Reclaimed (A Highland Historical Trilogy) (The MacKay Banshees 1-3) (36 page)

Kamdyn looked up in horror. She’d been found out, and her queen had come to punish them both.

Chapter Ten

“You’re dressed like a Roman.” Tah Liah dispassionately observed, taking in Kamdyn’s blue silk wrap. Apparently Soren was better at dressing her than she was him.

Instantly dropping to a knee, Kamdyn prayed to the gods for mercy.

Soren remained standing and unabashedly nude.
He’d
likely never knelt to anyone.

“Forgive me, my queen, I take full responsibility for my actions. I was carried away by—” She paused. By what? Primal, all-consuming lust? Did one say such a thing to a royal?

“This is not unprecedented.” Tah Liah’s silver gaze snagged on Soren with faint appreciation, and Kamdyn felt equal amounts relief and possession. “As long as the relations were consensual on the part of the human, and you kill him when you are finished with him.”

Kamdyn winced. She
wasn’t
finished with him. Couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be.

The queen addressed the Berserker. “She didn’t force you, or misuse you in any way?”

His laughter was rich and rusty, as though stored in a dark place, unused for decades.

The look she shot him could have contained all the ice in the north. Though, after consideration, Kamdyn had to admit the idea was ludicrous.

“She
did
hold me down a good deal of the time,” he chuckled.

“
Soren
!” Of all the times for him to develop a damned sense of humor.

“In truth, it is thus far the most pleasant assassination attempt I’ve ever experienced.” He addressed the queen, but his eyes glimmered at Kamdyn. “I believe I will give you something, Banshee Queen.” He strode to his trunk, unaffected by the stares of the two women following him. Reaching in, he pulled out a palm-sized chunk of black rock that glistened like volcanic glass. “I was told this is required of you by the terms of your pact.”

Kamdyn gasped. The
Scáth bhfolach
, she’d almost completely forgotten about it.

Tah Liah regarded him with an air of skepticism, the flakes of frost in her aura danced a little faster. “You would give it to me freely?”

Soren held it out to her, and she took it. “The little Banshee asked it of me.”

The queen turned to Kamdyn. “If I do not mistake what I sense, what I
see
, then this man loves you.”

Kamdyn gulped around a lump of terrible emotion in her throat. “He said as much.”

“Interesting.” The queen took an extended moment to study Soren. “I can also see why you are reticent to slay him.”

Soren cast her a look of smug amusement, standing proudly with his legs splayed.

Insolent man
, Kamdyn thought fondly.

“I actually sought you out as a courtesy,” Tah Liah continued. “The MacKay are in the midst of a terrible battle with the Sutherlands at
Druin na Coub
. Your family still lives, but the outcome of the battle is unsure.”

Kamdyn’s heart plummeted at this worst possible news. “Even with Laird MacKay’s four thousand men?”

“The Sutherlands have commissioned the help of the Murrays and other mercenaries, I believe. Your Clan is outnumbered. There will be many MacKay widows.”

“Nay,” Kamdyn seized the hand of her queen. “May I go to them? I
must
help. I have to protect my sisters. They’ve already been through so much. And their children!”

“You may use your scream, but aside from that you may not kill humans.” The queen was very firm on this point. Banshees were already under intense scrutiny of the Fae Council of queens due to the last sovereign’s behavior.

“Allow me to march with you.” Soren stepped forward, his fists clenching and his eyes flashing with anticipation. “I will bring my men.”

Tah Liah seemed to consider. “It would have no bearing on the outcome of the pact. You are still marked for death.”

“Consider the relic I gave you a gesture of good faith.” Soren shrugged. “If I do not fall in battle, kill me once the Sutherlands are defeated.”

Once the Sutherlands were defeated? So arrogant. Kamdyn’s eyes burned. Despite herself, she loved his superior audacity. “You would fight for my Clan?”

He gave her a haughty, impatient look and then reached for his armor.

Dressed in the colors of earth and leather that set the russet undertones of his dark hair ablaze, he looked exactly like what he was. A ruthless, violent Berserker who’d fought and won battles that would have crushed a lesser man.

