To Tame a Highland Warrior (2 page)

Tears streamed down his face as a tiny lass with blond ringlets wailed her last breath. There would be no mother’s arms for her, no bonny suitor, no wedding, no babes—not a breath more precious life. Blood stained the front of her frock, and he stared at it, mesmerized. His universe narrowed to a tunnel of vision in which the blood blossoming on her chest became a vast, crimson whirlpool, sucking him down and down …

Something inside him snapped.

He threw his head back and howled, the words ricocheting off the rocks of Wotan’s Cleft.
“Hear me, Odin, I summon the Berserker! I, Gavrael Roderick Icarus McIllioch, offer my life—nay, my soul—for vengeance. I command the Berserker!”

The moderate breeze turned suddenly violent, lashing leaves and dirt into the air. Gavrael flung his arms up to shield his face from the needle-sharp sting of flying debris. Branches, no match for the fierce gale, snapped free and battered his body like clumsy spears hurled from the trees. Black clouds scuttled across the night sky, momentarily obscuring the moon. The unnatural wind keened through the channels of rock on Wotan’s Cleft, briefly muffling the screams from the valley below. Suddenly the night exploded in a flash of dazzling blue and Gavrael felt his body … change.

He snarled, baring his teeth, as he felt something irrevocable mutate deep within him.

He could smell dozens of scents from the battle below—the rusty, metallic odor of blood and steel and hate.

He could hear whispers from the McKane camp on the far horizon.

He saw for the first time that the warriors appeared to be moving in slow motion. How had he failed to notice it
before? It would be absurdly easy to slip in and destroy them all while they were moving as if slogging through wet sand. So easy to destroy. So easy …

Gavrael sucked in rapid breaths of air, pumping his chest full before charging into the valley below. As he plunged into the slaughter, the sound of laughter echoed off the stone basin that cupped the valley. He realized it was coming from his own lips only when the McKane began to fall beneath his sword.

Hours later, Gavrael stumbled through the burning remains of Tuluth. The McKane were gone, either dead or driven off. The surviving villagers were tending the wounded and walking in wide, cautious circles around the young son of the McIllioch.

“Near to threescore ye killed, lad,” an old man with bright eyes whispered when Gavrael passed. “Not even yer da in his prime could do such a thing. Ye be far more berserk.”

Gavrael glanced at him, startled. Before he could ask what he meant by that comment, the old man melted into the billowing smoke.

“Ye took down three in one swing of yer sword, lad,” another man called.

A child flung his arms around Gavrael’s knees. “Ye saved me life, ye did!” the lad cried. “Tha’ ole McKane woulda had me for his supper. Thank ye! Me ma’s thanking ye too.”

Gavrael smiled at the boy, then turned to the mother, who crossed herself and didn’t look remotely appreciative. His smile faded. “I’m not a monster—”

“I know what ye are, lad.” Her gaze never left his. To
Gavrael’s ears her words were harsh and condemning. “I know exactly what ye are and doona be thinking otherwise. Get on with ye now! Yer da’s in trouble.” She pointed a quivering finger past the last row of smoldering huts.

Gavrael narrowed his eyes against the smoke and stumbled forward. He’d never felt so drained in all his life. Moving awkwardly, he rounded one of the few huts still standing and jerked to a halt.

His da was crumpled on the ground, covered with blood, his sword abandoned at his side in the dirt.

Grief and anger vied for supremacy in Gavrael’s heart, leaving him strangely hollow. As he stared down at his father, the image of his mother’s body surged to the forefront of his mind and the last of his youthful illusions shattered; tonight had birthed both an extraordinary warrior and a flesh-and-blood man with inadequate defenses. “Why, Da? Why?” His voice broke harshly on the words. He would never see his mother smile again, never hear her sing, never attend her burial—for he would be leaving Maldebann once his da replied, lest he turn his residual rage upon his own father. And then what would he be? No better than his da.

Ronin McIllioch groaned. Slowly he opened his eyes in a blood-crusted squint and gazed up at his son. A ribbon of scarlet trickled from his lips as he struggled to speak. “We’re … born—” He broke off, consumed by a deep, racking cough.

Gavrael grabbed his father by handfuls of his shirt and, heedless of Ronin’s pained grimace, shook him roughly. He would have his answer before he left; he would discover what madness had driven his da to kill his mother or he would be tortured all his life by unanswered questions. “What, Da? Say it! Tell me why!”

Ronin’s bleary gaze sought Gavrael’s. His chest rose and fell as he drew swift, shallow gasps of smoky air. With a strange undertone of sympathy, he said, “Son, we canna help it … the McIllioch men … always we’re born … this way.”

Gavrael stared at his father in horror. “You would say that to me? You think you can convince me that I’m mad like you? I’m not like you! I’ll not believe you. You lie. You
lie
!” He lunged to his feet, backing hastily away.

Ronin McIllioch forced himself up on his elbows and jerked his head at the evidence of Gavrael’s savagery, the remains of McKane warriors who had been literally ripped to pieces. “You did that, son.”

“I am
not
a ruthless killer!” Gavrael scanned the mutilated bodies, not quite convinced of his own words.

“It’s part of … being McIllioch. You canna help it, son.”

“Doona call me son! I will never be your son again. And I’m not part of your sickness. I’m not like you. I will
never
be like you!”

