Haunting Warrior (12 page)

He closed his eyes against the memory of her lips on his, her breasts pressed against his chest.

She wasn’t real.
This
wasn’t real.

A light flush covered her cheeks, as if she’d heard his thoughts. His twin shifted, and Rory glanced at his face only to find an expression that was most likely a reflection of his own. A word brushed the back of Rory’s mind.
Besotted.
They were both of them, besotted.

Was it she who Cathán—
his father
—had said to wed and bed? This woman? A strange emotion welled in him at that, an unsettling sense of jealousy, of thwarted possession. She was
his
dream-girl, not this imposter’s.

He didn’t believe in fairy tales, but if he did, he would say he’d been caught in her spell. The look on his twin’s face said the same thing. As Rory watched, his twin angrily narrowed his eyes at her. Instinctively, Rory understood that his twin feared her in some way and that anger was his only defense. He didn’t like anyone having power over him, and especially not a woman. There was suspicion and barely suppressed violence in his bearing, and Rory suddenly feared what he might do, this man who could be a walking, talking photograph of Rory. Fear was like an enemy to Rory, and when cornered by it, he came out swinging. Was it the same for his double? Surely he wouldn’t hurt this woman . . . would he?

His twin dismounted, and Rory followed, feeling foolish as he pulled his legs from around his nonexistent horse and stepped down, painfully aware of his nudity, though no one took note of him. His annoyance at being ignored conflicted sharply with his desire to remain invisible and his fear that he would suddenly appear naked to all. The woman glanced his way, did a double take, and then looked again.

Rory stared in shock. Had she seen him?

The idea that she had, even if only for an instant, spurred him forward. He tried to get between his twin and the woman, feeling the rising rage from one and the terror from the other.

Rory clenched his fist, reaching for his twin. The flash of gems in the sunlight reminded him again that he still clutched the cord that dangled the pendant in his other hand. It swung back and forth with hypnotic intent. For a moment, everything froze as Rory stared at it. The woman, his twin—all of the others—once more became smudges against the backdrop of the forest.

Rory had the sense of a vortex spinning toward him, sucking him up, spewing him out. In a blink, his mind whirled through the chain of events leading to this moment, examining, discarding. Seeking the significance of his hand clutching the pendant and the weight of its swing.

He felt like a boat, listing out of control, adrift in the rolling tide. The sense that this was a dream, an illusion, couldn’t breach the barrier that the pendant’s solidity suddenly created in his mind. Because the pendant
was
real. And it was here, with him.

Nothing else had followed him through to wherever he was now. Not his clothes. Not his watch, his phone, his wallet, or the change in his pocket. But this, this pendant . . . it had. This one thing his grandmother had said he would need was still in his hand when everything else was gone.

So what did that mean? What did that say about what would happen next?

He looked from the pendant to the frozen images of the woman and his twin, understanding what some part of him had known from the start. There was only one way to find out—there was only one way to
get out
of this in-between state of mind that had trapped him.

Slowly, filled with foreboding mingled inexplicably with excitement and release, he did what he’d wanted to do at Nana’s graveside.

The leather cord was long enough to fit over his head. He slid it down, over his ears to his neck and then let it go. The pendant fell heavily against his breastbone, the branded scar over his heart an exact replica of its shape. It bounced once with a weighted jolt that seemed to ricochet through him and then expand outward. It rumbled like thunder, like a sonic boom, like a quake.

Suddenly everything was moving again and moving lightning fast. He stepped between his twin and the woman, bracing himself for what he didn’t know. He felt the first brush of contact, and then a sickening plunge as his twin slammed into him. For one screaming second, Rory felt like he was being ripped apart, stretched wide to accommodate the insertion of a mass too large to absorb. Like lungs filled to capacity but still inflating until the air seared and split the walls of tissue.

And then everything snapped back, and he was left standing in front of her. The woman stared at him with wide, shocked eyes. Rory wasn’t sure what had happened, couldn’t hazard a guess at what it was she’d seen. It felt as if his twin had been wedged beneath Rory’s skin. He could feel him there now, fighting to get out. But the men standing beside her had no reaction at all. Rory glanced over his shoulder, feeling awkward in the solid form, feeling another’s thoughts moving through his mind. His father stared at him with expectant eyes.

