Haunting Warrior (46 page)

Fury swelled in her breast, and she embraced it, used it now to show Ruairi that she wasn’t dead inside. There was still something left of her that lived and breathed.

Whether he’d come here for her or she’d brought him through time, it didn’t matter. All that was important was his heart beating against hers, his hands on her body, his lips on her breasts, her throat, her mouth, seeking a response. Seeking salvation. For she knew what he thought of himself. How it hurt him to think he’d failed her.

She raised a hand and gently traced the curve of the puckered scar on his ribs.

“I thought I’d lost y’,” she murmured. “And I wanted to die.”

He’d been holding his breath and now he exhaled, caressing her face, kissing her closed eyes, the hollows beneath them, her cheekbones and chin. He moved lower and she kept her eyes clenched tight, shielding him from the fathomless depths of nothingness she knew he saw there.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his, savoring the feel of hard muscle, the strong arms and powerful shoulders, the way he held her like he would never let her go. She kept her thoughts on the pulse of anger beneath her skin, channeling it to heat her fingers, her mouth, the body she pressed to his. He lifted her and laid her back against the springy grass where they’d slept.

Mindful of his weight, he propped himself with one arm and stared down the gleaming length of her body. She was real and warm, and he couldn’t know that inside she was anything less. She had to remember that. He could only see what she showed him and vowed that for now, at least, the dark emptiness inside her would be hidden.

Leaning forward, he pressed his mouth to the point where her ribs cradled the softness of her belly, tasting her skin and the heat of her flesh. He trailed his hand up to her breasts, following the lazy path with his lips, tongue, cupping the weight in his palms and catching the nipple of one with his mouth. He sucked and nipped, and she arched into him, urging him to hurry up, slow down, make it now, make it last. Grasping tight the flame of her anger, wielding it into something more.

He kissed her again, holding her like she was all that separated him from a soulless existence. He kissed her like she was air and water, sustenance to a life deprived of both. He kissed her with the love his words had declared, and it broke that empty shell of her heart, fractured it into a million sharp and tiny pieces. Tears might have diminished the pain, but Saraid was a dry well now, and there was only the blazing rage forging together what was left.

She kissed him back, pushing her hand through his silky hair, pulling him closer, giving everything she could. His mouth was hot and enticing, and the sensations he started rose above that numb wall and tapped into what she still had left, fanning flames that sparked and spit. He demanded that she give him everything, more than she had, more than she could. His fervor reached beneath her skin, became passion itself, replaced and restored that which had been taken from her, if just for the moment.

The feeling filled her, overflowed, engulfed. With a sound of triumph he held her tighter, giving, giving until she could take no more. She was a blaze that he danced around, never minding if she singed or flared, rejoicing at the inferno he created.

He tried to pull back, just enough to see her face, but she was afraid of what he’d find, afraid that the transformation inside wouldn’t be reflected in her eyes. She couldn’t bear his disappointment, couldn’t tolerate her own.

He rolled to his back—or maybe she pushed him. She didn’t know nor did she care. His hands slid down her spine, feeling the ridge of bones, the sinew and flesh moving and alive beneath his touch. She circled his wrists with her fingers and pulled his arms up over his head, pinning them there as she leaned forward to kiss him.

“What I gave, Ruairi, I gave willingly. I gave of my heart. No matter what happens, y’ will remember that. Promise me ye’ll remember that.”

He couldn’t promise. He wouldn’t. She saw it in his beautiful eyes, understood that making that pledge would destroy the man he was.

“I love y’,” she said. “I love y’.”

He rolled again. This time she knew it was he who did it, and it was her arms pinned over her head. She couldn’t avoid his eyes now and she saw what she’d feared—the disappointment, but only for a moment. Then it became fierce determination.

“I will have all of you again, Saraid.
That
I will promise.”

