Wicked Highlander (7 page)

Quinn shook his head. “I doona understand. Either you have power or you doona. Cara, my brother's woman, had no idea she was a Druid. We all discovered it by chance when she was trying to grow the garden.”

“Ah. It is a part of every
mie
to want to see something grow. We have that power.”

“As we discovered with Cara. It was when she got angry and the plant took it into itself and began to die that we realized the magic she had.”

“Is she learning of her magic? Is there a Druid to teach her?”

Quinn lifted a shoulder. “When I left, Lucan was talking about trying to search out a Druid for Cara, but I don't know what has happened since I was taken.”

“If there isn't a Druid to help Cara, then I will.”

“You are a good woman, Marcail.”

She smiled, at ease once more.

“Now, tell me of Rory.”

Quinn hated to say her husband's name, to know that another man had tasted her lips and felt her skin on his. It made Quinn's rage bubble forth all too quickly from unwanted jealousy. He fought to keep his god under control, praying Marcail didn't notice how stiff he had become.

“There's nothing to tell. I didn't want to be married. It's as simple as that.”

“Nothing is that straightforward,” Quinn said. “You might not have loved him, but you two could have been friends.”

“I don't think that was ever a possibility,” she whispered. “He didn't want to marry me any more than I wanted to marry him. Neither of us had a choice. We did what was best for the village.”

“What was best?” Quinn knew what it was like being married to someone he wished he weren't. But at least he and Elspeth had been friends once upon a time. Marcail and Rory apparently couldn't even say that.

Marcail leaned her head against the rocks and sighed. “I wasn't happy when he died, but I was pleased to be free. He made me question everything about myself. He didn't like my hair, he didn't like my magic but hated when I didn't know everything a Druid should know.”

“He might have been the best fighter your village had, but he was the wrong man for you.”

She chuckled. “Thank you. No one would admit that in the village.”

“They're idiots.”

Her smile was infectious as she turned it on him. “You've made me laugh despite my situation.”

Just as he had earlier, he found himself drowning in her turquoise eyes, his body demanding he pull her against him and kiss her. To claim her lips and her body as his. He wanted nothing more than to have her arms wrap around his neck and hear her sigh as her body sank into his.

But then he thought of his conversation with Broc and the Warrior's words of warning.

“You're frowning,” Marcail said.

“Broc told me I was running out of time.”

“What does that mean?”

Quinn leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. His head dropped down as he blew out a deep breath. “I have no idea. I'm assuming it has something to do with Deirdre. Everything in this cursed place has to do with that bitch.”

“Lucan and Fallon will come, Quinn. I know they will.”

Quinn wished he had her confidence.

 

Charon tapped his copper claw against the rocks at the entrance to his cave. He hated the Pit, hated the mountain, but just as with the rest of them, he wouldn't be leaving any time soon.

He would depart before many of them, though. Deirdre had made him an offer he couldn't refuse. Everyone
suspected there was a spy in the Pit, but no one had realized it was him.

Though he was interested in what Quinn MacLeod did, Charon didn't enjoy spying when he was forced into it. He liked to choose his own vices, and he had many.

He was surprised at how quickly Quinn had stamped his domination over the Warriors in the Pit. Charon hadn't fought him. Yet. It would come to that eventually. But Charon was biding his time.

Everyone had a weakness, including the great Quinn MacLeod. Charon would find that weak spot and use it to his advantage against Quinn and Deirdre. It was all a matter of time before Charon put this heap of stone behind him and got back to the pursuits he enjoyed.

Charon smiled at Arran, the white Warrior who always stood near Quinn. Arran didn't trust Charon, as well he shouldn't. What was interesting was Quinn saving the woman. Not that Charon wouldn't have helped her.

He was a man after all. It had been a terribly long time since he had slaked his lust between a woman's thighs. And the wee Druid was certainly delectable enough.

Quinn, however, had reached her first. And now Quinn sheltered her as if she were the answer to his prayers. Arran and the twins were never far from the woman either.

Fascinating, very fascinating.

Charon wasn't surprised when Arran walked across the space to him. “More protective than usual, aren't you?”

Arran stopped in front of him. “Tell me, Charon,
why haven't you sided with us? You don't help Deirdre. The more Warriors on Quinn's side, the better our chances of escaping.”

“It's been many decades since anyone has escaped from this mountain. I doona expect to be seeing someone do it anytime soon.”

“Why not help?”