Not knowing what was real, what was imagined, what else he should do, Rory faced the woman again. She’d composed her features into a calm mask, making him think he’d imagined her reaction before. Slowly, she slid from her horse.

With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin in a gesture he recognized. Defiant and yet vulnerable. She stepped forward and put her hand in his, and Rory knew without a doubt, there was no turning back.

S
ARAID looked upon the giant man she was expected to wed feeling weak and sick and angry all at the same time. He stood no taller, no broader than her brother Tiarnan, but somehow the Bloodletter seemed twice again his size. Perhaps it was the tight coil of his muscles, the hard planes and defined ridges of his massive shoulders and chest, the bulge of strength in his bare arms. Or maybe it was as simple as the cold flatness in his gaze and the sneer on his face that made him seem so much larger, so much more formidable that for a moment she could only stare at him.

Fair skinned, with eyes that rivaled a clear sky for the blue, he had a jaw set and stubborn, a mouth full but hard and cruel. There was no warmth when he looked at her. That was fair, she supposed. There was no warmth when she looked at him.

They’d met before, when he’d been a small boy and she a little girl. He’d seemed all eyes and fear then, and she remembered that she’d felt sorry for him. But now he was a man, a very solid and imposing man, and there was nothing about him to inspire her compassion. She could not look at him without seeing the stain of blood from all of her slain people.

During the three days Saraid had been given to prepare for this moment, she’d prayed that the man whom Colleen of the Ballagh had foretold—the one she’d said would come in the guise of another—would appear and save her from this fate. But he had not, and now here she stood, trapped by her twisted destiny.

Her stepbrothers had been angry when Tiarnan told them the news of her joining with Ruairi the Bloodletter. But Tiarnan was trying to prevent the obliteration of their people, one good and noble cause for this monstrous marriage. Neither she nor her brothers could dispute his reasoning—even if she wasn’t sure she believed in it. Unhappy, but resigned, they’d drawn around her in support, and she’d held her head high, not letting them see the absolute terror she felt. They’d left Cathán Half-Beard’s forest that day and made the journey home in silence to tell their people what was to come. It cut her to see the hope on their faces, the shocked horror that lingered in their eyes.

“Who can trust such a man?” one of the elders had demanded.

Tiarnan did not explain his reasons a second time; he rarely explained his reasons a first. He’d said only, “They will marry in three days. My brothers will go with me to witness. If it is a trap, only we will fall into it.”

“And then who will lead us?” the elder asked.

“If it is a trap, I will have led y’ to death,” Tiarnan answered simply. “If it is not a trap, I will have led y’ to salvation.”

Saraid gave him a sideways look, his self-important tone astounding her. Colleen said they all had a part to play. Perhaps ignorance and arrogance was Tiarnan’s. Yet something in his commanding tone seemed to calm the agitated elder.

“When we know what is to be, we will come for y’,” Tiarnan went on. “Until then, trust no one outside of yerself. Do not answer the summons of anyone else or believe if they say we have sent them—it will be one of us or no one at all.”

He looked each of the small group in the eye and received a solemn nod in response.

“That is all. In three days’ time we will know the outcome.”

Each had come to Saraid then. They’d kissed her hands, whispered blessings at her feet. Wept for her. She’d met them resolutely. What other choice had she? Over the next days, she found gifts of berries and soap, a ribbon salvaged from the ruins of their old lives, a hammered gold pin to wear at her waist. When they had so little, these gifts were treasure.

She and her brothers had managed to save only one small chest of possessions from Cathán’s destruction. A chest that held her father’s tunic—made of king’s colors—and his long sword, which Tiarnan now carried as his own. There were other items as well, tiny bits and pieces of who they once were, but what Saraid cherished above others was a blue gown that her mother had been wed in. She would take her own vows in it, regardless of the mockery her joining would be.

