Wicked Highlander

Three

“You’ve got a rather nasty bump on the back of your head, and I think your ribs are bruised.”

Marcail stilled at the sound of the deep, rich voice that sliced through her like the mist that came down from the mountains. A shiver raked her body that had nothing to do with the cool temperatures that surrounded her.

For that short moment, she forgot the throbbing of her head and how it hurt to breathe. All she could think about was who belonged to such a sensual, commanding voice.

And did she dare find out?

With each pounding inside her head she recalled everything that had happened over the past week, beginning with her running through the forest and being cornered by Dunmore and the wyrran. Then she had been brought to Deirdre and thrown into the Pit.

She remembered being surrounded by Warriors before something big and black leapt on top of her. She sucked in a sharp breath and instantly regretted it as the ache exploded in her chest.

“Easy.”

The same seductive, smooth voice surrounded her once more; his tone left her feeling safe and protected. It was a ruse, she knew, but in her current condition there was nothing she could do about it.

Marcail licked her lips, then bit back a moan as that simple movement caused pain to burst in her head once more. She laid there a moment thinking she heard what sounded like a chant. The more she tried to listen to it, the faster it faded until there was nothing.

Any moment she expected her head to explode from the pain. When nothing happened, she cracked open an eye to see she was surrounded by darkness. She hated the dark because of what it represented — evil. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and concentrated on alleviating the aches of her body.

She placed her hand on her forehead and felt a large, warm hand cover hers. “I have nothing to help with your pain.”

Was there concern in his voice? She swallowed to wet her dry mouth. “I will be all right.”

“You are a healer, then?”

She started to shake her head, but his hand held her still. Instead, she said, “Nay. I was taught how to speed the healing of my body.”

Marcail wasn’t sure why she told the stranger that. She shouldn’t trust him, even if he had saved her. Or had he? Was it just another trick by Deirdre?

“You need to mend yourself, then,” he said, his husky voice dropping even lower. “By saving you, I’ve put you in terrible danger. I will protect you, but with your injuries, it will make it more difficult.”

She never liked being a burden to anyone, but there was something in his voice, a thread of despair and heartache that mirrored her own and caused emotions to stir within her. She had to have his name. “Who are you?”

“My name doesna matter. Rest and heal yourself, Druid.”

The pain of her body began to drag her under, but she fought to stay awake, to learn more about the mysterious man beside her. “Marcail. My name is Marcail.”

“You have my word I will protect you. Now sleep.”

She could have sworn as she drifted off to sleep that he whispered her name.

Quinn lifted his hand from Marcail’s forehead once he was sure she was asleep. He picked up her small hand and placed it on her stomach. Unable to help himself, he ran his fingers over the back of her hand, feeling her soft, supple skin. It wasn’t until his claws touched her that he worried about her discerning what he was.

It had been Warriors, after all, who had thrown her into the Pit. She trusted him now, but how long would that last once she realized she was surrounded by more Warriors — most of whom wanted her for her body?

He told himself to leave her and let her sleep, but he couldn’t make himself rise. He didn’t fight the urge to stay near her. It seemed harmless enough. But when the desire to touch her rose within him, he fisted his hands on his thighs until he shook with the crushing need to lay his hands on her again. Was this how Lucan had felt when he’d had Cara in his arms?

Quinn knew in that instant he had made a fatal mistake. There was something about the female that moved a deep, dark primordial reaction inside him. That emotion could very well be the death of him.

With a curse Quinn leapt to his feet and stalked to the cave entrance. Marcail was too tempting, too sweet to be left alone with the likes of him. He would only bring her down as he had everything else in his life.

“She woke?” Arran asked.

Quinn almost didn’t answer. “Briefly. She’s in a tremendous amount of pain. However, she told me she knew how to help herself heal.”

“Not surprising. Every Druid holds a special kind of magic. It’s lucky for the female that she can mend herself.”

Quinn grunted, not wishing to speak of Marcail any more since his body hungered for her so. “Any sign of trouble?”

Arran crossed his arms over his chest and jerked his chin to the left. “They smell her. God’s blood, Quinn, we all smell her. She’s like a feast to a starving man, in more ways than one. We’re going to have our hands full.”

“I’ll be watching her myself.” Quinn knew his voice came out more of a growl than anything, and Arran’s narrowed white gaze let Quinn know the Warrior heard the challenge in it.

“Do you think I would fight you for her?” Arran asked, his voice hard with disbelief. “I gave you my word I would stand by your side. Do you doubt me?”

“What I question is the need within all of us — myself included.”

Arran blew out a breath and raked a hand down his face. “None of us deserves to be here, the Druid especially because she doesn’t stand a chance against us in a fight. Did she say anything else?”

“She told me her name. It’s Marcail.”

“Marcail,” Arran repeated. “An unusual name. She didn’t happen to say why Deirdre didn’t kill her, did she?”

Quinn shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Let’s hope she wakes soon so we can learn more about her.” Arran turned and looked at Marcail over his shoulder.

Quinn watched Arran, waiting for the moment when he would have to battle one of the few men he gave his trust to.

“She reminds me of my sister,” Arran said after a lengthy pause.

“You had a sister?”

Arran nodded and looked away from Marcail, his brow furrowed. “Two actually. One older and one younger. Marcail reminds me of my youngest sister. She was small and always into some kind of trouble. I used to call her my little sprite.”

“What happened to her?” It was out of Quinn’s mouth before he thought better of it.

“She died,” Arran murmured absently.

Quinn didn’t press for more. There wasn’t a Warrior out there that hadn’t suffered terribly when Deirdre found them. Quinn had discovered this the hard way.

With Arran lost in the memories of his past, Quinn walked to the twins. Both brothers were tall and thickly muscled. They stood similarly with their feet apart and their arms crossed over their chests as they stared at the other Warriors, waiting for someone to make a move against Quinn.

Duncan and Ian looked so much alike that they wore their hair differently to help people know who was who. Both had light brown hair that was streaked with gold, but Ian wore his shorn close to his head while Duncan preferred to let his grow down his back.

Ian turned his head to glance at him. “The Druid woke.”

It wasn’t a question. Quinn nodded. “She’s healing herself now. I plan on questioning her more once she wakes again.”

“Does she know where she’s at?” Duncan asked.

Quinn shrugged. “If you two find any food, let me know. Marcail is going to be hungry.”

They only got fed once a day, and then only some bread. But it was enough for them. Quinn planned on giving her most, if not all, his food if she needed it.

“I’ll see to it,” Ian said and walked away.

Duncan scratched his chin and watched his twin. “How long do you think it will take for Deirdre to realize the Druid isn’t dead?”

“Not long enough,” Quinn admitted. “Not nearly long enough.”