Plucking his gigantic axe from its perch, he swung it to a jaunty angle on his shoulder with one hand and held the other out to her. “Come on, little Banshee.” He gave her a brilliant smile, the first she’d seen grace his grim mouth. Kamdyn came to understand that Soren’s smile was the most terrifying thing about him. If the Devil, that Prince of Darkness, ever smiled, it would be exactly like the one the Laird of Shadows was giving her now. Full of teeth, eagerness, and the promise of blood. “Let us go and slaughter your enemies.”

Chapter Eleven

“Absolutely not!” Rory thundered. “What in the name of the Gods possessed ye to bring these—these land pirates to Strathnaver!”

“Watch your tone with her, Highlander.” Soren said in a low, quiet growl.

“I doona care if ye’re the bloody Laird of Shadows, I’ll still take yer head and mount it on my battlements.”

“Not if your battlements belong to the Sutherlands.” The Berserker’s caustic, unperturbed smirk was doing little to help things.

“Um, actually…” Kamdyn stepped between the men and put a staying hand on Soren’s chest piece. “They were already camped at the Naver Forest, not a half-day’s march from here. It wasn’t anything at all to bring them here to
help
.”

The MacKay had been driven up against Ben Loyal and the Sutherlands were loath to break upon the mountain, so they stood at an impasse, hurling insults and arrows at each other, each Laird frantically strategizing. Soren had brought his men around the north side of the mountain, and they stood at the ready. The Berserker and his trusted general of sorts, a rangy Monroe named Murdock, had boldly marched across the line to meet with the Laird.

“Ye mean to say they were hiding on MacKay lands?” the Laird roared, then turned on Kamdyn and jabbed a finger at her. “I thought ye were supposed to kill this man. Katriona would have jolted him to the moon by now. We canna afford to make enemies of the MacLauchlan’s, as well.”

Soren grabbed the burly Laird by the neck and all the surrounding MacKay men drew their swords. Murdock did the same, falling back to shoulder with Soren. “She will keep her word, after I keep mine to defeat her enemies. But point that finger at her again, and you’ll lose the hand before I go,” the Berserker promised in a lethally quiet voice.

Daroch, who brandished his sword at the Berserker but watched the exchange with sharp and mighty interest, gave a few shocked curses in his ancient language. The tattoo crawling toward his left eye crinkled as he narrowed a discerning gaze leveled mostly at Kamdyn. “There’s something between the two of ye.”

Kamdyn could feel a guilty flush crawl up her neck. “Now’s not really the time,” she evaded. “Not when we have a battle to fight. Soren, put him down.”

The Laird’s feet touched the earth and everyone seemed to breathe again.

“My men will have no one to lead them when I am gone,” Soren spoke to the Laird conversationally, as though he hadn’t just threatened dismemberment. “The Banshee thought you might have need of them, so I give them to you with their word to be loyal.”

“What need have I for blackguards and criminals?” Rory snarled.

Kamdyn seized the arm of her brother-in-law and pointed him toward the band of two hundred and fifty men wearing an air of restless bloodlust rather than Clan colors. “Look at them, Rory. They’re
here
, prepared to fight for you, to swear fealty to you as their Laird if you’ll have them.” Her desperation on their behalf surprised even her. But defeat wasn’t an option. Kamdyn was first and foremost a MacKay, and she’d do what she could to protect her Clan. If that meant by these unorthodox means, then so be it.

Rory rolled his sinewy shoulders and ran a hand through hair bronzed lighter by years in the sun. “Ye doona ken the position ye put me in, wee one,” he said more gently. “These men, they willna be welcome in my Clan after the wrongs they’ve done. Not only because of me, but because of the people they’ve sinned against.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Kamdyn argued. “If they fight next to MacKay today, I believe that will be a start. They’ll bleed for you, Rory, some of them will die only for the
promise
of a Clan and a name. Imagine their loyalty once you’ve given them one.”

The Laird MacKay was known and respected for his practicality and fair-mindedness and Daroch for his faultless logic. They looked out over the men assembled at the base of the mountain, backlit by a grey autumn sky. Some of their faces were hopeful. Young. Others older and more cynical. Their sins shone like defiance in their eyes and were carried as different weights on each shoulder. But they awaited their fates out of earshot, next to a force many times greater than them, their weapons down.

“They’d have to return what they’ve taken,” Daroch said, ignoring the quelling look from Rory.

“Done,” Soren agreed with a nod of finality.

