The Magic of Highland Dragons (12 page)

Of all the other men along with them, only Eian spoke to her, or would even look at her for that matter. It was odd, now that she thought about it. Were they all that unfriendly, or was there another reason for their odd behavior? To test her theory, she tried to meet the eyes of several of the men nearest her. Each one studiously avoided her gaze. Did they maybe they resent having a woman along on a hunting trip? But ladies went on hunting trips sometimes, she was almost positive of that fact. Biting her bottom lip in thought, she pulled back gently on the reins, slowing her horse until she was riding at the back of the group with Eian.
He
looked at her. Gave her a smile, even.

“Why won’t any of the other men look at me, or speak to me?” she asked him in a low voice.

Eian gave a small snort of laughter. “Perhaps because they value their heads above polite conversation, lass.”

Realizing what he meant, she drew in a quick breath in disbelief, “He wouldn’t!”

Eian shrugged. “Aye. I rather think he would.”

“But
why
?” It was a horrifying thought, a man losing his head just for looking at her. No wonder they all steered clear.

“Because he’s a passionate and jealous man and he wants ye for himself, of course. But dinna worry lass, none of these men would go against his orders. All of them are completely loyal to the laird. It’s no’ likely anyone will lose their head on yer account.” His lips curled up in a wry smile.
Except perhaps Bren himself…

“But to threaten to kill someone just for looking at me, isn’t that a bit much?” Her mind was reeling at the thought, her voice rising as she spoke. She really had never been one for unnecessary violence, and this seemed more than a little extreme to her sensibilities. This was not, after all, the Stone Age. Although… there was something almost… pleasing about it, way back in the most primitive and uncivilized recesses of her mind. That part that long ago would have chosen the strongest and most dominant male to be her mate, her protector. In that regard, at least, Bren Mac Coinnach would definitely qualify.

“Ah, well” Eian drawled, “Bren does nothing by halves. Never has.”

Faith shook her head, as if to clear it. She was in a different world from the one she had grown up in, yet… somehow it seemed so much more natural, less contrived. She knew she should be feeling some sort of feminist outrage at the laird’s actions on her account, but instead she felt almost,
honored
, that he would go to such lengths for her. It seemed to touch some ancient chord buried deep within her, and she understood. Bren was being a man, as nature intended a man to be. Protector. Provider. At all costs. Minus all of the modern day social contrivances that had been so much a part of her world. And it made her feel very much like a woman. Not repressed, but powerful, that she could inspire such possessiveness and desire in a man who was so powerful in his own right. And yet, her reaction to Bren himself was so strong, she felt as if she would lose herself in the overwhelming force of his spirit and passion. She never would have imagined a week ago that she would be feeling this way, so very intrigued, and so very conflicted.

Then, from Faith’s perspective at least, all hell broke loose in what had moments before been a peaceful wooded glade. There were shouts and a sudden clash of metal on metal from up ahead, more shouting, and then pounding, clamoring hooves. As if on signal, several men moved back to surround her in a protective circle. An attack? Oh God! She leaned over her horse’s neck and peered between two of the guards in an effort to see what was happening. There was the glint of metal as swords swung, and grunts and roars of effort, but it took several seconds for her to sort out the scene from the flashes of it she could see. Finally she saw Bren, in the very center of the melee, wielding a heavy claymore as if it were a part of him. His horse, obviously very well trained for battle, seemed an extension of his body, turning and rearing on command as one man fell beneath his sword, then another. She watched him in horrified fascination as he fought, striking at the enemy with deadly force and precision.
Protector
. The cries of the fallen men were gut-wrenching, the blood everywhere, but she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from what was happening before her. Then she saw, out of the corner of her eye, another man come galloping up at Bren’s back, his sword raised at a deadly angle. She tried to shout a warning, but the sound froze in her throat. She watched in terror, holding her breath, but just when she thought the strike would come, Bren spun around, his sword slicing clean through the other man’s neck. This time Faith did look away. And she squeezed her eyes shut, too, for good measure. It was all she could do to draw in a few deep, shuddering breaths. When she finally opened them again, the guards had moved away from where they had encircled her, and there were shouts of victory and the clang of swords, but this time in celebration. It was difficult not to feel a little of their triumph herself. The giddy feeling bubbled up in her chest, another reaction quite primitive in nature:
her men had won
.

Bren rode casually over to where she sat, still rather frozen, on her mare. He grinned at her, and she realized that what to her had been a heart-stopping battle had been to these men nothing more than a mild skirmish.

“Are ye all right, lass?”

She regarded him with a slight frown. There was blood all over his clothes, and a good amount spattered across his face. His hair was damp with sweat, and probably even more blood, and hung in tangled waves around his face and over one eye. His shirt was sliced through in several places, in a way that he must have several wounds, himself. The sight of him fresh from a battle did something else to her altogether. God, women in the 21
^st
century were really missing out on something.

“Fine”, she answered, her throat dry.

They made it back to the lodge without further incident, and once there, the men quickly drifted away to clean themselves up, wipe the blood from their weapons, and maybe have a bite to eat. Faith sat down on a log to wait, and one by one they came back from what must have been a river or pond not far away, although she noticed there were always at least two men left to guard her at all times. Whether to guard her from attack or from escape, she wasn’t entirely sure.