“Why should I?” Charon asked.

A muscle in Arran's jaw jumped. “Because we're put in here to either die or convert. Personally, I would rather do neither. Quinn is our best hope.”

“He's
your
best hope. For me, I look to myself.”

“One day you're going to need my help, and I'm going to be in the position to tell you nay.”

Charon laughed. “That day will never come.”

“We shall see,” Arran said before he turned on his heel and strode away.

He kept the smile in place even as Arran disappeared into Quinn's cave. Charon didn't like predictions of any kind, because he had learned early on just how far a foretelling could go.

 

Marcail tried to pass the time by thinking of the spells her grandmother had taught her instead of gazing at Quinn like a girl who had never seen a handsome man before.

She had seen handsome men, but none of them had been Quinn MacLeod.

For all her words to Quinn, Marcail had kept much of her mother's ideas throughout her learning. The Druid ways hadn't been part of Marcail's upbringing, so to hear her grandmother spout words such as “war
to end all wars” and “the end of all that is good in this world” hadn't meant much to Marcail.

They hadn't until Dunmore and the wyrran had shown up at her village. All the while Marcail had run through the forest she had tried to recall every word her grandmother had ever told her. But it was too late.

The magic she should have held easily within her body didn't respond when she called it forth. She could heal herself, aye, but only because her grandmother had made her do it every day while she had been alive.

Her grandmother had made Marcail practice it so often that it had become second nature to her, unlike any of her other magic. Marcail's one great power, discerning people's feelings, came to her at unexpected times. And other times, like now, when she wanted to discover what kept Quinn so reserved, her magic ignored her call.

It was beyond frustrating. And she hated herself at that moment. Her grandmother had tried to warn her, tried to prepare her for what was to come. Maybe it was because Marcail hadn't paid attention as she should have that her grandmother had buried the spell to bind the gods in Marcail's mind.

Marcail held out her hands. The flickering light of the torch cast her hands in a red-orange glow. She had the hands of a Druid, with strong Druid blood in her veins, but she couldn't help the men around her fight a relentless evil.

At one time the
mie
could have stood against Deirdre, but Deirdre had kept her growing power to herself, quietly hunting along the countryside for any Druids and stealing their power. By the time that the
mie
realized
what she was about, Deirdre's magic was too strong. It would have taken many
mie
standing against Deirdre, and the Druids, both
mie
and
drough
alike, were too afraid of her.

Marcail sighed and clenched her hands. She could focus her power and make a flower bloom, but she had nothing with which to fight Deirdre or aid Quinn and his brothers on their quest. She was useless as a Druid.

No wonder Deirdre hadn't taken the time to kill her herself. There wasn't enough magic in her blood to do Deirdre any good.

A shadow moved and came towards her. Marcail spotted the pale blue skin and long brown hair of Duncan.

He regarded her for a moment in silence. “You are quiet, lady.”

“The gloom makes me reflect on the past, which is never a good thing.”

“We cannot outrun our pasts, no matter how much we want to.”

Wise words. “Is it always this still down here?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes there are fights between Warriors like there was the other night.”

Marcail frowned. Had there been a fight? She didn't remember hearing one, but she was a heavy sleeper. There was a distinct chance she slept right through it. “Do you ever get involved in a fight?”

“Only if I have to,” he said with a shrug of his thick shoulder. “My loyalty is to my brother, Quinn, and Arran. I will always side with them in battle.”

“How long have you been down here?”

“Much longer than Quinn, but not as long as Arran.”

Which told her nothing, but then again, a person
could lose track of time in the darkness. “Were you and Arran friends before Quinn came?”

“We didn't fight each other if that's what you mean.”

Marcail glanced at Quinn again. He hadn't moved from his spot just inside the entrance to his cave. He stood in the shadows, but she felt his presence. “And Quinn? Did you fight him?”

“As soon as he was captured, Deirdre's Warriors couldna stop bragging that they'd caught one of the MacLeods. I had hoped to meet Quinn, but I never expected Deirdre to toss him in the Pit.”

“But she did.”

“Aye, she did. Ian and I knew by the way she spoke to Quinn that he could be the MacLeod we'd heard so much aboot. Deirdre was careful never to speak his name. It didn't take us long to discover it, though.”

“I gather the others fought him?”

