Wicked Highlander (4 page)

When Marcail next woke, she felt immensely better. There was still a dull ache in her head, but it would fade. She tried taking a deep breath and was rewarded with no pain.

In the distance she could hear the chanting again, as well as music. For an instant, Marcail thought she sensed magic in the tune, but just as before, it faded before she could discern more of it.

It was a heartbeat later that she realized she wasn't alone. Was it the man with the voice that made her stomach flutter? Or was it someone—or some
thing
—else?

Marcail opened her eyes to the darkness once more. She became aware of the steady dripping of water nearby, and with the cool air, she knew she was still in Deirdre's mountain.

“How are you feeling?”

She turned her head toward the now familiar voice. He wasn't sitting with her as before but stood off to the side. Try as she might she couldn't discern more than his silhouette in the gloom. She wanted to see his face, to know his name. “I'm better.”

“Good.”

Marcail sat up slowly, testing her body. When the
aches didn't scream in pain, she swung her legs to the ground. That's when she saw that what little light there was came from a torch on the outside of what looked like a cave. The Pit.

Across from the cave were even more caves, though they appeared smaller. And in between was the large open space where she had fallen.

Oh, God. Warriors.

She gripped the stone slab she sat on with both hands and tried to keep her breathing steady. She had never feared the Warriors before Deirdre had taken her prisoner. Mostly because, in her opinion, they weren't to blame for what was inside them.

Now that she had come in contact with those in Deirdre's control, she had a different opinion of the men.

“Are you the one who threw me after I fell?” she asked the man. He stood to her left, still as a statue.

There was a moment's pause and then, “Aye.”

“Who are you?”

“What is so important about my name?”

She was taken aback by his hard tone and the anger. Why should he care about giving his name?

There was a loud sigh, then a shadow moved at the entrance of the cave. The torchlight glanced off his skin, but it was enough that she saw the milky expanse of his chest and the tattered breeches that hung on his hips.

She recalled looking into his white eyes, eyes of a Warrior. When the god was loosened and shown for everyone to see, the Warrior's skin turned whatever color the god had chosen. Added to the claws, their eyes changed as well, the color taking over the entire eye.

“You have nothing to fear from us,” the white War
rior said. “I am Arran MacCarrick, held here by Deirdre until I either turn to her side or die.”

“How many are you?” she asked hesitantly.

Another form moved at the entrance. This time, he jerked the torch out of its holder and brought it toward her. Marcail looked into two very similar faces, their skin a pale blue, with matching kilts, but one with long hair and the other short.

“We're Duncan and Ian Kerr,” the long-haired one holding the torch said. “And that,” he pointed across from him, “is Quinn MacLeod.”

Marcail jerked her face to the Warrior hidden in the shadows. It all made sense now. Deirdre had flaunted that she held a MacLeod, but Marcail hadn't believed her. “You didn't want me to know you were a MacLeod?”

Quinn snorted. “Why would I want you to know that? After everyone heard you declare it would be the MacLeods who brought Deirdre down, yet one is captured in her mountain? It doesna exactly inspire confidence, does it?”

With the torch now close enough, she could see him standing tall and powerful with his fists clenched and looking as fierce as a Highlander about to enter battle.

She wanted to see his face clearly, to ingrain his image in her mind. The only thing she could see about him besides his plain red linen tunic and threadbare breeches was his hair. It was the color of caramel and hung in long thick waves past his shoulders and around his face.

It wasn't until she let her gaze fall to the ends of his hair that she spotted the gold torc around his neck. The wide metal was twisted into a braid as big around as her middle finger. And at each end of the torc was a
wolf's head, its mouth opened on a snarl. The image of such a cunning and intelligent creature seemed to fit the youngest brother of the MacLeods.

Marcail rose and faced Quinn. She caught a glimpse of his skin as it faded from black to that of a man who had spent plenty of time in the sun.

She wondered why he didn't want her to see him in his Warrior form, but she would sooner or later. She had the most important part, though; his god color was midnight.

“Thank you for saving me.”

He shook his head, his hair fanning over his brawny shoulders. “I'm not so sure I did. Every Warrior in the Pit wants you for his own now.”

She wondered if he wanted her as well. His words caused her to glance over her shoulder to the three other Warriors. They watched her intently. One of the twins inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring as if he were smelling her.

