Warriors: Tales of Honor, Courage, and Loyalty
Date: 2013-09-21 07:00:00+00:00
Description: Bestselling author of "Soul Taker" and "Storm Riders" ~ Karen Michelle Nutt ~ offers three of her favorite tales of daring romance in this collection. Love's Eternal Embrace (Medieval Vampire Tale) One of the Knights of Templar, Liam Cantwell knew his destiny lay elsewhere, but he never thought it would be in the arms of of the legendary Dearg-du. He wants her, but her Love's Eternal Embrace could prove his demise. Heart of a Warrior (Goddess Tale/Fantasy) Trey Brennan knew he was dying, but he awakes in another realm where the goddess Scáthach wants to teach him to be a warrior. He is sure he
Publisher: Smashwords Edition

WARRIORS

Tales of Honor, Courage, and Loyalty…

Karen Michelle Nutt

Warriors

Presented by Publishing by Rebecca J. Vickery

Copyright © 2013 Karen Michelle Nutt

Art Cover Copyright © 2013 Karen Michelle Nutt

Design Consultation by Laura Shinn

Licensing Notes

All rights reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This ebook is licensed only for the private use of the purchaser. May not be copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author and/or publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Warriors is a work of fiction.

Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author except for the inclusion of actual historical facts. Similarities of characters or names used within to any person – past, present, or future – are coincidental except where actual historical characters are purposely interwoven.

Love’s Eternal Embrace

(Medieval Vampire Tale)

One of the Knights of Templar, Liam Cantwell knew his destiny lay elsewhere, but he never thought it would be in the arms of of the legendary Dearg-du. He wants her, but her Love's Eternal Embrace could prove his demise.

* * * * *

Heart of a Warrior

(Goddess Tale/Fantasy)

Trey Brennan knew he was dying, but he awakes in another realm where the goddess Scáthach wants to teach him to be a warrior. He is sure he’s dreaming, but what did he have to lose? He would train and he would fight. Perhaps his destiny on the Isle of Skye would also change his path in his world.

* * * * *

The Devil’s Wolf

(Historical Romance)

Lady Catrione Johnstone knows of the Devil’s Wolf and his ruthless exploits. However, the myth is nothing like the man. In his arms, she forgets he is her enemy. Will the magic of love bring peace to the feuding clans or will it only inflame the hostilities?

Praise for Love’s Eternal Embrace

“Nutt pens a haunting romance filled with yearning and heartbreak in "Love's Eternal Embrace."

~Stephanie Burkhart, author of the Budapest Moon Series and Victorian Scoundrel~

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“I love the dark, gothic tone that complements the overall story so well. There is a mystical feel to the sensual encounters between Liam and Glamis that is poetic and inspiring.”

~Laurie, Reviewer, Coffee Time Romance and More~

* * * * *

Praises for Heart of a Warrior

“Knowing people who have fought the tumultuous battle of cancer the premise of Heart of a Warrior is fantastic, and I wish it were true.  I absolutely love the idea that if you were to prepare and fight in a dream world it might have impact on reality. I found Heart of a Warrior well written, a great fast read, and a wonderful concept.” ~Tanya, Joyfully Reviewed~

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“I really enjoyed this short novella. I found the plot, characters and unique twist of the story to be very entertaining and captivating. I think that this book would have the potential to be expanded and wish that there were more to it. Despite the quantity of the words, the quality of the novella was superb. I would have no problem recommending this book to someone who wants a short erotic and romantic adventure to escape to for a bedtime read.” ~Bitten by Books~

* * * * *

Praises for The Devil’s Wolf

“I got swept away by this story. Michelle Nutt went with a Scottish legendary feud between two families in The Devil's Wolf. From the capable pen of Michelle Nutt, The Devil's Wolf is yet another skillfully drawn picture of romantic times gone by.” ~Reviewer~

Love’s Eternal Embrace

Chapter One

October could be cold and wet in Ireland, but the weather held out with little or no rain as Sir William Cantwell, Liam to his friends and family, traveled North with his squire, Cormac. After seven years, he fulfilled his obligation to the Knights Templar, who had relieved his family’s estates from financial burden in exchange for his services. A sacrifice he gladly undertook to save the family from financial ruin. The crusades were bloody and long, and for the most part disheartening. He went into temporary service as a boy and came back a man haunted by the horrors he’d witnessed.

He’d written to his family of his return, but he found he was not ready to face the duties required of him. In truth, he had no wish to be lord when his father passed the duties over to him. His father thrived on being in control. He was in the front lines when petty clan wars broke out. He could shout commands and men jumped to follow him. Liam could be just as forceful. He proved it time and time again during his service, but in his heart, he knew his destiny lay elsewhere.

The lush wooded area born of legends was a welcomed reminder of his youth and he cherished the uneventful ride. The church, along with his Norman father, frowned upon the old stories born of druids and the Sidhe. His mother’s family may have taken on the Christian beliefs, but the old ways were kept close to her heart and she shared them with her sons.

The sun sat low in the horizon, the sky darkening and looking like a sodden wool blanket. Rain would drench the land tonight. He glanced at Cormac, who barely held onto the reins, his lids heavy with wanted sleep. If he did not find shelter soon, he would be picking up his squire from the ground.

He thought they would rest beneath the trees, but as the mist cleared the path had led them to the Village of Dunnloch. The Tavern Inn, which stood in the center of the village, near the town square, beckoned to his tired bones. The wind blew cold and he was thankful for the thick fur mantle he donned over his shoulders in replacement of the templar’s thinner garb. He was no longer obligated to dress the part of one of Order and could return to his native attire. “We shall stay here for the night, Cormac.” The lad straightened in his seat and blinked at him. “Once you have secured the horses, come to the inn and I shall have food and drink waiting for you.”

“Thank you, Sir Cantwell.” His squire was a bony lad, lanky and long limbed, but he proved stronger than he appeared and a good companion.

Liam stepped down from his trusted mount. His hand slid across the horse’s sleek black coat with affection. “If at all possible, I shall return with a sweet for you, Loucetios.” His horse nuzzled against him as if understanding his words.

Liam honored the codes of the Knights Templar and took pride in doing so, but his rebellious heart could not be tamed completely. The men he rode with were not Irish and they did not know the Gaelic word. A sin for certain, but he took great pleasure in naming his mount after the god of thunder.

Upon entering the tavern all eyes turned toward him, the room falling silent as a tomb. He was a tall man, broad shouldered from his years of wielding a sword, but he never thought his appearance would frighten anyone. On his travels home, the wenches in the pubs claimed he had a comely face and they liked his thick dark strands and moss colored eyes. Then again, what did he know about women? He never spoke to one for the seven years of his service. It was forbidden. His experiences with the fairer sex were limited to his mother and a young girl he once kissed before he left home. The women who wanted his coin could not be a reliable source. It was why he remained polite in the pubs, but did not follow them upstairs to a room. They thought him odd, but he waited this long to bed a woman, he would choose one he wanted for a wife.

His gaze caught a young lad eyeing his sword with reservation. Perhaps it was his weapon that unnerved them and not his intimidating stance.

“I have traveled far and wish only to have something to eat and drink for myself and my squire.” He kept his voice even toned, hoping he sounded friendly. “Once the lad has taken care of the horses, he will join me.”

The man standing behind the wooden bar forced a smile and nodded his head. His hair had grayed, but he stood tall. Age had not robbed him of his strength. “We have lamb stew and ale aplenty.”

“Sounds splendid.” He removed his mantle as he took the empty table near the back of the room where his back would be to the wall and he could see the coming and going of the men. They were Gaelic farmers by the looks of them. Most had dark hair, darker than his, and their skin was weathered from the sun and wind.

The innkeeper brought him a tankard of ale.

“Your name?” Liam asked, meeting the man’s gaze.

The man seemed nervous and on edge, but he could not fault him. He was a stranger to this region of the island. “Jarvis Hearne, kind Sir.”

Liam lifted the tankard to his lips, taking a generous swig. The ale went down smooth with its sweet full bodied and fruity taste. He leveled his gaze on the innkeeper. “Thank you, Jarvis.”

The man nodded his head and scurried away only to return a few moments later with two generous plates of stew. There was even bread for dipping. He ate in silence and the room began to return to normal with low murmurs of conversation. They barely glanced at Cormac who strode in like a shivering waif.

He waved to the boy and he hurried over to him.

“Sit, and eat. The food is good and hot.”

Cormac shoveled his food in his mouth like it would be his last meal.

“Slow down.” Liam chuckled. “I promise you no one will steal your plate.”

Cormac wiped his face with the back of his hand and grinned. With much effort, the boy managed to take smaller bites.

Liam had planned to stay the night here, but with the odd welcome, he thought it wise to continue on his journey.

Just as he was finishing the last of his ale, a man placed another tankard before him. His face was weathered and his beard straggly. “’Tis not safe to be wandering so close to the forbidden forest.” He was not stating the name of the forest in question, but warning him in some way to stay clear of it.

Liam’s lips curved as he stared at the old man over the rim of his tankard. “And why is that, may I ask?”

“The nights belong to her of course, especially this time of the year when the otherworld is stronger. Not that it matters to her. Her strength is like ten men.”

He assumed the old man spoke of the approaching Samhain as the time of year in question. Christianity may be practiced, but the people here still held onto the pagan superstitions. “Her? You speak of a woman then?” His gaze traveled over the men in the pub, large men who may not know how to swing a sword, but they were not idle men. Strong and daring, but yet, they sat there crossing themselves at the mention of the forest and who dwelled in it.

Cormac paused in his eating, his dark eyes looking too large for his face as he stared wide-eyed at the old man.

The old man glanced over his shoulder as if asking the other patrons’ permission to continue. No one came forward to stop him and his gaze returned to Liam. “She is a beautiful lass with dark tresses and a face of an angel, but you must not be fooled. She is one of the undead, a creature who feeds off the blood of men.”

“Surely, ye jest.” Liam chuckled, but realized no one shared in his mirth. They truly believed some lass lived in the forest devouring men’s blood. He was only four and twenty, but he’d heard of such talk about these creatures on his quests. However, he’d brushed the tales off as nothing more than fanciful stories. He had no wish to offend and would indulge the old man, letting him tell the tale about the fallen angel who drank men’s blood.

The man waved to Jarvis, asking him to keep their tankards full.

By the time Liam downed more than a few tankards of ale, he became boastful about his bravery to fight off evil.

“Are you not afraid to die?” One man braved to ask.

“I served with the Knights Templar. If I should die during a battle, my passage to heaven is secured.” His plans to go home seemed a distance memory as his declaration to destroy the fiend took precedence.

He withdrew his sword and held it high above his head. “No fiend shall terrorize Dunnloch this day forward.” Cheers and stomping of feet greeted his pledge. He glanced at Cormac who looked unsure, but his squire raised his tankard to him as the men ushered him to the door.

Chapter Two

“A superstitious tale is all this is.” Or so Liam believed until he stood at the entrance of the forest with only a lantern for light. The cool night had sobered him enough to realize what a fool he was for venturing out in the dead of night to slay an imaginary fiend. He slowed Loucetios to a stop. With a snort, his mount’s nostrils flared as if he picked up an unpleasant scent. He shook his mane, pinning his ears to the sides of his head.

Liam held his lantern high, hoping to shed some light within the dark void. “Go, Loucetios,” he encouraged his mount to move forward with a swift kick of his heels, but Loucetios refused to budge.

The oak and birch trees stood before them like an ominous wall of limbs, swaying in the wind as if to lean down and capture them within their grasps. He murmured a curse, refusing to be intimidated by trees. He jabbed his heals into Loucetios’ flank again. “Go now, trusty companion, and I will have an apple brought to you on a daily basis for a full moon cycle.”

Loucetios snorted and stomped his foot on the ground as if to convey his thoughts on the matter of stupidity, but in the end he obeyed and trotted forward.

Instead of the trees supplying shelter from the wind, it blew cold around them like icy fingers trying to grab hold. The trees loomed toward them the farther they ventured forth, becoming thicker and taller as if they stood centuries in the earth and didn’t appreciate the intrusion. Perhaps he should turn around. He pulled back on Loucetios’ reins and turned in his seat. The path they’d taken looked nonexistent with a wall of tree trunks lined like a fortified wall of defense.

He turned around again and leaned forward, patting the side of Loucetios’ neck. “It’s all right, my friend. We’ll find our way out.” Loucetios stomped his right front hoof and lifted his head with a whinny, but Liam ignored his protests and pushed him forward.

The wind wailed like a banshee and was cold like frost and as pesky as a fly as it whipped his long strands in his eyes.

Gooooooo back…. A ghostly whisper tickled his ear.

He pulled on the reins again. “Who goes there?”

Turn baaaa….ck.

The hairs on his arms stood up on end. “’Tis a ghost warning us, Loucetios.”

Loucetios nickered, nodding his head in agreement as if to say, “Finally, you have come to your senses.”

Gooooo. Goooooo, the unearthly voice’s urgent pleas grew stronger.

At this point, he didn’t care if the whole village thought him a coward, he would no longer stay in the forest. The spirits wished him gone, and so, he would honor their request.

He whirled Loucetios around, only to have his mount thrash in fright, rising up on his hind legs and unseating him. He fell hard, hitting his head on a rock or something just as unyielding. Loucetios galloped away, leaving him behind in the dark, now that the candle in the lantern had blown out. Never had his mount acted in such a manner. He’d fought wars, slashing his sword at the enemy and never had Loucetios run away in fright. Yet here he remained abandoned within the haunted forest.

He sat up and regretted the movement as his eyesight wavered in and out. His vision caught movement, light, and a blur of color. His hand went for his sword, withdrawing it. The sharp scrape of metal added to the wails of the wind.

Wanting to meet his foe on his feet, he moved too quickly, causing the world to spin. The whirl of colors taunted him like he was the prey about to be devoured. “Who goes there?” He whipped around at a sound behind him, causing his vision to dim to black. He fell backwards like a felled tree, but before darkness overtook him, he could have sworn he heard a woman’s soft whisper.

“You are mine now.”

Chapter Three

“I am sorry, Sir Knight.” A soft musical voice soothed him. He forced his lids to obey and open. He was a knight and would not greet a lady like a heap of wood ready for burning.

He blinked in disbelief as he sat up, leaning his forearm on his raised knee. “Surely, I have died and gone to heaven.” A golden light haloed the woman’s beauty as if bestowing homage to her. His brows furrowed at the sight of this fair lady before him. She sat beneath the branches combing her fingers through her dark mahogany colored hair, the light glittering on the strands as if the sun shone upon it. Yet the forest remained dark. “Oh bright lady, what chance has left you alone in these woods? Say the word, I will make sure you find your way back to your dear kindred.”

Her lips curved into a lovely smile. “I have no friends or kin to go back to. I live here in the woods.” She tilted her head as she gazed at him. Her light eyes were as blue as the ocean of Malta.

He came to his feet, but kept his distance so not to frighten her. “I am Sir William Cantwell at your service, my lady.” He bowed deep and with flourish.

Her lips curved and her eyes glowed red. He blinked and her eyes were blue once more. It must have been a trick of the light, the unnatural light surrounding her and her only.

“You braved the forest at night. I’m impressed,” she said as she came to her feet in one fluid move.

He decided he wouldn’t reveal it was his drunken boast that led him here to slay a fiend. Surely, the villagers did not mean this lovely creature. “Do I have something to fear, fair maiden?”

She seemed to consider his question with the utmost care. “Not at the moment, I suppose.”

He glanced around, wondering where Loucetios had run off. In truth, this fair maiden’s sudden appearance made him question his safety. A beautiful woman could not live alone in the forest and if she did, there were others.

It would be best to leave the woods at once and live to tell the tale than to linger and mayhap fall prey to this fair maiden’s men. Perhaps they lay in wait as they spoke, buying their time before leaping from the shadows. He opened his mouth to tell her of his regrets for leaving her, but closed it again when in a blink of an eye she stood close enough to touch, the glow surrounding her blazing brighter. Her dress was of fine velvet befitting royalty, not of a peasant in need of robbing to survive. Her fine boned features were both delicate and strong. She possessed a straight petite nose, high cheekbones, and lips made for kissing. In truth, she was the most beautiful woman he ever laid eyes on and one he would feel honored to court. He frowned at where his thoughts had taken him, but somehow this woman befuddled his judgment. Aye, she was a comely lass, whose brazen stares spoke of desire, or so he believed.

As a Knight Templar, he took an oath to follow the religious rules, the Rule of Benedict. He wore the white vestment, the symbol of purity and the life of celibacy, but he was no longer required to follow the Order’s rules.

Her direct look set his blood coursing through his veins, hot with lust. Wed her or ravish her seemed to be one and the same as his thoughts pictured her in his bed and beneath him.

As if she could read his mind, her full red lips curved. “You look like a strong and able man.” Her gaze traveled the length of him in appreciation. It was too bold a gaze for a woman who was untried. Liam was pleased rather than not. Someone should know what they were doing in the marriage bed. The church may condemn such pleasures of the body, believing bedding a woman should be left for child bearing, but he didn’t believe it for a moment that the maker of man would not want his creations to enjoy each other. Why bestow the magic of touch if they were not meant to reap the rewards. Nay, his God gave man a special gift. The sin was only in the act of abusing it.

His gaze traveled over her, admiring her curves, the smooth porcelain color of her skin. This woman was meant for pleasure, giving and taking. He must convince her to be his.

“I am most curious, Sir Knight, how would you please me?” she asked him.

“How…” His brows furrowed. “You can read my mind.” He didn’t ask, but stated the obvious.

“Among other talents, I assure you.” Her hand touched his and he shivered. Her touch was like ice, but it also increased his desire to have her.

“You are cold, milady.” He drew off his mantle and draped it around her. Her eyes widened in surprise at the gesture.

“You are too kind, Sir Knight.”

“Liam, please. My friends call me Liam.”

Her smile curved wider, revealing straight white teeth. On his journeys many women over the age of ten and nine had begun to lose their teeth, but not this woman who lived among the trees. His gaze focused on two of her teeth that appeared pointier than the others. The villagers claimed a female fiend lived in the forest, but surely this woman with thick dark hair could not be such a creature. He didn’t fear her, but longed to hold her. As her gaze slid over him, appreciation gleamed in her eyes. The wind still blew about them in a fury. A storm threatened the night, not ghosts or fiends. “And what may I call you, fair maiden?”

“I was once called Glamis Drui.”

“Lady Glamis Drui.” He raised her hand to his lips. Her flesh was still cool, but she didn’t shiver. The wind seemed not to bother her in the least. “Do you have shelter, milady? We must wait out the storm.” His gaze swept over her comely figure with appreciation.

She stepped closer as if to inhale his essence. “Will you break your vows of celibacy and warm me this night then?”

She knew he was untried, but he failed to wonder how and question her further. He wanted nothing more than to be with her. “Aye, I am yours.”

Chapter Four

Liam followed Glamis with ease. The trees and earth seemed to recognize her as one with them and secured a path for her to follow.

A dark shadow loomed in the distance and it took him a moment to realize he viewed a keep. The tall stone structure stood across the loch, tall and straight, a fortified structure with only a few slit windows. At the end of the forest, stood a short pier, and a boat bobbed up and down on top of the water. She stepped into the vessel first with him following her. He rowed them to the other side, his gaze never leaving her. Heat curled inside of him, threatening his control. He wanted her, but he wanted to enjoy his first time with a woman and not rush the act. Years of practice taught him to control his passions and he tempered them now, less he shame himself.

He helped her out of the boat then followed her inside the castle expecting servants to greet them, but there was not a living soul but for them.

The grand hall remained as cool as it was outdoors, but at least it kept the wind at bay. Only the howling of its presence reminded him of the harshness of the weather. His eyes focused on the large fireplace. It stood dark and foreboding as if a fire had not licked against its stone surface in a long time. His brows furrowed as he wondered how Glamis fought off the chill of the long winter months.

No candles were lit and he couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him, but Glamis moved about as if the cover of night didn’t hamper her sight in the least. Then again, she did have the unnatural glow about her, lighting her path.

“I shall gather wood to keep us warm through the night,” he offered.

“As you wish.” Her slim shoulders lifted in a shrug, seeming not to care. She may think otherwise as the night wore on and the storm took hold.

Twenty minutes later, a roaring fire sent shadows leaping against the stone walls of the keep, revealing the grandness of the room. A long table stood at one end. Chairs with soft cushions sat near a smaller table carved from oak. Large, ornate tapestries adorned the walls. The intricate details would take a lifetime or more for a lass to complete. “I like that one best of all.” He pointed to the woven piece of rich blue, blood red, and gold. It depicted a couple locked in an embrace. A keep, like this one stood in the background. What intrigued him the most was the moon shining upon the couple as if it represented a symbol of worship.

“You are most gracious. It is my favorite as well.” Her gaze touched the fine piece. Her unusual eyes dimmed as if saddened by what the tapestry represented.

“Is the creation yours then?”

Her gaze returned to him. “Aye, all the tapestries are mine.”

He frowned. She couldn’t be much older than ten and nine with her skin so flawless and her hair thick. How could she have created so many lovely tapestries in her short life?”

“I am much older than you believe, Sir Knight. Older than you by far.”

He chuckled, but when she didn’t join him, he lifted a brow in surprise. “You are serious.”

“I do not lie.”

“You have done well to keep your youth.”

“’Tis a curse,” she said with a long drawn out sigh.

Before he could ask her what she meant, her hand slid down his arm, distracting his thoughts.

“Let us move closer to the fire.” He spread his mantle out on the floor and stood to face her. By the fire his body warmed, but when he reached for Glamis to draw her into his embrace, she still felt cold to the touch. Before he could question her, she again distracted him. Her lips touched his in a passionate kiss with tongue and teeth. He felt a prick and pulled away in surprise. He touched his lips and stared at his finger, the tip revealing a pearl of his blood.

Glamis reached for his hand and took the finger in her mouth. Her eyes closed as if she relished the taste of him. “All better.” Her gaze met his, her eyes glowing an unearthly reddish color.

“Your eyes…”

She took him under her spell again. Kissing away any coherent thoughts. Her hands made short work of his clothing as if her talent was to undress men at will. The erotic act proved intoxicating. “You have too many clothes on, milady.” He reached for her, but she backed away from him.

“I shall be quicker.”

He lifted a brow. Before he could make a comment, she whirled around in a gleam of light, her hair flying like dark waves of silk. When she stopped, she stood before him as bare as he was.

“How?” His gaze wavered over her smooth skin, so pale and beautiful in the firelight.

“Does it matter, Sir Knight?” She took the steps that separated them. Her hands slid over his torso and he forgot how cold her skin felt when his body blazed with heat and lust to have her. His heart slammed erratically against his ribcage as her fingers worked magic, going lower and lower.

“Will you be mine this night?” her hand closed over his shaft, causing him to inhale with a sharp intake of breath.

“Aye, I am yours.”

She spread out on his mantel, her beautiful dark tresses haloing her face. Her features were that of an angel, but the way she beckoned him with the crook of her finger, temptress fit her better. He went to her, opening her thighs. She guided his fingers to the nub of her passion. Her gaze never left his as her body responded to his caresses. She didn’t hide her passion, but enjoyed showing him what he did to her.

“Now, Sir Knight. Take me now.”

He obeyed and drove his steel into her, his body feeling shockingly hot against hers. She clung to him, taking all he gave her, absorbing the heat of his passion. As he moved faster between her thighs, her eyes turned suddenly wild. With a low growl, she flipped him onto his back with strength he could not understand, but he cared not of the oddity. She ground her hips into him. Her breasts stood high, the nipples firm as he teased them.

A hungry look entered her gaze as she leaned forward. Her breast pressed against his chest. “You have such thick dark hair,” she whispered near his ear as her fingers slid through the strands. “Your heart beats so fast.” A low growl escaped her lips. Her finger lifted his chin to the side, exposing his throat to her tongue. “Just one taste of purity.” Pinpricks stabbed into his flesh, startling him. He pushed at her, but her hand closed over his, in a grip he couldn’t break. She sucked and rode him until the erotic sensation took over, making him pant for more.

She loosened her grip and his hands slid to her hips as she fed on his neck. A fleeting thought entered his subconscious. She drinks your blood. You could die if she takes too much. But he pushed the thought away as the euphoria took him over the edge. God help him, he didn’t want her to stop. The long ragged groan of release escaped his lips as shudders wracked his body. If he died tonight, he would go happily.

Chapter Five

Liam woke with a start, bolting upright. The world weaved in and out, but he steadied himself. He was no longer at the keep, but in the forest. There was no fire to keep him warm. He glanced down at himself, his hands sliding over his garments. He was fully dressed. Had he imagined the whole erotic encounter? “No.” He refused to believe it. “Glamis?” he shouted her name, causing the birds to fly away in protest. All else was still. Where had she gone? How did he end up back here? His hand went to the side of his neck where the skin felt tender. He pulled his hand away expecting to see blood where he knew Glamis had fed from him, but his palm remained unmarred.

At the sound of rustling to the side of him, he withdrew his sword.

The sun’s rays had seeped in through the branches, giving off some warmth, but not enough to ward off the chill that spread over him. “Who goes there?”

Loucetios broke through the foliage.

Liam lowered his sword and leaned on the hilt. “And where have you been, my friend, while I was dreaming about beautiful maidens who desired my blood?”

Loucetios stomped his hoof and shook his head with a snort of disapproval.

“Hmm… Well, I suppose I do deserve your condemnation. Falling off your back proves a novice act, but then you did rise up on your hind legs for no good reason.”

He sheathed his sword and strode over to Loucetios. He ran the palm of his hand down the horse’s neck. “She seemed so real, Loucetios. So real.” His gaze looked toward the looming trees of oak and birch with longing for his fair lady.

He mounted Loucetios with ease, urging his horse forward.

In the daylight, the forest didn’t hold the ominous appeal. Birds busied themselves building nests, while the other animals of the forest scurried away in the foliage as he rode.

Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that what happened last night was not of this realm. He shook his head and chuckled at the absurdity of his claim. The bump on his head was the culprit. As his father would tell him, “What did you expect to happen with you going off on your own in the forbidden forest drunk off your arse?”

