Darkest Highlander (6 page)

The longing, the yearning had been so intense, so compelling that for a moment Broc had nearly covered Sonya’s breasts with his hands.

There had only been the thin drying cloth between his hands and her skin. Even as he ached to touch Sonya, he knew he couldn’t. To surrender to his hunger was to give Deirdre something else to use against him, and Broc couldn’t allow that. For Sonya’s sake, he wouldn’t do that to her.

So he had reluctantly and resentfully released Sonya to move beside the window. He pretended he couldn’t hear every soft breath that left her body, pretended he didn’t crave her warm skin against his.

Pretended she wasn’t the only thing that could alleviate his loneliness.

Broc didn’t know how long he stared out the window watching for signs of anything out of the ordinary. So far there was nothing, but how long could they go before trouble found them?

Before Deirdre found them?

Not long at all, Broc surmised. The sooner he got Sonya out of the sleepy little village, the sooner they could be traveling back to MacLeod Castle and the safety it would give her.

You cannot force her to go.

As much as Broc hated to admit it, he couldn’t. Sonya and Anice had been the only reasons which kept him from giving in to the evil that surrounded him while spying on Deirdre. He couldn’t stand to have Sonya’s hatred, and that’s exactly what would happen if he forced her to return.

But what was he supposed to do? Sonya was stubborn. Once she had her mind set, he wouldn’t be able to sway her.

He glanced over his shoulder and sucked in a breath when his gaze landed on the bare expanse of Sonya’s back. She had rolled onto her other side and the blanket had fallen from her grasp.

Unable to keep away, Broc walked as silently as a ghost to the bed. Sonya’s mass of glorious red curls were laid out behind her on the pillow as if straining to reach him.

He loved to see her hair unbound. It was such a rare occasion, and he found himself reaching to touch a silken strand.

Broc lifted a long lock to twirl about his fingers before he let it drop back into place. Ever since Sonya had come into womanhood, he’d been unable to deny the pull of her stunning body, her tantalizing mouth.

Slowly, hesitantly, Broc let the pads of his fingers graze down her spine until he reached the blanket, which rested precariously on the enticing swell of her hip.

It would take the smallest of tugs to remove it. Then he would be able to let his eyes feast on her creamy skin, her long, lean legs.

Broc closed his eyes and turned away. What kind of man took advantage of a woman who trusted him?

But you aren’t a man.

Nay, he was a Warrior. Immortal. Powerful. He would endure alone while he watched Sonya age and die. Had the
droughs
known the cruelty they inflicted on the first Warriors? Had they even stopped to wonder what would happen if the gods were unbound again?

Did no one question how a Warrior would feel as those he cared most about died while he carried on century after century?

The silence that filled the small chamber was all the answer Broc needed. No one had cared. No one had given a second thought to the Warriors. They had been a means to an end with the Roman invasion.

That he understood. But now—now the enemy wasn’t Rome but a
drough
bent on total domination. For the better part of two hundred and seventy-five years Broc had either been Deirdre’s prisoner or her minion.

It wasn’t until he had found Sonya and her sister that he had thought about the mortals and the life he had been taken from.

Things had grown more complicated when he’d helped the MacLeods free Quinn and return to MacLeod Castle. Every day Broc saw the love between Lucan and Cara, Fallon and Larena, Quinn and Marcail, Hayden and Isla, and now Galen and Reaghan.

The only Warrior who didn’t have to worry about his wife aging and dying was Fallon, but that was only because Larena was a Warrior herself. The only female Warrior.

How Lucan, Quinn, Hayden, and Galen coped with the knowledge that one day their wives—the women who had captured their hearts—would be gone, Broc didn’t know.

He couldn’t fathom it. And didn’t want to try.

It was his need for Sonya, the ache in his chest to have her near that reminded him of his curse. A curse that had begun when he was just a lad. Any female not related to him by family had died by either sickness or some freak accident.

