Highland Sacrifice (Highland Wars Book 2) (12 page)

Chapter Thirteen

WHY wouldn’t she wake?

“Ceana.” Macrath shook her. “Wake.”

Sweat slicked her forehead when he ran his hand across it. Her nightrail was soaked, making the fabric cling to her skin. Her entire body trembled, and she tossed first one way and then another. Her hands thrust out roughly, nearly catching him in the jaw.

He gently blocked her blows, calling out softly to her to wake as her foot thrust out, kicking him in the ribs. He rubbed the sting, keeping an eye out for any more kicks.

She called back, but still did not wake.

She was fighting something. Whatever it was, it had a hold on her that he couldn’t seem to break through, no matter how much he tried.

Macrath picked up her hand and brought it to his lips. “Ceana, come back to me,” he murmured, kissing each knuckle until she yanked her hand away to do battle again.

“Macrath…” she croaked, but
still
did not wake.

He grabbed hold of her again. Her fingers tightened around his, as though she were holding on for her life.

Not wanting to let go, he held her as the dream tightened its grasp. Unable to shake her from it, he leapt from the bed to grab the candelabrum from their dining table. He lit a single candle, illuminating their room in a dim golden light.

His breath puffed in the cold air. Their hearth was empty, their fire long since fizzling out. His gaze was drawn back to his wife when she cried out again. The bed looked as though two people had done battle. Which, judging from the way his wife jerked about, she was. Their coverlet was half-tossed off the bed and her pillow was on the floor.

The castle was silent. He guessed it was just after midnight.

Macrath set the candle down on the nightstand. He picked up her pillow and gently put it beneath her head, all the while calling to her.

“Ceana, wake. Come back to me, love.”

She mumbled something incoherent and then gasped, her eyes opening wide, but seeing nothing. He feared that the tragedy they’d endured was taking its toll on her. First, in the woods, she’d disappeared into the dark recesses of her mind and now sleep held her captive. Her eyes closed again, though her mouth remained open in a silent scream.

Macrath was beginning to fear she might not ever come back to him. Perhaps the only way to help her combat her terror was to encourage her to give all she had.

“You can do this,” he said. “Come on, love, fight through it and win.”

Seconds later, she shook so hard the bed convulsed beneath her. Macrath backed away from her flailing hands, but when she sat straight up, he couldn’t help but rush forward and wrap her in his embrace. She sobbed, nuzzling into him. Her body was slick with sweat, but her skin was cold.

“Macrath”—she clutched his shoulders—“you’re here.”

“Of course I’m here,” he soothed. “Shh… Everything will be all right. You are safe now.”

Her entire body shuddered against him. Hot tears fell on his shoulder as she cried.

“’Twas awful.” Her voice cracked and she sniffled, hugging him tighter.

“A night terror only,” he said.

“But it felt so real.”

Macrath wished he could enter her dreams and annihilate all the ghouls and demons that frightened her. “Your fears and sadness have a grip on you, love. They are not allowing you to heal from how we suffered during the games.”

That only made her cry harder. Her arms waved frantically as she spoke. “So much blood. So many dead. And the wolves! They were there and one was trying to kill me.”

She wasn’t making sense. He could only surmise she’d relived the games in her dreams. Macrath tucked her against him again, hoping to calm her. “I will not let any wolves get you. You are the wolf now, love. No one can harm you.”

She pulled away from him, eyes wide as her gaze locked on his. “I killed it. With your claymore.”

Macrath gave a small smile. “’Tis a sign,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“A sign?” She swiped at the tears tracking down her cheeks.

Macrath nodded, wiping at a tear she’d missed that hovered just on the edge of her jaw. “Aye, from the gods. They’ve sent you a message, a challenge.”

Her throat bobbed as she thought about what he’d said. “To kill the wolves? To show I am powerless? Macrath, I vomited on the dead.”

Her lower lip quivered. She was close to breaking into tears again. Macrath scooped her up in his arms and settled himself against the headboard with her in his lap. He took a moment just to look at her. Her face was flushed, eyes red and glassy with tears. Her chin still trembled though she no longer sobbed. She was trying hard to be calm, to be brave.

“You are not powerless. You said yourself, you killed the wolf.”

Ceana chewed her lip. “Aye. I did.”

“Do not fash so about the vomit. If you’d not been upset by what you’d seen, the gods might have thought less of you. You are a deeply caring lass, Ceana. You take all your sins to heart, even if they be sins you had no choice in committing. The gods forgive you for what you’ve done.”

“How do you know?”

“They would not have pushed you to victory. They wouldn’t have given us the strength to move on. To find each other. Without their blessing we would not be here.” He hoped his words conveyed all he meant. That she would trust in them, in
him
.

“I wish I could believe that.”

Macrath leaned down and kissed her lightly on the lips. “You will in time. If you’ll believe one thing, though, believe in this dream. Believe in the power and strength you gained from slaying the beast.”

She raised a brow. “With your claymore.”

He smiled. “Shall I give it to you?”

“I could barely lift it, the bloody thing is nearly as tall as I am. ’Tis funny to think about,” she said with a smile.

Macrath grinned. The length of a claymore required a man to hold it with two hands for accuracy. “I’d like to see you attempt to wield it, lass. I think it would be fun to watch.”

She playfully smacked him against the shoulder. “You simply want to make a jest of me.”

“Nay, I would never,” he teased, incredibly glad her mood had lightened. “’Haps we could have the smithy melt it down for you, then it would be smaller.”

She kissed his shoulder, leaving a tingly burn where her lips touched him. “As much as I am honored to have you suggest it, I’d never want you to do that to the sword your father gave you. I know how much it means to you.”

