Mael: Immortal Highlander, Clan Mag Raith Book 2 Read online

  Managing to push herself up, Rosealise gasped as cold pressed in on her. This place might smell of the swamp, but it was as cold as a January blizzard. She went still as she heard chains rattling and made out the shape of another looming over her.

  “Show yerself,” a man said, growling the words in a threadbare voice.

  “I wish I could, but I fear I cannot find a candle to do so.” Drawing on all the courage she could muster, Rosealise reached out. Her fingers touched warm flesh, which seemed to be a large, muscular leg clad in badly-ripped pantaloons. The side of her hand grazed shackles around his ankle, making her wonder if she’d been put in some sort of prison. “Would you help me up, please, sir?”

  “Aye, lass.”

  He grunted as he reached down, and from the strain of his muscles and the sounds of the chains, she perceived he had been somehow restrained. Carefully he lifted her, holding her even after she found her footing. Being unable to see his face frightened her as much as their surroundings, but from the care he took with her she guessed him to be a gentle soul.

  “I don’t understand this,” she murmured. “I suffered a dreadful accident, I think, and was badly hurt. Then I woke up here, which I cannot imagine the aftermath of such a thing. Where am I?”

  He said nothing for so long Rosealise wondered if he knew. Had they both been imprisoned here? Why had he been shackled? Was he dangerous? She couldn’t make sense of their predicament. At the very least men and women were never incarcerated together.

  “’Tis the underworld,” he said at last, his rough voice shredding the last word. “And we made slaves of the demons here.”

  Not a prison, she decided, but perhaps Bedlam. “Why should they enslave us?”

  “I cannae tell ye that.” He sighed. “Mayhap ’twill never be revealed to us.”

  His Scottish accent sounded very thick, and he used the countrified speech of a farmer or laborer. Thankfully Rosealise understood him and kept her voice soft so as not to further agitate the poor soul.

  “You must know something about these demons.”

  “Naught ye’ll wish to ken. Brace yerself now, lass.” His hand stroked up and down her back as if he were petting her. “Demons stole ye from your time. Ye must have seen them. They’ve the visages of gods and fly through the sky with wings. But they are as evil as nothing ye may imagine. They steal the souls of the helpless and the dying and bring them to this place. Here they torment us and use us for their own amusement.”

  He spoke of things beyond her understanding, and yet she trusted every word he uttered. She might not remember what had happened to her, but she knew he was correct.

  “How long have you been down here?” she asked.

  “I cannae tell ye.” He wrapped his arms around her, hoping to give her some warmth. Her shivering had died away, and the desperate clutch of her hands was no longer as tight. “Ye must be brave now.”

  That had always been expected of her, and she resented it now. Alone, with a mostly-naked man in a pit of despair, she should be permitted to dissolve into hysterics. Yet his embrace staved off the panic that wanted to erupt from her. Indeed, she had never felt this safe or protected. Recklessly she pressed her cheek against his chest, and listened to the steady, heavy thud of his heart.

  Rosealise.

  * * *

  “Rosealise.”

  When Mael saw her eyelashes flutter, the iron fist in his chest finally loosened enough to let him breathe deep. She lay still and unmoving in his arms, but pink slowly warmed her pallid cheeks, and her own breathing steadied.

  “I’ve made a knacker of myself again, haven’t I?” she murmured, opening one eye to peer up at him. “How you must despise me.”

  “Never,” Mael told her, and brushed some curly locks back from her brow. She felt warmer to him now, and when she opened her eyes fully, they looked clear. “The fault, ’tis mine. I reckon I unbalanced you.”

  Rosealise’s lips curved. “You certainly accomplished that, Seneschal.”

  Gods, but how sorely she tempts me.

  Mael bent his head a little lower, completely absorbed by the curving perfection of her smile. Her scent washed over him, all snowy light and wind-washed. He imagined kissing her until neither of them could draw a slow breath.

  “You’ve upended me the same, lass.”

