Haunting Warrior (6 page)

“Why the Bloodletter?” she demanded.

Tiarnan frowned at her in confusion.

“Tell the barbarians I will wed none less than Cathán Half-Beard himself,” she said, turning her back and shielding her shaking hands in the folds of her skirts. “If I’ve to sleep with the enemy, it will be the chieftain and no less.”

“Cathán? He’s a wife already. Would y’ be his second? Or is it his whore y’ are thinking of becoming?”

What she was thinking of becoming was his widow, but wisely did not say so aloud. She had no power over who lived and died, of course. Still, her gift—her curse—to see a person’s death before it came, was not something to braggart. Her efforts as a child to stop the inevitable had made people suspicious that she not only saw death’s secrets, but that somehow she called them. Now she was careful never to mention death in any manner. Even the twin sister of a tribal king could be killed if her people suspected she not only heard death’s secrets but controlled them.

People were like cattle and only knew the earth beneath their feet, the sky above their heads, and the wind at their backs. They could not understand the complexities of death, but they could fear it. As they feared Saraid, as they’d feared her mother. It was not by chance or choice she’d reached five and twenty years without a mate.

“Which is it, Saraid?” Tiarnan demanded, glaring down at her from all of his powerful height, but she did not flinch away. “A second wife or a whore?”

“Cathán’s first wife is weak,” she spat, fear and anger compelling her to break her own rule. “She will be dead with her unborn by full moon.”

Tiarnan hissed in a breath and made the sign to ward off evil.

“They offer y’ Ruairi to husband me,” Saraid went on coldly. “Why do y’ think, Tiarnan?”

Tiarnan glowered but could not answer her. He had not thought. He never thought. He led the men of this tribe by his passion, not his logic. The people loved him despite this fatal flaw, or perhaps because of it.

“I will tell y’, brother. They give him because he is so vile even the people of the Dark Forest don’t want him. Ruairi the Bloodletter. Why else has he been banished for all these years?”

“Not banished. He was fostered with relatives to the north. Had we more to our people, we would do the same.”

Stupid fool.
Saraid thought it, but did not say it. Tiarnan stood before her, convinced that he made the right decision. And perhaps he did, for it was nothing less than truth he spoke. They were near annihilation, those who had once been led by their father, Bain the Good, the Fair. Bain of the Favored Lands. Too few were left to carry the sword. If there was even a chance that Cathán offered truce, it was a chance that should be taken. In her heart, she knew it would pain Tiarnan to give her to Ruairi the Bloodletter, but if it saved what was left of them, he would do it. And he should.

But it was not the destiny she should have. It could not be. And what would happen if the man Colleen said would come, came too late and found her bound to the Bloodletter? What then?

“And why does he not offer a match between y’ and Mauri?” she asked suddenly.

Tiarnan looked away, but not before his eyes betrayed him. She saw it all. Tiarnan had asked for Mauri and been denied. Cathán would not give his precious daughter to the likes of Tiarnan, but the Bloodletter he would willingly sacrifice. She turned away with a deep sigh.

“What does the Bloodletter think of this
match
?” she asked, giving her brother a cold glance over her shoulder. A dark flush colored Tiarnan’s cheeks, and Saraid felt another wave of dread wash over her.

“He says he desires it.” He lowered his eyes from the shock and disgust that no doubt showed on her face. “He says he desires y’.”

“Me?” she repeated. “Y’ know the truth of it, Tiarnan. It is not for me he lusts.”

“Y’ underestimate yer own beauty, sister.”

She did not bother with that argument. Her brother wanted to believe Ruairi desired her, because that would be easier than the truth.

“And tell me, brother, once I’m wed are y’ thinking they’ll be having us all over for supper? We’ll be a happy family sharing the lamb stew and bread even though we’ve spilled blood enough to fill the valley betwixt us?”

“I warn y’, Saraid. Quiet that tongue.”

She could not. “Will y’ pledge yerself to a man with no honor, Tiarnan? For y’ know he will demand it.”

