Dark and Stormy Knight (24 page)

She gaped at him. “Do you think there might be?”

“Aye, judging by your mood swings.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

He scowled at her. “Mind? Why would I mind? I’m the prick who put it in there.”

Hugging his head, she held him against her belly. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

The words filled him up. “Tell me as often as you like.” He kissed her stomach. “I’ll never tire of hearing it.”

She got quiet for a minute, then, “If I am pregnant, will it hurt the baby to cross the veil?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “But we can ask Tom to be sure. Shifting, however, is out of the question. If you are on the nest, you’ll have to wait till the bairn is born to learn the Fith-Fath.”

His heart was so full he could hardly breathe. In a good way. They were sitting in the toilets in a crappy campground in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, and he felt so deliriously happy he could dance a bloody jig. Not that he planned to on these Petri-dish floors, but still.

Gwyneth came down on his lap and pressed her mouth against his. The world fell away. He forgot everything—the bathroom, the hunger, and the curse. Only his darling wee mouse existed now and the feel of her in his arms, the weight of her on his cock, and the need of her pulsing hot through his veins.

The roar of a motorcycle right outside brought him back to the toilets with a jolt. He broke out of the kiss. If the biker had friends, he’d stay put. The engine sputtered into silence. The thud of heavy boots grew louder. Leith urged Gwyneth off his lap and stood, willing his cock to calm down. If the biker had stopped to relieve himself on his way somewhere else, he’d make the perfect target. Nobody would know where he was or miss him before he returned to his senses.

Leith kissed her cheek and whispered for her to wait where she was for his signal. He had something bold in mind. Bold and risky. He just prayed his plan wouldn’t provoke the biker. Not that he couldn’t handle himself. As the son of a Highland laird, he’d been trained in the martial arts and feats—a tradition dating back to the days when champions, not armies, settled disputes between clans. He could wield a broadsword like nobody’s business, kill a man with one well-placed thrust of his dirk, and more than hold his own with a rapier or quarterstaff.

Aye, his fighting skills were a bit rusty at present, but they’d come back when the need arose. At least he hoped they would.

Fingers on the latch, Leith listened as the man clomped across the tile. The footsteps didn’t stop at the urinals. Leith’s disappointed hopes quickly rallied. This could be even better. None of the other doors latched, and a man with his pants around his ankles was as helpless as a haggis. Plus, he’d have the element of surprise on his side.

As the biker passed the stall, Leith peeked through the crack in the door. The target was a big, strapping lad with long, greasy hair, a scraggly beard, and an earlobe full of hoops. A red bandana covered the top of the man’s hair. Otherwise, the biker wore faded jeans and a sleeveless black-leather jacket that showed off muscular, heavily inked arms.

Leith waited, listening and calculating. The biker unzipped and settled down to his business with a resounding explosion of trapped gas.

Bloody hell.

Leith walked through the plan of attack in his mind. He’d kick open the door, drag him off the crapper, and call Gwyneth. It would be indelicate, to say the least, but at least they could both grab an artery and be done with it. He’d take the femoral—no way in hell was he letting her that close to another man’s junk—and she could take the jugular.

The biker stopped grunting.

Leith, presuming the big lad had finished his business, left the stall, moved to the next one, and kicked in the door. The biker looked up, mouth agape, eyes wide. Leith was startled, too. The man hadn’t been taking a dump, he’d been having a wank.

Lechery replaced the man’s surprise as his gaze fell on the bulge in Leith’s crotch. Kicking back on the toilet, he stroked his cock and grinned.

“Like what you see?”

The stall smelled of whisky, nicotine, road grime, and farts, with an undernote of sweaty bollocks.

“That’s not what I’m after.”

Look up, you fucking wanker. Look me in the eye so I can charm you like the snake you are.

“Oh, aye? Well, that’s a real shame.” The guy grinned, revealing a row of rotten brown-black nubs. “’Cause you remind me of the bitch I had me up in Bar-L. And I miss how good it felt to bury my big cock deep in his tight wee balloon knot.”

Bar-L was the street name for Prison Barlinnie, used mainly for prisoners in transition. Incoming and outgoing, as it were.

