Highland Vampire (32 page)

"Do ye believe that either Katherine or I desired ye to be a martyr?" he rasped. "We would both rather die than lose ye."

She shivered in his arms. "'Tis too late now."

His grip tightened as he leaned over her. "Nay, it is not too late, my love."

"Bane, I can feel the truth." She struggled to speak, her delicate features etched with pain. "I am dying."

He gazed deep into her shadowed eyes, battling his instinct that demanded he simply use his powers upon her before it was too late.

"I can keep ye from death if ye will let me."

Her fingers briefly tightened upon his arm before she sucked in a ragged breath. "Nay. That is not possible."

His lips twisted at her ridiculous words. "I am proof it is possible," he reminded her softly, pausing as he forced himself to confess the stark truth. "But such a life doesnae come without cost, my love."

"Cost?" She frowned, her thoughts clearly becoming more confused. "Ah… the sunlight."

"Aye. I cannae bear the sunlight, nor fire." He instinctively squared his shoulders as he prepared himself for her predictable horror. "And to survive I must drink the blood of others."

Her eyes widened in shock. "Blood?"

"'Tis the only means."

He could see the struggle waging deep within her, and he sternly resisted the urge to dismiss the price of immortality. He might be capable of swaying her decision, but he could not force her to accept what such a decision would mean to her future.

"Ye kill others to stay alive?" she at last demanded in a faint voice.

He gave a sharp shake of his head. "Nay, 'tis not necessary to kill. Indeed, those I choose dinnae even ken I have fed upon them."

Her brows drew together as her hand lifted to lightly touch her neck.

"Ye fed upon me… that first night."

"I dinnae feed, but I did use my magic to make ye forget our encounter," he corrected with a wry smile, easily able to recall every moment of that first eve. He had ken from the beginning this woman was destined to rattle his peaceful life. "Not that it proved to be successful. Ye are clearly more stubborn than most."

That brought a small smile to her lips. "So I have been told."

It was that smile that was Bane's undoing. With a choked moan he buried his face in her hair. He could not survive without her. Not even for a moment.

"I would do anything to have ye with me, Isobella, but the choice must be yers," he whispered against her cheek. "I cannae force this existence upon ye."

He felt her fingers gently stroke his hair. "We will be together?"

"For all eternity," he swore.

"Do ye know, Bane, I am not certain if that is long enough."

Bane stiffened before slowly raising his head to regard her with a searching gaze.

"Ye agree? Ye accept the cost?"

"Nay cost is too great to be with ye."

Heady relief rushed through Bane as he pressed frantic kisses to her upturned face. Thank the heavens above he was not to lose her.

"Isobella."

"What must I do?"

Pulling away, Bane tossed back his cloak and shoved up his sleeve to reveal his bare wrist. Then steadily holding her gaze, he allowed his fangs to lengthen.

He did not miss the sound of her breath catching at the sight of his true form, but she never flinched as he raised his arm and sank his fangs deep into his flesh.

Waiting until the blood ran freely, he lowered his arm and pressed his wrist to her lips.

"Feed," he urged gently.

Holding his gaze, she opened her mouth to allow the blood to trickle past her lips. It took less than a heartbeat for her pallor to be tinged with a hint of color and the horrid rasping of her breath to ease.

Bane stroked her cheek as his power raced through her, healing the wounds and altering her from within. She trembled with the force of the change, but Bane knew there was no pain. Soon enough she would become accustomed to the sensations flowing through her body.

At last she gathered her composure and regarded him with wide eyes.

"That is all?"

"Nay. I must feed as well."

Without hesitation, she reached up to scoop her hair away from her neck, her expression one of calm acceptance.

"Very well."

Lowering his head, Bane ran his tongue along the curve of her neck before pressing his fangs into her skin.

"Bane," she gasped, arching her body upward as her fingers tangled in his hair.

Just for a moment he desperately feared he had hurt her and he began to jerk back in horror.

"Nay, dinnae halt," she demanded, her hands pressing his fangs deeper into her flesh. "'Tis the most extraordinary thing."

He tasted her blood in his mouth and abruptly comprehended her startled shock.

By the fires of hell, it
was
extraordinary.

