Haunting Warrior (45 page)

Feeling strangely disconnected from his own body, he turned away and looked down at himself. There was a long sickle-shaped pucker of flesh about six inches below and to the right of his heart. It curved across his ribs and trailed lower, ending just above his belly. The furrow was wide and red, but it was already a scar, already knitted flesh. Already healing.

Christ, how long had he been out?

His hand moved to the deep gash at his shoulder that should have been ragged and raw, but his fingers found instead another silky scar. Carefully he lifted his arm, bracing for the torture the movement would cause. It had felt like a hundred burning pokers were sunk into the flesh of his shoulder when he’d lifted his sword to fight. But now there was only mild discomfort, the soreness that comes from an old injury on rainy days.

He was weaker, but he wasn’t thinner. He didn’t have any of the side effects of having been incapacitated for the amount of time it would have taken to heal from those kinds of injuries. He shook his head, baffled. Those must have been some amazing homegrown remedies Saraid’s brother had administered for Rory to have healed so quickly. The modern world of medicine could certainly benefit from Michael’s secret herbs.

Suddenly another question occurred to him. Where were Saraid’s brothers now? On the other side of the stone wall, keeping watch? He tilted his head back, looking up the sheer rock face for a lookout. Nothing moved. Nothing at all.

Naked, he made his way to the pool of glittering black waters. A river flowed in and out on either end, but here in the middle it was banked and as calm as a pond. He stared at his reflection for a moment, almost surprised to recognize the face that stared back. He felt like another man, a different man.

As if in response to his thoughts, the water swirled, distorting his features.

Hesitating for reasons he couldn’t quite define, he drank from cupped hands. The water was cool and fresh, slightly bitter with minerals and some other taste he couldn’t define. Pleasant, but somehow unsettling. Uneasy, he warily washed his face and hands, feeling like the
Jaws
theme should be playing in the background.

With a soft laugh at himself, he sat back and looked around. The cove appeared like something from a postcard, not a scary movie. He’d never seen leaves so green, sky so blue, waters so deep and mysterious. The stone walls on either side rose sheer and undaunted, etched from earth to the towering peaks with the same spiral symbols that distinguished the Book of Fennore.

Yet for all its picturesque beauty, there was something in the air that felt . . . unnatural. There was no other way to put it.

A looming shadow fell over him, and he started, spinning to find the huge black horse with the lightning bolt on its face watching him with interest. He lifted a hand and stroked its muzzle.

“What’s up, buddy?”

The horse tossed its head and snorted benevolently before returning to graze on the grassy cove.

Feeling stranger by the minute, Rory forced his fear back and waded into the water, desperately needing to wash the sweat and blood from his body, silently praying the water held nothing more sinister than a sharp rock in its bed. One of the massive trees plunked a nut into the pool, and a giant salmon broke the surface and grabbed it. Stunned, Rory stared.
That was weird.
The
Jaws
theme began once more, growing louder in his head. Nervous, he looked across the rippling water, and one hand went to his groin in a protective motion born of instinct.

He tried to laugh at himself again, feeling ridiculous in his fear. Afraid of a fish and still water. Some fierce warrior he’d turned out to be. But he rinsed quickly, dunked nervously, and hurried out.

Shivering, he went back to Saraid and lay down beside her, spooning her silken back as if he had every right to hold her. As if he’d been doing it for a lifetime. Her warmth chased away the chill, and he pulled her closer, soaking it up. She let out a soft sigh and turned. He rolled on his back so she could snuggle against his side, using his chest as a pillow. Her hand splayed across his stomach and one of her legs tangled with his. He breathed in the scent of her hair, mint and something flowery, maybe lavender? Maybe honeysuckle. Whatever it was, it smelled good.

He could feel the press of her breasts against his skin as she breathed, and she made a small sound that set his blood on fire. How he could even think of sex when every time he’d turned around he’d had his ass kicked, he didn’t know. But there it was, his recurring fantasy about this woman chasing away any fears of pond sharks, tightening the muscles of his belly, pumping blood from his brain to the part of him that required no thought.