“Then why don’t we have one forged for you? I’ve seen you fight with a sword before. As Princess of Sìtheil, you should have your own.”

Her eyes lit up at that, and he was pleased to see no more tears shining in their depths, though they were still red-rimmed. “I would like that very much.”

“Then we shall see it done first thing in the morning.”

She cocked her head. “’Tis a wonder they did not have one already forged for the lady of the castle.”

“They may have,” Macrath said. “And if they did, no doubt Beatrice claimed it for her own and never passed it down to the next victor.”

Ceana rolled her eyes. “No doubt.” Her expression turned grave again. “If the dream is a sign, what do you think it means?”

“I think it means the gods have great plans for us, that with my sword, my strength, you will be successful in vanquishing the ills of this world. Of setting things to rights.”

Ceana blew out a deep, ragged sigh. She closed her eyes for several moments. “I think you are right.”

“’Haps, I am.”

“Let us not talk of unpleasant things when the night still calls to us. Unpleasantness is for the daylight hours.”

“Aye, the night is ours,” Macrath said. “We are a pair that cannot be torn apart, love.”

“Never,” she mused, falling back on the bed and tugging him with her. “I do not remember falling asleep.”

Macrath laughed softly, nuzzling into her. “After meeting with the council, we came back to our chamber—quite pleased to have caught onto their plan to poison us. You drank quite a few glasses of wine and exhaustion took over from there. I had not the heart to rouse you. I undressed you and put you to bed.”

Ceana snuggled close. “I do not know what I would do without you.”

Macrath drew in an emotional gulp. He’d not been an emotional man until he’d met Ceana. At least that was what he liked to believe. He’d certainly had self-doubt in regards to his parentage, even if he was supremely confident in who he was. And there was always hatred, which had fueled his blood for years. But fear, love, all of it was new to him and at times overwhelming in the way it could take hold of his heart, making his chest pound.

“Likewise, love.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and then lifted her chin to kiss her lips. “This world would be a much different place.”

Ceana placed her palm on his cheek, rubbing the line of his jaw with her thumb as she curled into him. “I’m glad to have you beside me.”

A loud rapping shook their chamber door. Startled, Ceana leapt on his lap.

“My laird! ’Tis urgent!”

Bells in the courtyard tolled a warning.

“What in bloody hell?” Macrath mumbled.

Ceana scooted off his lap and he grabbed a plaid wrapping it around his naked waist as he walked to the door. What had Beatrice done now?

He yanked open the door and growled, “What is it?”

“Fire, my laird. There is a great fire in the bailey,” Marrec said.

“
Mo chreach
!” That one word—
fire
—was not one any laird, leader, lover ever wanted to here. Fires could easily rage out of control. Lives lost. Property destroyed. They’d be weakened.

Without shutting the door, he turned to grab up his belt. Ceana was already tugging on her gown over her chemise, her back to them for propriety.

Marrec stayed beyond the threshold, eyes politely averted, his voice quick with concern, yet not with panic. “The men are pulling buckets of water up from the well, but the flames are vast, my laird. They only seem to be getting worse.”

“How did the fire start?” Macrath asked, tugging on his boots.

“Nobody knows for certain,” Marrec said, looking distraught. “Most were asleep when it happened.”

Macrath shot him a glower. “The guards on the bloody wall should not have been asleep!”

Marrec held up a hand in defense. “Apologies, my laird, for the confusion. They were not asleep, but they did not see how the fire started, only the flames leaping.”

Someone had to have seen something. Flames didn’t simply rage without a spark. If his men were paying attention on the wall, then someone must have seen something—a shadow even.

Once dressed, Macrath and Ceana followed Marrec through the castle to the bailey, passing scurrying and bleary-eyed servants.

The air was thick with smoke. Flames licked the walls of the smithy’s hut and the tanner’s hut. A wagon full of hay was ablaze, and the flames were leaping onto a third building that stood between the inferno of the smithy’s hut and the larger structure that housed the clan storeroom. People ran to and fro with buckets of water, animals darted, squealing with fear, from one end to the other. A child cried as his mother scooped him up and sprinted with him for safety. ’Twas utter chaos.

If the flames spread to the storeroom, all the items they’d collected in taxes and those they’d donated from their stores would be lost. A vast quantity meant to keep the clan fed and clothed throughout the winter. They could not afford to lose it.

“Keep the flames from the storeroom,” he ordered Marrec and those fighting the fire.

But it seemed the more the water they tossed onto the flames, the higher they went. Raging worse now than it had a moment before. ’Twas inconceivable.

Macrath grabbed a bucket of water from one of the women handing them out at the well. He ran forward, tossing the contents onto the flames and leapt back just in time as fire-covered water splattered on the ground before him, igniting the dried grass. He stomped out the fire with his boot.

How was it possible?

It
wasn’t
, and yet Macrath watched five men toss buckets onto the flames making the fire burn so hot it was blue before it doubled in size, charging toward the sky.

He glanced around for any of the council members, but none had appeared. Were they the ones who set the flames or did they have someone else on their side—someone like Gowp?

Had Victor escaped, and this was how he’d sought out his vengeance?

Despite the heat, Macrath felt cold. Enemies surrounded them.

“Ceana, have the women gather as many buckets, bowls and jugs as they can. The way the men are running back and forth is not efficient. We need a constant supply of water.”

Ceana nodded and hurried toward a group of hovering women to relay his message. They were quick to do her bidding, as no one wanted to see their stores go up in flames, else they’d starve and freeze to death in the winter.