Dragon Knight's Sword (13 page)

The world stopped for Cathal, and a great wave of energy burst forth shoving him across the ground, landing some stones away. The motion caused him to lose his breath, and he fought to find air again. It shook him to his soul.

The message was clear.

He could not help.

Wiping his hands, which were shaking across his face, he noticed his thumb had healed and gave a blessing of thanks.

Cathal was still too weak to stand, so he crawled slowly over to a nearby oak, taking solace in its strength.

Trembling slightly, he glanced upwards. “If I cannot help them, then show me what I
can
do.”

In that moment, the Guardian smiled.

Chapter 19

“A knight in shining armor may not want to rescue the damsel in distress, fearing she will steal his heart.”

Brigid was cold. It was her only thought, that and her mouth tasted of copper.

Something or someone was close. She could sense the movement of it, yet it was a struggle to open her eyes. Finally, the warmth of the sun brushed gently on her face, soothing away the heaviness. When she opened her eyes, two dark brown ones stared back at her from the grass. A nut-brown hare sat munching on some grass, content to keep her company.

Breathing deeply, a trembling Brigid sat up sitting cross-legged and brushed the curls out of her face. She glanced around at her surroundings, noting she was still in the middle of the stone circle, though something was different—out of place. The trees were not as big and she didn’t remember seeing foxgloves—yet, there she sat in a cluster of them.

Something was not right. She blinked several times trying to remember. Suddenly, memories flashed liked lightning within her mind, and the reality of what Conn told her sent her senses spinning.

The logical side of her brain clashed with the dreamer.

Conn was not human and whatever happened to her was very real. Where was she? The area did look familiar. Her thoughts went back to what Conn told her. Only one thing he spoke of shook her to the core, and Brigid croaked out his name, “Duncan Mackay.”

Conn could not have possibly meant
the
Duncan Mackay. “Impossible. He lived in the thirteenth century,” her voice devoid of emotion.

“
No
, this can’t be.”

Hugging her arms tightly around herself, she rocked back and forth in a state of disbelief. Wiping another curl out of her face with the sleeve of her leather jacket, she watched as the hare stopped chewing and scampered off toward the trees.

“Great, even you little one are scared by his name too. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find
him
.”

Overwhelmed by fear was enough cause for Brigid to harness it and become angry. “This is
insane
!” A battle of emotions waged a fight inside her until she spotted the sword lying a few feet to the right of one of the stones.

Testing her strength, she slowly crawled on all fours, and then stood, walking slowly over toward the sword. It was still partially exposed from the pouch. Remembering, Brigid drew up her injured hand, noticing it had healed. Bending down, she trembled as she placed her hand above the blade—the very blade that was absent of her blood, as if it had been cleaned. Shoving her fist into her mouth to stop the force of tears that threatened to spill, she gathered what little strength she had and placed the sword back into its pouch.

Standing back up, Brigid glanced upwards toward the sun and saying a silent prayer and ending it aloud, “Because I sure don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Then, braiding her mass of curls that had bits of leaf and grass strewn in, she dug into her pocket for her leather tie. Gathering up the sword, she eased it over her sore shoulder and walked over to one of the stones, which stood at least ten feet.

Placing her hand on the cool, smooth surface, she traced her finger around and in its spirals. “Any help from this realm would be greatly appreciated.” Remembering what her grandmother had taught her so many years ago about the fae, Brigid pulled a strand of hair loose from her braid. With a sharp tug and snap, she placed the strand at the bottom of the stone as a gift. “Give me strength, too.”

Taking one last deep breath, she turned and walked out of the stone circle to the only place she thought might help. To Castle Aonach—the Mackay house.

She only prayed it was still there.

****

They had been riding only a few days, but the longer they went without any sign of the Mackay, the more it made it difficult for Patrick to squelch the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. He rubbed his gloved hand over his chin, watching Michael talking sternly to one his men. He considered how much more any of them could take with his rage on edge these many moons, seeing the bloodthirsty look of revenge on his brother’s face. Michael was a changed man, but they all had changed that night when Adam returned covered with the blood of him and Margaret.

