridle of Deidra's horse and came close, urgently speaking to her. Deidra's head shot up, a line of confusion between her eyes.
Luthias shook his head. Traitors to the king, the lot of them. He would deal with this whole community. But for now, there was only one witch he wanted. The rest could wait.
His men swarmed out of the cottages, surrounding the two riders. Luthias's eyes widened, and his heart stammered painfully against his ribs. He'd been so focused on Deidra that he had paid scant attention to her companion. But now he saw that it was none other than Stephen Ross.
He had expected to see him---slung across a saddle, or dragged in a litter, not riding under his own power. And his face was completely unmarred, his hands whole and unblemished, not crippled at all.
Luthias's bowels shriveled. He had seen many wicked things, but this was true evil. He had seen this man broken beyond repair---had done the breaking himself. And now he looked fitter than he had before Luthias had even started in on him.
He found himself hesitant---nay, afraid---to even walk out in the open, to let Stephen Ross see him. Luthias swallowed hard and fisted his hands. This was another test. God had brought him this far, he would carry him the rest of the way. Luthias had faith that his fight was a good one.
He squared his shoulders and walked into the road. His men had already pulled Stephen and Deidra down from their horses. They looked to Luthias for their next orders.
There was no point in waiting. That would only give the witches time to mount a rescue, as they had twelve years ago. He would not give them the opportunity. He had also devised a way to stop Deidra MacKay from calling on her animals.
"Secure them and load them into the wagon. Load up William MacKay as well."
"What have you done to my father?" Deidra demanded, surging forward, hands balled into fists. His men held her back effortlessly.
Luthias snapped his fingers, and one of his men brought him a leather box. Luthias opened it and removed a vial, which he unstoppered.
"Drink this."
Deidra's hand swung out to knock it from his hand, but he had anticipated such defiance and pulled the vial back.
She stared at him, mouth obstinate, eyes on fire.
"I'm sure that's not necessary," Stephen said in his placating voice, a voice that
Luthias now knew was false.
"You are the walking dead. You are evil incarnate. Do not speak to me."
He took a threatening step closer to Deidra. "You will drink this willingly, or my men will hold you down while I pour it down your gullet then hold your nose until you swallow."
Her jaw moved as she ground her teeth, obviously searching for a response and not finding it. The only possible response was compliance. She was a fool if she didn't see that.
She looked up at her companion. His mouth was flat and grim. He gave a single nod. Her shoulders slumped. She took the vial from Luthias.
She stared at the contents, then sighed and tossed it back. Her face twisted with disgust as she threw the vial on the ground.
"What now?" she said.
Luthias gestured to the men waiting with leather straps hanging from their hands. They came forward and secured Deidra and Stephen's wrists behind their backs, then led them to the wagon and assisted them into the back of it. Stephen walked tall and straight. No limp. Luthias's bowels shrunk again. He was no longer a cripple.. .if he'd ever been one.
As if reading his thoughts, Stephen looked back over his shoulder and smiled. It was a knowing smile, an evil smile, and
Luthias fought with the urge to have him clubbed unconscious.
He scanned the area nervously. Though He'd had all of the animals except his men's horses shot and the horses secured by several men, he wouldn't put anything past Deidra. William was led to the wagon and pushed into it with his daughter.
William spoke to her in a low voice. She laid her head against his shoulder. She was already fading. The tightness in Luthias's chest eased.
He hoped---nay, he prayed---that God had guided him straight this time and he had overlooked nothing so that finally he could accomplish God's will.
Deidra's head bobbed against Stephen's shoulder in a jarring and surely painful manner. She was not yet unconscious, but she could not hold her head up. He wished he could ease her discomfort, but with his wrists tied behind his back there was nothing he could do.
The poppy juice Luthias had made her drink worked on her senses. She blinked groggily, fighting to stay lucid. Stephen only hoped it hadn't been too much for her. She was a tiny woman who did not take it with regularity, as Stephen did. He'd seen it kill people who'd taken it in excess.
William watched his daughter with a worried frown that mirrored Stephen's concern. "Did he give her too much, think you? Could it kill her?"
Stephen shrugged. "Good thing you're here, aye?"
"Aye, good thing nothing happened when I wasn't there to help."
Stephen's mouth turned down. He'd known this was coming. "I sent you word. I told you I would keep her safe."
William's shoulders thrust forward as he leaned toward Stephen. Aye, but you didn't tell me where she was. We searched for her."
"If you were searching so desperately, what are you doing here now?"
William fell back against the wagon. His jaw shifted, and he inhaled but didn't answer. He didn't have to.
