Highland Vampire (12 page)

"’Twill do for a start."

HIS ETERNAL BRIDE

Adrienne Basso

Chapter One

Scottish Highlands

Late summer, 1321

A clash of swords, anguished cries, and the coppery scent of fresh blood shattered the peaceful calm of the night. Anaxandra's legs tightened instinctively around her mount as she halted her horse, which was ambling through the forest at a slow gait. Stiffening, she raised her head, her ears alert to every sound.

Her companion pulled beside her, negotiating the densely wooded path with difficulty. "The sounds of battle are near," he said, his brow knitting together with concern. "These Highlanders are said to be a fierce and combative race, and they enjoy pursuing their enemies at night."

Anaxandra smiled. "I know. 'Tis why I wanted to come, so I could see it for myself."

A high-pitched scream wretched through the air, causing the horses to jump and paw the ground nervously. It took effort to calm the jittery beasts.

"We should come away," Anaxandra's companion, Randulf, urged, tugging on the sleeve of her gown. But Anaxandra ignored the summons, and turned her mount toward the sounds of the fighting. Under her command, the animal increased its stride, bringing her deeper into the low-hanging forest, ever closer to danger.

She did not bother to check if Randulf followed, confident he would obey her directive. Perhaps it was reckless to venture so near a battle, but danger of any sort was always appealing to Anaxandra.

She was a female who did as she pleased, who followed her whims and allowed her passionate and volatile nature to rule her actions. She was a creature of power and influence among her kind, and though many had tried, there was no male who dominated her life or made demands upon her person.

The long-suffering Randulf was her self-appointed guardian, and she tolerated his presence because he amused her. He, in turn, worshipped Anaxandra, defending her against all criticism and tolerating without complaint her uneven moods and streaks of temper.

The noise of the fighting grew louder as they followed a rocky outcropping up a hill until they reached the crest. The pair tried to remain as quiet as possible, fearing detection, but they soon discovered this precaution was unnecessary.

In the small clearing below, two groups of men fought with fierce determination, unaware of anything but the struggle that consumed them. The sides were composed of uneven numbers, but it soon became apparent that the smaller force possessed the greater fighting skills.

"English," Randulf whispered in her ear. "They have more men, yet they appear to be losing this fight."

Anaxandra nodded in agreement. The English knights were mounted on destriers protected by armor and carried both sword and shield. Battle-axes, billhooks, and iron ball-and-chains hung from their belts. Their faces were obscured by helmets, but even at this distance Anaxandra could see their eyes were filled with hatred.

Ignoring Randulf's pleas to stay hidden, Anaxandra urged her horse closer, craving a better view. The Highlanders were mounted on smaller horses, and neither man nor beast wore armor. The Scots carried no shields, only large, long-bladed swords they lifted with both hands as they attacked.

The initial impact of those heavy swords upon ironclad flesh was horrendous. One by one the English knights were gradually unseated, and they dropped like stones upon the hard ground.

Those who were not dead or unconscious soon rose to their feet, swords drawn. A few of the Highlanders also dismounted, ready to engage their enemy in final combat. The melee that followed was horrific, but one Highland warrior quickly caught Anaxandra's eye, for he fought not only with strength and skill but with absolute confidence.

He hacked his way through the center of the English, and when he lost his sword, he flipped his opponent's helmet off and elbowed the man in the face, snapping his head back. The knight staggered for a moment, then came back for more.

The Highlander was ready. He punched him in the face, striking his nose. Blood spurted in a high arch as the bigger man reeled and fell, clutching his face in agony.

"Callum!"

The Highlander turned at the call, easily catching the claymore that was tossed his way. He wiped the blood off his palm down the front of his shirt, then transferred the weapon to his dry hand.

Sword held high above his head, the Highlander charged toward three knights, letting out the most terrifying, barbaric snarl Anaxandra had ever heard uttered from human lips.

The sound made every hair on her body stand up as if in response.

"He is magnificent," she whispered in awe.

