Authors: Silver James
Chapter One
Rebecca awoke to
unfamiliar pain. Battered from head to toe, her muscles ached, but the shooting
stars of branding heat were sated for the time being. She reached deep inside
searching for the memories that allowed her to float on top of the pain.
Experience, the harshest of teachers, taught her to drift along rather than
struggle. No matter how tenaciously she fought, nothing held the pain at bay.
She remembered summers spent in the high mountains of Colorado on her
grandfather’s ranch, riding madly across a meadow, her bare legs caressing the
sleek sides of her horse as she rode bareback.
“Ah, colleen,” her
grandfather teased her, shaking his head in mock despair. “You’re nothing but a
wild Comanche.” Yet his eyes glowed with pride as he watched. She’d never met
the horse she couldn’t ride, or one she couldn’t sweet-talk out of a bad temper.
Rebecca had loved those long ago summers.
She shivered. She’d
never felt so cold, except for that one time so many years ago, and she didn’t
want to think about the accident. Her brain refused to move past the memory,
forcing Becca to remember waking to a long moment of silence. Antifreeze
dripped from the shattered radiator onto the hot motor. The drops hissed and
sizzled in the frigid temperature. She’d been lucky it wasn’t gas dripping. The
real temperature that night had been twenty-two degrees—a cold March night with
a canopy of stars shining across the black awning of winter sky. The wind chill
brought the temperature down to about twelve—survivable if one had a heavy coat
or blanket and could keep moving. Rebecca couldn’t move at all. Pinned beneath
three tons of crumpled steel, she couldn’t even wiggle a toe.
Now a wave of pain
built down in her calf. Once again, she sought a safe memory, breathing deep to
get above the pain until it crested, and she could ride it down the other side.
After twenty-five years of agony, no painkiller worked without addiction, and
Rebecca refused to fall into that trap. She’d kill herself before she’d let
morphine or other, more powerful drugs control her. Pain already ruled her
life—she would allow no other masters. The spasm passed, and she relaxed.
Why couldn’t she get
warm? Had the pilot light on the old heater blown out again? Becca groaned.
Getting to the basement and back up again was a nightmare, but she couldn’t put
off making the trek. She threw off the covers and swung her legs over the side
of the bed—only there was no bed. She lay on cold, hard ground, naked and
covered only by the thin woolen blanket she’d flicked off thinking it the
covers on her bed.
Feebly, Becca found
the scrap of wool and wrapped up in it. In the fetal position, she attempted to
generate some body heat. Another wave of pain hit, this time squarely between
her eyes. Becca screamed until blissful darkness gathered her up and sent her
into oblivion.
****
Niall heard the
screaming and turned bleak eyes to the woman he called his wife. They’d never
formally married, becoming handfasted at a long ago
Lughnasadh
festival
and neither ever turned their back to walk away from the union. Though most of
Ireland was nominally Christian, many pockets of the old Celtic traditions
survived. He’d have married her in the church if she’d desired, but the
handfasting was enough for his Siobhan.
“’Tis the banshee,”
he whispered. He gripped the hilt of his sword as if that mortal weapon could
protect them from the infernal haunt.
“Nay,” Siobhan spat.
“’Tis a human cry, Niall, one wounded beyond feeling. You must find her and
help her.”
Niall stared at her.
“What do you see, cailín? Is this the one who haunts the MacDermot’s dreams?”
Siobhan stilled,
looking inward for the answers.
Niall wrapped his
big arms around her, and pulled her against the heat of his body. The night was
bloody cold. Dread wrapped his heart in an icy fist. He had no doubts this
banshee was tied to Ciaran. Reluctantly, he turned Siobhan loose and mounted
his horse. Alarmed by the eerie screams filling the night, he needed to
investigate them, and would have even without Siobhan’s urging. He leaned low
over the neck of his sweating horse and urged the animal to run faster.
****
Rebecca heard voices
speaking gibberish. Something poked her in the side and she moaned. The
gibberish abruptly ceased. The sound of heavy feet shuffling through dry grass
stopped a little distance away. A moment later, the men spoke again, but their
words were indistinct.