He should be thankful a pack of wolves didn’t attack him and leave his bones there to be discovered by the next fool.

He didn’t relish the thought of facing the men at the Tavern Inn. He boasted of slaying fiends, but he would return empty handed with only a fantasy the Church would see fit to condemn him to death.

He broke through the trees and the sun beat down on him, making him squint his eyes in protest. He raised his arm as a shield. “Saints preserve us.” He rubbed his face. Then drew back, startled. His fingers gingerly felt the hair on his chin. As soon as he left the Order, he took a sharp blade to his face to keep his skin smooth, but the whiskers had grown in thick overnight. He blinked as the sun’s rays made his eyes water. The sun seemed so much closer to the earth this morning with its brilliance.

“Let’s go, Loucetios.” He nudged his horse into movement to cross the meadow and head for the village waiting in the distance.

He was no coward and he would face the men and tell them… What exactly? The tavern loomed like a bad omen in front of him, but still he would not back down.

“Face the bard and tell your tale.” His father lectured him when he was but a lad.

He’d rather be drawn and quartered than reveal to the men he fell off his mount and hit his head. His reputation would be ruined. He’d have to come up with a fanciful rendition. As he dismounted, he wondered how good of a storyteller he could be.

He entered the stable and found Cormac crouched in the corner like a forgotten waif.

“What is with the long face, boy?”

Upon hearing his voice, Cormac flew to his feet, his dark eyes wide and unbelieving as if he saw a ghost before him.

“Oh Sir, you have returned. I thought never to see you again.”

“Do not be so dramatic, Cormac. Of course I would return.” A grumbling noise had him staring at his squire with a raised brow. The boy was thin as a willow branch and it wasn’t from lack of feeding him. “When you’re finished come inside the Tavern and break fast with me. I will not have you scaring the horse with that noise your stomach is prone to make.”

“Aye, Sir. I will come directly.”

Without a backward glance, he strode out of the stables and headed toward the tavern. As he entered, the room fell silent as it did the night he arrived. If he didn’t know better, he would believe the men were surprised to see him. The fear in their eyes shone bright and a few crossed themselves and ran out of the tavern.

He ignored their peculiar ways and sat down at the table in the back. The scent of cooked meat made his stomach rumble. It would seem he had something in common with his squire. The tavern owner licked his lips nervously, his steps unsure as he approached and kept a safe distance away.

“I will not bite, Jarvis,” he grumbled with impatience. It was probably not the best way to put the man at ease.

“What may I fetch for you, Sir?” Jarvis asked.

“Whatever it is I smell cooking on the fire and a tankard of ale. Make it two. I expect my squire to join me.”

“Coming right up.” He scurried away like a mouse being pursued by a cat.

His gaze surveyed the remaining occupants who gaped at him opened mouth. It was discerning to be under such scrutiny. Maybe it would be best to tell them he failed with his quest to slay a demon. “Listen,” he announced. Their movements stilled and sweat beaded their brows as if they were cornered animals. He cleared his throat. “I spent the night in the forbidden forest, but encountered no living soul.” There, he had not lied. His encounter was a fantasy caused by a bump on the head and nothing more. “Your stories of the undead are not true, or perhaps the fiend was afraid of my sword.” He chuckled and tapped the weapon at his side, trying to lighten the mood.

The tavern owner approached again, but glanced back at the others. “Leave Sir Liam alone now. He done told you what he found. Be off with you all.”

He’d never seen a room vacate so fast. His brow lifted as he stared at the tavern owner for an explanation. Jarvis placed a plate and the tankard down, but before he could escape, Liam’s hand whipped out, grabbing him by his forearm.

“Please, Sir.” Jarvis’ eyes widened in fear.

Liam let him go and lifted his hands in surrender. “I mean you no harm. I just want to know why everyone is frightened of me.”

“Sir, if I may be so bold, you have been gone near three days. We thought you were dead.”

Chapter Six

“Three days,” Liam voiced in the safety of his room he’d rented from Jarvis, and leaned against the door. How could this be? No wonder he was famished. No wonder his squire looked half starved. He thought his time in the forbidden forest a fantasy from a bump on the head, but he could not have been unconscious for three days. His hand brushed against his beard-stubble jaw, proving days had indeed passed without his knowledge. Pushing away from the door, he strode over to the looking glass nailed over the water basin. His gaze caught sight of his reflection. The distorted glass made him look haunted. His eyes appeared a lighter shade of blue, and his pallor looked ghostlike with dark rings bruising the tender flesh beneath his eyes. “Good Lord, I look like I have been in a fist fight and lost. No wonder the town folk shied away from me.”

As he cleaned up and made himself presentable, he turned his head and caught sight of two small pinpricks on his neck. He ran his fingers over the marks. A flash of his angel with fangs crossed his mind. “She fed on my blood.” His imagination could not produce two distinct pinpricks.

He must return to the forest. He must learn what happened to him there. He tried to convince himself this was the case, but in truth he wanted to find Glamis and prove she wasn’t a fantasy brought on by lack of food and water. He was a knight, a warrior. He was not a man prone to delusions.

He waited until all were sleeping before he ventured out. He thought to bring a torch, but his vision wasn’t hampered with the moon high in the sky.

Loucetios was a bit skittish and he had to soothe the horse before mounting him for his midnight adventure.

He entered the forest in hopes of finding Glamis, but if not her, the keep where he made love to her before a roaring fire.

When Loucetios would go no further, he dismounted. “Be safe, my friend. I hope to see you in the morning.”

Loucetios whinnied in protest, but Liam would not be dissuaded. He hit Loucetios’ rump and set him galloping away. He continued down the path on foot, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The wind picked up in a swirl of dirt and leaves. The whispers of warning tickled his ears, but he refused to go back. “Glamis, where are you?”

“Here, Sir Knight.”

He whirled around with his sword drawn. How had she come upon him so quickly with nary a sound? “What are you?”

“I believe you know, Sir Knight, or at least suspect.” She glanced at his drawn sword. “Have you come to slay me then? Bring back my head as a prize?”

His brows furrowed. She was beautiful with her mahogany locks gleaming like dark wine. Her eyes the color of blue, not to be matched, waited for him to answer. She’d been flirting with him playfully, harmlessly, but he knew she wasn’t a lass to betray with lies and expect to live to tell the tale. He’d seen enough battles to know when an enemy would give up or if he would fight to the death. Glamis would not be taken willingly. In truth, he did not want to harm her. She was the first woman he’d taken to his bed. She showed him the wonders of making love and by God, he wanted to show her he was an apt student. How could he slay the woman he could fall in love with? As much as he wanted her, he was not a fool. He kept his sword ready. “The villagers have named you a fiend. They say you have killed, draining your victims of their blood.”

She sighed as she continued to study him with eyes as sharp and adept as his. “Do you wish me to tell you the truth, Sir Knight?”

He nodded. “Aye, you owe me the truth.”

“So be it. What the villagers claim is true.” Her response was delivered in a cool, distant tone.

She murdered men and didn’t blink an eye or show remorse for her deeds. He’d been fooled by her feminine façade that hid her killer instincts. She deserved to die, but something in her eyes, in the way she looked at him gave him pause. For a fleeting second, he caught a glimpse of her heart, unprotected and exposed for him to see the loneliness, the longing for more than what life offered thus far. He knew all about yearning for a different life. “Why?”

Sucking in a shallow breath, she tore her gaze away. It was the first time she let her defenses down. “I must take nourishment as you must. I require blood.” Her gaze found his once more with a plea for him to understand. “I cannot survive otherwise.”

“You are a vampire.”

“As many have called me, a human name born out of fear. The formal name is Dearg-due.” Her chin lifted and her shoulders pulled back. Proud she was of her lineage.

His world felt a little off centered and he took a moment to digest what she had revealed to him. He had a hunch her other victims were not given the same courtesy as she gave him, which only proved to bewilder him. “Why did you not kill me?”

She tilted her head to the side as her gaze slid over him in appreciation. “You are different. You were not tainted.”

He chuckled without mirth, her words stinging his pride. “My purity saved me. The church will be pleased to know virtue is still held in high esteem, even to a Dearg-due.”

“You misunderstand, human.” He supposed she had the right to snub his human status. His tone surely spoke of what he thought of her.

His eyes narrowed. “Explain then. Please,” he added. He did not want to offend her again.

“You have courage. You did not run when fear whispered in your ear to flee.”

“A knight never runs away.”

She nodded. “You did not fight me when I fed.” She touched her neck lightly as if to remind him of her bestowed kiss.

“I wish it were not so, but stopping you was not an option. I knew what you were doing and I wanted you anyway.” Since they were baring their souls, he would not hold back either.

She nodded once more. “And finally, your blood calls to me, Sir Knight. I could not kill what I craved. It would be foolish on my part.”

“So it is the blood you want.” Bitterness laced his words at being used to sustain her life and nothing more. He gave himself to her. She was a fiend who killed to survive and he was a knight sworn to follow all rules sanctioned by his rank. He sinned and he did so willingly. He would not deny the fact, but he wanted to know it was for a good reason.

She remained silent for a heartbeat of time. Her brows furrowed over the bridge of her nose, then smoothed again as an array of emotions washed over her. “Why did you come back?”

His arm lowered and he sheathed his sword before facing her with the truth. “I could not forget you. I suppose I crave your touch as much as you crave my blood. Tell me I am not a fool.”

With a blink of an eye, she was in his embrace. Her eyes glowed red like a predator on the hunt, but it didn’t frighten him. To prove it, he pulled her closer. His hands slid down her lithe body, wanting to take her there where they stood. His mouth sought hers with a kiss that singed through his veins.

His hands made short work of their clothing. On the ground, she straddled him as he leaned against the tree trunk for support. She guided him inside her and groaned in satisfaction. His hands held onto her hips as they made love. Her gaze never left his. He knew what she wanted, what she craved, but she held back. He tilted his head to the side to make it easier for her, but her palms touched his cheeks, forcing him to meet her eyes again.

“I shall not take without permission, Sir Knight.”

“Liam.”

Her lovely arched brows furrowed.

“My name is Liam and I give you permission.” He exposed his throat once more.

Her lips caressed his flesh with a sweet kiss, her tongue licking over his flesh. When her fangs finally bit into him, pain and pleasure mixed as she drank and made love to him. Pain. Pleasure. Rapture.

Much later, she lay in his arms, her flesh warmer since she fed from him.

Her hand smoothed over his face and worry shadowed her eyes. “You look pale. I will hunt for you. You must take nourishment.” She made to move, but he held onto her.

“Later, my love. Right now, let me hold you.”

Later never came. He made love to her again, this time slow and meaningful. “You are mine, Glamis.”

“As you belong to me, Liam. I give myself to you completely.”

“As do I.” He lowered his mouth to hers, sealing their pledge with a kiss.

Chapter Seven

Liam sat down at his usual table in the back of the tavern where he could see the exits and his back faced no one but the wall. His hand gripped the tankard as he nursed the warm ale. After his visits with Glamis, exhaustion made him yearn for a soft bed to lie down upon. He would finish his drink then head upstairs. His fingers rubbed his eyelids and he leaned back against his chair. When he opened his eyes again, the old man, who first told him of the fiend in the forest, stood at the edge of the table, holding a plate. He placed it before him. The slab of meat was barely cooked, all bloody and pink. His stomach lurched and he pushed the plate away.

“What is this, old man?”

The man didn’t ask permission to be seated, but invited himself as he pulled out a chair and plopped down in it.

“See here.” Liam sat up straighter. Insulted that the man thought it was all right to join him.

“I’m a friend,” the old man whispered.

He harrumphed at the old man’s gall. “You sent me off to the forest to meet your fiend and we both know what you expected to come of that visit. Forgive me if I fail to see how we are friends.”

The old man refused to be put off. “You are bedding the Dearg-due, are you not?”

His brows drew together. “I know not what you speak of.” The man reached across the table and lifted Liam’s hair away from his neck. Liam jerked away. “Do not touch me again, old man, or else you may lose a hand.”

The old man would not be put off. “The marks on your neck are from the Dearg-due, vampir, vampire…fiend. The being goes by many names.”

He licked his lips. Maybe he should hear the man out and find out where this conversation would lead. “Say your peace then and be gone.”

“Eat and I will talk.” He pushed the plate toward him again. “The meat will keep you strong for her.”

To pacify the old man, he cut a small piece of the meat away and stabbed it with his dagger. His palate rebelled at first, but as he took another bite and another, he grew accustomed to the taste. “I believe you were going to talk.”

The man sat forward, resting his arms on the table as he folded his hands. “The Dearg-due has plagued our village for some time. We sacrifice one man every six months to keep her bloodlust at bay. It is our curse for betraying her. We tried to kill her kind, but we failed in eliminating her.”

He paused in taking another bite. “There were more like her then?”

The old man nodded. “She had a mate once and she lived with him within the Sidhe Comhairle Forest. You know the wooded place as the forbidden forest. Perhaps you’ve seen the keep across the loch?”

He did not deny or confirm he had. “Are you telling me you killed her mate?” He pointed the dagger at the old man, not sure if he wanted to murder the man for hurting Glamis or kiss him for leaving her available to love again.

“Nay, I did not kill her husband. Our ancestors were the superstitious lot. The Dearg-due is a being not unlike the Sidhe. They have long lives.”

“Hmm.” Liam lifted a brow. “Get to the heart of your tale. I grow weary.”

The old man cleared his throat. “Our ancestors believed the Dearg-due was too different and feared the beautiful couple that never aged. They wanted to rid the village of such creatures.”

“If the Dearg-due preyed upon the village, I may understand their need.”

The old man shook his head. “You do not understand. A Dearg-due takes a mate for life and they feed off of each other to survive. They did not seek human blood. They lived in peace. They only ventured into the village for supplies and for company. It was jealousy of their strength and beauty that led to treachery. One night, the men convinced the male Dearg-due to stay in town and share stories with them, but instead the men trapped him. They left him staked in the courtyard to face the sun. By the time the female realized the betrayal, it was too late to save him.”

Liam swallowed hard. He knew Glamis slept during the day. The sun would harm her, she had told him, but he thought not to ask her how. “What became of her mate when the sun rose?”

“He burned, becoming nothing but ash. It is said his screams were unbearable.” He looked away as if ashamed by what his ancestors had done.

Liam finished his meal and pushed his plate away. “Why tell me this horror story? You must have a reason for it. Get to the point, old man, before I lose my patience.”

“You are the only one to survive her bite. We wish to keep you here, to keep the Dearg-due happy.”

“So you do not have to sacrifice one of your own, is that it?” He didn’t hide his sarcasm or his disgust at what these people did. He had no doubt they lured travelers to their deaths when it suited them.

The old man swallowed hard and nodded.

“If I stay and make this sacrifice, what is in it for me?”

“We would supply all you need. Whatever you want will be yours.”

He felt strong after devouring his meal. The old man had been right. He needed the proper nourishment if he was to remain Glamis’ lover. He would never leave her, but the villagers did not need to know the truth. He pushed his tankard toward the old man. “I shall have more ale. I believe you are buying.”

Chapter Eight

Every night Liam took his leave of the human world and entered Glamis’. Loucetios would take him to the edge of the forest and his mount would wait for his return upon the morning light. He would then ride back to the Tavern Inn and sleep the day away.

The villagers looked upon him with reverence, both grateful and a little fearful, too. He was human, but he had the power to control the Dearg-due’s appetite. In their eyes, he’d become as untouchable as the creature they feared.

Glamis snuggled close to him this night in her bedchamber. Furs covered them and a fire burned in the fireplace. He could hear the rain softly falling, the sound a soothing comfort. Glamis’ contentment brought him joy, but he sensed a sort of restlessness in her.

“I wish you did not have to go.” She kissed the side of his mouth. The sun would rise soon and he would leave her side as he did each day.

“I could stay.” He returned the caress, nuzzling the tender flesh between her neck and collarbone. She did not feed off of him every night. She took her nourishment from animals also, but he had a hunch that was for his benefit. She knew when he needed to rest, giving his body time to replenish the blood she’d taken.

After the first week, he realized the taking of his blood wasn’t just for feeding. It was for pleasure as well, a bonding of some sort. When she fed, she could hear his thoughts clearly, not just fragments or hunches, but as if she touched his soul in some way. He wondered often what it would be like to taste her blood, to be completely bonded with her. “I wish I were like you,” he told her and meant it.

She pulled away, her eyes glowing red before dimming again to the bright blue. He tried to draw her close again, but she refused to come to him.

He sat up, his fingers caressing her arm, sensing her pulling away from him not just physically but mentally as well. “Did I say something to upset you?”

“If you were what I am, you would never walk in the day. Even a cloud-filled sky will not protect my kind for long. You would have to give up all that you are.”

His hand stilled as he digested what she revealed, but ended up dismissing her warnings. “I do not see the sun now, my love.” His lips twitched, making her sigh with a shake of her head.

“You know what I mean. I do not need to present all the details to you. You know what I am and what I do to survive.”

“It is possible then. You can change me?”

Her gaze wavered over him in exasperation. “It’s a myth, a story told to me when I was a mere child.”

It was difficult to believe she’d been a child, with her tales of centuries and what she’d witness through the passage of time. “I have no way of knowing if it is true.” She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. “I will not take the chance that I am wrong.”

His lips pursed, troubled by his thoughts of late. He couldn’t abide the thought of another man holding her or kissing the tender areas that made her purr for more. Worse, he didn’t want another man knowing her secrets or being able to make her laugh when he could not do so anymore. For once in his life, he felt helpless. He wanted to grow old with her. Love her as much as he did now when her hair turned gray, but a Dearg-due didn’t age like a human. He would be dead and buried and she would live on for centuries more. “One day I will grow old. What then? Will you find another lover for your bed?”

“No.” He met her gaze. Her hands gripped him as if she believed he would leave her this instance. “Never. Once you draw your last breath, I will walk into the sun to join you on the other side.” She glanced away then, her lovely mahogany brows puckering. “If our kind can be with yours on the other side, I will find you.”

“What of your first husband?” He had wondered about him. She’d been mated to the man for hundreds of years. Surely she felt something for the man. Yet, she pledged eternity to him.

“Uriel was chosen for me and I did care for him, but our bond was a necessity, not one born of love.”

“Love?” His lips curved. “Do you love me, Glamis? A mere human?”

She rolled her eyes. “You know that I do.”

“Say it,” he demanded.

She turned toward him so she could straddle his thighs. Her gaze swept over his features before she leaned forward and kissed him. “I love you.” He took her mouth hungrily. Soft and smooth her skin felt beneath his caress. Her earthy sweet scent, appealed to him, clean and fresh as if she bathed daily in the loch.

She slid down his body so her head rested just beneath his chin. He cradled her close, his thoughts returning to plague him. She never fell ill. She would appear as young as she did now for centuries more. He didn’t doubt her pledge to be with him always, but she never lived with a human. She never witnessed how a human shriveled with age. Death would not have to greet him before she tired of their union.

“You are still sad,” she said “I feel it.” The palm of her hand smoothed over his chest. He kissed the top of her head. She shifted her body to meet his gaze. “Liam, what more troubles you?”

“I have realized we will only have a moment in time together. It is not enough. It will never be enough.”

Her hands cupped his face. “We’ll make the most of the time we have, my love.”

Chapter Nine

Liam had awakened only an hour before and was famished. As always, Jarvis had a plate ready for him at his usual table in the back. The tavern was near to full this afternoon and clamoring with conversation about a new babe that was born to Mora and Paidrig.

“Liam?”

His gaze sought who called for him. An auburn haired man approached him from the other end of the room. He wore a reddish-brown coat and a blue surcoat, both fashioned out of costly material. He was not a local, making Liam more cautious. What stranger would seek out his company here?

“Liam?” the man questioned again.

As the man drew nearer, recognition finally hit him. His lips curved into a smile as he came to his feet. “Diarmuid, is that you, my brother?” He drew his brother close in a manly hug of thumping backs and chuckles. He had not seen Diarmuid for over seven years. His little brother had grown thick in the chest and had grown an inch or two taller than he.

“It is I, brother.” Diarmuid pulled away to search his face, his brows suddenly furrowing into a frown.

Liam refused to acknowledge the look of concern shadowing his brother’s gaze. He knew he’d changed since his time with Glamis. His skin was paler, his eyes brighter as if he was fevered, but in truth he felt stronger. He was stronger. “What brings you here?”

“Your last letter spoke of your return to Lochmere.”

He ran a hand through his hair and nodded. He hadn’t forgotten, but he had prayed his family might have given up hope of his return. He hadn’t expected them to send a search party. “I found a place here.” His gaze shifted to Jarvis who stood behind the bar. “A tankard for my brother, please.”

“Coming right up, Sir Liam,” Jarvis said.

“You have settled here?” Diarmuid chuckled. “There is nothing here, but farmers. There is no castle befitting a man who is destined to one day be Lord of Lochmere.”

“I like where I am. ’Tis peaceful.”

Diarmuid’s brows furrowed. “You are one of the Knights Templar. You are a Cantwell, a warrior. ’Tis in your blood to take up arms.”

Liam opened his mouth ready with a retort, but Jarvis arrived with two tankards of ale. Liam nodded his thanks and waited for the innkeeper to return to his duties. Liam leveled his gaze on his brother once more. “I did my service. I am tired of warring. I wish to be left in peace.” He would love to confide in his brother the true reason, but he couldn’t chance it. Most would choose to condemn Glamis for what she was and refuse to understand only her eating habits were different. She laughed and cried. She had hopes and dreams for the future. In this regard she was no different than a human.

Diarmuid studied him over the rim of his tankard. “Father is ill. Mother does not believe he will survive another winter. You are the eldest. You must return.”

Liam pursed his lips. He wanted to see his mother and father, but he feared if he left he would not be able to return for some time, if ever, and he could not bring Glamis with him. She would not be safe. “Let’s not speak of dire needs. Let’s celebrate our reunion instead.”

With some encouragement and promise of more ale, his brother finally relented. Liam didn’t indulge as much as his brother had, but it was on purpose. He wanted his brother to be fast asleep when he made his visit to the forest. He couldn’t risk his brother following him there.

Once the night wore on and his brother began to slur his words, he helped him upstairs to his room. He tossed him on the bed. The ropes groaned in protest as the dead weight plopped down hard.

Diarmuid chuckled. “I believe I’m right bladdered, brother.”

“Aye, that you are.” He removed his shoes and covered his brother with one of the fur coverings.

His brother grabbed his arm before he could leave. “On my travels here, I was warned to turn away. They say this village is haunted by a fiend.”

“Nonsense,” he claimed. “I’ve lived here months and have seen no fiend.”

His brother’s gaze held his. “They say the fiend drinks blood and cannot come out in the day. They say she has found herself a knight to keep her warm.”

“Well, good for her.” Liam chuckled, but fear clutched his gut. “I do hope it is the drink talking, dear brother. There is no such thing as a blood sucking fiend.”

His brother licked his lips as if he wanted to say more, but finally his mouth curved into a slow smile. “You are right. I have had too much to drink and my tongue is fanciful this night.”

Liam patted his brother’s shoulder. “Sleep it off. You will feel better at first light.” He was almost out the door when his brother stopped him, his voice sobering with his question.

“You will break fast with me, so we may discuss father, will you not?”

He turned to meet his brother’s gaze. “Of course. I’ll tell Jarvis to fix us a hearty meal.”

Chapter Ten

Liam should have known better, but his thoughts of joining Glamis for a few hours clouded his mind and in truth, he never believed his brother would prove a threat. He still thought of Diarmuid as the youth he left behind, but his brother was no child. He was a man now who feared for his older brother’s safety. Liam had not returned home as promised and when Diarmuid ventured out to find out why, he heard the stories about the fiend that lived in the forest.

Diarmuid stood before him now with men flanking his side ready to do his bidding.

Loucetios whinnied and complained, not liking his freedom compromised with his reins tied to a tree. Cormac stood back behind Diarmuid, shaking with fear.

Liam could not tell if his squire worried being so close to where the fiend lived, or if he feared his wrath for aiding Diarmuid in his search.

“I am sorry, Sir,” Cormac hurried to tell him. “But your brother tricked—”

“Silence,” his brother warned. His squire lowered his head.

“What is the name of this, Diarmuid?”

“Do you go to her, the demon,” Diarmuid clarified, “with your own free will?”

“I know of no demon.” He made a move toward Loucetios, but his brother withdrew his sword. The scraping of metal told him the others did likewise. His gaze leveled on Diarmuid. “Do you plan on slaying me?”

“Only if you do not come peaceably. Your soul can still be saved.” Diarmuid glanced at the cloud-covered sky before narrowing his gaze on Liam again. “Step fully out of the shadows.”

He knew what his brother’s ploy meant. He wanted to see if he would burn once the sun’s rays hit his flesh. The day proved overcast and dreary. Even Glamis would not burn—at first. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug of indifference and stepped forward as ordered.

He stood there as his brother stared at him. Waiting.

“Well?” Liam held out his hands to the side in question. “What now? Shall I dance for you next?”

“Do not mock me.”

“’Tis not my wish to do so,” Liam said, not quite hiding his anger. “I am trying to understand the meaning behind your ploy here. You have drawn a weapon against me. You have dragged my squire out here, and you hold my horse prisoner. And for what? So you can talk of demons as if you expect one to swoop in from hell’s fire and drag us back down.”

Diarmuid’s stance faltered, but then his gaze shifted and Liam knew his brother’s eyes locked onto his neck, where the small pinpricks stood out against the paleness of his skin. His brother inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. “You protect her, Liam. Seize him,” he ordered his men.

Liam withdrew his sword. He could not let them take him. They would torture the truth out of him. He would not give Glamis’ whereabouts freely, but even the strongest and the bravest had a breaking point.

The first man came forward. He flipped his blond hair out of his eyes with a shake of his head and grinned at Liam. He swung his broadsword across his body as if he planned to fell a tree. Liam’s sword clanged against the blond man’s weapon in protest, blocking his advances. The other darker haired man moved with intent, but Liam whirled to greet him, his sword making contact with the man’s neck. The man’s sword slipped from his hand as he fell back, his life’s blood leaving his body in spurts of red. He returned to the blond man whose face had lost all color as he stared at his fallen friend. The blond man took a step back and Liam lowered his sword, believing the fight was over, but his brother surprised him for the second time this day.

