Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (13 page)

“Are you growing tired?”

“Nay,” Branan said, keeping his eyes closed. “Simply enjoying the peace.” Inwardly, he was startled at his own words. He never felt peace when he spoke of his father. Pushing aside the unusual revelation, he realized he was speaking willingly of his past—something he never did. But with Catriona, it was right...he needed to talk to her about it.

“I remember feeling as if everything was happening too quickly. First there was the night my mother died, and the world seemed to turn upside down and my heart inside out. Then, for two years, I found a home with ye and yer family. I...was happy there...I knew I was loved.”

Her breath caught in her throat as she cupped his cheek with her hand. “Aye, Branan, that you were...very much.”

He gazed up at Catriona; the intensity in her vibrant blue eyes almost stole sane thought. She smiled down at him and his heart twisted. She could never be his. In a span of months he would lose her forever.

Strangely, he found the painful memories of his past much more comforting than that last thought.

“When I arrived in Scotland,” Branan forced himself to say. “I felt my life turned upside down again. A second time, I had lost the only people I had loved...but leastways I had the comfort of knowing ye and yer family were alive and well, yet ye were as far from me as my mother was. I was moved from family to family, until I came of age. I learned quickly never to call a place home.”

Catriona sighed softly and Branan saw bleakness in her eyes. “I spent many years waiting for you to return.”

He looked at her, startled. “What mean ye, lass?”

She shook her head and waved him off.

Branan shrugged slightly, deciding to drop the matter for now. “Upon my return, I see how much I have changed. I even speak differently now.”

“You speak as Branan,” Catriona whispered. “You turn your English to Scots in an instant, and I daresay you remember a bit of French as well.”

“It took a long time for me to adjust to the clan. I feared if I cared for any of them, something would happen and I would have to leave again...that somehow I would lose them too. But finally, I relaxed my guard and began to enjoy my life. Penrith, Strickland, and what he had done, seemed so far away it was never real. Although the days passed and I grew into a man, it was as if I didna think about what I must eventually do, it would never come to pass, it would never be real. Then Gavin arrived...and suddenly that day was upon me like a stalking wolf lunging for the kill. Now again, my life has turned upside down...and I’m a wraith moving through the fog.”

She chuckled and Branan looked at her, startled, hurt that she found something so serious amusing.

“Nay,” she said, reading his expression. “I see no jest in this. But you just stated exactly what I thought when I first saw you in the woods.” Slowly, Catriona explained his spectral appearance when he saved her in the forest.

Branan’s hurt eased, glad to know he had made an impression.

She leaned forward slightly. “So, is that who you are, Branan MacTavish, my Scottish wraith who becomes real to wield his claymore then returns to the mist?”

He reached up and caressed the smooth skin of her cheek, memorizing the sweet lines of her face, and thinking her soft lips were too close to his yet too far away. His hand pulled her nearer.

“Aye,” Branan whispered, his voice thick. “I am yer mist warrior, Catriona. I always have been and I always will be.” He gently tugged her to him, kissing her with the primal passion that burned so deep within him. Her mouth responded to his, her body moving closer. He felt the soft curve of her breasts pressing against his chest and suddenly longed to wrap his arms around her and pull her on top of him. Branan wanted nothing more but to feel her body covering him...before he faded into nothingness again. He wanted to love her, to slake the burning need within him, to make her is forever—damn de Courcy and his betrothal contract.

Abruptly, Branan released her. His breath refused to come to him. As he gazed at Catriona, her azure eyes seemed darker with desire, her lips reddened from his kiss. God, he wanted her, but he could not have her.

“After all,” he said hoarsely, trying to ease the sudden tension crackling in the air. “I may be a mist warrior, but what do ye expect of a man whose true father is naught but a legend?”

Catriona blinked, startled, then straightened, her expression suddenly nervous. She stood, brushing her palms along her skirts. “I should let you rest.” She looked at him again, then pressed her lips against his brow. Straightening, she quickly left.

HHH

Catriona hurried from the shelter and staggered against a tree. She fought to catch her breath and slow her pounding heart.

I am yer mist warrior. I always have been and I always will be.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to fight through the riot of her emotions, the tangled confusion of desire, the memory of Branan’s kiss and his touch...

