Warrior’s Redemption (19 page)

He cupped her face in his hands and placed a kiss on her forehead.

“It’s no just their safety, love, though that should be enough in its own right. Think.” He pulled her to him,
covering her lips with his for a brief kiss. “If I’ve no call to use the MacKilyn men, I’ve no debt to the old laird. I’ll be free to return to you. To many more nights such as the one we’ve just spent together.”

Another kiss and he stood to retrieve his sword and sling it onto his back.

“If you return at all,” she whispered, giving voice to her greatest fear.

“Here, now. None of that. The gods hear and favor confidence.” He grinned as he leaned down to rummage in a wooden chest, standing up with a cloth roll he tucked under his arm. “I’d ask you to act as the warrior’s woman you will be soon enough. Will you do that for me?”

Dani slid to the edge of the bed, her lips still tingling from his last kiss, wrapping the blanket around her body as she stood. “I’ll try.”

What else could she say? She wasn’t about to send him out that door with more on his mind to distract him than he already had.

“Good. I need you to dress and station yerself in front of Patrick’s door. It’s yer best chance to catch him there before he goes to make ready the men. I need you to tell him what I’m about and to pass along to him my orders. He’s no to follow me, but to wait here for any word I send. I hold him responsible to see that Dermid is kept here where he’ll be safe, even as I hold him responsible to see to the safety of all our people here. I must do this on my own, to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. To reclaim my own life. Will you carry that word to him for me?”

She nodded, feeling too close to tears to attempt words.

Again he pulled her close, bending to kiss her. She fastened her arms around his neck, returning the kiss as if she might never feel his lips on hers again.

Fearing as he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him that indeed she might not.

I
F HE WERE
to slice her throat now, to bleed her dry as she lay helpless in the thrall of her visions, he would never again suffer the vexation of her stubborn resistance.

He also would never learn the content of those visions. That knowledge alone stayed his hand.

Torquil of Katanes, laird of the MacDowylt, chosen son of Odin, looked out on the sparkling stars dotted across an inky night sky and roared in frustration.

At his feet, his half sister, Christiana, lay on a bed of cushions, lost in the visions that even now danced across her face in shadows he was at a loss to interpret.

That power had been denied him.

Delicate and fragile, she was the exact image of the dark-haired Tinkler whore his father had married after his mother’s death. That the blood of his ancestors, the mighty Gods of Asgard, ran through her tainted body sickened him. That the power of the ancient
seid,
the magic of their ancestors, lay in her hands infuriated him. It was a power that should have been his.

The half-breed abominations his father had spawned
with the Tinkler were a stain on the world, an insult to the purity of their bloodline, for which he would never forgive his father. He had no doubt that Odin had never forgiven the old man, either, as evidenced by Alfor’s recent death. It was Odin’s punishment, as much as the potions he personally had prepared for his father, that had been to blame for Alfor’s final days of suffering.

Now, as it should, it fell to him and him alone to redeem the family line and reclaim the greatness of their destiny. Before he was finished, the world would answer to him as it once had to his mighty ancestor.

Christiana moaned, tossing her head from side to side as if attempting to escape the hold of the gods’ visions, and he nudged her side with the toe of his boot.

Another moan and her eyes fluttered open, a blue so darkly vivid, they were almost violet. Framed in a thick lace of black, the eyes of the old gods stared out at him.

Perhaps when she reached the end of her usefulness, before he tossed her body to its final indignity in the ground, he would carve out those eyes and give them the honor of the pyre their bloodline deserved.

“What did you see?” he demanded, stepping away from her. “Does Dermid yet return with the tribute from my southern holdings?”

She pushed herself up to sit, every movement a study of grace and fluidity, belying her filthy heritage.

“You haven’t long to wait, Torquil. Even now I see my brother making preparations for his return to Tordenet Castle.”

“Are his pack animals laden heavy with the MacGahan silver?”