The biker stood, prick still in hand, and took a menacing step forward. Leith took a step back, out of revulsion more than alarm. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the motherfucker to meet his stare. If he couldn’t hypnotize the man, he’d have to fight him.

The biker stepped closer and met his gaze. Finally! Leith gave him his best mesmerizing stare. No response. Leith looked deeper, tried harder. Still nothing.

“I’ll be damned,” the biker said with a black-toothed leer. “You’re trying to fuck with my mind. What are you, some kind of vampire or something?”

“He’s a faery, you big oaf.”

Panic pulsed hard and hot through Leith’s bloodstream at the sight of Gwyneth peering over the metal partition.

When the biker looked up at her, Leith took a swing. His knuckles connected with jawbone. The biker’s head jerked back, but only for a second. Recovering, the man landed a sledgehammer blow just below Leith’s left eye, setting off an explosion of pain. Ignoring his discomfort, he buried his fist in the biker’s gut.

Bloody hell. This motherfucker was carved out of marble.

The biker laid into him, landing blow after blow deep in Leith’s abdomen. He fought back, gnashing and flailing. One punch cracked the man’s nose, drawing blood, the aroma of which uncaged the beast within.

Leith pounced on the man. The biker flung him off. His back hit the door, knocking the breath from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping.

“I’ve got a steel plate in my skull, you dumbass motherfucker.” The biker grinned down at Leith, displaying his full set of rotting stubs. “From a spill a few years back. So, if you think you’re gonna do to me whatever your kind does, think again, eh?”

Fuck. He was fucked. And where the fuck was Gwyneth? She no longer looked down from the next stall.

Leith didn’t see the gun in the biker’s hand until it discharged. The bang fractured the air. The bullet struck just below his heart, kicking like a horse. Pain ripped through his torso. The air shot out of his lungs. Stunned, he looked down to find a hole in his sweater framed by a spreading circle of blood.

Fuck me.

Losing more blood was the last thing he needed. The biker pulled up his jeans, grabbed Leith by the sweater, and flung him aside. The partition shook under the impact. Chest screaming in agony, Leith clutched the wound. Warm blood poured over his hand. The door slammed into him as the biker exited.

He turned his back to the cool metal wall. He summoned all the strength he had left not to slide down. The bullet wouldn’t kill him, but it hurt like the devil. So did his ego. He’d had his arse handed to him by a goddamned human. In front of his lady, no less. Speaking of whom…

“Gwyneth,” he rasped. “Where are you?”

The door flew open, smacking him square in the face. A lightning bolt cracked through his sinuses, opening his nose like a faucet. Great. Losing more blood was just what he needed.

Gwyneth appeared before him, her face ashen and etched with concern. Her tear-filled gaze swept over him. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God. Should I go get Tom?”

He pinched his bleeding nose and tilted back his head. The bullet was already working its way out of his chest. “Give me a minute.” Speaking hurt. “I’ll be all right. The only real damage is to my pride.”

“What’s pride got to do with it? The man had a gun.”

His head spun like water going down a drain. He’d lost too much blood and was in no shape to hunt again. What the hell was he going to do?

That was when he realized he’d not heard the motorbike start up again. Worry gnawing, he looked at Gwyneth. She appeared upset, but unmolested.

“What happened? What have you done? Where is he?”

“When he started beating on you, I ran outside to look for something to hit him with. I saw a fallen tree branch and, as I grabbed it, I heard the gunshot.” She sniffed back a tear. “Oh, Leith. If anything were to happen to you, I would die.”

He knew the feeling.

“Gwyneth,” he bit out, “what happened to the biker?”

She sniffed again and swallowed. “I sort of clobbered him as he ran out.”

“And?”

She moved in as if for a kiss, but instead licked the blood off his upper lip. “I knocked him out cold and dragged the big jerk back inside. So, to quote your butler, ‘dinner is ready whenever you are.’”

With only fifteen minutes to go, the van turned into the parking lot at Callanish. Tom found an out-of-the way spot and killed the engine. As all three exited the vehicle, Leith grabbed Gwyn by the arm, pulled her to him, and pressed his lips against hers. The kiss was brief, but heartfelt.

“Good luck and Godspeed,” he whispered as they broke apart.