“I will do what I must to survive, the same as y’.”

“Oh aye, easy words. ’Tis not y’ who will lie down to be ravaged.”

“And ’tis not y’ who carries the yoke of our people. It is me.”

“Yet I feel it all the same and will pay for it with my body and my soul. Take my tongue. It will not stop the lashing.”

“He has given his word that I will still be tribal king. We can return to our homes, rebuild.”

But she would not be going with them.

“I wish y’ well then, brother. Y’ take his word and use it to warm yer feet at night while yer sister suffers for all eternity.”

He flinched, his face paling. “Have a care,” he warned. “You do not see everything.”

Saraid smiled coldly. “I see y’,” she said.

Tiarnan stepped back. He could not help himself. She knew it and felt instantly ashamed. He did not want this for her, but his choices were as limited as her own. There were no other alternatives if any of their people were to survive. If she refused, he would force her. And if she made him do that, she would lose her only blood.

She touched his arm. “ ’Tis sorry, I am. I swear, I’ve never seen yer death, brother. I pray that I never will.”

His eyes looked tortured as he nodded, staring into her face with such regret that it wounded her. He would carry the guilt for what he did until he died, and so it would be both his salvation and destruction, because if there was peace to be had, he might live for a very long time.

Saraid drew in a deep breath. “When?” she asked.

His gaze snapped up in surprise as if he’d already resigned himself to her rebellion. “Three days’ time.”

So soon.
Colleen’s words echoed in the quiet that followed.
Hard news
, she’d said.
Impossible, horrendous, unbearable.
Any of those would have described it better. But the old woman was right about one thing. Saraid now had a choice that was no choice at all.

Sickened by the thought of it, she faced her brother and squared her shoulders. “Then we must prepare.”

R
ORY didn’t expect a welcome home when his plane finally landed.

When he’d left the tiny town of Ballyfionúir, Ireland, it was in a storm of controversy, chaos, and tragedy—the kind only a troubled twelve-year-old boy with too much time and too much rage can create. More than two decades had passed since then, but time didn’t heal all pain. Not in the real world. And this was Ireland, where memories stretched beyond the days of yore. It didn’t matter that his grandmother had said it was time to come home. He wasn’t ready. He might not ever be ready.

Stepping into the cold, impersonal terminal at Dublin International Airport, following the crowd of tourists to customs, Rory felt like the boy he’d been when he was sent away to live with his Aunt Edel in America. He’d been scared, confused, alone, and pissed off at the world for all of it. He wouldn’t be human if he didn’t feel some of that now. The knot of it sat hard in his gut as the sounds and smells of the place brought back the memories like an old song on the radio.

He still couldn’t believe he was here.

He kept his eyes forward as he walked, trying not to look around, not to seem hopeful that perhaps someone he knew awaited him in the sea of strangers. What would he do if a familiar face appeared? What would he say if his mother suddenly stepped forward with open arms and a welcoming smile?

He didn’t know. His family had lived here since the beginning of time, like something out of a storybook filled with happily ever afters. They were loving, nurturing, caring. It had broken their hearts when he’d gotten himself into so much trouble that the only way out was to send him to his Aunt Edel. And they’d been devastated when his summer in California—a hiatus to get him away from a volatile situation and allow him some perspective—had grown from weeks to months to years during which they couldn’t coax him back home.

But here he was now, and he hadn’t even called first, even when he’d heard his mother’s message on his answering machine, choked with emotion over Nana’s death. He’d told no one of his plans to return. Another gray area he didn’t care to illuminate. Was he afraid they’d no longer welcome him? Afraid they would? Who knew?

At baggage claim, Rory waited impatiently for his one battered duffle, scanning the crowd. His gaze skipped over unfamiliar faces and then snapped back to a woman hovering against the far wall. Irish from the set of her shoulders to the tilt of her chin, she nonetheless had a foreign look with her long dark hair and golden brown skin. Eyes so deep they sparkled like sable-hued gems.