Searing heat blazed through him, stirring his passions to a fever pitch. He could feel her very essence seep into him. An invasion that was more intimate than his possession the eve before.

Closing his eyes, he allowed the astonishing miracle to sweep through him. Isobella was now more than his wife and lover, he accepted with a sense of joy. She had become a part of him that could never be banished.

Bane quivered, awaiting the rush of fulfillment to ease before slowly pulling back to place a gentle kiss upon her lips.

"Ye are mine," he muttered in rich satisfaction.

Her fingers brushed his cheek. "Aye, just as ye are mine."

With an effort, Bane lifted his head to study her pale features.

"How do ye feel?"

"I…" Her eyes abruptly widened. "Blessed saints."

His hands urgently cupped her face. "What is it?"

"The pain…" she whispered, "'tis gone."

Bane briefly closed his eyes, sending a prayer of thanks to the heavens above.

He was far from certain that he deserved this wondrous woman. Indeed, after the past two centuries he was quite certain that he did not.

But then again, who was he to argue with the kindly fates that had blessed him? Few men were allowed the chance for true happiness.

He was not about to toss it aside.

With a rumbling laugh, Bane scooped her slender form next to his chest and rose to his feet.

"Come, sweeting."

Her brows lifted, but she made no protest as her arms willingly wrapped about his neck.

"Whate'er are ye doing, Bane?"

He glanced down at the hazel eyes that held his salvation.

"Taking ye home. Where ye belong."

"Home." She tasted the word upon her tongue before a glorious smile curved her lips. "Aye, that is precisely where I belong."

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HIGHLAND BARBARIAN

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Scotland, Summer 1480

"Ye dinnae look dead, though I think ye might be trying to smell like ye are."

Angus MacReith scowled at the young man towering over his bed. Artan Murray was big, strongly built, and handsome. His cousin had done well, he thought. Far better than all his nearer kin who had born no children at all or left him with ones like young Malcolm. Angus scowled even more fiercely as he thought about that man. Untrustworthy, greedy, and cowardly, he thought. Artan had the blood of the MacReiths in him and it showed, just as it did in his twin Lucas, it was only then that Angus realized Artan stood there alone.

"Where is the other one?" he asked.

"Lucas had his leg broken." Artan replied.

"Bad?"

"Could be. I was looking for the ones who did it when ye sent word."

"Ye dinnae ken who did it?"

"I have a good idea who did it. A verra good idea." Artan shrugged. "I will find them."

Angus nodded. "Aye, ye will, lad. Suspicion they will be hiding now, eh?"

"Aye. As time passes and I dinnae come to take my reckoning they will begin to feel themselves safe. 'Twill be most enjoyable to show them how mistaken they are."

"Ye have a devious mind, Artan," Angus said in obvious admiration.

"Thank ye." Artan moved to lean against the bedpost at the head of the bed. "I dinnae think ye are dying, Angus."

"I am nay weel!"

"Och, nay, ye arenae, but ye arenae dying."

"What do ye ken about it?" grumbled Angus, pushing himself upright enough to collapse against the pillows Artan quickly set behind him.

"Dinnae ye recall that I am a Murray? I have spent near all my life surrounded by healers. Aye, ye are ailing, but I dinnae think ye will die if ye are careful. Ye dinnae have the odor of a mon with one foot in the grave. And, for all ye do stink some, 'tisnae really the smell of death."

"Death has a smell ere it e'en takes hold of a mon's soul?"

"Aye, I think it does. And since ye are nay dying, I will return to hunting the men who hurt Lucas."

Angus grabbed Artan by the arm, halting the younger man as he started to move away. "Nay! I could die and ye ken it weel. I hold three score years. E'en the smallest chill could set me firm in the grave."

That was true enough, Artan thought as he studied the man who had fostered him and Lucas for nearly ten years. Angus was still a big strong man, but age sometimes weakened a body in ways one could not see. The fact that Angus was in bed in the middle of the day was proof enough that whatever ailed him was serious. Artan wondered if he was just refusing to accept the fact that Angus was old and would die soon.

"So ye have brought me here to stand watch o'er your deathbed?" he asked, frowning for he doubted Angus would ask such a thing of him.

