Highland Thirst (17 page)

To
her complete shame it only took Angus a few short minutes to subdue her. As he
tied her wrists to the bedposts she tried to take some satisfaction in the fact
that he was bleeding from the mouth and nose and his eye was watering badly
from the punch she had delivered to it. It had been a short, eerie battle,
neither one of them making much noise. He had used his big fists and his much
bigger body. She had used her fists, her feet, her teeth, and her nails, but
she had still lost. Brona just hoped that later she might be able to find some
comfort in the fact that she had tried to save herself.

“Why
are ye doing this?” she asked, pleased at how calm, even cold, she sounded. “Why
marry a woman who doesnae want ye?”

“Weel,
I want ye,” Angus replied as he drew his knife and began to cut her gown off
her body. “I have wanted ye for years. I have also wanted to be the laird here
from the first day I set foot inside these walls.”

“Ye
cannae be the laird here. Hervey is the laird.”

“But
when Hervey is dead ye become the next heir and, trust me, old Hervey is verra,
verra dead.”

Brona
felt a brief pang of regret when she realized that news did not cause even a
flutter of grief. “I cannae be the laird because I am a woman. ‘Tis why Hervey
was chosen o’er me, my father’s only bairn.”

“
Ye
cannae be the laird but your husband can be.”

So
that was it, she thought, feeling a ridiculous sense of insult as she worked
strenuously to make her body as cold as ice and numb, so numb that she would
not be able to even feel this man’s touch. She had no doubt that Angus had
lusted after her, but he had married her to become the laird of Rosscurrach.
Brona suspected Hervey had kept Angus close and loyal for years with the
promise of letting Angus marry her. Hervey had been smart enough to know that,
once Angus was married to her, the man could never be trusted again, that
Hervey’s life would be in danger from the moment the vows were uttered.
Something had happened to make Angus strike out and just take what he wanted.
Brona suspected Angus would use the battle with the MacNachtons to hide his
murder of the laird in some way.

“Tell
me, has that demon been inside ye?” Angus asked as he gripped the front of her
shift and held his knife ready to cut it off.

“Aye,
he has been so blessed,” said a deep familiar voice and Brona felt her body
rush to life again, “and he is the only mon who e’er will be.”

Angus
sat up in shock and gaped at Heming for one brief moment before he was lifted
off Brona and thrown across the room. Brona stared at Heming, lightheaded from
the joy of seeing him alive and well and able to throw people around again. She
met his golden gaze, saw the odd mixture of concern for her and rage at Angus,
and smiled at him.

“Did
he get what he wanted?” Heming asked her, aching to look her over more
carefully but not daring to take his full gaze off Angus Kerr.

“Nay.
We were just discussing the matter,” Brona replied.

“I
would like to set ye free right now, Brona love, but I have to kill a mon
first.”

“I
can wait.”

Angus
was back on his feet now and he rushed at Heming. The way Heming avoided the
man’s heavy fists and kept knocking Angus down told her that Angus had very
little chance of winning this fight. She glanced at the door to see Peter
standing there. That man started toward her but she shook her head to stop him.
The bedchamber was not big enough for two big men to fight without endangering
everyone else in the room. She was safe enough where she was for now; but Peter
could get hurt if he entered the room, or could cause a distraction that could
get Heming hurt, especially now that both men had drawn their swords and were
doing their best to cut each other into ribbons. She breathed a sigh of relief
when Peter nodded and took up a guard’s position at the door to make sure that
no one could slip into the room and attack Heming’s back.

Angus
was soon staggering, blood flowing from several wounds. Brona suspected Heming
was playing with the man, killing him slowly. Horrible as that was to watch,
she could understand why Heming was doing it. Heming had been at the mercy of
this man’s cruel hands for almost a week. He had been tortured and humiliated.
For a man with Heming’s pride and strength that must have been unendurable.

Then,
suddenly, Angus managed to knock Heming back against the wall. Instead of using
that advantage to thrust his sword into Heming, however, Angus ran over to her.
He stood next to the bed, his sword in his shaking hand, and glared at Heming
as he slowly withdrew his dagger. Brona tried to get out of his reach, but it
was impossible with her hands tied so tightly to the bedposts.

“I
ken I can ne’er win this fight against ye, demon,” said Angus, his voice hoarse
with pain and fury, “but ere I get sent to hell I am taking something from ye
as weel. Something I think ye want verra badly.”

Brona
stared at the knife in Angus’s hand and knew what he intended to do, but she
was helpless to stop him or to get away. All she could do was twist around on
the bed as the knife plunged toward her chest. She felt the blow as the blade
went into her body. Stunned, she stared down at the hilt of the knife sticking
out of her chest. Then the pain hit and Brona knew she could not endure that
for long, so she let the blackness rushing into her mind take her away from it.

Heming
let out a bellow of rage as he watched Angus stab Brona. The man laughed even
as Heming rushed at him and swung his sword. The look of triumph for causing
one last person pain was still on Angus’s face as his head hit the floor, the
body slowly following it down. Heming immediately turned to Brona and gave a
prayer of thanks to see that the knife had not entered her heart, that she was
still alive.

“Another
headless body?” asked Berawald as he stepped around Peter and into the room.

“Should
we be taking that down to the dungeons?” asked Peter. “Ye ken, so that the
devil can take the bastard’s soul like it did the laird’s?”

“Oh,
we dinnae need to move the body for that to happen. So, best ye stay away from
the body,” Berawald added as he walked up to the bedside and looked down at
Brona.

“Your
mate is a bonnie lass, Cousin,” he told Heming. “The wound is deep but it
doesnae need to be a mortal wound.”

“What
do ye mean by that?” asked Heming.