Duncan scratched his chin. “The way to survive down here is to prove that you cannot be beaten, that you are the strongest, the most powerful. When someone new is thrown in, a fight is the first thing that happens. It was so with Quinn. Ian and I stayed back and watched. All the stories we had heard telling what great fighters the MacLeods were did not lie.”

Marcail was fascinated, but then she had always been captivated by the MacLeod story. Her grandmother would tell her the story every night, never deviating from a single word.

“Did Arran fight him?”

“Arran did as we did, he watched. Quinn didn't need our help even when six Warriors attacked him at once.”

Marcail's mouth parted in shock. “Six? Six and you didn't help him?”

Duncan chuckled and shifted his feet. “You havena seen him fight yet. Once you do, you will understand why it was so easy for him to be the leader here.”

“You didn't want his position?”

“Before Quinn there were battles every day, nearly all day. Each of us was trying to best the others.”

“But you're Warriors. Each of you is powerful, or at least that is what we were told in our stories.”

Duncan crossed his arms over his chest. “We each have a god unbound within us, aye, but Quinn is the oldest of us. He has lived with his god the longest. Also, there are some gods that are stronger than others.”

“What is your god?”

“Ian and I have the god Farmire. He is the god of battle, or father of battle as he likes to be known.”

“Both of you have the same god?”

“Aye,” Duncan answered. “We are twins, so we share everything, even the god. Quinn and his brothers have the same god.”

She nodded. “Quinn told me. How is that possible? I thought only one god in one man?”

“You'll have to ask the gods,” Duncan said before he walked away.

Marcail was now, more than ever, curious about Quinn. In none of the stories had it said the brothers shared the same god.

If Marcail believed Duncan, it made the MacLeod brothers stronger. She wished now she had been able to see him battle the other Warriors when she was tossed into the Pit. There had been very few times that she saw men fight, and never had she found it intriguing.

But then again, none of them had been Quinn MacLeod.

No matter how hard Quinn tried to forget there was a very alluring, very beautiful female just steps away from him, he couldn't.

He tried to think of Deirdre and a plan of escape, but all his mind could concentrate on was the shape of Marcail's plump lips and her delectable scent. Every drop of blood was now centered in his groin, and by the ache that had settled there, it wasn't going away anytime soon.

The other Warriors in the Pit had begun to grow restless as well. They smelled her, they heard her. No matter what, Quinn would never be able to leave the Pit or one of them would take her. That thought sent his rage to rising.

Quinn turned that rage to his advantage and channeled it into communicating with the rats. Though he hadn't mastered his power in human form yet as Lucan had, Quinn was getting stronger with each use.

He had already transformed into his god as he did each time he wanted to be seen. His power swirled within him, growing larger and potent with each beat of his heart.

“Find the other Warriors. Bite them, attack them, annoy them. Keep them occupied,”
Quinn commanded the rats.

His sharp hearing picked up the scratch of the rats' claws as they hurried to carry out his orders. Quinn didn't hide his smile when he heard the first growl of a Warrior being bitten.

The distraction wasn't much, but the rats would keep the Warriors occupied for a long time. Quinn couldn't wait to leave the mountain and try his power out on other animals, like horses.

He had used to love to ride. His favorite mount had been a bay stallion. Quinn missed that horse. Ever since he'd become immortal, he hadn't ridden. There wasn't a reason to when he could move as fast, or faster, than any horse could run.

Still, he longed to feel a horse beneath him and see the ground blurred under the animal's hooves as it moved across the land. Three hundred years ago, racing his mount had made him feel like a god. How naïve he had been.

Quinn felt a presence beside him and looked over to find Arran. The Warrior glared across the way into Charon's cave. For some reason, Arran hated Charon, but Quinn hadn't figured out why.

“You have claimed the female as your own, yet you doona want to be near her,” Arran said before turning his gaze to Quinn.

Just the mention of Marcail made Quinn's blood heat. “It's not a question of wanting, it's a question of deserving. I'm not the man for her.”

“But you want her.”

“More than I've wanted anything in a long time. She's a good person who got caught in Deirdre's web. I've evil inside me, Arran.”

“The evil inside us doesn't make us wicked. We have that choice.”

Quinn smiled and shook his head. “You sound just like Lucan. He said the same thing to me once.”

“Then your brother is obviously the clever one, not you, as they say.”

Quinn rolled his eyes. “I'll admit Lucan and Fallon are better men, and at times, Lucan has shown himself to be nearly as clever as me, but never has he outwitted me.”