Stephen nodded. "Because Drake sent word, too, aye? Told you he had her and was protecting her. Only then did you rest easy, because Drake wasna the cripple, so he could actually protect her."
William didn't answer. The wagon hit a rut and they all banged into the wagon's sides, jarring bones. The last time William had seen Stephen, such movement would have been excruciating to him. And William was not a man to miss much.
William's gaze traveled over Stephen, scrutinizing him. "You are not cripple any longer."
Stephen shrugged. "It appears I am not."
"Baobhan sith," Deidra slurred.
William raised his brows. "You are the reason Luthias is now obsessed with the idea that we are blood witches."
Stephen nodded reluctantly.
"How did my daughter become involved in all of this?" William asked suspiciously.
Stephen's belly tightened, and he fought to maintain eye contact. He had compromised this man's daughter and not yet offered for her hand. Quite suddenly he felt his bastard heritage keenly, and he wondered if William would even consent to such a union for his daughter.
"She sought me out. She thought I was a baobhan sith."
William looked at his daughter, his face creasing, as if wounded. "Why would you search out a blood witch?"
Deidra fought to keep her eyes open. She mumbled something unintelligible, then her lashes dropped heavily and she went limp against Stephen.
"What did she say?" William asked, anxious.
Stephen shrugged.
William watched his daughter, his expression full of worry. Stephen wondered which was worse---being a blood witch, a cripple, or a bastard. He was or had been all three. Not the first choice a father would make for his daughter.
Stephen leaned his head back with a sigh.
It was a long day, trapped in the back of the wagon. They stopped once and were given a cup of water and a crust of bread. Deidra was given nothing except more laudanum, which Stephen and William protested against vociferously. They were ignored. She was still unconscious while they held her mouth open and poured the stuff down her throat. She coughed a few times before going limp again. Stephen was as useless as William was during the daylight. He tugged at his bindings, but they held fast.
William scooted closer to his daughter and examined her. "Is she breathing?"
Stephen nodded. "Aye, she still breathes.. .but everything is slowing down. If it slows down too much...it stops."
William frowned. "How do you know this?"
"I can...feel it. The heart pumping blood. It is faint during the day, but at night everything is clear."
William sat back against the side of the wagon. "So the stories are true. You drink blood?"
Stephen nodded, watching William's reaction. William appeared deeply dismayed, but he said no more on the matter. Stephen guessed his chances for winning the father's approval had just diminished significantly.
Chapter 20
The entourage to England eventually stopped for the night. Stephen could tell that Luthias was unsure about where to stop, but in the end he chose a vast moorland. It was flat, so he would be able to spot trouble before it could surprise him.
He left Stephen and William tied securely in the back of the wagon so that they could not escape---at least, not if they were normal men. Their wrists were bound together behind their backs, their ankles were tied, and their mouths were gagged. Their bound wrists were tethered to the sides of the wagon. Then Luthias had a limp Deidra taken to his tent, the only one erected in the whole camp.
Night fell. The moon was high, and Stephen felt the moonlight pouring into him, giving him strength and making him more aware of everything around him. He could have broken free and killed the men around him, but instead he played along, pretending to be incapacitated by his bonds and monitoring the camps activity. Luthias had two-thirds of his men on guard, walking the perimeter while the remainder rested. One-third was relieved every two hours.
The best time to slip away was during a change of the guards. The wait was excruciating. It was full night and the moon was high. Stephen was alive at night. His body hummed with strength and energy. He lay on his side, listening to the activity around him. He could hear everything, even the guards' conversations across camp. He knew where everyone was and what everyone said. They were afraid and hypervigilant, but their focus was outward, on the wilderness around them. They waited for animals to attack. They did not expect an attack from within. Stephen could smell their fear, sense the rapid beating of their hearts.
And he was hungry. It was not the gnawing, desperate pain of when he'd first woken as a blood witch, but he smelled their blood and he wanted to taste it.
William lay across the small expanse of the wagon, eyes wide. It was too dark for the older man to see anything, but the darkness did not hinder Stephen's vision at all. He could see William clearly, could hear the slow rubbing as William worked at the bindings on his wrists.
Stephen didn't bother working at his. He flexed and pulled his wrists apart. The rope snapped. He pulled the gag down around his neck.
He lay quietly for a moment, making certain no one was near before he rolled across the wagon. William made a soft sound of surprise, and Stephen shushed him. He reached behind William and broke the rope securing him to the wagon, then broke his bindings as well.
William quickly pulled off his gag. "Jesus God, you are strong."
"Aye!"' Stephen whispered as they both untied the ropes binding their ankles.