“I
am nay quite sure. ‘Tis just what I feel. Take the knife out and I will help ye
stop the bleeding. I think Peter should send word to your mother, who follows
us. She needs to be here and, nay, I am nay sure of the why of that, either.”

Peter
did not question Berawald, just took off at a run. Heming did not even know or
care how the battle for Rosscurrach fared. All of his attention was upon
tending to Brona’s wound and praying that she would recover.

“She
is dying.”

Efrica
rubbed her hand over her son’s broad back trying vainly to ease the grief she
felt in him, the pain roughening his voice as he spoke the ugly truth. He had
not left Brona Kerr’s bedside for three long days and nights. The girl was very
close to death and Efrica decided it was time to tell Heming what she had
learned in the old journals she had been studying for years. Efrica was not
sure she believed all she had read, despite her own situation, but it was worth
a try. They had certainly tried everything else to help the girl recover.

“She
needs some of your blood, Heming,” she said.

Heming
sat up and stared at his mother. “She isnae a MacNachton,
Maman.”

“I
ken it.” She sat down in the chair at his side and leaned forward, clasping his
hands in hers, her heart breaking over the sorrow he felt now and the knowledge
of the agony he would feel if they could not save Brona. “Ye ken that your
father and I tend to the histories of the clan. Studying them and preserving
them.”

“Have
ye found some connection between the MacNachtons and the Kerrs of Rosscurrach?”

“Nay,
but I have found something else far more important. Heming, look at me with the
eyes of a man and nay those of a loving son who will probably always see his
mother as the one who held him when he was small. How old do I look?”

Heming
stared at his mother and began to frown. There were few lines on her face and
her skin still had the soft clear glow of a much younger woman. He wondered how
he had not noticed that that was odd. He was no good at guessing people’s ages,
the talent not having been of much use at Cambrun, but he tried to think of
other women he knew and began to feel an odd mixture of wary and excited.

“Weel,
I am nay so verra good at such things, but I would say ye look about thirty.
But, have ye and Aunt nay told us many times that the Callans are a long-lived
clan?”

“Long-lived
being that they tend to live four score or more years. They certainly dinnae
stop aging. I am o’er two score and ten years, son. Do I truly look anything
like that age?”

“Nay,
but how has this happened? If being wed to a MacNachton makes ye live as long
as we do, then why did the laird’s mother die?”

“Because
she didnae guess the secret. None of us did. I had a small idea of the truth
because I read so many books and journals and began to add up a few things I
had read. The laird’s mother lived to be nearly two hundred, Heming, e’en though
she was an Outsider.”

“And
she drank of her husband’s blood?”

“Nay,
but I begin to think that, if she had, she would have lived as long as her
husband. I think what added so many years to her life was that, weel, she and
her husband were verra passionate. She did receive a fair bit of his, er,
essence.”

Heming
had to grin, for his mother was blushing. “I ken what ye mean. But why do ye
think blood will work e’en better? Mayhap what happened with the old laird’s
wife was all part of the mating.” Even though he was questioning his mother’s
opinion, Heming began to feel the distinct tingle of hope.

“I
began having a wee bit of your father’s blood o’er twenty years ago, Heming,
and I havenae aged but a few days or so since that time. I carry none of the
usual signs of age an Outsider would. I feel certain the secret of what makes
ye MacNachtons is in your blood. And, ere ye start to worry, I havenae suddenly
grown fangs or desired to drink blood, or lost my ability to go outside when
the sun is shining.”

“Do
ye ken, Hervey Kerr wondered if the secret of our long lives was in our blood.
He had had plans to drink mine.”

“Then
I am verra glad the mon is dead and nay just for what he wanted to do to ye. If
I am right, this is a secret we must keep verra close and quiet. People would
kill for it, Heming. There would be no place a MacNachton could hide.”

He
nodded, chilled by that truth. He then thought about her opinion on what his
blood might do for Brona for only a few more minutes and decided there was
nothing to lose if he tried what his mother suggested. It caused him pure agony
to admit it, even briefly, but Brona was dying. One could hear the approach of
death in every soft rattle as she struggled to breathe.

“How
do I give it to her?”

“Best
if ye mix it with some wine and pour it down her throat. Ye can cut yourself
and let her drink from ye later if ye wish it and if she will do it.” Efrica
blushed again. “It can be verra, weel, nice.” She suddenly frowned at Brona. “Hurry,
Heming, Death’s hand is definitely reaching for your lass.”

Heming
made a drink of his blood and some rich wine. It was not easy getting the drink
down Brona’s throat but he finally managed. With his mother’s hand in his, he
sat and watched the woman he loved for any sign, however faint, that she would
get strong again. The first sign was so subtle he would have missed it if he
had not heard his mother take a swift indrawn breath. He listened closely and
he heard it, heard the first sign that he was not going to lose his mate. The
rattle in her chest was gone.

Eleven

Brona
slowly opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling of her bedchamber. A moment
later memories flooded her mind and she almost leapt out of bed and went
screaming for the door. Only the realization that her wrists were no longer
tied to the bedposts calmed her. She knew instinctively that the warm body she
could now feel curled at her back was not Angus and she lightly stroked the arm
wrapped around her waist. A warm, soft kiss on the nape of her neck told her
that Heming was awake and she turned on her back to look at him. She sighed,
for with his sleep-warmed golden eyes and his tousled hair, he was
intimidatingly handsome.

Then
another chilling memory skipped through her mind and she gasped, hastily
putting her hand on her chest where Angus’s dagger had been buried. Brona
frowned in confusion for there was no bandage. She eased aside the neck of her
night shift and frowned even more. There was only the faintest of red lines
where her wound would have been. Had she been unconscious for so long that it
had healed without her even being aware of it?

“Just
how long have I been asleep?” she asked Heming, idly poking at the remnants of
her wound and feeling no pain there.