It was the woman from his dreams, wearing the white shift that barely covered the swell of full breasts, the shadow of cleavage. She stared back at him with that familiar defiance, inviting and daring in the same ragged breath. He felt all the blood drain from his face. She was here and he was awake.

He rubbed his eyes, feeling the grit of exhaustion behind them. When he looked again, she was gone. But her image had seared into his jet-lagged brain like sunspots on a bright afternoon.

Christ, he was tired enough to imagine an elephant in Dublin Airport. Shaking his head, Rory hefted his bag off the carousel and strode to the door. Before stepping through, he glanced back and there she was again, standing not ten feet away, staring at him with an intensity that made him stop in midstride. A wiry man with a bald head and bad odor ran into him from behind, and Rory stumbled.

“Watch yer feckin’ self,” the smelly man said.

“Sorry,” Rory mumbled, stepping aside.

He looked back, expecting her to have vanished once more, become the dream he knew her to be.

But she didn’t waver.

Something hot and deep began to burn inside him. He took a step toward her, drawn like a lion to the scent of blood. Still she waited, watching him until he stopped less than an arm’s length away. All around them, travelers swarmed, checking watches, hoisting bags, smiling their greetings. They jostled into Rory and bumped into the woman on the way to the door, but no one paused. No one seemed to notice the two of them standing like stones in a rapid river.

“Who are you?” Rory asked, feeling foolish and desperate in the same moment.
What are you
? he meant.

Her eyes rounded with surprise. “Y’ do not recognize me, Ruairi?”

The husky lilt roused every seductive moment of the dreams, though she never spoke except when she beckoned him to hurry.

“From my dreams,” he answered. “Only from my dreams.”

“Aye, the dreams.” She nodded as if that held more meaning than it should. The harsh lights of the airport revealed the coarse weave of her shift, the grayed cast to the white. But it didn’t detract from her beauty, from her allure.

She cast him a sidelong look filled with both question and promise, and he found himself reaching for her hand, taking it in his own. But there was no heat with the contact, no sensation of touching. The realization shouldn’t have surprised him, but it caught him low and hard.

Christ.
She was dead. Just like Colleen.

She shook her head, as if she’d heard. “Not yet, but soon.”

Before he could ask how soon, the gray and white of the terminal began to flicker like the tail end of a reel of film flapping against the projector’s bulb. Then it blurred, spreading out until the room, the counters, the windows looking onto the stark world, the friendly attendants and severe security guards, the other people—everything became a smear in the background.

But not the woman. She remained vivid and stunning, emerging from the blur like a starburst of color. That hair, sunset-flecked midnight, and those eyes, dark and searching. They pulled him closer, towed him under until there was only the two of them, standing in a cloud of obscurity.

She lifted his hand and placed it over her heart. He stared at his fingers, spread across her flesh, his palm resting on the curve of her breast. Her skin was burnished, a hot and exotic silk against the swirling paleness surrounding them. And he couldn’t feel any of it.

She smiled sadly and touched his face with her other hand. “Y’ must hurry.”

He bent his head, leaning closer to hear her words. Her scent was light and fresh, and he wanted to gather up the silken length of her hair and bury his face in it. Breathe her in and hold her tight inside. He cupped her face, willing himself to feel her. Needing to know she was more than his imagination.

“I’m to be wed in the morning,” she said, her voice hitched with pain.

The idea of her married, of her with another man, caught him hard and low. Without waiting for her to say more, he pressed his lips to her mouth, expecting only air but hoping, praying for the sweet warmth of her lips. When it came, it shocked him. He jerked his head back an inch, stared into the velvet brown of her eyes. Questions formed in his head, clamored to escape, but he only cared about the feel of her in his arms, the taste of her lips on his.

“Hurry, Ruairi,” she whispered against his mouth.

And then she was gone.

R
ORY stepped from the airport terminal and into the glowering gloom of exhaust fumes and thunderclouds bearing down on rush-hour traffic. As he moved toward the line of cabs, he heard his name and for a brief instant thought his dream-woman might be calling him; then he recognized the voice, but not from his dreams.