Diarmuid flew at him, his sword thrusting forward. “Better you die now than later at the demon’s hand.” Before Liam could react, his brother’s sword pierced his side.

He met his brother’s gaze in disbelief. Indeed his brother looked horrified as he yanked his sword out of his flesh. Liam staggered back and fell on one knee. His hand gripped his side where the blood soaked his jerkin.

Aaaaaah!

The cry of agony pierced the air, like the call of a banshee ready to swoop down and claim the doomed.

Liam glance toward the forest in fear, knowing his beloved was coming. “Glamis, no.” Liam choked, spitting up blood.

The wind picked up, whipping his hair away from his face.

His brother lifted his sword ready to fight whatever came at him. The blond man dropped his sword and ran, his squire, Cormac close behind.

Liam gripped his side, trying to stop the flow of blood. “Go, Diarmuid. Go before it is too late.”

His brother glanced at him. Sorrow filled his eyes and the lines of age fell away to reveal the youth who once loved him. “May God have mercy on your soul, Liam.” He raised his sword then and Liam realized his brother’s intent. His eyes widened in disbelief, but he could not defend himself. He fought battles without injury, but he would die this day at the hands of his brother.

Chapter Eleven

As the sword came down toward Liam’s neck, a blur of color whipped by him, lifting him, and taking him away. It felt like he was flying with the way the wind whipped against him.

He closed his eyes, and breathed in the scent of his beloved. “Glamis.”

The whirl of flight ended, and Glamis lowered him to the ground. He opened his eyes and saw the treetops above him.

“Liam?” Her voice trembled with fear.

He reached for her and she grabbed hold of his hand. “You saved me.”

Her lips curved, but the humor didn’t reach her gaze. “I only prolonged your death.” She hissed and her fangs lengthened. “The human will die for this.”

He squeezed her hand, staying her moves. “No, let him go.”

“Let him go? If the sun shone brighter, I could not have come to your rescue without burning alive. That man you wish to spare would have gladly relieved you of your head.”

“I know.” He squeezed her hand again. “But you cannot slay him. Promise me you will spare his life.”

“Why?” Confusion danced in the depths of her eyes.

“The man you wish dead is my brother,” he told her.

Her brows creased. “This is the child you taught to swim and to hold a sword? The snot nosed lad who followed you everywhere?”

“Aye.” She remembered his tales of home and in happier times.

“He is no boy,” she accused.

“No, I am not.” Diarmuid broke through the foliage, like a man determined to do what he must to set the world right. He pointed his sword at her. “You will die this day for corrupting my brother. I saw the marks you left on his neck. I know what you are.”

Liam cursed under his breath. “Glamis did not corrupt me.”

“Glamis? The fiend has a name?” His voice rose like thunder, condemning him. Glamis proved evil in Diarmuid’s eyes and his brother believed no man should ever befriend such a creature.

“I will not have you call my wife names.” They may not have taken their vows before a priest, but they pledged their love the old way. They were married, and he would raise his sword to anyone who said differently.

For a moment, Diarmuid lost his hostile stance. “Your wife?”

Liam nodded. “You have a problem with her then you have one with me as well.” He almost laughed at how ludicrous that sounded. Of course, his brother had a problem with him being with Glamis. Didn’t the hole in his side prove it well enough? His gaze touched Glamis with determination. “If you love me as you claim, you will not harm my brother. Before I die, I will have your word on this.”

Glamis’ eyes glowed red, but then dimmed. “As you wish.”

“Get away from him.” Diarmuid took a step toward them, but stopped when Glamis bared her fangs with a hiss. With preternatural speed born to her, she charged him. The sword flew from Diarmuid’s grasp as she grabbed him by the neck and dangled him off the ground as if he weighed no more than a poppet.

“Do not kill him,” Liam rasped out. “You promised. He is my brother, my family. I love him.”

Her gaze riveted to him in confusion and disbelief. “You love him? Your life’s blood flows from your body because of him. He calls me fiend, but it is he who is the evil doer.”

Liam forced himself to sit up. He leaned against the tree for support, clutching his side as pain ripped through his body, reminding him of the hole in his side. Blood seeped between his fingers to pool beside him, painting the ground red. He only had a few minutes before he lost consciousness then his brother would not have a prayer. He would die this day, too. “He did not mean to cause injury. He is young and still needs to learn. You must show him you mean no harm to humans. It is the only way to end this.” He coughed up blood and wiped it away from his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. “I beg of you, Glamis.”

She screeched her frustration at being denied her kill. She threw Diarmuid away from her. His body slammed against the tree with a thud.

Liam sighed in relief when a few moments later, Diarmuid rose to his knees, drawing in a ragged breath.

Glamis knelt beside Liam, her hand on his. Tears fell down her cheeks like beads of glistening light. “I have not cried for centuries and I do not like how it makes me feel.” It was all there in her eyes, beautiful, pain-stricken eyes. She was born a Dearg-due. Her kind felt passion and pain ten times over what a human felt in that regard. Grief would be no different. He touched his fingertip to the corner of her eye, brushing away the tears. “Do not mourn me.”

“You spoke the truth,” Diarmuid stood before them, but far enough away so not to seem a threat. “You truly love my brother.” He spoke to Glamis, witnessing the truth for himself.

She didn’t answer him. There was no need.

“Change me,” Liam gripped her arm.

Her gaze riveted to his, stunned at his request. “You could…” She let her words trail away.

“Die,” he finished for her with a chuckle. “Love, I am already dead.”

She glanced to Diarmuid, waiting for him to give the approval.

Diarmuid glanced at his brother then Glamis. His jaw tightened as he clenched his jaw, struggling with what he was taught, and what was right. Good and evil had been drummed into his head, but Liam remembered Diarmuid as a child when he questioned and did not follow blindly. His brother came here to slay a demon, but the demon didn’t look or act like the evil he expected. Finally, he gave a curt nod. “Do it,” he said.

She tilted her head to the side as her gaze leveled on Diarmuid. “If I change him and it works, he will be like me.”

His nostrils flared as he drew in a ragged breath. “God gave us the power of choice and my brother has made his.” He turned to leave, to walk out of the forest and not know his brother’s fate, but at the last moment, he turned and spoke again. “I have witnessed evil and you, my lady, are not it.”

She nodded her thanks of his acceptance. Then Diarmuid disappeared, the foliage and trees hiding his departure.

Glamis’ gaze touched Liam. Her long fingers caressed his face as she leaned down to kiss his lips. “I love you,” she told him before she drove her fangs into his neck.

Liam tried to hold on, but he felt so tired and cold. His heart stuttered, thudding slower against his chest. Death hovered near, waiting to grab hold and take him away.

Chapter Twelve

Twilight proved the best part of the day, where the colors of the morning still lingered in the sky, but the sun’s rays could not cause harm. Glamis stood at the open door. Her mahogany hair billowed behind her as the breeze lifted the strands off her shoulder. Her fine threads molded to her figure like a lover’s caress. “I long for you, Liam. I long for your kiss,” she said to the wind and closed her eyes.

“I long for those things from you as well, my love.”

Her lips curved, making her features more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen. “Liam, you have awakened.”

He lived the life as a Dearg-due for years now, but years were nothing when the race lived centuries. He strode toward her, wrapping his arms around her waist. She leaned against him. As a human, he used to think she felt cold to the touch, but not anymore.

“Do you miss it?” She turned in his arms. “Do you miss the sun?”

“Sometimes.” He would not lie to her. “Do not worry, I shall live.”

She chuckled as she met his lips. Her fangs grazed him, drawing blood. He growled before taking her mouth hungrily. They fed off each other to sustain life, the way it was meant to be for a Dearg-due.

He didn’t fear death now. He only feared leaving behind what life still had to offer. Being Immortal only proved true as long as an enemy did not know of your weaknesses.

Glamis and he had spread stories about the legends of vampyres, whispering in playwrights and poets’ ears. They were the muses for the arts, a ploy to keep them safe from the humans’ ignorance of the species. Eventually the Dearg-due would be only a myth and nothing more.

“I have added more written words to the book.” He handed her the vellum page he’d been working on for the last few days.

She glanced down at what he’d written, his script strong and sure. Her laughter made him smile.

“I do not believe I have penned a comedy.”

“Oh, but you have. Garlic and holy water will keep the fiend at bay. A Dearg-due may be defeated by building a cairn of stones over its grave.” Her brows rose. “Who will ever believe such nonsense? We do not sleep in graves.”

“That is the point, my sweet. We will pass this information along and soon our existence will only make for a good story told on a starless night.” He pressed a kiss to her lips.

“But you have stated truths as well. You revealed how the sun could harm us.”

“All myths and legends have a bit of the truth in them, do they not?”

“Hmm… aye.” She exposed her neck for his caress. “You should add how we are passionate creatures. Mmm… Right there.” She paused to let him nibble near her ear.

“Go on, tell me what else to write,” he encouraged.

She turned in his arms. “How about I show you?”

His lips curved. “The night is ours. Seduce away, my love.”

The End

Heart of a Warrior

A warrior survives doing what he can to heal the heart, body or mind. When all say to give up, Hope whispers, “Don’t. Try again.”

Chapter One

“I call to you to do battle by my uncle’s side... Aid him in his conquest. Let your blade be as his should be... His heart as your heart.”

The young man’s plea for his uncle did not go unheard. Scáthach appeared in the hospital room seconds after she heard the prayer. She was curious to know why she’d been summoned here to this realm. Smells of disinfectant, sweat and death wafted through the open door of the hospital room. Monitor beeps, the rolling of food carts and the light murmur of the hospital staff touched her ears, but no threat seemed eminent. She had donned her warrior garb of tightly fitted clothing with her sword and axe strapped to her side. Her long bangs were pulled back from her face and a gold braided band around her head kept them out of her eyes. Being battle ready, had kept her alive, but no foe awaited her here in the beige-walled room meant for the ill or the dying.

It had been some time since she had been in this world with its computers and high tech machinery. She much preferred the centuries before there were gadgets to help mankind to work less. The luxuries made them weak and soft around the middle. A real man should be fit with muscled arms to enable him to wield a sword … or to hold a woman in his embrace in the art of making love, whichever seemed fitting at the time. She shook her head in dismay of what mankind had given up for his comforts. “Humans,” she muttered under her breath. “Thank the gods, I am no longer one of them.” The Tuatha de Dannan had touched her, making her the Warrior Goddess.

She trained men worthy of her guidance on the magical Isle of Mist, which others called the Isle of Skye. Her duties also were to guide the souls slain in battle on their Death Journey to Tir Nan Og, the land of eternal youth and beauty.

The young boy, who had summoned her, lounged next to the hospital bed in slumber. His cheeks were still round and childish with freckles that bridged his nose, giving his age to be no more than ten and two. His sandy blond hair hung in waves over his left eye. He was long and lanky, showing signs he would one day be a tall man. He clutched a book tightly to his chest and she could make out the title: Celtic Gods and Goddesses. A smile curved her lips. The boy was also smart. He had sent for her, a warrior who had taught the greatest heroes of all time how to fight. He prayed for his uncle in hopes she would guide him. She frowned at the strange request. This was not a battlefield.

She glanced at the bed where a man lay still as death, presumably the uncle in question. Tubes and wires were attached to his body while a monitor beeped in time with his heartbeat. Dark auburn hair with strands of mahogany and russet covered his head like a thick mane. The gods would approve of his strong chiseled chin with hair stubble roughing the edges. His cheekbones were broad and his eyes slanted catlike with thick lashes that were gold near the lids and deep auburn as they curved out to lay featherlike on his cheeks. His features betrayed his Celtic heritage.

She pulled back the covers and took her fill of what lay beneath. Broad muscular chest, flat stomach and long thick thighs flattered him. This was not a man who sat behind a desk, flipping switches to do his work. He appeared to be strong and yet… She took hold of his hand to read his palm and see what his future held. Indeed the man was at war. A battle wreaked havoc inside of him, trying to take over and bring him to his knees. Death was near and it wouldn’t be long before his fight would be over and yet the man hadn’t given up.

She glanced at the sleeping child again. He wanted his uncle to live and feared he couldn’t fight this alone. She was an expert in the art of war and never shied away from a challenge. She returned her gaze to the bedside, running a hand down the man’s arm. A war was a war no matter where the battle was held. Be it on the fields of heather with an army or an illness attacking the body. Both held an enemy that needed to be defeated.

She’d see if this man was worthy to have her as a teacher. If so, she would give him the tools to battle this, making him a warrior. She lifted his arm and read the nametag attached to his wrist. “Trey Brennan.” Her gaze shifted to his face. His eyes had fluttered open at the sound of her voice. The catlike eyes were an amber color, warm and intelligent. “Are you a fighter?” she asked.

He appeared confused by her question, his eyebrows drawing together, giving him a fierce look, a warrior’s glare.

“Are you a fighter?” she repeated the question.

His brows smoothed and his gaze gave her an appreciative once over. “You’re beautiful. Are you an angel?”

She had been called many things. Angel was not one of them. “No. I want your word that you’ll fight to live. I will not waste my time on someone who will surrender at the first sight of a battle.”

He glanced at his nephew still asleep in the chair. “I don’t want to die.”

“Then you must listen to me.”

He nodded. “I will do anything. I’m all Joey has. His parents died five years ago. If I’m gone he’ll have no one to care for him.”

Joey was the boy’s name. Trey had raised him then. Good, she thought. He will work hard, knowing he must survive for his nephew. All warriors had to have a purpose or else the fight wouldn’t matter. Win or die would not make a difference. In this case, survival had to be something he wanted, something he would strive to obtain. She gave him a curt nod. “Then I accept you for my student.”

His lips curved at the corners.

Nice full lips meant for kissing, she thought.

“This is a nice dream.” His voice was a deep masculine baritone. “I always had a thing for beautiful raven-haired women.”

She leaned close so she could whisper in his ear. “Work hard and you may win me as well. Aye?”

“I’d like that.” He closed his eyes again, falling back to sleep.

Chapter Two

Trey awoke with a start, inhaling as he did so as if he couldn’t catch his breath. Wide eyed he glanced around his make shift room—a tent of some sort with only furs to cover what he supposed was his bed. Clothing lay neatly beside him along with furred boots. A long sword etched with Celtic symbols rested on top of the garments, gleaming silver in the light that shone through the opening in the tent. “What is going on?” His thoughts were a jumbled mess as he sorted through where he was and why. He’d been ill—cancer. The big “C” word sent tremors down his spine. Leukemia to be exact and the bone marrow transplant hadn’t worked. His body was rejecting the treatment. So why wasn’t he in the hospital? “Don’t be stupid, Brennan. This is a dream.” His brow creased and his frown deepened as he wondered why the dream seemed so real. “The meds must be strong if I can bring on this delusion with such vivid detail.”

The inkling in the back of his mind told him this wasn’t a dream. No, this was something entirely different. His eyes widened then. “I’ve died and this is… what exactly? Was this Heaven? Or perhaps this was one of the levels of Hell.

He threw back the furs that covered him intent on finding out what was going on, but halted when he realized he was bare as the day he’d been born. Not that he was opposed to sleeping in the nude, but when he didn’t know how he came to be without his clothes that was a whole different story. Apprehension knotted in his stomach. Then he chuckled over the absurdity of the situation. “You’re probably dead, man. Why would you need clothes?” As he said the words his gaze landed on the garments beside his makeshift bed.

At the same moment the flap opened.

“Shit.” He hastily covered his lower extremity with his hands for what good it did when he was standing there in all his natural glory. If he was dead, how come he still had emotions like being embarrassed over being found with his pants down, so to speak? To make matters worse, the visitor was a knock-you-off-your-feet gorgeous woman. She was tall, standing only a few inches shorter than his height of six-foot four. Her hair was long almost black, but the light shining through the opening of the tent danced off the strands, highlighting her tresses with beams of cinnamon, russet, and red amber. She was clad in a tight fitting garment of leather and fur that accentuated every curve. Silver and gold bands adorned her arms with Celtic carvings etched into the metal. Her firm thighs were bare and went on forever. Fur boots covered her feet to mid calf. “Warrior,” he whispered wondering why that word of all words came to mind. Not exactly a word used for an endearment and yet the woman’s lips twitched at the corners and her pale blue eyes twinkled in merriment as if he paid her a compliment.

His body reacted like a man fully alive and well and he knew his fair skin turned a nice shade of pink. Her gaze flickered down to his groin and he backed up a step. What was he doing? Surely this was only a dream, some fantasy he had locked away in his pea brain to only resurface now moments before he died. That was it. This was like a last request before death took him. If that was so, then why did he have reservations?

“If you’re ready, we’ll begin.” Her voice was a slow burr like a melodious vibration.

“Ready?” Oh his body parts—one in particular was ready, but he had a hunch she spoke of something entirely different.

Again, those lush full lips of hers twitched but this time a smile appeared, revealing straight white teeth. “I’ll allow you to dress then meet me outside. You don’t have much time to prepare.”

He frowned in confusion. “Prepare for what?”

“To meet and destroy the enemy of course.” She didn’t wait for him to question her further, but whirled around and left the tent expecting him to do as he had been told.

Enemy? Fight? “What the hell?” He glanced around him. Maybe he had hit it on the nail. Maybe this was hell and he would be tortured by having a beautiful woman within his grasp but unable to have her, but have to wage war on some unknown enemy for further punishment. He may have never been a saint, but he hadn’t lived a wicked life. He worked hard, paid his taxes and cared for his nephew as if he were his own son. Why was he being punished? There was only one way to find out and she was waiting for him outside the tent. He was no coward and would meet whatever challenge awaited him.

He grabbed the clothes.

Chapter Three

Scáthach was glad Trey had made the transition to the Isle of Skye without any ill effects. He was indeed a strong man, standing taller than she stood. The russet strands of his hair glimmered in the sun, but once it set, the mahogany would take over, making his hair a darker shade of auburn. His body was as impressive as his face. Long and lean with hard muscled thighs. His broad shoulders and wide chest proved he could wield a sword or hold a woman close, whichever was deemed appropriate. Away from his world his true soul shone through. He radiated strength, determination and heat. She hadn’t missed how his body reacted to her, and truth be known, she wasn’t immune to his charms either. She had not seen such beauty since she trained Cú Chulainn, the most powerful warrior Ireland had ever seen. He mastered the arts of underwater fighting and other combat moves that few ever accomplished. With her invention, the Gáe Bolg, Cú Chulainn had won many battles.

She turned as the flap swung open and Trey emerged from its depth, wearing the garments of a born warrior. A smile of pure feminine pleasure teased her lips as her gaze took him in once more. Oh yes, he was Cú Chulainn and more. The gods had surely designed Trey Brennan for battle, but they had also created him for female pleasure as well.

“Welcome, Trey Brennan to Dú Scáith.”

His mouth dropped open, slacked in disbelief before he recovered. “The Castle of Shadows? Like in the legendary Scáthach’s castle, the Isle of Mist?” He chuckled nervously.

“I am impressed. You know your Celtic history.”

“You mean legends,” he insisted.

She shrugged not seeing the difference.

He glanced around him and she gave him his leisure, letting him become accustomed to his new world. She was proud of her fortress and what she had accomplished over the centuries. The grounds were equipped with all that was needed to fine-tune a warrior’s gifts. Her home stood on the most northerly island in the Inner Hebrides of what modern people now called Scotland. The island’s peninsulas spread out from the mountainous center of Cuillin Hills. Her castle was strong and impenetrable while it stood shrouded in the magical mist of invisibility. Only those who were skilled and brave enough to penetrate the many defenses of her fortress were allowed access. However, she was a goddess and granted entrance to a soul who showed promise of being a fully formed warrior.

“Tell me I’m dreaming.” Trey’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

“Why would I be so inclined to tell you this?”

“Because if I’m not dreaming, I must be dead and I cannot die. Do you hear me? I won’t die.”

“Oh aye, I hear you well enough Trey Brennan. Let me assure you that you are neither dreaming nor dead.”

He took a deep breath but still didn’t relax with her news. Odd, she’d thought her words would put him at ease.

“If I’m not dead and not dreaming, what is this? Why am I here?”

She thought she had explained this to him already, but she could be a patient teacher if the mood suited her. “You must defeat your enemy and become the victor before it is too late. If you will allow me, I will teach you the fine arts of combat and prepare you for the battle.”

He shook his head. “What battle? I don’t understand. I was in the hospital—my death bed if you must know and now… He spread his arms wide. “Now I’m trapped in a dream world from an old Irish legend.”

Sometimes humans were so narrowed minded. “Well, that is irrelevant. There is more than just your world. There are many realms of existence. Train well and all will make sense once more to you.”

He blinked in disbelief, his lids sliding over the amber colored eyes with a slow and deliberate closing and opening again.

Her shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. “What do you have to lose? Defeat the enemy here and you will find what you seek in your world.”

Chapter Four

Trey was at a loss for words. Battle? Train? Defeat the enemy? He didn’t understand why his mind trapped him in this realm of unconsciousness. Why couldn’t he be surrounded by beautiful women who wanted to pleasure him in the last moments he had on earth?

His gaze slid over the goddess, Scáthach with a body that screamed warrior with her firm taunt arms and thighs. Her height may intimidate some men, but he was tall and liked the idea that she would fit to him perfectly. He had a hunch the woman had passion aplenty, but she made it perfectly clear she wanted to train him in the art of warfare—not make love to him. She took his breath away with a mere glance and he wanted her in the worse way. Didn’t it figure? He lay on his deathbed but his body still craved the feel of a woman beneath him. He supposed it was true. Men did have two brains and his lower one ached something horrible and the cure stood right in front of him in the form of a goddess.

Scáthach arched one perfectly formed eyebrow, giving him the distinct feeling she read his mind.

“Well?” she asked, her lips threatening to smile.

For a moment he didn’t know what she asked. Then it dawned on him. She wanted to train him for battle and wanted his permission to proceed. What the hell? Why not? She didn’t look inclined to give into his more basic physical need. Perhaps a good workout would take his mind off what he couldn’t have. “Fine. I’ll train.”

She nodded her approval, giving him the feeling he had passed some kind of test.

He followed her out to the battlefield where other young men of various ages practiced their moves, some with a sword others with battleaxes. His fingers caressed the cool metal at his side. He once held a sword when he had attended a Scottish Festival with his nephew, but he had never wielded one in a battle—pretend or not. His thoughts wavered to Joey, wondering how he was doing. Was he all right? Was someone looking after him? He hoped he was keeping up with his school work and—

“He will be fine.” Scáthach spoke, breaking through his thoughts.

“What?”

“Your nephew is strong. You’ve done well by him. No matter what happens, he will be all right.”

For some reason her words soothed him and he believed her.

“We’ll start with something simple like hand to hand combat first.”

“Okay. Who will I fight?”

Her rich chuckle had him lifting a brow. “You’ll fight me of course.”

“I couldn’t. I might hurt you.”

“Really?” Her voice held a note of doubt.

He rolled his eyes. She may be in shape, but he wasn’t a pushover. Besides, he was taught never to hit a woman. “Truly, I don’t want—”

Before he finish his sentence, Scáthach swept her leg in back of his knees, sending him sprawling to the ground in an embarrassed heap. He shaded his eyes and peered at her. She stood there with her hands on her hips and grinned.

“As you were saying,” she said haughtily and sauntered away.

He leapt to his feet. So this was how she wanted to play. A smile slid into place. He could play rough when need be.

He went after her, intent on bringing her down and holding her there until she realized he was the stronger of the two.

She slammed her fist into his sternum with a series of powerful blows before sending a kick to the groin and a whack across his back that sent him to his knees. “What the hell,” he wheezed.

She knelt down beside him. “Are you going to stop fooling around now?”

Fooling around? Was the woman mad? With a swift move he took her down hard, using his full weight to hold her, but damn if the woman didn’t have moves he had never seen in his life. Before he knew it, he was the one on his back with her straddling him. He would have liked the position if she hadn’t insisted in beating him to a pulp. Her fist slammed into his nose, sending a fine spray of crimson blood in the air.

“I think you broke my nose,” he wailed.

“Oh aye. I did.” She jumped off him and bounced on the balls of her feet. “Come on. Stand and greet me like a man.”

He saw stars, but she seemed not to care as she waved to him, enticing him to come after her.

“Now stop playing around and give me your best shot, Trey. Or don’t you have it in you?”

Fine, he hadn’t started this fight, but he was damn well going to finish it. He jumped to his feet, wiping away the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. He went after her.

He fought or rather he defended her blows and finally got in a few of his own. He was one bloody and bruised up mess by the time she was through with him. She still looked like a goddess with her dark silky hair shining bright in the sun’s rays. Her blue eyes assessed him with a wicked gleam.

He lay sprawled on the ground for the hundredth time, trying to catch his breath. She stood over him, offering her hand to help him up. “Truce,” she said. “You’ve had enough for one day.”

“Geeze, thanks.” He took hold of her hand and came to his feet. Funny how he ached everywhere imaginable and yet he’d never felt more alive. It was as if he made it through a trial of some sort and came out the victor.

“Aye, you did well,” she said, again with that mind reading ability of hers.

He gave her a half-cocked smile, mostly because his lip was swollen. “You beat the crap out of me and you’re telling me I did well.”

“Aye. You did well. You lived and will have another day to fight. There is no dishonor in that. Now come with me. There is a spring that will heal your wounds and I’ll rub a herb ointment on your body to sooth the tension in your muscles.”

“Now that sounds like something I’ll enjoy.”

The gleam in her pale blue eyes raked over him. “You were good on the field. You have the heart of a warrior. I wonder how you are when it comes to bed play.”

Did she just ask him how he was in bed?

“No answer?” She stepped closer, running her hand leisurely up his arm, using only her fingertips.

“I…that is…I have had no complaints,” he sputtered and cursed under his breath for his lack of finesse.

A low chuckle reached his red-tipped ears. “We shall see, won’t we?” Then she turned on her heels expecting him to follow.

Of course he did. How could he not?

