Lois Greiman (5 page)

T
he graveyard was dark, its silence broken by naught but the haunting query of a tawny owl. Silver shrouds of mist coiled silently skyward, seeming to merge with the tilted stones themselves.

But three small boys stood hunched before a shadowed sepulcher.

“Nay, ye touch it,” hissed the smallest of the three. His fair head was gilded by moonlight, his blue eyes limned with white.

“Ye’re scared,” accused the darkest of the three. “Scared of something what’s been dead a hundred years.”

“I am na,” said the first, and fisted narrow hands beside his shivering body.

“Then do it.”

He bit his lip, steeled his scrawny form, and reached out with a trembling hand.

“I’m scared,” said an ancient voice.

The three gasped and spun about to face the speaker.

An old man stood beside a wind-tortured tree, his gnarled hands fisted on the top of his oaken cane.

“Who are ye?” asked the oldest of the trio. His shaky voice was filled with bravado, but he did not seem to mind that his companions were huddled close to his side.

“I am of na concern, lads, but he that rests yonder…” He shook his head and limped forward, a bent old man with hard years behind him. “Him I’d leave be if I cared to live out me life in peace.”

The threesome glanced toward the sepulcher and back. “But he’s dead.”

The old man eased himself onto a crooked stump. “Sure of that, are ye?”

The tallest lad scrunched his face. “He’s been in there since afore I was born.”

Humor shone on the gaffer’s lined visage. “So long as that?”

The boy scowled. “Who are ye, ol’ man?”

The ancient visitor eased back a mite, saving his back. “Them that know me call me Toft.”

“Toft?” the three whispered in unison and huddled still closer together.

“So ye’ve heard of me.” The old man nodded, happy. “’Tis good to know. ’Tis good indeed.”

“Ye are the Wanderer,” whispered the littlest lad.

“The last remaining of the Black Celt’s unearthly line.”

“Mayhap na the last.”

The youngest boy had curled a tight fist into his brother’s oversized tunic. “Ye’re here,” he whispered, gaze never roaming from the old man’s face. “But where else be ye?”

“Hush,” warned the eldest, but dared not turn toward the small one. “’Tis naught but rumor.”

Toft shuffled his hands on the smooth curve of his cane. “What rumor is that, lad?”

Eyes shifted back and forth. The scrawny boy was scowling. “’Tis said ye have…a gift.”

“A gift, aye? Well, truth be told, we all have gifts, lads. When ye be me own venerable age, ye may well see that it be a gift simply to awake in the morn.” A frog croaked. The smallest boy jumped and squeezed close to his brother’s side. “Or to hear the call of a—”

“’Tis said ye can be two places at once,” rasped the grubby, dark-haired lad.

“Ahh.” The old man nodded slowly, as if he were very nearly asleep. “That be a fine gift indeed, but—” He rose to his feet. The boys crowded back. “’Tis naught compared to the gifts of the lad what lies beneath that stone.”

The small boy’s knuckles twisted hard in his brother’s shirt. “Be he truly the Black Celt’s son?”

“His son?” The gaffer shook his head. “A rumor, lad, naught more.”

“Just as I said,” hissed the dark boy, and poked the blond lad with a bony elbow. “The Celt was na wed.”

“Wed?” The old man’s eyes sparkled in the uncertain light. “Nay. He was na. Na back when the world was new.” He sighed, heavy and deep. “But there was a maid.” He seemed to be looking back, remembering a time long before his own. “A bonny, enchanting woman na man could resist.”

“The Golden Lady,” whispered the small one. “She was a witch.”

“A witch?” Toft nodded slowly. “Aye, I suspect that is what we would call her in this age. A witch, an enchantress. The most beautiful of women. And deadly. None could resist her. Not the Celt nor the Irish Hound who befriended him. But when the Celt learned of her betrayal, he rejected her. Her fury knew na bounds, for never had she been turned aside.”

“She cast a spell,” whispered the tiny lad.

“Aye, she did that,” agreed Toft. “She turned the warriors to granite until the day they could right the wrongs. ’Tis much the same with yon hero,” he said, and nodded toward the sepulcher. “He sleeps until he must rise to set things right regarding his kin.”