Her gaze remained riveted on his face. It was strong, arrogant, fearless. In the moonlight his eyes were a silvery blue. Cold, piercing, and deadly, they were filled with a mad glint of bloodlust. Anaxandra shivered with delight.

Soon, only one English knight remained, cornered against a large tree trunk. A ring of Scots encircled him.

"What do ye say, lads?" a Highlander on horseback called out. "Should we show him mercy?"

"English swine. They killed innocent women and children and tortured an old man for amusement." The Scottish warrior turned his head and spat. "Skewer the bastard."

The deed was accomplished swiftly and with far too much mercy for Anaxandra's taste.

The tension of the night eased, and the mood of the soldiers turned jovial. Laughing and joking, the Highlanders quickly stripped their vanquished enemies of armor, weapons, and clothing.

"Shall we bury the dead?" one man asked.

"No," the man called Callum replied. "Leave them for the wolves and vultures. 'Tis what they deserve."

Weighed down with their spoils, the Highlanders departed the glen, leaving behind a tangle of naked bodies, the ground on which they lay steeped in blood.

There was deadly silence once they had departed. Anaxandra slid from her horse and walked among the carnage, her mind replaying the intense battle and the skill of one Scottish warrior in particular. She had to see him again!

How long Anaxandra stood there, she could not say. A restless stirring beside her roused her from her near catatonic state.

"The bodies are still warm," Randulf announced. "'Tis foolish to waste such bounty."

Anaxandra's stomach lurched. She usually enjoyed the hunt as much as the kill, but on occasion was not averse to have others do the work. Yet for some reason the notion held little appeal.

"I have no need of sustenance," she said. "If you wish to feast, be quick."

With a cry of glee, Randulf fell upon the bodies and the sounds of his suckling cut through the silence. Anaxandra mounted her horse and waited impatiently for him to finish. Finally sated, he returned, and Anaxandra led the way through the dense forest.

They came through the woods on the fringe of the keep and tied their horses to a fallen tree trunk. Through the darkness, a noisy celebration could be heard from behind the stone walls that encircled the castle.

"We walk from here," Anaxandra announced.

"What?" Randulf exclaimed. "You cannot enter that dwelling. These Highlanders are a close, tight-knit group that do not take kindly to strangers. You saw what they did to the English."

"But I am not their enemy," Anaxandra retorted. "They will have no cause to harm me."

"Lucifer's horns!" Randulf cursed loudly and hurried to keep stride with Anaxandra. "Unescorted females do not suddenly appear on the doorstep in the middle of the night Your arrival will cause great suspicion and raise questions you cannot answer."

"I can hardly arrive in the daytime with a proper escort and chaperon," Anaxandra snapped.

"You should not go at all!" Randulf insisted, and when Anaxandra did not stop walking, he hissed, "Your stubborn defiance will get you killed."

"It will take more than a broad Scottish sword to end my existence," Anaxandra retorted.

Her step did not falter even when she realized that Randulf did not follow. Perhaps it was best—it should be easier for one, rather than two, to slip in unobserved. Though her heart pumped in a nervous beat, Anaxandra did not slow as she drew closer to the castle.

The keep was a large, two-story structure with a square tower on each of the four corners. A walkway connected the corners, and there were sentries posted at equal intervals across its entire length. Obviously, the clan had made good use of the abundant amount of stone in the area, having constructed the majority of the dwelling from it.

For further protection, there was an outer wall of stone. A sturdy log bridge provided the only entrance through this formidable barrier. The bridge was lowered and crowded with people intent on entering the castle to join in the celebration.

Anaxandra quietly joined their ranks and passed through the great curtained wall of stone without incident. With hood drawn and head bowed, she entered the great hall. As she had predicted, there was so much jovial excitement that no one initially questioned her presence or challenged her attendance.

Still, Anaxandra tried to keep to the shadows. But the lime-whited walls of the great hall reflected the light from the many torches positioned throughout the room, giving it a brightness she found disconcerting. There was such a crush of people she was hardly noticed, yet as she strayed too far into the center of the room, a group of young women gathered together in a circle tossed her curious looks.