He thought he would be led back to the tent but his quarters were within the castle of Dú Scáith, a fine stone structure with all the comforts of home. Fragrant rushes covered the wood floor of his room. The sconces were lit and a warm roaring fire glowed red and orange within the fireplace, adding more light. He smiled when he caught sight of the large spacious bed that stood near the hearth with furs spread across it for added warmth. This may be a dream of some sort, but Dú Scáith was in the heart of Scotland or Alba as it once was called and the nights could be quite chilly.

Draped in a towel that one of the servants had left for him, he followed the steps down to the lower level of the castle where a hot spring waited for him.

Scáthach told him the waters would sooth his aching muscles and heal his wounds. He hoped she was right. His muscles felt stretched to the limit and pain throbbed in places he didn’t know could ache with such a burning intensity. Even his hair hurt, if that was possible. Probably from the few times Scáthach had managed to drag his sorry arse back into the fight. He had never met anyone who was that determined to make him throw a punch. “You have the heart of a warrior”, she told him. Somehow that image fell short when he tried to imagine himself wielding a sword.

He was a professor at a community college and the only physical strain his muscles endured was a trip to the gym four times a week. This was all before he became ill three months ago. Only yesterday, lifting his head off the pillow had proved to be a challenge. However, in this realm his destiny had shifted. He wasn’t lying in a hospital bed. He was being trained for warfare by a goddess. “Just go with the flow, Brennan and see where it leads you,” he murmured under his breath.

The room below the castle was actually a cave. Rock forms of different sizes surrounded the spring and steps were carved out of the stones to give easier access into the pool. He left the towel on one of the rocks and slid beneath the froth that churned on the water’s surface. Warmth immediately seeped into his pores like tiny massaging fingertips, working to smooth the kinks out of his tired muscles. The rhythmic rise and fall of the water churning and rippling around him lulled him until he felt his eyelids closing. He jerked awake, knowing he couldn’t fall asleep while he lounged in a pool, unless he fancied a death by drowning.

He waded toward the steps intent on retrieving his towel and heading back to his quarters, but his gaze locked onto a vision walking toward him, a sacred beauty draped in a transparent garment. “Scáthach.” His voice came out in breathless wonderment. He wanted to cross the chasm that separated them and take her into his arms, feel the softness of her flesh as his hands caressed her. Damn, he would sell his soul for just one kiss.

The seductive smile she threw at him made his body heat to a boiling point, and he feared he’d melt into the bubbling froth of the spring.

“Were you expecting someone else, Trey Brennan?”

He loved the way his name rolled off her tongue as if she were a siren calling him home. “No. I didn’t think you’d…” He cleared his throat. To hell with what he thought. She was here and it looked like she planned on joining him. If she did, it would be at her own risk. She may be the master on the field, but this was his battleground and his skills of seduction would make her surrender to his will. He would win her over until a throbbing desire rolled into one slow roll of want.

She seemed to sense what he wanted and let the thin garment that covered her slide off her shoulders and pool at her feet. She sure had a body that pushed all his buttons. Her hair cascaded over one shoulder in riotous waves of black silk. She was a warrior firm and strong but also incredibly feminine and curvy, with a small waist and rounded hips. “You’re heart-stopping gorgeous,” he told her in all honesty.

Her long legged gait was a pleasure to watch as she sauntered over to the pool. For a second, he questioned his ability to seduce her. She was doing a mighty fine job of seducing him, but heck that was easy. All she had to do was show up.

She entered the water and glided toward him. Her hands caressed his chest with purpose. “Your heart is beating strong for one that has stopped.”

“It’s only an expression. You’re so beautiful.” He took her in his arms, feeling every curve against his body. God in heaven, he wanted her. She leaned close as if to kiss him, but her tongue stroked his lips with a soft sensual lick. If there had been any doubt of his need to take her, there was no uncertainty now. His hands plunged into her hair, pulling her head closer, and with one smooth move he covered her mouth with his own. His tongue boldly swept in and took more, kissing her with all the pent up stress of the past months, and she growled in approval.

Energy flowed between them, and the heat of it threatened his control. She must have sensed his need or maybe it mirrored her own. She wrapped her legs around his waist, giving him access to what his body craved. His hand stroked her back, finding the deep curve that gave rise to her firm bottom. Her hips flowed into his, their bodies intimately and perfectly aligned.

Her gasp of pleasure slid along his senses, making his body ache with need for release, but not yet. Aware of the strength and warmth of her flesh, he wanted to savor the embrace.

Gripping a fist full of her hair, he slanted his mouth over hers. Her lips demanded long slow kisses that would cloud the mind and he ravished with pleasure. He hadn’t moved inside her, but already her hot tunnel clutched and gripped him, threatening to make him lose his control.

Her mouth tore away from his with breathless abandonment and light smoldered in the liquid blue of her eyes. “Now, my warrior.”

There was no mistaking her meaning. His hands held her hips as their bodies moved in time with the hypnotic sound of the water lapping against the rocks. She clung to him desperately and his eyes closed relishing the way her flesh felt against him. His heart thudded erratically against his chest, wanting more of her. He sunk into her body over and over again until the heady rush of pleasure ignited as she spiraled up and over, taking him with her.

His mouth found hers again and his fingers slid into her hair, bringing her closer as he plundered her lips with a kiss that was sure to reach her soul.

His eyes opened and he looked at her with a satisfied smile. “You are a goddess.”

Her mouth pressed against the pulse in his neck. “Aye, I know.” Her seductive voice caressed him.

He could feel himself hardening inside of her again.

She pulled away to look at him in surprise. “My you’re a generous lover.”

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It might be selfishness on my part. It’s been a long time.”

Her gaze met his with a mischievous gleam. “You were strong and determined on the field today, my warrior.” Her hand slid down his back, bringing every nerve ending to life. “As a reward, I’m honor bound to serve you this night.”

God, if he had died, then this was indeed heaven.

Chapter Five

Centuries had come and gone with her never finding a worthy partner. Trey Brennan had proved a surprise. She gave herself freely and he in turn had been a generous lover, catering to her needs with pleasure. She was a goddess and men worshiped her for many reasons, but Trey had treated her as a woman.

He slept soundly now, his breath slow and even as it should be in slumber. His body needed rest and time to rejuvenate. The hot spring’s magical properties had healed and mended his body in this realm, erasing the effects of the rigorous training he had endured yesterday. His skin was smooth and unblemished and when he awakened his muscles would feel worked but not worn.

Lying on her back, her gaze turned toward the window where she could see the silvery light as it broke through the thick cover of darkness. The new day dawned and her warrior would have to battle once more.

“You’re awake.” His deep voice was rough from sleep.

She turned toward him with a smile touching her lips. His hair was in disarray, standing on end with strands falling over his brow. Exquisite perfection with just a touch of wildness is how she liked her men and Trey Brennan was all that and more. “Aye. You have a long day ahead of you. Today you must learn the art of wielding a sword and …” she trailed off, wondering if she should teach him what she had taught Cú Chulainn. He seemed worthy or was her mind clouded by their love play? Trey may be a man, but he loved like a god. He used her body for his pleasure as well as gave it, and she had been the one to tire first, not him.

He moved to his side, sitting up and resting his head on the palm of his hand. His gaze held hers. “I must be honest. I have never used a weapon of any kind.”

She lifted his free arm, gliding her hand down the length of it, from shoulder to wrist, caressing the taunt muscles. “Your limbs were made to hold a sword. As we speak, one is already being fashioned for you. You will need to master the use of the weapon for the final battle.”

He pulled his hand away. “You keep mentioning this final battle. No matter what you think, I’m not a warrior. I’m just a man.”

It amazed her how Trey had impacted her resolve to save him. She wasn’t just doing this for the little boy who had prayed for her help. She was doing this for her, too. Trey’s smile, his gentle touch and aye, his fierce fighting instincts had seeped into her heart, making her more than determined to see he won the fight.

“Aye, you are a man, but you must become the warrior to win. It’s the only way you’ll survive.”

Confusion darkened the color of his expression and he sat up in bed, leaning against the back frame.

“What’s wrong?”

“For a moment I forgot that this was only a dream. You talk about me becoming a warrior and fighting a battle, but in reality I’m dying, aren’t I?” His amber eyes sought hers for the truth. “The fight you speak of is the fight for my life. Isn’t that right?”

She wouldn’t lie to him, but it didn’t make it easier to tell him the truth with the ache that settled behind her heart. He would survive or he would not. She screamed silently at the injustice of it all. Trey had a good soul, a man who would make a difference in the world and there was a little boy who still needed him. Death could not have him. She pursed her lips together, forging a plan in her mind. She would do it. She would teach him how to use the deadly barbed spear she had given to Cú Chulainn. Trey would not dishonor the weapon and would use it well. “Your nephew prayed to me,” she told him.

“Joey? He prayed to you?” Bewilderment clouded his features and she could see the wheels working as he tried to wrap some sense around what she told him.

She nodded. “The boy loves you and feared you had given up.”

He closed his eyes with a sigh. “I heard the doctors talking when they believed I slept.” He chuckled then without mirth. “I’m not a fool. I’ve slipped into a coma, and this is all a dream, a lovely, lovely dream.” His gaze met hers, wanting the truth from her. “The doctors believe there isn’t any more they can do for me.”

Words could cut like a knife as easily as a sword could cut through flesh. The doctors had given up on him. No wonder he had considered welcoming death. She sat up, too and reached for his hand, surprised at how tiny her own hand felt in his. “You can fight this. You can win.” She spoke with determination, trying to evoke hope in him.

He shook his head, his eyes looking achingly vulnerable.

“Listen to me,” she demanded. “You can win. I am Scáthach, the Warrior Goddess and I do not train men without worth.”

Chapter Six

She didn’t train men without worth. Her clear melodic voice demanded him to hear her words and obey them. The thing was: He didn’t know if any of this was real. Scáthach insisted there were many realms of existence and the Isle of the Mist was one such place. He’d love to believe her, but there could be another explanation. One, he wasn’t particularly fond of, but it proved more logical. His fever-racked brain had retreated to a safe part in his subconscious and planned on waiting it out in this fantasy of warrior meets goddess. This couldn’t last forever though. His body would finally give up. He never thought of himself as having such a vivid imagination, but who knew what kinds of drugs were being pumped through his veins. This could be a side effect.

Some side effect, too. Taking a trip to the magical Dú Scáith of Alba and making love to a demanding goddess who insisted he had the heart of a warrior—yep, it was one hell of a fantasy.

He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration then stopped. “What the hell?” His nose was broken yesterday and hurt like the devil. He gingerly felt his nose, expecting to feel pain but there was none. “The spring.” She told him the waters would heal him. He hadn’t thought literally. He lifted his shirt and stared at his torso, feeling his ribs where a nasty blue and purple bruise had been, but only smooth unmarred skin met his eyes. He hadn’t noticed last night, but then again he had been preoccupied. He pursed his lips together. “Of course you’re healed, dimwit. This is a dream.” He said the words, but he didn’t believe them wholeheartedly. Somehow this was all too real. “I will have to fight for my life.” The realization of what was happening finally dawned on him. A quick assessment of what he would fight told him he might not come out the victor.

He took a deep breath against the panic that threatened to take over. “Do you want to live, Brennan?” he asked himself. The answer was simple: yes. Hope was in his reach and he’d be damned if he didn’t take it.”

He grabbed his sword and went out to find Scáthach.

She stood waiting for him in the courtyard dressed to kill figuratively and literally. Her long legs slightly apart and her hands were on her hips. She lifted her chin and gave him a blue-eyed stare of approval. Then she leaned down and picked up a weapon. It appeared to be a long barbed spear. One direct hit with a weapon like that would prove deadly. “This is my creation, the Gáe Bulg,” she told him with pride.

He knew his Irish legends. Scáthach had only taught Cú Chulainn the technique of using the spear and he had defeated Ferdiad in a final battle with it. Some believed the Gáe Bulg was made from the bone of a sea monster. Seeing the weapon for himself, he could well believe it had been. The barbs, ivory in color were long and jagged, a weapon that would tear its way into the flesh, slicing muscle and severing arteries on its way. His gaze sought hers. “Why are you showing me this?”

“Why you ask?” She shook her head with a smile. “I plan on teaching you its secret, Trey Brennan.”

She didn’t just hand over the infamous weapon. He would first have to prove he could handle it properly without spearing himself by accident. She was ruthless in her teaching, taking him down again and again, but he would force himself to his feet each and every time.

Today, they worked with rods, four feet in length. He was trying to deflect the blows but she was too quick. His forearms would be black and blue by the time they were ready to call it a day.

“You aren’t trying,” she accused. “Concentrate.”

“I am concentrating.” His response was curt and delivered with a bitter tone of resentment.

She shook her head and came at him as a stalker goes after its prey.

“This is bullshit!” he screamed at her, frustrated that he couldn’t defeat her.

“Stop thinking of me as a woman, Trey. You must believe I am the enemy. I will destroy you. Do you hear me? I want your head on a stake, your entrails pulled from your gut, and your heart bleeding in my hands. See the enemy’s vile face, not mine standing before you. Take the bastard down.”

His eyes narrowed with determination and this time he was ready. The rods slammed into each other with a whacking noise that vibrated throughout his entire body. He turned the battle around. He was no longer the prey but the one stalking, giving her what she’d been giving him all day long. Pounding away, making her retreat. Damn, it felt good. He brought the rod down and up, relieving her of her weapon. He pointed the rod at her throat. If it had been a real sword and this a genuine fight, she would be dead now.

Her eyes widened in surprise. Then her lips curved into a smile. “Well done, warrior.”

He lowered the rod and relaxed his stance. “Why is it that I’m out of breath and you haven’t even broken a sweat?”

“I’m a goddess,” she said with indignation.

He chuckled and gave her an elaborate bow. “So you are.”

She joined him in laughter, but then fell serious again. “I will show you how to use the Gáe Bulg. You will do me proud, Trey Brennan.”

Her gaze held him in high esteem and he said a silent prayer that he would not disappoint her.

Chapter Seven

Brutal practice, long soothing baths in the spring and making love to a goddess every night—a man could get used to this. However, all good things must come to an end.

“It’s time,” Scáthach announced as she gazed out the window. The thin wrap draped around her fell low on her back, exposing the vibrant tattoo she bore of the mythical creature the dragon. The wings spread across her shoulder blades in shades of orange, red and yellow, the tail feathering down her back and disappearing below the garment. He bore a similar tattoo on his shoulder, one she burned into his skin with a touch of her hand.

The legend of the mythical creature mesmerized him. The dragon was one of the fiercest creatures in the Celtic culture. The dragon represented the creation. Powerful in size, it had the capacity to go beyond the land and sky because it could fly. No one could stand against its fierceness.

After they made love last night, Scáthach rested on her stomach, giving him full view of her backside. His fingers caressed the lines of the design with reverence. She told him his destiny paralleled the dragon’s fate. She bore the symbol, too in hopes of giving him strength. You will be triumphant. You are the dragon. Her words still echoed in his mind with renewed hope.

“How do you know it’s time?” His curiosity won out. Was it in the clouds billowing across the blue of the sky? Had a bird whispered the news to her?

She turned her gaze to him. “The wind has changed directions.”

Aah of course. He hadn’t thought of that one. “Come back to bed.” He lifted the covers in invitation. He didn’t want to fight. He’d much rather make love to her, kissing her where he knew she liked.

She smiled almost sadly. “No. Our time has come to an end. You will have to make your stand today.

He gave her a brief smile with a shrug of his shoulders. “A man has to try doesn’t he?”

“Oh aye. I would be disappointed if you did not.”

* * * *

The smell of heather and the sea air hit his nostrils as he strolled to meet his destiny. The mist that usually shrouded the island stood back, low to the ground and encircling them as if it were making room for the battle. The sun had risen high in the sky, but the clouds had thickened, threatening rain and the wind whipped around him like a tease of what the storm would entail.

On the crest above them, the enemy stood dressed in black, large and threatening as a storm preparing to let loose.

Sweat poured down Trey’s back and he felt the blood drain from his face. This was it, the final battle that would determine if he lived or died.

There was one good thing about all this. It would be over. No more struggling to draw in each breath. No more worrying about Joey and his welfare. One way or the other, the fight would finally come to an end.

Scáthach strode over to him with her hair tied back away from her face, giving her features a-don’t-mess-with-me-look. She stood tall and regal like the goddess that she was. She was so beautiful it took his breath away. “Are you ready?” she asked.

He supposed he was as ready as he would ever be. “Yes.”

She gave him a curt nod. “You will win this.”

He was glad someone thought he could. He glanced at the foreboding figure on the hill; waiting to cut his head off by the way he gripped his broad sword with glee. He gulped back the fear that threatened to break loose and pulled back his shoulders, standing tall. Then he went out to meet the enemy, his weapon in his hand.

As he drew closer, he saw the enemy wore a tattoo on his scalp in place of hair. If he remembered his Celtic symbols, the twin spirals at the crown signified something similar to the yin and yang in the Chinese culture. At the base there was the awen aka, the three rays representing the light seen at the point of death. The right ray would symbolize the masculine and the left the feminine. The central was the mediator, the balance—again the ying and yang. There always had to be balance—good and evil as well as life and death. If he survived this battle, he’d live and if he lost—death. Was the enemy the disease that threatened to take over his body? A part of him believed it to be true.

Standing in front of the enemy now, the hideous face spread into a wide smile as if reading his mind. Darkened stubs of what were once teeth filled the foul mouth. His garments were dark and fur laden as seemed to be the trend in this world. One scar was evident down the length of his face, starting at his eye and ending at the point of his chin. His eyes were dark, an endless pool of inky blackness.

Trey touched the hilt of his sword and felt comfort in having the cold steel at his side.

The enemy took his stance with his sword held out in front of him with the point aimed at Trey’s eyes.

Trey responded in kind. He gripped the sword with one hand above the cross-like T of the sword. With his other hand, he gripped near the pommel so to be able to grasp the blade if he needed to defend himself from heavy blows. He lifted the sword high, with the point aimed at the enemy’s eyes. Fair was fair, if the enemy planned on impaling his brain, he had no problem returning the favor.

Each had their gaze locked on the other’s moves as they circled one another. Trey knew he had to find a weakness to win. He would then call upon the Gáe Bulg, the barbed spear and drive it into the enemy’s heart.

Trey couldn’t stand the suspense. He made the first move, going for the enemy’s left leg right above the knee, swinging the sword around and down with the intent of immobilizing him. The enemy side stepped to the right, blocking the blow with his sword. His guttural chuckle of amusement rang through the air as he took his sword and swung it clockwise, making a cut on Trey’s leg right above the knee before he had a chance to side step. The slice stung like the devil, but it wasn’t a deep enough cut to cause any permanent damage.

They backed off and circled again. Sweat glistened on Trey’s brow and he felt the droplets trickle down his face. “Focus, Brennan,” he coaxed under his breath. He could ill afford making another rash mistake if he wanted to succeed in taking the bastard down.

“I thought you’d be a challenge,” the enemy said, his voice gravelly and deep but spoken with a precise manner of politeness, which seemed a contradiction to the severity of their swordplay.

Trey didn’t acknowledge his comment but attacked again, swinging the sword toward the enemy’s head, passing to his left and around as he did so. The cold steel sliced through the air, but before making contact, the enemy sensed his move and side stepped to the right, making a sloping parry by angling his sword across and downwards protecting his head. The enemy swung his sword to the left, forcing Trey to bring his blade up to defend the blow.

Trey backed up. He lowered the sword, saving his energy while he waited for the enemy to make his move. His breath was labored and his leg hurt, throbbing in time with the beat of his heart.

“You will not survive,” the enemy predicted. “You should bow down now and let me end your misery. I shall make it fast. One slice to the neck.” He slid his forefinger across his neck in imitation of his intent.

“Never.” Screw waiting for the enemy to make a move. At this rate he would talk him to death. Trey lifted his sword and went after him with vengeance, but the enemy blocked him at every turn as if he mirrored his moves. Metal against metal sparked like lightning as the swords connected. Trey began to weaken. The enemy’s blows vibrated down his arm until he thought he’d lose the sword all together. The weapon felt like lead in his hands and his limbs moved as if trudging through mud.

The evil smile seemed frozen on the enemy’s face. “You are no threat to me, Trey Brennan. You cannot win this fight. Give up.”

“No.” Trey had lowered his sword and barely missed being sliced in two as the blade whipped across his stomach, leaving a nice thin cut like a brand. It was only a flesh wound, but deep enough to remind him of his mortality. Clutching his side he wavered on his feet before tumbling to the ground. He wiped the sweat away from his eyes and tried to rise, but his feet wouldn’t obey.

“It’s over.” The enemy raised his sword.

Trey managed to get to his knees. He wouldn’t die lying down. He’d meet death on his feet. His vision caught a movement behind the enemy and fear gripped him. “Scáthach, no!” he shouted his warning as the enemy whirled around to fight her, already sensing her presence.

“You will not take my warrior.” Her voice commanded with authority, fully expecting the enemy to comply.

“Your warrior,” he mocked. “He is not yours. You cannot keep him like a pet, Scáthach.” He swung his sword, but Scáthach parried with ease.

Trey looked down at his feet where the Gáe Bulg appeared the moment Scáthach did, but this wasn’t the way it was suppose to be. Scáthach wasn’t supposed to put herself in danger. This was his fight.

The enemy swung his sword up and around, hooking Scáthach’s sword and flinging it from her grip. He had to move or the enemy would kill her.

As the enemy raised his sword to take his beloved Scáthach’s head, he also raised the Gáe Bulg, bringing it down and using it like a javelin, spearing the enemy just below the ribs before shoving it deeper with an upward thrust. The enemy bellowed as the barbs opened inside of him, cutting away and severing as it forged its way into his heart. The dark eyes of his enemy focused on him with hatred before glazing over. Death took him before he hit the ground.

Scáthach looked up at Trey, her blue eyes sparkling with approval. “You did it. You defeated the enemy.”

Trey offered his hand to her. “You were not supposed to be in the midst of the fight. You could have been killed.”

“Are you reprimanding me, warrior?”

It seemed wrong to reprimand a goddess, but damn it any way. “Yes.” He pulled her to him and crushed his mouth to hers, kissing her like there was no tomorrow.

She reluctantly pulled away, her hand on his chest.

“No.” He tried to pull her to him once more, but she was persistent.

“You will have to go now.”

“Go? Why? I won. Shouldn’t I be able to claim the fair maiden?” His voice teased, but he was serious. He wouldn’t give her up so easily.

Her lips curved. “Oh, aye my warrior. If it is your wish, you have the right to claim the fair maiden.” She touched the spiral Celtic symbols on her gold band that she wore on her arm. He remembered now what the symbols represented: Links to other worlds. She was sending him home.

“Scáthach don’t.” He closed his eyes to block out the pain. He felt like every molecule in his body was splitting apart. Did he escape death only to succumb to this?

“Don’t fight it.” Scáthach’s voice drifted toward him like a caress, a farewell kiss before all went black.

Chapter Eight

Every bone in his body ached as if someone had beaten him to a bloody pulp and left him for dead. Sleep seemed the best course of escape, but he forced himself to open his eyes. Deep brown irises stared at him unblinkingly. “Joey?”

“Uncle Trey, you’re awake. The doctors said you’d be waking up soon, but they didn’t always think you would. They thought you were a goner a few days ago.”

Leave it to his nephew to say it like it was. “I fought.” His voice sounded rough from lack of use.

“Scáthach did it,” Joey said in breathless wonder. “I saw the prayer in the book you gave me about Celtic Gods and Goddesses.” He ran over to the chair and brought back the book to show him. “Your doctor told me your body was in a battle, fighting to make you well.”

A nurse strode in with a cart to monitor his vitals. “Oh, you’re awake. Good.”

“Scáthach,” Trey mumbled, remembering the dream. It was a dream, wasn’t it? He frowned. She’d made him a warrior and he had fought. “I feel like crap. Did I win the fight or not?” he asked the nurse.

She chuckled. “You won. Dr. Laine said the tests came back and everything looked great. You’re going to be fine. You should be going home by the end of the week.”

“Uncle Trey, did she make you a warrior?” Joey asked.

“I…” he didn’t know what to say. He remembered the training and Scáthach, the beautiful goddess who had helped him.

“If anyone qualifies as being a warrior, your uncle does,” the nurse told Joey. “He’s a real miracle and you don’t get to see that every day.”

* * * *

Later on, Joey had gone home with his friend, Christopher. His parents were good enough to let Joey stay with them while he was in the hospital. Thank goodness for nice people. Trey slept, only waking when a nurse would come in to check his vitals. He would then drift off to sleep with ease once more.

In the morning he felt well enough to join some of the other long-termed patients in the lounge. The room had tables, and a flat screen television set on caption so as not to disturb those who wished to play cards or just talk.

Jenna, his nurse for the day wheeled him down the hall toward the lounge, chatting all the way. “There’s a patient here who came out of a coma after being in one for six months. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “The weird thing is when she woke up, she asked for you. What are the odds that you two would know each other?”

Trey turned in his seat to peer at her. “This woman knows me?”

“Yes, I thought you would like to chat with her. Here she is.”

“Who did you say she was?” Before Jenna could answer she had wheeled him around to face the woman who had awakened with his name on her lips. His breath caught in his throat. “Scáthach?”

“My warrior,” she greeted him.

They spoke at the same time and laughed.

“I’ll let you two catch up,” the nurse said and left them.

Trey stared at this woman before him. He couldn’t help it. The light from the window beamed down on her raven strands of hair, making them shimmer with cinnamon, russet, and red amber. His gaze took in her beautiful face with those kissable lips. “It is you.”

Her brows puckered. “You called me Scáthach. My name is Skye. Do we know each other?”

Now it was his turn to be confused. “I thought you knew me. The nurse said…”

Her face turned a nice shade of pink. “I dreamt about you. I knew your name.” She cleared her throat. “You were a warrior and…”

“And you were Scáthach,” he finished for her.

Her blush deepened. “It wasn’t a dream, was it? You were there. We fought with swords and we made…” Her eyes widened as she obviously remembered those wonderful other things they’d done.

He didn’t pretend to understand what this all meant. Maybe in another realm she was a goddess and he was her warrior. Together, they had conquered the enemy, making them well and whole again. However, they were in this world and goddesses and warriors of legends weren’t real. Or were they? It was all in the eye of the beholder, he supposed.