"What the hell have you been waiting for?" William hissed. "Its been hours. Luthias probably gave her more of that poison. She could be dead, and then I can do nothing at all."
"I was waiting for the guards to change. That is the best time to act."
William frowned, obviously not understanding how Stephen knew when the guard changed.
Stephen leaned back against the wagon side and listened and smelled. Nothing. He sat up and scanned the area around them. It was clear, so he climbed out of the wagon.
"Follow me and be quiet."
Her mind was a black pit of tar. She struggled to climb out of it, but the tar kept dragging her back. Stephen. He was near, but she could not find him, could not even call out to him. The tar covered her mouth and her eyes, hiding the world from her. It held her fast so that she could not even move. It seemed she had been mired in this pit forever when finally, it's hold loosened and she climbed out.
She blinked groggily. Her head throbbed and her vision blurred, wrenching a moan from her. It felt as if a vise squeezed her head. She couldn't remember where she was supposed to be. She had been with Stephen...they had been going somewhere, to do something important.. .but that was all she could grasp.
She squinted this time, trying to determine where she was. A dim, firelit room. The walls...moved. She squeezed her eyes shut, stomach roiling. She was still trapped in the nightmare world, where everything swirled and rocked sickeningly. She tried to move her arms, but they were bound behind her. "Ah, she's awake."
Her heart rose, trembling in her throat. Oh God, no. She knew that voice. Knew it only too well.
Luthias.
She opened her eyes again and saw boots. She rolled partway onto her back and raised her gaze slightly. He squatted in front of her, his head tilted to view her.
"I've been waiting for you to wake up. There is a conversation we must have that is long overdue."
Deidra shook her head, making the room spin, so she stopped. She didn't want to talk to him, didn't like his talks.
"No!"' she rasped. Her throat was raw and dry.
"Here!"' he said, grasping her by her arm and pulling her to her feet. "Let me help you up."
Her head spun again and her stomach heaved. She stumbled around, trying to get her balance and feeling as if she would die. His hold on her arm kept her from falling. He led her to a stool and forced her down on it.
She swayed woozily, then tumbled off of it, her head slamming into the ground.
Blackness overtook her again and she nearly wept with relief, preferring the darkness to the man. But her reprieve was short-lived. Her heart seized when freezing water saturated her, flowing into her ears and mouth and nose. She gasped for air, coughing and choking.
He hauled her to her feet again, dragging her across the room. She couldn't see. Panic choked her. Water stung her eyes. Her head whirled and her stomach turned. She needed to boch, desperately, but there was nothing in her stomach to vomit up.
He pushed her to her knees.
"Now, Deidra, you and I are going to have a little talk. But first, you need to drink your medicine." The vial was pressed to her lips.
She jerked her head away, desperate.
She could not drink any more. The smell made her stomach heave.
"No," she croaked. "I cannot."
"Oh, I think you can. We've been surprisingly free of vermin this whole journey. This is a very effective way to keep the animals at bay."
"But how can we talk if I'm not even awake?"
She could see again. They were in a tent. That was the reason for the fluid movement of the walls. They shuddered with the wind. A small brazier was set up across the room near a camp bed. Several candles sat on a table. A folding stool was on its side on the floor. She looked down. She knelt before a wide-mouthed bucket filled to the top with water. She see could herself in the waters reflection, face small and pale, eyes wide. Wet ringlets stuck to the sides of her face. She looked like a cornered animal.
Her head jerked up. Luthias crouched on the other side of the bucket, vial still in his hand.
"This takes a bit of time to send you to dreamland. Long enough for us to talk."
She shook her head, disgusted at the pleading that she knew entered her expression. She couldn't go back to the tar place. Something inside her told her that her body couldn't take any more. That it would kill her if he kept pouring it down her throat.
But he didn't care. "Take it or I will force it down your gullet."
"No," she whimpered. Where was Stephen? Her father? She remembered them now. That was their plan, to give themselves up, and it had been a good plan, too. It would have worked if not for the laudanum. Luthias was too clever. He would always be too clever for them.
Deidra couldn't accept that. She wanted a life, a real one, not the constant running and fear. She tried to remember what she was supposed to do, the rest of the plan. Send word to Drake via a rodent, but she didn't even know where they were now, or where Drake could be. Her mind stretched out around her, reaching for the thoughts of the surrounding animals. It was difficult and confusing, as her brain was still filled with fog, but she touched the minds of horses, and other, wild animals.