The two MacKay men, who’d become as close as brothers over the years, held silent court with their eyes. Daroch threw his head toward the Sutherland horde. They were advancing again, splitting their forces around the mountain, making a move to flank and divide the MacKays.

“And make public amends for their crimes,” Rory gritted out.

Murdock stepped forward. “All those who followed us here have already agreed to that per the Laird of Shadows’s wee Banshee’s request.” He dropped to his knee before the Laird. “We’ve given our word.”

“We’ll see if that means anything.” Rory pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods save me from battlefield promises.”

“Only time can prove us true,” Murdock said wisely.

With a short nod, Daroch turned to Kamdyn with a brow raised. “The Laird of Shadows’s wee Banshee?”

“Let’s kill some Sutherlands, shall we?” Kamdyn said with forced brightness. “The day’s light is wasting.” She marched toward the approaching army, towing a gigantic, ambling Berserker in her wake.

Chapter Twelve

Soren was glad Kamdyn did not fight. Though the magic in her hands was as deadly as his entire army, the pacts between Faerie and human could not be usurped, even by Clan loyalty. Besides, his little Banshee’s hands were not made for killing. They were gentle. They were kind. Her scream, however,
that
could do plenty. Sutherlands melted before it, clutching their heads as though to keep the blood inside. And still, she’d killed no one. Not directly.

He
would be her sword.
He
would be her wrath. He was the shadow of death awaiting the sentence from her soft lips, and once she gave it, his execution was swift and merciless.

The Sutherlands would remember their defeat at
Druin na Coub
for a thousand years at least. And though his name would morph over the centuries, it would be the Laird of Shadows who’d defeated them.

Splitting their forces had been the Sutherlands’ gravest mistake, for they found an extra two hundred and fifty fresh and bloodthirsty warriors at the head of the MacKay army to the north. To the south, they fell beneath the Laird MacKay’s smaller faction due to some ingenious explosive accelerant crafted by a brilliant Druid, paired with a Banshee’s keen, and the axe of one Berserker who thoroughly enjoyed his blood-soaked vocation.

Soren’s final gift to his mate was the safety of her Clan. The word would spread that the mighty Laird MacKay not only had four thousand men left, even after the battle was over, but a Berserker protecting them, as well.

When the last of the Sutherland forces fell or fled, Soren saw that Kamdyn’s predictions proved wise. A number of his men hadn’t survived the day, but those that did joined the post-battle frenzy with the air of brotherhood only shared by those who’d bled next to each other.

Soren was satisfied by this, surprised to discover the depth of his anxiety for the future of his men only after that future had been somewhat secured. The fates worked in strange ways, he supposed, and pointed his boots toward his own short-lived destiny.

His blood was high, pounding through his veins with all the feral intensity of his past Berserker rage, but with a new abject clarity.

He found his mate surveying the battlefield with the surprising satisfaction of a warrior. Her hair caught fire as the clouds gave way to afternoon sunlight.

“One last time,” he murmured in her ear when he came up behind her.

Her response was instant and ecstatic.

They escaped to the Kyle with their preternatural speed. Their hurried and frigid bath was made too long by their inability to separate their ravenous mouths for more than a handful of moments.

Soren didn’t lose his frenzied sense of heart-pounding, gut-wrenching, almost fear-inducing need until he had her splayed naked in the grass beneath him. He was very glad she was an immortal, for he’d be afraid to break her with the strength of his passion otherwise.

This time, it wasn’t just her legs he wanted wrapped around him, but her arms, her lips, her very soul. Soren had given her everything. Would still give more. But he wanted something from her before she put him in the ground. He wanted to take a piece of her heart with him to the afterlife.

He couldn’t bring himself to ask for it. He didn’t know the words, in her language or in his. Instead, he busied his tongue in other ways that kept either of them from talking. He claimed her mouth, worshiped her breasts, and nipped a trail of alternating kisses and nibbles down to the womanly flesh he most craved.

Splaying his fingers on each of her slim thighs, he spread them wide, settling his shoulders between them. She was so delicate. So small and soft. As Soren dipped his head to kiss her intimately, he gloried in her gasps of delight. In the demanding little fingers she threaded in his hair. She tasted of salt and musk and insatiable desire. Her pliant flesh parted for his tongue, the bud of her pleasure nestled and waiting for him to pay it heed.