“Let’s start over. Let me introduce myself. I’m Trey Brennan.” He held out his hand.

“I’m Skye Alba.” Her hand slipped into his, warm and soft. Her blue-eyed gaze met his, and anticipation thickened the air. He knew with all certainty they had the promise of tomorrows within their grasp.

The End

The Devil's Wolf

Chapter One

15th Century Scottish Border

“The Johnstones took Archie!”

Waylon Maxwell heard shouts and turned, spotting Reid Halliday, with his fiery locks whipping behind him, as he ran down the hill. “He’s been taken, I say,” Reid shouted again.

Waylon left one of his men to secure the livestock they managed to secret away from the Armstrongs. The herd would be safe within the hollow of the four hills of Devil’s Beef Tub, but he didn’t want the creatures wandering off.

“Say ye, cousin. What are ye shouting aboot?” He met Reid halfway.

“Archie’s been accused of killing Two-left Feet, Billy Johnstone over a lass. The Johnstones plan on making an example of Archie. They bound him and dragged him off to Lochwood forest.”

Waylon pursed his lips together in frustration. “A damn fool my brother is,” he grumbled. “I told him time and time again no’ to let his roving eye wander far. Blessed saints, a Johnstone lass of all things. Doesnae the young fool know there’s a feud between us?”

Reid sighed. “When it comes to the heart, Archie tends to forget who is the enemy.”

“Ach! What nonsense. Archie’s love consists of a quick lift of the lass’ skirt.”

“Maybe, but he only takes what a lass offers.”

Waylon frowned at Reid’s poor excuses to defend his brother. Archie inherited the Maxwell's dark looks and devilish grey eyes, but throw in the carefree way Archie had about him and the lassies went wild with want to be near him. His brother’s lighthearted ways proved a damn nuisance more times than not.

“Are we going to give a counter attack?” Reid looked ready to lift his sword to defend his brother. He only had to say the word.

“This isnae livestock. ’Tis my fool brother they’ve taken and they’ll have his head before the night is through. Archie killed a Johnstone, our enemy. I should leave Archie to face his crimes and be done with it.”

“But he dinnae kill Two-left Feet. The man tripped and hit his head on a rock. It was self inflicted suicide if ye ask me.”

Waylon rolled his eyes at his cousin’s logic. “And how is it ye know what happened?”

“Uh...uh... ye see–”

“Ye were there whoring alongside my brother, werenae ye?”

Hot waves of shame washed over Reid’s face, making him look like he was about to burst into flames. “I dinnae want him to go alone.”

“Of course ye dinnae.”

“The deed is done, Waylon. I am sorry for no’ having more sense, but we cannae let the Johntones torture Archie.” He shook his head. “If only I’d thought to capture a Johnstone so we could ransom Archie back.”

Waylon scrubbed his hand over his face in frustration, but then a thought occurred to him. Maybe Reid didn’t have such a bad idea. “We ride tonight.” He placed his forefinger and thumb between his lips and whistled two sharp shrills. His gallowway lifted his head and whinnied in response before it trotted over. The shaggy pony was nothing to look at, but he was sure-footed, loyal and fast—important factors for a reiver’s way of life.

“What plan do ye have spinning in yer head, Waylon?” Reid followed along side him.

“Kidnapping a Johnstone. With the laird secreting Archie away to the forest, Lochwood is vulnerable to a raid.”

“Aye and only a daughter to defend the pele tower.”

Waylon’s lips curved. “Aye, the daughter is who I have in mind to take. Easy pickin’s.” He turned toward his men of two hundred strong and announced his intentions. “We ride to Lochwood this night. A young lass needs our comfort.”

Reid's lips spread into a wide grin. “And what will ye do with the lass?”

“She can bow down to her new laird or suffer the consequences. I care no’ what she chooses. I will have her in my keep before the night is over and then we’ll see if William willnae negotiate Archie’s release.”

“Aye, his daughter for yer brother. The lass is William’s weakness. He dotes on her, giving her freedom most men would be wise no’ to give a young lass. Feisty, too she is, with hair as dark as night and eyes the color of the Scottish sea.”

“I care no’ of her attributes.” He took his pony’s reins, leading the beast behind him as he walked.

Reid kept pace easily beside him. “But mayhap ye should. Wouldnae it serve William right that ye made him kin?” Reid chuckled in jest.

Waylon stopped in his tracks and whirled on Reid, his sword drawn, the tip of it pointed at his cousin’s throat. “I have no wish to be tied down to any woman, be her a Johnstone or a Maxwell.”

Reid swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Aye, of course. I thought perhaps ye could see an end to the feuds. William willnae call us out if ye are married to his only child. And ye said time and time again that reiving will have to eventually stop.”

By the grace of blood Waylon was a reiver, but he hoped for more for his sons ... that is if he decided to take a wife. He fancied himself sitting near a roaring fire in his keep with his own livestock to tend to and not that of his neighbors’ in Devil’s Beef Tub.

He knew no other way of life, but he would at least like to have the opportunity to find out if he could make do. He was tired of bloodshed, the late nights, the hiding out in the cold night air. He’d like to try an honest life without a feuding clan breathing down his neck. Farming, trading with the Celts came to mind.

For the time being, the Johnstones demanded his attention and he would be forced to deal with them.

Waylon lowered his sword. “If the Johnstone wench is comely as they say, I may consider. What good are lands if I have no heir to leave them to when I’ve gone.” He chuckled and hit Reid on the back.

Reid held his own. He stood two inches shorter than Waylon’s six-three stance, but he out weighed the young laird by far. “’Tis true what they say aboot the lass.”

“Tell me more of what ye heard, cousin. I want all the details and we’ll need to find Heuy so he can earn his keep as March warden.”

Chapter Two

William Johnstone neared fifty years of age, but the graying hair didn’t portray a decrepit old man. He stood tall, trim with broad shoulders and muscled arms from wielding a sword for over forty of those years. He married young, loved with all his heart and grieved when his wife died of a fever, leaving him with a child to care for by himself. If Catrione had been a son, the situation would have been different. A son could fight beside him learn the trade of reiving, but a daughter he knew not what to do with her.

Catrione possessed his stubborn pride and she could hold her own in a sword fight. He saw to it that she could defend herself if he could not be there to do so. He gave her too much freedom and now he’d pay for his indulgence. She wanted to marry for love. He should have put his foot down, demanding she marry whom he deemed a good match. It baffled him still how he’d agreed to her terms before he realized he had done so. She had him wrapped around her finger and she used the advantage to obtain what she wanted. “I have to put her in her place. Aye, put my foot down and demand she listen to reason.”

“My laird?” Donal, his second, looked up from where he sat by the fire.

William waved his hand in dismissal. “Only thinking out loud.” He walked away and toward the prisoner. As much as he loved his daughter, he hated the Maxwells with the same passion. Archie Maxwell looked up as he approached. The dark-haired man with his boyish charm irritated him even more. The Maxwell pup thought he could wander onto his lands and take his women. Then kill his men and not be held accountable for his actions. Well, he would soon learn he couldn’t charm his way out of his clutches this time.

“Good eve, laird William.” The man had the gall to sound pleasant when he’d been tied up hand and foot. His mouth spread into a wide, even smile.

“You won’t be so cocky come tomorrow when we hang you.”

His smiled disappeared in what seemed a demure expression. “I dinnae realize I was being cocky. My apologies.” He nodded.

“What game do you play, Archie Maxwell?”

“No game. I have no wish to quarrel with ye or anyone for that matter. I am a lover no’ a fighter.”

“Aye, and your nether parts has put you in this situation. Perhaps you should have rethought your philosophy of life.”

“Never. To have a woman in my arms, kiss her, make love to her...” He sighed lost in his own reverie. “Perhaps it has been too long for ye, laird William, that ye’ve forgotten the feel of a woman beneath ye.”

William’s hand snaked out whacking Archie on the side of the head. The young man flew to the side unable to brace himself with his hands tied behind his back. William crouched down beside him satisfied to see the smirk wiped off Archie’s face. “You will pay for defiling a Johnstone.”

“My laird,” Donal walked up behind him.

“What is it?” William snapped.

“The March warden, Heuy Maxwell and his men are here to speak to you.”

William stared at Archie. “Don’t think we will negotiate for your release, whelp. I’ll see you dead before that happens.” He stood, leaving Archie to think about his fate.

Chapter Three

The shouts and screams of pain were deafening. Catrione paced her room, feeling helpless. She should be out there defending her home, her people. She stilled her movements when her door flew open and her priest entered.

"They have broken through our defenses, my lady Catrione,” Jon Luc, her priest, told her as he shut the door to her chambers. “Waylon Maxwell and his men, one hundred strong.”

“How did they hear of my cousin’s death so fast?”

“Word travels, my lady, when there is so much to gain. They took Waylon Maxwell’s brother, not cattle and this would not set well with him. It is the reivers way of life to retaliate.”

She knew the life well, lived it too. “Can we hold the Maxwells off until word reaches my father?”

“We’ve sent the best runner, but I fear your father is too far away. We are on our own and with half the men gone, we will not last the night.”

“We must try or die in the process.” Catrione strode to her trunk that sat at the end of her bed and threw open the lid. Moving a few gowns to the side, she pulled out a jac, inspecting the quilt, and hoping the three layers still covered the iron plates.

Jon Luc walked over to her, looking over her shoulder as she prepared. “What are you doing my lady?” Fear laced his words.

“I am preparing to receive our company.” She eyed him closely. “You’d be best to arm yourself also. They have no morals and your robe will not save you. Surely, you know this.”

“You cannot be thinking you will war with the Maxwells. You have heard the rumors.”

“Of Waylon Maxwell, nicknamed the Devil’s Wolf, who cares not who crosses his path? Oh, I am delighted I am to meet the blackguard so I may send him back to his maker in hell.” She pulled out the basket hilted broadsword and swung it.”

“Dear God in heaven.” Jon Luc made the sign of the cross. “You’re mad if you think I shall allow you to go up against such a man as the Devil’s Wolf.”

Catrione turned on him, pointing her sword. “Listen priest, you shall do what I command. When my father is absent, I am laird at Lochwood and I will protect it as such. Now leave my chambers at once so I may dress the part.”

Chapter Four

Castle Lochwood stood perched in upper Annandale, in the valley of the Annan River. The pele tower wasn’t heavily guarded since William of Lochwood believed Waylon would go after him to save Archie. The fool would rue this day.

Waylon sent Huey Maxwell, their March warden, with a small party to meet with William. Come tomorrow, Huey would have delivered his message: “I have yer daughter at Caerlaverock. If ye would like to see her alive, I suggest ye release Archie into Huey Maxwell’s hands.” Waylon wished he could see William’s face when Heuy read the proclamation.

Waylon made his rounds making sure the pele tower was secured. The people of Castle Lochwood put up a good fight, but in the end Waylon’s men had proved too many for them to handle.

“We have secured the post, but we have yet to find lady Catrione,” Reid informed him as he took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Unless the lady has the ability to make herself invisible, she is here. I suggest ye find her.” Waylon knew his response was delivered in a curt manner, but it irked him that his men couldn’t find one hapless lass.

“Aye, we’ll find her, mi’laird.”

Waylon was about to turn away, but Reid cleared his throat, drawing his attention. “What is it? Say what ye must and be quick aboot it.”

“We are secure where it matters, but there is still the chapel.”

“The chapel?”

“Aye. In the courtyard, ye may have seen the squared off building—”

“Fine, fine, the chapel. What aboot it?”

“There is a young warrior and a priest who refuse to surrender.”

“Then make them.” He waved his hand in dismissal.

“Uh…Some of the men are reluctant to cut a man down in—”

“In what? Ye try my patience Reid.”

“The chapel is sacred ground, mi’laird.”

Waylon made a growling sound in the back of his throat and his eyelids fluttered as he tried to muster restraint. “I’ll take care of the matter myself.” He stormed out into the courtyard and to the pathetic building masquerading as the chapel. Without pause, he threw open the wood doors.

His gaze swept the room of wood benches arranged in two rows. An altar sat as the focal point of the room with a small crucifix displayed upon it. He spotted the old priest, frail and hunched over, already looking defeated despite his attempt at bravery. Waylon’s gaze shifted to the skinny lad standing beside the priest. The youth wore a helmet that nearly covered is face, leaving only his smooth hairless chin as witness to his age. Waylon had to give the lad credit. He stood tall and held his sword like a fearless warrior. Waylon would loathe having to kill him, but if the lad forced his hand there could be no other way.

“Come now lad, the fight’s over,” he coaxed.

The priest's hunched shoulders sagged further and he dropped the dagger he gripped in his hand, but the lad refused to be intimidated.

“It’ll never be over until every last one of you is dead.” He waved his sword in the air as he spewed his threat.

Waylon’s brows lifted. The lad’s voice hadn’t even changed, but it still rumbled like a distant thunder.

“Brave words, I do say, but all within the keep has laid down their weapons.”

The lad hesitated, but then straightened his back. “You lie.”

“Now why would I?” He moved forward with careful steps. He didn’t believe the priest would interfere, but he sensed the lad was unpredictable. “Come now, put down yer sword so we may talk freely.”

“Talk? Do you think I do not know who you are?”

“Who is it ye think I am?”

“The Devil’s Wolf.” He spat on the ground. “You slay all in your path and eat the young for breakfast.”

If the situation wasn’t so grim, he may have laughed. He had heard the rumors, but had ignored them. It was better the enemy feared what they thought he could do than know the truth. “Now, now, is that any way to greet yer new laird?”

“I will never swear fealty to you.”

“Nay? We will have to see aboot that.” He lunged forward, but the lad anticipated his move and blocked it with one of his own.

Waylon was impressed. He had underestimated the lad. He thought to disarm him and be done with this charade. “So ye insist on playing, do ye?” Waylon would participate in the lad’s game for a while, but in the end he would win. They paced, each sizing up the other. Out of curiosity to see what the youth had in him, Waylon would allow the lad to make the next move.

He didn’t make Waylon wait for long. He leaped forward swinging viciously, his sword slicing the air with vengeance. Waylon was forced to retreat as he defended himself from each blow. The look in the lad’s eyes told Waylon his intent. The lad wished to kill him. Waylon swung his sword sending the insolent child back.

The lad jumped onto the wood bench giving him height and an advantage as their swords clanged together. The lad was light on his feet and agile as a cat. Waylon would have to work to put an end to this.

“Come now, ye tire,” Waylon spoke to distract.

“It is you who tires, Devil’s Wolf.” The boy swung his sword again with ferocious intent.

Waylon barely deflected the blow. His eyes narrowed. “Enough! Ye will end this now or I will.”

“Hah! We’ll see who ends what.” And he came after him again.

Waylon backed up blocking every swing feeling the jolt up his arm. Whoever taught this lad to fight was good. If the lad lived long enough, he’d make a fine warrior. The lad swung again, the tip of the sword sliced through Waylon’s leather jacket hitting flesh.

The lad gasped in shock and stepped back.

Waylon glanced at blood oozing from the cut, a flesh wound only. His pride stung more for allowing the youth to take him unawares. “Now ye’ve done it.” Waylon leveled his gaze on the lad. “We are done here.” He charged the lad, lashing out mercilessly. The lad was wearing down, but he refused to surrender. With swirl of Waylon’s sword he swung up, flipping the weapon from the lad’s grip and pushing him down. Waylon was upon him, his sword at the lad’s throat.

“Stop!” the priest shouted, running forward. “Please, I beg of you do not kill her.”

“Waylon’s gaze riveted to the priest. “What say ye? Her?”

“Do not listen to the old man. He is senile,” the lad claimed. “Do what you must and be done with it. Slit my throat. I am ready to die an honorable death.”

“No, I say,” the priest begged. “Forgive me, my lady.” His gaze turned toward the lad. “I cannot stand by and see you slain.”

“Mi’lady!” Waylon took hold of the helmet that hid the lad’s face and yanked it off his head.

Waves of dark tresses came tumbling out and wide sea-green eyes met his with alarm.

Waylon’s mouth dropped open. He had been about to slash the throat of a mere lass. “By all that is holy, are ye mad?” He yanked her to her feet. His gaze took in the length of her and he reprimanded himself for being so blind. Every curve stood out now that he knew the truth. He pursed his lips together. “The lady Catrione, I presume?”

She refused to answer and Waylon turned to the priest for confirmation.

“Aye, she is the lady of Lochwood.” He bowed his head.

Reid entered the church as the priest made the introduction. “Mi’laird...” He stopped dead in his tracks lowering his sword. “Where is the lad?”

“There was never a lad.” He pushed Catrione away from him, disgusted with her attempt to deceive him. “Take her. Bound her if ye must. but I want to ride now!”

“But mi’laird—”

Waylon’s fierce glare silenced him.

“Aye, right away.”

Waylon stormed out of the chapel without a backward glance. By the saints, he could have killed the fool lass, slain her before he’d known. He pulled off his helmet and ran his hand through his hair. To imagine, he’d considered taking this hellcat for his wife. He must be dimwitted to even consider such a ploy.

Then he remembered how fearless Catrione stood in the chapel, waiting to face her enemy. Braver men cowered beneath his gaze, but she confronted him with courage befitting a warrior. He wasn’t sure how he felt about a woman who could swing a broadsword with ease.

“Unhand me, you insolent mongrel!” Catrione screamed her grievances, adding a few more colorful words to describe Reid.

Waylon leveled his gaze on Catrione. Her feet dug into the ground and her free hand pounded into Reid’s arm. His man’s grip held firm and he continued to drag her behind him.

Waylon looked skyward. “What have I gotten myself into?”

Chapter Five

Catrione fought to be free of Reid. She would not allow a Maxwell to kidnap her. God only knew what they would do to her. She would rather face death than be defiled by her worst enemy. She sank her teeth into her captor’s arm.

Reid let out a curse and released her.

She spun on her heels and ran headlong into the devil himself.

“Going somewhere?” Waylon gripped her shoulders. “If I dinnae know better, I’d think ye dinnae care for my company.”

She met his gaze and inhaled sharply. His eyes were gray as a winter storm and just as cold. She could only contemplate what he had planned for her and she had a vivid imagination. “Let me go and I’ll speak in your behalf to my father. Perhaps he will not sever your head from your shoulders.”

“That’s verra generous of ye.”

“Aye, it is.” She thought he would let her go, but the brute ignored her plea. He gripped her hand and headed for his mount. “You must leave me here.” She fought to be free of his grip, but it was like a steel vise.

“Oh, I think no’, mi’lady. Ye will come with me.”

“I don’t understand. Why do you do this? Surely you know it will end badly for you.”

He stopped suddenly causing her to collide into him. He steadied her and his gaze pinned her down. “Yer father took my brother as hostage. To play his game, I thought it wise to have a hostage of my own.”

“This is not but a game to you?” she screeched. How she despised her father’s endeavors. Fighting, stealing, cheating, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Keep your petty feuding between the men and leave me out of it.”

“I’m sorry to say, I cannae do that. Ye will come with me quietly or...”

“Or what?” She poked him in the chest with her free hand. “Or what you bloody barbarian?”

He didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer, but yanked her forward the rest of the way to his mount. She tried to drag her heels, but the man was made of steel determination and won in the end despite her efforts of clawing at him.

She should have known the Devil’s Wolf wouldn’t feel pain.

He lifted her as if she were no heavier than a bundle of heather. She tried to jump back down, but the man seemed to read her mind on every move and kept her within his grasp. There had to be a way to escape. Her gaze riveted to the bare flesh exposed at his wrist. She lunged forward and bit hard. She took great glee when the wolf yelled. Her triumph proved short lived as he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. Tears sprang to her eyes. He shook her, forcing her to look up at him.

“Ye do that again and I’ll bite ye back. I swear, I will.” He snapped his jaws at her and she flinched expecting his teeth to sink into her flesh.

“My laird! My laird!”

Waylon glanced at Jon Luc who ran toward them, but his firm grip on her didn’t lessen. “What is it, priest? Do no’ try my patience.”

“Please, I pray you will let me come with you. For my lady’s sake,” he added.

Waylon looked ready to refuse.

“I will help to keep my lady in line.”

Catrione opened her mouth to scream then bit down on her lips as she realized the priest might be her only salvation, her chance for escape. She stopped struggling and held her breath as she waited.

Waylon narrowed his eyes at her and loosened his grip on her hair, but she knew by all means he’d grab her again if she made a wrong move.

“So be it,” Waylon said. He glanced at the red-haired man standing to his right, the brute who had dragged her out of the church. “Reid, take care of the priest. He goes with us.”

“Aye, Mi’laird.”

Reid, she’d remember his name and make him pay for working with the Devil’s Wolf.

“What are ye planning, my wee lassie?” Waylon’s deep voice startled her out of her dreams of revenge. He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand and she jerked away.

“Your demise,” she spat.

He irked her further by throwing back his head and roaring with laughter.

Chapter Six

“He did what?” William shot to his feet, his bellow silencing the camp.

Heuy waited for William to gain control before he repeated the proclamation. “Waylon Maxwell will gladly meet with you to discuss a trade. Your daughter for his brother, Archie.”

William fumed, pacing in frustration and berating himself for being the fool. He never imagined the Devil’s Wolf would retaliate by stealing his daughter away. If he had, he would have waited at home for his bold arrival, and sliced the man in two for daring to make such an attempt.

Jaime, the Johnstone’s March warden spoke up. “Do you wish to meet and settle this matter?”

He whirled on the March wardens, both standing there and spewing words as if they meant nothing more than how his day fared. “Aye, you imbeciles. He took my daughter. I want her back. So help me if he has touched one hair on her head, I will cut him to pieces, slow and long until he screams for me to end it. Then I’ll feed his remains to the wolves.”

“That reminds me. There is one more request,” Heuy, the Maxwell’s March warden spoke as if he hadn’t heard William’s tirade.

“What more could there possibly be?”

“The Devil’s Wolf wants his brother treated as he would treat your daughter. If Archie is harmed in anyway, your daughter will suffer the consequences.”

William felt the heat boil in his veins and he clenched his hands into a fist. “Leave!” William pointed behind him. “Leave this instant before I forget ye are only the wolf’s messenger.”

Heuy bowed. “As you wish.” He turned and left with the other Maxwells who had accompanied him.

William looked over to Donel. “He took my daughter. It is my fault. I left Catrione unprotected.”

“No one would have thought the Devil’s Wolf would be so bold.”

William rubbed his face in frustration. He should have married Catrione off years ago. If he had, he wouldn’t be worrying about her now. He looked over to where Archie Maxwell sat against the tree.

The son of the devil had the nerve to smile. “I never thought my brother would steal a lass.” Archie chuckled as if he were tickled over his brother’s ploy. “Once he sees the fair Catrione, it’ll be over for him.”

“What are you nattering about, fool?”

“Love, laird William. Love always wins. Love is the aphrodisiac for the soul, making it come alive. It’s magical, giving us the chance to become immortal.”

“Pray tell how in God’s name does love make us immortal?”

Archie’s lips curved wider. “Children. Within them, a part of us lives forever.”

“Do not speak more! Will someone gag him?” He pointed a finger at Archie. “I’ve heard enough from the blathering imbecile for one night.”

Chapter Seven

Castle Caerlaverock stood tall with the huge gatehouse near the Solway Firth. The equilateral triangle of stone impressed Catrione. The Maxwells may be barbarians, but they were cunning as well. They forged a broad moat to keep the enemy out and with the east tower and the south curtain wall, they would have the advantage of spotting an approaching raid party.

Catrione knew there was no escape, but still she held onto the hope her father would come for her and end the miserable wolf’s life.

Waylon Maxwell was a barbarian, of the worst kind. Kidnapping a defenseless woman proved the worst offense. Well, maybe she wasn’t completely defenseless, but that was beside the point. The Devil’s Wolf hadn’t known she could defend herself when he came to claim her.

She thought back to when she first laid eyes on him. Holy mother, he had set her knees shaking when he burst into the chapel demanding she throw down her weapon. She knew him to be a fierce warrior who had battled much. She heard her father’s men talk. The Devil’s Wolf came with blood on his hands. He appeared invincible, like a god come down to wreak vengeance. When he leveled his stormy gray eyes on her, she feared fire would spew from their depths, eliminating her where she stood.

A chill ran through her even now at how his thunderous stance made her quake.

In the chapel, when he discovered he fought a woman, his gaze turned murderous at her deceit. His hand gripped the sword tighter as if he readied for the deathblow, but something curious shifted in his gaze. However, before she could decipher the meaning, his hand seized her arm. He shoved her at one of his men as if she were nothing more than plunder acquired from his reiving. “Reid Halliday,” she uttered the man’s name beneath her breath like a curse. His hair matched his given name, red as a fire’s flame. He will suffer at her father’s hand along with the Devil’s Wolf.

As soon as they arrived at Castle Caerlaverock, the Devil’s Wolf dismounted and dragged her along behind him. The Devil’s Wolf ordered Reid to bring her to this room, placing her under guard.

Here she stayed, not knowing of her people’s fate. Questions aplenty plagued her. The Devil’s Wolf had secured Castle Lochwood to kidnap her, but to what purpose? Were the people of Lochwood allowed to live?

Reivers were unpredictable. She knew this first hand since her father saw fit to raid himself. Quarter was given at the reiver’s whim.

Frankly, she didn’t care one way or the other who held what lands or cattle. She only cared that the violence stopped. She wanted peace and to know her people would have food and safety.

Brave men lost their lives when the Devil’s Wolf brought his force with him to her home, but she had no way of knowing how many perished. She’d been locked in the tower all day, waiting to hear her own fate.

Surprisingly, she wasn’t mistreated. She’d been given plenty of food and was allowed to bathe. She had removed the battle garb she had worn when she fought, replacing the attire for a gown one of the ladies brought up to her.

The room was sparsely decorated with only a bed, two chairs and a table. The tub she’d used to bathe had been removed after she was through with it. There was one slit window that gave her a view of the mote below and endless land beyond.

She should have killed the Devil’s Wolf when she had the chance. Now as a prisoner, she could only hope he would grant her a swift death.

Chapter Eight

With the stronghold secured and his men on lookout, Waylon felt better about the situation. He had no doubts where his actions tonight would lead. Catrione’s father would seek revenge once he got wind that his daughter was his reluctant guest. However, Laird William was the least of his troubles at the moment.

