Always Mine (20 page)

Slung across his lap, Brianna twisted her head back and

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forth until she found an opening and uncovered her mouth.

She stretched her jaws wide and bit down hard on the man’s thigh.

“I will make ye sorry for that,” he snarled. His hand closed around her neck and cut off her air.

She released him, and thrashed around trying to dislodge his hand. His fingers eased their pressure, but pressed enough in silent warning.

When Cloud Dancer swooped low, his blade was ready.

The eagle veered and threw off the knife’s aim. He turned to search out the eagle’s intended flight, but another sight surely chilled his soul. Damron gained on him, the maniacal look on his face leaving no doubt of his intent. The man could not escape with her, but he could save his own neck. He lifted her in his arms and drew the blanket back, baring her face.

“I will yet have ye! Wait for me, and remember me by this.” He lowered his head. His open mouth came close.

Brianna could see only his nose and lips lifted in a snarl over crooked, rotted teeth. His breath near gagged her. Thinking he meant to kiss her, she clamped her lips closed. His hot, wet tongue glided along her jaw. Fiery pain of teeth piercing her skin shocked her. She screamed. When he released her, his tongue rasped over the wounds to lap the blood welling there.

Brianna gasped. Before the next scream tore from her throat, he tossed her from his lap. She landed on a bush, then rolled to the center of the trampled path.

The thunder of approaching horses did not mute Damron’s bellow of rage as Brianna hurtled to the ground. Great clods of dirt flew as Angel reared and pawed the air. Damron forced the great horse to move to the side. When his hooves struck the dirt, their thud jarred the ground. Damron vaulted from the destrier and braced his body over his wife, protecting her as his men galloped near.

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Bleddyn and Connor were already hauling back on the reins as they turned the corner, for Cloud Dancer had trilled a warning. Beside Brianna on the grass, Damron rose to his knees. Connor yelled orders for Malcolm, commander of Brianna’s original guards, to stay as Connor and the warriors raced through the dense forest. Connor followed Cloud Dancer’s lead to capture the last man.

Brianna lay sprawled on her stomach. When Bleddyn’s knife ripped through the blanket to expose her back, they saw her fair skin already bruising. He reached to run his hands over her flesh, but Damron grasped his wrist to hold him from touching her.

“I am a healer.” Bleddyn’s voice was calm.

Damron released him and watched as Bleddyn felt her backbone, her neck, shoulders and each of her limbs. When assured nothing was broken, he rolled her into Damron’s arms.

Blood covered Bleddyn’s fingers. Damron’s heart lurched.

Upon spying Brianna’s savaged jaw, his stomach churned.

Bleddyn wiped the blood away, revealing the teeth marks.

“Afore I have the pleasure of gutting him, I will find this bastard and set my wolf, Guardian, to him. He will feel the fangs of a demon as bestial as he. I vow this afore God.”

As Damron talked, Bleddyn took a small vial of white fluid from a pouch hanging from his saddle. He soaked the punc-ture wounds, for such wounds festered quickly. After making certain she had sustained no major injuries, they wrapped her in Damron’s cloak and carried her back to camp.

Each time Brianna moaned, Damron flinched. His hands shook. Upon reaching the camp, he carried her into the tent and placed her on the pallet.

Bleddyn retrieved his herbal pouch from the saddle and followed Damron into the tent. “Malcolm, fetch as much of

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your Scottish whiskey as the men might have. Set it inside the tent flap.”

As they tended her, the ugly imprint of a man’s fingers darkened her neck. Her jaw swelled, red with heat. The Welshman blended crushed leaves in hot water and stirred the potion until it cooled. Damron lifted her head while Bleddyn dribbled tea laced with feverfew into her mouth. Gently, he stroked her throat until she swallowed.

Bleddyn murmured to her in Gaelic. When she blinked and opened her eyes, they flashed with fear. He moved so she could see his face. The fear vanished.

“Hold her firmly,” he whispered, and reached for the jug of whiskey at the tent opening. Damron anchored her head to his knees. Bleddyn poured whiskey over her jaw and the ugly gouges on her neck from the lout’s fingernails. She cried out, her voice hoarse, then went limp. Taking advantage of her faint, Bleddyn cleaned each wound with more whiskey and packed a poultice made from calendula petals over it. If the wound healed well, it would reduce the scars that would forever be with her, for he had no needles fine enough to stitch a lady’s face.