She rubbed her hand on her skirts, wishing she still had her dagger. Even if she had a dozen swords, nothing would help to keep the Warriors away if they wanted her.

“Why did you save me then?” she asked Quinn.

He shrugged away her words. “What do you know of Deirdre?”

“The usual. She has been alive for countless years and has more power than any Druid,
mie
or
drough
, has a right to. She has been capturing Druids for centuries and killing them. And everyone knows what she has done to the men who she thinks could be Warriors.”

Arran shook his head and walked around to stand
beside Quinn. “Deirdre doesn't just kill the Druids, Marcail. She takes their blood and with it their magic. Deirdre kills them herself, careful to collect all the magic within their blood.”

Marcail looked at Quinn for confirmation. He nodded and it made her blood turn to ice. How did none of the Druids in her village know this? Or had her grandmother known and not told her?

She gripped the fabric of her skirt in her hand to help steady herself. “Then why didn't she kill me?”

“That's the question we all want answered,” Quinn said.

“I see.” Marcail wrapped her arms around her waist and tried to not shiver. “Deirdre wants me dead. Why then throw me down here for you to do it?”

Duncan narrowed his dark eyes at her. “Why does she want you dead?”

Marcail licked her lips and wondered if she should tell them. She had kept her secret for so long she had begun to think her grandmother had spoken falsely. Until Dunmore had come hunting her.

“Most Druids can trace their family lineage to the very Druids who helped bind the gods inside you. My family was one of those.”

Quinn's steady gaze held hers. “Why is that important?”

“Because one of my ancestors was the one who helped to come up with the binding spell.”

The air grew thick with expectation. It was one of the reasons she hadn't wanted to tell them. It gave them hope. And she would have to kill it.

“The spell is passed down through each generation,”
Marcail continued. “My mother died when I was very young and didn't pass it on to me. My grandmother, however, did.”

“What is it?” Arran asked anxiously. “Can you speak it now?”

Marcail shook her head and looked away from the Warriors. “My grandmother told me when I was but a child. She used her magic to push it so far back in my mind that I don't recall it.”

“Not at all?” Ian asked.

“I'm sorry, nay.” She wished she could help them. She would do it in a heartbeat. Anything to defeat an evil such as Deirdre.

Quinn shifted his feet. “How do you know you possess the spell, then?”

“I don't.” She finally made herself look at Quinn. “The Druids I lived with all assumed I had the knowledge, just as I did. They helped to protect those of my family because we hoped that one day I would be able to use the spell.”

It wasn't that Quinn didn't believe her. He knew firsthand that the Druids were capable of great magic, but something wasn't ringing true. “You say your grandmother gave you the spell?”

“Aye,” she said.

“How?”

Marcail shrugged. “She told me.”

“Do you recall when she gave you the spell?”

“I remember her sitting me down long after the sun set. It was just days after my brother had died. My grandmother was all I had left of family. She told me she had something important to tell me.”

“And then she spoke the spell?” Duncan asked.

“Aye,” Marcail whispered. “I can recall seeing her lips move, but I don't remember the words.”

Quinn could see how agitated his men were becoming. He had felt that rush of anticipation at Marcail's words just as they had. “If you cannot remember the spell, how were you to pass it on to your daughter or son?”

“I don't know.” She pushed her way between him and Arran and walked into the shadows.

Quinn didn't rush to follow her since she hadn't left the cave. She stood facing the wall, her back to him. She shivered in the cold and rubbed her hands along her arms for warmth.

He sighed and tried to think how best to approach Marcail. He wanted her to trust him, wanted her to look to him for everything. Quinn didn't know where the feelings had come from, but once he recognized them, he couldn't push them away.

It was the sound of her indrawn breath, unsteady and low, that made him close the distance between them. He drew in a deep breath of her scent and let it wash over him. It soothed him in ways he couldn't explain, just as her nearness sent his lust raging through his veins and his body shaking with need.

He had to get a hold of himself. Quinn mentally shook his head to clear it, but there was nothing he could do for his cockstand. As long as Marcail was near, he wanted her.

“We're just trying to discover why Deirdre didna kill you herself.” Quinn spoke softly, wanting to draw her closer. “It's not like her, and she doesn't pass up a chance to gain power. Not unless there's a possibility she'll be harmed.”

