Unspoken (6 page)

Chapter
Eleven

Evelyn struggled for breath as the golden-haired Norseman
squeezed her throat, cutting off her warning.  Drawing his sword, he pinned her
against his armor, creating a shield with her trembling body.  She had no
choice but to watch helplessly as her lover lunged toward them from across the
small clearing, the promise of swift and brutal death etched in his unnatural
black eyes.  

She couldn’t bear to watch.  Squeezing her eyes
shut, she searched for her knowledge. 

Nothing.  Blackness.  She’d never been able to see
her own fate.

This was all her fault.  She was going to be the
cause of Roderick’s death.

Despairing, Evelyn fought back tears as her captor
unexpectedly shifted her position, jerking her eyes open. 

As if blocked by an invisible barricade, Roderick
paced in front of them, panting and raging, his movements wild, threatening and
predatory.   

Evelyn took in the blood splattered across his
armor and face.  He was filled with the killing rage.  Why, then, was he not
coming for her? 

“See that?”  The malevolent, foreign accent
chilled her. “He can’t do anything that might put you in danger. 
You
are his mate.”

“I- I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered,
unable to look away from her growling berserker. 

“Did he claim you, woman?  Did he kiss you on the
mouth?”  His fingers tightened painfully. “Have you already seen him like
this?” 

Unable to speak, she nodded her head. 

 “His berserker has chosen you as its mate.  Had
he not, you would have been instantly killed.”  His dark chuckle repulsed her,
“I can smell his
stench
all over you...”  

Dumbfounded, she stared into Roderick’s onyx eyes
and saw the stark anguish of the man inside. 

Her…mate?

Oh God!  She hadn’t known what she was asking when
she’d begged for his kiss, hadn’t understood the significance of his tenderness
when controlled by his berserker.   How perfect.  This extraordinary man
would
have embraced her own unnatural ability, would have allowed her to be herself
and never exploited her.  This she
knew.
  Tears welled as the knowledge
that she could love him overwhelmed her.  She’d never known anything like that
before.  Not about her own future.

 “I want you to understand, the name of your mate
is now Alrik the Blue, should my berserker accept you, of course.”  His sword flashed
as he nicked her arm, drawing a tiny bit of blood.  She whimpered before she
could stop herself. 

Roaring, Roderick drew his own blade.  Desperate
sounds burst from him now.  He stalked them, seeking access to Alrik who kept
her firmly between them no matter how she struggled.

“I possess his voice.  I never thought he would be
able to find a mate without it. Look at him.  Roderick the Black,” he spat the
title as if it tasted sour on his tongue. “Too young to even control the blood-rage. 
Wields only fledgling magic.  Pathetic!”

Evelyn remembered the night before, the candles
extinguishing by themselves.  A cry burst from her as he punctuated with
another slash of his sword across her skin, this time a deep gash opened on her
thigh, drawing an alarming well of blood. 

Roderick’s unholy scream terrified her.  He lashed
out.  The older berserker dodged and thrust her in front of the blow, pulling Roderick
up short. 

“He is favored by Freya, even after I cursed him! 
And now, the first among what remains of us to find a mate, which will increase
his power tenfold.” 

Evelyn’s teeth clattered together as he shook her
for emphasis. 

“I am the oldest and most potent of Freya’s
Warriors. 
I
wear the color of the Goddess.  There is no way that a
Celt
,
the latest born of the Berserkers is going to rival
me!
  I challenge you,
Gael, for your chosen mate and don’t think for a
second
that she won’t
accept me.”

“
Never.”
she vowed.  “And you’re a coward
for holding a woman as a shield.  You
shame
your warrior Goddess!”

He didn’t strike her as she feared.  His lips drew
sickeningly close to her ear.  Serpentine fingers of evil caused her blood to
run cold as his breath brushed her neck.  “There are things I could do to you
that would ensure your acceptance and, mark me, I would enjoy
every
moment.” 

She shuddered, forcing her mind away from the
frightening images he conjured. “What does my acceptance have to do with any of
this?” 

After a shocked pause, Roderick moaned and Alrik
burst into laughter.  “You haven’t
accepted
him?  Of course!  How could
he have told you?”  He vibrated with mirth.  “You simple tavern slut.  I’m
going to enjoy making you—”

“Yes, I do!”  She cut him off, unwilling to hear
his threats.  “I accept Roderick MacLauchlan as my…uh… mate.”  There.  That
ought to accomplish something.

Both men gaped. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Alrik recovered first. “I can
still challenge for you.”

  Evelyn’s breath slowed as she met the swirling
eyes of her mate and witnessed the power flow through him.  Her energy fused
with his and a bond of celestial weaving clasped into place. “No,” she
whispered. “You cannot if you’re dead.”

