Donna Grant: Wicked Highlander

Quinn huddled beneath the covers. He’d never felt so cold in his life. His hand brushed against a body, and he found himself turning toward the sunshine-and-rain scent he recognized. He was about to drift off to sleep when he heard his name.

“Quinn?”

He’d know that voice anywhere. Quinn cracked open his eyes. “Fallon?”

Fallon’s face split into a huge grin filled with relief and a little sadness. “Aye, brother. How do you feel?”

“Cold.”

More blankets were suddenly piled on top of him. He looked around to find the chamber filled with Warriors, including his own men. There were a couple of men he didn’t recognize, though.

“That’s Camdyn,” Lucan said. “He’s another Warrior and friend to Galen.”

Fallon motioned to the other man in the group, a man who was obviously mortal by the recent scarring on his face. “This is Malcolm Monroe, my wife’s cousin. I’ll tell you all about how Larena and I met and how Malcolm helped her once you’re on your feet.”

Quinn frowned. Why was he in bed and not feeling quite right? Then it came back to him in a rush. “Deirdre,” he ground out.

“She’s dead,” Ian said. “Charon killed her.”

Quinn looked around for the copper Warrior. “Where is Charon?”

Duncan shrugged. “He disappeared after he killed Deirdre.”

Quinn touched Marcail’s hand beneath the covers and felt her icy skin. Her breathing was shallow and erratic, and he knew without looking in her face that she was still unconscious.

“Sonya worked long and hard with her magic to heal both of you,” Lucan said.

Quinn nodded and leaned up on his elbow to see Marcail. He pulled the covers up to her chin and ran his finger down her cheek.

“I’ve lost her, havena I?” he asked no one in particular.

“She could heal herself as before,” Arran offered.

It was possible. “How long has she been like this?”

The silence was deafening.

Quinn rested his forehead against hers and squeezed his eyes closed. His heart was in pieces, his soul torn to shreds. He had finally found a woman he loved, truly loved, and she had been taken from him before he’d even told her what she meant to him.

Was he destined to spend his life alone?

“God’s blood,” he said. “I canna do this again.”

There was movement and then two hands rested on his shoulder. His brothers. As always, they were there for him.

“I love her,” Quinn said. “The love I had always thought I would never find found me in the darkness of the mountain. For the second time Deirdre has taken it from me.”

One of the hands squeezed his shoulder. “Deirdre is dead,” Lucan said. “She willna be able to hurt us ever again.”

But that didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered without Marcail.

Quinn threw back the covers and rose from the bed. He didn’t move with the ease he usually did. The residual effects of Deirdre’s magic most likely, but he would make do.

“What are you doing?” Fallon asked.

Quinn ignored his eldest brother and lifted Marcail in his arms. “She’s been in the dark for days. She needs the light.”

No one stopped him as he carried his woman from the chamber. He walked out of the castle and into the bailey. Only briefly did he realize they now had a gate.

He continued through the open gate toward the cliffs. He had wanted to show Marcail his home and the cliffs he loved. This was his only chance, and nothing would stop him.

Quinn found a spot and lowered himself to the ground. He looked down into Marcail’s face, which was pale and icy to the touch. One of her braids had fallen across her eyes. Quinn gently brushed it away and kissed her forehead.

“I wish you could see this, Marcail,” he said. “The sun is sinking into the sky, casting the dark waters of the sea orange and bronze. It’s one of my favorite times of the day.”

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Below us is the beach where my father taught me and my brothers to swim and fish. At night, as I close my eyes, I can hear the waves crash against the cliffs. It is a soothing sound, one I think you would have come to enjoy.”

A tear rolled down his face. He sighed and closed his eyes, wishing he had magic to help Marcail himself.

He looked down into her face, now cast in the red-orange glow of the setting sun. “You would have been happy here. I would have made sure of it.”

No matter how hard he stared, Marcail didn’t move or answer. As much as Quinn’s heart screamed in denial he knew Marcail was lost to him. It would only be a matter of hours before her already weakened heart stopped.

The first thing Marcail felt was the warmth. She realized she had been taken out of the blue flames, since Deirdre’s magic no longer held her frozen. Yet she couldn’t wake.

She knew her heart was failing, could feel the strain of her lungs as they struggled to draw breath.

For a time, she had felt something else as well, mie magic. Had another Druid tried to help her? Since she couldn’t hear anything but silence, Marcail didn’t know.

Though she didn’t want to die, the one thing she wanted — Quinn — was gone from her. What was there to live for now? But still her lungs drew in air.

She could either die, or she could use her magic and help to heal herself. Her grandmother had told her once that her life would hang in the balance and Marcail had to be able to heal against anything.

Had her grandmother foreseen what Deirdre would do to her?

Marcail searched for her magic but found nothing. She was a mie , a Druid who knew only goodness. Her bloodline could be traced back to the ancient Celts, when her ancestors had held great power. Her magic couldn’t have been taken from her.

Then…she felt a sliver of magic and reached for it with her mind. She held onto that small thread and focused on it, drawing it into her body and through her blood and heart and lungs.

With each breath she fought against the black magic that wanted her death. Several times the black magic almost won, but Marcail refused to give up. Her grandmother had taught her well, and Marcail wouldn’t allow her training and magic to go unused.

Her magic began to grow like a glowing white light inside her. The more she concentrated, the more it grew until it overtook the poisonous black magic inside her and killed it.

In a rush, sound filled her ears. Birds cried, wind whistled around her, and waves crashed below her. But, most wonderful of all, were the strong arms that held her, an embrace she would know anywhere.

Quinn.

She opened her eyes to see him staring off into the distance. Around her the sky was alive with color. Clouds varied from lavender to vibrant pink and lustrous orange. She shifted her gaze and found the sun sinking into the horizon.

Marcail was able to glimpse the last bit of the orange globe before it disappeared and night took its hold over the land.

She turned her gaze back to Quinn and smiled. She didn’t know how they had gotten away from Deirdre, and it didn’t matter. She was in his arms, the only place she wanted to be.

Her heart was about to burst with happiness, but the grief on Quinn’s face made her pause.

He inhaled deeply and looked down at her. His eyes went wide with disbelief. “Marcail?” he whispered.

She smiled and reached to touch his face. “Aye, Quinn. I’m here.”

“How?”

“Magic. My magic.”

His hand shook as he caressed her face. “Holy Hell. I thought I had lost you. Doona do that to me again.”

“Never,” she vowed.

He crushed her against his chest and she welcomed his warmth. It felt so good to touch him, hold him again, that she never wanted to let go.