Waylon ran a hand over his face as he inhaled deeply. He glanced toward the steps that lead to where Catrione was being held. He didn’t relish the thought of what he must do, but there could be no other choice. He set the plan in motion and he must see it through.

He glanced at Reid who waited for his command. “Bring the priest to me at once.”

“Aye mi’laird.” Reid hurried to do his bidding.

He paced his chambers from one end of the room to the other. He changed out of his battle garb, but still kept his sword. He may be back at Castle Caerlaverock, but he must not let his guard down.

His gaze landed on the tapestry adorning one of the far walls. Light from the fireplace danced on the woven threads like flickering flames threatening to devour.

The heavy wooden framed bed sat on the opposite wall. The ropes were pulled tight. He had a feather mattress and fur coverlets for the cool nights. He could not think of the last time he slept in his bed. He often time slept outdoors during the reiving months.

“M’laird?”

Waylon turned toward Reid. The priest stood next to him as straight as his hunch figured allowed.

“Ye will do as I bid, priest,” Waylon ordered.

Jon Luc looked puzzled, his eyebrows furrowing over the bridge of his nose. “What do you bid me to do?”

“You shall hear yer lady’s sins.”

“She has asked for me?”

“No’ exactly.” Waylon didn’t elaborate more. “Ye will follow me now,” he ordered the priest and headed toward the turret stairs. Waylon led the way with Jon Luc following and Reid taking up the rear of the procession. As they went, Waylon told the priest what fate awaited Catrione.

Jon Luc inhaled sharply at the news. “Are you sure you do not want to sleep on your decision.”

“I do no’, priest. Now hold yer tongue until called upon.”

Waylon hoped the hours of solitude had softened the woman’s disposition. Reaching the door, the guards stepped aside. He didn’t knock before he entered, seeing no need for formalities since she was his prisoner.

Catrione stood at the window and whirled on him as he entered with the priest close on his heels. Her eyes, like the turbulent sea washed over him, drowning him with her hatred. Yet, she couldn’t have looked more breathtaking and incredibly feminine with her delicate bone structure and smooth, cream-colored skin scrubbed clean from her bath. He had only seen her grimed with dirt and sweat, dressed to the hilt like a seasoned warrior, but now she wore a gown of rich cloth, and her hair left unbound was washed and combed to shine like a raven’s wing.

“Stand guard, but do not enter unless commanded,” Waylon instructed his men before he closed the door.

Waylon pushed the priest forward to speak.

“My lady, I am to hear your sins so you may be pure in soul.” Jean Luc told her as he warily looked over his shoulder at Waylon.

Chapter Nine

So that was the way it was going to be. Catrione wondered if her life would be spared. She had her answer.

She squared her shoulders and met the Wolf’s bold stare. He was even more massive than she had remembered. His shoulders were wide and his arms bulged with muscle formed from wielding a broadsword. He was cleaned now without the berserker look about him. Not a bad looking man for an enemy. His features were strong. His hair dark with streaks of auburn and brown, thick and wavy, and worn to the length of his shoulders. His eyes were so gray, dark and threatening like a storm filled sky raging overhead. Those eyes assessed her, his gaze too bold to be proper, but it didn’t matter. She would not have to endure his looks for much longer.

She met the Wolf’s gaze. For the Johnstone’s name, she would die well.

“Father,” she didn’t look at the priest but kept her gaze on her enemy. “I have no sins to confess.” She watched the Wolf’s one brow arch up at this, but she didn’t care that he thought her a liar. “I have no regrets.” She lifted her chin. “I would gladly cut off the heads of my enemy if I were given back my sword.”

“My lady, please…” The priest looked over his shoulder nervously as if he wondered if the Devil’s Wolf would retaliate. “My lady, I—”

“Enough.” Waylon silenced him with a wave of his hand. “The lady does not feel the need to confess, then let’s get on with it. I doonae have all day.”

She sputtered shocked by the callousness of his dismissal. “Oh, by all means let’s get the business at hand over with.” She threw up her hands. “Unbelievable! I would not want to detain you from the murder and pillaging you have planned for the day. Where would you have me?” She glanced around the room. “Should I lay my head over a chair so that you may cut it off swiftly or should I just bow before you and let you do your business?”

* * * *

It took Waylon a second to realize what the woman babbled about, but then it became clear. A slow smile spread across his face. “My dear lady, what I have planned for ye is far worse than death.” She didn’t flinch but stood there tall and regal, ready to accept her fate. Hmm, impressive, she further surprised him. “Ye my dear, will become my wife this day.”

Her mouth opened and closed without a word leaving those luscious lips.

“The lady has lost her tongue, I see.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I would sooner die than marry a murdering Maxwell.”

“That can be arranged later, but for now ye will abide by my rules.”

“I will not.”

Did this woman not realize, she as the prisoner, had no rights? In two strides he had her in his grip. “Ye shall do as ye are told.”

She tried to twist away but his grip held. “Now on yer knees, mi’lady. The priest awaits to bless us.”

Her eyes blazed with fury. What passion this woman held. Such a shame they were sworn enemies. He may have enjoyed the prospect of marriage and the chance to tame her.

“This will not be legal,” she spat. Her expression plainly told him he could go to hell.

“Aye, it will be legal, before God and all.”

She cut him a dark look, daring him to prove it. “I don’t believe you. I want—”

“Enough! I grow weary of yer prattling, woman.” He leveled his gaze on the frightened priest. “Begin, now.”

“I will not agree,” she continued to resist.

On their way up the steps, the priest implored Waylon to be kind to Catrione, that she was a gentle creature who cared deeply, but for the life of him, Waylon could see nothing of this gentleness in her nature. Perhaps it was only her dislike for him that made her a shrew. Dammit, he needed her compliance.

Then he knew what he must do to gain it. Her inquiries about her people proved she wished no harm to come to them. He would put it to the test.

“Mi’lady, if ye doonae agree, I will make an example of the prisoners.”

“What do you mean? What prisoners?” Her eyes widened, her gaze fastened on him with unease.

“Did ye think ye were the only one we took hostage from Lochwood? Every minute that ye deny me, I will have one of yer people put to the sword.” He was happy to see her pause, fear momentarily crossing her features. So she did have a heart after all.

“You bluff.”

He lifted one brow ever so slightly. He moved to the door and yanked it open. “Reid, go below and bring me one of the prisoners from Lochwood. My lady needs to see proof that I doonae lie.”

“Aye mi’laird.” Reid turned to leave.

“Wait,” she called.

Reid looked to Waylon for direction.

Waylon held up his hand. He looked at Catrione awaiting her reply.

Finally she met his gaze once more, lashing him with her hatred. “Marry me, you son of the devil, and may you rot in hell for this deceit.”

“Such endearing words, mi’lady.” He placed his hand over his heart. “I am beside myself with pleasure that ye hold me in such high esteem.” He bowed to her in mock pretense. Her eyes were cold as shard glass as she glared at him. He addressed the priest once more. “Say the words, priest.”

The ceremony took less than five minutes, words that rang false of uncaring promises, which neither one meant, but the deed was done.

Waylon unrolled the parchment, he been carrying, and placed it on the table, ironing it smooth with a heavy hand. “We both must sign the document,” he told Catrione.

Waylon did the honors first, dipping the quill tip in ink and scrawling his signature in bold script. He looked at Catrione for her to do the same. “Do ye know how to pen your name? If ye are uneducated—”

Her hand snaked out, grabbing the quill from him. “My father paid an English tutor handsomely for my schooling. I can pen my own name. If it is not there, my father will know I have been forced.” Her hand stilled and her lips slipped into a smug smile as she met his gaze. She believed she found a loophole and means of escaping her predicament.

Foolish lassie. He smiled, too. “Have it yer way then.” He gripped her hand, forcing her to sign her name. She fought and yanked, but he succeeded.

“No one will believe that messy scrawl is mine.” She folded her arms against her chest.

“Trust me my dear, it will suffice.” He sprinkled sand over the document to ensure the ink would dry and not smudge. He then turned toward Jon Luc and leveled his gaze on the man. “Now, leave us.” He dismissed the priest with a wave of his hand.

Jon Luc hesitated, obviously reluctant to go. He glanced at Catrione then back to Waylon. “Surely you will give her time to know her husband before you consummate the marriage.”

“She will know me well enough before the night is through.”

“But—”

“Leave priest.”

“I will be fine,” Catrione assured John Luc though her eyes flickered warily to Waylon.

“You are sure?” Jon Luc asked and she nodded. He took Catrione’s hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze before he faced Waylon. “You have made a sacred vow this day, see to it that you treat this lady with gentleness.”

“I assure ye, I will treat her as I see fit. Now go.”

John Luc hesitated again, chewing on his lower lip. Obviously seeing there was no way he could delay the inevitable, he left the room.

Waylon turned to face Catrione who glowered at him with blazing contempt. The sooner he made her his wife in every way, the sooner he could return to his own chambers and be done with her temper tantrums. He started to remove his leather jerkin.

Her gaze riveted to his as she took a step away from him. Her arms crossed over her breasts like a shield.

If he didn’t know better, he might believe worry darkened her features, but he wouldn’t fall for her pretenses. She was a lady, yes, but she fought alongside her clan in battle. The men were too friendly in their stories, knowing more about Catrione than deemed appropriate. She may be of genteel birth, but she in no way could still be a virgin.

She was long past the marrying age and yet her father made no match for her. Some men were picky that their brides be untried. He didn’t care who warmed her bed before him as long as he remained the last man to bed her from this day forth. “On the bed with ye. I would like to be done with this as soon as possible.” His clothes done away with, he wanted hers removed as well.

Catrione’s face flamed red as her gaze slid over his naked form. She stumbled back, hitting the table before she stood still, her gaze clashing with his. “I am not a whore to be ordered about.”

“No? I have heard the men praise ye as being one of them. That kind of closeness can only mean one thing.”

“Friendship proves I have given myself freely? Please my laird, are you not close with your men?”

His gaze narrowed. “What are ye asking me?”

“Only if you hold yer men dear? Do you share a dram with them or a meal? Do you find friendship among your men?”

“Ach. Of course I do.”

“Should I worry about your virtue?”

“They are men. I assure ye, I am fond of them, but I prefer a woman’s touch.”

“You show restraint then. You can call a man friend and not sleep with him.”

“Nay, ’tis a preference. Now stop with yer mindless prattle.” He approached her again and she backed away. “On the bed.” He pointed, angry that she still hadn’t complied. What difference would it make for her to add one more man to the list she already bedded? He was her husband now, and she would obey him.

“What is the rush?” She hurried to the other side of the room, using one of the chairs to shield her.

“Ah, well ye see mi’lady, I need ye with child as soon as possible so yer father can find no reason to null the marriage.” In two strides he yanked the chair away from her and grabbed her arm, ignoring her protests. He threw her on the bed, before he followed suit, pinning her down and pulling at her gown.

She fought to stop him.

Finally he grew tired of the struggle and took out his knife.

She gasped at the sight of it and fought him with more fervor. He brought the weapon down and she closed her eyes as if she thought he’d kill her. She would be disappointed. He tore the material as he cut away her clothing with no more effort than when he skinned a deer. She grabbed at the remnants of her dress to keep her covered and he was just as determined to remove them.

“Stop. Stop, I implore you,” she begged.

Something in her voice made him pause and look at her, to really see her. Her labored breathing made her breast rise and fall, two peach colored orbs bare to his gaze. His body tightened in response. She was his enemy, wife…most importantly a woman and it had been far too long since he had taken care of his needs. “Why do you delay the inevitable?”

“I…” Tears pooled in her eyes. “Please…”

“Please what?” She trembled, but he wasn’t entirely sure it was from pleasure.

His gaze locked with hers and he knew the moment she felt his arousal firm against her thigh. Her eyes widened and her body tightened like a bowstring. Why was she afraid of him? He tempered his haste for the moment.

“What is it ye want?” He touched her smooth skin, her nipples becoming hard beneath his caress. Her lips parted and he leaned down to kiss her. He hadn’t planned on wooing her. He wanted to treat this as a chore to be done with, but now…

She tasted so sweet. Her lips were smooth, luscious when not spouting her vicious retorts. He slipped his tongue into her mouth and heard her sharp intake of breath before she seemed to accept the intrusion. He moved his hand down her flat stomach and lower, his hand seeking her warmth. She struggled to be free and he held her down, his eyes flashing anger as he glared at her. “I thought to be gentle with ye, but I see that it isnae yer way.”

“Please, don’t do this.”

He roughly pulled her legs apart, while she mauled his face like a wildcat. He grabbed her hands and pinned them over her head. Still she struggled, but he no longer listened to her pleas and maneuvered himself between her legs, thrusting inside her warmth and making her his. His triumph proved short lived at her cry of pain. He stilled his moves, shocked by the discovery and horrified by what he’d done. He released her hands and stared at her. Her eyes were tightly closed, long lashes glistening with tears. “Why dinnae ye tell me ye were untouched?”

Her eyes flashed opened with unbridled anger. “How could I tell you anything? You were so determined to think the worst of me.”

They stared at each other for a long time until she realized he was still on top of her, inside of her. “Get off of me.” She pushed at him. “You did your deed now leave me.”

He didn’t move. Her innocence astounded him further. She thought the act done? He would be honored to teach her the pleasures of the body, but first he must win her trust. “My dear, I have yet to complete my duty.” Fear entered her eyes again, making him angry for evoking such an emotion. He’d never taken a woman by force and yet he had done so now, and on his wedding night of all things. He tried to convince himself she was one of the spoils of victory, but looking at her, seeing her panic, her uncertainty made him feel like a monster. If she had been used maybe he could have justified his actions, but she had been untouched. Be it pride, be it whatever the hell it was, he didn’t want her to think he was…what? A barbarian? She already thought him that. He brushed her hair away from her face, searching for a way to put her at ease. He met her gaze. “It willnae hurt anymore.”

Her brows furrowed and her voice was laced with suspicion. “How do you know?”

“Does it hurt now?”

* * * *

Catrione realized he spoke the truth. The pain had ebbed away replaced by a different kind of ache. “No, but—”

His forefinger pressed against her lips to silence her. Then without a word he lowered his mouth to hers, covering it and taking what he wanted. She tasted her fill, too. Then he moved to her neck, to her breast, suckling on them as a babe would for nourishment. She found it strange what he did to her, and yet she had no willpower to stop him. Something awakened in her and she wanted more, but she didn’t know what her body craved.

The Devil’s Wolf seemed to know. He moved his hips against her. She stiffened, fearing there would be pain again, but he put her at ease with his caresses, distracting her as he nibbled on her earlobe and kissed the hollow of her neck. Then pleasure like she had never felt before spread through her veins. He moved again, slowly with a rhythm that matched her own. His lips found hers and she returned the caress. Her hands gripped his back, willing him to go deeper. Wanting… wanting… She gasped in surprise as his movements caused a flutter of sensations to fill her, making every nerve spasm with pleasure. She grasped him tighter, yearning for more, not wanting him to stop, and praying the sensation would never end.

His body tensed and her gaze traveled over his face in alarm. His brow furrowed and his eyes were squeezed shut as if pain racked his body. He let out an anguished cry before he fell upon her, heavy and unmoving.

She had difficulty breathing with his weight crushing her. If it weren’t for his heart hammering against her chest, she might have believed him dead. She pushed at him to be free of him.

Humiliation washed over her in waves. How could she for one second enjoy his touch? “Get off of me.”

* * * *

He pushed himself up and looked down at her, seeing her anger spark when only moments ago she held onto him, wanting him. He rolled away with a smile, amused how she could go from one emotion to the other in a bat of an eye.

She scrambled to the other side of the bed, pulling the furs around her body still flushed from their lovemaking.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He donned his clothes, intent on giving her some privacy. He turned his back, a mistake he wouldn’t make again. In a flash, she jumped on his back like the hounds of hell beating and scratching him.

“Ouch!” She bit his neck. He flung her down on the bed, straddling her and holding her hands above her head. “What was that for?”

“You loathsome beast!” She spat at him. “Be gone from me now. You did your worst and you have no need to see me again.”

His brows rose. He then let his gaze wander down the length of her naked body still flushed from their lovemaking. His body hardened again. If he didn’t believe his life would be at risk, he’d take her now. He sighed with regret. He would have to wait until his hellion cooled her temper.

He met her gaze with a smile, pressing his maleness against her, having great pleasure in seeing her eyes widen in surprise. “A man’s needs are plentiful, but I can manage elsewhere with a more willing partner.”

“Then go find her and never come back. I will not stop you.”

“Dear, dear wife, ye fail to understand my position. My duty is to get ye with child.”

“But I thought …”

“What? That one time would be enough? Perhaps.” His shoulder lifted in a shrug. “But I cannae be sure. We will have to couple often to ensure ye carry my wee bairn within yer womb.” His smile widened when her gaze clashed with his, startled and upset. “Doonae worry, I will make it pleasurable for ye each time. I love to hear ye cry for more.”

She struggled to hit him, but his hands still held her captive.

“Doonae move so, or I’ll be forced to take ye again.” He freed a hand, but kept both of hers secured over her head. He wondered down the inside of her leg, his fingers entering her tender folds.

That stilled her attempts to squirm away. She bit her lower lip as his gentle touch coaxed her to open up for him. “Damn you.”

“Aye, I know.” He kissed her brow. His fingers left her and her hips moved toward him, seeking what he denied her. “I’d take ye again, but ye will be sore. I’ll give ye a day to recover then we will take a tumble again. Aye?”

“Never.” She clenched her teeth, obviously berating herself for not having control over her body.

“Tsk, tsk, never is such a nasty word.” He released her then. He took the sheet, but threw the fur over her, covering her body. “I will send yer maid in with a bath.”

He was almost at the door when she threw the candleholder at him, barely missing his head. He turned to look at her. “Would ye like me to stay?”

“Get out!”

He bowed in mock pretense. “As ye wish, mi’lady.”

Waylon hummed as he strode down the winding stairs to meet with Reid. His cousin stood as he entered the hall and walked toward him. “Mi’laird—” His eyes widened. "By the saints, what happened to ye? Ye’re wounded.”

Waylon’s hand flew to his neck feeling the wet stickiness where Catrione had bit him. “Aah aye, a present from my wife.”

“Maybe next time ye should feed her first.” He slapped him on the back.

“May so.” They walked side by side as they talked. “The lady is mine.” He handed Reid the sheet.

“She was a virgin?” Reid stared at the bloodstained covers.

Waylon chuckled. “It would seem so. Her father will know she is mine now. I’ll present the sheets as proof that I have taken her maidenhood.

Chapter Ten

Catrione’s heart lurched when the door to her prison opened. “Jon Luc.” Her shoulders sagged in relief.

“My lady.” The priest’s gaze swept over her. Heat burned her cheeks and she knew she blushed. “He did not hurt you, did he?” Jon Luc asked.

She’d like to say he had, but in truth, he’d done far worse. He released a primitive force inside of her with the passion of a true kiss. She touched her lips at the memory of the way her husband had teased, tasted, and plundered her mouth. He made her feel as if she were burning from the inside out and if he touched her one more time she’d burst into flames.

Her gaze met Jon Luc’s and realized he waited for a response. She cleared her throat. “No, he did nothing that would prove my demise.” She didn’t think dying of embarrassment counted. She turned away from him as she composed herself. “How did the people of Lochwood fare? Do not spare me the details. I must know everything.”

“They fared well, my lady. Laird Waylon showed mercy. He came to retrieve you and left the others be.”

She whirled on him. “I said to not spare me the details.”

“I speak the truth.”

Catrione’s brows furrowed. “He has not made sport of spearing the old? Drowning the babes?”

Jon Luc shook his head. “No, my lady. He took very few prisoners and only those to serve you and give you comfort. They have been treated as if they were Maxwells.”

Catrione stood stone still, speechless at what her priest revealed. This wasn’t what she expected. How could she nurture her hatred if the man didn’t follow what she knew of him? “He is trying to fool us in some way, have us trust him before he makes his move.”

“I think not my lady. I believe he is an honorable man.”

She harrumphed. “He is a reiver. He kidnapped me! Forced me to marry him.” Not to mention what other things he made her do.

“Hmm, yes. He could have taken you without care, but he did not. He married you before God.”

She turned her anger on him. “So this gives him leave?”

The priest sighed. “It makes me take pause. Perhaps we have misjudged him. He has odd ways. I’ve seen this with my own eyes.”

“Speak clearly.”

“He has taken stock of his land and has asked for those who know the ways of farming.”

“Farming? Does he hope to become a gentleman farmer?” When Jon Luc didn’t answer, Catrione laughed. “He will go mad. What reiver can sit idle for long?”

“I believe he is hoping to put an end to his thieving ways.”

“Then we are doomed, Jon Luc. How will he put food on the table? The other Graynes will see him soft and plunder our goods.”

“My laird is no coward.”

“Your lord? In a few days time, he is now your laird.”

“Do not be cross with me, my lady. You need a strong husband and I say he is capable.”

“We shall see about that when my father demands a Day of Truce. Now get out. I’ve heard enough.”

Jon Luc left her as she wished. She couldn’t believe her ears. The Devil’s Wolf had surely cast a spell of enchantment. The border lairds thrived on violence and no kind of magic would ever change their way of thinking.

Chapter Eleven

As promised, Waylon gave Catrione a day to rest. On the following evening, he marched in with servants carrying platters to be set on the table. He then ordered her maidservant away.

Catrione folded her arms against her chest. She would be strong and not let him touch her no matter how his recklessly handsome features made her heart beat like a drum in her chest. She didn’t care his dark strands glistened in the firelight or how he filled out his clothes as his muscles strained against the finery of the fabric.

“Sit, mi’lady.” He had already done so, sampling the food laid out before him. “Come… or do ye have other things on yer mind?” His gaze shifted toward the bed and he wagged his brows in invitation.

She felt her cheeks burn. “You’re disgusting.” She walked over to the other seat and plopped down, folding her arms across her chest once more.

“Whatever do ye mean? I am trying to be accommodating.”

“Then do so by choking on a chicken bone, will you now.”

“Now is that any way to be talking to yer husband?”

“Husband? Hah! You… you do your business then disappear. Where have you been?” she blurted out wishing she could have bitten her tongue. The man’s arrogant smile grated on her nerves.

“Missed me, did ye.”

“I most certainly did not. I only wish to know what my enemy is planning.”

“Enemy is it? And here I thought we’d moved past such petty arguments.”

She hated how his prolonged stare sent a rush of desire coiling through her.

“Are ye no’ hungry?” His hand waved to the feast before them. “Do ye see something ye want?”

She couldn’t be sure, but she had a sneaky suspicion his questions held a double meaning. “No, I see nothing I want.”

“For shame,” he sighed and broke the intense gaze. “Cook has outdone himself. Maybe later.” He sat back in his seat. “How do ye fare?”

“As well as any prisoner, I suppose.”

“I mean are ye still sore?”

“Oh.” She squirmed in her seat. Damn the man for being so bold, but then maybe she could use it to her advantage. “Yes, I am. Your brute force nearly killed me dead. I can barely walk.”

His mouth twitched as if he forced himself not to smile. Maybe she’d overdone her complaint.

“Well then, we shall have to do other things.”

Alarm skittered through her. “What other things?”

He slid back his chair. “Come here.”

“No.”

He sighed. His eyelids closed in a deliberate blink before he met her gaze. “Doonae tempt me to use force. Ye willnae like it, my sweet wildcat, if I do.”

“I already don’t like it.”

“Come here!” His voice boomed, making her jump.

Maybe she shouldn’t provoke him into action. She stood, forcing herself to walk toward him, but making sure to stay out of his reach.

“Closer.”

She took another step.

“Closer.”

She took another small step but it proved the end of her game. His hand whipped out and grabbed her, forcing her to sit on his lap. He placed his strong hands on her waist, holding her still.

“Much better.” He decided for both of them. “Now undo your laces.”

“What?”

He nodded his head toward her bodice. “The laces.”

“Well, I never ...”

“Ye will now.”

“I most certainly will not.”

“So be it then.” He whipped out his knife so fast she didn’t even have time to blink. In one full sweep, he had cut the ties away, letting her gown come free.

Her hands flew to her garment, trying to hold it together and failing miserably. “You horrible beast. Now look what you’ve done.”

“I asked ye nicely, but ye dinnae comply."

“You ruined my gown. The second one, I might add.”

“Aye, but clothing is a bothersome distraction for what I want to do.”

She tried to stand, put some distance between them, but he pulled her back onto his lap, tearing the already damaged garment further.

“Let me go.”

“Be still.”

“I want you to leave.”

“I fear I cannae do what ye ask.”

“Aye, aye, I am aware. I am a pawn in your games. Use me until I give you a child. Pray tell, why did you marry me before God only to mock the union? For let me assure you Devil’s Wolf, this is a charade of the worst kind.”

“Very good questions, my dear. Though ye are the enemy, I do wish for my heir to be legitimate. So ye see, marriage was of the essence. Besides, yer father started this.”

“He most certainly did not. Your brother killed my cousin.”

“Billy was a clumsy fool and tripped over his own two feet, saving us the trouble of bashing his head in.”

“Why you—”

Waylon’s lips slid over her mouth, silencing the words that threatened to escape. She struggled but a moment. His lips, tongue, and devil hands clouded her mind. She groaned with want as her breast pushed against the palm of his hand, his thumb and forefinger capturing the tight burning peak. A tiny moan caught in her throat. His hand moved aside her torn garment trailing his burning touch between her legs. She whimpered into his mouth and damn him if she didn’t feel his lips curve. She didn’t care. She wanted him to touch her. Her thighs opened almost with their own volition and he stroked between her legs, probing the bud that throbbed with need. She clutched his shoulders as pleasure washed over her in waves.

“Now we can make this easy, Catrione, or we can make it difficult. ’Tis totally up to ye, but mark my words, mi’lady, I will have an heir from ye.”

“I hate you.” Though her words held no conviction, as he continued to entice her.

“That is yer right, but ye can use your emotions when we couple. You will find passion, be it for love or hate it does no’ matter—passion adds spice.” He moved his hips against her as he whispered in her ear. “Do ye feel my need for ye?”