With a barely perceptible nod to her mate, she
went perfectly slack in Alrik’s arms, dropping her head below his chest before Roderick’s
sword arced toward his neck. 

With unnatural force, she was thrown to the ground,
Alrik needing both arms free to deflect the lethal blow. 

Evelyn winced.  Her leg bled heavily now as she
scrambled out of the way of the dueling warriors.  Weakness crept through her,
and she knew she didn’t have much time. 

Alrik’s blue eyes had been overtaken by familiar
onyx as his beast burst forth to meet his foe.  Moving at speeds she could
barely detect with her mortal eye, she could only watch helplessly as every so
often, they slowed with a particularly powerful collision of their swords.     

Locked in epic battle, they didn’t see her tremble,
didn’t feel the chill that stole through her emptying veins.  “Roderick,” she
whispered. “Please hurry…”  She gaped at the puddle of blood forming beneath
her.  Pressing on the wound with her soiled skirt, she moaned.

Her berserker was truly something to behold.  The
speed and grace with which he moved was a stark contrast to the raw power in
his blows.  The older, faster Alrik thought to be the aggressor, but was
thwarted at every attempt.  An elemental command spurred Roderick forward, as
he hacked at the blue knight with such ferocity that his enemy stumbled
backward.

 With one last enraged cry, Roderick delivered the
final blow that sent Alrik’s head sailing through the air.  His body crumpled to
the ground, twitching with the last impulses of life. 

Dropping his sword, Roderick was at her side in a
moment, lifting her to his lap.  Panting moans of denial exploded from his
chest as she squinted up at him, hot tears tracking to her hair from the
corners of her eyes. 

“
E, Eh, Ev, Evelyn!” 
He ground out, his
voice returned by the death of its possessor.

The darkness took her while she listened to the
foreign sounds of his beautiful voice muttering desperate words against her
forehead.

Chapter
Twelve

 
Where am I?
  Warmth cocooned her nude
body in between the sumptuous sheets of the massive bed upon which she lay.

“Kilrock Keep.”  The thick brogue startled her.   She’d
been unaware that she’d spoken aloud, or that she was not alone.  “Yer new
home.” 

“Roderick.”  She breathed.  Bolting upright, she
greedily took in the man standing before her clad in nothing but a heavy blue,
green, and black kilt.

Eyes glittering with pleasure, desire, and possession,
he slid the kilt down his lean hips and joined her on the bed. 

“I can’t.  My leg…” 

What about yer leg?”  He rumbled in her ear,
sliding his very large, very
naked
frame against her skin.

“What?”  No gashes, no pain, only healthy pink
skin streaked with fine veins. 

“Magic,” he whispered with hot lick at her lobe. 
“Ye’ve made me quite powerful, my lady.  My Mate.” 

Shivers wracked her as his hot breath touched her
skin at his words, causing liquid warmth to pool between her thighs. 

He breathed deeply and pressed his throbbing
length against her hip.  “I’m afraid ye’ve accepted me, Evelyn.  I canna let ye
go now.  But I can love ye, ‘til the end of my days if ye’ll let me.” 

She silently regarded him for a moment, turning to
face him, resting her head on her palm.  He looked arrogant, aroused, vital
and… vulnerable. 

“Which will be a long time, I’ll have ye know.”

Winding her fingers through his loose and silken
hair, she cupped the back of his head and drew him to her for a heady kiss.  “I
suppose I’ll just have to love you in return.”  She whispered and tightened the
hand in his hair, pulling it sharply. 

With a pleasured growl his head snapped back and
his eyes closed.  When next they opened, the burning darkness of the beast peered
out at her. 

Rising to his knees and roughly rolling her to her
stomach that strange, preternatural ticking purr permeated the room.

Yes,
a sensual thrill coursed down her
spine.
 Now
she would acquaint herself with her Berserker. 

Preview
of “Unwilling” the next installment of the MacLauchlan Berserkers….

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Chapter One

The Scottish Highlands, Autumn 1411

“I want his death to be
quick and painless.  He’s my brother, after all.”  Rory MacKay didn’t meet
Connor’s eyes as he said this.  Instead, he tracked the armored coach trundling
along the river Tay where the water ran into the loch, which boasted the same
name. 

Connor MacLauchlan knew
it was around noon, though storm clouds hid the sun.  From their vantage point
in the trees above, he counted twenty mounted highlanders in the coach’s
vanguard.  Twenty he could kill on his own, but it would be a blood bath.  “I
take pleasure in the death, but no’ in the killing.  It willna take long once I
start.”

Rory winced, but nodded. 
His doe-brown eyes closed as he took a bracing breath.

