Wicked Highlander

Four

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 something—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 Warrior 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.”