Celtic Fury (4 page)

As they made their way further on the road, Rory began to feel the serenity of the Highlands filling his soul. Despite the cold, the beautiful mountains and lush forests eased some of the darkness in his spirit. It was calling him home. Funny, how highlanders always felt out of their element when they were not near their lands. Rory loved the glorious country of his birth. Aye, he would miss his beloved sister and her family, but he was going home. He felt the pull of it with each mile he traveled. The cold filled his lungs as he breathed in the crisp scents of the pristine forest floor. He could smell the tangy scent of the pine needles that had been shed from the towering giant trees on either side of the road. As the climb got steeper, he loved the view of the mountainside as it fell away from the right side of the road. He could see glimpses of mountain streams below as the road rose above the glens beneath them. Home was calling him and suddenly the darkness seemed to recede somewhat.

However, after another hour into the journey, something started niggling at Rory’s instincts. Something was amiss, he could feel it. There had recently been a carriage on this road and Rory thought it was too perilous for a carriage to make the trek up the steep pitted road. With each minute that passed, the encroaching blackness began to swallow him up inside. Sometimes the blackness acted as a warning and his senses were heightened at the onset of it. He was getting that familiar nauseating feeling of doom in the pit of his stomach. He spurred his horse forward, taking the lead and galloping past the other men journeying with him.

“No!!!!
,”
he screamed silently in his mind as the dread filled him with a horrible ache inside himself. And then he saw it! The wreck on the mountainside!  He cursed an oath and leapt from the back of his mount. There was little left of the carriage. It looked like mere splinters. He found the coachman first. His eyes were frozen wide in horror even after death. Blessedly, his neck had been broken, so Rory knew his suffering had been brief. Surely there may have been passengers and Rory needed to find them. He did not have much hope that anyone could have survived such an accident, but as his hope faded, his heightened senses heard the weak moan off in some undergrowth close by. Dear God, it was a woman, and she was alive. Rory dashed to the spot and stopped dead in his tracks. There, lying on the ground, was a small women oddly dressed in black and gravely injured. She was pale and bleeding from a gash in her scalp. It was like being sucked back in time. The pale face, contrasting with the darkness of blood, and he was reminded of that horrible day long ago.

“Caitlyn
,”
he murmured, momentarily confused by memories. Shaking himself to regain his clarity he said, “No!”

His own voice tore him from the past and pushed him to see to the woman. She was wee and despite the lurid bruising, he could see she was fair and delicate almost. She was laid on the road like a broken doll.

Rory knelt next to her and felt her skull gently. She had a bad bump, but he could feel no fractures there. His fingers trailed down her neck. There was a vicious scar from her chin to her collarbone, but it was old and not from this accident. He felt her pulse and though it was weak, it was steady.

“Good…that’s good
,”
he said out loud. He cooed softly, “Lass, yer gonna’ be alright”

He wanted to scoop her up into his arms, but he could not be sure if any other bones may have been broken; or worse, if she had injuries inside. Those were the ones that could not be fixed. He remembered seeing one of his clansmen after a hideous fall from working on his roof. The man had not lived long after the fall. He was all broken inside and Rory hoped that was not the case with this girl. Unlike that man, there was no blood coming out of her mouth, which Rory thought was a good sign, but there was horrible purpling at the lass’ neck and side of her face. Rory's fingers lightly followed the bruise and again he could feel no shattered bones in her delicate face. He very carefully peeled her cloak away, afraid to cause her even a breath of pain. Rory again noted that she was dressed completely in black, which Rory knew well as the color of mourning. Were they on their way to a funeral? 

Rory examined her arms, touching her lightly. No bones broken. He knew it was not proper to handle a woman, but he had to learn the extent of her injuries. His hands eased under her skirts, tracing the bones in her legs. There was no time for propriety now. No bones broken! He was beginning to feel hope that she was going to be alright. Still there was her back, but Rory rationalized that she would be dead if her back was broken. His hand splayed over her middle gently pressing to see if she felt pain. There was no reaction until he came to her ribs and the smallest touch elicited moans.