“Help me.” Did any
sound escape her dry throat? She licked parched lips. “Please help me.”
The man who had
prodded her with his foot moved closer to take a look at her. He glanced over
his shoulder. “Have you a clue as to who she is?”
“Nay,” the second
one said as he came closer. “There’s no knowin’ who she could be. ’Tis a bad
business, and one we should walk away from.”
“She might clean up
enough to warm me bed,” the first sneered.
He jerked the scrap
of wool covering her body. Another spasm built in her middle. Rebecca was
helpless. The shooting star flashed up her spine and splintered into a million
pieces in her brain. She screamed and screamed. The sound echoed eerily in the
cold air.
Startled, the first
man dropped the blanket. Together, the two men ran, barely covering a hundred
feet before a company of horsemen cut off their escape. They exchanged panicked
looks.
Alarmed by the eerie
screams filling the night, Niall leaned low over the neck of his sweating horse
and urged the animal to run faster. He rounded a sharp turn on the narrow track
and pulled up short, astonished to find Ciaran and a company of horse
surrounding two peasants.
“Nay,
Taoiseac,
”
the roughest of the two denied, “we dinnit touch her.”
Niall slid from his
horse and strode to the huddled figure half-hidden in the shadow of an ancient
oak. He knelt down and peered at the lump. The creature was probably female,
but with her battered face and snarled hair, Niall wouldn’t wager a guess on
her age. He stared at the battered hands clutching the thin mantle covering her
wretched body. A shadow flickered behind him and he looked up. Ciaran stared
down from his stallion.
“I’ll take her to
Siobhan,” Niall offered. He bent over and scooped the unresisting body into his
arms. Before he could take a breath, cold steel bit into his neck. In one fluid
motion, Ciaran had dismounted, pulled his dagger, and threatened his
second-in-command. Niall stared, confused by the actions of the man he would
follow through the gates of hell. Ciaran’s face resembled a stone mask.
The female in
Niall’s arms stirred, and as he held her he could actually feel the spasm of
pain in her as it built, traveling from her midsection and radiating outward.
The pitiful thing opened her mouth, but she was so exhausted no sound escaped.
The knife slid away from his throat.
Ciaran knelt on the
ground, holding his hands to his head, rocking in time to the spasms of pain
shuddering through the woman. “I can’t take her pain any longer, Niall.” He
groaned. Slowly, he picked up his dagger, moving his hand and arm in an upward
arc, his intent plain. Ciaran meant to kill the woman.
Her eyes flickered
open and they shone silver in the pale moonlight. “Please,” her lips whispered.
“Help me.” She stared up into dark, stormy eyes. “Where am I? Who are you?” She
sighed. Her long, dark lashes fluttered down to shutter her eyes.
Niall exchanged a
look with Ciaran. “What language was that,
Taoiseac
?”
Ciaran stared at the
woman lying between them. “I dunno, Niall. I understood naught of her words,
but I know in my heart she asked for my help. Honor demands I give it.”
“Please, Ciaran, let
me take her to Siobhan,” the older man pleaded.
Ciaran bristled.
“Nay, Niall, no other man will touch her.” Snarling, he whipped off his mantle
and wrapped it around the shivering girl. He scooped her into his arms and
strode to his horse. Holding her in one arm, Ciaran stepped up into the saddle
and cradled her across his hard, muscular thighs. “Ride, Niall, and bring your
woman.” Ciaran wheeled his stallion, shouting to his men to bring the peasants
to the castle. He galloped off, leaving the others in the dust cloud his
horse’s hooves kicked up.
****
“What happened? You
said she would not remember,” the female accused.
“She won’t. He came
too soon. The transition was not yet finished,” he explained.
“They are tied, yet
he would have killed her.”
“Nay, I would have
stayed his hand if he had not.”
“Who are you?”
The two voices
stilled at the intrusion of the third.
“Who are you?” Becca
demanded again.
Silence.