Finding Adam would help to ease this disquiet, not the Mackay. They were wasting precious time, and were venturing onto Mackay land, as well. When did Michael bend the law to his will? Nae...this was not the brother or laird he knew. It was time to seek out Alex. He needed his brother’s aid. Or else, there would be more blood spilled, and he feared it would not be a Mackay’s.

Instantly, Michael roared a curse, and jerked his steed toward Patrick. “Someone was here a few days past, made camp by the stones. It must have been the Mackay,” Michael snarled.

Patrick raised a brow in question. “Why the Mackay? It could have been a traveler.”

“It is Lachlan who brought us this news, and I must go with that.” He flung his arm outwards. “No one else would travel in these damned parts.”

“All he said, brother, was the Mackay had left on his quest, and he did not ken where. We should seek out Alex. He may have news of Adam.”

“
Ye question me
?” Clenching his fists in front of his saddle, Michael kept his gaze fixed on Patrick, until a cry of a falcon brought his attention upwards. It was a beauty, raven black with white markings—a rare one indeed.

He watched it circle and make one last cry, before it flew off toward the north, toward the Great Glen, where he knew Alex was. He eyes remained fixed on the bird until he could no longer see it in his sight. Could it be an omen, he thought? Shaking his head, he whipped his attention back toward Patrick. His fury now ebbing some, he edged his horse closer to his brother.

Clamping his hand hard on Patrick’s shoulder, Michael looked at him directly. “Let us go forth and seek out Alex.” And in a hushed voice for only Patrick’s ears, he added, “Yet, if we encounter the Mackay, I will take my sword and run him through.”

Patrick watched as Michael galloped off, giving commands to the rest of the men. He realized he had been holding his breath and exhaled slowly.

“Damn ye, Mackay! Why could ye not stay silent? Ye don’t ken what you’ve started.” His horse stomped one foot anxiously, ready to be with the rest. Patrick held him steady, not wanting to join his brother just yet. He wanted to place some distance until Michael’s anger cooled.

****

Duncan could smell them, or smell someone. It was a faint sweet smell, and he had seen Sorcha overhead, giving him the warning there were riders in the distance. There had been no one in these parts for many a moon. In years past, travelers would travel through Mackay land and be welcomed.

A sense of sadness engulfed him, as he dwelled on happier times, when all was well with the clan, and laughter filled the great hall. They were a proud and fiercely loyal family, one filled with love. His parents were devoted not only to them, but to each other. The death of their da destroyed their mother and she went quietly to the
land of forever
a few moons after him. It was rough in the beginning. It was up to Angus to keep them together. Margaret was still young, but he was determined to keep them all at Urquhart.

To find a love like his parents shared was not possible in his future.

A twig snapped, and he stilled Brandubh. Dismounting quietly, he took out his sword. The movement had come directly ahead near the stream. The closer he crept, the stronger the scent. It reminded him of flowers. He moved closer, edging between the trees, sword extended, battle instincts ever present.

Duncan came to a full stop, unable to fathom what he saw.

Sweet Danu
! Crouched behind a rock looking out toward the stream was a lass. A lass who was dressed in the most peculiar clothing. He noticed she was perched as if she was hiding from someone or something, moving up and down trying not to be noticed, and at the same time watching.

What had captured his sight was not the long dark red braid that hung down her back waiting to be pulled, but the way her trews molded her bum. So round and luscious, intoxicating from where he stood, calling him to take and plunder her where she stood. Instantly, lust surged forth like a wild beast, and he wanted to take her over the rock and mount her from behind.

Then the glorious form stood, and turned around facing him, a look of shock etched across her face. Duncan lowered his sword arm, and stood motionless.

Nae, it could not be! It was the lass from his dreams.

Time stood still.

He heard her give a slight gasp, placing a fist against her heart, which caught his attention. When she took a step backwards, she landed against the boulder.