His grandmother had told him it was something he had done in another life that he was paying for now. All Broc knew was that he would spend his life alone instead of risking a woman’s life.

Broc looked at Sonya resting so peacefully. If there ever was a woman who he could imagine having by his side to share his days—and his nights—it was Sonya.

Beautiful, beguiling Sonya.

The one woman he couldn’t allow himself to have.

*   *   *

Deirdre drummed her long fingernails on the stone table as she sat and contemplated the last few months. The stones, her stones, gave her the comfort and solace she needed. She had stayed in her mountain too long, however. Soon she would have to leave Cairn Toul.

For the first time in over two hundred years she was going to venture into the world. She had her revenge to dole out, and what better way than to see her enemies suffering before her very eyes.

Oh, she could use her black magic, but it was time Scotland knew who she was. And just what power she held. For too long she had allowed the insignificant humans to continue their existence without knowing of her.

That was all about to change.

Soon word would spread from Scotland to England and then into France and across the rest of Europe. She had spent too long trying to bring the MacLeods into her fold when she should have dominated Britain.

It would have only been a matter of time before she had found the MacLeods and forced them to align with her. But she had been blinded with her need for Quinn, a need that had nearly cost her everything.

The child of the prophecy would have to wait. She had to build up her army once more. Many of her Warriors had died, but the gods inside them weren’t gone—they merely found the next man in the bloodline.

All Deirdre had to do was find the strongest fighter, the bravest warrior of those clans and she could once more have her Warriors.

It would take time, but after living a thousand years, what was another few? While her wyrran searched for the Druids who continued to hide, Deirdre would seek out the clans for her next Warriors while taking vengeance on the MacLeods and anyone loyal to them.

It was going to be glorious and bloody. Once the MacLeods were imprisoned and the Druids dead, she was going to tear down MacLeod Castle stone by stone. There would be nothing left standing to give anyone hope.

And when she was finished with the MacLeods, everyone would realize there was no use fighting her.

She would win, and if it meant killing the Warriors and starting again, she would do it.

“Mistress.”

Deirdre stiffened and looked at Dunmore over her shoulder. He was the only mortal in her mountain, the only mortal she had allowed to be close. He had been useful, and her promise of immortality and wealth had kept him loyal.

But Dunmore was aging. Already his dark hair was streaked with gray. There were lines around his eyes, and he wasn’t as strong as he used to be. If things weren’t so chaotic, Deirdre would kill him. But, unfortunately, she still needed Dunmore. For a bit longer.

“I’ve returned with Druids,” he said and lowered his gaze to the floor.

With the tiniest of thoughts, Deirdre’s white hair, which hung to the floor, twitched. It was a weapon she used to defeat many men. Her hair could flay the skin off a person or choke the life out of anyone.

“How many?” Deirdre asked as she rose and turned to face Dunmore. She ran her hands over his wide shoulders. There was still muscle there, still strength.

“Fourteen, mistress.”

Deirdre was impressed. She, of course, wouldn’t tell Dunmore that, however. “So few?”

“They are the Druids who lived on Loch Awe. The ones who ran from MacLeod Castle,” he said and turned his head to watch her as she continued to walk around him.

Deirdre stopped in front of him and raised a brow. “The artifact? Tell me you brought Reaghan with the others.”

“I wish I could, mistress. I saw the artifact, but one of the MacClures delivered a mortal wound to her.”

Deirdre hissed as anger surged within her. The need to hit something, to see blood pool at her feet surged through her. “What happened?”

“The spear severed her spine.”

“There is a healer at MacLeod Castle.”

Dunmore swallowed and lowered his gaze. “I doona believe they reached her in time.”

Deirdre brushed past Dunmore and stalked out of her chamber. She could hear the terrified screams of the Druids as her wyrran put them in the dungeons. That fear was just what she needed to calm the rage burning inside her at the loss of Reaghan. “Bring a Druid to the ritual chamber. Now.”

She didn’t wait to see if the wyrran who always followed her obeyed. She knew they would. She had created them, and they were loyal only to her.

