Lois Greiman (20 page)

“Ye killed him.”

He nodded rhythmically. “With the staff. But you figured that out, didn’t you, boy. You know it gave me life. His life. His voice.” He laughed, a poor imitation of the man Keelan had loved. “I knew the moment I saw it that it was special, that it had powers untold. Powers taken from the dark depths. But to give me another’s years…” He shook his head. “That was entirely unexpected. I had to try it again. Sometimes with beasts.” He lifted a graceful hand to indicate the golden sheen of his eyes. “Sometimes with those who displease me.” He shrugged. “So you see why I, quite literally, cannot live without it.”

Keelan shook his head. Unconsciousness wavered nearer. But that was just as well. For he could spill no truths then. She was safe. He smiled. Blood dripped from his lips. “You’ll na find it. Na again.”

“You think not?”

“Ye’re beaten, Kirksted. Beaten at yer own bloody game.”

“You’re wrong, Scotsman.”

He shook his head. She was safe. “Ye will die.”

“You’re wrong!” he roared. Maybe it was Chetfield. Maybe it was inside his head. But the old man was swinging for him. He thought himself past caring, yet his body could not give up.
He tried to shift away, but agony exploded like fireworks, knocking him back. The world spun. He was dragged up, legs dangling beneath him.

“Look at me! Look at me!” Chetfield snarled.

He tried. But the world was hazy and dim, the ground shifting erratically.

“Look at me, you sniveling cur, or I’ll kill you now.”

Relief washed through him. Death. Silence. He would not betray her. After all these years, in this final, sterling moment, he would prove himself. “Please,” he begged, knowing his plea would do naught but raise the bloodlust in Chetfield’s damned soul. Words were hard to form through broken lips, but this was his last ploy, his final hope, and he dared not fail. “Don’t kill me. She is dead. The staff is gone. There is naught I can do to bring them back.”

Chetfield drew himself up. “Then there is little reason to let you live, is there, Scotsman?” he said, and raised his cane.

“I am here.”

Keelan seemed to hear her voice through the roiling mists in his mind, heard it, recognized it, loved it with a terrible passion that seared his soul.

“Nay, lass.” He raised his head, frantically searching the nearby forest. “Go back.”

“He’s mad,” someone whispered, but in that instant she stepped from the woods, dressed all in black, dark eyes solemn in her beloved face.

“Release him,” she said.

Keelan tried to gain his feet, but others had joined Roland, holding him down. He felt terror burn his throat like bile, felt tears scorch his face. “Nay, lass, please.”

Their eyes met. “Life’s a whistle, Highlander,” she said, then: “You will turn him free, old man, and I will tell you where I’ve hidden it.”

“But my dear…” Chetfield began. They were only yards apart. “Now that you’re here, I believe I can force you to tell me whatever I wish,” He nodded toward Roland.

She raised her hand. It was fisted around the handle of a knife. “If they come within twenty feet of me, I’ll put this blade through my heart,” she said. “I swear on my mother’s grave, I will.”

Chetfield stared at her. “Very well then. I shall release him.”

“Nay,” Keelan croaked. His ear was plugged with blood. The world seemed strangely distant. “I’ll na go.”

“Place him on the raft,” she said, nodding toward the river.

Keelan shook his head. The earth wavered.
He staggered. “I’ll na—” They were dragging him toward the water. It chuckled in his mind, laughing at his weakness, at his failings. He fought against them, but it was futile. Their feet splashed into the waves. He planted his own against the stones, wrestling, cursing. The vessel rocked and sank beneath his weight. They pushed onto the rotting wood. His legs folded beneath him.

“Tie him there,” she ordered.

“So Charity, my dear.” Chetfield’s voice was convivial. “Tell me, do you hope to save him or torture him?”

She said nothing, but even from where he sat, he could see the tears glistening like diamonds on her bonny cheek.

“So it’s true,” Chetfield mused. “How charming.”

Frankie sliced through the raft’s tether and wound it about Keelan’s wrists.

“Not too tight.” Her words were broken.

Keelan cursed, jerking futilely against the restraints, but Frankie was already stepping off the tilting vessel.

“Push it out,” she ordered, and they did so, setting it loose on the waves. It dipped and reared.

“Nay!” Keelan shrieked. “Nay, lass!”

“Live long.” Her words were whispered, but he heard them.

“Chetfield!” He shrieked the name. “Touch her and ye will die one time for each day ye’ve lived.”

The old man chuckled. “Well, shall we get down to business, my dear? Where is my staff?”