Duncan’s eyes narrowed.

Dreams or not, he was not about to be swayed by the goddess who stood before him. He tried hard to squelch the lust that overtook him earlier. In truth, looking in those lush green eyes made his head swim. He could get lost in those, oh aye, and so much more.

“Who are ye?” Duncan croaked out.

“Brigid...Brigid O’Neill,” she stammered. “
Who
are you?”

The lass had a strange form of language, which caught Duncan off guard again. She could possibly be a spy, and he hesitated in his answer.

He shifted his stance, then piercing her with his eyes and a cock of his dark brow, he replied, “I am Duncan Mackay of the Clan Mackay, and ye are trespassing on
my
land.”

Chapter 20

“Let me look through the looking glass and see my true love, lest he comes forth and tarnishes my vision of him.”

“
You
are Duncan Mackay?” Brigid swallowed the fear that had started to churn in the pit of her stomach when Duncan announced who he was.

Shaking, she leaned into the solid rock for support. Standing before her, she was looking at the man from her dreams. Yet, this was no dream, and this man was
very
real. He looked right at her as if he wanted to devour her. She saw the shock and yes, the lust that was evident when her gaze traveled down the length of him.

Snapping her gaze back up to his large eyes, eyes so blue, it reminded her of the sea on a stormy day. His hair was glossy black and lay against his shoulders in soft waves, tempting her to run her hands through them. A chin that was square and strong with a dimple in the middle, and a nose, which had probably been in several battles, but somehow added strength to his features.

She had thought Conn to be tall, but this man was a giant. He had to be at least six feet six inches, though she could be wrong.

He probably was taller.

His plaid was wrapped around his long tunic in such a way, one couldn’t see where it started or ended. However, what caught her eye was the glint of his silver torc, making him appear more primal than any man she knew.

Brigid wanted him, wanted him like no other. She didn’t know who he was, just that he was here in the flesh—wanting to taste, and take him within her. Heat flooded her cheeks. She needed—no,
craved
his touch.

He was her knight, to take and plunder and she would surrender.

“Where are your clansmen? Why are ye here?”

Her knight had spoken again. However,
her knight
had a name.

Of all the faery tales she’d listened to, she would have never thought this one would be possible. No, it couldn’t be—not
the
Duncan Mackay from the thirteenth century? The very one who killed his sister? How is it possible that a monster could look so good? Looks can be deceiving, her grandmother once told her.

Her knight was in truth a
murderer.

“I feel like I fell down the rabbit hole.” She slumped down on the grass, wiping a hand across her brow.

No sooner did she collapse than giant arms swept her back up, the contact sending shivers up her spine.

“Let me
go
!” Shoving with all her might, she twisted to get out of his arms. Duncan quickly released her. Obviously, he didn’t want any contact with her, either.

“I will ask ye again, lass, why are ye here?”

“How do I know?” Her hands started to shake as he took a step forward.

“Bloody hell.” Breathing hard, Brigid glanced around to where she spotted her sword, lying a few feet away. If she was quick, she could make a dive for it. Foolish thought. What good would it do? Her strength was no match against this Highlander.

“The truth?” Fear crept into her voice.

Pointing her finger in the direction of the sword, she exclaimed, “
That
is why I’m here! Someone sent me the sword, and apparently, I’ve just found out I’m to return it to you! At least that’s what
he
said before I blacked out.” Waving her hands about, Brigid kept rambling as if the words had a voice all their own. She could no longer contain them.

“So you see, I’ve brought back your sword, and now
my
question to you is how the bloody hell am I going to get back home?”

Gritting his teeth, he tried hard to follow what she was saying, but the lass had a language that was different from any he had known and she was talking so fast, he found it difficult to understand her ranting. His eyes darted away from her, catching the light off some object. Disbelief at what he saw nestled in the grass and he shook his head.

Could it be
?

Duncan dropped his sword and walked past her to stand over the one thing that could help change the course for his brothers.