A Storm of Passion (3 page)

The concoction began working in a few minutes, and Connor noticed that the pain receded a bit. He was still sitting in the chair, unmoving, when he realized that his physical needs, heightened now as the vision was but two or three days off, caused his body to emanate that essence that beckoned women to him. The smell of it, like something from deep in the forest, was more noticeable now than earlier—mayhap the pain blocked it from working?—and Connor knew it would take no time at all to be answered.

The sound of someone scratching lightly on the door at his back told him the first had arrived. Torn between his fleshly needs, accelerated now, and his desire for the only woman who’d made a difference, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he began to experience more of the drug’s effect. The pain moved further away from him, allowing the heat in his blood to spread. Erect and hardened, his cock knew the answer even if he struggled with the question.

“My lord?” the soft voice queried through the timber door.

Another breath, and more of the scent spread. And yet he took another breath before he gave in, deciding that celibacy was not the answer either.

What if he never found her?

What if waiting for her caused him to miss another woman who could make him feel the same things Moira had?

Mayhap the girl outside his door now, the one who had lain in his bed offering herself to him earlier, could drain him of the raging lust in his veins and give him respite from the pain, too?

He strode to the door, lifted the latch, and stepped away, pulling the door open as he moved. The girl entered, still wrapped in the cloak that Ranald had covered her in just minutes—hours—ago. With a motion of his hand, he sent her back to his bed, watching her long brown hair sway down her back with each step she took.

If he closed his eyes, it would feel the same. If he didn’t taste her lips or the heart of her passion, he would never know. Connor pushed the door closed and followed her into his sleeping chamber. She’d stopped by the bed, and he moved around her, climbing onto its surface and sitting with his back against the tall, cushioned headboard.

“My lord, how can I serve you?” she asked, her voice soft and dreamlike. Her eyes, though green, were undefined and shadowed, not clear and challenging as the woman he wanted.

She’d not waited on his request; instead, she lifted his tunic and loosened his belt. Reaching into his trews, she took his cock in her grasp and then climbed between his legs, positioning herself as he knew she would. She paused and raised her head, waiting on his word now, and he nodded.

When she licked her lips and opened her mouth wide to accommodate him there, he tried to imagine someone else in her place. Her movements teased his hardness and made waves of pleasure pulse through it. Her hands were skillful as she massaged his sac, sliding her fingers around it, lifting it, and caressing it as she suckled on his rod.

He felt the pressure build in it and tried to remember the feel of Moira’s mouth taking him in deeply. Connor knew his release was close, and he shifted, pushing farther into the wench’s mouth. Her hair fell like a curtain around her, brushing his thighs and groin as she moved up and down again and again, pulling on his length until he felt his sac tauten and his release spew into her. She did not stop until every drop had been drawn from him.

Whatever feelings of pleasure he’d experienced waned quickly, and he sat there with a girl who wasn’t the one he wanted between his legs, servicing him just as so many others had but with one difference now: the momentarily relief could not disguise the disappointment rushing through him.

But when she began to caress him once more, sliding those experienced hands over his thighs and belly and then down to his half-erect cock, he let her.

He just did not have the strength to fight the call in his blood. The visions were coming, and they proved his master yet again.

T
he scene burst out before Connor and he was tempted to delay in his quest for the sheer enjoyment of such lightness and beauty. And clarity. The sky filled with huge white clouds. The sun’s rays traced their outlines on the sea and ground below, barely able to keep up as they raced on the Highland winds. Following the coast, he searched for the cliffs and the loch that sliced into the land, making a path toward the higher mountain peaks.

As though a bird in flight, Connor sighted the trail that led over the mountains and followed it, on and on, until the castle came into view. Rough stone walls topped with a wooden roof, surrounded by another ring of tall stones. Now, he searched for the way in.

Flying lower and lower, he traced the route of a small stream and found its entrance under the walls. The location was unseen from the ground, hidden by an outcropping of rock and trees, but from his place in the sky, it was clear…and undefended. The perfect place to begin the downfall of the castle and its inhabitants.

“Follow the trail until it turns to the north. Then look to the south for a break in the forest and search for the stream that runs there. It will lead you to the secret entrance. Use it, and you will recover your daughter,” Connor instructed.

His hand rushed across the slate creating a chalk map of exactly what he saw before him. The trail, the entrance to the forest, the stream were now all marked on the slate for the man to follow. He did not need to say that this man and his warriors would crush his enemies as well, for he knew that once the man was inside the keep, when he saw what had been done to his daughter, death and complete annihilation for those responsible would follow.