The storm in his eyes mirrored the turbulence in her gut. Having just fed and made love, she felt physically fortified. Emotionally, however, she was a wreck. Not about crossing the veil, but about separating from Leith. Leaving him behind wasn’t just hard, it was torture.

Heavy hearted, Gwyn started up the grassy slope after Tom. Turning, she took a long look at her tarnished knight. He was leaning up against the van, arms folded across his chest, stare fixed on her. She could have sworn there were tears in his eyes, though perhaps the moonlight was playing tricks on her.

She swallowed hard and tore her gaze away. If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss her chance. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she continued up the hill toward the standing stones. A soft breeze cooled her burning face, but the fire inside raged on. What if she couldn’t cross over or, worse, couldn’t get back from the other side?

The stone circle came into view. Midnight, only minutes away, loomed. She bit her lip and lifted her gaze to the star-dusted sky. Please, God, let this work. If it didn’t, they were out of options.

Drawing on her courage, she continued up the hill. On the crest, the stones stood in a circle like monks in granite robes. They appeared to be gazing toward the horizon, as if expecting someone’s return. The moon cast an ethereal silver light across their featureless faces. A mixture of anguish and awe tightened her chest.

The night air, cool and damp, smelled of grass and the sea, which whispered in the distance. Pale mist swirled around her feet. Sucking in a bracing breath, she passed between two of the petrified priests and looked around for Tom.

She found him across the circle, walking backward around the inside perimeter of the stones, pouring the nawglen onto the ground from a leather pouch. After completing the circle, he moved toward the center stones. When he motioned for her to join him, she hurried over.

A tremor went through her as he took both her hands in his. “Are you ready, lass? It’s almost time.”

She swallowed and forced a smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

A backward glance toward the parking lot showed her Leith still leaning against the van. Dread closed around her heart even as her chest swelled with affection.

It’s not too late to turn back.

She tightened her grip on Tom’s hands. No. She wasn’t going anywhere. She could do this. She had to. There was no other way to get her happily-ever-after ending.

Tom lifted his face to the sky, calling out in a booming voice: “St. Bride, keeper of the sacred flame, the shape-fire. We have arrived at the crossroads between the worlds. We make our entreaty in peace and in the name of truth and justice. Please help us cross over the threshold in safety.”

He got quiet, but kept hold of her hands. She shook all over. Nothing happened for several moments and then the ground began to vibrate. She looked down, starting a little. Eerie, swirling mist covered the ground.

Her palms grew damp in Tom’s big, warm grip as the rising vapor swallowed her legs, her waist, and her shoulders. Her breath left her as the fog engulfed her head, encasing her in a dense screen of billowing white.

“Shut your eyes.” Tom’s brogue echoed out of the vapor. “They’re letting us through.”

Breathless, she squeezed shut her eyes. The druids were admitting her, the first win. Her head began to spin, slowly at first and then faster and faster until she felt trapped inside the eye of a cyclone. She could feel nothing, sense nothing around her. She began to break apart as if she’d been carved out of stone. The pieces got increasingly smaller. Chunks broke into pebbles and pebbles into particles.

An invisible force pulled her down. The touch was light, the pressure gentle. Peace washed over her, followed by nothingness.

As she landed softly on her feet, sensation crashed over her like a tidal wave. She opened her eyes, surprised to find Tom still before her, still holding her hands.

The stone circle had disappeared. In its place were pillars. They were standing in the center of a small Grecian folly. A dense grove of trees surrounded the monument. Thick vines coiled among their gnarled branches like paralyzed snakes. Moss and ferns grew between their twisted roots. The air, alive with birdsong, smelled of fertile earth. Whispering water accompanied the melodious chirping.

A stone chair carved with ancient symbols and feet resembling the talons of a bird of prey sat atop a starburst mosaic at the center of the folly. Gwyn gasped and stepped back when the chair began to radiate. As the light grew more brilliant, she squinted against the brightness, but couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. She did not want to miss whatever was taking place.

The air above the chair began to shimmer and soon solidified into a robed priest with flowing white hair and a long silver beard. Obsidian eyes looked out from under heavy gray brows. He wore an emerald-green robe edged in ancient symbols in golden embroidery. In one hand, he held a silver tree branch on which were tied a profusion of tiny brass bells.