Silence echoed in the misty vale, then: “How will it happen?”

“Magic!” said Toft, and his voice was suddenly

loud in the darkness. The boys cowered away in a clump.

All mouths were open, all eyes wide.

“There be a curse on that sepulcher,” Toft warned, striding forward. “A curse that will strike you down if you bother its keeper. Now go. Go!” he ordered. “And do not disturb the dark Angel again.”

Released from their trance, the boys scattered like chaff in a windstorm, racing between the markers and away.

Silence fell on the night again. The old man turned…and gasped.

A shadow stepped from shadow.

“So that’s the way of it.” Keelan’s voice was quiet in the darkness.

“Keelan, I did na ken ye were aboot.”

“I am cursed.”

“Nay, lad. ’Twas just the tale of a silly old man who but hopes to keep the lads from defiling the resting place of their elders.”

For a moment Keelan almost allowed himself to believe, but he had been doing so for too long already, for many months now since the day he awoke, bewildered and alone. Toft had come to his aid, sheltered him, comforted him. Lied to him. “I have dreamed,” he said.

The old man’s face looked broken. “Naught but dreams, brought on by the blow to yer pate most like.”

“The blow. How did it happen?”

“I canna say for certain. ’Twas most likely when yer boat turned and yer poor dear parents were lost. Na one can say for sure. Ye were still addled when I found ye, as ye well ken.”

“Me mum.” He felt the pain in his soul. “She wore flowers in her hair.”

The old man nodded slowly.

“Yellow flowers, nestled in her sable curls.” His voice was singsong. “I thought her the most beautiful woman that lived.”

“She was bonny beyond words.”

“Aye,” Keelan said. “Aye, but she killed me.”

Tears shone in the old man’s eyes.

“And I her,” he added.

“Angel.”

Keelan awoke to the sound of Charity’s voice. She was seated on the edge of his mattress, eyes wide with worry.

“Are you well?”

“Nay,” he mumbled. His head throbbed. He felt parched and broken and disoriented. “I’ve been beat like a bleeding rug, and I hurt like the verra…” He remembered Chetfield suddenly and flinched inwardly. “What be ye doing in me chamber?”

“I came down to see what I might do to make
you more comfortable.”

The room was dark but for one flickering flame. It tossed its light upon her seal-dark hair, shadowed her whisky eyes, caressed the mounded ivory skin above her bodice. The edges of her simple auburn gown melded with the shadows, making her seem disconnected to any earthly ties, alone in her perfect beauty.

He shifted uncomfortably and pulled his gaze away, searching for reality. “Where am I?”

She touched his forehead with gentle fingers, smoothing back his hair, before slipping her hand down his arm. “Surely you remember? You’re at Crevan House. Safe within its walls.”

He glanced down, marveling at the euphoria of her touch, and found that his chest was bare, his lower extremities lost beneath the softness of a pearly blanket.

“Am I naked?”

She laughed. The sound was light and sweet. She took his hand in hers and caressed his scraped knuckles. “Tell me, Highlander, what brought you here to us?”

Titillating sensations shivered up his arm. “Am I dreaming?”

“Perhaps,” she said, and smiled.

He nodded and rested his head back against the downy pillow. “Ye are beauty itself, lass.”

Lifting his hand, she kissed his knuckles, watching him all the while. Desire quivered through him. “Why have you come here?” she asked again, and turning his hand over, kissed his palm.

“Mary and Joseph,” he rasped, unnerved by the quivering sensations, “ye should visit me dreams more often.”

She laughed. The sound was husky, shivering through his battered system like mulled wine. “Perhaps I would if you would answer my questions.”

His eyes had fallen closed, but then, he was dreaming. It only seemed right. “I came for what is mine,” he said.

“What?”

He opened his eyes at the sharp tone, but she drew a breath, loosened her grip, smiled. Candlelight flickered across her pixie-bright features. “What is yours?”

The world was foggy, tired. “The lambkin,” he murmured. Old memories flittered through him. “The lambkin and mayhap more.”

“More what?”

“Should na a dream kiss more and talk less, lass?”