Even now, as he finished describing the vision and released the hand of the man who asked for his help, the scene was fading from his view. Connor handed the slate off to a servant waiting there and laid his hands on the carved arms of the chair. Clutching the strong wood beneath his palms against the pain he knew would come, he realized it was vital not to let anyone know the extent of it. Glancing in that moment around the large chamber, he nodded to his servant Ranald.

Ranald clapped his hands loudly, drawing the attention of all who observed Connor’s use of the Sight. Ushering them out, Ranald waved off the attempt of the one requesting the vision to gift him with gold. So many tried, but Connor had learned the folly of accepting such payment a long time ago. With a nod of acceptance of the man’s show of gratitude, he turned away.

He took in a breath and released it as the burning began. The heat filled his eyes like it filled his finger when he held his hand too close to a flame. Now, the blindness robbed his eyes of sight as the pain increased. Like white-hot iron pokers thrust there, the burning grew and grew. Fighting it long enough to allow Ranald to empty his chambers of those who came to witness the power of his gift, usually those whom Diarmid wanted to entice into his circle of allies, he held on to any vestige of control he had. As soon as he heard the door close loudly, Connor clutched his eyes and slid from the chair, down from the dais and onto the floor. His stomach clenched, and he heaved out bile as he writhed against it. Struggling not to scream, he curled up tightly and waited, praying it would end soon.

Minutes or hours passed, and the burning began to ease in his eyes. Connor remained on the floor, taking in deep breaths of air, trying to rid himself of the pain, but it was not done yet. A few more minutes, and he could remove his hands from his eyes. The burning was bearable now. Almost.

More time moved by as he waited for the pain to cease completely. This time it lasted longer than before. And it was more intense again, as though the respite two months before had never happened. Now, he waited to regain his strength before trying to stand, or even sit. Each time his recovery slowed with each use of his power.

When Connor could feel both the coldness and the hardness of the stone floor beneath him, he tried to sit up. His head pounded with dizziness, but he managed to get to his knees. Then, feeling the floor with his hands, he got his bearings of his position in the room.

Opening his eyes would do no good, for they were useless now and would remain so for days. This was the price of his “gift.” Kneeling there, he pushed away all the thoughts of and prayers for release that plagued his days and nights and especially these moments after he used his power. There was no release, as far as he could discover, and nothing that could intervene in his descent into blindness. Connor fought not to wish that the recent attempts on his life would succeed and free him from all of this.

He heard the voices of those outside his chamber, some arguing with Ranald, others pleading. It would be to no avail, for until he could see, he could not have the visions they wanted, or needed, or begged for. Pushing his hair out of his face, he righted his cloak and sat back on his heels. The hallway would quiet, and Ranald would leave as soon as he cleared out those who still pled their case. It was as he was about to gain his feet that he heard the sound.

Someone was in his chambers.

Someone had witnessed his descent from Seer to blind man.

Someone was moving from one place to another behind him.

He turned his head quickly to try to gauge the intruder’s location and his distance from him, but the first blow hit him then, a strong kick that shoved him to the floor once again. The dagger’s entrance into his shoulder was quick and silent.

Connor grabbed for his shoulder and tried to call out, but the vision left him with little strength. Any sound he could make would be masked by the busyness and noise of those in the corridor outside his chambers. Rolling away from his assailant, he tried to make it to the door. Another kick to his ribs, and he collapsed on the floor.

Of all the ends to his life he’d considered, especially as the assassins had varied their attempts, murder by an unseen attacker was not one of them. Now as he waited for the death blow, he wondered what had brought this about, and why now. Was it another of the Fae’s strange ironies? An enemy he knew not? The weight of someone pouncing on his chest ended all speculation, for he could not breathe.

With his right arm made useless by the dagger’s wound, he tried to grasp with his left, but after another slashing wound to his forearm he lay helpless on the cold floor. Connor felt his attacker grab his tunic and slice it open down to his waist. He waited for death to come.

Instead, the attacker poked his bleeding wound and then whispered something he could not understand. A gasp, one that sounded strangely feminine, was followed by another whisper, and then he smelled the metallic odor of blood as he was touched again. This time something was smeared over his face and onto his chest.

“Who are you? Tell me,” he gasped. He would at least know the reason for his death.

