Donna Grant: Wicked Highlander

Marcail rose and faced Quinn. She caught a glimpse of his skin as it faded from black to that of a man who had spent plenty of time in the sun.

She wondered why he didn’t want her to see him in his Warrior form, but she would sooner or later. She had the most important part, though; his god color was midnight.

“Thank you for saving me.”

He shook his head, his hair fanning over his brawny shoulders. “I’m not so sure I did. Every Warrior in the Pit wants you for his own now.”

She wondered if he wanted her as well. His words caused her to glance over her shoulder to the three other Warriors. They watched her intently. One of the twins inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring as if he were smelling her.

She rubbed her hand on her skirts, wishing she still had her dagger. Even if she had a dozen swords, nothing would help to keep the Warriors away if they wanted her.

“Why did you save me then?” she asked Quinn.

He shrugged away her words. “What do you know of Deirdre?”

“The usual. She has been alive for countless years and has more power than any Druid, mie or drough , has a right to. She has been capturing Druids for centuries and killing them. And everyone knows what she has done to the men who she thinks could be Warriors.”

Arran shook his head and walked around to stand beside Quinn. “Deirdre doesn’t just kill the Druids, Marcail. She takes their blood and with it their magic. Deirdre kills them herself, careful to collect all the magic within their blood.”

Marcail looked at Quinn for confirmation. He nodded and it made her blood turn to ice. How did none of the Druids in her village know this? Or had her grandmother known and not told her?

She gripped the fabric of her skirt in her hand to help steady herself. “Then why didn’t she kill me?”

“That’s the question we all want answered,” Quinn said.

“I see.” Marcail wrapped her arms around her waist and tried to not shiver. “Deirdre wants me dead. Why then throw me down here for you to do it?”

Duncan narrowed his dark eyes at her. “Why does she want you dead?”

Marcail licked her lips and wondered if she should tell them. She had kept her secret for so long she had begun to think her grandmother had spoken falsely. Until Dunmore had come hunting her.

“Most Druids can trace their family lineage to the very Druids who helped bind the gods inside you. My family was one of those.”

Quinn’s steady gaze held hers. “Why is that important?”

“Because one of my ancestors was the one who helped to come up with the binding spell.”

The air grew thick with expectation. It was one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted to tell them. It gave them hope. And she would have to kill it.

“The spell is passed down through each generation,” Marcail continued. “My mother died when I was very young and didn’t pass it on to me. My grandmother, however, did.”

“What is it?” Arran asked anxiously. “Can you speak it now?”

Marcail shook her head and looked away from the Warriors. “My grandmother told me when I was but a child. She used her magic to push it so far back in my mind that I don’t recall it.”

“Not at all?” Ian asked.

“I’m sorry, nay.” She wished she could help them. She would do it in a heartbeat. Anything to defeat an evil such as Deirdre.

Quinn shifted his feet. “How do you know you possess the spell, then?”

“I don’t.” She finally made herself look at Quinn. “The Druids I lived with all assumed I had the knowledge, just as I did. They helped to protect those of my family because we hoped that one day I would be able to use the spell.”

It wasn’t that Quinn didn’t believe her. He knew firsthand that the Druids were capable of great magic, but something wasn’t ringing true. “You say your grandmother gave you the spell?”

“Aye,” she said.

“How?”

Marcail shrugged. “She told me.”

“Do you recall when she gave you the spell?”

“I remember her sitting me down long after the sun set. It was just days after my brother had died. My grandmother was all I had left of family. She told me she had something important to tell me.”

“And then she spoke the spell?” Duncan asked.

“Aye,” Marcail whispered. “I can recall seeing her lips move, but I don’t remember the words.”

Quinn could see how agitated his men were becoming. He had felt that rush of anticipation at Marcail’s words just as they had. “If you cannot remember the spell, how were you to pass it on to your daughter or son?”

“I don’t know.” She pushed her way between him and Arran and walked into the shadows.

Quinn didn’t rush to follow her since she hadn’t left the cave. She stood facing the wall, her back to him. She shivered in the cold and rubbed her hands along her arms for warmth.

He sighed and tried to think how best to approach Marcail. He wanted her to trust him, wanted her to look to him for everything. Quinn didn’t know where the feelings had come from, but once he recognized them, he couldn’t push them away.

It was the sound of her indrawn breath, unsteady and low, that made him close the distance between them. He drew in a deep breath of her scent and let it wash over him. It soothed him in ways he couldn’t explain, just as her nearness sent his lust raging through his veins and his body shaking with need.

He had to get a hold of himself. Quinn mentally shook his head to clear it, but there was nothing he could do for his cockstand. As long as Marcail was near, he wanted her.

“We’re just trying to discover why Deirdre didna kill you herself.” Quinn spoke softly, wanting to draw her closer. “It’s not like her, and she doesn’t pass up a chance to gain power. Not unless there’s a possibility she’ll be harmed.”

And that’s when it hit him.

“What else did your grandmother do to you, Marcail?”

She slowly turned to face him, her body just a hands-width away. “She was a Druid, Quinn. She was always murmuring spells of some kind.”

For the first time, Quinn allowed himself to look into her eyes. Thanks to the power of his god, he could see as well in the dark as he could in the light. And what he saw were eyes of turquoise, so enthralling he couldn’t look away. Sleeping, she had been beautiful. Awake, she was stunning.

Every sensation she felt could be seen in her movements and her eyes. And right now she looked at him with such desperation and misery that he wanted to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right.

The last woman he had held in his arms had been his wife — a wife who had wanted nothing to do with him once they were married.

Quinn refused to think about Elspeth. Instead, he lost himself in the striking, petite Druid before him. “Is there a possibility that she could have protected you somehow?”

“If you knew my grandmother, you would know anything was possible. She always said my mother’s death could have been prevented, just as my brother’s could have.”

“And your father?” Quinn asked.

She looked away, a small frown marking her brow. “My father, like my husband, was killed protecting our homes from wyrran.”

Quinn felt as if he’d been punched in the kidneys. “You were married?”

“For a short time.”

“How long ago?”

She lifted one slim shoulder. “Over a year. It was an arranged marriage. They wanted the best fighter we had to protect me.”

It wasn’t just what she said but the way she said it, with such resentment, that got Quinn’s attention. “You didna care for your husband?”

“Rory was a good man. I tried to be happy in my marriage.”

“And your people wanted to protect you?”