Damron remained by her side. When the warriors returned, he ordered Malcolm to search the dead abductors for any clues as to whom they had pledged their loyalty.

Malcolm found they had recently shaved off their beards to hide their identity. They had no jewelry, or items with any markings. Even their weapons were unmarked. Damron ordered the warriors to toss the bodies into a ravine.

Never before had Damron denied a Christian burial to an enemy. But these men had not been worthy opponents.

They had dared harm his wife.

Bleddyn watched the sky for Cloud Dancer. When the eagle called, the mystic whistled, and his arm lifted. With a great flapping of wings, the eagle landed on his forearm. High whistles

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trilled between the two, and when Bleddyn pointed to the tree that loomed over the tent, the eagle flew off to perch on the branches. His eyes searched all that moved.

“The hunted one hid himself. He escaped into the densest part of the forest where he could not be seen from the air,”

Bleddyn told Damron.

“God’s wrath,” Damron shouted. “Ye said ye knew when danger threatened Brianna. What happened to your all-knowing gift of warning?” Damron’s voice was near a snarl. He was furious that he had placed any belief in Bleddyn’s powers.

“The raiding party was here afore we arrived. I could not sense their leader, for the roar of the waterfall covered his thoughts.”

Damron regretted not giving Brianna time to recover, but they would best be served by leaving the next morn. The whoreson who harmed her was likely from this area and might return with more men. Damron would not give him the chance.

Bleddyn coaxed a potion of strong whiskey and sweet herbs down Brianna’s throat. Soon her body stilled its tremors, and she slept quietly.

In the darkest hours of the night, Brianna started to talk.

“You’re never here for my birthdays, Gordon. Please, love.

You promised. I planned a special day with you,” Brianna cried out. She began to sob.

Lucifer’s tarse! Who was this bastard Gordon? How many men had she loved? Damron wanted to pummel someone. He clamped his teeth together and wiped her face with a wet cloth. Her eyes were open. Her gaze followed this unseen Gordon. She seemed to listen, too.

“You break your promises. Yet you swear you love me.”

Tears streaked her face.

Damron clenched his teeth. His hand holding the cool cloth stopped its motion.

“I laced the brew with poppy. Brianna is unaware of what

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she says.” Bleddyn handed Damron another wet cloth. “The person to whom she speaks is but a dream in her mind.”

The Welshman’s matter-of-fact air soothed Damron’s ire.

Until she began to whimper and thrash about.

“You made me come. I know it’s my fault, but please, send me back.” She cried out as she stared up at him, seeming to know him.

“Ne’er will I return ye. Ye will always be mine,” Damron vowed.

He did not understand his violent reaction to her plea to return to the abbey. His arms went under her to lift her onto his lap. “Ne’er again beg me to release ye,” he added, his tone harsh.

Great, ragged sobs tore from her throat past her swollen jaw. Watching the agony her sobbing caused, low growls of protest burst from Damron’s lips.

“Jesu, mystic. Give her somethin’ afore she harms herself further.”

Bleddyn prepared a potion and coaxed her to drink. When Damron heard what the mystic crooned to her, his hand flew up ready to grab Bleddyn’s neck and throttle him.

“Gordon is faithful and awaits you,
mo maise
.” At the growl curling from Damron’s throat, Bleddyn shook his head.

Brianna’s lips tilted in a smile, and her eyelids eased shut.

“Ye call Brianna ‘my beauty’ and ‘my pretty,’ but she is not yers. She is
mine.
Ye tell her she will return to another love, but I will cut his heart out should she try.”

“Brianna has been my beauty, my pretty, from the day she was born. She needs the security of total love now, for she has no Alana, no father, no Galan, aunts or uncles to make her secure. Only I am here to give her love. The poppy makes her see and hear things which are not there. Her mind gives her a love to hold to.”

The depth of his own feelings stunned Damron. From the moment he knew of Brianna’s danger, he wanted to kill.