“Your blood for those slain at your word, Seer. Prepare for death.” The attacker shifted, rising up as though preparing to plunge the blade with more weight behind it. “Open your eyes, and see who brings your death.”

There was not time to explain the futility of it, and part of him wished he could look on the face of the one who would release him from the torment in which he lived. But knowing the horror that would be seen there, Connor clenched his eyes closed more tightly.

“Open them, pig,” the order came again, whispered gruffly.

The dagger slit the skin at his neck as if to force him to obey. The voice was definitely a woman’s; he could hear it now, even though she tried to hide it in the hoarse whisper she used. By God, they stooped to using women now. Was he so valuable to Diarmid and his enemies so desperate that they would draw a woman into their plans?

When he did not open his eyes, she did not delay, burying her blade into his chest. The searing pain of the dagger slicing through ribs and muscles wracked his body. He did open his eyes then, stunned at the feeling of his blood gushing out and soaking through his tunic and cloak. As he lost consciousness, he tried to see her face and let her see his.

The shrill scream pierced his stupor, but did not rouse him completely. She pulled the dagger from his chest, and still she screamed. Some part of him knew the horror she’d seen in his eyes and knew it was the source of her torment. Her cries drew attention from outside, and Connor was aware of the struggle as her weight disappeared from his chest and Ranald’s concerned voice whispered to him to close his eyes.

Darkness followed then, with all manner of sounds filling it. Connor knew he was losing his battle to stay awake, but the questions about this woman and her involvement plagued him even this close to death. If he did not die, he wanted to know the truth. When he could, he forced the words out, giving Ranald one final order.

“I want her alive,” he gasped, shocked at the amount of pain just speaking caused. “She is mine.”

T
he first two times he attempted it, he could see nothing, for the cloth placed by Ranald blocked his sight, as well as the view of anyone who would look upon him. The third time, the blindfold was gone, and a dull light broke into the darkness. Ranald spoke to him.

“Will I live?” Connor asked, as he felt Ranald’s hand beneath his head, lifting it so he could sip at the cup now at his mouth. He tried to reach the place on his chest that burned and ached, but his hands would not obey him.

“You may, my lord. ’Twas a near thing though.”

“The girl? Where is she?” The cup was tilted, and he was forced to drink and wait on Ranald’s answer. “I asked where she is, Ranald.”

His servant moved away for a moment, and Connor tried to pull himself up on his bed. Waves of pain stopped him from trying it a second time.

“They are holding her nearby, my lord,” he finally answered. “Though I confess I do not understand why you are even concerned over the bitch. She tried to kill you!”

“Ranald? Is she alive?” He had a bad feeling about this.

“Perhaps, though in the five days since she attacked you she may have died. I have not seen her in that time.”

Five days had passed? “Get her now,” he ordered in as strong a voice as he could muster. “Now.”

“Lord Diarmid has other plans, my lord.”

The damn servant began walking away, intent on disobeying his orders and on letting the girl die. He knew Diarmid’s methods and knew the men who would carry them out, and even with his attacker being a woman, they would show no mercy in their quest for information.

Though his liege, lord, and host, Lord Diarmid did not have the right to take her life while he still lived and ordered otherwise. Not while he needed to know the reason for the attack. And her identity.

Gathering his strength, Connor rolled to his side and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Ranald was there in a trice, cursing him for reopening wounds.

“Send word to Lord Diarmid that she is mine to punish. Tell him I live and will be very angry if he takes my right to punish the one who sought to end my life. Very angry,” he said, putting his foot on the floor.

“My lord, you are not strong enough to leave your bed.” Ranald tried to block his way. “Is your sight restored?” he asked in a whisper, so that no one else could hear.

“Nearly. Enough for me to find my way down the halls, searching room by room, until I discover where she is.”

There had been many tests of wills in their past, and he’d won every one, even at great cost, so Ranald knew the outcome already. He backed away and bowed.

“Stay, rest, while I speak to Lord Diarmid.”

Connor sank back on the bed and nodded. Truly, he did not have the strength to leave his bed, let alone his chambers. Once his head fell back onto his pillow, he lost consciousness once more.

Shadows shifted in his chambers, and whispers floated around him. Connor tried to focus his thoughts and open his eyes, but with his strength gone from the last contest, he could only lie in silence. It was possibly another day before he roused and felt clearly awake. The light, from both the braziers lit around his chambers and from the sun as it poured through the open window in the wall, told him that his vision was back.