Deirdre strode into the chamber and looked at the two empty spots that had once held Druids prisoner. Her magic had created the black flames which kept Lavena alive for hundreds of years. It had also given Isla’s sister more power to her magic in which to aid Deirdre.

The other spot had contained Marcail in the blue flames. Those flames would have killed Marcail—should have killed Marcail. But the MacLeods and the other Warriors had freed her, and somehow managed to keep her alive.

Deirdre didn’t know who the
mie
at MacLeod Castle was with such magic. But she was going to find out.

Deirdre heard the soft whimper of the Druid being hauled down the corridor to her. She turned and looked at the large stone table in the center of the ritual chamber. It was stained red with the blood of the many Druids she had killed there. Druids whose magic she had taken.

Dunmore had followed her and now stood at the entrance of the chamber as the wyrran half dragged, half carried the woman into the room. Deirdre merely watched as her wyrran tossed the
mie
onto the table and fastened the straps to her wrists and ankles.

Once the wyrran finished, Deirdre patted them on the head and stepped to the table. She looked down at the
mie
. She was young with sandy-blond hair and plain brown eyes.

“What are you going to do to me?” the Druid asked.

Deirdre smiled and ran the tip of one long fingernail along the
mie’s
cheek. “I’m going to drain your blood. Slowly, painfully. Then I’m going to take your magic.”

The Druid actually laughed through her tears.

Deirdre’s rage spiked until she studied the Druid. There was magic within the
mie
, but it was so slight, there was no use trying to obtain it.

“You claim to be a Druid when you have so little magic? How dare you?” Deirdre demanded.

The young
mie
sniffed and blinked through her tears. Deirdre saw the courage and silently applauded her, though it would do the Druid little good.

“None from Loch Awe have much magic. You will get nothing from us.”

Deirdre didn’t like being denied. Anything. She wouldn’t be deprived of the magic she required. “Oh, I will get your magic, you foolish
mie
. I will get it, but you will suffer unimaginable agony in the process.”

As soon as the words left Deirdre’s mouth, she lifted her hands over the Druid’s prone body. The
mie
screamed as Deirdre’s vengeful black magic lashed out.

This was the ceremonial chamber, the place where Deirdre would cut the Druids so their blood could pool in the valleys carved into the stone before filling the four goblets placed at each corner.

But she was too full of fury for a ceremony. She wanted blood, and the screams of the
mie
helped to soothe her wrath.

Deirdre used her magic to control her hair and brought it up to use as a weapon. Again and again her hair slashed across the
mie
’s skin like a blade, leaving trails of blood in its wake.

By the time the Druid stopped screaming, Deirdre’s white hair was coated dark red.

A smile played upon Deirdre’s lips as she closed her eyes and began the ancient chant taught to her by her mother, a chant which called forth the black magic and
diabhul
, Satan.

Deirdre opened her eyes to see the dark smoke surround the
mie
and snuff out the last bit of life in her body as it claimed her soul.

“I am yours!” Deirdre screamed as she plunged a dagger through the smoke into the
mie’s
stomach.

The smoke vanished, but the ritual wasn’t over. Deirdre went from corner to corner and lifted the goblets to her lips so she could drain them of the
mie’s
blood.

Within the blood held the Druid’s meager magic, but it was still magic and it would strengthen Deirdre.

As the magic mixed with hers, the wind began to howl around her, whipping her skirts about her legs and lifting the long white strands of her hair about her. She felt her power grow, felt her magic building as it always did when she took the magic of another Druid.

Even the little crumb of magic she had just taken bolstered her. By the time she was finished with the Druids in her dungeons, she would be ready for her vengeance.

“Get me another Druid, Dunmore,” she called, and began to unbuckle the straps holding the dead
mie
.

She rolled the woman off the table and waited impatiently for the next Druid. Druid after Druid died on the sacrificial table to help strengthen her. Deirdre listened to none of their crying and pleas for mercy.