Tempting the Wolf (23 page)

“I think ye be magic,” he murmured.

Her brow furrowed abruptly as if she would crumble, as if she would fall, but in less than a heartbeat she was back in control. “You heard the doctor,” she said.

“I heard the doctor is a self-important bastard what would blame a wee bairn for her own—”

From the bed, the tiniest scrap of noise arose, a rasping struggle for breath.

O’Banyon turned with a start and paced to the mattress, hands crushed to fists.

It was difficult to look at the battered face that lay there on the pillow. All but impossible to see the open wounds and remember how she had looked only hours before, pixie bright, all but glowing with life.

“Dear Jesus,” he murmured. It wasn’t his fault. It couldn’t be, but his soul burned. He reached for her hand, pale and unscathed with his horse-hair circlet laying limp against her tender wrist.

“Lass,” he called and sitting beside her, pulled her hand onto his lap. “Wake up, love. All will be well.” Her broken lips were parted, but her engorged eyelids never flickered. The tiny fingers never moved in his. He brushed the bracelet gently against her arm. ” ‘Twas a gift to keep ye safe, little faery. But I fear—”

His voice broke. He cleared his throat. “Will ye na come back? Na even for yer lady?” He stroked her fingers, bent against the hardened skin of his palm. “She needs ye, ye ken. Whether she knows it or nay.” The smallest tic of movement seemed to jerk in her cheek. Didn’t it?

“Tell her, countess,” he ordered, still watching the girl’s face. “Tell her,” he repeated and glanced about, but the doorway was empty.

“What the devil be ye talkin’ aboot, Irish?” Hiltsglen snarled.

“What? Are ye daft?” O’Banyon rasped and tightened his grip on his pint. The tavern where they had met was dark and barren, peopled only by themselves and an old man whose head bobbed sleepily over his brew near the fire. “Have ye heard na a word I’ve spoke? The wee lass be sore wounded. Knockin’ at death’s verra door, she be.”

“Aye, that much I gather,” said Hiltsglen. “But what of the rest of it? Be ye speakin’ of…” He shook his head, glanced furtively toward the old man and continued, voice lowered to a distant rumble. “Might ye be speakin’ of usin’ the dark arts to save her, lad?”

“Dark arts?” O’Banyon’s stomach clenched at the thought. “Nay. Be ye mad? I’ve had me share of… Nay.” He repeated, but in truth he did not know what depths he might plumb to relieve himself of this gnawing uncertainty and draw the countess’s wee lass back into the light of day. “I but speak of someone gifted in the art of healin’. Someone what can pull her back from the brink.”

Hiltsglen shook his head, brows drawn low over eyes set deep as caverns. “Mayhap she canna be helped, Irish.”

“Dunna say that,“O’Banyon gritted. “Dunna…” He paused, catching his breath, calming his heart. “Ye did na see her face, Scotsman.”

“Whose face?” gritted the warrior. “The girl’s or the woman’s?”

Both. The lassie’s, broken and bruised—the lady’s, tortured in silence behind cool green eyes.

“She did na deserve these troubles, Hiltsglen,” he said.

The Scotsman’s scowl deepened even further. “Why come to me?”

“Because ye are the Black Celt,” he snarled and curled his arm up tight. “Born to battle. Wounded upon the field. Surely in yer countless years ye met someone what could mend yer sorry hide.”

“Are ye daft? A thousand seasons have come and gone since our days of war. Those we knew be long dead and gone. Friend and foe alike. Ye ken as much.”

“Aye,” agreed O’Banyon fiercely, not knowing what he hoped for, but hoping nonetheless. “Aye, they be gone. But what of their kin?”

“What the devil—”

“These… gifts,” O’Banyon hissed, his stomach twisting tight. Memories of endless darkness tortured him, grinding at his soul, but he shoved them back. ” ‘Tis said they be passed from father to son, from mother to daughter. ‘Twas the way with the golden lady, was it na?”

“Do na speak her name.”

“I shall,” he said, “I shall do that and more if it will—”

“Nay!” Hiltsglen growled and lowered his head like a bull set for battle. “Dunna be a fool, Irish. There be naught ye can do to change the course of—”

“I suffered the change.”

Hiltsglen paused, brows low over deadly eyes. “What?”