It was different though, not as clear as before, and he was not able to see in the shadows. How many more times before he went completely blind? Would the Sight then vanish from him? Would the curse be lifted once the gift was gone? Whimpering in the corner drew his attention away from all the possibilities he faced.

Connor struggled, but managed to sit up and find the source of the noise. As he pulled himself to stand and edged closer to the corner of the chamber—damn it, but it was the one in the darkest shadows—the smell knocked him back. The foul stench gagged him, but Connor moved closer, now seeing a small heap lying on a pile of straw.

“Is that her?” he asked, knowing Ranald stood behind him now.

“Aye, though why you would bother with her, I know not.”

“I do not need your permission or consent on this, Ranald. If you would rather serve another, I can speak to Diarmid.”

The silence told him that Ranald was effectively quelled for the moment.

“Has she been fed? Given water?” Again, the silence gave him his answer. The odor and his own weakness kept him at a distance, frustrating him in his need to look on a girl brave enough and foolish enough to breach Diarmid’s keep to get to him.

“Clean her and feed her, and then I will speak to her.” Ranald began to argue, but ceased at his look. “I do not want her befouling my chambers with her smell. ’Tis a small matter, Ranald, not one that should cause any problem for you.”

Connor made his way to sit in his chair, far enough away not to choke but close enough to insure that his orders would not be ignored. Ranald left the room, calling out to various servants in the corridor outside as he went. When he chose to be efficient, none could match his efforts, so Connor knew it would only be a short time before the girl was ready to be questioned.

A serving girl entered with some broth for him, and with her help he sipped at it as he waited for Ranald’s return. Instead, one of Diarmid’s burly house slaves entered, carrying two huge wooden buckets of water. The man did not wait for a tub. He put the buckets down and proceeded to dump one on the girl curled on the floor. She did not move much with the first, only coughed and shook, so he reached down and tore the garments she wore off. Then, before Connor could do anything to intervene, the slave threw the other bucket of water on her. The shuddering now was noticeable even from where he sat in shock.

Connor stood so quickly that he knocked the bowl of broth out of the servant’s hands, and it bounced on the floor, splashing them both. He stumbled to the corner and tried to reach the girl, who lay unmoving now. Would he never discover her reasons for trying kill him? Why she would risk her own life to take his?

“Get out of here,” he ordered the slave. “Send Ranald to me.”

Ranald was only a moment behind his order and entered the chambers with three other servants. As Ranald helped him aside, they dragged the girl out of the corner, shoveled out the decaying straw on which she had lain, and tossed her back on the floor with a blanket over her.

“She has not long to live, my lord. Why waste any effort or concern on her well-being?”

“Because I ordered it to be so,” he said through clenched teeth. He had never realized the mean streak in his servant before. “Now, get them out of here,” he nodded to the others in the chambers, “and get her clothed.”

Ranald waved the others out, but not before acquiescing to his orders for clothing for the girl. He wondered if a shroud would be needed instead.

His breathing became labored, and the chambers began to spin around him then. He’d moved too quickly, done too much and not enough. Connor fell to his knees and grabbed for the end of his bed to try to balance himself. Blood leaked through his tunic, and he could feel the tearing where stitches were being pulled from the skin. If he was not careful, he would end up dead without ever finding out who she was or why she attacked him.

But, the stubborn part of him would simply not give up. On his own life, or on hers. Curiosity won out, and he allowed Ranald to help him back to his bed now. He waited for his servant to go for more broth, and then he spoke, his words aimed at his attacker, words he thought would not be heard, really.

“It would have gone better for you if you had simply killed me.”

He heard the scraping on the stone floor, as she shifted around in the corner. Surprised, since he did not think she was awake, Connor leaned up on his elbows and searched the darkened corner for her.

“Aye, a swift death would have been a blessing to both of us,” he continued. “Now ’tis too late for both of us.”

Darkness and light blended together into a blur for her, just as the waves of pain grew and receded, once and again, until Moira did the unthinkable and prayed for death. Her plea went ignored, and she forced another breath into her broken body.

She’d failed yet again and deserved to die for such failure. Her family’s souls yet cried out to be avenged, and she would suffer the torments of hell for nothing. If only they’d killed her quickly, all of this would be over.

The cough surprised her, pushing its way from deep within her in spite of her efforts to keep it inside. It exploded then, and the thick, coppery taste of blood filled her mouth until she spat it out. Unable to turn, unable to brace herself against the onslaught of pain, Moira simply let go and melted back down into unconsciousness.