She wiggled free from his caress and tried to slap him, but he caught her hand.

His firm grip held her still as he bestowed gentle kisses at her wrist where her pulse beat erratically. How could she despise the man and want him all the same.

“I will give you what you want, but you will never have my heart, Devil’s Wolf.”

A low chuckled vibrated from his chest. “I doonae want yer heart, mi’lady, only a child and nothing more.”

She nodded, though it bothered her more than she cared to admit. He'd been born a Maxwell and she hated him for the fact. So why should she care in the least if he should grow to love her? But she wanted love. Her father had promised she could marry for love, and now look what had happened? He might as well have arranged a marriage when he could have done so.

* * * *

Waylon couldn’t help but notice the flitter of emotions crossing her face, as if she were battling with her own demons. Maybe she was at that. He couldn’t be considered her idea of a husband, when she believed he would kill anyone who crossed his path. “What thoughts plague that pretty little head of yers?”

She glanced at him, with those turbulent green eyes. He hadn’t noticed before how they were framed with dark, thick lashes that were so long they curled back.

“I was supposed to marry for love.” Her voice caught and she took a deep breath, obviously wishing she hadn’t revealed her secret. She tried to pull away once more, but he wouldn’t let her go.

“Love is for fools. Mi’lady, ye are too cunning for such a fantasy.”

“And what did you expect from a marriage? This? Wed to a woman who hates you?”

He smiled, his hand sliding down her back. “Nay. I had in my mind a subservient wife who would obey my every command.”

“You speak of a slave then, or a simpleton.”

“Perhaps simpleton would be better. The less speech the more time we could spend in bed.” He nibbled at her ear, knowing right where she liked to be kissed.

“Surely you jest. I… Oh…” She lost her train of thought and leaned into his caress.

“As ye were saying, milady.” He tried not to smile as he ruthlessly played havoc with her new found passion.

She placed a hand firmly on his chest. “May we strike a deal?”

His hand stopped its slow climb up her leg, and he looked at her with brows raised. “Ye are in no position to make deals.”

“Just hear me out.”

“I’m listening.”

“My father forced your hand. I know this is why you made this rash mistake. Obviously I am not what you wanted, and you most assuredly are not what I would have chosen.”

“Lass, stop yer flattery.”

She ignored his sarcasm. “My father—”

“Is a fool,” he finished. “Women doonae choose their husbands.”

“Usually they aren’t kidnapped and forced to marry either.”

“I’m sorry for the harshness of it, but I saw no other choice.”

She nodded. “Perhaps I’ll give you that. You feared for your brother’s life and with good cause. However, I would like to give my request.”

“If ye’re determined, go on. Out with it then.”

She met his gaze, held it so he wouldn’t turn away. “If I give you a child, you must set me free.”

“We’re married in the church. Ye would damn our souls?”

She lifted her chin ever so slightly. “I am not sure you even have a soul.”

His low chuckled vibrated in his chest. “Ye may be right, but what of yers?”

“Let me worry about my own salvation.”

He remained silent as he thought over her request. She was indeed a comely wench, but he could find a more accommodating woman to warm his bed. He could see no reason why he wouldn’t be glad to let her go, but he wanted an heir and one that wouldn’t be poisoned by Johnstones wanting revenge. He posed a question for her. “And what of the child? I will want my son beside me.”

“I would like the child with me until it is time to be fostered out.”

Did her stipulations matter to him? Probably not. He had no need for a wife, just a child. He would have a better chance of reaching his goal if he didn’t have to fight an unwilling wife. “If I am to agree to this, ye will come willingly to our bed at anytime I choose.”

“Only if you don’t…” She hesitated and worried her lower lip.

He took her response as a no. “Ye do realize I doonae have to listen to any of this. Ye are my wife and I can take what is mine.”

“Do you think I don’t know this?” She turned away from his hard stare.

“Then what? Speak plainly then.”

“I only ask that you don’t hurt me.”

He raised his hand to her chin, moving her head, forcing her to face him. “It will never be like that first time. Dinnae ye know pleasure later?”

“Aye, but…”

“I willnae hurt ye. Do ye believe me?”

“I...”

“Look me in the eyes and know the truth.”

She searched his gaze for a long moment before she nodded.

“Let me hear ye say it then.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

“Good, we understand each other then. So do we have this deal, Catrione?”

“I do believe we’ve come to an accord.”

He curved his lips. “Stand.”

“What?”

“Stand.”

She clutched her gown as she came to her feet.

“Now, drop yer hands.”

She hesitated.

He lifted his brows in a challenge.

She put her hands down letting the gown fall open exposing her breasts to his view. The dress beyond repair slid down to her rounded hips. A deep flush stained her cheeks and she dropped her gaze.

“Take the rest off.”

Her eyes flew to his in anger, humiliation there plain for him to see. “Devil’s Wolf, I will come willingly to your bed. I have said so, but please I am still your wife, not your whore. I expect you to treat me as such.” Her voice broke, but still she held his gaze.

Without a word, he rose from his seat and came to her. He stood very close. His gaze traveling over her with a slow slide of his eyes, seeing her perhaps for the first time, and in truth, the lass took his breath away.

He then leaned down cupping the back of her head as he kissed her, warm and soft, with gentleness that made her knees weak, but he held her tight. He would not let her fall.

He kissed a trail down her neck, before he tore the rest of the gown from her body since it was ruined anyway. He lifted her up and brought her to the bed. He removed his clothing and fell beside her. He touched her, teased her, making her ready for him. She wanted to hate him, this he knew, but once he ignited the flame of passion in her, a silent truce was met and she ceased to fight him.

As he moved in and out of her in a slow seductive dance, her trusting gaze never left his.

“I forgot to ask mi’lady… what happens if ye fall in love with yer barbarian husband?"

She didn’t answer at first, her hand moving along the flank of him, timidly running her fingers over the hard planes of his body. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer. He groaned in pleasure, and his eyelids lowered on their own accord. Whether she knew it or not, she wielded power over him as well.

“What if you fall in love with me, Devil’s Wolf?”

His eyes flew open and he smiled. “It will never happen.”

“Nor do I see me falling for you. My body may deceive me, but I know my own mind. I will not fall for the enemy.”

He met her gaze with amusement and admiration. “We shall see. I’ll have ye know, I love a challenge, wife.” He thrust inside of her, making her gasp with surprise and pleasure.

“You will not win.” She moved with him in perfect time until they tumbled over the edge of fulfillment.

He moved to lie next to her. He breathed heavily, his body still rigid with need. He wondered how this small slip of a lass could affect him so.

Her hand slid over his damp skin as she turned toward him. “Will you be leaving now?”

He pulled her close and buried his face in the hollow of her neck, reveling in the feel and scent of her. “Nay. I believe I shall stay tonight.”

* * * *

While the Devil’s Wolf slept, Catrione took her fill of the man who was her husband. Scars longed healed marred the otherwise perfect torso of muscle-toned flesh. Her fingers lightly fingered the healing wound she had given him in their fight in the chapel. A fierce warrior, but gentle as well, knowing how to please a woman.

She shook her head. She must continue to loathe him, but how could she when he showed her such magic. If only he would give her his heart as well, but he didn’t want love. He wanted revenge. He wanted sons. She would do well to remember she was only a vessel for his heir, and a pawn as well in his game to win back his brother. Once she was with child, he’d have no use for her. She frowned, not liking the notion one bit. She wouldn’t allow herself to have tender feelings toward her enemy. She pulled her hand away as if his flesh burned her.

She let out a cry of alarm when Waylon reached out and pulled her to him.

“Why did ye shy away? I liked the feel of yer gentle hands.”

“I...”

He looked at her, his boyish gray-eyed gaze made her forget her pledge. She caressed his dark stubble chin. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

He chuckled. “Ye may wake me with yer caress anytime.”

His hand covered her breast and her nipples hardened, sending a warm shiver down her spine. Why did her body continue to betray her against her will?

“Who taught ye to wield a sword?”

“What?” She shook her head, hoping to clear her thoughts and not concentrate on his hand making her skin tingle.

“Ye are gifted with the sword. Who taught ye?”

“My father.”

“Hmm. Yer father has strange ways. He tutors his daughter, teaches her to fight like a warrior and promises she may marry for love.”

“My father is a good man.”

“Says ye, but he kidnapped my brother with an oath ensuring torture and death.”

“I don’t pretend to understand the ways of men. The Maxwells and the Johnstones have been at each other’s throats for as long as I can remember. What you did, kidnapping me, will only intensify the feud. It troubles me to know the fighting will never end.”

He sat up in bed, leaning on his elbow and forearm for support. “Both families are stubborn in their beliefs. Ye’d think we were highlanders.” He looked at her, his gaze sliding over her. “When we meet yer father to speak of our grievances, what will ye tell him of us?”

“I will tell him the truth. You kidnapped me and forced me to marry you. I will not lie.”

“And what if ye are with child? Will ye have yer husband executed before our son draws his first breath?”

A day ago, she would have been pleased to have his head severed from his body, but now... He showed her such gentleness, such wonder she had thought not possible from such a fierce man. Even her priest thought him good. Didn’t he say all fared well? Waylon had shown mercy when he didn’t have to do so. Her husband proved to be a complicated man.

“Catrione?”

“I do not wish you dead.” There she had said it, but he wouldn’t let the matter go. He reached for her, lifting her chin so she looked at him. His thoughtful gaze probed her as he weighed her words and the truth behind them.

“I must tell ye my intentions.”

“We had a deal,” she said hurriedly.

“Aye, but until ye are with child, I willnae give up what is mine so readily.”

She turned her head, shrugging away from his grip. “So I am a possession to you, something you own.”

“Ye are my wife,” he said as if this explained everything.

“You forget. I want a husband who will love me and you, dear Wolf, seem incapable of mustering such an act.”

“Ye want love. I say ye are confused what love means. I will provide for ye. Yer coffers will never be empty and I will protect ye from harm’s way. Why cannae this be enough?”

Against her will her eyes filled with tears. “And when you tire of me, what will you do with me then? I am a Johnstone, an enemy; surely I rank beneath the lowest of low in your eyes.”

He caressed her arm before leaning down to kiss her thoroughly as if to convince her what she meant to him. He leaned back, his gaze touching her. “Ye underestimate yer worth.” Then he kissed her again until she forgot what they’d been arguing about. He took her under his spell, where feuds and hatred didn’t matter, only pleasure existed.

Stroke after sensuous stroke, he took all she had to offer and demanded she give more. She met his challenge and lifted her hips, losing what little control she still possessed. She clung to him desperately as the tidal waves pushed her into rapture and with a long ragged groan he followed her into the abyss.

They lay there in the afterglow and she could feel the racing of his heart. He moved to the side and curved his body protectively, commandingly around her. She felt warm and contented, realizing she fit perfectly in his embrace.

Then fear clutched her, coiling in her stomach with unease. In a few days, he could be gone from her life and— What was she thinking? Isn’t that what she wanted? Didn’t she want to be free from him?

“I would like ye to join me in the hall tonight.” His voice broke through her reverie.

“What?” She needed to stop her foolishness and focus.

“Join me tonight in the main hall.”

He could demand she do so, but she realized he wanted her consent. This would be an important step, proclaiming she accepted Waylon as her laird. Did she wish this? He confused her until she didn’t know what she wanted.

Her gaze met his. He waited for her response, but he wouldn’t for long. She must make up her mind quickly. She supposed standing by his side for a night wouldn’t prove troublesome. “I would be honored to join you, but...” Her lips twitched as she watched his eyes narrowing. “It seems Devil’s Wolf, all my garments are in tatters.”

He chuckled and pulled her near. “We will rectify the matter. As lovely as I find ye without yer clothes, I doonae want to share yer beauty with my clan.”

She rolled over to look at him. “Your clan? What of my clan? Clan Johnstone?”

He looked at her and caressed the worried lines between her brows. “We are one now, Catrione.”

She loved the way her name rolled off the tip of his tongue.

“Would it bother ye so much, Catrione, if this is the way it will be from now on?”

“I believe you are strong enough to protect the keep and all who reside.”

“I thank ye for yer confidence.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.

“I truly mean it, but I cannot erase years of believing the Maxwells are my enemy. How will your clan feel about their lady being a Johnstone?”

“Perhaps ’tis time for a change.”

Chapter Twelve

Catrione promised to join Waylon in the hall and she would not go back on her word.

Waylon sent a maid to help her with the gown he’d chosen for her to wear. Her husband had a good eye and chose a dress that suited her figure perfectly, hugging all the right places. Her gaze wavered over the colors and textures. The overdress of dark green flattered her raven locks and brought out the color of her eyes. The garment fell away at the waist to expose the white petticoat beneath. The cuffs at her elbows were pleated and shaped to curve around her elbow. The chemise had ruffles along her neck with matching ruffles at her sleeves. It was perfect in everyway, but the garment didn’t pose a problem. Waylon wanted her to wear the Maxwell badge.

Her hand swept over the bold carved emblem pinned to her overdress. She chewed on her lower lip. If she didn’t wear it, he would surely take offense.

The light knock on the door drew her attention. “Enter.”

Reid stepped in dressed in his formal wear. His red locks brushed back away from his face. “I am to escort ye to the hall, mi’lady.”

Her husband waited for her and she worried about an adornment no one will even notice.

“Do I look presentable?” She glanced at her attire then to Reid.

His gaze slid over her, his face flushing as red as his hair.

“Well?” she asked, impatient for an answer.

He cleared his throat. “Ye are a bonny lass, mi’lady. May I say, the Maxwell’s badge looks well on ye.”

“Hmm.” She supposed he meant his statement as a compliment. “Shall we? I don’t believe my husband likes to be kept waiting.”

He chuckled. “Indeed no’. Ye’ve come to know him already.”

She followed Reid downstairs. When they entered the hall, the room fell silent as all eyes turned toward her. She lifted her chin. She would not be made a fool and stood proud.

Waylon sat at the long table and he stood as she entered, making his way to her. She watched the faces of people who were conditioned to hate her because she carried the blood of the Johnstones. In all rights, she should hate them also, but she saw only men, women, and children looking back at her with trepidation. They feared what she would do, what her clan may do in retaliation of their laird’s rash actions. In this they had a common worry.

“Behold my wife,” Waylon announced, facing his people. “Treat her as ye would me.”

They bowed in respect with soft murmurs of welcome.

Waylon looked at her and offered his hand. “Mi’lady?”

She took his hand and there were cheers and slamming of tankards.

Her brows drew together. “I don’t understand,” she whispered as they walked over to the long table. “They seem pleased.”

“Aye, and so am I, wife.”

Her gaze met his, wondering if his words rang true. His smug smile proved it well enough that he did.

His gaze swept over her. “Ye wear the dress I gave ye and ye’ve adorned it with the Maxwell’s badge. In their eyes, ye have accepted me as yer husband.”

“But it was all I had to wear and you wanted me to wear the badge, did you not?”

He chuckled and leaned down to kiss her cheek. The cheers roared again and she felt the heat rise in her face. “Waylon, I do not wish to deceive them.”

He didn’t answer her.

She stared at him. His face was too handsome for his own good, but it was the expression in his eyes that had her curious. “What? Why do ye look at me so?”

“Do ye realize ye called me by my given name?”

“I most certainly—”

He covered her mouth with his, drowning out her words. “Doonae ruin the moment, wife.” He kissed her again. “Let me cherish how my name sounded leaving yer sweet lips.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Aboot what?”

“You are not the Devil’s Wolf, you are the devil.”

His chuckled rumbled from his chest, not at all offended. Matter of fact, he looked overly pleased she called him devil. “Is it because I tempt ye so?” He played with a loose tendril of her hair.

“You tempt me to forget myself,” she told him in all honesty.

“Aah, but that isnae so bad, I think.” Her gaze riveted to his and caught sight of his wolfish grin before he turned away.

She found she couldn’t suppress the smile that twitched at her lips and finally gave up trying. As she expected all along, her husband proved incorrigible.

The delicious aroma of lamb stew tickled her senses and the sweets served for dessert made her mouth water for more. Her cup never ran dry and the conversation proved entertaining. Catrione relished in her freedom from her room and loathed to think she would have to return to them soon.

Waylon leaned near. “Why the long face?”

“Must I be locked away after tonight?”

“I have no wish to treat ye as a prisoner, but the choice is yers.”

Her brows furrowed. “And what choice do you put forth?”

“That ye give me yer word, ye willnae try to escape and that ye willnae leave the courtyard or go beyond the gates without an escort. This willnae be forever. Only a precaution for now until I settle matters with yer father.”

She turned in her seat to peer at him. “You will trust me to follow these rules?”

“As long as ye give me nay reason to doubt ye. Aye, I’ll trust ye.”

She nodded. “As you wish.”

“Wife, I do believe our union will flourish.”

“At least until I give you a child,” she muttered beneath her breath, but he heard her.

“I willnae go back on our pact. A child then—”

“Freedom,” she finished for him.

He looked like he wanted to say more, but they were interrupted by a new arrival.

* * * *

“Laird Waylon, a message,” Huey, the Maxwells’ March warden said a he strode forth. When he stood before Waylon, he bowed in respect before turning to present Jaime Johnstone, the Johnstones’ March warden.

“Speak,” Waylon commanded, wishing the March wardens hadn’t interrupted the celebration, but he must know William Johnstone’s intentions.

Jaime Johnstone cleared his throat before he spoke loud enough for all to hear in the grand hall. “Laird William of Lochwood wishes for a Day of Truce to be held three days hence where upon he will discuss your marriage to Catrione Johnstone and if there be reason to have such marriage annulled.”

Waylon nodded. “Ye may tell yer laird I accept the Day of Truce, but the marriage will stand fast. I willnae have my bairns born bastards. Ye will also tell him that Archie have better no’ be damaged if he wishes to trade his daughter’s happiness for my brother’s freedom.”

The March warden nodded. “I will return to my laird with your message,

“See that ye do.”

Waylon waited until the Johnstone’s warden left the hall before he turned toward Catrione. Her expression betrayed her, but he would not make excuses for his rashness. “I said what I must.”

“I do not fault your concern for legitimate heirs, but I cannot condone the manner of which you demanded it.”

“Doonae worry so. I ken well what I’m doing.”

“At least one of us does. I warn you, you should not anger my father. He does have a temper.”

“They doonae call me the Devil’s Wolf for naught.”

“You are indeed a formidable opponent.”

“I am glad ye believe so.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. “How did I find myself in such a dilemma?”

Her question was rhetorical and he treated it as such as he reached for his tankard to quench his thirst.

“I know the answer well enough,” she murmured with a curse. “Men.”

“Did ye say something?” He lifted a brow and peered at her.

Her gaze met his. “My father will fight you to the death.”

His shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. “I am up to the task, or is it yer father ye worry for, my sweet Catrione?”

“I know you don’t believe me, but I don’t want you or my father harmed.”

He took her hand. “So, ye soften toward me, have ye?”

She yanked her hand away. “Do be serious and not a pompous arse.”

“Mi’lady, ye do spew such lovely endearments. I dare say ye must spend many hours confessing yer sins. No wonder ye need a priest close at hand.”

“Why you—”

He leaned over and covered her mouth, stifling her reprimand until she no longer cared.

* * * *

The man did know how to distract with finesse. When the tankards slammed on the tables, he let her up for air.

“See how pleased all are tonight? Doonae spoil their fun.”

She wanted to ask him how happy his people would be when he died at her father’s sword. She pursed her lips together as another thought flitted across her mind. What if it were her father who fell? She choked back a sob.

Waylon took her hand again. “I’ve distressed ye, I see. How aboot I make ye another pact.”

“What now?”

“I will do my best to make the Day of Truce a day without bloodshed, but ye must realize yer father will have a say in the outcome as well.”

Again her husband surprised her. She squeezed his hand. “I appreciate your gallantry.”

He lifted her hand to his lips. “Perhaps ye will show me how ye appreciate me in the comforts of my chambers.” His devilish gaze swept over her.

She was truly lost if her traitorous heart turned over at a mere glimpse of his smile. When she left his care, she would miss the way his stormy colored eyes made her feel like the only woman in the room. It was unfortunate he pledged to never fall in love with her, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy her husband’s attention for now. “The longer I’m with you I am convince you will corrupt my soul.”

He chuckled as he leaned close, his voice low and only for her ears. “I take it that is yer way of saying, aye.” He claimed her lips, but Catrione feared he’d claimed her heart as well.

Chapter Thirteen

Waylon wanted to show Catrione the lands, immerse her in his world and hopefully entice her to want to stay with him. Wishful thinking on his part, but he would not give up hope until she left his side.

They stood overlooking the land. They could see the forest from where they stood.

The wind blew cool and she pulled her cloak closer around her. “You do not care for the reiver’s life, do you?” Catrione’s bold appraisal of him made him feel vulnerable.

His gaze met hers, when he gauged his response. “I will do what must be done to survive, but aye, I long for a simpler life.” She didn’t look at him with contempt, but with warm regard. He leaned near her if only to breathe in the sweet scent of her skin and hair. He pointed to where the sheep grazed on the mudflats in the distance. “The sheep have no’ a care. They would be happy with saltmarsh and to roam wild on the coastline.”

“Is that what you’d like to do? Raise sheep?”

“No’ just sheep.”

This drew her attention and she turned to gaze at him again. “What then?”

He took her hand and led her closer to where his men worked cutting through the trees and bushes. “They’re clearing the land so we may grow crops,” he told her.

One of the men leaned down to where the brush and grass were piled in neat lines surrounding a portion of the forest. He struck the flint and a bright light flickered then grew. The man jumped away lest the flames consume him also.

“Your man started a fire.” Her fingers dug into his arm with worry.

“Be still.” He patted her hand in reassurance. “Ye doonae need to panic, mi’lady. The fire is controlled to burn where the wood proves too dense.”

The blaze grew, licking and devouring the tall trees as if it were a hungry beast with an endless appetite.

She clutched her hand to her throat. “It is terrifying to watch. Yet, I find I cannot look away as if the flames have enchanted me in some way.”

His arm draped over her shoulder, drawing her near once again. “I have often time thought the same. The flames do work a sort of magic. Once the fire burns itself out, the ash nourishes the soil, making it fertile. We’ll begin planting at the end of the reiving season. We will have a rich crop to show for our troubles.

Her gaze found his. Her sea green eyes were beautiful in the afternoon light or perhaps it was only the way her gaze touched him without contempt that made them so irresistible. “What will you grow?” she asked.

She didn’t mock him with her words. Her interest proved true. He could see it in the way she held his gaze, waiting for him to reveal his intent. “We will have wheat and barley.”

From their walk of the grounds, some of her hair came free from its confines. He tucked the wayward strands behind her ear and his hand brushed against her cheek in a caress. Her skin felt cool and smooth to his touch.

“And the fierce storms will not destroy the crop?” Her voice lowered to a hoarse whisper. Her eyes darkened as she leaned into his palm.

“Doonae fash yerself. We will collect the wheat before the fierce sea storms can spoil it.”

“Hmm. You have it all figured out.” She stepped away from him for a moment with her hands fisted on her hips. One finely shaped eyebrow quirked up. “You are nothing as I thought you would be, Devil’s Wolf.”

His lips curved into a wide grin. “Ye arenae what I expected either.”

Her gaze drifted over him, his body heating with each visual caress. She stepped forward, so near their bodies nearly touched. Her hands grasped his forearms as she leaned up on her tip-toes. “Thank you, for this day.” She kissed him, her tongue sweeping between his lips in invitation.

His hands gripped her waist, drawing her closer. “If ye keep this up, I will think ye want me to take ye to bed.”

She kissed the side of his mouth and murmured, “What are you waiting for?”

Chapter Fourteen

Catrione greeted Jon Luc with a smile. The priest entered the chambers with hesitation. She understood his caution. She now resided in her husband’s solar, his private chambers.

“Do not fear the Wolf’s den,” she teased. “You are welcomed.”

“I must say, my lady, you look well.” His words confirmed how please he was to find her in good spirits, but he still eyed her closely for any signs proving otherwise.

She wore a gown of rich indigo with the Maxwell’s badge pinned to the bodice with pride. She had many such lovely gowns courtesy of her generous husband.

Jon Luc glanced at the door behind him to ensure they were alone. “May I speak frankly, my lady?”

“Of course.” She waved her hand at him to continue. Her steps brought her closer to the peat fire burning bright in the hearth. She lifted her hands to warm them.

“The Maxwell is treating you well?”

Her gaze found his. “Can you not tell?” She turned to face him.

“I should like to hear it from your lips.”

She chuckled. “Jon Luc, you need not worry. I have been treated with the utmost respect and he makes me feel...” A flash of memory of her body arching up to meet Waylon’s made her wonder what she should call the passion her husband inflicted, and made her respond like a wanton woman.

Her gaze shifted to the large bed they shared only hours before and in the middle of the day no less. Heat burned her cheeks at what she had done to him. What he did to her. She pursed her lips together. Her soul could be damned before she’d confessed the intimacy she shared with Waylon to the priest.

Her gaze met Jon Luc who stared at her, waiting for her to finish the statement. She squared her shoulders and drew in a deep breath. “My laird, Waylon treats me as if he cherishes me.” There, let the priest come to his own conclusions.

Jon Luc’s smiled with a nod. “I suspected the Wolf could be tamed, but it appears he has pacified you as well.”

Her brows drew together, wondering what he meant by his odd statement, but he didn’t elaborate.

“We meet with your father in three days, my lady. What will you have me say about your marriage? He will ask.”

She chewed on her lower lip in indecision. Her father will think her weak. Waylon Maxwell was her enemy and she surrendered to him with nary a fight.

“My lady?”

“You will say nothing, Jon Luc. I said my vows before God. I cannot take them back now. The Day of Truce will decide what is to become of the marriage. I will have no say either way.” She threw up her hands, anger spurring her now, but she wasn’t sure why. Did she fear her father would make her return home with him or was it she feared she would never see Waylon again?

Jon Luc’s soft voice drew her attention. “My child, you must make a decision of where your loyalty lies.”

“I love my father, priest. Never doubt my loyalty to him.”

He nodded. “But do you love Waylon Maxwell as well?”