He wanted every coin in Malcolm’s possession. He wanted his prideful half brother broken in spirit and, one day, in body. Oh, he knew of his father’s wish to give the MacGahan holdings to Malcolm to possess for his own; he simply didn’t choose to honor that wish. He and he alone deserved it all.

“My brother travels with no silver.”

“What?” he yelled, pleased to see her flinch.

Pleased with her fear. She should fear him. And obey him. As long as she shared her gift of vision with him, he would allow her to live. Though he trusted her not, he knew that in the matter of relaying the visions, she was incapable of speaking anything but the truth, and therein lay her value.

“Why does he not carry my tribute with him?”

“The visions have not shown me this, my laird. Only that my brother makes preparations this very night for travel to Tordenet Castle.”

“Without any silver,” he added.

“Without any silver,” she confirmed.

“Leave me,” he ordered, turning his back when she lifted a hand for his assistance.

When she had gone from his tower, he leaned against the open window, hands fisted against the cold stone ledge, staring sightlessly into the black night.

Though she claimed Dermid only now prepared for his trip home, he wanted to see for himself. To know that his envoy had not yet set foot on his lands.
Only by verifying with his own eyes could he reassure himself that Christiana was incapable of trickery.

He stripped out of his clothing, folding each piece into a neat square and placing it carefully on the table beside him before stretching out on the cushions Christiana had vacated. A fleeting impression of heat left behind by his half sister’s body skated over his skin, gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.

Breathing slowly, deeply, he closed his eyes and called on one of the powers of Odin that he did possess. It was necessary to concentrate on the attributes he required for his task. Accurate vision in the dark of night. Speed of travel to cover his land and view it from above.

A shape began to form in his mind.

The trance that had once taken him hours to accomplish was as child’s play now, settling upon him in mere minutes. That which was the essence of him floated from his body, up, hovering near the ceiling to look down on himself where he lay. From here it was easy to admire the beauty and strength that housed his essence in the form of the body that lay below him, naked, open to his inspection.

Only a few hours until dawn.

Great wings flapped, stretching his muscles and propelling him forward to dive through the open window. The air caressed his feathers in an almost sensual experience, boosting him like a helping hand into the night sky. Soundlessly, he circled and dove, instinctively finding the currents to speed him on his way.

Below him, as Christiana had predicted, nary a single mortal trod his land other than those who had pledged him their fealty.

Through these eyes he saw everything in details of black and gray. But what he couldn’t see, he could hear, targeting in on the tiniest of movements. Something small scurried for cover and he gave himself over to the need, death on a silent wing. The strike made, one sharp squeal from his victim, and then a mind-obliterating orgasm of pleasure as fresh, warm blood sprayed down his throat and across his face.

He left the corpse behind. He might inhabit the body of an owl, but he had not the beast’s taste for rodent meat.

Instead he once again traveled the air currents, lifting and diving until, as the first rays of light lit the eastern sky, he reached his own window. Once inside, he cast off the form he had chosen, to settle back into his own body.

Opening his eyes, he stretched his limbs, the excitement of the evening’s kill still thrumming through his body, exhibiting itself in a much more human form now. A much more human need.

He wiped a hand across his face and it came away streaked with blood. The need to clean himself wasn’t unusual after one of his shifting trances. He relished it. It only enhanced the experience.

Pushing himself up to stand, he strode across the floor to throw open the door, and called out to his personal guard.

“Have a tub and hot water brought to me.” When the guard’s
eyes flickered down toward his swollen manhood, he laughed. “Yes, Ulfr, I’d have one of the maids sent up as well.”

“Brenna, my laird?”

“Yes,” he replied but was struck with another thought. “No! One of the dark-haired lasses, Ulfr.”

“Aye, my laird,” the man replied, hurrying away.

Torquil strolled back into his room, stopping at the bed of cushions on the floor, smiling as he rubbed his hand over his chest.

He would take the little dark-haired maid there. There on the bed where Christiana had lain.