“Sshh, Sweeting. I just need to see if yer’ ribs are broken
,”
he soothed.

Something in his voice made her eyes open. He was met with the gaze of violet hazel eyes, the most beautiful he had ever seen. Brielle stared up at the gorgeous angel leaning over her. Was she dead?  No mere mortal man could look like that. She would not have imagined that the angel of death would have been so beautiful, but surely she had died.

How did I die,
she thought, trying to remember what had happened to her. But as his hands eased over her ribs and pain fired through her, causing her to cry out, she realized she could not be dead after all. Nay, she was very much alive, but dear God, that pain almost made her wish she was indeed dead. As his touch brought her fully to consciousness, she realized her entire body was wracked with pain.

“Sorry,
L
ass. Where does it hurt?” The beautiful male angel spoke to her with the thick burr of the Highlands, but
he was dressed in leather trewes
and a tunic, with a plaid fastened over his broad shoulders. Through the pain, it registered which clan that plaid represented. MacCollum!

Dear God, her most feared enemy was leaning over her, tending her. With a forced English inflection, she croaked, “Everywhere.”

Rory’s brow furrowed but he said, “I am sorry ye’ hurt all over, but that is actually good, lass. It means yer back isna’ broken. Ye can feel pain. Try to be still a little more, whilst I get my plaid to wrap ye’ in.” He unfastened his plaid and gently covered her. He said, “I am going to be lifting you now,
L
ass. Can ye’ put yer’ arms around my neck?”  She nodded weakly.

“Hold on now, girl. I will try not to hurt ye’ more than necessary.” Rory felt her cold hands move around his neck and he was taken aback b
y how icy she felt in his arms.
He suspected the cold actually aided in keeping her alive in that it prevented swelling and staved off massive bleeding from the gash in her head. Poor wee lass, he thought. He just had to help her.

Though it wracked her body with pain to be lifted, the solid feel of his strength soothed her somewhat.”Ye’ve a nasty blow to yer’ head, lass. Can ye tell me yer’ name?”

“Brielle… Brielle Val ‘Cour.”
English
, Rory thought but he thought he detected the dialect of his home. Was she highland? He carried her gently to his waiting horse. He knew she would probably be more comfortable in the supply wagon, but Rory using the cart would impede their progress. He needed to get her to safety and he knew it had better be quickly. He still was not certain of the extent of her injuries and he needed to take her somewhere where she could be tended to.

Brielle fought the murky darkness that was enveloping her from the pain. She feared if she succumbed she would die.

When Brielle looked up, she thought she saw a woman behind her MacCollum rescuer. Was he traveling with a woman? The woman was very beautiful, and young, but when she looked again, the woman was gone. Brielle thought she must have imagined seeing the beautiful woman after all, because the woman looked as if she was actually standing slightly off the ground. It had to be a trick of her injured head. By this time the rest of the riding party had arrived.

“Dear God, what happened here, Rory?”

“A carriage wreck. The driver is dead. I’ve only found this lass.”

“Where are the horses?”

“Run off I suspect. Their bodies would be nearby if they were hurt or killed. We need to search for more passengers.” 

Brielle tried to speak. “
Only…me
,
” she rasped.

“Yer’ sure, lass?  No one else?” She nodded faintly. Rory gently handed her over to one of the men.

“Lift her carefully to me once I mount.”

“Rory, wouldn’t it be best to put her in the supply cart?” His clansman asked.

“Nay. She is nearly frozen. She needs my warmth if she is going to live. Besides, I can ride ahead faster than by dragging the cart on this rutted road. She needs help and the faster I can tend to her, the better chance she has to be tended to. If I can get her to the keep, she will have better care. Try to find anything that will be left of hers and…” Rory swallowed and said softly to not alarm the girl, “bring the driver so we can give him a proper Christian burial.”

Rory instantly saw the distress in Brielle’s eyes at his words, but there was no more he could do for the driver now. Rory’s concern was solely for the injured girl. Rory just had to save her. He almost felt that saving her would exonerate him somehow from the failures of his past.