When the whoreson injured her, a powerful need to not only

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kill but to do so slowly, agonizingly, gripped him. Now, the pain she suffered tore his heart; her grief and longing for this Gordon tore his mind. Was it truly imaginings from the poppy? The thought that she could so deeply love another that it brought her such terrible distress rent his soul, his being.

Brianna awoke the next morn with a driving headache, and a body that felt run over by a train. She heard Damron’s movements as he prepared for the day’s travel.

“How fare ye this day, wife?” His voice was gruff, but the hand smoothing her hair was gentle. “After we have tended yer wounds, we will hasten from this accursed place.”

“Please. Don’t shout. My head pounds something awful.”

Her words slurred, for she could barely move her jaw without sending hot shards of pain through her face and bruised neck.

Bleddyn tucked the blanket around her before he helped her to sit. He brought the hot tea laced with feverfew to her lips, for the herb was also a remedy for headaches. Waiting until she drank the tea, he examined and redressed her wounds. None showed angry streaks of infection.

“Brianna, tell me what ye know of yer assailant.” Damron’s voice was impatient, cold even.

“My lord, I saw no one. I was swimming toward the surface when he grabbed my waist, taking me deeper. Once, I thought long hair mixed with mine. It could have been something in the water. It was light. Blond? When he took me from the water, they wrapped me in a blanket.”

“Be there aught else, wife?” Damron probed.

“He was naked beneath his cloak. When he fought Cloud Dancer, I bit his thigh. He squeezed my neck until I opened my mouth.” She shuddered, remembering his nasty taste.

“What else, my lady?”

“He said, ‘I will yet have ye,’ and to wait and remember

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him by this. His teeth were jagged, rotted. His breath stank when he bit my jaw.”

Damron bolted to his feet and went to stare out the tent opening. After long moments, he turned back to her and helped her dress. When done, he carried her to Malcolm, who waited atop his horse with a blanket across his lap. Without a word, Damron handed her up to the waiting warrior.

“See ye cushion her, and that yer mount’s gait is smooth,”

Damron cautioned and started to turn away.

“My lord, can’t I . . .?” she began, but he held up his hand.

“Ye will do as I say. Ye canna ride alone. I must be free to battle should the whoreson plan an ambush.” He whirled and left.

They had not gone a league before Brianna grew drowsy and slept. She didn’t fully awaken until they stopped to water the horses. After a short time, Damron handed her to another man. She looked at the Scotsman and held her breath. His name was Hector. According to Eric, the warrior thought water would make him sicken, lose his sanity and, most important, render his rod forever flaccid.

Noting his wet hair and clean-shaven face, she took a deep breath. His shirt smelled of drying in the sun, and he had changed his tartan for breeches. She tried to smile. Hector grinned and began to tell her amusing tales of growing up with the men at Blackthorn Castle. He was a great teller of tales. She steadied her jaw when she giggled. They rode for some time, and soon her eyes drifted closed.

For several days they followed the Cromarty Firth north to Ardgay. The mountains were easy to climb, not being of a great height. They kept to the valleys when possible. Brianna enjoyed the full Scots pines, junipers and less abundant yew trees.

Early one morn, she awoke to find Damron’s feet mere

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inches from her face. Her gaze traveled up over him. He was elegantly attired with a blue-black shirt. He had pulled the last yards of his plaid up over his shoulder and pinned it with the Morgan badge. The scent of sandalwood and spices made her take a deep breath. Spencer had again braided Damron’s midnight-black hair at his temples.

Her gaze searched his face. Raw desire flashed in his eyes.

Wondering what caused his interest, she glanced down to see why he studied her pillow.

She had dropped it. The neckline of her sleeping garment gaped and bared her breasts, their rosy nipples upright, begging attention.

With a strangled gasp, she covered herself.

“’Twould please me, wife, if ye would dress in all possible speed.” He left the tent.

When she joined him outside, he held the plaid she had worn when first they left Ridley. He draped it around her waist and across her shoulder and secured it with the silver brooch he had given her as her morning gift.

She did not have long to wonder what was special about this day. An ear-shattering series of cries that sounded like evil spirits escaping purgatory split the air as men crashed through the trees.

“Blessed Saint Edgar,” she whispered.