Arran's grin, weak though it was, dropped from his lips. “If you want Marcail then take her. I've seen the way she looks at you, my friend. Doona be a fool and allow this moment to pass you by. I live daily with regrets. Learn from me.”

Quinn lived with his own regrets. “I canna chance it, Arran. Deirdre will discover Marcail soon enough. Already I've endangered her by saving her. If I take her as I long to do, Deirdre's wrath will be fierce.”

“And you worry for Marcail?”

“I do. Deirdre wants her dead. I believe Deirdre will leave Marcail down here to die unless Deirdre discovers I've taken Marcail as mine. You can be certain to see Deirdre's wrath then.”

Arran ran a hand down his face. “You may be right. Who knows how much longer you have before Deirdre takes you? She does want your child.”

When Quinn was first dropped into the Pit he fully expected to stay there until he was either rescued or died. But the longer he was in and the more times Broc and Isla visited him, Quinn knew that one day Deirdre would tire of her game and summon him.

Was that what Broc meant when he said Quinn's time was running out?

“Holy Hell,” Quinn murmured. He trusted Arran and the twins, but how long would their honor last when faced with Marcail's beauty on a daily basis without Quinn there?

Not long.

Arran slapped him on the back. “Exactly.”

Quinn yawned and rubbed his eyes. When he glanced behind him he found Marcail stretched out on the slab with her arms wrapped around herself, shivering.

“Go to her,” Arran said. “You've kept watch long enough.”

Quinn didn't argue, not when he yearned to be close to Marcail again. He walked to her and stared down at her form as she rested on her side, facing him. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn't asleep. Yet.

He kept his vigil until her breathing slowed. Then he lowered himself beside her. The slab was large, but not large enough to fit two people on their backs comfortably. Thankfully, with Marcail on her side, Quinn was able to lie on his back and scoot close to her.

Quinn raised his arm closest to Marcail and tucked his hand beneath his head. As if she sensed his warmth, she shifted closer to him.

The moments ticked by as Quinn studied her face. She was beauty personified. Her skin was flawless except for a small mole on the left side of her upper lip. But even that didn't distract from her loveliness.

Unable to help himself, Quinn traced her cheek and jaw with his fingers. Her skin was as smooth as ermine. To his surprise, Marcail's head moved until she rested against his chest.

Quinn's heart pounded in his chest. No woman, not even his wife, had ever lain on him so. He slowly lowered the arm he had behind his head and wrapped it around Marcail. Her shivers had lessened with the addition of his body heat.

At first he was afraid to move, afraid he might wake her. He liked her draped on his chest as she was, and if she never moved it would be too soon.

He forced himself to relax and take the time his body needed to rest.

 

Deirdre paced her chamber. She didn't like being denied. For any reason. She had told herself holding out for Quinn would make finally having him that much more enjoyable, but she was beginning to doubt that.

It seemed that no matter how long Quinn remained in the Pit, it wasn't weakening him. She had been overjoyed to see him take over as he had. It had proven to her that he was, indeed, the Warrior to rule by her side. Or as much as she would allow him to rule.

“Maybe he needs some incentive.”

Deirdre halted and swiveled her head to William, who lounged naked on her bed. She had forgotten he was still in her chamber. Though he had occupied her bed for some weeks now, she didn't find the satisfaction she knew awaited her in Quinn's arms.

William's royal blue skin still shone with sweat from their recent lovemaking. Deirdre found it exciting to have the Warriors with their fangs and claws in her bed. She forbade any of them to convert to their human forms once they pledged their loyalty to her. They had no idea that the longer they stayed in their god form, the more hold the god had over them.

As enticing as William was, she knew he loathed Quinn. She understood it. William wanted to be the one to give her a child and rule. But he never would.

“What do you have in mind?” she asked the Warrior.

“The more you ask—or even demand—that Quinn come to your bed, he will deny you. Take something from him. That's the only way you'll break him.”

Deirdre flipped her long white hair over her shoulder and considered William's words. She knew from Charon's reports that the twins, Duncan and Ian, as well as Arran, had sided with Quinn. Charon had reported no other Warriors, but that didn't mean there weren't more. She didn't trust Charon, though he was proving more reliable than she had first thought.

“Take something from Quinn,” she murmured to herself. She smiled at William. “I think you might have something there.”

William rose from his position on the bed and walked to her. “Let me do it. Let me be the one to take from Quinn.”

“Wasn't it enough that you were the one to capture him?”