He mounted his horse and his men handed Brielle carefully up to him.

She cried out in pain, feeling broken despite what the MacCollum had said. Through the pain, Brielle was trying to concentrate and think rationally. What was his name, this MacCollum warrior? Rory…
Ruiri
…she thought. His men called him Rory. Forcing her mind to reason, Brielle tried to remember what she knew about Ruiri, but her head hurt too much to think. She knew there was something she had heard about the one called Ruiri. It was hard for her to put her thoughts together. She vaguely remembered hearing her brothers talk of the Highland Wolf, and they called him the Rabid Dog in response to the legend.

Legend said he had yellow eyes, like that of a feral wolf and he could tear a man apart with his bare hands or teeth. She remembered he was considered some sort of a monster; the kind of legend that they told children to put the fear of God in them, but surely this man could not be the same one. His eyes were golden, not yellow. He had been so gentle; how could she believe that those hands would tear her apart?  She knew there was something else that was important that she should remember about this one most of all, but in feeling the warmth of his body behind her, she succumbed to the comfort, and further thoughts on the matter went from her mind. Where his body touched hers, she did not feel pain. He leaned in close to her ear and she felt the warm breath caress the side of her face. How odd it was to feel such comfort in the arms of this her most hated enemy.

“There now,
L
ass. I’ve got ye’. We are going to ride very fast. Dunna’ be afraid. I willna’ let anymore harm come to ye’.”

She should have been terrified. If Ruiri MacCollum knew she was a Campbell, her battered body would be the least of her worries, but as she thought on that, his strength and gentleness was so overwhelming, that she relaxed against him.

Brielle murmured, “Where is the woman?” 

Rory said, “What woman, lass?” 

“She was standing behind you…” In hearing her own voice speak her thoughts, her thoughts no longer seemed cohesive. She felt the powerful beast charge forward, which caused her to cry out in pain.

Rory tightened his hold on her, feeling her faint in his arms. They rode at a break-neck speed and he tried to will healing warmth into her cool body. She was so cold, that he felt her leeching his warmth out of him. The poor lass had sunk back into unconsciousness, which in a way he was grateful for. At least that prevented her from crying out in pain with every jar of the horse, which Rory knew had to be immense. Still, it worried him that her injuries were more severe than even he could determine. Rory was concerned about her hallucination that there was some woman behind him. He worried that the blow to her head was giving her delusions. She had already said there were no other travelers with her, so he wasn’t concerned he had left someone behind. Rory tried to put it out of his mind.

Rory looked at the broken little lass he was holding. There was something vaguely familiar about her; something that nagged at the back of his mind. Brielle Val ‘Cour; he was sure he didn’t know the name. And why was she traveling alone? Why was she dressed for mourning?

Rory had this horrible feeling that destiny’s hand had put him in this girl’s path. He wasn’t sure he liked that feeling that such a hand may affect the rest of his life. He did not want to think of such things. He almost felt like saving her was his one chance to right the wrongs of his past. As if saving this girl could put the ghosts of Caitlyn and Daria to rest.

He chided himself thinking those thoughts of fancy.
No, nothing would exonerate him from those things. He would forever carry their deaths like a bounty on his own head. He could not lose one more. He had to save this one
.

He murmured against her hair, “Ye must live,
L
ass. I canna’ lose ye, too.”  Rory fought the familiar darkness that was threatening him. It was happening more often these days. If he merely thought of Caitlyn, it seeped through him, sucking him down into the depths of despair and dragging him to that very dark world where he felt like he was drowning; choking his way to the surface; fighting for his very breath. No!  He had to be strong and fight the sucking darkness. He had to for the girl's sake. Brielle needed him to get her to safety. He had to do this for her, and in doing so, it may mean his own salvation. Still, silently he again cursed the Campbells. It fired him enough to hold on, even though it replaced the darkness with a blood lust that was almost as black. A roar left his lips, which was part anguish and part fury.
“
May all the Campbells rot in hell!” he exclaimed irrationally.