And that's when it hit him.

“What else did your grandmother do to you, Marcail?”

She slowly turned to face him, her body just a hands-width away. “She was a Druid, Quinn. She was always murmuring spells of some kind.”

For the first time, Quinn allowed himself to look into her eyes. Thanks to the power of his god, he could see as well in the dark as he could in the light. And what he saw were eyes of turquoise, so enthralling he couldn't look away. Sleeping, she had been beautiful. Awake, she was stunning.

Every sensation she felt could be seen in her movements and her eyes. And right now she looked at him with such desperation and misery that he wanted to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right.

The last woman he had held in his arms had been his wife—a wife who had wanted nothing to do with him once they were married.

Quinn refused to think about Elspeth. Instead, he lost himself in the striking, petite Druid before him. “Is there a possibility that she could have protected you somehow?”

“If you knew my grandmother, you would know anything was possible. She always said my mother's death could have been prevented, just as my brother's could have.”

“And your father?” Quinn asked.

She looked away, a small frown marking her brow. “My father, like my husband, was killed protecting our homes from wyrran.”

Quinn felt as if he'd been punched in the kidneys. “You were married?”

“For a short time.”

“How long ago?”

She lifted one slim shoulder. “Over a year. It was an arranged marriage. They wanted the best fighter we had to protect me.”

It wasn't just what she said but the way she said it, with such resentment, that got Quinn's attention. “You didna care for your husband?”

“Rory was a good man. I tried to be happy in my marriage.”

“And your people wanted to protect you?”

She nodded. “They've always sheltered my family.”

Because she knew the spell to bind the gods? Or was it something else, something that Deirdre also knew and so didn't—or couldn't—kill Marcail?

Too damned many questions.

“What will happen now?” Marcail asked.

Quinn couldn't stop himself from reaching out and touching the flawless skin of her cheek. “You stay alive.”

Isla walked through the narrow corridors of the mountain alone. It was just as she preferred it. If she had her way, she would never see another face, human, Warrior, or wyrran, again for the rest of her days.

But her life wasn't her own. It hadn't been for so very long.

All too soon Deirdre would summon her. In the beginning, Isla had held out hope that not all of her summons would end in evil and death.

It hadn't taken her long to realize her hope had been false. Since then, she had lived each day as if it were her last. And in truth, she didn't expect to live much longer.

At least if she had her way she wouldn't.

“My lady.”

Isla halted at the soft voice. She slowly turned her head to see one of the other Druids Deirdre kept in her mountain. These Druids, though, weren't confined to the dungeons or locked up awaiting death. Nay, these Druids had been turned to Deirdre's side, their magic removed.

Deirdre bade the Druids keep their heads covered with black sheer material at all times because she didn't want to look at their faces, faces Deirdre had deformed.
Even when the Druid slaves spoke, they spoke in a whisper so she couldn't distinguish their voices.

There were only three Druids who weren't made to wear the head covering. Those were Isla, her sister, and her niece.

Isla lifted an eyebrow at the servant. It was no secret she hated these Druids; they had been weak enough to give in to Deirdre because they feared death. “What is it you want?”

“You have been requested.”

Isla tensed. She hadn't expected Deirdre to send for her for some time yet, but there was another who often sent for her. “By whom?”

The servant bowed her head. “Your niece, my lady.”

That news should have relieved Isla, but it didn't. In fact, it made her more edgy. It had been over a month since she last saw Grania, and she could have gone the rest of her days without seeing her again.

Isla fell in behind the servant as she was led to Grania. Her niece was kept in a chamber locked by Deirdre's magic. In order to see Grania, Deirdre had to grant Isla permission, which was the only way someone could get through the barrier of magic.

By the time Isla arrived at her niece's chamber, her nerves were frayed. Nothing good could come of this meeting, of that she knew.

“Is there anything you require, my lady?” the servant asked as she stepped aside at the doorway.

Isla glanced inside the chamber to find her niece. “There is nothing. You may go now.”

She waited until the servant shut the door before Isla turned to face Grania. She recalled the day Lavena had brought Grania into the world. The delivery had been
long, and they had celebrated the birth of a healthy baby girl with much joy.