Bren arrived back at the lodge much cleaner and carrying his damp shirt, which he threw over a clump of small trees to dry. Now he wore just a kilt and tall leather boots, and she thought she just might swoon at the sight of his half-bared body. His broad, smooth chest was slightly bronzed, muscular, beautiful. A tattoo marked his right arm. It was a symbol of some kind, Celtic-looking. She thought she should know what it was, what it meant, but she couldn’t quite place it. Perhaps later she would be able to get a closer look. Below it was another tattoo, and this one she knew all too well. It was two dragons done in black ink, circling a powerful bicep, mouths opening to each other, and between them, a ruby red stone. Her heart began to pound again in a strange, slow rhythm. A faint buzzing sound filled her ears, as if she just might pass out. Then she realized she had forgotten to breathe, and quickly drew air into her lungs. Better. Her eyes returned to his chest, where one of the deeper cuts was still oozing blood.

“You’re hurt”, she said, if only to distract herself. Perhaps she had imagined it, but the ring still hanging on the leather cord between her breasts seemed to grow a little warmer, as if, she fancied, it recognized itself in the image tattooed on his skin.

“It’s no’ but a scratch.”

“Who were they?” she asked. “The men that attacked us?”

He shrugged. “Only men who thought themselves either my enemies or my betters. It’s of little consequence, in the grander scheme of things. Nothing for ye to worry yerself about.”

Faith watched for a moment as a rivulet of blood ran slowly down his chest, picking up drops of water from his skin and threatening to reach the edge of his kilt. She sighed and stood up. “Sit. Let me clean that up for you before you get blood all over your clothing.” And this is why men needed women around, or they would go around half-naked and covered in blood most of their lives. She grabbed a flask of whiskey someone had left lying near the fire.

“I need some sort of rag”, she said.

He reached behind and grabbed his ruined shirt from the tree branches. He tore a strip off the end and handed it to her with a slight twist of his broad mouth. “I’m afraid I have a verra large rag pile at home already, to add this to. An unavoidable consequence of my position.”

She narrowed her eyes and snatched the piece of fabric from his hand. “I can see that. You’re covered with scars already, what’s one more?”

He only laughed. “A man without plenty of scars is nay warrior, lass.”

She doused the rag with whiskey and bent to wipe the wound clean. With the blood gone, she could see that it wasn’t deep enough to need stitching, but she carefully dripped more of the whiskey into the torn flesh and then pressed the rag tight against it to stop the bleeding. He never flinched. Then she picked up the healer’s bag and rummaged through it until she found the jar of salve Berta had told her was good for relatively minor cuts and scrapes. She untied the oiled cloth from the top and dipped her finger in. Her eyes flicked up to meet Bren’s steady gaze before she turned her attention to spreading the salve onto his wound. As her fingers touched his skin, she heard him catch his breath a little, and she wanted more than anything in that moment to lean forward into the incredible heat of his body, to touch more of his smooth flesh…

“You’ll live, I suppose”, she pronounced, to distract herself from the crazy, mindless direction of her thoughts.

“Aye, I thought I might survive. It didna seem a fatal wound.” He stood and gave her a dark, smile that she could only think of as full of the promise of sin. Then he returned to his men, leaving her to watch the muscles of his broad back ripple as he walked away.

She waited while the meat was dressed and packed, and then they started back to Creagmor. Bren and Eian had decided that after the attack it wasn’t safe enough to warrant spending a second night, at least not when Faith was with them. What meat they had gotten already would have to do, and the clan’s fishermen would contribute the rest.

Too bad
, Bren thought. He was enjoying having Faith with him. As torturous as it was to his too-long-denied body, looking up from whatever he might be doing and seeing her there was… pleasing. He didn’t really want to bring her back to the castle where he would have to seek her out, or hope to catch glimpses of her as she went about the keep. That was no way to draw her into his bed, where he wanted her more than anything else. Where he
had
to have her, to relieve the terrible ache she was causing. Hell, he had been hard for her more than not these past few days, and the condition was beginning to make him irritable. He would have to double his efforts when they returned, before he lost all patience and control.

Chapter 7
҈

Bren shut the door to the study softly. Far too softly. An icy shiver of apprehension ran down Eian’s spine. This was not going to be good.

Bren walked to the middle of the room and turned to face his brothers, his arms crossed over his chest and his legs slightly apart. He held the pretense of calm, true, but his muscles were tensed and his nostrils slightly flared, a dead giveaway of the storm brewing within. He did not take his eyes from his two younger brothers as he raised his hand and pointed to the large wooden chest in the corner. The beautifully and intricately carved chest that held all of the clan’s most important documents and treasures, and was locked and heavily warded at all times. Even if the keep burned down around their ears, the chest would survive. And, as Eian had feared, the chest and its contents were why he and Drust had been called to the Laird’s study on this morning after the hunting trip. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it did no good. The day of reckoning for his actions had finally come.

“I opened that chest no’ an hour ago to take out the roll book, and I noticed that something was missing”, Bren said slowly, carefully, far too evenly. “Something that is usually in the small box on top, third section from the back.”

Drust narrowed his eyes, as if picturing the inside of the chest in his mind. “The Dragon Ring?”

Bren turned his steely gaze on Drust. “Aye, it’s gone, and only the three of us have a key. Only a few others besides us could remove all of the wards.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Since I am quite certain
I
didna remove it, which one of ye will be talking?”

Eian looked at the floor, as if he were studying the mud on his boots. Shite, was he ever in for it, but there was no point in putting off the inevitable, as tempting as it was to turn his gaze on Drust and let his brother take the fall for him. Drust had done so many times before, when they were younger, but not this time. He was getting far too old to be protected by his elder brother, and he would take full responsibility for the risk he had taken. He only hoped Dirc had done whatever he needed to do already, or at least had the sense not to come back, because he was in for it too. He drew a deep breath and looked at the laird, also his beloved older brother. It was all for Bren’s own good… he hoped.