The raft twisted beneath Keelan’s writhing form. He craned his neck, needing to see, terrified to see, yanking madly at his bonds. Her words were lost in the rush of the waves, the horror that filled his head, but he could see her, standing proud and alone near the rocky shore.

Her lips moved. She raised her chin. Tendrils of seal-dark hair wisped past her elfish face.

Chetfield stepped forward, but she lifted the knife and set the blade to her chest. The old man held up a placating hand.

She spoke and pointed, raising her arm toward the west. The old man gave her a smile and a nod, and then, as if by magic, the villains parted. She turned toward a saddled steed.

Keelan stared, eyes watering in the wind, breath held as she caught the animal’s reins. Almost free. But then Roland lurched forward.

“Lass!” Keelan yelled. The raft swirled sideways. He shoved his feet against the rudder, yanking with all his might. Wood splintered.
He jerked his body free. A shard sliced his wrist, but he was already falling into the water, hands bound. “Dunna die! Dunna. I’m coming.” He went under, bobbed up. He tossed his head, trying to see. She was there. On the ground. The bastard was bending over her. “Leave her!” Water filled his nostrils. He kicked madly. A wave rolled him under, tossed him up. Air burst into his lungs, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered if she was gone. But she was there. Roland stood over her, reached for her. “Nay!” he sobbed, struggling against death. But it had him in its grip now, dragging him down, pulling him under, filling his head.

Blackness swirled amid images. Past, present, future, all garbled into dark, twisting scenes, and suddenly he was yanked into the open air by his wrists. A dark warrior dragged him up beside his destrier’s flank.

“Celt!” Keelan’s voice was a sob. “He’s got her.”

“Then take her back,” rumbled the warrior, and slicing the rope that held his hand, spilled him to the earth.

Keelan swung his head to the right, searching for her even as his feet touched the ground. The stallion wheeled away. Someone shrieked a warning, but the warrior charged. A villain fell.

Keelan staggered about, and she was there, fighting, scrambling. Roland grabbed her foot.

“Leave her!” Keelan rasped, and leapt forward. There was a knife to her throat. Twenty yards separated them. Too far. Too far.

“Nay!” he screamed, but then a hound snarled and leapt. Roland was torn aside. Charity spilled to the ground. Safe. She was safe and close.

But suddenly Chetfield was there, dragging her up by the hair, arm across her neck, knife to her throat, deadly eyes finding Keelan across the distance.

He stumbled to a halt, legs faltering. “Please.” He dropped to his knees.

“Beaten, am I, Highlander?”

He shook his head. “Dunna harm her.”

“Go.” Her teeth were gritted, her knuckles white as she gripped the old man’s arm. “Please, Scotsman. Now’s your chance.”

“Chance?” Keelan breathed a laugh. Behind him someone screamed and died. “I have na chance, lass. Na without ye.”

“Keelan—”

“Cease,” Chetfield said, and pricked her neck with his blade. Blood, more precious than gold, slipped down her throat. “Touching as this is, I’ve a rather pressing appointment with my treasure.”

Three men were arced out facing the dark Celt. He sliced through the trio and spun about. The Hound snarled and leapt, leaving blood in its wake, but it was a flash of white that drew Keelan’s attention—Lambkin galloping from the house. The Hound stopped, bristled.

“No,” Charity gasped.

Chetfield shifted his gaze to the right and she struck, driving her elbow into his ribs.

He doubled over. Keelan leapt forward, and in that instant Chetfield loosed her, turned, stabbed. The knife sliced to the hilt between Keelan’s ribs.

He was face to face with evil itself. Yet it was almost pain-free. Almost a relief in its shocking brilliance.

“No! No!” Charity screamed the words through a million misty miles.

But the devil was near. “Ye’ll na harm her.” Keelan snarled the words into the old man’s face.

Chetfield twisted the blade, bringing the pain, the mind-blinding agony. “You’re wrong again, Highlander.”

Keelan staggered, gasping, feet spread, fighting for another few seconds. Just a few. Just enough.

“I’ll kill her,” the old man hissed.

Rage boiled like tar in Keelan’s soul. Reaching up, he grabbed Chetfield by the throat, then slammed his head against the other’s. The old man staggered backward. Keelan lurched after. Putting his hand to the hilt of the blade in his side, he jerked it from his ribs. Blood sprayed an arc across Chetfield’s face.

“Give up, Scotsman!” Chetfield gasped, but the mocking was gone, replaced by fear, by the sight of his own death in his widening eyes as he stumbled backward.

Keelan shambled on, steps stilted but quickening.

“I can’t die,” sputtered Chetfield, and in that instant, Keelan struck. The knife seemed to move of its own accord, finding the ancient heart with unerring accuracy.