  “I certainly have no intention in that regard. Every time I’m near you, I think…” Her voice trailed off as her gaze shifted past him. “Please don’t be alarmed,” she said, the softness of her tone becoming brisk again. “I merely swooned and fell. I’m making a terrible habit of it.”

  Mael turned his head to see Broden standing but an arm’s length away. The trapper held a string of brown trout in one hand and two hares dangling from the other. The rapt manner in which he was staring at Rosealise made a surge of anger flare in Mael.

  “Fetch some water for the lady, Brother,” Mael told him.

  For a moment Broden looked as if he might argue. Indeed, from the tension in his shoulders and the narrowing of his eyes, he appeared ready to fling his catch at Mael’s head. He dropped the game and came over to crouch beside Rosealise.

  “Shall I carry you inside, my lady?” he demanded, glaring over her head.

  “Oh, no, sir. I shall recover in a moment.” She patted his hand. “If you’d be kind and bring some water for me, I’d be so grateful.”

  Without another word the trapper rose, turned on his heel and retreated into the kitchens.

  “That gentleman seems quite out of sorts,” Rosealise said, gripping Mael’s arm to pull herself upright. “Have I said something or done something to cause his suspicion of you?”

  “No, and dinnae worry on it. ’Tis but Broden’s surly nature.” As she tucked her legs under her to stand, he held her a little more tightly. “Slowly now, lass.”

  With his help she stood, and then leaned against him for another moment. By then the trapper had returned with a cup of water, which she accepted with another murmur of thanks.

  “What made you fall, my lady?” Broden asked, again looking at Mael as if he suspected him to be the cause.

  “A flash of reminiscence, I believe. I was in a terrible, dark place. A pit, I think.” After taking a sip from the cup she added, “Someone else had been chained there, a Scotsman, like you chaps, and he told me we’d been enslaved. I could not see his face. He seemed in terrible straits, but he behaved very kindly to me.” She glanced from Broden to Mael and back again. “Could it have been one of you?”

  The trapper hesitated before he looked away and shrugged. “I’ve no’ recalled being in a pit with you.”

  “’Tis the same for me,” Mael admitted. Since Rosealise had arrived, Mael had spent much of his time trying to drag anything about her from the dark abyss of his memory. All that did was make him doubt they’d ever met. “Come now.” He put a supporting arm around her. “You should rest inside.”

  “Yes, that seems sensible.” She reached out to Broden as they passed him, and touched his sleeve. “Perhaps you could tie together a bundle of that holly there, sir. It should be tidy and small enough to pass through a chimney. If you would, leave a generous length of rope on each side for pulling.”

  Mael expected the trapper to refuse. Broden disliked being given orders, especially by females, and he despised such work. But the other man simply nodded and knelt by the holly.

  Inside the kitchens Rosealise sat on the stool by the hearth and sighed with relief. “I still feel somewhat weak in the knees.” She caught and squeezed his hand. “I fear I’ve forced you to play my savior again. What must you think of me?”

  “You’re as lovely as moonlight on a still loch.” He crouched down before her, unable to stop himself from confessing his true feelings. “I cannae fathom why I think on you so much. ’Tis foolishness, for I ken I’ve naught to offer you. All females look upon me and see but a brute.”

  “You, a brute? Codswallop.” She touched his cheek. “You don’t frighten me in
the slightest degree, my dear sir.”

  Her hand on his face sent a surge of heated, weighty desire through him. “Call me by my name. To hear thus on your lips enchants me.”

  Before she could reply Edane came into the kitchens, stopping at the sight of them.

  “I dinnae mean to intrude,” the archer said to Mael, “but Domnall needs your aid felling that alder in the granary.” He glanced at Rosealise. “You’re well, my lady?”

  “Quite so, although I have the headache again, and I think the beginnings of a cough,” she admitted, touching her temple. “I hope I’ve not caught a chill. Jenna mentioned to me that you’ve had training as a healer. Perhaps you know of some treatment?”

  Mael winced, for Edane hated any reminder that he had been intended to become a shaman. “I’ll make you a brew for it, lass,” he said, rising to go to the hearth.

  “No’ too hot,” the archer told him, and came to draw Rosealise to her feet.