Apparently Luthias could see her mind working, because he grabbed her face in one hand and forced her mouth open, pouring the contents of the vial in it. When she would have spit it back out, he shoved upward on her jaw so that she bit her tongue, then he held her nose.
She tried to jerk away, but she was weak and sick, and he was strong. She couldn't breathe, couldn't spit the poppy juice out. Her mouth was filled with the vile, bitter liquid and the copper taste of blood. She tried to scream, but nothing came out except pathetic moans. Her vision clouded, the fog overtaking her mind. Finally, she swallowed.
He felt it and released her.
She gasped for air and sagged forward, leaning on the side of the bucket. Her belly burned, threatening to bring it all back up. She closed her eyes, hoping the world would stop swirling.
"Now, we shall talk."
Deidra didn't really know what there was to talk about or how he expected her to uphold her end of the conversation. She couldn't even raise her head, could barely keep her body balanced on the edge of the bucket. When she opened her eyes, the room spun slowly around her, making her dizzy.
"I thought.. .trial.. .England!"' She was dismayed by her inability to form a coherent sentence. He swam in and out of focus.
"Aye, you will be tried." He leaned close. His face blurred and doubled. "But I will not let you go to the gallows with this curse still on me."
She blinked, frowning. "Curse?"
Aye...you have invaded my thoughts...sabotaged everything good in my life. Do you know I have never been married? No woman will have me now."
And this was her fault? Her mind struggled to understand what he was saying, but it escaped her grasp. She couldn't find the animals anymore either. Tar and fog and nausea crowded her brain. Sickness rose in her throat.
"Remove the curse."
She shook her head, trying to say that she didn't understand---what curse? But his face contorted into rage.
"Aye! You will! Before we leave here you will!"
He grasped the back of her head and shoved her forward, plunging her beneath the freezing water. She opened her mouth to scream and instead swallowed water. It choked her, burning her throat. She couldn't struggle, couldn't escape; she was too weak.
He yanked her back out. Air, like fire, burned her throat. She coughed and sputtered, sucking it greedily even as her lungs rejected it. Water poured down her face, soaking her clothes. Her body shook from the cold. Her lungs strained to suck in the air. She could no longer hold herself up, but when she fell, he caught her.
She could smell him in her face, and she heaved, water spilling down her chin.
"Remove the curse, or God help me I will drown you within an inch of your sorry life!" His breath smelled of beans and ale.
She gasped and coughed and again made the mistake of shaking her head in confusion.
He shoved her down again, plunging her head beneath the water. In her mind, she screamed. A long scream of horror and helplessness that started in the pit of her belly and encased her heart, crushing it. Stephen, please, help me. She was done with the fight, with the fear. She'd grown weary of this weak body.
There seemed to be no escape from this man except death.
Chapter 21
Stephen could feel Deidra. He could feel everyone now to some extent, but Deidra felt like no one else, as if she'd been a part of him. Her heart raced like a frantic rabbit and he followed it, his own heartbeat increasing as if to keep tempo with hers. The closer he got to her location, the stronger became the scent of her blood. It was tainted, unappetizing to him, strongly diluted with poppy juice, and thin from lack of food.
As a baobhan sith he was better able than a human to move about unseen. He stayed in the shadows, keeping William behind him, and the few guards who passed near simply did not see him.
His senses led him to Luthias's tent. As he and William stood outside, he became aware of Deidra's heart slowing, so slow it was about to stop.
Urgent terror sent him bursting into the tent without a thought to whom or what he might find. The only thing driving him was that Deidra's life was draining away and he could not go on without her.
Luthias hunched over a water bucket. A small figure was beneath him, her head submerged in the water. The surface of the water showed signs of calming, as if there had been a struggle, but it was over now. Luthias did not hear him enter, so intent was he on his task.
"Oh my God," William gasped behind Stephen. Then, "You bloody bastard! I'll kill you!"
Luthias whirled around, jerking Deidra's head out of the water. He grasped her by her hair and she hung there, limp, her lips blue.
Stephen's chest convulsed, his mind refusing to believe what he was seeing. Everything seemed to slow down. William rushed past him as he honed in on the man before him, whose mouth was opening, preparing to scream for help.
Fury blinded Stephen to all else but Luthias. He saw Luthias's heart pumping and squeezing with fear, the blood flowing, strong and healthy and untainted. He moved forward, so fast that Luthias didn't even have a chance to get a sound out. Stephen hit him hard enough to knock him unconscious, then yanked him back up by the front of his shirt, shoved his head to the side, and sank his teeth into his neck. Blood flowed into Stephen's mouth, quenching his thirst and quelling his hunger.