“Mother Mary, help me,” she whispered, her body shaking violently. Her skin prickled as she thought about the truth of his words, a warrior of the mist, a wraith, wandering lost and alone—and now it seemed as if she was the only one who grounded him, who brought him to earth where he was real and whole, where his feet could walk the land, his hands could touch, his flesh could feel...where he could kiss her so wonderfully.

Only Catriona’s marriage to another man would help Branan leave the mist forever. He had to achieve his destiny or a wraith he would remain.

A single tear slid slowly down her cheek.

The Price of a Legacy

C
atriona sat next to Branan beside the camp dinner fire, chilled to the bone and weary. She sighed in relief as he automatically loosened his plaid and wrapped it around her.

“Are ye all right, lass?”

“Aye,” she replied, snuggling closer. Although tired, she was happy. Catriona’s grief and her nightmares had finally eased their hold on her. Thistlewood’s community grew and developed a unique and powerful camaraderie of shared hope. Every member worked for the same goal—that the persecution they all suffered at Strickland’s whim would stop with Branan’s success.

She and Branan ate their supper together, but he seemed distant and preoccupied.

“Is something amiss?” Catriona asked after they had finished. Branan stared up at the night sky. “Nay...aye...” He looked at her, his sea-green eyes turbulent. “Walk with me?”

“Of course.”

He rose and pulled her up with him, adjusting his plaid around her shoulders. Catriona couldn’t help but notice how much she enjoyed the simple action.

They moved away from the camp and toward the rapidly thinning trees. As the camp grew, the workers pushed back the tree line and thinned the undergrowth.

Branan finally stopped, leaning his back against a tree, and pulled Catriona in front of him. “I...am...” he paused and frowned, as if searching for the words. “Worried.”

“About what?”

“Yer wedding fast approaches and each day brings the one on which I will lose ye ever closer.”

She ducked her head; she didn’t want to talk about this. “You know why I must marry him, Branan.”

With a crooked finger, he tugged her chin up. “Aye, I ken yer reasons and try as I might, I have found no good solution.”

“Then what choice do we have?”

“Catriona,” Branan whispered so softly she could barely hear him. “I asked ye afore: break the betrothal.”

Her heart twisted in her chest. “I cannot, Branan.”

Suddenly, he dropped to one knee before her, gripping her left hand in both of his and pulling it to his lips. “Then I shall ask ye again,” he said, his lips soft and his breath warm against her skin. “Nay, I beg ye, break the betrothal.”

“Branan—”

He stared up at her, the agony in his beautiful eyes freezing the words in her throat. “I ask ye to break the betrothal and become my wife instead.”

Shock washed over her and she gaped at him.

“Please, Catriona, stay by my side as my lady.”

Joy and sorrow rose side by side so powerfully she found she could not breathe. She could not see for the tears clouding her vision. “Oh, Branan,” she whispered. With her free hand, she stroked his hair. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the hand he held so tightly.

Catriona’s heart twisted in pain. To marry Branan, to love him...that was all she wanted, but a deep part of her soul remembered agony, the torture of the day he left her for Scotland. If she married him, he would not be able to stay, for he would not have the resources to defeat Strickland. Catriona might accompany him to Scotland, but once again Branan would return to the mist and she would lose him.

“I want nothing more,” she said.

Branan looked up at her, joy in his eyes.

“But I cannot.”

His expression melted into shock, then anguish, then fury. Branan started to rise, but Catriona did have one advantage. She already had her right hand on his head. She pushed down with all her might and stepped closer. “Branan, I cannot marry you, even though my heart screams for me to accept.”

He sank back to his knee, but continued to glare at her. “Ye spoke yer reasons afore,” he growled. “Ye dinna want me to suffer the pain of my past. But that is nothing compared to the pain of seeing ye as another man’s wife.”

The tears clouding her vision broke free, dripping down her cheeks. Until he dealt with his past, Branan could not love her, he just did not want Richard to have her. If Branan said the words...if he told her he loved her, Catriona’s resolve would probably crumble and she would break the betrothal.

Branan’s fury vanished as quickly as it came. “Nay,” he said, his voice strangled. “Dinna cry, lass, please.” Abruptly, he stood and wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head.