“Where do you hurt?”

He thought of the hours gone by. His head ached foggily, but the wracking pain almost
seemed like naught but a distant dream frayed by time. Nevertheless, he put his fingers to his brow.

Reaching up, she smoothed back his hair. Her touch was feather soft, a sweet caress of hope against his skin. Her kiss was warm magic upon his forehead. Her hair brushed the bare skin of his chest. Contentment washed over him in lulling waves.

“Where else?”

He touched his arm. She kissed it. Tingling sensations sailed smoothly through him. He put his hand to his chest. She trailed liquid fingers across his skin, lighting a path, healing with touch, then kissed him where his heart beat heavy against his ribs.

Raising her amber gaze to his, she whispered, “Where now?” in a voice so soft he but felt it in his soul.

He lowered his hand to the burn on his belly, and she bent, letting her hair lap gently against his injured side. He drifted away on the sweet sensations. Her lips were a balm against his wound, kissing gently, easing the pain, heightening his senses until she drew slowly away.

Her tawny eyes were heavy-lidded now, her lips ruddy and plump. “Where?” she murmured.

Reaching down, he pulled the gray blanket aside. He was indeed naked, and hopelessly ready, as hard and ripe as a gourd.

She shifted her eyes to it, then tilted back her head and stood up.

Not until that moment did he realize he’d been entirely wrong about her gown. It was not auburn at all, but pale and sheer. It flowed from her alabaster shoulders like gossamer magic. Candlelight shone through the gauzy fabric, kissing her sweet curves with light, brushing her straining nipples with dusky color.

He rose to his elbows. Against his belly, his engorged desire danced with need. She watched it, nostrils flared, then reached up and untied the single lace that held the magical gown in place. It slipped off one shoulder, and with that simple movement, Keelan felt the lingering remnants of pain recede like a wayward dream.

The gown dipped lower, revealing her breasts. Bright capped and lovely, they were as firm and round as ripe melons.

Desire washed over him, pulling him tight.

She smiled and let the gown dip toward her navel. It was a perfect hollow in the center of her being. He reached for her and she came. Her skin was velvet soft beneath his fingertips. He slipped his hand around her back and pulled her
close beside the bed.

Her skin smelled like earthy magic when he kissed her hip. He slipped his hand along her spine. She dipped her head back and moaned as he slid his fingers between the firm round hillocks of her succulent bottom, and then the gown fell away, revealing delicate curls at the apex of her thighs. He kissed them. She shuddered and lifted one knee, placing it on the bed, opening to him. He caressed the inner softness of her thigh, and she moaned. The husky, midnight sound was almost his undoing. He slipped his hand along her leg. Feeling the liquid heat of her desire against his fingers, he rasped a prayer to a generous God even as she mounted the bed. He made room for her, eager beyond words. But she did not stretch out beside him. Instead, propped on hands and knees, she turned and straddled him.

Her buttocks shone in the flickering light, and he could do nothing but smooth his fingers over the satin curves. She wriggled beneath his touch. He slipped his hand lower, ready to reach between her thighs, but in that moment she kissed his aching shaft.

Lightning struck him. He jerked his head back into the pillow a moment before she sucked him into the velvety heaven of her mouth. Keelan
gasped at the glorious torture and clawed the sheet beneath him. She was liquid heat around him, wet and fierce and demanding.

He groaned, beyond pain, beyond euphoria, gripping the bedsheets in fingers like talons, wanting more, needing more. But she drew away and lapped her tongue along the length of his straining desire. He shuddered beneath her ministrations, but she was already turning toward him, bare limbs brushing his flesh as she straddled him once again.

Her eyes gleamed with mischievous pleasure when she faced him. Her lips were swollen and bright. And her breasts! Holy fook, her breasts, dangling warm and heavy above his face like ripened fruit.

“Take me,” she breathed.

“I believe he’s coming to,” said a voice. The harsh sound rasped against Keelan’s raw senses.

“Wake for me,” repeated a softer voice.

His mind churned like a wobbly mill. He opened swollen eyes. Lord Chetfield stood not two feet away. Keelan jerked. Pain roared through him at the motion.