“The night the wee lass was injured.” He remained absolutely still, lest he break into a thousand sharp-edged pieces, lest he cry like a bairn at the thought of the lassie’s broken countenance. “I was na meself, Hiltsglen.”

A muscle twitched in the giant’s granite jaw. “Ye think it was yerself what attacked—”

“Nay! Nay.” He couldn’t bear to hear his own thoughts said aloud. “She was a wee sprite of a girl. Bright and bonny and… I would na have hurt her. I would na have. I’m certain of it. But—” Words failed him. He ached in his soul.

“I am sorry,” Hiltsglen rumbled. “But I dunna ken what—”

“There be the Forbes,” rasped a voice.

The Celts turned as one, then started back. The sleepy old man now stood hunched beside their table, bent like a gnarled oak over his knobby staff.

“Who the devil be ye?” O’Banyon growled.

The ancient shoulders shrugged. “A friend mayhap.” He skimmed his rheumy gaze to the Scotsman. “Mayhap more.”

“How much did ye hear?”

“About the lassie or the beast?”

“God’s breath!” O’Banyon swore, rising rapidly, but Hiltsglen drew him back down with a hand on his arm.

“What do you want, old man?”

He sighed, then hobbling forward, lowered himself carefully into a nearby chair. “I want what every man of good heart wants, lad.”

“And that would be—”

“A happy ending.”

“Who the devil sent ye?” snarled O’ Banyon.

“Happy ending for who?” Hiltsglen asked and the old man smiled.

“For the Celt and the hound and those of us what look after ‘em.”

“What do ye know, ol’ man?” asked O’Banyon.

“I know a lad,” he said, his wobbly voice deep and somber. “Of the clan Forbes. An ancient tribe, they be. Scattered now, and most forgot, but some what have survived still bear the gift.”

“Gift?” O’Banyon’s gut cranked up tight.

” Tis said the ol’ laird’s lady could heal ye with a glance, could read a man’s thought afore they be formed in his head.”

“God’s breath!”

“He’s a good lad. A bit wild, mayhap, with hard days behind him, but good in his heart,” said the old man and rising, turned creakily away. “Good in his heart, I’m sure of it.”

“Wait.” O’Banyon jerked to his feet. “What’s his name?”

But the gaffer shook his head. ” ‘Tis impossible to say what he be callin’ himself since her death. But ye, lad…” He narrowed his eyes, gazing in-tently at the Irishman. “Yell recognize his ways when ye see him.”

“What?” Reaching out, O’Banyon grabbed the old man’s shirt. “Why are ye here? Tell me all ye ken?”

“Irish,” Hiltsglen said, rising slowly. “Loose him.”

“Ride yer great, cantankerous steed to the Highlands, boy. Ye shall find him there.”

“Who? Where?”

“Ye might try the village of Teviotton. Or the rugged country to the north.”

“Might! Who are ye? Do ye try to be rid of me? Was it ye what harmed the lass?” O’Banyon asked and shook the old man like a doll of rags, but Hiltsglen stepped up and wrapped a fist about his wrist.

“Release him.”

“We do na ken who this man be,” hissed O’Banyon, his gut aching with premonition. “Indeed, he may well be connected with she what cursed us at the start.”

“Aye,” Hiltsglen said, his voice dark and slow. “He may well be. Let him go, lad.”

O’Banyon loosed his grip slowly, drew a breath slower still. “What do ye suggest, then, Hiltsglen.”

“Ye’ve naught to do but follow yer heart, Irish.”

O’Banyon winced. “The lass has verra little time.” His voice was quiet, broken. “And the Highlands be vast indeed. If the ol’ gaffer would but—” He gritted his teeth and turned toward the old man, but the space where he had been was empty. O’Banyon glanced about. Hiltsglen did the same, but they were the only souls in the tavern. Breaking from his trance, O’Banyon leapt toward the door, but the street was as bare as the inn had been.

Hütsglen met him on the cobbled walkway outside the oaken door.

O’Banyon shivered. “I hate it when these things happen,” he whispered, searching the shadows.

“Aye.” Hiltsglen nodded, his impassive face pale in the black night. “But look to the bright side, lad, ye’ve still got naught but two legs.”

“Ye think yerself funny, Scot?”

“Ye be the comic.” Silence spilled around them. “What do ye do now, Irish?”