He touched her face with gentle fingers, drawing them down the curve of her cheek to the silk of her lips. “Wake up, princess,” he said softly.

The sound of his voice seemed to go through her like a shout. She yelped and sat bolt upright, her eyes wide, her body stiff and ready to fight or flee.

“Easy, girl,” he said. “It’s just me.”

She stared at him uncomprehendingly for a long moment, and he felt a strange mixture of anger and hurt at the blankness of her expression. Who’d she expect to be waking up naked with?

“Yer alive,” she breathed at last.

It was the second time she’d greeted him this way. He hoped he wasn’t on the road to making it a habit.

“Evidently,” he said with a crooked grin.

Her eyes looked different, and he frowned, watching her as she touched him, running her fingertips over the scar on his shoulder down to the spiral brand over his heart to the thick pucker sealing the wound that should have killed him. As he stared, another memory tried to poke through the black crust of oblivion, but it didn’t quite make it to the surface. He felt an alarming sense of relief at the solid wall that surrounded it.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Her lips curled, but it wasn’t a smile and it didn’t reach the flat blank of her eyes. “Yes.”

He didn’t believe her, but let it go. “Where are we?” he asked, sitting up and propping his elbows on his knees.

“I don’t know,” she said. “The horse took off with us and brought us here.”

“What happened to your brothers?”

“Do y’ not remember?” she asked, her voice rising with disbelief.

She curled her legs beneath her and hunched a little to hide her nudity, but it only made him notice it more. She was beautiful beyond words, especially like this, all warm, sleep tousled, and very naked.

“I remember fighting. . . .”

Frowning, he shook his head. Saraid shifted and made to move away. He captured her wrist, holding her still. She stared at where his fingers held her for a moment, and he let his thumb rub the point where her pulse jumped erratically, watching her face as he did. The feel of her skin seemed to send tiny jolts up his arm, but she didn’t react and that blank look remained in her eyes. He didn’t understand it, didn’t know what to do about it.

“The horses, they fought for y’,” she said softly. “They became wild. Frenzied. They threw their riders and trampled them.”

Rory frowned as fuzzy images took shape in his mind. The horses . . . Christ, she was right. Had
he
done that?

“My brothers and Leary’s men ran in another direction and got away. At least, I hope they did.”

“But what about . . .” He touched the new scars. “Who patched me up?”

She averted her face, glancing at him from the cover of her lowered lashes. In her flashing look he caught another glimpse of that perplexing blankness. Now she tried to pull her wrist away, but he wouldn’t let her go.

“Who healed me, Saraid?”

“I did what I could,” she said.

“You? I thought you couldn’t stitch a straight line if your life depended on it.”

The chin went up. “Well it wasn’t
my
life depending on it, was it now?”

He stared at her, unable to make sense of anything she said. On the horizon, the sun began to rise, breaking through the forest with long, reaching rays that speckled the cove and danced in the water. A shaft speared the twin stones framing the river and cascaded in its current. It cast her in a golden haze, like an angel.

Releasing her wrist, but only so he could tilt her chin, he asked, “
How
did you take care of me?”

She couldn’t avoid looking at him now, for all the good it did him. It was like she’d been carved from marble, her skin pale, her eyes glass that reflected nothing of what she felt. “I told y’, I did what I could.”

Again, that glimmer of a memory prodded the fog in his brain. It was sharp and frightening. Rory wanted to turn away from it, but this time he couldn’t. He needed to know what waited beneath the white banks of forgetfulness.

“Why are you lying to me?” he asked. He’d meant it to be a demand, a question she couldn’t ignore or evade. But his voice was suddenly hushed, and the dread deep in his gut blossomed into something hot and consuming.

“I was scared,” she whispered. “I thought y’ would die.”

He was up on his knees now, holding her face in his hands, refusing to let her look away. Willing that flashing warmth, the sparkling depth of her emotions to surface. Wanting to see that she cared, that she felt, that she needed him like he did her. But though her voice had cracked with feeling, her eyes stared placidly back.