Anaxandra pulled back to the edges of the wall, trying to lose their gaze. Though she had spouted words of bravado in front of Randulf, she was not a fool. There would be no way to protect or defend herself if anyone decided to question her.

She also knew her greatest threat would come from the women, not the men. Anaxandra's erotic beauty had always been cause for great jealousy among females. It was part of the reason she had always roamed so freely in the mortal world—it helped to avoid the malice of the other females of her kind.

She lifted a flagon of ale from a servant hurrying by with a full tray, then drank and watched, searching for her warrior. She expected him to be seated in a place of honor, but there was no high table on a raised dais in this hall, only rows of wooden tables set at equal heights.

The tables were filled with boisterous men and women, eating, drinking, laughing, and singing. A few were even dancing. Servants scurried along with a hurried purpose, attempting to keep the trenchers full of food and the drinking vessels topped with ale and wine.

Anaxandra continued to cling to the edges of the hall, the rushes beneath her feet giving off the fresh sweet scent of mint with each step she took. Her eyes continued to search among the many male faces in the hall, and just when she began to wonder if she would ever find her warrior again, he appeared.

He was garbed in a clean white shirt, with a blue and black plaid worn casually over his left shoulder. His dark hair waved back from the broad plane of his brow and shoulders, and the hard line of his granite jaw softened as he laughed and joked with the men who surrounded him.

Fascinated, Anaxandra moved closer. In the light of the hall she could now see an expression of inner fire in his eyes, a fire so intense it threatened to consume all who dared to venture too close. It was that fire that had first captivated her, that she now craved.

She knew in that instant that fate had at long last bestowed upon her what she had always desired—a worthy mate. Never before had she beheld anyone who inspired such longing within her, who drew her close and held her fast. Surely he was more than a mere mortal man, for he'd cast a spell on her that she was powerless to break.

Anaxandra's heart raced with excitement. She had to get him alone! But how? He was surrounded by companions, clearly the center of attention. Her foot tapped impatiently on the hard stone floor until she realized he was drinking far more than he was eating. Eventually, he would have to leave the hall to answer nature's call.

Her observation proved true. Within the hour, the warrior left the circle of soldiers. She followed his progress doggedly with her eyes, then positioned herself in the archway where he exited.

The moment he returned from the garderobe, Anaxandra pushed herself directly in his path. Their eyes locked and Anaxandra's breath caught. She found herself lost, floating in the deep passion of his eyes, and for an instant she was speechless with wonder.

His brow lifted. "What are ye looking for, lass?"

"You," she whispered, feeling a flash of heat at the sound of his deep voice.

He smiled, revealing a row of strong, even white teeth. "Now, how can that be? We have no acquaintance with each other."

"Are you certain?" A slow, seductive smile spread across her face as she placed her hand against the center of his chest. His heart beat fiercely under her palm. Unable to resist, her fingers began to slip over the hard muscles. Anaxandra heard him suck in a sharp breath. "I know you well enough to give you great pleasure. And to take pleasure from you in return."

His brow furrowed, as though he was trying to remember if he did indeed have an acquaintance with her.

Catching him in a mesmerizing stare, Anaxandra summoned forth all the feminine wiles she had learned through the ages. "I am a bold woman, mighty warrior. Bolder than any you have ever known."

Passion running high, she traced the tips of her fingers over the hard rippled muscles of his stomach, then lower, until her fingers brushed against the front of his kilt. He groaned deep in his throat Anaxandra smiled, then repeated the motion, this time touching his rigid penis. Impatience made her rough, but the warrior did not seem to mind.

Triumphant, she pressed him against the stone wall and leaned all her weight into him.

"Who are ye?" he whispered.

"Your destiny," she answered.

Callum McGinnis's head could not seem to stop spinning. He knew he had drunk far too much ale, but this victory celebration over the English had been hard fought. The rogue band of knights that had been terrorizing the people of his clan for months was now destroyed, and it was a relief to finally rid them all of the tyranny.