She only wanted to fold herself against him and sob like a child. But Catriona had to make Branan understand and turn her thoughts away from the foolish, painful notion of love. “Branan,” she said, trying to control her tears. They slowed, but continued to leak down her face. “There is more you need to know.”

“Then tell me, lass, else I go mad.”

She pulled away enough to cup his face in her hands. “I’ve thought long and hard about this...trying to answer the question why...why did my father promise me to Richard and why do I feel that I must do this for you?”

“Catriona, I would give anything for ye, even this vengeance and this destiny of mine.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the tears continuing to slide down her cheeks. Branan gently wiped them away.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know what you would give and I cannot ask that price.”

“Ye are no’ askin’, I am offering.”

“Listen, please. There are answers you must find within yourself, and in order to do so you must travel the path put before you. I have learned that now. Don’t you see why my father did this? It is not only because of his love for you, but his regard for your sire.”

“My sire?”

Catriona took a deep breath, trying to control her emotions so she could speak sensibly. “My father blamed himself for your father’s death.

Branan’s eyes went wide with horror. “What?”

“’Tis something I learned when I was little, just after you came to stay with us. You know my father was never given to drink, but on rare occasions, Papa tried to drown his pain. What no one knew, except for my mother, is the agony he would vent during those times. He would sob like a child, Branan. I overheard them one night.”

“What did ye learn?”

“You know my father was lamed in the battle that claimed your father’s life.”

“Aye.”

“My father swore an oath to guard Raulf’s back.”

Branan blinked at her.

“I heard the sorrow and agony in his voice. My father protected yours without fail through most of the battle. A knight on horseback attacked Father. He did what any man on the ground would do when facing a mounted opponent—he killed the horse. But the animal fell awkwardly, its hooves flailed and destroyed my father’s knee. He fell and saw Raulf move away from him. Raulf was prone to the same battle rages you are. He did not realize my father no longer stood with him.” Catriona paused, fighting to gain control of the horror she felt. “Branan, you must know the anguish my father suffered. I have never heard anything like it before as he related the tale to my mother. He cried out to Raulf, trying to tell him he no longer covered his back...trying to warn Raulf to withdraw and gather his men. But your father was lost to his battle rage. Raulf never heard him. My father—” Her voice broke and she tried to steady it. “My father, his knee shattered, rose and went after Raulf.”

“He did what?” Branan whispered, his voice hoarse.

“He used his sword like a cane and went after him. He said that he tried...he tried so hard. Raulf was a brother to him and he watched him die because he could not reach him afore Strickland. My mother tried to soothe Papa, to tell him it wasn’t his fault. But my father refused her council. He spoke of how Strickland cut your father down.”

“How?” Branan asked, his voice strangled. “How did he die?”

“Has no one told you?”

“Nay. Duguald was not there for the battle. He didna hear of it until after my father died and my mother was forced into marriage to Strickland. I only know what my mother told me: that Strickland murdered him. But if he died in battle, it canna be murder. I dinna understand it to this day.”

Catriona’s tears renewed and she cursed herself for her lack of control. She knew her tears only made things worse for Branan.

“Your father did not fight against Strickland, but against a large group of knights errant turned brigands. They had been poaching in the Royal Forest and plaguing the king’s road. Your father, as Warden, had to move against them. Branan, he wasn’t facing Strickland across the battlefield, Strickland was one of his allies.”

Branan’s face drained of color.

“Raulf fended off two blades in front of him. Strickland approached from behind and drove his blade through Raulf’s back without warning.” Catriona stared up at him. “My father, on his shattered knee, fought to return to his place at your father’s back. As my father lunged to put himself betwixt Raulf and Strickland’s blade, your father died, impaled from behind, never seeing or knowing who killed him.”

Branan froze. Catriona blinked up at him, expecting a much more powerful response, but he only stared at her.

Fear cut through her. This was not right. Catriona touched Branan’s face; his skin felt ice-cold under her fingers. Suddenly, he released her and walked away, vanishing into a thicker part of the forest.

“Branan!” she cried. Her feet started moving after him.

“Nay,” she heard his voice growl. “Leave me be.”