  She sighed. “I do wish you could reveal what’s the matter with me.”

  His expression changed. “I suspect ’tis no’ a bodily pain you suffer. If you’d close your eyes, my lady?”

  As soon as she did Edane lifted his hands, holding them on either side of her face without touching her. Mael blinked as he heard the archer murmuring under his breath. The shimmer of magic engulfed his hands as well as Rosealise’s hair. Never once in all the centuries they had served together had Mael seen Edane use his shaman talent before a stranger.

  “’Tis an enchantment,” the archer muttered as he turned his fingers to sift them through the shimmer. “Old, mayhap ancient. No’ worked by Pritani or druid magic.” He frowned. “’Tis fashing me. I vow I’ve felt the same spelltrace before now.”

  “When?” Mael demanded. “Where?”

  “I cannae tell you, but I’ve no’ the skill nor power to break it.” Slowly he drew his hands back. “Open your eyes now, my lady.”

  Rosealise did so and touched her temple. “My head feels a little better. You claim this was done with magic?”

  “Aye. You’ve been bespelled, likely to forget all you ken of the past,” Edane said frankly. “The same I’ll wager ’twas done to Jenna before she left the underworld. She came to us aware of naught more but her name.”

  “Who would wish to do such a thing to me?” Rosealise asked.

  “’Tis the work of the demons, I reckon. Dinnae strive to remember, for ’twill cause more pain as the spell works to prevent such. Mayhap in time your past shall come back to you, as Jenna’s did to her.” The archer blinked a few times, and then frowned as he regarded Mael. “Shall I tell the chieftain you’ll aid him?”

  “Aye, but give me another moment with the lady, Brother.” He watched the archer leave before he turned to see Rosealise staring into the flames. Her mouth had gone tight, as if she worried now. “I should find Jenna and ask her to sit with you a while.”

  “No, I will be myself again.” She rubbed her brow. “If only I knew why I was made to forget. What might I have known that would imperil the like of demons?”

  At that moment Broden entered the kitchens with a neatly-tied bunch of holly.

  “’Tis done, my lady,” he said, setting the bundle down by the hearth. He stared at it for a moment, his brow furrowing as if he wasn’t sure of what it was.

  “How clever of you to finish so quickly.” Rosealise went over to inspect his work, and patted his shoulder. “Jolly good knots there. We will need them to hold the branches together during the sweeping. This rope, is it sturdy enough to pull?”

  “Oh, aye, ’twillnae break,” the trapper said, his scowl vanishing. “I wound it myself for bridles and such.”

  “Smashing,” she said. “Here is what we will do with it to clean the stacks.”

  As the lady explained the method to him, making graceful gestures with her hands, Mael was astounded again. Broden not only listened to every word she said, but he seemed entirely set on performing the task. The same Broden who, Mael recalled, had such a hatred of soot that he rarely used his own hearth when they had lived among the Moss Dapple.

  “My lady,” Mael said, interrupting their discussion. “Might I–”

  “You needn’t bother with this. Broden and I will attend to the chimneys,” Rosealise said, touching his hand. “Please, do go and assist your chieftain now.”

  Mael didn’t want to leave her alone with the trapper, and yet he turned and walked out of the kitchens. As he strode toward the granary, he tried to stop and turn around, but his feet kept moving. Then something he’d said to her came back to him, but with far less pleasure than when he’d uttered it.

  To hear thus on your lips enchants me.

  At the entrance to the granary he ducked inside and found the chieftain sharpening a two-handled axe.

  “You look as if you’ve been chewing thistles,” Domnall said, testing the edge of the blade with one thumb. “Have you some grief to relate?”

  “None,” Mael replied, but he had suspicions. He also sensed that the lady had no idea of what she could do. “After we fell the tree, might I speak with your wife?”