He drank until satisfied, then shoved the limp body away from him. Luthias fell to the floor. Stephen stood over him, breathing hard, strength and vitality flowing through him. And then he remembered, and grief pierced him.
He turned. William leaned over Deidra, lifting her in his arms and holding her against his chest. "Is it too late?" Stephen asked, barely able to breathe as he waited for her father's answer.
But William never had a chance to answer. Men flooded into the tent. Swiftly, Stephen drew the sword from the dead man on the ground and rushed forward to protect William and Deidra. Men attacked from both sides. Stephen swung his sword in an arc, cutting down two of them. When he turned to confront the others, sword bloodied, William slumped over Deidra's body, his back wet and glistening.
"No1." Stephen shouted, red lights exploding about his eyes. This was bad, very bad, but he couldn't grasp exactly why at the moment. The rage at what had been done engulfed him, and he flew at the rest of the men, sword slashing. The men scattered, running from the tent. The ones that weren't fast enough tasted Stephen's blade.
Luthias's sword clattered to the ground as Stephen dropped to his knees beside William and Deidra. When he rolled William off of Deidra, William gasped. Stephen leaned over Deidra to find her soaked in blood---but it wasn't her own.
She was still alive and unhurt, though her pulse was weak and thready. Her father's body had protected her from harm.
"She's dying," William said, trying to sit up. There was a wet quality to his voice, Stephen smelled that he had lost a lot of blood. He placed a hand on William's shoulder, easily pinning the man to the ground.
"You cannot save her. Not now."
"If I do not, she will die."
Stephen swallowed, his gaze falling on Deidra. If left alone in his current condition, William would heal rapidly, but not so rapidly that he would be any good to his daughter. It would take him a day or more to heal from the wound that would be fatal to any other man. Deidra, however, would not last that long. Stephen could tell that by the slowing of her heart, the shallowness of her breath.
But if Stephen allowed William to heal her, William would no doubt die from it. And though William would willingly die for his daughter, Deidra and Rose might never forgive Stephen for allowing it.
Not when there was another way.
"Let me up1." William gurgled, the back of his head pressed hard against the ground, his breath sawing harshly in and out of his chest.
"You'll die, man," Stephen said gently. "I can save her.. .but she will be different."
William opened his eyes and turned his head slightly to stare at Stephen. "Like you."
Stephen nodded.
"No." William tried again to sit up, but Stephen held him down.
"Do you think she would wish to live, knowing the cost was your life?"
William's lips curled. Blood coated his teeth. "Think you she would welcome a life such as yours?"
"I love her," Stephen said.
"No---you want her, but you care nothing for her own wishes. You are selfish, to make such a decision without her consent."
Stephen's heart squeezed, the truth of William's words slipping like a blade between his ribs. His head dropped. He no longer knew what to do. He couldn't let her go...he loved her...and yet she would never forgive him if he allowed her father to kill himself healing her.
But he couldn't let her go.
He released William's shoulder. William slowly rolled onto his side, and Stephen slid his hands beneath William's arms, helping him to kneel before his daughter. Deidra coughed. Water poured from her mouth. Stephen moved around to her other side.
"No---wait," Deidra rasped. Her voice was slurred from poppy juice. She blinked, but her eyes were hazy, as if she didn't really see them.
Stephen took her cold hand in both of his, rubbing it briskly to warm it. "If he doesn't!"' he said, his voice thick, "you will die."
Deidra stared up at her father, a vertical frown between her brows. Her gaze traveled over his face, to the blood that covered his clothing and hers.
"You are hurt!"' she said.
"It's nothing," William said, then he coughed, thick and liquid. "It will heal."
Her head moved slowly from side to side. "No, it won't.. .not if you do this."
William ignored his daughter, resting his hand on her chest. Deidra weakly tried to push it away.
Her desperate gaze turned to Stephen.
"No!"' she said weakly. "I pray you, Stephen, do not let him do this."
Stephen's jaw tightened as he stared at father and daughter. It didn't have to be this way. Neither of them had to die. Deidra just had to accept a different kind of life.
He grabbed William's wrist and pulled it off Deidra.
"Damn it, Stephen, I will strike you down if you interfere."
"You cannot strike a kitten down right now."
William glared at him. He tried to pull his wrist away but slumped forward weakly.
"Do you not hear her?" Stephen said.
"She doesn't wish to trade her life for yours."
"She is dying," William said. "I have lived my life. She has not yet begun hers."
"Da, Stephen can save me."
Stephen looked down at her, surprised to hear the words. Her gaze was on her father, though. "I will be like him." Her eyelids drifted closed, and Stephen felt her leaving them, felt her heart slowing. "I would be strong.. .like him."