She knew not how many times it happened, but she felt the same pattern repeat itself many uncounted times until there was one moment of clarity in her mind. And, her mind clung to that moment and searched for more. The same tenacity that had kept her alive these last six years, through danger and starvation and other obstacles, now would not allow her to grasp the ultimate surrender to the pain and injuries.

Days and days later—she could not tell how many passed—a loud argument pierced her fog, and she feared more pain would come. Instead, Moira tasted some foul brew forced into her mouth, and then a blissful peace took control of her senses. Was this it? Was this the end of her suffering, the end of the quest that had given her purpose when she’d lost all?

More time passed—so confused was she by the pain and the darkness that she knew not how much—before she came to awareness again, but then the searing and tearing pain faded into something more tolerable. When she realized that the cold, hard stone floor beneath her had been replaced with a cot or pallet of some kind and began to recognize the comings and goings of servants and the pattern of life within the keep, she knew she would survive.

Whether from the potions given her or something else, terrible, ghastly images filled her slumber. Flames, like the very flames of hell, tormented her and pursued her as she ran through the keep. Demons, with horrible faces and fire where their eyes should be, ran after her, clawing and grabbing at her, then beating her and tearing her clothes. Moira ran and ran, but they grew closer and closer until she could only scream and scream and watch herself die.

Other times it was just the flames, like living torches, chasing her, nipping at her feet, with the tormenting heat growing stronger and nearer with every pace she took away. But every time, her screams were as useless as before. Her arms and legs seemed weighted, and, try as she might, she could not move.

Then Moira grew aware of more light and less darkness in the world that surrounded her. The pain subsided, and voices began to penetrate the silence of her thoughts. Sometimes stern and demanding, sometimes soft and coaxing, sometimes female and sometimes male. One day, Moira recognized the voice of the man she’d come to kill. The man whose eyes had burned with the very fires of hell. She forced her own to open a crack.

The room where she lay was not the large and spacious one he used for both his personal sleeping chamber and the place he called his visions. She’d seen almost all the chambers in the keep, but never this one. Moira suspected it was on one of the lower floors of Diarmid’s keep. Since she’d arrived here, she’d crept through the passageways and hidden corridors of the stone castle, looking for her quarry and watching his movements and habits. Moira planned and prepared for months, knowing that the Seer was far too valuable for Lord Diarmid to let him live and travel unguarded.

Now, if her senses served her, he stood at her side, staring at her with those eyes that had burst into inhuman flames as he lay on the floor. Those eyes that had looked at her in desire and had watched her pleasure him throughout that strange yet wondrous day now so long ago. Not certain she could bear to see them again, Moira focused her gaze on his cloak and took a deeper breath.

“She is awake,” the Seer said to someone else in the chamber.

A cool hand touched her brow then—not one of his, for she saw that he did not move. Then the hand moved to her cheek. Moira winced at the pain from the touch.

“I did not mean to add to your pain,” said a woman. “The bruises run deep and will take a long time to heal.”

Daring to open her eyes more, Moira looked above her and found the source of the touch and the voice. A young servant woman stood next to her, peering at her with a concerned gaze. Finally, Moira gathered her courage and faced her enemy.

His gaze burned no longer, but neither did it hold the compassion that the woman’s did. Anger filled it now. Anger and something else she could not decipher. He took a step closer, and she steeled herself for the inevitable blow.

It did not come.

Instead he crouched lower, studying her face as though some clue was written there. Tempted to say something, anything, to break his contemplation of her, Moira fought the urge and lay silent. She was a prisoner now, and she understood what that meant. Torture to extract any information she carried that would help his lord continue his rule of terror over the local clans. The pain she’d suffered so far, for her attack on the Seer, was only a punishing prelude to what she would feel when they turned their efforts to keeping her alive while they worked.

Her courage faltered then, only for a moment, before she grabbed the shredded edges of it and tugged it harder and closer around her. Closing her eyes, she remembered the reason for this. The reason she would bear what she must.

Her family. Their bloodied bodies, strewn around their village. Her sister.

Under control once more, she met his gaze without faltering.

“What are you called?” he asked in a voice that was deceptively pleasant. Deep and resonant, she recognized the power there, power that had called her to his bed and power that emanated from him during his visions.

He did not know her! How could that be? Had he taken so many to his bed that each meant nothing and did not even garner memory to him? Then she realized that her face must be so badly beaten and torn that she did not look like the woman who climbed into his bed so easily.