Ronin sank back to the ground, muttering incoherently. Gavrael deliberately closed his ears to the sound. He would not listen to his da’s lies a moment longer. He turned his back on him and surveyed what was left of Tuluth. The surviving villagers huddled in small groups, standing in absolute silence, watching him. Averting his face from what he would always remember as their reproving regard, his glance slid up the dark stone of Maldebann castle. Carved into the side of the mountain, it towered above the village. Once he had wished for nothing more than to grow up and help govern Maldebann at his da’s side, eventually taking over as chieftain. He’d wished to always hear the lovely lilt of his mother’s laughter filling the spacious halls, to hear his da’s answering rumble as they joked and talked. He’d
dreamed of wisely settling his people’s concerns; of marrying one day and having sons of his own. Aye, once he had believed all those things would come to pass. But in less time than it had taken the moon to bridge the sky above Tuluth, all his dreams, and the very last part of him that had been human, were destroyed.

It took Gavrael the better part of a day to drag his battered body back up into the sanctuary of the dense Highland forests. He could never go home. His mother was dead, the castle ransacked, and the villagers had regarded him with fear. His da’s words haunted him—
we’re born this way
—killers, capable of murdering even those they claimed to love. It was a sickness of the mind, Gavrael thought, which his father said he, too, carried in his blood.

Thirstier than he’d ever been, he half crawled to the loch nestled in a small valley beyond Wotan’s Cleft. He collapsed for a time on the springy tundra, and when he wasn’t quite so dizzy and weak he struggled forward to drink, dragging himself on his elbows. As he cupped his hands and bent over the sparkling, clear pool he froze, mesmerized by his reflection rippling in the water.

Ice-blue eyes stared back at him.

G
RIMM PAUSED AT THE OPEN DOORS OF THE STUDY AND
gazed into the night. The reflection of stars dappled the restless ocean, like tiny pinpoints of light cresting the waves. Usually he found the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks soothing, but lately it seemed to incite in him a questing restlessness.

As he resumed pacing, he sifted through possible reasons for his unrest and came up empty-handed. It had been by choice that he remained at Dalkeith as captain of the Douglas guard when, two years ago, he and his best friend, Hawk Douglas, left Edinburgh and King James’s service. Grimm adored Hawk’s wife, Adrienne—when she wasn’t trying to marry him off—and he doted upon their young son, Carthian. He had been, if not exactly happy, content. At least until recently. So what ailed him?

“You’re wearing holes in my favorite rug with your pacing, Grimm. And the painter will never be able to finish
this portrait if you won’t sit down,” Adrienne teased, jarring him from his melancholy reverie.

Grimm expelled a breath and ran a hand through his thick hair. Absentmindedly he fiddled with a section at his temple, twisting the strands into a plait as he continued to contemplate the sea.

“You aren’t looking for a wishing star out there, are you, Grimm?” Hawk Douglas’s black eyes danced with mirth.

“Hardly. And anytime your mischievous wife would care to tell me what curse she laid upon me with her careless wishing, I’d be happy to hear it.” Some time ago, Adrienne Douglas had wished upon a falling star, and she steadfastly refused to tell either of them what she’d wished until she was absolutely certain it had been heard and granted. The only thing she would admit was that her wish had been made on Grimm’s behalf, which unnerved him considerably. Although he didn’t consider himself a superstitious man, he’d seen enough odd occurrences in the world to know that merely because something seemed improbable certainly didn’t render it impossible.

“As would I, Grimm,” Hawk said dryly. “But she won’t tell me either.”

Adrienne laughed. “Go on with the two of you. Don’t tell me two such fearless warriors suffer a moment’s concern over a woman’s idle wish upon a star.”

“I consider nothing you do idle, Adrienne,” Hawk replied with a wry grin. “The universe does
not
behave in a normal fashion where you’re concerned.”

Grimm smiled faintly. It certainly didn’t. Adrienne had been tossed back in time from the twentieth century, the victim of a wicked plot to destroy the Hawk, concocted by a vindictive Fairy. Impossible things happened around
Adrienne, which was why he wanted to know what bloody wish she’d made. He’d like to be prepared when all hell broke loose.

“Do sit down, Grimm,” Adrienne urged. “I want this portrait finished by Christmas at the latest, and it takes Albert months to paint from his sketches.”

“Only because my work is sheer perfection,” the painter said, miffed.

Grimm turned his back on the night and reclaimed his seat by Hawk in front of the fire. “I still doona get the point of this,” Grimm muttered. “Portraits are for lasses and children.”

Adrienne snorted. “I commission a painter to immortalize two of the most magnificent men I’ve ever laid eyes upon”—she flashed them a dazzling smile, and Grimm rolled his eyes, knowing he would do whatever the lovely Adrienne wished when she smiled like that—“and all they can do is grumble. I’ll have you know, one day you’ll thank me for doing this.”

Grimm and Hawk exchanged amused glances, then resumed the pose she insisted displayed their muscular physiques and dark good looks to their finest advantage.

“Be certain you color Grimm’s eyes as brilliantly blue as they are,” she instructed Albert.

“As if I don’t know how to paint,” he muttered. “I
am
the artist here. Unless, of course, you’d like to try your hand at it.”

“I thought you liked
my
eyes.” Hawk narrowed his black eyes at Adrienne.

“I do. I married you, didn’t I?” Adrienne teased, smiling. “Can I help it if the staff at Dalkeith, to the youngest maid of a tender twelve years, swoons over your best friend’s eyes? When I hold my sapphires up to the sunlight,
they look exactly the same. They shimmer with iridescent blue fire.”