Considering the second
born twin of the MacKay nobles, Connor worried about his conviction.   Rory’s
bronze hair matted to his handsome face where fat rivulets of rain had
plastered it.  He was a strapping lad, but even in his heavy hide cloak he
didn’t compete with Connor’s own bulk.  This was a good man doing evil for the
sake of his clan.  Yet the blood would stain his hands, just like it would saturate
Connor come sunset. 

“If yer having doubts,
now would be the time to voice them,” Connor prompted.  “We can ride away from
here and never speak of this again.”

Rory’s shoulders
slumped.  “Nay.  Since yer brother, Roderick, defeated our father at Aberdeen,
Angus has been raiding all over Argyll.  He’s split our clan and made us weak. 
Anyone who doesna swear fealty to him is terrorized.  He’s pillaged and burned
farms and houses… wi’ people still inside.  I didna want to believe what I was
hearing, but a woman begged refuge for her and a bairn at the Keep.  She said
he ran her husband through the belly with his sword, then made the dying man
watch as he…took her.”  Rory’s throat visibly worked over a swallow.  “Angus is
my twin.  We used to protect each other from our brutal father.  We used to
play together in the fields and ride our horses along the coast until we could
see the end of the world…”  His eyes hardened.  “He canna return to Dun Keep,
MacLauchlan.  I willna let him be the ruin of my clan.  No more innocents can
bear his tyranny.”  A tear escaped the corner of the young man’s eye and he
swiped it away with his bracer. 

Connor’s saddle creaked
as he reached out to clap Rory on the shoulder.  “I have a brother of my own,”
he said.  “I’d die for him.”

Rory nodded his head in
appreciation, his jaw working back strong emotion.  “Actually, I thought it
would be Roderick who answered my missive, what with you being Laird and all. 
Oh, and a Baron now, besides.”

“My brother is newly
married.  He promised his bride he’d build her an apothecary in Strathlachlan. 
There’s no tearing him away from her side for the time being.”  Connor huffed
out a chuckle at the memory of his brother following his wee curvy mate about
the Keep like an addled puppy, a load of planks on his broad back.  God save
him from the same fate.  Roderick was patient and steady as the day was long.  Connor
didn’t have the temperament to deal with a wife.  

Besides, courting a
Berserker could be deadly.  And he had enough blood on his hands already.  Better
not to risk it. 

“I see,” Rory let his
mouth relax into a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes.  “There’s another
conundrum of mine.  The next Laird of our clan is betrothed to Lindsay Ross.”

“The Regent’s niece?”

“Aye.  I’d not see her in
the arms of my brother, royal beauty that she is.”

“I heard she’s also a
royal pain in the arse.” 

Rory shrugged.  “I’ve
never met her.  But I wouldn’t give an animal I liked to Angus, let alone a noble
lassie."

“Right.”  Connor turned his
attention back to the road.  The Mackay had almost reached the foot of the
loch.  They would angle southwest, then, following the road along the river. 

“They mustn’t reach Loch
Lomond.”  Rory pulled a heavy purse out of his saddlebag and handed it to
Connor, who nodded. 

“I’ll get them at
Benmore.  There’s forest for ambush and caves where I can camp for the night. 
Besides, Lomond’s too close to MacLauchlan land for my comfort.  I’ll no’ let
him get close to my clan.”

Pulling his hood up
against the rain, Rory turned his horse. 

“Go to a busy tavern
tonight,” Connor ordered.  “Buy everyone there a pint and maybe tumble a lass
or two.  Make sure you’re seen.”

“All right,” Rory
nodded.  “And… Godspeed Connor MacLauchlan.”

“I doona need yer God’s
blessing,” the berserker murmured as the other man rode off into the rain.  “I
have a Goddess to keep me.”

When the berserker rage
took him, he became lost in it.  It was as though another beast lived dormant
inside of him and burst free at the sight of blood.  Only, Connor never
disappeared into the grey oblivion.  Nor was he merely a spectator.  He became
a mass of rage and wrath and indiscriminate destruction.  Every man possessed
some part of the spirit of the berserker.  For some it was a whisper.  For
others a roar.  But the nature of humanity tempered the beast with reason,
logic, fear, love, and ambition. 

For a few ancient blood
lines, Freya, the Norse Goddess of war, unchained the beast within chosen
warriors of the line and gifted them with unnatural strength and speed.  The
part of the mind that processed logic, consequence, and emotion became chained
but never completely dormant. 

Connor turned and watched
the heavy coach make its unhurried pace through the late afternoon.  Closing
his eyes he waited to feel the requisite thrill before a good battle.  God help
the marauding tyrant within.  For once his Berserker beheld the first hint of
blood, there would be no survivors.