She lifted her head and claimed his mouth with hers, sealing their pledge, drawing him down until there was only Ruairi and the seductive friction of lips and teeth and tongues. He tasted every inch of her from the soft underside of her arm to the vulnerable curve of her breast and the tender bend of her knee. He nipped at her belly, pressed his open mouth to her hip, and then he had her spread and exposed to the mercy of his touch. He licked and teased, sucked and rubbed until she arched her back and panted for him. He slipped two fingers inside her, and brought her to the edge and then over with a shout that surprised them both. All of her muscles contracted in a hot and tight fist and then he was moving up again, sliding his hips between her legs.

She welcomed him, opening and driving up to meet him. The hard length of him rocked her like a quake, making her forget everything but this moment,
this one moment
. Everything but his weight, his scent, his taste, fell away. There was only Saraid and Ruairi and a tension that built until it shattered her. He followed her to that explosive place an instant later, giving a muffled cry as it took him. And then he was still, his heart pounding with hers. Slowly he eased to the side and pulled her with him, not giving an inch between their bodies. She lay in his arms, yearning for the happiness she should feel, wanting to cry because the numbness had returned. Knowing that what they shared would always be fleeting and never enough.

Later she would face the consequences of what she’d done. Later she would make him understand that what was lost could not be regained. But for now she could only pretend that the morning had brought something that no longer existed.

“Y’ have stolen my heart, Ruairi,” she murmured as her eyes drifted shut.

He smiled and kissed her again. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll take good care of it.”

She knew he would try. Just as she knew he would fail. Because even what little was left, the Book of Fennore would find a way to take.

T
IARNAN walked with his brothers, leading, if it could be called that, the worn and ragged remains of their people. In all there were fifty, most so old they no longer had teeth, others too young to fend for themselves. In between were a handful of women, a few ungainly boys who would soon embark on the stretch and season of manhood, and a smattering of girls too young to know their allure, but old enough to see it shimmering on the horizon. If they lived to meet it, that was.

Tiarnan let out a heavy breath. Why they continued to follow him was a mystery.

He glanced at Michael and Liam, both silent and introspective. Michael absently stroked the pup whose head popped from his leather bag. They worried about Saraid, as did Tiarnan. She’d gone with Ruairi, but he had been at death’s threshold. Tiarnan had seen that last, fatal blow.

He shook his head. Eamonn had yet to be found. Had Cathán’s men captured him and Mauri? Or had his brother done the unthinkable? Was it possible that he’d joined with the enemy? If yes, how long had he planned it? How many nights had Tiarnan and Eamonn shared a fire and companionship while his brother plotted against him? How could Tiarnan have been so blind as not to see it? How could Tiarnan be so shallow as to believe it for even a moment?

And Mauri . . . sweet, beautiful Mauri. He’d loved her since he was a boy, since the first time he’d seen her sitting between her mother and father, plump cheeks and bright eyes. Now she hated him—as she had every right to do. He closed his eyes tightly, replaying that horrible night when he had betrayed her trust. He could see it all, every minute detail . . . the terror, the desperation. . . . her screams as the blade had found her shoulder.

It was all too much. And no matter the questions, no matter the answers, it all came down to Tiarnan and his failure. He’d vowed to keep his people safe, pledged his life to them. Yet
he
lived and so many of them were dead. Now his sister and brother were gone—lost, murdered, abandoned—he couldn’t know. The only certainty was in where the blame lay. It was his fault. All of it.

Behind him Leary’s men marched in a long line. More had joined in the night until now their numbers were over two hundred. Women had come, too. Fierce, armed women, some painted like Mahon Snakeface with blues and greens, strange and glittering yellows and haunting reds. Leary received these women like the other warriors, but Tiarnan, Michael, and Liam could only stare. Women fighters were not unheard of, but these women were ferocious beyond anything the brothers had ever seen.

The men and women alike followed Leary with the blind allegiance Tiarnan had once known. He hoped the other man would prove more worthy.

They’d gone north after the ambush, to where the rest of Tiarnan’s people waited. As they’d come upon the small settlement, Tiarnan had seen with new eyes just how vulnerable they were here. There was no place to hide that would be safe.