The old man staggered backward, shock and horror on his face. His knees hit the earth. “I can’t…die,” he repeated, and toppled into the dirt.

Keelan took another step forward. The earth tilted, pitched toward him, struck his face.

He heard Charity scream, felt her hands against his arm, turning him, crying for him.

Life was good. Death wasn’t so bad.

He raised his hand to her face. There was blood on his fingers. Sticky. Warm. But she was safe. The Celt would make certain of that. The
Hound would guard her. “Me bonny lass,” he said.

“Don’t die!” Her words were a sob, her tears felt cool on his face. “Don’t you do it, Highlander.”

The battle around them was quieter. Lambkin trotted up, huddled against his side. He wrapped his arm about her neck, hugging her close. The world seemed a peaceful place.

A noise shuffled off to his right. Keelan turned his head. Toft stood nearby, seamed face solemn.

“I was wondering when ye would arrive, old man.”

Guilt and sorrow melded on the ancient features. “I did na ken ye were on the run until ’twas too late.” He shook his head, mouth turned down, eyes bright. “Dunna blame the Hound and the Celt. They came as soon as I told them of yer plight.”

“There is na blame,” Keelan said, and smiled. “Na more.”

The old man nodded, cleared his throat. “Where be the staff?”

“Ye’ll have to ask the…” he began, but in that instant the Black Celt strode up, sword covered in gore.

Turning, Charity yanked the knife from Chet
field’s chest and rose to her feet, bloody blade held before her.

“Stay back!” she hissed. Blood streaked her face, stark and red beneath wild amber eyes. “Touch a hair on his head and I’ll kill you. I swear to God.”

O’Banyon approached from the left, wearing nothing but a makeshift kilt. The knife shook in Charity’s hand, but she stood her ground.

“We’ve come in peace,” said the Irish Hound from amid the broken bodies of the fallen, and lifted his hand for her knife. She raised it defiantly, and he smiled, sharp teeth flashing in the sunlight. “She’s too good for the likes of ye, Keelan lad,” he said. “But I like her.”

She blinked, hope flickering cautiously in her eyes as she shifted them from one to the next. “Save him,” she pleaded.

The Celt nodded once, then knelt and lifted Keelan into his arms.

Pain seared him like a hot iron, tearing him limb from limb. “Bloody hell,” he rasped, and slipped into unconsciousness.

S
he was naked again. Not a stitch of clothes. And it was daylight. The sun shone on her smooth shoulders, her breasts, the long sweep of her waist. Behind her, a waterfall stretched into the sky.

She approached him, hips swaying gently. Naked hips. Holy fook, it was too bad he was dreaming again. Then again, if he was dreaming, he probably wasn’t dead.

“You’re
not
dead.”

“Are ye certain?” He didn’t bother to open his eyes.

“And you’re not dreaming.”

He smiled into his pillow. It smelled of lavender. “Then why is there a waterfall in me bedchamber?”

“Tell me true, is Lady Colline a witch?”

“What?” He opened his eyes with a snap. And she was there…naked. So there really was a God.

“Lady Colline,” Charity said, and perched herself on the edge of the bed. Her legs were long and smooth…and naked.

“Holy fook, lass, I canna take much more of these dreams.”

She brushed his hair away from his face. “I told you you’re not dreaming.”

“Then why are you naked?”

“It was time you woke up.”

He stared.

She shrugged. Her breasts jiggled slightly. “Lady Colline feared she had drugged you too deeply. That you would never come to. I told her I had an idea.” Leaning over, she kissed him. “I worried,” she whispered.

“Aboot me?”

Were there tears in her eyes? “Foolish, I know,” she said, and gently moving the blankets aside, she stretched out beside him. Turned out, he was naked too. Naked and ready. Her skin felt smooth and cool as she stretched out against him. Her breasts rubbed his chest. She bent one leg, laying it across his. He stared at the ceiling, trying to tell if there were clouds.

“I’m still dreaming, aren’t I?”

“Does this feel like a dream?”

He raised his brows. “Aye.”

She chuckled against his shoulder, but the sound was broken. “Tell me you’re not going to die.”

He slipped a hand over the satin-smooth skin of her hip. It felt like heaven. “I think I may have already.”

“I’m sorry, Angel.”

“That this be a dream?”

“That I stole the staff from you.”

“Ahh.” He traced her breast with the backs of his fingers. “Not to worry, luv. All’s well, so long as it’s safe.”

“It’s not.”

His hand stopped. His gaze caught hers. “Chetfield—”

“Chetfield’s dead.”

