Darkest Highlander (2 page)

Sonya’s vibrant red hair, which was always secured in a single thick plait, was now wild and free in a tangle of curls about her. Her dark green gown was coated in dirt and drenched from the rain. One sleeve was torn at the shoulder, and she had another tear at her hem.

But what made Broc’s stomach plummet to his feet was the wound he saw on her palm. She had wrapped a portion of her chemise around it, but the thin material had already fallen away, leaving the ragged injury exposed.

Broc fell to his knees beside her. He was afraid to touch her, but he needed to feel her at the same time. He spread a wing to shield her from the rain and leaned close. Only then did he realize she was unconscious.

Careful that his claws didn’t cut her delicate skin, he gently caressed a finger from her temple down her cheek to her jaw. He longed to have her open her eyes so he could look into their amber depths.

Her skin was smooth and luminous. She had a high forehead where finely arched eyebrows, the same vivid red as her hair, curved above her eyes. Her nose was aristocratic and her chin stubborn. Her lips, however, were those of a siren—wide and full.

And tempting as sin.

Tenderly, Broc lifted her hand in his to inspect the wound. The cut went from her index finger across her palm to end at her wrist. The slice was deep, and the skin around the wound was blackening.

The dark yellow pus that oozed from the gash propelled Broc. He gathered Sonya in his arms and spread his wings, ready to jump into the air and fly to MacLeod Castle.

It was the lightning bolts that forked across the sky in a vivid and dramatic display of power that halted him. If he flew, there was a chance he could be hit by the lightning. Though it would pain him, he would survive.

Sonya wouldn’t be so lucky.

He couldn’t put her in that kind of danger. Reluctantly, Broc set her down long enough to remove the satchel and search through it for a cloak.

Once he found one and had secured it around Sonya, Broc tamped down his god. He watched the indigo skin of his Warrior form, along with his claws, fade from sight. Nothing showed of his wings or his fangs. When he wasn’t in his Warrior form, no one could tell him apart from a mortal man.

It was a small blessing having an ancient god inside him. And it had all begun with the invasion of Rome on Britain’s shores. The Celts had battled the Romans for years before going to the Druids for help.

The
mies
, Druids with pure magic, could offer only guidance. However, the
droughs
, Druids with their black magic, had an answer—call up primeval gods from Hell to inhabit the strongest warriors.

And it worked. The men became Warriors and soon drove Rome from Britain. Yet, their need for blood and death didn’t end, and soon they were killing any who crossed their paths.

It took both the
mies
and the
droughs
combining their magic to end the Warriors. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t make the gods return to Hell. Instead, they bound them inside the men.

But the gods took their revenge by passing through the bloodline to the next strongest warrior of that family. They were unable to get free until a
drough
, Deirdre, found an ancient scroll that told her how to unbind the gods.

Ever since, Deirdre had been relentless in finding the gods and unbinding them. Broc was one of several at MacLeod Castle intent on putting an end to Deirdre for good.

Broc jerked on a tunic before he slung the strap of the satchel over his head. Once more he took Sonya into his arms and stood. There was a village several leagues away. There he could get Sonya out of the weather and tend to her hand.

Then he would beg her forgiveness for driving her away and hopefully convince her to return to MacLeod Castle. Everyone needed her there. No one more so than him.

He cradled her gently, but securely, against his chest, shielding her face from as much of the rain as he could. He rested his chin on her forehead and felt her skin blazing with fever.

Broc looked down into her oval face, a face that had haunted his dreams and every waking moment of his life since she had come into womanhood and he had been tempted beyond his control.

“Live, Sonya. I refuse to let you die.”

Why hadn’t she healed herself, as he knew she could? She was a Druid with powerful healing magic. The Druids at MacLeod Castle had put an incredible amount of strain on Sonya for her healing, but as a
mie
nothing should have restricted that magic.

Even Quinn MacLeod, another Warrior, once had need of Sonya’s healing because of Deirdre’s magic.