****
“Shush, cailín,”
Siobhan crooned, brushing the tangled hair back from the woman’s face. She
winced as she examined the results of the savage beating. “You’ve been hard
used, little one, but you are safe now here at Caisel Ailfenn. Ciaran,
An
Taoiseac
of Clann MacDermot, has granted you protection.”
The girl moaned
again, the words she muttered strange to Siobhan’s ears. Young, yet no child
this one and as near as she could tell, the girl was still a maiden. Odd that a
man would use her so terribly yet would not drink from that cup. Siobhan
cleaned her with a soft, wet rag, clucking over the cuts and welts lacing every
inch of girl’s body. Her nails were torn and bloody, her knuckles covered with
cuts and bruises. This one had fought hard.
Every jostling
movement the MacDermot made bringing her up to his chamber caused spasms of
pain to ripple through the girl’s body. To spare her more distress, Siobhan
left her naked beneath the down coverlet. The stranger’s soft sigh filled the
room before she finally succumbed to the gentle hand of deep sleep.
Siobhan rinsed the
rag, her mouth grim as she noted the dark red tinge to the water in the basin.
She knew the two men waited in the hallway, both anxious for news. Tiptoeing
across the room, she cracked open the door. “Yee can come in, but if yee
disturb the wee one’s sleep, I’ll box yer ears,” she hissed.
Niall grimaced at
her impertinence, but Ciaran ignored her, shoving through the door before the
other man moved. Ciaran strode across the room and halted beside his bed,
staring at the strange woman. As he reached for the coverlet, she tried to stop
him. Niall grabbed her around the waist to keep her from interfering and held
her tightly against his side. Ciaran ripped the coverlet back. His face
registered shock and she watched him swallow slowly.
“Someone wanted to
kill her.” He growled the words, his revulsion at the brutality of the attack
plain on his face.
Siobhan watched him,
the play of emotions a stark reminder of his role as clann chief, but he was
also a man. His body’s reaction to the girl’s predicament surprised her only
slightly.
“She fought him.”
Her blunt statement startled both men.
“Say again, woman?”
Niall demanded.
“She fought him,”
she repeated louder. “Look at her hands. She clawed and hit, and very probably
bit as well. Find the man with her marks all over him, and you’ll find your
culprit.”
Niall started to
speak but had to clear his throat to get the words out. “Was she forced?”
Siobhan shook her
head, not surprised the men would want to know. “Not that I can tell. She had
neither blood nor seed spilling from there.” She pushed past them and pulled
the covers up to the woman’s chin, clucking under her breath the whole time.
The McDermot was handsome enough to turn the heads of every woman between the
ages of six and the grave. As his full lips quirked in a grin fit for Abhean,
the faerie piper himself, she wondered why Ciaran had never taken anyone to his
bed.
“All right, mother
hen,” Ciaran chuckled. “I’ll not be beddin’ her ’til she’s healed.”
Not at all
intimidated by the man who held the power of life or death over them all,
Siobhan faced him down, a bit amused he’d lost his embarrassment so quickly.
With her hands firmly planted on her hips, she scolded him. “You’ll not be
beddin’ her a’tall,
Taoiseac
, not ’til she’s wishin’ yee to.”
Niall gulped and
stepped between her and Ciaran. He loved her and she knew he would die to
protect her. His hand on her arm squeezed, a warning to keep her sassy tongue
to herself. He relaxed his grip when Ciaran guffawed.
“Oh, aye,” Ciaran
chuckled, his grin smug and self-confident. “She’ll be wishin’ it right
enough.” He leered at her as he grabbed his groin and adjusted his
boidín
to a more comfortable position.
She snorted, her
disdain evident in the inelegant sound. “Away with yee both,” she snapped. “Let
the cailín sleep. ’Tis the only thing will help her now.” She shooed the men
out of the room and shut the door behind.
Out in the hallway,
Niall and Ciaran exchanged glances. That the cailín had marked her attackers
cleared the two men cowering under guard in the great hall. Ragged and dirty,
they probably would have ill-used her before finishing her off, but they
carried no scratches or bruises upon their faces or arms to prove they’d
started this strange affair.