Leary and his warriors had been welcomed with open arms. Why wouldn’t they be? They were strong, healthy men who claimed to be friends and would fight at their side. Thus far, Tiarnan had no reason to doubt them, even when Leary suggested that they turn south in the morning and veer toward the coast.

“Why?” Tiarnan had asked.

“Because there we will meet your sister and Ruairi of Fennore.”

Tiarnan didn’t bother to ask how he knew, but Leary answered anyway.

“They will be looking for the Book of Fennore. It is why Ruairi is here.”

“He should leave the Book where it is. Nothing would convince
me
to use it.”

“You say this because you’ve never faced a loss too great to bear.”

Tiarnan glared at the shorter man. “Y’ have no idea of all that I have lost or what I can bear.”

Leary shrugged. Behind him, Leary’s two strange companions smiled. Uneasy, Tiarnan looked away.

Leary gave Tiarnan a quick bow and moved back into the ranks of his men. Mahon Snakeface and Red Amir followed silently in his wake.

Now they’d reached the rough and rigid shoreline, forbidding and perilous with cliffs rising up on one side, jutting boulders and sharp-edged rocks sliding down to meet the angry roll and spew of the tide on the other. The descent was painfully slow, each step treacherous enough to send them plunging into certain death. But Leary would not be swayed to stay on higher ground and move parallel to the sea. It must be the rocky beach they traveled.

After half a day of walking, Tiarnan understood why. They reached a hazardous point where the rock-strewn beach butted against the jagged black cliffs, forcing them to move in single file, rope tied around the elderly and young ones to keep them from falling and being swept out into the icy ocean. As they navigated the dangerous alley between surf and stone, Tiarnan saw a narrow cave open to his left. Leary called a halt, and as the others huddled there, his men went in and emerged with more than a dozen
curraghs
.

The oblong boats were larger than any Tiarnan had seen in the past. Each one might seat fifteen people. But they were still only leather hide wrapped around a thin wooden frame—not like the solid seafaring vessels the Northmen used. Not anything Tiarnan wanted to trust with his life.

There was a time when Tiarnan would have spoken out about it. He would have demanded to know the plan for the insubstantial boats. He would have argued that they were unsafe, that none of his people could swim, that the sea was too violent.

Instead, he kept quiet. His leadership had led to ruins. Because of him, they’d lost everything from home to loved ones. Who was he to take charge now?

“What do y’ think they’re meaning to do with those?” Liam asked, watching Leary’s men heft the boats over their heads and carry them.

Tiarnan gazed out at the roiling sea, picturing in his mind the boats capsizing one by one and the occupants tumbling into the icy depths of a watery grave. At least Cathán wouldn’t have the satisfaction of killing them.

“Aren’t y’ going to say something, Tiarnan?” asked Michael. “Those
curraghs
won’t stand to the sea.”

Tiarnan didn’t answer either of his brothers. Instead he moved on, following Leary south to meet whatever fate awaited them next.

R
ORY was quiet as they rode double on the black horse with the lightning-bolt face. So was Saraid. He could feel her fear, though, felt the same demon lurking within him. He still meant to destroy the Book he now carried in their saddlebag and kill whatever entity lived within it. But first he would find a way to get back all that Saraid had given.

He didn’t know how, but he would.

His sister had beaten it once. Even though Rory hadn’t used it, it had held him in the same chains that bound his dad. And she brought Rory back. She wasn’t a witch, as Saraid thought. Just a girl who’d fought for someone she loved. And Rory would do no less. If he was truly marked by the Book, then maybe that gave him some special power over it. He held to that belief.

He’d survived this Book once already. It was not invincible, and he would defeat it. He would have the pieces of Saraid that it had stolen back.

“Have y’ really thought this through?” Saraid asked softly, reading his mind. “Do y’ not see that if y’ succeed, if y’ destroy it, y’ will destroy yer only way home? Y’ will be trapped as surely as the entity within the Book is.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “I am home, Saraid. You are my home. And I will keep you safe. Or I will die trying.”