"Nay, I need ye to do something for me. This ague, or whate'er it is that ails me, has made me face the hard fact that, e'en if I recover from this, I dinnae have many years left to me. 'Tis past time I start thinking on what must be done to ensure the well-being of Glascreag and the clan when I am nay longer here."

"Then ye should be speaking with Malcolm."

"Bah, that craven whelp is naught but a stain upon the name MacReith. Sly, whining little wretch. I wouldnae trust him to care for my dogs let alone these lands and the people living here. He couldnae hold fast to this place for a fortnight. Nay, I willnae have him as my heir."

"Ye dinnae have another one that I ken of."

"Aye, I do, although I have kept it quiet. Glad of that now. My youngest sister bore a child two and twenty years ago. Poor Moira died a few years later bearing another child," he murmured, the shadow of old memories briefly darkening his eyes.

"Then where is he? Why wasnae he sent here to train to be the laird? Why isnae he kicking that wee timid mousie named Malcolm out of Glascreag?"

" 'Tis a lass."

Artan opened his mouth to loudly decry naming a lass the heir to Glascreag and then quickly shut it. He resisted the temptation to look behind him to see if his kinswomen were bearing down on him, well armed and ready to beat some sense into him. They would all be sorely aggrieved if they knew what thoughts were whirling about in his head. Words like too weak, too sentimental, too trusting, and made to have bairns not lead armies were the sort of thoughts that would have his kinswomen grinding their teeth in fury.

But Glascreag was no Donncoill, he thought. Deep in the Highlands, it was surrounded by rough lands and even rougher men. In the years he and Lucas had trained with Angus they had fought reivers, other clans, and some who wanted Angus's lands. Glascreag required constant vigilance and a strong sword arm. Murray women were strong and clever, but they were healers, not warriors, not deep in their hearts. Artan also considered his kinswomen unique and doubted Angus's niece was of their ilk.

"If ye name a lass as your heir, Angus, every mon who has e'er coveted your lands will come kicking down yer gates." Artan crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at the man. "Malcolm is a spineless weasel, but a mon, more or less. Naming him yer heir would at least make men pause as they girded themselves for battle. Aye, and yer men would heed his orders far more quickly than they would those of a lass and ye ken it weel."

Angus nodded and ran one scarred hand through his black hair, which was still thick and long but was now well threaded with white. "I ken it, but I have a plan."

A tickle of unease passed through Artan. Angus's plans could often mean trouble. At the very least, they meant hard work for him. The way the man's eyes, a silvery blue like his own, were shielded by his half-lowered lids warned Artan that even Angus knew he was not going to like this particular plan.

"I want ye to go and fetch my niece for me and bring her here to Glascreag where she belongs. I wish to see her once more before I die." Angus sighed, slumped heavily against the pillows, and closed his eyes.

Artan grunted, making his disgust with such a pitiful play for sympathy very clear. "Then send word and have her people bring her here."

Sitting up straight, Angus glared at him. "I did. I have been writing to the lass for years, e'en sent for her when her father and brother died ten, nay, twelve years ago. Her father's kinsmen refused to give her into my care e'en though nary a one of them is as close in blood to her as I am."

"Why didnae ye just go and get her? Ye are a laird. Ye could have claimed her as yer legal heir and taken her. 'Tis easy to refuse letters and emissaries, but nay so easy to refuse a mon to his face. Ye could have saved yerself the misery of dealing with Malcolm."

"I wanted the lass to want to come to Glascreag, didnae I."

" 'Tis past time ye ceased trying to coax her or her father's kinsmen."

"Exactly! That is why I want ye to go and fetch her here. Ach, laddie, I am sure ye can do it. Ye can charm and threaten with equal skill. Aye, and ye can do it without making them all hot for yer blood. I would surely start a feud I dinnae need. Ye have a way with folk that I dinnae, that ye do."

Artan listened to Angus's flattery and grew even more uneasy. Angus was not only a little desperate to have his niece brought home to Glascreag, but he also knew Artan would probably refuse to do him this favor. The question was why would Angus think Artan would refuse to go and get the woman. It could not be because it was dangerous, for the man knew well that only something foolishly suicidal would cause Artan to, perhaps, hesitate. Although his mind was quickly crowded with possibilities ranging from illegal to just plain disgusting, Artan decided he had played this game long enough.