Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
The snow underfoot was marked with boot prints, with men still going to and fro as night fell, and Damien standing in the middle, waiting for a report from Orrick.
They’d decamped on Grouse Hill, a sharp spit of land with doughty, old trees and an even older and doughtier watchtower. ‘Watchtower’ was stretching it a bit, as the pile had two stories, and the stones were worn from the cruel sea winds. But it was still standing and offered a view to the south, where Morighe peeked over the horizon, and to the north, where the wilds sprawled, with few and far settlements until one reached the edge of Galeclere at a bitterly frozen sea.
Drawing his cloak tighter, Damien stared out at the dark sea and let his thoughts sink into those depths.
Where are ye, Cousin?
As though to mock him, his man-at-arms, his worthy cousin, who had no desire to be Laird of Morighe—only to protect his wife and home—came striding up. He threw back his hood and shook out his red hair, giving Damien a tight smile.
“Nay sign of the Vipers or their Captain. Startin’ to think the bastard wanted us runnin’ in circles.”
Damien grunted and tucked his chin in, thinking hard. His cousin Lachlan, the son of the ill-fated Hector, had not shown his face in years. The only time that Damien had even crossed swords with the man was not long after taking up the mantle of Laird, when Lachlan had attempted to raid a village. He’d been unaware that Damien had set up a more robust guard, anticipating such a thing.
What Damien had not anticipated was meeting his uncle’s son, as he’d no idea the man even had a son. His cousin was a bitter and cruel man, born from a poor and lowly unnamed maid in some port where Hector had sowed his seeds.
At first, according to the stories that Damien had collected over the years, Hector had no interest in his son. Then, as the years went by, the boy showed a bloodthirsty prowess, raised among thieves and pirates. So much so that Hector had returned to that port—in Fallenworth—upon hearing stories of the Viper’s son.
Only, with it being overrun by pirates and soldiers locked in a war for Fallenworth’s soul, the lad appeared to be gone.
Except, a few months later, Lachlan somehow made his way to the Viper and demanded an audience with his father. Reports varied, but Lachlan had been young. Perhaps eight or so.
And so Hector took him on, promising him that one day he’d be Laird of Morighe.
Damien glanced at Orrick, warming his capable hands by the fire.
Long and lanky, with his easy smile, Orrick was nearly the opposite of Lachlan. Except they both had red hair and were fierce with swords.
Lachlan was big, strong, and fast, his build eerily like Damien’s. His red hair was cropped short, usually hidden under a hat, and his eyes were a cruel silver. Damien could still recall, though, the way Orrick had stared at Lachlan, seeing the similarity between his Laird and the pirate.
Worse, Lachlan had been more than a match for Damien and Orrick combined. He’d only gotten away that time, too, because Orrick had fallen for his feint to go after Damien and instead found himself run through by Lachlan’s blade.
Damien had chosen to save Orrick, rather than pursue Lachlan, and he’d never regretted it. But he knew it weighed heavily on Orrick’s shoulders, in a way that so few things did.
However, since that time, they’d only seen Lachlan from a distance, usually on the Viper II , sailing away from them.
Deep down, Damien suspected that his cousin was loath to try and attempt another face-to-face duel. Damien and Orrick were ten times the swordsmen they were back then, and Lachlan was canny enough to know such a thing.
No, Lachlan now operated in stealth attacks and ploys, seeking to find a way to undo Damien. He’d raided villages a few times—or tried.
A grim smile flitted over Damien’s face. His people were more than a match for pirates.
Rogues who attacked winter stores in the dead of the night, however, were still a problem. That was why Damien and his men were on Grouse Hill, seeking a black ship on the water. His people had reported seeing it, yet they’d chased it north to no avail.
Lachlan had slipped away, again.
“The village is safe, and we’ve ensured that the stores they lost are handled,” Damien said and then heaved a sigh. “I suppose we cannae ask for more.”
“Listen to ye,” Orrick said, smirking. “I almost believe it.”
Damien gave him a cold grin. “He ran, the great coward. At least he always runs.”
While Lachlan was still a fearsome swordsman by all accounts, the Vipers were not the united army of brigands they’d once been. Hector had raised Lachlan to be ruthless, but Adair—his brother and the former Laird MacCabe—had raised Damien to be a leader.
“He kens that well,” Orrick had said once, during a long and fruitless hunt. “ I dinnae think he’ll ever stop bein’ a monster, but he kens that he cannae capture the hearts of the people of Galeclere. So, he will try to take Morighe with a blade in the dark, with rogue tricks and cruel ploys for power.”
“And,” he had continued, unusually serious, “it shall lead him to his bitter end—much like his damned faither.”
“Aye, I’m nae surprised,” he said now. “Still, it’s galling. Ye tracked him all last year, and a few times it seemed that we might get close.”
“Mm, I thought I had him cornered in Fallenworth, but it was just a few of his faither’s last Vipers. There cannae be many left, and I hear that the men who follow him now are loyal to their own appetites,” Damien snorted. “He keeps them fed for now, but how long can that last?”
Orrick nodded. “I have wondered if his own men might take care of him for us.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Nothin’ more we can do tonight. Go rest, and we can head back to Morighe in the morn.”
Damien clenched his jaw. Orrick was right. There was no reason to continue this chase—the trail had gone cold. And with the dreams that had plagued him this week, he’d been hard-pressed to ignore the heat in his belly and the alluring distraction of a hazel-eyed Sassenach .