Broc growled just thinking about his enemy. All
droughs
gave their blood and their lives to Satan in exchange for black magic, but Deirdre had gone beyond that. She worked in league with the Devil. Deirdre had lived nearly a thousand years, and during that time she had destroyed many lives.

Broc cursed Deirdre with every step he took, but he cursed himself even more. From the day he had delivered Sonya and Anice to the Druids, he had sworn to protect them.

He had failed Anice, and if he didn’t get Sonya to cover quickly, he would fail her as well.

The thunder had become almost a constant boom, it sounded so close together. The storm was right over them, as was evident by the lightning striking closer and the wind howling around them.

One lightning bolt landed on a tree just in front of them and caused the pine to burst into flames and split in half. Broc turned away before being crushed as part of the tree fell and landed in front of him.

He lifted his face to the sky and roared his anger. His rage fed his god, and it was all Broc could do to keep him tamped down. It had taken too many of his two hundred and seventy-five years learning to restrain Poraxus for Broc to lose control now.

But when it came to Sonya, his emotions always ran high.

Broc had to get out of the storm. He took a deep breath and leapt the burning tree. He held Sonya tight and ran, using the incredible speed his god gave him.

He didn’t slow until he spotted the village.

TWO

Broc strode to the inn and shouldered open the door. The force of the wind caused it to bang against the wall and had every head turning his way.

The few patrons scattered about the dining room watched him with mild curiosity, but the short, plump woman behind the counter let out a squeak before she ran to the door and closed it.

“A wicked storm we’re havin’,” she said, eyeing him.

“I need a chamber.”

The woman set a hand on her hip and twisted her lips. “Is your … wife … ill?”

“My wife fell from her horse. The storm spooked them.”

Broc didn’t want to dwell on how right it felt calling Sonya his. The curse, or whatever it was that caused people around him to die, would prevent there ever being a future between them.

“Ah, these storms can be vicious,” the woman said. “Ye lost both the horses?”

Broc gave a single nod. “I’d like to get my wife out of these wet clothes and a warm meal in our bellies.”

“That I can do for ye. Ye have coin?”

“I do.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “I’ll be seein’ it before ye get the room.”

Broc glared at the innkeeper. The lines that bracketed her face told a story her lips never would. She had seen hard times and lived through them. Now she ran the inn with an iron fist.

“Follow me to the chamber and you’ll have your coin,” Broc said.

The woman drummed her pudgy fingers on the counter. “All right. But I warn ye, if ye try anythin’, Colin’ll be waitin’ for ye.”

Broc glanced over his shoulder to find a burly man standing partially hidden by the shadows in a corner. Broc didn’t spare Colin another look as he followed the innkeeper up the stairs.

She stopped at the last door on the right. “I assumed ye’d want some privacy.”

“You assumed correctly.”

Her dark eyes narrowed. “Ye’re nobility, aren’t ye?”

“Nay.”

“Nay reason to lie to me,” she said as she opened the door and walked into the chamber. “I not be carin’ what you are.”

But Broc knew she would care if she realized what kind of monster she had allowed into her inn.

Broc strode into the room and to the bed. Gently, he laid Sonya down and reached for the bag of coins in the satchel. He gave her more than needed.

“I’ll have the food sent up directly,” the innkeeper murmured as she tucked the coins between her enormous breasts. She smiled, showing a missing tooth on the left side of her mouth. “Anythin’ else, milord?”

Broc looked at Sonya’s hand. “Bandages.”

When the door shut behind the woman, Broc began to build a fire. Once that was done, he went to Sonya and inspected the wound.

He was going to have to open the wound again so the infection could be drained. He was thankful she was unconscious so he wouldn’t cause her more pain.

Broc lengthened one claw and quickly cut open her injury. Sonya moaned and tried to turn away. Broc held her arm still and turned her hand so the pus could drain.

A knock sounded a moment before the door opened and the innkeeper walked in with a tray of food. She set it on the table near the hearth and dusted off her hands.

“Ye need to get yer wife out of those wet clothes.”

Broc swallowed, his gaze landing on the swell of Sonya’s breast. “Aye.”

“I’ll help.”

“Thank you,” Broc said as he rose to his feet. “What is your name?”