“Branan, please, I don’t want to leave you alone. I don’t want to be alone.”

“We must travel the path afore us.” His voice echoed through the night.

Catriona stopped, shaking to the core of her being. Her warrior had returned to the mist.

HHH

Branan walked only a short distance, listening for Catriona’s footsteps behind him. Strange, he almost wanted her to follow him, but when he didn’t hear her, he stopped and sank to his knees, his hands covering his face.

His body quivered with the power of his heartbreak. A vibrant picture of the battle bloomed in his mind. Branan clearly saw his father fighting, driving back his enemies. He saw the sword tip explode through his chest, blood showering from the wound and streaming from his mouth. Branan witnessed his father’s shock and confusion, trying to understand what had happened at the same time realizing he was dying. He sensed his father’s sorrow, that he would leave behind the woman he loved, that he would never see his bairn.

Branan clenched his teeth, raising his face to the heavens. He felt a hot tear slide down his cheek. The demon within him raged. He forced the image from his mind before it could shred his sanity. But that only brought to mind a new agony.

Bloody hell! What possessed him to think he could marry Catriona? He knew he could not marry her. But the proposal had fallen out of his mouth, and all of his reasons abandoned him. Good God, was he losing his sanity completely? How could he think Catriona would give up anything to live as his wife in Scotland? How could she have any respect for a man who allowed his father’s murderer to go unpunished?

Branan was a man who had fought against the shackles of marriage so hard in the past that he had angered other lairds allied with his clan—now he was nearly tripping over himself to marry Catriona so she would not pay so terrible a price.

Catriona was right. Branan had to travel this path, he had to find the answers to the rage burning within him, but he could not do it at the price of her future. She would not break the betrothal because she thought this her duty. Catriona did it out of respect for him and her own sire. Branan wished he had known how John felt. John had not been to blame—Strickland was.

Understanding this brought him no closer to an answer. Branan would have to see this through and lose Catriona in the process. What kind of future was that? The price of justice was too high to pay.

Branan also had to admit to himself one solid truth. He wanted Catriona with a lust that burned so powerfully, it frightened him.

Catriona provoked in him such powerful emotions...an intense physical response that was like nothing he had ever experienced. God’s wounds! Why was this happening? He could not have Catriona, and without her his future proved worthless.

His anger faded and the pain of her rejection grew like a hot blade in his heart. The one time his resistance to marriage crumbled, the last thing on God’s creation that he wanted, and when he offered it, his offer was thrown back in his face. There had to be a lesson in the folly of it all. In his male vanity, he had been so sure she would accept.

Branan stood, still no closer to an answer. He shoved his tangled mass of emotions into a dark corner of his soul and slowly returned to camp.

HHH

Catriona grew more concerned over Branan. He seemed to withdraw deeper into the mist. She prayed her refusal to marry him had not hurt his heart, that it would not cause him to fall into the void beyond her reach. The more he withdrew, the more she worried over him.

The men worked in the tower again this morn. She forced her attention to her own duties. Catriona and Beth worked on some mending by the large campfire. Catriona tied her thread and bit it off.

“Glory,” she muttered, threading her needle. Catriona turned the shirt to mend another hole. “I think these men are putting more work into tearing their clothes than building the tower.”

Beth looked up at her, smiling brightly. In the short time she had been at camp, she and Catriona developed a friendship. Beth was an intelligent young woman, perhaps not as bold as Catriona, but definitely fun-loving.

Catriona spotted Branan walking toward them. He wore only his trews and boots, and for a brief instant, Catriona’s heart pounded in her chest. He was beautifully made—that she could never deny. Her gaze traveled slowly over his heavily muscled shoulders to his massive chest. His ribs were wide and covered with thick sinew, narrowing to an ironclad stomach and lean hips. Good God, he had long legs. His thighs were well-muscled, but not bulky, the power seeming to accent their length. His fluid stride remained balanced and graceful. As she watched him, a tiny breathless sigh escaped her.

She realized what she was doing and mentally kicked herself. Catriona’s gaze snapped to his face. Branan’s sea-green eyes stared at her steadily, darkening with a feral spark. Sweet Mary, he had seen her admiring him. She felt her face grow warmer.