Donna Grant: Wicked Highlander

She nodded. “They’ve always sheltered my family.”

Because she knew the spell to bind the gods? Or was it something else, something that Deirdre also knew and so didn’t — or couldn’t — kill Marcail?

Too damned many questions.

“What will happen now?” Marcail asked.

Quinn couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and touching the flawless skin of her cheek. “You stay alive.”

Isla walked through the narrow corridors of the mountain alone. It was just as she preferred it. If she had her way, she would never see another face, human, Warrior, or wyrran, again for the rest of her days.

But her life wasn’t her own. It hadn’t been for so very long.

All too soon Deirdre would summon her. In the beginning, Isla had held out hope that not all of her summons would end in evil and death.

It hadn’t taken her long to realize her hope had been false. Since then, she had lived each day as if it were her last. And in truth, she didn’t expect to live much longer.

At least if she had her way she wouldn’t.

“My lady.”

Isla halted at the soft voice. She slowly turned her head to see one of the other Druids Deirdre kept in her mountain. These Druids, though, weren’t confined to the dungeons or locked up awaiting death. Nay, these Druids had been turned to Deirdre’s side, their magic removed.

Deirdre bade the Druids keep their heads covered with black sheer material at all times because she didn’t want to look at their faces, faces Deirdre had deformed. Even when the Druid slaves spoke, they spoke in a whisper so she couldn’t distinguish their voices.

There were only three Druids who weren’t made to wear the head covering. Those were Isla, her sister, and her niece.

Isla lifted an eyebrow at the servant. It was no secret she hated these Druids; they had been weak enough to give in to Deirdre because they feared death. “What is it you want?”

“You have been requested.”

Isla tensed. She hadn’t expected Deirdre to send for her for some time yet, but there was another who often sent for her. “By whom?”

The servant bowed her head. “Your niece, my lady.”

That news should have relieved Isla, but it didn’t. In fact, it made her more edgy. It had been over a month since she last saw Grania, and she could have gone the rest of her days without seeing her again.

Isla fell in behind the servant as she was led to Grania. Her niece was kept in a chamber locked by Deirdre’s magic. In order to see Grania, Deirdre had to grant Isla permission, which was the only way someone could get through the barrier of magic.

By the time Isla arrived at her niece’s chamber, her nerves were frayed. Nothing good could come of this meeting, of that she knew.

“Is there anything you require, my lady?” the servant asked as she stepped aside at the doorway.

Isla glanced inside the chamber to find her niece. “There is nothing. You may go now.”

She waited until the servant shut the door before Isla turned to face Grania. She recalled the day Lavena had brought Grania into the world. The delivery had been long, and they had celebrated the birth of a healthy baby girl with much joy.

Lavena had promptly called the baby Grania, the name meaning love. It was a perfect finish to the day. Isla thought their happiness would never end. But just three short years later, Deirdre had come into their lives.

“Good day, Aunt,” Grania said from her seat carved out of the wall.

Every time Isla saw Grania, it was like a dagger twisting in her heart. Deirdre had taken an instant liking to the child and used her magic to prevent Grania from aging. Ever.

But Isla knew that Deirdre’s fondess wasn’t the only reason she kept Grania a child. Isla would never do anything to put Grania in harm’s way. An adult Grania who had turned to Deirdre’s side, however, would be easier to go against. Deirdre knew Isla all too well.

“Grania. How do you fare?”

The child laughed and jumped to the floor. “You know I fare as well as a queen, Aunt.”

Isla clasped her hands in front of her and waited. It did no good to try and prod Grania. The child was as manipulative as Deirdre, and nearly as evil. Where was the adorable, loving child who Isla used to rock to sleep?

“Tell me of the mie that Deirdre threw into the Pit.”

Isla kept her features flat. She didn’t like the interest Grania had in Marcail and nothing good could come of it either. “What is it you want to know?”

“Is it true the Druid knows how to bind the gods?”

“You know it is.”

Grania laughed again, the laugh that Isla used to do anything to hear. “So it is. Once again, Mother and her foresight has helped Deirdre in her quest.”

“It has.”

The child resumed her seat on the rocks. “Now, I was told you saw the mie drop into the Pit. The servants didn’t see what happened after that. I want to know what you saw.”

“The Warriors attacked her.”

“But she isn’t dead, is she?”

Isla hesitated. There was something in the way Grania spoke that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. “I didn’t stay to see the body. Why?”

“The mie has been protected with a spell. Whoever spills her blood will die a horrible death. Since I’ve heard no screams of pain from the Pit, I assume the Druid isn’t dead, only slightly injured.”

At least Isla now knew why Deirdre hadn’t claimed Marcail’s blood for her own. However, it wouldn’t take Deirdre long to realize Marcail wasn’t dead. And then what?

“Now tell me,” Grania demanded, “did all the Warriors attack the Druid?”

“Nearly. It was brutal. You would have loved it. Now, I must go. I have duties to see to.”

Grania’s blue eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me summon you. You are my aunt, after all. You should visit me often. If I have to call for you again, you won’t enjoy what I do to you.”

“It is never my intention to ignore you, Grania. My duties take me away from the mountain as you well know.”

But Grania was no longer paying attention. Isla took measured steps out of the chamber. Not until she was in the hallway did she breathe freely. Her once vivacious niece had been turned into a wicked monster with a thirst for blood and gore that would rival the Romans’.

Marcail missed the sun. It had only been hours since she last saw it, but already she yearned for it. There was no need for Deirdre to torture her or throw her into the Pit. Just deny her the warmth and light of the sun and Marcail would slowly go insane.

“I’ve brought you something,” Quinn said as he squatted before her as she sat on the floor.

Marcail’s eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light well enough that she was able to see Quinn’s face clearly. Finally. He had pulled back his hair into a queue at the base of his neck, revealing a face women would die for.

Quinn’s was perfection. His strong jawline was dusted with dark whiskers, giving him a lethal appearance and accentuating his firm lips and hollowed cheeks. The beard wasn’t full, which told her he had shaved not too long ago. Though she didn’t mind the beard, she wanted to see him without it.

His forehead was high with dark brows that slashed over eyes of the palest green. She had seen enough of his silhouette in her short time to know he was as tall and muscular as any man in the Pit. But there was a presence about him, an air of command, that got everyone’s attention. Including her own.

“Marcail?”

She blinked and made herself look away from his spectacular eyes. “Forgive me. I’ve never seen eyes the color of yours.”