Lavena had promptly called the baby Grania, the name meaning love. It was a perfect finish to the day. Isla thought their happiness would never end. But just three short years later, Deirdre had come into their lives.

“Good day, Aunt,” Grania said from her seat carved out of the wall.

Every time Isla saw Grania, it was like a dagger twisting in her heart. Deirdre had taken an instant liking to the child and used her magic to prevent Grania from aging. Ever.

But Isla knew that Deirdre's fondess wasn't the only reason she kept Grania a child. Isla would never do anything to put Grania in harm's way. An adult Grania who had turned to Deirdre's side, however, would be easier to go against. Deirdre knew Isla all too well.

“Grania. How do you fare?”

The child laughed and jumped to the floor. “You know I fare as well as a queen, Aunt.”

Isla clasped her hands in front of her and waited. It did no good to try and prod Grania. The child was as manipulative as Deirdre, and nearly as evil. Where was the adorable, loving child who Isla used to rock to sleep?

“Tell me of the
mie
that Deirdre threw into the Pit.”

Isla kept her features flat. She didn't like the interest Grania had in Marcail and nothing good could come of it either. “What is it you want to know?”

“Is it true the Druid knows how to bind the gods?”

“You know it is.”

Grania laughed again, the laugh that Isla used to do anything to hear. “So it is. Once again, Mother and her foresight has helped Deirdre in her quest.”

“It has.”

The child resumed her seat on the rocks. “Now, I was told you saw the
mie
drop into the Pit. The servants didn't see what happened after that. I want to know what you saw.”

“The Warriors attacked her.”

“But she isn't dead, is she?”

Isla hesitated. There was something in the way Grania spoke that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. “I didn't stay to see the body. Why?”

“The
mie
has been protected with a spell. Whoever spills her blood will die a horrible death. Since I've heard no screams of pain from the Pit, I assume the Druid isn't dead, only slightly injured.”

At least Isla now knew why Deirdre hadn't claimed Marcail's blood for her own. However, it wouldn't take Deirdre long to realize Marcail wasn't dead. And then what?

“Now tell me,” Grania demanded, “did all the Warriors attack the Druid?”

“Nearly. It was brutal. You would have loved it. Now, I must go. I have duties to see to.”

Grania's blue eyes narrowed. “Don't make me summon you. You are my aunt, after all. You should visit me often. If I have to call for you again, you won't enjoy what I do to you.”

“It is never my intention to ignore you, Grania. My duties take me away from the mountain as you well know.”

But Grania was no longer paying attention. Isla took measured steps out of the chamber. Not until she was in the hallway did she breathe freely. Her once vivacious niece had been turned into a wicked monster with a thirst for blood and gore that would rival the Romans'.

Marcail missed the sun. It had only been hours since she last saw it, but already she yearned for it. There was no need for Deirdre to torture her or throw her into the Pit. Just deny her the warmth and light of the sun and Marcail would slowly go insane.

“I've brought you something,” Quinn said as he squatted before her as she sat on the floor.

Marcail's eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light well enough that she was able to see Quinn's face clearly. Finally. He had pulled back his hair into a queue at the base of his neck, revealing a face women would die for.

Quinn's was perfection. His strong jawline was dusted with dark whiskers, giving him a lethal appearance and accentuating his firm lips and hollowed cheeks. The beard wasn't full, which told her he had shaved not too long ago. Though she didn't mind the beard, she wanted to see him without it.

His forehead was high with dark brows that slashed over eyes of the palest green. She had seen enough of his silhouette in her short time to know he was as tall and muscular as any man in the Pit. But there was a presence about him, an air of command, that got everyone's attention. Including her own.

“Marcail?”

She blinked and made herself look away from his spectacular eyes. “Forgive me. I've never seen eyes the color of yours.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “I could say the same for yours.”

For a moment they stared at each other.

Finally, Quinn cleared his throat. “Your eyes have adjusted to the darkness, then?”

“They are better, aye. The light from the torch also helps. You said you brought me something?”

“Aye. Food. It isn't much, but it's something.”

Marcail had been so wrapped up in being in the dark that she hadn't realized how hungry she was. Just then her stomach growled.

“Eat your fill,” Quinn said as he handed her a loaf of bread. “I will get more if you need it.”

Marcail placed her hand on his arm before he could leave. The feel of thick sinew bunching beneath her palm made her yearn to touch more. “Let me share with you.”