O’Banyon gritted his teeth against the deeds to be done. “I ride,” he said.

Hiltsglen nodded again.

O’Banyon turned away, then paused. “Scotsman,” he said softly, “if I dunna return—” He glanced down the cobbled street, fighting demons that should have long since been banished. “The white countess, she seems cold, but there is more to her than seen by the world. Keep—”

“I shall make certain na harm befalls her,” vowed Hiltsglen. “She will be well upon yer return or I shall die in the effort to keep her so.”

O’Banyon reached out. Hiltsglen met him halfway. Their hands clasped and held, bound in an oath as solemn as time.

Fatigue rode O’Banyon like a spurred horseman, heavy across his back and shoulders, cruel in its intensity, but he pushed on, heading north. The grand estates of London had long since fallen behind. Hills reared up ahead, green on green. Villages appeared, each one shabbier than the last until in the end he reached the cool cleanness of the Scottish Highlands.

Time ceased to exist here. Years had been lost in the unending sameness of the days, of reaving and weaving and wining and womanizing. Memories haunted him. Memories of mistakes made, of pain endured, of darkness, unending and intense.

But finally the Irishman sat alone in a bustling tavern. A thousand leagues and a hundred inquiries had brought him here. A group of five sat about a nearby table, well focused on their gaming, one farmer, three laborers, and a young man with seal-dark hair and eyes that spoke of secrets known and kept.

Banyon drank in silence and questioned the same, his soul tortured, his muscles tattered. The Forbes line had faltered through the centuries, that he had learned some days hence, but rumor whispered of a lad descended from the ancient laird’s only daughter and a quick-tongued Irishman that went by the name of Liam.

Gut instinct told him this dark-haired boy was that lad. Gut instinct, or blind hope, or some other source he dare not contemplate, whispering quietly from the throes of insanity.

“Can I fetch ye aught else, me laird?” asked the maid that tended the inn. She was built just as a bar maid should be, soft of body and dimpled of cheek, but fatigue or some other ailment O’Banyon refused to consider, left him unstirred.

“Me thanks, lass, but nay,” he said, “though I could use a moment of yer time if ye’ve got one to spare.”

Her eyes sparkled, just as a bar maid’s should. “Na much can be done in a moment,” she said and pulled out a chair. “Though I’m willing to have a go, love.”

He smiled. The muscles in his face felt worn. “Yonder lad,” he said. “Might ye ken his name?”

She glanced to her right. The boy remained immersed in his game. “The one with the bonny eyes?”

If he had not been so God-awful tired, he might well have told her that
he
was the one with the bonny eyes. For a moment he felt as old as the earth, beyond years, beyond reason.

“Aye,” he said, “that be the one.”

“He calls himself Keelan.”

“Might that be his given name?”

” ‘Tis impossible to say, me laird,” she said and shrugged the kind of plump, pale shoulders every bar maid should have. “He does na come here oft. Only now and again for gaming and…” She blushed slightly, but did not glance toward the lad. “… other things.”

He felt as old and battered and pitted as stone. He owned gloves older than this girl.

“Do ye ken what clan he hails from?”

She leaned forward. Her perfect barmaid’s bosom bunched prettily. “Me apologies, me laird, but we’ve na spent a great deal of time discussing his lineage if ye take me meaning.”

He almost sighed, like an old man long past such carnal interests. “I was told he had some gifts,” he said and eyed the girl narrowly. “Some abilities.”

“Oh, he does that, me laird,” she said and giggled.

O’Banyon refrained from grinding his teeth. “The gift of… sight,” he said. “And other things.”

“Oh!” She gasped quietly, flitted her gaze to the boy and back. “Well, he doesn’t like to talk aboot such things.”

He felt himself tense. “What things might that be?”

She leaned toward him. ” Tis rumored,” she said, unblinking and wide-eyed, “there was a lass in Kirkcaldy what couldn’t see. Blind her whole life she was, till she met yon Keelan. He said ‘twas naught he could do, but she had heard tales and begged him merciless. So he laid his hands on her…” She paused, glancing furtively toward the lad and letting the tension build. ” ‘Tis said she now sees just as right as ye and me.”

He scowled, a skeptic by necessity, perhaps. “Did ye know this girl?”