Chapter Fifteen

Three days passed in a blink of an eye and they now stood before Catrione’s father. The Day of Truce with its pretense of civil intent was where the clans ate and pretended to be merry. Men jousted and participated in friendly games of strength, while the women traded stories, but the true matter for this meeting of the clans was to be decided and lives would be changed forever.

Laird William was tall, hair sprinkled gray, and with eyes as chilling as frosted ice. “What makes you think you are worthy to marry a Johnstone and live to tell the tale, Devil’s Wolf?”

“I am of the Maxwells and ’tis I who give honor to Catrione, saying she is worthy to be my wife.”

William’s eyes narrowed but he let the claim slide. His gaze leveled on his daughter. “And how do you fare, sweet Catrione? Last I saw you, you were waiting for your one true love. Have you found him with the Devil’s Wolf?”

Waylon’s body stiffened beside Catrione, and she knew he worried what she would tell her father. “I’ve been told true love is for fools.”

William nodded. “However, you seemed quite set on finding it. Have you changed your mind, then?”

Catrione glanced at Waylon and knew this was her opportunity to be free of him. Only now she wasn’t sure she wanted freedom if it meant he would never hold her in his arms. If it meant she would never hear his laughter or see him hold their child.

She knew Waylon would make a good father. She’d seen it in the eyes of those who followed him. Her husband was strong, fierce, but with a kind heart to even the balance.

She turned back to her father. “Laird Waylon is brave and honest. He will keep me safe. I could do no worse.”

William tilted his head and eyed her closely as if looking for some sign of deceit. “Hmm...”

He may have said more, but Jaime the March warden for the Johnstones came forward to speak to him.

Catrione stood by Archie as they waited for the outcome of this farce to play out. Waylon’s brother was a pawn in all this, too, though his fate was more severe since death lurked within reach. It surprised her that he didn’t seem worried in the least. Archie stood with confidence, whistling softly under his breath, a lively tune that did not befit the situation. He realized she watched him and his gaze found hers. His mouth curved into a smile, and he had the audacity to wink at her.

“Why, I never,” she said looking away.

“Oh come now, lighten up. We are family now.” His gaze roamed over her. “I say my brother did well. For once the rumors were true. Ye are indeed a comely lass.”

“And you sir, are too bold.”

His large shoulder’s lifted in a shrug. “’Tis a curse, I know,” he said with a sigh, indicating his regret.

Despite his boldness, Catrione found his cheerful attitude difficult to resist. “Are you not worried?”

“What will happen will happen. And ye? Ye look beside yerself, but I wonder...hmm... Who do ye wish to win? Is it yer father with hopes of returning home or will ye pray yer husband’s strength will prove enough to keep ye at Caerlaverock?”

Her gaze wandered over to where Waylon stood, so dark and dangerous, but she knew the true man. She felt it in the way he caressed her and in the way he treated the people around him. She could love this man. “Oh God.” Her hand flew to her mouth as the truth sunk in. Without realizing it, she’d fallen for her enemy.

“Aah, ye care for him.” Archie lips curved into a wide smile. “Ye can end this, mi’lady without bloodshed. Ye only have to say the word.”

But it was too late. Heuy Maxwell came forward to address the crowd. Both clans gathered around to see who would win in the battle. “The rules of combat,” he announced loud and clear as he twirled his long dark mustache. “To avenge his daughter’s honor, Laird William of Lochwood has the right to draw his sword in a fight to the end. If Laird Waylon of Caerlaverock wins, he will see his brother free. He has stated, he will allow Lady Catrione to decide where she will reside from this day forth. No matter the outcome.”

Catrione’s gaze riveted to Waylon. His storm gray eyes didn’t shy away from her. He would let her decide, He would set her free if it was her wish. “A true man of honor,” she murmured.

“This only gets better.” Archie chuckled.

“What do you mean?” Catrione hissed beneath her breath, wishing he would be quiet.

“My brother is in love with ye, too. How utterly delicious.” He sighed, thoroughly enjoying this. “The magic of love never ceases to amaze me.”

Catrione closed her eyes willing this madness to stop, but the first clang of metal forced her to realize the horror had already begun. The crowd cheered. The Johnstones for her father and the Maxwells for her husband. She had to stop this before it ended in bloodshed.

She pushed her way forward only to be stopped by Reid.

“Where do ye think yer going?”

“I must speak to my father... to Waylon.”

“They are fighting to the death. Now is no’ a good time.”

“It is the only chance I’ll have.” Before Reid could react, she relieved him of his sword.

Reid lunged forward, intent on securing his weapon, but Archie pulled him back. “Hey!”

“Let the lass go. She knows her mind. A true match for my brother, do ye no’ think?”

Catrione plowed forward, stepping in front of Waylon and facing her father who had lifted his sword to strike.

William saw her a second too late and couldn’t pull back, his sword slashing down. Waylon reacted and pushed her out of harms way as he brought his sword hand up to take the blow. The edge of William’s blade bit into his arm. His weapon fell from his grip as he crumpled to one knee.

“No!” Catrione screamed and ran to Waylon’s side. She cupped his face. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

The crowd had grown quiet, but now whispers spread as they speculated what would happen next.

Waylon’s wolfish grin told her the wound he suffered was not fatal, but there was so much blood. Her hand gripped his forearm for a closer inspection. The slash bled freely, the blood wetting her fingers. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “We need to bandage this now.” Panic laced her words, but she didn’t care.

“Catrione, ’tis all right,” Waylon assured her. “’Tis only a scratch. See the bleeding slows as I speak.”

A shadow crossed over her and she looked up to see her father frowning down at her. “You stand in the way, Catrione. This is a fight to the death. There is no patching wounds.”

“I can’t allow this to happen,” Catrione spoke up, surprising everyone, including Waylon who eyed her with open suspicion. “You can’t fight for my virtue, Father, when I accept Laird Waylon as my husband.” She reached for Waylon’s good hand and she felt comfort in his grip. He stood, bringing her to stand beside him.

“Tell me, Catrione, and honestly because your words weigh heavy on my decision. Does the Devil’s Wolf treat you well?”

Catrione turned and met Waylon’s gaze. “He is very attentive.”

William remained silent as he looked to his daughter then to Waylon. “Attentive, indeed.” He didn’t sound happy with her response. “He is the enemy, daughter, or have you forgotten?”

“He is no enemy to me.” She met her father’s gaze and didn’t waver.

“I see,” he said. “It seems my dear, you’ve a husband who is a warrior and an ample lover as well. Perhaps you found true love after all.”

She didn’t respond to her father’s statement, but hurried on with her request. “Father, will you give us your blessing?”

William pursed his lips together, but then he harrumphed with a shake of his head as if he could not believe his ears. “Very well, if this is what you truly wish, Catrione.”

“It is.” She nodded.

William closed his eyes in a deliberate blink, drawing in a deep breath as he did so. Then he leveled his eyes on Catrione and Waylon. “I say the marriage stands. However,” he narrowed his gaze on Waylon, “Devil’s Wolf, if I hear my daughter is not happy with her decision I will seek you out and finish the deed started this day.”

Waylon wrapped his arm around Catrione, pulling her against him. “Then a truce has been made.”

William sighed. “Aye, for now I suppose it has.” He turned toward Archie. “And take your brother, before I have every lass in my keep carrying his seed. I have no desire to have more Maxwells as kin.”

“As ye wish,” Waylon bowed.

Chapter Sixteen

When they were alone, Catrione worked to bandage Waylon’s arm.

“Ye could have been killed.” Waylon’s voice broke the silence.

She tied a knot on the bandage and looked up. “Aye, and ye could have been, too.”

“Why did you intervene?” He shook his head. “Ye could have gone back to Lochwood this very day. Ye could have been free of me.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps I am exactly where I wish to be.”

She turned away, but he grabbed her arm, pulling her back. With his forefinger, he tilted her chin so her gaze met his.

“Are ye then? Are ye where ye should be?”

“It would seem, Devil’s Wolf, ye stole more than ye thought the day ye kidnapped me.”

“Is that so? And what treasure do I possess?”

“My heart.” She spoke with quiet intensity, her gaze never leaving his.

For several seconds he only stared at her, believing she jested, but her lips never curved into a smile. Then he realized she spoke the truth. “A heart is a precious gift to be sure.”

“Aye, and see that ye don’t trample it.” She tried to pull away again, obviously hurt by his response.

He didn’t let her go. She looked at him meeting his gaze with defiance. What a strong-willed lass, he took for a wife. He could live with that. It’s the living without her he could never do. He cupped her face, tracing her delicate fine bones with his fingertips. How desperately he had wanted this woman at his side and today she gave her heart freely to him. “Ah my sweet, ye had my heart from the moment I pulled the helmet from yer bonny head.”

“Waylon...” Tears glistened in her eyes as she leaned against his palm.

“Do ye know what ye do to me when ye say my name? It’s like a powerful incantation and I am at yer mercy.”

She sniffled back her tears with a chuckle. “Then.... Waylon...”

He growled in raw appreciation, making her truly laugh, a sweet sound to his ears.

“Take me home and show me how much you love me.”

“Yer wish is my command, mi’lady.” He buried his fingers in the tangle of her hair. The naked desire in her eyes was all he needed to know how she felt about him. He crushed his mouth to hers, taking what she offered and giving her the same.

Chapter Seventeen

Nine months later...

Waylon picked up the screaming bairn and stared in disbelief as it kicked and hollered. “This is no’ a son, Catrione.”

She chuckled. “I am aware.”

He looked at her then back to the screaming baby. “At least she is strong. Look how she howls.”

“Like the Devil’s Wolf.”

He harrumphed as he hugged the child near, replacing the blankets around her. The baby latched onto his finger. “She has a strong grip, too.”

“So we can keep her?”

Waylon looked at her in alarm. “Keep her? Of course we’ll keep her. She’s my bairn, is she no’?”

“Most certainly.”

He rocked the child and her howls began to taper. “She’s a fine lass, Catrione. Ye did well.”

“Thank you, Laird Wolf.”

He strode over to her and sat down on the edge of the bed before he handed her the bairn. “I will do well by her, but...”

“But?”

“Mayhap when ye are well enough... we could perhaps try for a son.”

“I would like to have a son, but what if we have only daughters?”

Waylon sighed. “It would be my luck to have a houseful of lassies, but... I shall love them anyway.”

Catrione leaned against him with a small smile touching her lips. “I love you, dear Wolf.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll love ye forever, mi’lady.”

The End

Author’s Note:

What inspired Love’s Eternal Embrace?

The Legend of the Dearg-due

Philip Burne-Jones Bt. (1861-1926)

Vampires have inspired poems and stories throughout the ages. Even though the names vary when naming this bloodsucker, every culture has a legend.

The Irish Dearg-due literally translates to bloodsucker. In one of the legends, the Dearg-due is a female demon that rises from her grave to seduce men, dooming them with just one kiss.

A Celtic legend tells of a fair maiden named Dearg-due. She was so beautiful all knew of her. She could have married any man, but she fell in love with a local peasant. However, her father would not allow the marriage. He forced her to marry a wealthy man to secure a financial future for the family. The husband mistreated Dearg-due and she committed suicide. Legend states she is buried in a small churchyard located near Strongbow’s Tree in the village of Waterford. One night, Dearg-due avenged her fate, rose from the grave, and lured her father and husband to their deaths.

The legend differs, but it is believed a Dearg-due will rise from the grave to seduce men and lure them to their deaths by draining their blood. It could be every full moon or a few times a year. Some say it is the anniversary of her death. There are only one or two stories stating she can change into a bat-like creature, but most claim she cannot shape shift at all. There are a few legends that say she does not drink blood, but sucks out the life force, until the victims slowly wither and die.

Where Did Ireland’s Forests Go?

At one time, Forests covered two-thirds of Ireland. In the Middle Ages, the forests were communally owned and appreciated. If the trees were unlawfully cut down, the person would be fined. The English and Anglo-Irish nobles kept their estate grounds forested for beauty and for hunting.

When England’s Tudor armies began their conquest in Ireland around the 16th Century, they began to cut down the forests. With the trees, so went the wildlife. Wild boars vanished in the 17th Century for lack of acorns and even squirrels became extinct to Ireland. The last wolf was shot in southwest Ireland near Killarney over two centuries ago.

The Knights Templar in Ireland

The Knights Templar, formally known as the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ, and of the Temple of Solomon, was once one of the most famous Christian military orders.

The organization was started in the Middle Ages and existed for almost two centuries.

Around 1129, the Order was a favored charity and grew in memberships and power. They were among the most skilled fighting units of the Crusades, but the non-combatant members took care of the financial end, starting the early form of banking and building fortifications across Europe and the Holy Land.

When the Holy Land was lost, support for the Order faded. Rumors about the Orders’ secret initiation ceremony created mistrust.

King Philip IV of France owed a debt to the Order and took advantage of the situation. On Friday, October 13, 1307, he orchestrated a coup to end the Knights Templar’s rule. On that day, the Orders’ members were arrested.

The Knights Templar in Ireland arrived around 1169-71 when the Norman invasion took place. Due to the Orders’ secretive nature, there is little known of their activities in Ireland. They did own extensive estates of land, mostly in Munster. At the time, seventy-five percent of the island was a Norman colony, but the Templars’ military activities in Ireland were limited. In the Gaelic Irish annals, they are not even mentioned, proving they had very little interaction with Gaelic Ireland.

They did however recruit Knights to go to the Holy Land. Many joined to relieve financial burden to their family’s estates. The Templars also had a profitable farming enterprise in Ireland.

On February 2, 1308, the Templars in Ireland were arrested and placed in Dublin castle. The Orders’ lands were seized by King Edward II. The trial didn’t take place until February 6, 1310 and ended on June 6, 1310. The trial was at St. Patrick’s Cathedral just outside the wall of the city of Dublin.

The Templars were charged with denying Christ, spitting on the cross, homosexuality, and worshipping idols. Torture played a big role in France to secure confessions, but in Ireland it seems it wasn’t used. The Templars never admitted guilt and none were found guilty.

Templers Burned at the Stake

Von der Schöpfung der Welt bis 1384

In 1312, Pope Clement V disbanded the Order. In France, the Grand Master Jacques de Molay and a dozen other Templars were burned at the stake in 1314. In Ireland, the Order was simply dissolved and the Knights were released. Portugal was the only European country where the Templars were not persecuted and arrested.

There were three divisions of ranks in the Templars: The aristocratic knights, the lower-born sergeants, and the clergy. The clergy were required to be of knightly descent and to wear white mantels.

The knights wore a white surcoat with a red cross and white mantle. The sergeants wore a black tunic with a red cross on the front and back, and a black or brown mantle.

The red cross was the symbol of martyrdom, and to die in combat was considered a great honor, assuring their place in heaven. The Knights were equipped with heavy cavalry, with three or four horses and one or two squires.

There were seventy-two clauses defining the ideal behavior of a Knight. A few of the clauses were: Eat meals in silence. Eat meat no more than three times a week. Do not have physical contact of any kind with women. This included contact with members of their own family.

Heart of the Warrior: Behind the Scenes of a Goddess’ Tale.

For my story, Heart of the Warrior, I wanted a goddess who was both strong and passionate. Scáthach was the perfect choice. She was once mortal and was touched by the Tuantha de Dannan, giving her the status of goddess. She searches the battlefields for the souls of the slain and guides them to Tir Nan Og, the land of eternal youth and beauty. The warrior goddess also ran a school for young warriors. The school is located in Scotland on the Isle of Skye. She initiates the young men into the arts of war, as well as giving them the friendship of her thighs. (I wonder if any of the young men refused to sleep with a goddess? Hmm…probably not.)

Now that I had my strong warrior heroine for my story, I needed a hero. I wanted to try something different. Instead of a macho, strong alpha male for the lead, I chose Trey, a man battling cancer. He’s dying, but Scáthach takes him to the mystical Isle of Skye. As you know in this world, she teaches him to be a warrior and of course she comforts him after a long day on the field. She is a passionate goddess after all and Trey could do with a little loving.

Heroes and brave warriors come in many forms. A man battling a disease and winning definitely deserves the title: Heart of a Warrior.

I hope you enjoyed the tale as much as I did penning it.

The Storr on the Isle of Skye with the pinnacle of the Old Man of Storr at the right.

What inspired The Devil’s Wolf?

Reivers

Between the 13th and 17th century, Border Reivers were raiders who lived along the Anglo-Scottish border. These reivers stole from their neighboring clansmen. These clans were both Scottish and English families that raided the entire border country. They were ruthless and did not care who their victims were. Nationalities did not matter.

* * * * *

The Maxwells and the Johnstones

The Maxwells were the strongest family in the Scottish West March until the Johnstones reduced their power in the sixteenth century. The feud between the Johnstones and the Maxwells was the longest and the bloodiest in history. I thought it appropriate to weave a tale around these two clans and perhaps finally bring them peace.

* * * * *

Hideout

The Devil's Beef Tub is located north of the Scottish town of Moffat with a deep dramatic hollow formed by four hills: The Great Hill, Peat Knowe, Annanhead Hill and Ericstane Hill. The Border Reivers, who hid their stolen cattle there, gave the place its name.

* * * * *

Reivers and Their Names

Many of the reivers had colorful names such as Archie Fire-the-Braes, Out-With-the-Sword, and Cleave-the-Crune. The Devil's Wolf seemed appropriate for the hero of my tale.

* * * * *

Strongholds

Catrione Johnstone and Waylon Maxwell are both fictional characters, but their strongholds were true homes to these clans. Lochwood Tower, the seat of the Johnstone Clan is located in upper Annandale. Unfortunately this historical pele tower is in an advanced state of ruin. Caerlaverock is one of the most beautiful and interesting castle in Scotland. The remains of the castle date back to the rebuilding that took place through 1400s. They offer tours daily.

Caerlaverock in 1900.

If you enjoyed these tales, you might also enjoy the full-length novel,

Lost in the Mist of Time. Here’s a sneak peek…

Chapter One

Sixteenth Century Ireland

“What is it, old woman? Why have ye summoned me?” He was civil though to anyone that knew Dougray Fitzpatrick, they would have known he was not pleased to be beckoned forth in the middle of the night. Neala, the woman of the glen was no fool. She was well aware that this man was strong enough to crush her with one powerful blow. Yet she stood there not afraid. She knew him better than perhaps he knew himself. He would grumble and threaten, but he would never raise a hand to do harm. Her high-pitched cackle was proof enough that she feared him not.

“Milord, ye speak gruffly, but I will forgive ye. Come follow me, so only ye can hear what I have been destined to reveal.”

Dougray could not help but roll his eyes, wishing he had stayed at the castle with the fire burning hot in the fireplace and his goblet filled to the brim. He sighed, knowing if he didn’t let the old crone speak her mind, there would be no end to this charade. Reluctantly, he made his feet move to follow her.

She waved a crooked finger at him, so he would lean ever closer.

“Well, woman?” He threw up his hands. “I lose patience.”

“Then listen well, young lord, for ye will have to keep the wits about ye, when ye are cast from this place and time.”

“What are ye blathering about?”

She shook her head as she continued, determination lighting her aged-old eyes. “Ye will be sent to another place and time for it has been written. Learn what need be, so ye can save yer future born.” He was about to give her an unpleasant retort but she silenced him with just a look. “I have more to say to ye before ye go wagging yer tongue.”

He gave her a rather unpleasant snort, letting her know just how annoyed he was with her prattling. When she folded her arms against her chest and narrowed her silver-gray eyes at him, he finally gave in with an irritated harrumph, nodding for her to continue.

“Ye will meet a lass that will believe yer tale. She will be the vision, a dream. Do not rush what should not be. Listen to yer heart, and ye will find yer true love. Do ye understand me, Fitzpatrick?”

“Aye, aye,” he said with impatience to be gone. He wasn’t one to believe in fanciful tales, and most especially if they involved matters of the heart.

“Ye will do well, young lord.” She placed her gnarled hand on his. “Please pray ye will not tarry long in this other world.”

Tarry in another world? Dougray couldn’t help but chuckle. “Humor me. How is it, old crone, that I will be thrust from this time and place?”

“A mist like no other will appear, covering ye like it were a woolen blanket. When ye finally come out of its heaviness, ye will be where yer destiny has sent ye.”

Once more, Dougray’s deep vibrant chuckle filled the night air. “I will take heed, old crone. If ever I see such a mist, I will do as ye bid. Now if that is all, I would like to return to the warmth of my fire.”

“I have spoken.” With a wave of her hand, she turned away from him with her dismissal.

He shook his head, wondering why he allowed her to give him orders. He straightened his mantle and strode toward his horse, thinking no more of the old woman’s prediction. “Magical mists!” he exclaimed. “Dar Dia!”

Murrough didn’t miss the Lord of Dunhaven’s scowl. He had known the man long enough to realize he was not troubled but rather perturbed.

Obviously, the wise woman had not given him bad news, only information that thoroughly irked him. “So what did she say of our meeting wi’ the Butler?”

Dougray shrugged his shoulders. “It seems, my friend, that we were summoned out here for no reason at all. She had no news. Rather she wanted to warn me of a magical mist.”

For a moment, Murrough just sat there upon his horse, wondering if he were joking. Neala was known for peculiarities, but this? “Milord, surely ye jest.”

“Ah, that I were. It seems the old woman has dipped into the spirits this night. She babbled about me finding my true love.” He chuckled, though it was the troubled laugh Murrough recognized all too well. Neala may have spoke nonsense, but she had hit a sore spot.

Dougray had been married once to the beautiful fair-haired Ella, the daughter of his now hated enemy, Fingham Butler, the Lord of Castlehold. It had been a good match for the clans, ending the petty quarrels that had plagued the land. The marriage was even approved by the Tudor King, bestowing favor once more to the inhabitants of Dunhaven. By the stars, their love had been of youth’s strong devotion, but tragedy befell Ella only a few weeks after the blessed nuptials.

Dougray vowed he would never love again. As far as Murrough knew, he held strong to that promise.

As for Ella’s father, he blamed Dougray for her death, and was determined to avenge her. The raids and skirmishes were now a weekly occurrence to that pledge.

Tomorrow marked the anniversary of Ella’s death, and Fingham summoned a meeting. He proclaimed he just wanted to converse, but Murrough didn’t trust it. The men would be well prepared in case of trickery. If only he could convince Dougray to finish the deed, but his friend wouldn’t force Fingham to the death. He still insisted they try to find peace.

“We best head home.” Dougray clicked his mount into motion.

They rode in silence for a while before Murrough sparked a conversation, wondering if Neala wasn’t right to have spoken of a new love. “Are ye ever going to open yer heart to another?”

“Why do ye continue to ask me this? You know Ella was the only woman for me.”

“Aye. Ye loved her, but she is gone but one year now. You need to think of the future. What of an heir?”

“An heir can be sought without love. When the time comes, I will choose someone who will make do this task.”

Murrough shook his head. “Do ye not think a woman would want more than to lie down and take your seed?”

“Perhaps.” Dougray chuckled, amusement lighting his eyes. “Maybe I will ask Fiona to do the honors. She has been more than willing to give in to my needs without the promise of more.”

“Aye, and she is willing wi’ half of the keep.” This won him a sideways glare, which he chose to ignore as he continued, “Maybe this mist would be a godsend.”

“Do not tell me ye believe the old crone?”

Murrough sighed not knowing if he believed it or not. Neala was of the old ways and was known to have a second sight. “Stranger things have happened. In ancient times, an O’Donoghue of the Glens supposedly went wi’ the faeries. According to the legend on May Day, he glided over the Lakes of Killarney on a white horse. And the unearthly music could be heard while his troops of spirits scattered flowers.”

“Dar Dia! I would loathed to go into battle, worried my back was not covered because ye are looking for the wee folk, or worst this mist the old woman speaks of.”

Murrough’s red, bushy brows furrowed with irked displeasure. “I must tell ye, I take offence to your statement. Have I ever let ye down?”

Dougray hadn’t meant for his teasing to offend him and immediately tried to make amends. “Never, my friend. Ye are the only one I have ever trusted. I know without a doubt, I have no need of worry as long as ye are at my side.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Good. Now tell me Murrough, why have ye not married?”

“I am not cut out for marriage. Women are from a troublesome breed,” he said with such venom, it caused Dougray to laugh.

“Ye had another argument wi’ Rhiannon, aye?” Dougray accused.

“Bah! The woman has a bite. I will tell ye. She was put out because I had forgotten to take home the shirt she had made for me. Come morning, I went straightaway to her door, and the foul woman nearly spit in my face. She said: I did not love her, that I did not care a wink about her feelings. Can ye believe this? Me?” He pounded his chest. “I do everything, but kiss that woman’s arse.”

“Bring her flowers and she will surely welcome ye wi’ open arms.”

“I am not crawling back to her. I have done so much groveling, that me knees are near worn thin.”

Dougray let his friend vent, but he already knew Murrough would be at Rhiannon’s door as soon as they returned to the keep. It was Murrough’s way. He didn’t like any dispute to last more than a day’s time, and unfortunately Rhiannon also was aware of this. She’d pout for a while then she’d forgive him. He was sure that come tomorrow’s light, when they rode out to meet the Butler, Murrough would be wearing a satisfied grin.

About the Author:

Karen Michelle Nutt resides in California with her husband, three fascinating children, and houseful of demanding pets. Jack, her Chorkie, is her writing buddy and sits long hours with her at the computer.

When she’s not time traveling, fighting outlaws, or otherworldly creatures, she creates pre-made book covers to order at Gillian’s Book Covers, “Judge Your Book By Its Cover”. You can also check out her published cover art designs at Western Trail Blazer and Rebecca J. Vickery Publishing.

Whether your reading fancy is paranormal, historical or time travel, all her stories capture the rich array of emotions that accompany the most fabulous human phenomena—falling in love.

Visit the author at: http://www.kmnbooks.com

Blog: http://kmnbooks.blogspot.com

Gillian’s Book Covers,

“Judge Your Book By Its Cover”:

http://judgeyourbookbyitscover.blogspot.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorkarenmichellenutt

Twitter: https://twitter.com/KMNbooks

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Amazon Author Page:

http://www.amazon.com/Karen-Michelle-Nutt/e/B002BLLBPE

Table of Contents

- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter One