A Storm of Passion (9 page)

“Was that before or after he provided you with everything you ever needed or wanted?”

The sarcasm in her voice was clear, as was the fact that he had joyfully not looked too closely at the beneficence of Lord Diarmid in those early years. Then he was too dependent on the luxuries and the wealth and the lifestyle he’d come to know.

“It is known throughout the isles that Diarmid has someone who helps him to gain power over his enemies and to entice others to his side. Most think it is his spies, providing dangerous information that Diarmid uses to assure compliance. Very few get close enough to meet his Seer or avail themselves of his talent.”

“Yet you discovered this truth. On your own. How did you learn so much about me?” he asked. Diarmid apparently kept the truth of his puppet quiet. How had this woman, this girl, found it out?

“I had reasons to seek you out, and it did not take long to learn the right questions to ask and the right men to ask them of.” From the way she emphasized
men
, he understood her methods before she spoke of them. “Men lose their minds when a woman offers to lift their skirts. Or please them in some other way. Once I found the men who had the information I needed or who could help me in gaining entrance to places made difficult to enter, it was not hard.”

Connor searched her face, realizing that she had been very young when she began her search for him and had made her way through most of it alone. Because her family was dead.

Because of him.

Because when the visions first started, he did not know enough about them or the people Diarmid brought forward or the true power of his words. He’d learned only this past year how to let the power seek out those who needed help or had good intentions and not those who were simply greedy or hungry for their neighbors’ lands or possessions. But before…he let out a breath.

So many lives changed because of him, while he sat here in luxurious oblivion, drinking his fine wines, enjoying the attentions of a myriad of women who sought only his pleasure, and allowing Diarmid to benefit like a parasite from his gift.

Because of him.

The silence grew between them now, for Connor was not certain he wanted to hear more about himself from this woman who sought vengeance for the loss of everyone dear to her. He met her gaze and saw pity there, and he did not like it.

And now? What path was open to him now? From the signs, his gift was burning itself and him out with each successive month. The blindness, not gone yet, lasted nearly two days longer than it had last month. The pain and torment grew stronger yet again.

The vision itself was more powerful than any before it—the clarity and reach had shocked him as the vista of the man’s isle opened before him and he soared over it. Though he remembered not many of the details of it, he could still taste the sea air and smell the extensive marshlands he’d witnessed as he’d flown over the coast.

Now what would happen?

He did not remember asking it aloud, but she shook her head. “I know not the answer to that. Some told me that you are not gifted, but cursed, and unless you discover the reason, there is no way to remove it from you. Another said that it will reach its peak after seven years and then fade away over the next seven, for seven is a sacred number to those who give powers like this. And another said…” She stopped then and shook her head. “It was only an old tale; she probably twisted two together and is wrong,” she explained.

“Tell me the rest of it,” he urged.

“Three is the other number sacred to the Sith. One old woman said she heard that there were three boys born to the woman who caught the faery and that all three were cursed in the same way.”

Connor reeled back, leaning against the cold stone wall and trying to get his balance. He’d never dreamt that he had family. No one ever mentioned the possibility of brothers. Did they yet live? Had they a similar talent and curse? “Where are they?”

She shrugged and shook her head. “I know not, for only one old woman repeated that part to me, and I had no interest in searching for the others. I only sought the Seer.”

Hundreds of questions raced in his thoughts, and he was about to ask her another when the noise near the doorway caught his attention. A number of men rushed through the door, with Diarmid in the lead, and he knew she was not safe here now.

“Breac,” he called. “Hold her over the side of the wall,” he ordered as he moved closer to her. “Moira, do not fight him, or I cannot guarantee your safety.”

Now more than ever, he wanted her alive to find out more. He could not risk Diarmid breaking her to find out about other plots against him. This was too important.

“No, please, Seer,” she began to beg as she backed away. “I answered every question you asked. Please, do not…”

Her voice drifted off as Breac lifted her from her feet and held her headfirst over the battlements. She clutched the edge of the stones, trying to grab on to something that would keep her from falling over to her death. Then she simply screamed loud and long, for it seemed as though her death was at hand.

Diarmid ran to where they stood and called out for him to stop. “Here now, Connor. I did not think you meant to toss her to her death. I have other plans in mind for her when you finish.”

“Nay, my lord. She is a worthless liar and will not give me the answers I want. Even now she refuses,” Connor bluffed.

Breac shook her, and she begged him again. “Seer! Please!” she screamed.

“One more chance then,” Connor crossed his arms over his chest, praying the farce worked, and nodded to Breac. “Bring her up.”

She shook so hard, Connor feared Breac really would drop her, but he placed her on her feet and she clutched the wall to stay standing. There was no color in her face, and she breathed in loud, shallow gasps.

“Did you have anything to do with the other attempts on my life?” he asked in a stern voice.

“Nay!” she cried out. “I know nothing about them. Truly,” she sobbed.

“Did Gillis know of your plans?” he asked.

“Nay! He only helped me find a place to live here in the keep. He knew nothing else…” Her voice grew lower and her breathing more labored. She reached out to him, in a plaintive gesture, and he shook her off.

“Where is Gillis now?”

Diarmid interrupted before Moira could say a word. “That is what brought us here, Connor. One of the guards saw him running up the stairs, and we followed. We were not in time though,” Diarmid finished.

“Not in time?” Connor’s stomach began to tighten. He knew he would not like the answer he was about to hear.

“I thought he ran for the battlements, but he must have gone in a different direction,” Steinar, Diarmid’s half brother said.

A guard called out to them, and the word was as bad as he suspected. “They found him at the bottom of the stairwell, my lord.”

The guard said no more, but they all understood that Gillis was dead and could neither confirm nor deny Moira’s claims now.

The sound of her choking made him turn, just as her eyes rolled up inside her head and her body crumpled in a heap at his feet. With a nod of his head, he ordered Breac to take her back to his chambers. Once he’d carried her off, Connor turned to Diarmid and Steinar.

“Did she tell you anything else? Her reasons for trying to kill you?” Diarmid asked. “Where she is from?” Connor now suspected Diarmid had kept much more from him than he ever considered in the past.

“Only what you heard here. I have just recovered enough to begin questioning her this morn.”

“Do you believe her?” Steinar asked. Diarmid narrowed his gaze and waited on Connor’s response.

“I do believe her. About this man Gillis. I do not think he was part of her plans,” Connor said.

“He ran from my men. That says something,” Diarmid added, as he exchanged a glance with Steinar.

Connor simply nodded, never saying what they all knew—anyone, guilty or innocent, would run from Diarmid’s men, for all on the isle knew what they were capable of doing.

“I think I will continue her questioning when she revives,” he said, as he turned and began to walk away. “I will inform you of anything new I learn, my lord.”

Connor did not let the weakness within show while in front of Diarmid or his half brother, but once inside, he leaned against the wall and tried to catch his breath.

She’d added yet another reason why he had to keep her alive now. Besides the physical need for her and the need to find out more about what had happened to her family, now he needed her to find out the truth about his own past and the limits of the prison in which he now lived.

As he made his way down the stairs toward his chambers, he wondered if either of them would survive long enough to try an escape.

T
he darkness of the hallways was soothing to his eyes after the bright sunlight on the battlements, but it was more difficult for him to see in it. Though several people greeted him as he walked past them he could not see who they were, unless he could look at them directly. His sight was improving by the hour, but would not return to normal for another day or so.

He nodded to the guard standing at his door and entered. Breac stood by as Agnes tended to the still-unconscious Moira, who lay on her makeshift pallet in the corner. Tempted to have her placed in his bed, he was waved off by Breac, who had other ideas about how to treat her now. Connor watched and waited until they’d finished with her.

She lay unmoving, barely breathing, on the thin layer of blanket-covered rushes. Breac had placed the chain back on the collar before stepping away.

“You can remove that, Breac,” he said. “She is no danger to me.”

“You charged me with your protection, my lord, and hers. Let me do this my way,” he replied, in a tone that said he would not allow Connor to interfere now.

Connor paced the room once, twice, even a third time, and still she did not move or make a sound. “Agnes, should you try to wake her?”

Both servants looked at him with exasperation in their gazes before turning back to the woman. Minutes passed and more without her making a sound or moving. The sound of Agnes’s soft voice was the only way he knew when she’d roused.

Though both Breac and Agnes warned her to remain on her pallet, Moira struggled to her feet with their help. The rare breeches in her self-control—momentary outbursts, only seconds at a time—had not prepared him for the woman who met him now. Once she realized where she was and saw him watching her, she lunged for him with enough force to push both Breac and Agnes away. Only the length of the chain stopped her steps forward.

And only the first time.

Like a wild animal that would gnaw off its own foot to escape, she threw herself at him, and against the iron collar that kept her from reaching him. The collar dug into her neck, choking her and causing blood to flow with every attempt she made, but it did not stop her. She screamed for him and lunged again, was pulled back by the chain, and then lunged again. Breac regained his footing quickly and would have approached, but Connor overpowered her and pushed her up against the wall, using his body to pin her there.

While she tried to scratch and tear at him, he slid his leg between hers to control her kicking by trapping her legs within her gown and then took each of her hands and held them high over her head against the wall. She bucked and pushed with her body, trying to dislodge him, but, even weakened, he was stronger than her.

“I am no better than you now, Seer,” she snarled at him, using her head to smash at his face. “Are you pleased that I share in your guilt now?” He quickly repositioned, taking both hands in one of his and leaning his forearm across her throat to keep her pinned there. “He was innocent of this, and now his blood is on my hands,” she screamed.

“His death was not your fault,” he whispered, trying to calm her. “His fear of Diarmid drove him to it.”

“He had nothing to fear but his knowledge of me,” she cried out. “If I had not used him, he would yet live. I am no better than you now,” she repeated, shaking her head and crying openly. “An innocent died because of me…. I spilled the blood of an innocent.”

Then she cried, but in a silence so eerie it made his heart hurt. He eased his arm away from her throat and lifted his weight off her body slowly. The anger and fight drained from her quickly now, leaving only horror and despair in her eyes.

“How do you live with the pain of it, Seer?” she whispered, as her body slid slowly down the wall until she hit the floor and gasped for air.

Connor stepped away without answering. In truth, he’d never thought on it until her accusations just days ago. How would he live with it now that he knew the cost of his gift to others, who were innocent and yet caught up in its expanse? If the pain of one tore at her like this, what would the dozens or hundreds or more cost his soul if he thought on it?

“See to her, Breac,” he ordered softly.

Though Breac approached with caution, Moira did not seem to even be aware of them now. She closed her eyes and continued that silent weeping, her shoulders shuddering and shaking against the stone wall. Breac crouched down and motioned for Agnes to come closer now.

She would have discovered Gillis’s fate in time. There would be no way to keep it from her, and the shock would have been the same. It was just watching her torment as she suffered the same realization he had at her words.

Innocents died because of him, and now because she sought him.

In many ways he wished he could return to the days of mindless rutting and drinking and enjoying everything that the exercise of his gift brought to him. The days of not recognizing the prison in which he lived. The days, not so long ago now, of accepting as the truth that he was as powerful and important as Diarmid made him believe.

He let out the breath he held and watched as Agnes cleaned the blood from Moira’s neck and shoulders. The chain clattered with every movement, and Connor realized they really were alike, for he was as tethered to this place and this life as if a chain locked him here.

Diarmid’s call came at midday.

The man who called forth the vision last week had returned, victorious over the outlaws plaguing his lands, and a feast was to be held in the hall to celebrate it. Diarmid’s allies, as well as those considering joining him, would be present and, of course, Diarmid’s Seer would hold the place of honor. He knew there was some jealousy among Diarmid’s men that he, who’d never raised a sword in battle for their lord, should have such a high place at his table and in his regard, but that came from those not privileged enough to know his true value to Diarmid.

Steinar had been the worst: his begrudging acceptance was long in coming, and even now, five years after his accession as his half brother’s heir, there was no trust between them. Sometimes though he preferred Diarmid’s direct but brutal approach to Steinar’s secretive, more devious one. At least you did not have to guard your back with Diarmid; he attacked straight on, without subterfuge.

Well, with some subterfuge, he guessed, when it related to him. He suspected Diarmid had known much more about him, and for longer, than Connor was even aware of. Curious now, he would try to find out just how much Diarmid knew about his past and his powers.

He dressed in his best: the richly colored tunic with the cloak over his shoulder, held in place by the large gold pin. Around his neck was another long gold chain, a token of Diarmid’s esteem, though provided to Diarmid by one of his chosen few. Connor could take no gold or jewelry directly from someone who had benefited from his gift, for the pain on accepting such a thing was worse, in those early times, than the torment he suffered now after his visions. But, if Diarmid provided it as part of his care and esteem, the pain did not occur.

Again, was it some strange curse that caused such a thing to happen and forced him to become dependent on someone strong and wealthy enough to act as his…pimp? He stumbled as he realized the truth of his relationship with Diarmid. In many ways it was no different from the whoremaster who oversaw his stable and controlled every aspect of the women’s lives and their livelihood as well.

He turned the corner and entered Diarmid’s great hall, in which every possible inch of space was filled with some or another person Diarmid sought to impress or influence. Looking over the crowd, he nodded to those who noticed him first. Then Diarmid saw him and called out his name, pointing everyone’s attention in his direction.

Uncomfortable now with the adulation he’d come to expect after his visions proved true, Connor understood what bothered and worried him the most now: if his gift disappeared tomorrow, of what value would his life be to Diarmid and those around him? He’d conveniently never considered such a thing, but these last several months, with their disturbing changes, forced him to face it. Making his way to the front, he climbed the few steps up to Diarmid’s table, where only the most privileged sat.

“Connor,” Diarmid called. “Come and sit here in the center of my table so that all may speak with you.”

He forced a smile and sat where Diarmid directed, feeling part of a farce. He didn’t remember feeling that way until just months ago. Before, he’d enjoyed it for the pleasure and privilege it brought him.

Now, he saw the hollowness and falsity in it: each man there vied for the morsels Diarmid would throw his way, firmly caught in his web of power. He’d barely sat down when the man next to him grabbed his arm.

“My lord Connor,” he began. “’Twas just as you described to me, to us.” He nodded at Diarmid. “Lord Diarmid’s men accompanied me back to my lands and routed out my enemies.” He lifted his cup in salute. “I pledge my fealty to you, Lord Diarmid!”

Connor accepted the acknowledgment, but he did not know the man’s name. “I do not remember meeting you, sir,” he explained. “What is your name?”

“I am Anakol of the North Island.” Looking from him to Diarmid, Anakol frowned. “You do not remember?”

“I have very little memory of the days of the visions,” he said. “And less of the people involved.” Turning to his other side, he decided it was time. “Is that not right, Lord Diarmid?”

“Aye, it has ever been so with his visions,” Diarmid agreed swallowing a mouthful of ale and nodding. “Since they began.”

Luckily, Anakol was inquisitive and followed with a question of his own. “How long has the Seer been under your protection, my lord?”

“His visions began almost seven years ago,” Diarmid said, slapping him on the shoulder. “And they grow stronger each time.”

“And when did I come to your attention for the first time, my lord? You have never shared with me how you came to know of my visions?” Connor asked, drinking his own ale then and smiling.

Diarmid was well ahead of him in drinking the potent ale he liked so much and began telling the tale Connor had heard before. This time, he gave heed to the small details he’d ignored all those other times.

“An orphan, you be, Connor,” he said, nodding somberly at him. “A foundling over in Argyll. The couple that found you on their doorstep raised you as their own and came to Mull to live with the wife’s family.” Diarmid drank again. “Good farmers, they were.”

They had died just after Connor came to live here with Lord Diarmid. Strange that he had never thought of that before.

“They said that when you had seven years, you began to tell them things that would happen and you were right!”

“When I was seven?” he asked. “I do not remember that at all.”

“Nay, you were but a wee child then. It happened again when you were ten and four. Surely you remember that?” he asked.

Connor laughed then. “That I do remember,” he looked at Anakol. “I announced that our neighbor’s daughter would give birth to a boy.”

Anakol shrugged.

“No one kenned about her carrying yet, until I told them,” Connor explained.

Diarmid laughed, too. “I’d heard stories of such a gift as this, and when his parents made his ability known to me, I decided to bring him here and have him tutored in writing and reading and in numbers. When he reached twenty and one,” Diarmid placed his hand on Connor’s shoulder in a gesture that anyone watching would take as fatherly, “his gift made itself known to him and us.”

Why had he never realized it before? The first vision at seven, the next at ten and four, and then the full power of sight at twenty and one.

Seven and three are numbers sacred to the Sith
, Moira had revealed.

Diarmid shook his head as though he’d just figured it out as well. “This is your seventh year of visions, Connor. Soon they will reach their full strength. Imagine your abilities when that happens!”

It had been accidental in timing, but he met Steinar’s gaze across the table as Diarmid uttered those words and beheld a hatred so strong it shocked him. As fast as he’d seen it, Steinar pulled it back within himself and presented an amiable smile to him.

Anakol, still impressed at being the one who received the benefits of the Seer’s power, added his own good wishes. “To seven more years of visions such as these!” he said loudly.

He would unchain Moira and give her his own dagger if he had to face seven more years of this hell. He could not say so, though; instead he nodded and drank the rest of his ale. Soon, the food was served: great roasts of beef and mutton, along with loaves of bread made of the finest milled flour, wheels of cheese, sauces to cover the meats, and more dishes than he’d seen on Diarmid’s table.

“From my bounty,” Anakol explained, “to Lord Diarmid’s table, in thanks for his help and his protection.”

Connor ate some of everything offered in the feast. Anakol leaned over as he reached for a cup of wine and spoke in a low voice to him.

“Diarmid told me of your request, and I willingly obey,” he said, bowing his head.

“My request? Remind me of it, Anakol.”

“He spoke of the need to appease your appetite of the other kind. Two of my daughters will be sent in less than a sennight to ease your pain.”

“I cannot offer marriage, Anakol, and would not insult you or your honor with less,” he tried to refuse graciously, the shock of this undermining his control.

Anakol nodded once more, unaffected by such a claim. “It will be their honor to serve you, Lord Connor, for as long as you have need of them. It is a fair exchange for the lives of their family.”

In about a sennight, he would rage like a ravening beast, fucking any woman Diarmid sent knocking on his door. He knew it, Diarmid knew, and apparently Anakol knew it as well. His attempts to resist that call in his blood increased his pain and agitation until he wanted to throw himself off the battlements to escape it. Or drink herb-laden wine that could calm it for a few hours.

If Anakol had not spoken so frankly, Connor would never have known that this was how Diarmid kept his supply fresh. An arrangement made without his knowledge, but in his name. One that provided the endless, nameless bodies he needed.