"Deidra?" William cried, clawing his way back toward her. "Deidra!" His voice cracked and broke. He took her face between his hands and stared into it. Then he raised his gaze to Stephen's. "Do it. Now."
Stephen's throat felt stuffed with sand. It was what he wanted, but not this way. He didn't know why she chose it---because of her father or him. He stared down at her, wanting to do the right thing, the thing that would bring her the most happiness.
"Do it," William ordered through clenched teeth. He grabbed the front of Stephen's leather jack. With a surprising show of strength, he pulled Stephen across Deidra's body so their faces were an inch apart. "Are you deaf, man? I heard her. She wants this." He released Stephen and collapsed again. "God's blood, man---I'll kill you. I vow it."
William lay still. He was no longer of any use to either of them.
For Stephen, there was only one thing left to do. He loved her. He would do anything for her, give her anything---even his own blood. He slid his hands beneath her back and raised her, cradling her in his arms. Her skin was cold and clammy. He pressed a kiss to her blue, lifeless lips, then bit into her neck and tasted her life.
When Stephen finally emerged from the tent, the camp was deserted. All of Luthias's mercenaries had disappeared. Stephen tied William to a horse and cradled Deidra across his lap on his mount. He didn't know which way Luthias's men had escaped, but he thought it was best to lie low. He took William and Deidra deep into the wood, then laid them both in a pile of leaves to rest while he kept watch. His normally sharp senses were dulled, and he recognized the dullness---the poppy juice. It had been in Deidra's blood, and now her blood was a part of him. He lay beside her and gathered her close, holding her cold, lifeless body against him. She wouldn't wake until tomorrow night. He didn't know how he knew this, but he did. For tonight, she was dead and his heart grieved, even as it filled with hope and fear for what tomorrow night would bring.
After several hours William began to stir.
"Can you ride?" Stephen asked.
William lifted his shirt and twisted to look at his side. He had been run through by a sword that had stabbed deep into his side. But the wound was closed now, the flesh knitting together. He was no doubt still in great pain, but he was also well on his way to a full recovery.
William nodded wearily. His gaze moved to his daughter lying in the leaves beside Stephen. "She is...?"
"Not yet, but she will be, tomorrow night."
William's mouth thinned, and he merely nodded again. They mounted and rode back toward Strathwick.
The pink light of dawn gilded the mountains when they saw a party riding toward them. Black shadows against the mountains at first, it soon became clear it was Hannah and Drake with his men.
"What the hell happened?" Drake demanded angrily when they were within shouting distance. His gaze locked on Deidra rocking with the horse against Stephen's chest, and his eye widened. "Dee-dee---is she...?"
"No," Stephen said.
"Then what's wrong with her?"
Stephen didn't know how to answer. So much had happened, and right now it was impossible for Stephen to condense it down into a brief summary that would explain why Deidra was dead, but not for long.
"She did die," William said quietly. "But according to Stephen, she will be fine tonight."
Drake looked from Stephen to Deidra, then rubbed the side of his hand across his mouth. "Now it's the both of them, eh?" He looked a little uneasy, and Stephen knew it was his distrust for Hannah that made him so,
Drake's gaze darted to his brother. "You're hurt."
William shrugged. "It is nothing now, I will be fine tomorrow."
"What the hell happened?" Drake asked impatiently. "No rat ever appeared. We waited, watching for something, a bird, a titmouse, something, but it never came."
"He gave her poppy juice," Stephen said. "She was half dead the whole time. Such a thing had not occurred to us."
Drake's brows rose in surprise. "Why would it? Clever bastard."
"Aye, he was," Stephen said.
"So he is dead?" Hannah asked, her perceptive eyes on Stephen.
"Aye."
Are you certain?" Drake asked. "I saw to it myself."
Drake's eyes narrowed. "How dead is he?"
William appeared confused by the question, but Stephen knew what he was really asking. Was Luthias dead, or was he a blood witch?
"He's dead," Stephen repeated.
Drake exchanged a weighty look with Hannah and said, "I'll go and see for myself that he is truly a menace to us no longer."
William sighed, placing a hand on Stephen's shoulder, as if he expected Stephen to be insulted. "I cannot imagine he lived through that. Stephen...well, Stephen was not gentle." William gave Stephen a grim but apologetic sidelong look. He looked tired.
Stephen raised a hand to show he was not offended. "By all means, do whatever you feel is necessary."
Drake inclined his head and tapped his horse's sides. "We'll see you in a day or two." They rode on toward Luthias's camp. Stephen watched them go. He didn't begrudge Drake his revenge. He understood it completely. But a part of him also thought the man pursued it with too much intensity.
As they continued on toward Strathwick, William stole glances at his daughter, eyes bleak. It was true that currently Deidra was a corpse. Her dark curls covered her eyes and her lips were bluish. She looked dead, and, until recently, in Stephen's world the dead did not come back. It frightened him to hold her cold, dead body. He prayed that he could make it happen, just as Hannah had sired him. As soon as the sun sank, he would find out.
When Drake and Hannah finally found Luthias, it was not at all how they had expected. They had expected to infiltrate Luthias's camp and steal his body, but no clandestine schemes were necessary. They sighted the encampment from more than a mile away on the desolate moorland. It had been abandoned, leaving just an empty wagon, several smoldering fires, and a tent with a comer loose from its stake, flapping in the breeze.
They entered the encampment cautiously, but there was no sign of life. It was empty.
They dismounted and wandered about the camp, hands on sword hilts. Drake stopped outside the lone tent.
"I smell death in there," Hannah whispered.
Drake peered inside. A folding chair lay on its side, and a cold brazier was next to it. Bodies were scattered all over the floor of the tent.
Drake motioned for his men to stay outside of the tent, and he and Hannah slipped inside. They inspected the bodies until they found Luthias sprawled on the ground, his neck bent awkwardly.
Hannah circled the man on the ground and knelt beside him to examine his neck. Her hair was plaited into a thick copper rope that hung over her shoulder like a snake.
"He's dead!"' she said, "and he will stay dead unless he tastes a baobhan siths blood."
"As Stephen did?"
She nodded. Aye."
Drake drew in a deep breath and ran a hand over his face, dragging his fingers through his beard. He didn't know what to do. The man was dead, no longer a threat to anyone. With his death, the hunt for the MacKays would end. Certainly there might be another, but it was doubtful. In the past decade, Luthias had been the only one to trouble them.
Trouble them. Too kind a phrase. Menace them, hunt them, terrorize them. He had been a plague. Mere death was too clean, too easy. Luthias Forsyth had spent his life murdering witches and the last twelve years making Deidra's life a living hell. Twice he'd tried to execute Drake's brother, William. Such a clean, painless death was too easy. It was unjust, unfair, a wrong not to be borne.
He turned and pinned Hannah with a hard stare. "He deserves to know what it is to be the hunted." He nodded, his decision made. "Do it."
Hannah arched that perfect brow, giving him her otherworldly ambiguous look. "You're certain? He will be powerful."
"At night."
She nodded slowly. "Aye, at night."
"Then I will make sure he is hunted during the day and when finally he is burned alive, it will be with the sun blazing overhead."
She continued to stare at him. For a moment he thought he saw a hint of doubt flit across her face, but then it was gone and he wasn't sure he had seen it at all.
And our agreement...?" she asked, her voice low and drawling. Aye, aye." He waved this away with irritation. He didn't want to think about that now. "I gave my word and it is good."
"Very well then. He shall not receive his heavenly reward. He will be damned." She looked up at Drake, her mouth curved into a small smile as she ran her dirk across her wrist. "Like us."
Chapter 22
Stephen knelt beside Deidra's body, laid out in the forest her father said she had loved so much as a child. And he waited. William and Rose had wanted to accompany them and keep vigil, but Stephen hadn't allowed it. They didn't need to see her when she woke. Deidra wouldn't know them anyway.
He'd remembered his own painful awakening and had come prepared. William had sent out hunting parties and offered a reward to the first man to return with a live hart. Stephen had taken the winners catch and Deidra into the wood as the sun had sunk low in the sky. Now he waited for her to awaken.
He watched her face as it changed from the pale marble of death. A small frown formed between her brows. He wasted no time drawing blood from the hart. As soon as her eyes fluttered open, she fell on it.
His memories of his own awakening were vague and dreamlike, but he did remember that the only person He'd recognized was Hannah, his sire. This gave him hope. He had sired Deidra, so though she would wake with few memories, she should remember him. He just didn't know how far that memory would extend. Would she remember that he loved her? Would she hate him because she now had to feed on her beloved animals?
He waited apprehensively until she raised her head and met his gaze. She stared at him for a long time, then looked around her. There was a blankness to her gaze, a confusion. He used a damp rag to clean her face. She allowed him to do this, her eyes fixing on him, a brilliant blue, like the sea.
When he stepped away from her, she looked down at the hart on the ground and a frown marred her brow. She took a step away from the corpse, hands rising to cover her mouth.
Stephen's chest tightened uneasily. "Deidra?"
She shook her head slowly, eyes still locked on the hart. "Oh God," she moaned. "I taste it...it's blood...in my mouth."
Stephen approached her, hands out. "Deidra, listen to me."
She tore her gaze from the hart to look frantically around the forest. "I hear them.. .they're afraid of me." Her hands slid up into her hair and curled into fists. "Oh God---what am I? What have you done to me?"
Stephen didn't know what to say, how to respond. She was not like him, or anyone else. She'd had a special bond with the animals, and now he'd made her a predator. Perhaps it would have been better to let her die. But his heart immediately rejected that. No. She could learn to live with this. She would learn to live with it. He would help her.
"Come here, love." He touched her arm, trying to draw her close.
"No!" she screamed and fled into the woods.
He hesitated. Perhaps he should let her alone. Then he remembered how confused and disoriented he had been after he'd awakened, and he raced after her.
Deidra raced into the wood. The animals fled ahead of her, sensing her and fearing her. She wanted to scream at them not to fear her---that she would never hurt them, but that was not true. Had she not just supped on the blood of one? The thought should make her sick, but it didn't. The taste in her mouth was sweet and her belly was full, satiated. In her mind she was sick, wanting to tear out the memory, tear out her tongue.
He chased her. Stephen. She knew him. He was responsible for what she'd become. As she raced through the trees, she became aware of her speed. She couldn't remember much from before she woke, but she knew instinctively that this was new. She was swift and nimble, like a hare, bounding. Joy filled her heart and she ran faster.
Still he pursued. She could smell him. She could smell everything. It filled her, expanded her. The chase excited her and a smile pulled at her lips. The leaves rustled to her right and she turned. A white wolf burst from the bushes and raced beside her.
She knew the wolf, remembered the wolf. And it spoke to her, as if she were one with it, a part of it. And that was new, too.
She was so intent on the wolf that it surprised her when Stephen caught her. His arm slipped around her waist. She shrieked, but it was part laugh, part excitement because she was so alive. They went down, rolling onto the ground.
He was saying her name, Deidra, Deidra. He sounded worried, so she pulled his mouth to her and kissed him. There was no hesitation in him; he sank down into her, between her thighs, his tongue finding hers.
There was no gentleness in their kiss. It was rough and animal, and she welcomed it, tearing at his clothing. He pushed her skirts up, hands seeking and stroking, and she cried out, her body spasming even as he sank into her, stretching her and filling her, going deeper than she thought possible.
Yes, she knew this man, knew this body that rocked against hers, making her cry out and claw at him.
"You are mine," he growled against her ear, "forever."
"Aye," she panted, hips thrusting, thighs gripping him. Aye."
And as the climax swept over her, she knew she loved him and that all that had been done had been done for love.
Stephen lay in the leaves beside Deidra, gazing down at her. She was awake but didn't speak. She stared into the wood. Her clothing was torn. He had done that---but then she had torn his as well.
The exposed skin of her shoulder was smooth and creamy and he couldn't resist; he had to lean over and kiss it.
She rolled over to look up at him. "Stephen? What happened?"
She knew his name. He pulled her close. "I believe we just made love."
She gave him a long-suffering smirk. "Not that."
"Ah, you mean before." He smiled, his heart lighter to see that she was no longer screaming, no longer miserable. "You were dead...but now you're alive. We're both alive and strong. No more pain. No more weakness."
Her mouth curved upwards slightly and her eyes took on a faraway quality, seeing something beyond him, inside of herself.
"Can you hear them still?" he asked softly, "The animals?"
She bit her lip and nodded. "Aye.. .but it is different now.. I am no longer separate from them. I am one of them now."
And he could see that this was profound for her. Her eyes were wide with wonder as she took it all in. And he understood that this transformation was so much more for her than it had been for him.
She rolled onto her side, pressing her half-clad body up against his. He cupped her hips, pulling her close so she was pressed all along his body. It was heaven, having her like this.
"I remember, at the end!"' she said, "wanting to give up. The only thing that stopped me was the memory of you."
"You remember me? Everything?" he asked, still uncertain.
She smiled. "Aye. Not everything.. .but I know your face as I know my own heart." She touched his face with her fingertips. He turned into her caress.
"And I know that I love you and that I wanted this---to be like you. To be with you."
He covered her hand, which still touched his cheek, and pressed a kiss to the palm. "I couldn't let you go. Even if I couldn't have you forever, I will love you as long as God permits me to."
She smiled up at him, her head tilted slightly. "I think, my love, that we will have a very, very long time."