Yet, the very fact that he found himself longing to return to Morighe made him think that he should continue this chase.
“Oye, Damien,” Orrick said, and Damien stirred. His cousin only used his given name when irritated. “We arenae riskin’ the wilds in the dead of winter. Nae with the storms that had come through.”
Damien shot him a glare, and Orrick punched him lightly on the arm.
“Ye great dobber. Did it nae occur to ye that Lachlan might be tryin’ to lure ye north to yer bloody death?” He jerked his chin toward the dense mass of trees. “Nae even the Unseen Folk dare walk those paths in this cold.”
Heaving a sigh, Damien finally relented with a nod, and Orrick also sighed, then clapped his cousin on the shoulder. Damien watched him lope off before turning toward the watchtower, heading inside to find a spot to settle in for the night. The men not on watch kipped here, and though he was used to bunking anywhere, here, as Laird, he had to take the High Chamber.
Another name that did not quite match the humble stone room with a single long window overlooking the hill. But perhaps in its time, it had been grand—or more likely, one of his relatives had considered it a great joke.
Rubbing his neck, Damien found a bit of warm straw and old bedding, then wrapped himself in his cloak.
But as soon as he closed his eyes, he jerked awake, staring at the door.
The shadows outside had shifted—they seemed deeper, quieter, and colder. He’d probably been asleep for an hour or so, he guessed. Maybe less. And the door was closed—no one was there.
She isnae here.
He pressed a hand to his thundering heart. Every damn night, Helena plagued him, and it was much the same—her appearing in the doorway or the place he slept in, wearing that too-big dressing gown, her hair braided, and her eyes soft.
More than once, this had sent a bolt of panic through him, fear and shock rearing up despite his exhaustion—his tired brain convinced she’d somehow followed him and wasn’t where she was supposed to be.
Twice, he thought he saw a shadow pursuing her and had woken up scrabbing for his sword, certain that a Viper had her.
However, at other times, Damien knew that his memory was replaying their last encounter in his study. As though he could ever forget it.
It was then that the minx tiptoed in and lay beside him, watching him with solemn, hazel eyes. A few times, Damien had sworn he’d felt the weight of her head as it rested on his chest and her hand sliding up his side. Her scent was a phantom on every breeze, and his loins tightened while he breathed out in a hiss.
Now, his mind turned toward that, the way Helena seemed to yearn for his touch, how she went pliant under his tongue, and the way she gripped him. More blood rushed to his length, and he growled, then fumbled with his kilt, before giving himself a rough stroke.
He pictured the surprised expression on Helena’s face, her smiles, and the flash of her eyes. A groan escaped him. How many times was it now that he’d done this to himself? True relief always seemed to hover out of reach as he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to imagine it was Helena. But dammit, she was too far away.
Instead, in his desperation, he suddenly thought of her watching him. Eyes wide, lips parted, and the way her head might tilt in that curious way?—
Damien came with a curse and blew out a sigh. Restless heat still crawled along his bones, and now he pictured Helena leaving the room, glancing back with cool amusement.
Aye, she’d probably find it amusing how badly she’s stirred me blood.
Damien found a handkerchief to clean himself up. Rolling back over, he gritted his teeth and tried not to think of the muffled sound of her soft sobs, the way his heart had crashed into the stone floors. And then the book that he’d been trying to give her, but instead took back to his rooms.
There, he’d paced and called himself a bastard, knowing he should help her—perhaps let her go.
However, here, in this watchtower, he made the same vow to never let her go.
She could spurn him—or try—not even come to him when he returned to Morighe, and he would not care. A grim smile spread across his face as he stared out the window into the cold, endless stars.
Helena, ye are mine.
And strangely, as Damien fell asleep, he dreamt of coming home to Morighe and Helena running to meet him.
“There you are,” she said and tossed her head, her glasses catching the winter sunlight. “ How could you leave without saying goodbye?”
And in that strange way that dreams had, they were standing together, outside the watchtower, the cold wind whipping the snow about them, like a cloud of falling stars. Her hand rose to his face, and then she leaned forward, whispering in his ear, “Don’t you know that you are mine?”
And when Damien awoke, he ordered his men to make haste to Morighe.
More than once, Helena told herself that she would not rush to him when he returned.
Only, when she heard drums beat in welcome two days later—for she knew of the famous drums of Morighe now—she hastened to the gate.
She should at least be there to greet Damien, should she not?
A nervous smile flitted over her face as she stepped outside, blinking in the bright winter sunlight just starting to fall to the west. But her heart sank as she beheld the tall, thin man jumping down from a black horse.
“Greetings, Daughter.”
“Welcome, Father,” Helena said, trying to smile, but instead feeling choked inside by thorns.
Her father gave her a familiar, sneering smile that seemed reserved only for her. “Glad to see that you did not run off.” He paused. “Perhaps my letter got lost?”
Helena came forward, trying to smile, even as she felt it sliding off her face. “Letter?” Right, the letter to invite him here. “Oh, we were going to write one soon, yes.”
“Soon.” Her father’s eyes narrowed on Morighe, and she felt a surge of protectiveness. “Not soon enough, if you hope to save your reputation.” He moved closer. “I hope you at least have the sense to keep that beast of a Scot happy in the bedchamber, girl.” A snort escaped him. “I’d worried about the Northerners’ appetites with you, Lady Highbrow, but you did kiss the one-eyed lout and live.”