CursedLaird (8 page)

“It is almost time.” Mary’s whisper came across her right
shoulder and made her jump. She should have known the spirit was near when she
felt a chill and shivered. But she’d been preoccupied. She shook Kip from her
thoughts and faced Mary.

Through the spirit’s transparency, she saw the sun sink low
on the horizon. She was an eerily beautiful picture, a vision from the past in
all her elegance highlighted by the vibrant colors of the fading sun. Caledonia
simply stared. Soon the last rays of light would disappear and they would learn
if she’d spoken the anti-curse correctly.
If
such an event should
happen. Caledonia released a heavy breath and turned to walk to the shed.

“No reason for anyone to see this,” Caledonia said as she
grabbed one of the large doors to close it.
If anything actually happened.
Doubt taunted her system and chilled the blood in her veins. What if she’d
wasted a day because of some spirit with a misguided conception of love?

After she closed the other door, Caledonia switched on the
lights just as the last stream of sunlight disappeared. Seconds passed and
nothing happened.

“Say it again,” Mary whispered. Caledonia couldn’t believe
she was doing this. Nothing happened. It was just a statue, not a cursed man.
Seeing the anxious look in Mary’s eyes, Caledonia cleared her throat and tried
again just to appease a ghost.

“
Ceum saor de clach. Be ye biast air duine. Tis gaol dara
slighe. Ge ye be mèinne. Dh’oidche mur dh’là.
”

The last word barely left her lips when the floor shook,
causing her to step backward. A low rumble reverberated from the statue. A
sizzle hissed through the air and static electricity lifted the few loose
strands of hair from her braid. The heat level rose around her, but she refused
to budge. Instead, she regained her balance and closed the short distance
between her and the rock. Without checking, she knew Mary’s eyes were locked on
the statue.

A huge crack appeared. Bright light shot from the inside and
she used her forearm as a shield and squinted. The statue shattered and
crumbled into pieces at her feet, leaving behind a very disoriented man. Her
jaw dropped and her eyes widened as she lowered her arm to her side. This
couldn’t have happened. Before she moved, angered words spoken on a thick
Scottish brogue in ancient Gaelic heated her cheeks as he sprang at her.

His momentum shoved her back against the wall with him pressed
tight against her. A solid man of muscle held her pinned as he rapidly made
demands in a tongue she couldn’t quite understand.

“Just slow down,” she gasped. He held her by the neck with
one massive hand and his face leveled with hers. She refused to back down
though he intimidated the hell out of her. Keeping her wits about her, she took
as much of a breath as his grip allowed and decided to speak in a tongue
similar to Mary’s. “Ye have to slow your speech. Mi Gaelic is rusty.” She
prayed he understood, even though she lied about knowing much of the Gaelic
tongue.

His brows furrowed and his grip loosened. At first she took
this as a good sign until he did the unexpected. His hand shifted to cup the
back of her head and his lips captured her mouth in a rough, demanding kiss. It
happened so quickly, she had no time to think. She simply reacted. Everything
the O’Reillys taught her took over.

Right knee, swift and hard to the balls, followed by a solid
jab to the ribs caused her assailant to crumple into a heap. He gasped for air,
trying to cup his jewels with one hand, while holding his side with the other.
She jumped over him and stood beside Mary, who wrapped a transparent arm around
her waist as if she could tug her into a protective hug.

“What did ye say?” Mary’s puzzled gaze met hers and all she
could do was shrug. She didn’t know what she’d said that sufficed such a
reaction. She placed a gap between her and Mary to ward off the chill being so
close to the spirit caused. Her nipples hardened to sharp points and she didn’t
want the giant brute to get the wrong impression, so she hid them beneath
crossed arms over her chest.

Carefully, she tested her battered lips with the tip of her
tongue. His flavor teased her taste buds and ignited a hunger for more, which
shocked her. Never had anyone kissed her so roughly. True, he’d shoved her up
against the wall, but instead of invoking fear, she noted she liked it and
wanted more. Oh god, what was wrong with her? Caledonia closed her eyes,
momentarily sealing off the vision of the gorgeous hunk slumped on his knees.

Mary’s voice caused Caledonia to focus on his every move. If
he so much as lunged at the tender spirit, she’d… Well, she wasn’t exactly sure
what she’d do but she’d do something. Even though she didn’t think he could
actually hurt a ghost if he attacked her.

Crouched on the floor, he took a moment to regroup.
Och
,
the
boireannach
, woman, grounded him with a sharp knee to his balls.
Sucking a breath between clenched teeth, he cupped himself and scouted his surroundings
through lowered lids. Nothing familiar came into sight. Slow, deliberate
movements of his head from one side to the other garnered him a limited visual,
but he sensed only the
boireannach
stood behind him and nay one else.

He’d awoken in a place other than home. Had he been taken
captive? Where was he? Where were his
brathairs
, his family? What
happened to MacGillivray? There was no doubt that the mongrel was behind this
plot. Anger mixed with confusion as he tried to clear his head. A rich, feminine
scent teased his senses, reminding him o’ his mistake. Why had he kissed the
boireannach
without her permission? Never had he taken what was not willingly given. He
tasted her on his lips, a fine blend of feisty Scottish lass and honey.

Struan tilted his head ever so slightly. An odd light shone
in the ceiling. His breath hitched. A witch’s magic. How had he come to be in a
witch’s hut? One face appeared within his mind’s eye. MacGillivray. Where was
the coward who conspired with a witch against the MacKinnons? It was the only
answer as to how he had fallen without so much as a solid blow to
MacGillivray’s jaw. That was to be corrected the moment Struan found him. His
free hand fisted at the ready. MacGillivray must answer for what he had done.

With each slight movement, his balls reminded him o’ the
woman who rendered him to his knees. If’n things were different, he would show
her how quickly a MacKinnon recovered and teach her the joy o’ his touch.
Och
,
but things were not that way. Desperate need to find MacGillivray and protect
his family pumped through his veins. He palmed the sword’s hilt and prepared to
take his stand.

Fight or die. Either way it was better than being a
prisoner. Struan took stock o’ his position, ignored the throb between his thighs
and prepared to do battle for his freedom and that o’ his family.

“Struan MacKinnon.” The tender use of his name struck a
chord of familiarity and his grip eased upon the hilt, but did not release it.
Mary.
Slowly he rose to his feet, darting glances from side to side, searching for
the gentle beauty.

“Struan MacKinnon.” Again Mary stated his name and Caledonia
heard the admiration and love in her lilt, yet her tone held a commanding air.

Caledonia watched for any signs the man heard Mary. If she
blinked, she would have missed his subtle movements. With the fluid grace of a
vested warrior, he stood. When he turned, Mary floated in front of him. He
stepped back. His pallor drained as he gasped.

“Mary, ye are a spirit.” He pointed at Caledonia. “It is the
work o’ a witch.”

“Aye, I am a spirit, through no hand o’ a witch. Nay,
Caledonia is not a witch.” She nodded then smiled. “Ye have been entombed in
stone by a curse for over two hundred years,
M’Gaol
.”

“A curse…” It was the only answer. “He would not have
captured mi ‘n a fair fight.” Struan growled, took a step then suddenly
stopped. His eyes closed tight and his expression showed extreme pain.
Caledonia attempted to help him, but the shake of Mary’s head stilled her
movements.

As if the past replayed behind his eyes, Struan roared in
anger. A warrior’s mask shifted his face into a macabre appearance of sheer
hatred. In a solid, swift stroke, the claymore left the sheath at his side and
he swirled about in a predatory stance on the hunt for prey. His words seethed
with deadly intent on a horrific bellow.

“MacGillivray. Where are ye, ye bastard?”

When his gaze leveled on Caledonia, Mary floated between
them as if she could shield Caledonia if he chose to attack. Her chin lifted
and the spirit’s shoulders squared as she delivered her news.

“He is dead.”

“Dead.” The massive man’s shoulders lowered, but his sword
didn’t waver. It remained readied for battle. His brows bunched and his jaw
tightened as if he contemplated whether she spoke the truth or not.

“Aye, dead,” Mary repeated.

“Mi family?” His tone softened but his battle stance didn’t.
The warrior’s gaze never left Mary.

“Your
brathairs
fell to the curse same as ye. Two
have been freed. The others remain lost, for now.”

The pain in his eyes tore at Caledonia’s heart. Sheer love
shone in those deep-sea blues. A love for family. Caledonia swallowed against
the threat of tears.

After a moment, he found his voice again and asked, “And
Akira? What be her fate?”

“She lingers such as I, protecting those we
gaol
.”
She floated closer and brushed a transparent hand along his cheek. If he felt
the chill, he didn’t show it. Caledonia chewed the edge of her lip, nervously
watching and wishing this sad scenario were simply a dream.

Pain and confusion wafted off the man in waves, attacking
her sense of caring, pushing her to want to soothe his anguish. No words formed
in her throat. Nothing came to mind that didn’t sound contrite inside her head.
What did you say to a two-hundred-plus-year-old Scottish laird who woke to a strange
world and learned the fate of his family was not a desired one? She chose to
remain still, watch and listen, hoping to learn a way to ease his discomfort
without ending up on the sharp end of that claymore.

“
M’Gaol
,” he stated on a hushed breath. He sheathed
his sword. When he attempted to touch her cheek, his hand penetrated her head
and he jerked it back to his chest. Caledonia’s heart hurt at the sight of
pure, anguished surprise upon his face. All he wanted was to touch Mary and
even that had been taken from him. The lump in Caledonia’s throat grew.

“
M’Gaol
,” Mary repeated then smiled. For several long
seconds, they stared longingly at one another as if it finally sank in that
they’d admitted their love for one another. But it was too late. No matter how
hard she swallowed or sniffed, Caledonia couldn’t have stopped the slow slide
of tears this time.

“Your
brathairs
Gavin and Ian can be found along with
Akira’s spirit at Castle MacKinnon. It is a time where thy tongue is no longer
Gaelic. It is English,” Mary continued. Mary cupped his cheek and he closed his
eyes as if relishing her touch, though Caledonia doubted he actually felt
anything other than sheer cold upon his flesh. “
M’Gaol
, with your
release comes mine. I leave ye in safe hands.” She looked over her shoulder.
“Caledonia’s.”

She turned then floated closer. Mary touched Caledonia’s
cheek and proved her right in her thoughts. Icy coldness skittered across her
flesh all the way to her toes, but she refused to visibly shiver. Instead, she
met Mary’s gaze. If she read it right, the ghost appeared relaxed, at peace.

She leaned in close to Caledonia’s ear and whispered, “Take
care o’ him. He deserves a second chance at love.”

Mary’s chin tilted heavenward and she nodded as if she
answered someone’s silent call. She returned to Struan then placed a kiss upon
his cheek. A bright flash of light occurred and cold mixed with hot in the air
around them. Mary disappeared, leaving behind a show of stars that sparkled a
multitude of colors then dimmed into nothingness.

“She’s crossed over,” Caledonia stated in awe.

This was something she’d never forget. She witnessed one of
the most beautiful love scenes ever. A woman lingered for centuries as a ghost,
protected the man she loved, not knowing the truth until the very end. Mary
went to the Garden of Angels with the knowledge her sacrifice was not wasted.
He loved her as well, which set her soul at peace. Caledonia swore she saw that
in Mary’s eyes the moment before she crossed over.

Mary’s whispered words filtered through her head.
Kiss
him, Caledonia. Make him yours and love him as well as I did and more.

Caledonia took several steps toward Struan, uncertain if she
should follow Mary’s wishes. He looked befuddled by the whole thing. Yet, for
some unexplainable reason, Mary’s words refused to dissipate. It was as if the
ghost controlled her actions. She grabbed him by the back of his neck and
jerked him down to kissable level. Without giving him a chance, she planted a
hot, plundering kiss. His mouth parted and she didn’t hesitate to sample his
flavor. Masculine and seductive. Caledonia commanded this kiss in much the same
manner as he had their first—just not as brutal.

As fast as it started, she ended it. Out of breath and
wanting more, she managed to place a gap between them. She released her grip
and met his confused stare. Caught up in the moment, she poked his
muscle-ripped chest with her forefinger as she spoke.

“
That’s
how I like to be kissed. Not too hard, but
not too soft either. Don’t you forget it.”

Pure laughter broke from him. Caledonia stepped back and
simply stared. Did he not understand what she said? Or was he making fun of
her? When he finally stopped, he cleared his throat, looked her straight in the
eyes, and lowered so close to her face she felt the heat of his breath on her
cheek.