She could understand her brother’s motives, but she could not come up with a reason why Cathán, Ruairi’s father, had proposed this union. It was not for peace—she knew this without a doubt. Cathán Half-Beard did not care if her people lived or died. Dead they posed less of a problem. So he wanted something else, something she suspected had as much to do with the Book of Fennore as it did with Saraid herself. Cathán had always believed Saraid’s mother stole the Book from him. He’d convinced many that her daughter hid it even now. It was certain he thought once he had Saraid, she’d lead him to it.

He was more than a fool. Even if she knew where the Book was, she would die before she’d give it to him.

You don’t know the half of what you know.
Wasn’t that what Colleen of the Ballagh had said? Difficult woman.

That morning they’d ridden to the place they’d lived as children, before Cathán Half-Beard had driven them out. There was a waterfall, sheltered by the forest. Here they would leave Liam, who had been chosen to stay behind at the camp and wait for word on the outcome. The youngest was most unhappy about this, but the decision had been made and, as with Saraid, made without him. If no word came, he would take it to mean the worst and ride in warning to the others.

Poor Liam could not even look at her as she said goodbye, so great was his grief. He’d fought Tiarnan’s decision to give her to the Bloodletter the hardest. But Tiarnan would not be moved. And certainly not by a boy.

“Do not worry so, Liam,” she’d said gently. “T’will be fine, ye’ll see.”

He did not believe her, but he put on a brave face. All of her brothers did, and her heart swelled with pride. This was why she’d taken the first step to go through with the marriage. These four boys—men now. Somehow they would be the future if she could just help them survive.

Silent after parting with Liam, Saraid and her older brothers returned to the place where they’d camped three nights before and prepared to meet their destiny. Saraid had gone to the stream, where she washed the dust from her hands and face with the lavender soap she’d been given, and tried not to think of what she did. Alone, she’d stripped her traveling clothes and donned a crisp white underdress and then the lovely blue overdress. She smoothed the gown with loving fingers, admiring her mother’s dainty stitches and the soft spun fabric. The kirtle hugged her breasts and dropped in a soft haze to her feet. A shimmering thread had been woven into it and it sparkled like fairy dust. Before she’d left that morning, one of the women had done her hair, twisting it into a braid that wound around her head and down her back with flowers bound into the intricate pattern.

And then she’d heard the familiar melody drifting on the breeze from a
cruit
and accompanying
buinne
and she’d known it was time
.
Cathán and the Bloodletter had come. The thrumming tones of strings and flute wrenched at her heart. It should be a joyous morning, this day she would wed. But how could a union to Ruairi the Bloodletter be anything other than a tragedy?

Her brothers had come to stand beside her, Tiarnan, Eamonn, and Michael. They’d bathed and put on their best trews and tunics—Tiarnan in her father’s king’s robe, she noted with ill humor.

Her brothers looked very handsome, and if not for the wear of their garb and the darkness that lurked in their eyes, Saraid could almost imagine them the royal family they’d once been. She’d smiled at them, wanting to banish the fear in their eyes and the worry in their hearts. Whatever this fate, it was sealed.

She’d nearly turned back when she saw Cathán and the Bloodletter waiting at the bottom of the hill with his long line of men at arms. Fear swallowed her whole and left only the shell of who’d she’d been behind.

Now she stood close enough to touch the Bloodletter. She trembled despite her effort to be as brave as her brothers and not shame them. There was a strange expression on the Bloodletter’s face as he silently gazed at her, and she saw to her horror that it was desire. She looked away, unable to stomach the thought of his hands on her, touching her. But from the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of something that drew her attention and for one strange, tilting moment it seemed there were two Bloodletters standing before her. She blinked hard and there was only one, yet the sense of that other did not so easily vanish.

Apprehensive, she allowed the Bloodletter to take her fingers in a rough clasp. His hand was big and scarred from battle, and hers looked like a trapped bird in his grip. His touch felt like flesh and blood, bone and sinew, like any man’s would. But Saraid wasn’t fooled. Ruairi the Bloodletter was a monster, not a man.