H
AD IT BEEN
only this morning Malcolm had wished the sun could delay its assent into the sky, allowing him time to linger with Dani in his arms? Now, at the opposite end of day, he wanted nothing so much as for the sun to hang where it was, forgoing its inevitable disappearance.

Perhaps the biggest disadvantage of a late-autumn assault was the shortness of the days.

Though he’d ridden since before daybreak, both he and his mount had miles left in them. Miles, perhaps, but not the light to cover them safely.

Ah, well. At least he’d made better distance traveling by himself than he could have at the head of an army. And without the worry over the well-being of his men.

At the crest of the next hill, he slowed his mount, stretching his legs and scanning the distance ahead for a likely campsite. Ahead lay a valley, where the setting sun already cast shadows of purple over the land. A stream ran its length, disappearing into a stand of trees.

Cover and water together in one place. That was
where he would make his camp for the night. As if his horse sensed his intent, the animal gave the run its all, reaching the trees in short order.

One look at the spot close up and Malcolm knew it had been as much fate as fortune that had led him here. A rowan tree, old and gnarled, spread its limbs out over the stream. Surely a good sign.

With a little effort, he was able to build a fire and set up camp all before the last rays of light deserted him. The moon, which had shined down on him the night before, hid herself this night, concealed in a cloud-filled sky.

Wrapped in his plaid for warmth, Malcolm sat under the rowan, too awake to even consider sleep. He caught up a small piece of branch from the pile he’d gathered and pulled out his knife, idly whittling at the wood to occupy his hands and pass the time.

Fire flickered in the pit before him, and as he stared into the flames dancing to the music of hissing wood, thoughts of Dani spun through his mind. Her eyes, her laughter, her body—they comforted him. Regardless of what fate Skuld had woven for him, he vowed to all the old gods of Asgard he would return to her when this was done. He would claim her for his very own in front of clan and kin.

With a sigh, he allowed his memory to fill with the woman the Fae had sent to him.

If he closed his eyes, it was almost as if he could relive their night together. He felt her as she’d lain beneath him in the shelter of another rowan tree, her eyes filled with want. Want of him.

He heard her laughter as they’d tumbled into his bed after lighting every candle they could find.

He saw her, her breasts heaving as she panted, her skin aglow with the exertion of their lovemaking.

He smiled at the memory of how he’d very nearly disgraced himself the first time he’d taken her, with no more ability to control himself than an untried lad on his first go at a woman. But he’d recovered, and quite nicely, too, redeeming himself throughout the night. Repeatedly.

And Dani!

He dropped the wood to his lap, giving up all pretense of work to immerse himself entirely in the memory.

The woman was amazing. Fearless. Adventurous in more ways than ever he could have guessed. He’d no doubt she could teach the strumpets of Edinburgh a trick or two. Hell, he’d no doubt but that she could teach the strumpets of London a thing or two. She’d certainly managed to satisfy his lusty appetite.

With a sigh, he returned to the piece of wood in his lap that was already taking shape. He would carve for her a fork, a small one, exactly like the one she’d asked for all those days ago.

He concentrated on the wood in his hands, trying to imagine her pleasure when he returned to her, bearing this gift.

Out beyond the light of the fire, a dry twig snapped, ending Malcolm’s pleasant reverie. Though he was instantly alert, he didn’t move at all. No sense in
alerting whatever, whoever, watched that he was aware.

Animal? Possible. But man was equally possible, especially considering the tingle around the mark on his chest.

He sensed no imminent danger. This was different. Simply a watcher, and not of the forest animal variety.

His position was strong enough. The rowan and stream at his back, a mound of rocks to his left. By instinct he’d considered defense when he’d made camp. It was a place he could well defend if the necessity presented itself.

With the situation fully assessed, he rose to his feet, drawing his sword as he did, making no attempt to disguise its distinctive metallic ring.

“I ken yer out there. Come in to the fire and show yerself.”

Whoever it was, he’d prefer to confront them now rather than wait until they could become a threat.