Donna Grant: Wicked Highlander

“Not surprising. Every Druid holds a special kind of magic. It’s lucky for the female that she can mend herself.”

Quinn grunted, not wishing to speak of Marcail any more since his body hungered for her so. “Any sign of trouble?”

Arran crossed his arms over his chest and jerked his chin to the left. “They smell her. God’s blood, Quinn, we all smell her. She’s like a feast to a starving man, in more ways than one. We’re going to have our hands full.”

“I’ll be watching her myself.” Quinn knew his voice came out more of a growl than anything, and Arran’s narrowed white gaze let Quinn know the Warrior heard the challenge in it.

“Do you think I would fight you for her?” Arran asked, his voice hard with disbelief. “I gave you my word I would stand by your side. Do you doubt me?”

“What I question is the need within all of us — myself included.”

Arran blew out a breath and raked a hand down his face. “None of us deserves to be here, the Druid especially because she doesn’t stand a chance against us in a fight. Did she say anything else?”

“She told me her name. It’s Marcail.”

“Marcail,” Arran repeated. “An unusual name. She didn’t happen to say why Deirdre didn’t kill her, did she?”

Quinn shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Let’s hope she wakes soon so we can learn more about her.” Arran turned and looked at Marcail over his shoulder.

Quinn watched Arran, waiting for the moment when he would have to battle one of the few men he gave his trust to.

“She reminds me of my sister,” Arran said after a lengthy pause.

“You had a sister?”

Arran nodded and looked away from Marcail, his brow furrowed. “Two actually. One older and one younger. Marcail reminds me of my youngest sister. She was small and always into some kind of trouble. I used to call her my little sprite.”

“What happened to her?” It was out of Quinn’s mouth before he thought better of it.

“She died,” Arran murmured absently.

Quinn didn’t press for more. There wasn’t a Warrior out there that hadn’t suffered terribly when Deirdre found them. Quinn had discovered this the hard way.

With Arran lost in the memories of his past, Quinn walked to the twins. Both brothers were tall and thickly muscled. They stood similarly with their feet apart and their arms crossed over their chests as they stared at the other Warriors, waiting for someone to make a move against Quinn.

Duncan and Ian looked so much alike that they wore their hair differently to help people know who was who. Both had light brown hair that was streaked with gold, but Ian wore his shorn close to his head while Duncan preferred to let his grow down his back.

Ian turned his head to glance at him. “The Druid woke.”

It wasn’t a question. Quinn nodded. “She’s healing herself now. I plan on questioning her more once she wakes again.”

“Does she know where she’s at?” Duncan asked.

Quinn shrugged. “If you two find any food, let me know. Marcail is going to be hungry.”

They only got fed once a day, and then only some bread. But it was enough for them. Quinn planned on giving her most, if not all, his food if she needed it.

“I’ll see to it,” Ian said and walked away.

Duncan scratched his chin and watched his twin. “How long do you think it will take for Deirdre to realize the Druid isn’t dead?”

“Not long enough,” Quinn admitted. “Not nearly long enough.”

When Marcail next woke, she felt immensely better. There was still a dull ache in her head, but it would fade. She tried taking a deep breath and was rewarded with no pain.

In the distance she could hear the chanting again, as well as music. For an instant, Marcail thought she sensed magic in the tune, but just as before, it faded before she could discern more of it.

It was a heartbeat later that she realized she wasn’t alone. Was it the man with the voice that made her stomach flutter? Or was it someone — or some thing —else?

Marcail opened her eyes to the darkness once more. She became aware of the steady dripping of water nearby, and with the cool air, she knew she was still in Deirdre’s mountain.

“How are you feeling?”

She turned her head toward the now familiar voice. He wasn’t sitting with her as before but stood off to the side. Try as she might she couldn’t discern more than his silhouette in the gloom. She wanted to see his face, to know his name. “I’m better.”

“Good.”

Marcail sat up slowly, testing her body. When the aches didn’t scream in pain, she swung her legs to the ground. That’s when she saw that what little light there was came from a torch on the outside of what looked like a cave. The Pit.

Across from the cave were even more caves, though they appeared smaller. And in between was the large open space where she had fallen.

Oh, God. Warriors.

She gripped the stone slab she sat on with both hands and tried to keep her breathing steady. She had never feared the Warriors before Deirdre had taken her prisoner. Mostly because, in her opinion, they weren’t to blame for what was inside them.

Now that she had come in contact with those in Deirdre’s control, she had a different opinion of the men.

“Are you the one who threw me after I fell?” she asked the man. He stood to her left, still as a statue.

There was a moment’s pause and then, “Aye.”

“Who are you?”

“What is so important about my name?”

She was taken aback by his hard tone and the anger. Why should he care about giving his name?

There was a loud sigh, then a shadow moved at the entrance of the cave. The torchlight glanced off his skin, but it was enough that she saw the milky expanse of his chest and the tattered breeches that hung on his hips.

She recalled looking into his white eyes, eyes of a Warrior. When the god was loosened and shown for everyone to see, the Warrior’s skin turned whatever color the god had chosen. Added to the claws, their eyes changed as well, the color taking over the entire eye.

“You have nothing to fear from us,” the white Warrior said. “I am Arran MacCarrick, held here by Deirdre until I either turn to her side or die.”

“How many are you?” she asked hesitantly.

Another form moved at the entrance. This time, he jerked the torch out of its holder and brought it toward her. Marcail looked into two very similar faces, their skin a pale blue, with matching kilts, but one with long hair and the other short.

“We’re Duncan and Ian Kerr,” the long-haired one holding the torch said. “And that,” he pointed across from him, “is Quinn MacLeod.”

Marcail jerked her face to the Warrior hidden in the shadows. It all made sense now. Deirdre had flaunted that she held a MacLeod, but Marcail hadn’t believed her. “You didn’t want me to know you were a MacLeod?”

Quinn snorted. “Why would I want you to know that? After everyone heard you declare it would be the MacLeods who brought Deirdre down, yet one is captured in her mountain? It doesna exactly inspire confidence, does it?”

With the torch now close enough, she could see him standing tall and powerful with his fists clenched and looking as fierce as a Highlander about to enter battle.

She wanted to see his face clearly, to ingrain his image in her mind. The only thing she could see about him besides his plain red linen tunic and threadbare breeches was his hair. It was the color of caramel and hung in long thick waves past his shoulders and around his face.

It wasn’t until she let her gaze fall to the ends of his hair that she spotted the gold torc around his neck. The wide metal was twisted into a braid as big around as her middle finger. And at each end of the torc was a wolf’s head, its mouth opened on a snarl. The image of such a cunning and intelligent creature seemed to fit the youngest brother of the MacLeods.