The woman smiled. “Jean.”

Broc let her take charge in removing Sonya’s gown. The material ripped easily beneath Broc’s hands no matter how careful he was.

“Yer wife took quite a tumble.”

“Sonya is strong. She’ll heal.”

Jean’s brows rose at his words. “No’ by the look of her wound. It looks to be infected.”

“It is.”

“Lift your woman’s shoulders,” Jean directed as she pulled Sonya’s gown and chemise over her head.

Broc tried not to stare at Sonya’s alluring body. Many nights he had dreamed of holding her in his arms, of drinking in the sight of her naked flesh, of the feel of her warm skin against his. He dreamed of hearing her sighs of pleasure as he sank into her body.

All the blood rushed to his cock while his gaze feasted on her full breasts and pink nipples pebbled against the cool air. Nestled between her legs was a triangle of red curls just begging for his touch. It was more difficult than Broc realized to release Sonya as he laid her against the linens.

Jean tossed the clothes to the floor, where they made a squishy thud before she spread out the cloak to dry. “Eat, milord. I’ll remove her shoes and stockings.”

When Broc hesitated, Jean shooed him away with her hands. “I’ll take care of yer Sonya, milord. Eat while ye can.”

My Sonya.

Broc quite liked the sound of that.

With nothing else to do, Broc sat. He was hungry, but he could go days without food if he needed to. The god inside him protected him in more ways than one.

The smell of the food drew him, however. He ate some bread as he watched Jean. Then he tried the meat while she cleaned Sonya’s wound.

Soon he was devouring everything on the trencher, glancing up every now and again to see Jean’s progress. She was gentle with Sonya, and a sight better than Broc’s own large hands would have been.

By the time Broc was done with the meal, Jean had finished tending Sonya.

“I’ve put some salve on the wound to help draw out the infection,” Jean said. “Her fever worries me. I’ve some herbs that can help. They need to be mixed with water and forced down her.”

“I’ll do it.” Anything as long as it made Sonya better.

“I’ll bring it to you, then.” Jean nodded approvingly as she gathered the now empty trencher and goblet and started toward the door.

Broc rose and followed her. He raked a hand down his face and let out a long sigh once Jean had left. Unable to stay away from Sonya, he strode to the bed and inspected her hand.

Jean had done a fine job of cleaning and bandaging the wound. Broc just hoped it was enough. He thought of Phelan, another Warrior who had escaped Deirdre’s prison. Phelan’s power was in his blood. His blood could heal anything.

Broc would do whatever it took, even returning to Cairn Toul Mountain and Deirdre, if he could get some of Phelan’s blood for Sonya.

He was tempted to search for Phelan, but he didn’t want to leave Sonya, not when she was ill. She had always been so vivacious, so full of life. Seeing her lying still, her skin pallid and her glorious red locks dulled, made Broc feel as if someone had ripped out his heart.

What had Sonya been thinking in leaving MacLeod Castle? She had been protected there. She had been part of a family. It was a mixed family of immortal Warriors and Druids, but it was the only family Broc had.

He stayed there because it took more than sickness and a sword wound to kill Warriors. And there had been Sonya with her healing magic for the Druids.

Broc had thought the curse wouldn’t be able to touch those around him. But the reality was that it could—and it did. Anice was gone forever. He had vowed to keep her safe, but he’d been unable to fulfill that promise.

Did he dare try to honor it with Sonya?

As much as he knew he should return to MacLeod Castle and allow Fallon to retrieve Sonya, he couldn’t. Not yet. He needed time with Sonya. Time and memories which would sustain him in the decades to come.

He leaned against the wall to let his gaze feast upon Sonya’s beauty. So many years he had spied on Deirdre, carrying out her orders when he had no choice, and saving everyone he could. There had been times he had almost lost himself in that evil mountain of hers.

Each time he got close to giving in, he would visit Sonya. She never knew of it. He would hide, content to just watch her as he did now. Her mere presence eased him. Appeased his rage and quickened his blood.

How many times had he told himself he could never have her? How many times had he tried to keep his distance from her?