“Nay. I want to prove to you that he isn't the man you think he is.”

Deirdre tilted her head to look at the Warrior. William had served her faithfully for over two centuries, ever since she had unbound his god. She knew he was in love with her, or as in love as a Warrior could feel, and she had always used it to her advantage.

“Just because I plan to take Quinn to my bed doesn't mean that you will no longer be welcome, William.”

His royal blue eyes narrowed. “You would still want me?”

“I will always want you.”

“So I can be the one to hurt Quinn?”

She nodded. “Aye, my lover. But first, I want more of your body.”

William growled and wrapped his hands around her waist, his claws scraping her skin. He turned and threw her onto the bed. She kicked out at him, striking him in the chin.

He bared his teeth with a growl and grabbed her ankle before she could kick him again. With one jerk, he pulled her to the end of the massive bed and onto his cock.

Deirdre gasped at the feeling of being impaled on his shaft so suddenly. He pulled out only to thrust hard and fast into her, just as she liked it. She clawed at his back with her long nails as her legs wrapped around his waist. He fisted one hand in her floor-length hair and tugged.

It was too bad William wasn't the one to give her the child of destiny. She could control him easily enough, and he was a great lover.

But it was Quinn who held her attention.

As if sensing her thoughts, William dug his claws into her hips and pounded into her violently. She screamed as her climax came upon her without warning.

William wrenched every last tremor from her before turning her onto her stomach and sliding into her from behind. Their night of sex had just begun, and by the time he was finished with her, Deirdre would be as sated as she could get.

 

Quinn woke to the most delicious feel of a woman snuggled against him. He smiled as he realized Marcail's
legs were intertwined with his and her arm was thrown over his chest.

It was the smell of bread that alerted him he had slept, and slept deeply. Even on the hard rock beneath him, he had slumbered like he was in a feather bed. And it was all because of Marcail.

Somehow being around the Druid relaxed him as well as bringing him desire unlike he had ever known. It took everything he had not to ground his aching rod into her leg. It would be so simple to turn her onto her back and cover her body with his.

Holly Hell.

He needed to keep his distance from Marcail before he gave in to this yearning that consumed him. And though every fiber of his being told him to get up, he couldn't.

Marcail trusted him, a Warrior, with her life. She molded her body to his for warmth and safety as she slept. That meant more to him than anything she could have done. His own wife hadn't trusted him that way, a wife who had known him for nearly his entire life.

Marcail had known him for such a short time. What was the difference? Why did Marcail understand him when Elspeth had not?

Quinn smoothed the braids that had fallen in Marcail's face as she'd slept. She blinked and opened her eyes. For a heartbeat she didn't move. Then she tilted her face to his.

“I would say good morn, but I'm not sure what time of day it is.”

He smiled. “We usually get bread in the mornings, and since there is some waiting for us, I think it's safe to say good morn.”

“You kept me warm while I slept.”

Quinn glanced away. “You were freezing. I had no blanket to offer. Only myself.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“It was my pleasure.” And he meant every word.

With a shy grin, Marcail rose and moved to the water behind Quinn's head. He sat up and tracked her with his eyes. Just as on the previous morning, she drank her fill before splashing water on her face and neck.

Quinn reached for the bread to break it in half when he saw three other pieces beside it. He glanced at his men. He hadn't asked, or expected, them to share their food with Marcail, yet they had. He gave them a nod of thanks before tearing off a piece of his to add to the pile.

When Marcail walked back to him and saw the bread she shook her head with a smile. “You and your men?”

“We want to make sure you're fed.”

“I don't need all of this.”

Quinn stopped her with a hand on her arm before she could give the bread back. “If you return the bread, you will offend them. I didna ask them to share with you. They've done it on their own.”

“I see,” she said. “I'm…touched.”

“You are one to be protected, Marcail. And not just because you are a Druid. You're a woman first and foremost.”

She laughed. “Weak, you mean.”

“That's not what I meant at all. As men, we are raised to protect women and children, to give our lives if necessary. It is what a Highlander is.”

Marcail tore off a piece of bread and squished it between her fingers. “Things were different in my village.
The men did look out for the women and children, but not as you say. My father gave his life for us, but I would not expect any other man to die for me.”

“Then you obviously haven't encountered a true Highlander.”

Her smile warmed his heart.

“So it seems, Quinn MacLeod. You are the first Highlander I've met, and I must say, I'm duly impressed.”