Rory jerked at the unbidden thought.

“I heard a voice,” he said, frowning, trying to bring the memory into focus so he could think, analyze, put together the missing pieces. “Was there someone else here, waiting for us?”

“No,” she whispered.

She was trembling; he could feel the tremors coming from every part of her body. And she was lying. It was there in the pleading tone of her words.

The voice . . . he hadn’t imagined it, had he?

“Saraid,” he breathed. “My God, Saraid, what have you done?”

Her lips parted in a silent moan, and she lowered her lashes, trying to hide from him. But it was too late. He remembered it all now.

She’d pleaded for his life. She’d used the Book of Fennore to save him.

The enormity of it rolled over him like a giant wheel. It flattened him, demolished all but his shock. She’d made a deal with the devil, and that devil had stolen the sparkle from her eye. It had taken a piece of her, a piece he loved. A piece he wouldn’t have given up for anything, especially not his own sorry soul.

His vision blurred and his eyes burned. “Why, Saraid?” he said through the thick lump of emotion clogging his throat. “Why did you do it?”

She caught her lip between her teeth and shook her head. Gently she brushed away the tear that rolled over his lashes and slid down his face, and her touch unleashed the rage of his emotions. He pulled her close, buried his face in the soft crook of neck and shoulder, and cried, cried like a child. Cried like a man.

They held each other, wordless in grief, silent in pain. Both of them pouring out the agony that would have killed them to keep in. When at last his eyes dried, he was left with Saraid in his arms and a hard kernel of rage in his chest.

Slowly he leaned back and stared into her face. She gazed back, but it was a stoic stranger looking out of those dark eyes. It was just as Leary had said. Rory had brought her to the Book—unknowingly, yes—but it was because of him all the same. And it had used him to take from her.

“No,” he said. “This can’t happen. I won’t let it.”

“It is not yer choice, Ruairi,” she answered, just as Leary had.

Rory shook his head, remembering his own bold and brash denial of that. “
I just made it my choice
,” he’d said. Jesus, he was such a fool.

Saraid’s voice cracked with emotion, showing him what her eyes did not. “It’s done.”

His smile felt cold and hard, but it felt good, too. It felt powerful. Unyielding. Invincible. “You’re wrong, Saraid,” he said softly. He took her hand and pressed it to his heart. “You are mine. Every beat of my heart is for you. I would die for you a hundred times. I love you. Not just today, now. Forever. I love you forever, Saraid. Know that to be true.”

In his entire life, he’d never spoken such words, never felt so bound by his heart, by his honor. Never known without doubt that he meant everything he said.

“And I’m not going to stand by and do nothing. Not while there’s breath in my body.”

R
UAIRI didn’t give Saraid the chance to answer or to argue. He didn’t give her the chance to soak in the beauty of what he’d said. He loved her.
He loved her.

He leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers, determined to make her feel. And she wanted to—
feel
everything that was inside her.

The Book had promised it would take only a piece of her. A part she wouldn’t miss. It had lied. There was still love in her heart, but it didn’t swell and consume her the way his fierce declaration should have. That passion, that need—it was all subdued, muted until it was more a thought than a feeling.

The loss burned like a flame. It filled her with rage—that she still had. Anger, grief, sorrow, all of those emotions she could call up and
feel
. But joy, love, passion . . . there was only a hollow echo where there should have been heat and need and deep longing.

Ruairi’s kiss was tender and sweet, desperate and enraged. She could taste his pain, his hope, his love. More than anything, she wanted to fall into it, burn with desire. He loved her. He’d vowed to love her forever.

And she felt nothing but loss. The emptiness that should have been her bursting with happiness.

No
, she thought. There had to be more, had to be something she could give him back. If not, she would have chained him to a cripple . . . a living corpse who could not feel, could not share. Was this what her mother had realized? Was this what had driven her to take her own life?