“You need it more than I.”

“Please, Quinn. I don't want anyone going hungry so that I may be fed.” She broke the loaf in half and held it out. “Won't you eat with me?”

For a brief moment she thought he would refuse. He eventually took the bread and moved to sit beside her.

Maybe it was because he had saved her, maybe it was because he was a MacLeod, but she trusted Quinn. That trust might very well end her life, but she knew she would die in Deirdre's mountain one way or another.

“You see in the dark, don't you?” she asked.

He nodded slowly.

“Why then are there torches down here?”

“For Deirdre. She may be powerful and immortal, but she doesn't have the powers our gods have given us.”

Marcail pulled a piece of bread apart and popped it into her mouth. “Interesting.”

“How did Deirdre capture you?”

She was surprised by the question. She glanced at Quinn as she finished chewing. “Wyrran were spotted near our village. In the past, small groups of wyrran would roam the countryside looking for Druids. Those were the ones we always fought. But this time, they had a leader. A man.”

“Dunmore,” Quinn spat.

“Aye. I knew they had come looking for me. I couldn't stand the thought of anyone being killed so I made the decision to leave the village. By that time already half of the village had left to save themselves.”

“That was foolish.”

“It is the thought of every person on this earth to live another day. We all knew what awaited us if Deirdre captured us. I do not blame them for running.”

“Then you left as well?”

“I did. It kept Dunmore and the wyrran from following the others. I stayed to the forest and led them about for nearly a week.”

His brows rose. “A week? That's impressive.”

“Only because I knew the land. Impressive would have been escaping.”

“You couldna have escape'd the wyrran, Marcail. Magic aided them on their quest to find you.”

“I know.”

“What happened once you arrived here?”

Marcail took a deep breath. “I was immediately brought to Deirdre. She knew I have knowledge of the spell locked in my mind, but she didn't try to find it. Why?”

“I'm guessing it's because she's afraid to.”

“I don't believe that.”

Quinn shifted to his side so he faced her. “Deirdre is nothing if not intelligent. She hasn't gotten the power she has now by making costly decisions. I think she knew she couldna kill you or extract the spell the same way she knew you had the spell to begin with.”

“And how is that?”

“Black magic.”

Marcail shook her head. “As a Druid I know just how powerful magic can be, but to get the answers she somehow has…There has to be something else.”

“You know
mie
magic. What you haven't encountered is
drough
magic. Black magic has much more power than yours. And as long as Deirdre's been alive and acquiring her power, her magic is nearly limitless.”

“If that's so, why doesn't she have your brothers?”

Quinn found himself smiling again. Marcail's mind was quick. “Probably the same reason it took her three hundred years to capture me.”

“Which is?”

“We fought her.”

Marcail grinned, making Quinn forget to breathe. He would never tire of looking at her. She was exquisite. So pure in spirit and form that it boggled his mind that she was sitting next to him.

“There are Druids who fight her. The difference is our magic cannot touch hers,” she said.

Quinn didn't want to talk about Deirdre any more. He reached out and touched one of the small braids that hung from Marcail's temple down to her breast. “Why do you braid your hair like this?”

“The holder of the spell always has bound her hair this way. It's a tradition that has been in my family since before Rome left Britain.”

He glanced at the wealth of sable waves that fell down her back nearly to her hips and wanted to plunge his hands in the strands.

“I like it,” he said.

“And your torc? That is also a tradition of the ancients.”

“That it is. In my clan the laird's family always wore a torc. It was my mother who chose the animals that would grace mine and my brothers' torcs.”

He stilled as her finger reached out to touch the wolf's head on his torc. His blood quickened when her hand brushed against his chest, sending currents of heat unfurling within him.

“Beautiful. The wolf suits you, I think.”

“How can you say that? You doona know me.”

She shrugged, her body leaning closer to look at the torc, teasing him with her scent and curves. Quinn forced his hands to stay as they were instead of reaching for her.

“Maybe,” Marcail said. “Maybe not. However, I know the wolf is cunning and intelligent. I've seen those same traits in you.”

Quinn dug his hands into the bread to keep from caressing her. It had been so long since he had kissed a woman that he'd forgotten how, but he wanted to taste her lips, to sweep his tongue into her mouth and learn her essence.