  Chapter Seven

  FROM HIS BLIND in the ridges Cul watched a herd of female red deer encircle their white-spotted fawns as they fed in a patch of succulent wild herbs. Thistledown floated around them, adding a dreamy softness to the air. So close he could count their tiny white patches, he inspected the fattened flesh under their summer-bright hides. The largest of the hinds ignored the feed to keep watch for predators while the fawns grazed, but the precautions Cul had taken made him invisible to them. The prospect of fresh meat had tempted him to emerge from hiding, but dragging even a small carcass through the tunnels would take too long. Leaving the remains behind risked exposing his presence to the enemy.

  They must never know until the last possible moment that all they suffered had been Cul’s doing.

  His gaze shifted to the faint smear of darkness on the western horizon. Within that coming storm would fly the Sluath, as well-fed as the deer. He knew from the mingled scents and blood trace he had found in the glen that they had done something to the druid that now served them. They had not killed the mortal, however, which intrigued him. The demons loathed his kind, and had no reason or will to deny themselves even the most dismal of amusements.

  If the druid had chosen to share in them, Cul would show no such restraint.

  He retreated into the cave, feeling the remnants of power left behind raking his flesh like so many tiny, invisible claws. To his great pleasure the Sluath had grown careless over time, likely due to their rightful assumption that they had the power to annihilate anything that stood in their way. When he reached the shimmering gate to the underworld, his twisted lips parted. It would be nothing for him to step through the barrier and make his way into the depths. Iolar and his demons would have left everything awaiting their pleasure. He could destroy all that they assumed they’d always possess. He could leave them as he had been: alone, outcast, with nothing and no one.

  Yet even that couldn’t be enough to satisfy him. They had to know his suffering as he had, year by year, decade by decade, century by dreary century.

  Once Cul finished his work he made his way over land to his own territory. After the massacre at the village, no mortals but the Mag Raith and their female occupied his lands, so he could chance moving openly in the light. Yet since the hunters had chosen to reside in his castle, he’d been obliged to enter the lower passages from the maze, where the hedges concealed him. Damage to the trap there made him pause and inspect his construct.

  Sluath enchantment lingered in the air, but so did the smallest trace of mortal blood.

  Following the latter drew him to a brown-stained patch of bramble. From the scant amount of blood she’d left behind, it seemed that the female hadn’t been badly wounded by the maze’s lethal magic. No doubt one of the hunters had rescued her. They had proven as protective as the watchful deer. He caught a flake of the blood and tasted it,
his distorted mouth forming a sneering smile.

  Luscious, but also plagued. He would have to move quickly to use this one.

  Cul parted the hedges and soil covering his stone door, and opened it to descend into his lair. He took the passage leading to his archive, where he had recorded the progress he had made with his work. Scraped hides covered the stone floor, each burned with lines representing tunnels and gates no mortal had ever beheld. He knelt down to scratch out the arching mark representing the cave where he had just labored, and then straightened to survey the rest of the hides. Every other arch etched into the map had been similarly obliterated. He’d been sure of it, but to see the proof with his own eyes sent a wave of savage delight through him.

  Those who had preyed on him would now become the prey.

  Cul capered around the room, his ungainly body colliding with the hard walls as he allowed his glee full reign. Parchment scrolls fell from their shelves to bounce along with his limping steps, and crackled as he crushed them under his feet. Dust rose in small, dull clouds from the oldest as they disintegrated. None of them mattered anymore now that he had completed the work. The demons would soon know the desperation of the outcast, the reviled, the hunted. They would search in vain for an escape, which in time would lead them to Dun Chaill, and then to him. A thought occurred to him that stopped him in his tracks.

  He had not yet tested the lure for his final trap.

  Limping out of the archive, Cul shook off the dust before he made his way up to his observation posts. There, his chest heaving, he put his clear eye to one of the spy holes and looked into the reflecting glass. He could use them only during the day, for the other glasses required sunlight to send down images from the keepe far above him.

  Where are they?

  He spied the new female in the great hall, where she stood tugging on a rope hanging from inside one of the hearths. Soot and detritus rained down on her hands and arms, but she continued the work until the showering filth ceased. She coughed several times before she placed her head in the hearth and called up the chimney. Cul couldn’t hear her, but he read her words from the movements of her lips.