Relief struck him like a wave. “Where’s the staff?”

“Here. On the ship.”

He thought about that for a moment, felt the dip and weave of the vessel in which he lay. “Where are we bound?”

“I know things about him. Terrible things,” she whispered. “He killed my mother.”

“I know, lass.”

She nodded, unsurprised. Tears dripped onto his shoulder.

“Ye always intended to be rid of it,” he guessed.

“As did you.”

“Nay.” He sighed at his own shortcomings, his own weaknesses. “I have neither yer courage nor yer kindness, lass. I but came to take it. To gain what I could.”

“Then you found your father’s journal.”

Memories sailed in, but weak now, diluted. “He was me da’s most trusted friend.”

“And my father. Blood of my blood, Angel. Flesh of my—”

“No.” He drew her close, sweeping back her hair, loving her with aching intensity. “No, luv. He’s nothing. While ye are everything.”

“He—”

“Was a monster. But we’ve bested the beast.”

She drew a careful breath. “We must return it to the sea.”

“But all that gold…”

“Angel…”

He smiled. “I jest. We’ll throw it back to the deep, luv. ’Twill na be found again.”

“Truly?”

“Aye.”

“Make love to me,” she whispered.

And he smiled.

“So the lad awakes,” rumbled a voice.

Keelan scrambled to cover her nudity…and awoke with a snap.

“Yes.” Charity was sitting primly at the edge of his bed. Fully clothed.

He sat up. The room was dim; the berth rocked gently. Charity smiled. Secrets and dreams flared between them, stealing his breath. Beside him, Lambkin lifted her head from the pillow, black eyes shining, bringing a sliver of normalcy.

“Where am I?”

“Some leagues out to sea,” said the Black Celt. “’Tis aboot time ye ceased yer slumber.”

Keelan shifted higher against the pillows behind him.

“I’m not dreaming?”

Charity raised a suggestive brow.

“Ye’ve been doing plenty of that, lad,” said Hiltsglen. “O’Banyon’s lady feared ye might never come to.”

It all seemed vaguely similar to the dream. He glanced at Charity again. She touched his face. Thoughts and dreams flowed between them.

“Lady Colline’s on this vessel?” Keelan asked, trying to focus.

“She’s been tending you for some days. Ever since the lassie’s father tried to kill ye.”

“He knows more than you realize,” Charity said.

Keelan scowled. “I wish I could say the same.”

She laughed and swept the hair back from his brow as an old man stepped through the door.

“Good morning to ye, lad,” Toft said, and shambled in, hat in hand. “We worried for ye.”

Keelan drew a careful breath, thinking, grappling for footing. “I believe I may owe ye me thanks, gaffer,” he said.

“Aye well, one must take care of one’s elders,” said the old man, and chuckled. “Strange to think I be the youngest man in this room, aye?”

“So you are Keelan’s…cousin?” Charity asked.

“His mother’s sister’s son’s son,” Toft said, “and the Black Celt’s grandson many times removed.”

“Oh.” She sounded a bit dazed, more like the Charity of old, and not the brazen lass who entered his dreams and set the world aright.

“Life be complicated,” Toft admitted.

“In yer lineage, mayhap,” O’Banyon said.

They glanced up as he stepped through the
door. His incisors still looked strangely sharp. Maybe because he oft spent time roaming the forests in hound form. Life
was
complicated.

“Me lady feared the gift she sent with Toft some weeks past would na be enough to heal ye,” said the Irishman. “But I see ye are doing well.”

Keelan thought back. “She touched the bottle with her bare hands,” he guessed. “Left her healing gift there. Knowing I would na drink it.”

“Ye are a stubborn lad,” said Toft. “And ye hold a terrible grudge aboot the last potion ye took. Thus she sent the bottle for ye, and the potion inside for Chetfield.”

“So it was na me what was healing him.”

“Yers be the gift of dreams, lad.”

Keelan shook his head. “A poor gift that be. It has caused me naught—” But in his mind, Charity wrapped her legs about his back and squeezed him. He jerked his head back. His breath caught hard in his throat.

It took him several seconds to realize the others were staring at him in perplexed bewilderment. Only the girl’s eyes were laughing.

“Be ye ready to be rid of the staff, lad?” rumbled the Black Celt.

Shoving the dream aside for later consider
ation, Keelan nodded and sat up. He was surprisingly free from pain as he rose to his feet.

O’Banyon’s brows ricocheted to the ceiling. Toft cleared his throat.

“’Tis up to ye, of course,” rasped the old man. “But ye might wish to don some clothes, lad.”