Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Seeing Fifer MacAlen crouched over Rebecca sent a terror through Dorchad that he had never thought possible he could experience.
The dark blood roared in his veins as he closed the gap between them, gesturing to his twin to get the healer out of the way.
He then had his sword tip poised at the laird’s throat before he even realized he’d drawn the weapon.
“Does she yet live?” he called to his brother.
“Aye,” Sgathan said, moving away with Rebecca safely in his arms.
Dorchad turned his full attention to the laird, smiling as he anticipated how many limbs he could slice off his torso before the fack would bleed out.
“’Tis the only reason you yet breathe,” he told Fifer, his chilling voice making the very air crackle as if filling with ice. “You enjoy attacking helpless females, you milk-faced bastart? Draw your blade. I shall enjoy providing your final bout.”
“I didnae harm the lady,” Fifer said, wincing as the tip of Dorchad’s blade pierced his skin. “Nor do I carry a sword.”
Seeing the blood trickling down the laird’s throat suddenly calmed him like nothing else. In the next moment this thing would be done, and he would take Rebecca back to the island and prepare for a clan war.
“You’re no’ a man, coward.” Dorchad spat on the ground between them. “Brother, lend the laird your blade. I shallnae cut down an unarmed eejit.”
Rebecca suddenly wrenched away from his twin and darted in front of the MacAlen, spreading out her arms and shaking her head. Her lips moved, but no sound came from them.
“Dinnae trouble yourself, Mistress,” Fifer told her. “Let him do as he pleases. My clan shall avenge my death by cutting down all who share his cursed blood.”
Dorchad tried to pull her out of the way, but then she wound her arms around his waist and refused to let go. She then tried to speak, but no sound came from her lips.
“Wait,” Sgathan said, frowning. “I can hear her. She’s whispering that the laird saved her.”
He looked down at his woman’s bruised face. “You cannae protect the bastart with lies.”
Sgathan came over and put his hand on his forearm. “She claims ’twas the dark Fae hunter who attacked and hung her. Lord MacAlen came to her rescue, and cut her down from the rafters.”
“Does he speak the truth?” Dorchad demanded, and when Rebecca nodded frantically he reluctantly lowered his weapon. “Apologies, my lord.” Those were the hardest three words he’d ever uttered.
“Fack you and your clan,” Fifer said, and strode out of the barn. Sgathan followed him.
Dorchad looked at his woman, and touched the dark red ligature mark around her throat. She had come so close to death that he never again wanted her out of his sight. Yet the hunter would be close by, and had to be stopped before he attacked other mortals.
“I shall leave you with my brother,” Dorchad told her. “I must go and end the hunter who harmed you, else he run rampant on the village and crofts.”
“End me?”
Rebecca flinched as Dorchad thrust her behind him as a woodsman jumped down from the hayloft.
He landed and then straightened, his skewed face exploding as his true dark Fae form emerged from the disguise.
He grabbed Dorchad, knocking away his blade with one swat of his claws, and then slung him into a wall.
The blow shredded his blade hand, and the impact made agonizing pain shoot up his spine as the wooden planks shattered.
He held onto the broken wood to keep from tumbling outside and hauled himself upright.
The hunter came after him, stopping only when Rebecca threw a handful of dirt into his ghastly face before running away.
“This time I shall pull you apart like a roasted bird,” the dark Fae hunter promised as he went after her.
She picked up something and tossed it into the air as the hunter seized her. A bright silver flash came streaking directly at Dorchad, and he caught his sword before it skewered his head. He saw the woman he loved being shaken like a poppet by the monster, her head and limbs flopping helplessly.
“No,” Dorchad roared.
He lunged at the dark Fae, raising his blade with both hands as he collided with him, causing him to drop Rebecca.
As the hunter went down he brought the blade across his neck, using all his strength to pierce his hide and bite deep into the ghastly flesh beneath it.
The dark Fae uttered a gargling sound, staggering backward to fall into the hay bales as it clutched its neck.
Sgathan suddenly dove in through an open window near the bales, and with Dorchad attacked the hunter from the opposite side with their blades, dodging its claws as they delivered blow after blow.
“Take his head,” his twin shouted.
It took several, gruesome chops of their swords before they cut through the hunter’s neck and spine. The air grew thick with a sickly stench as the hunter’s head toppled and rolled across the floor, leaving a trail of black blood leading back to its lifeless body.
To be sure the hunter was dead Dorchad buried his blade in the dark Fae’s chest, while Sgathan staggered backward, covering his face with his hand and turned away.
“Did the thing wound you?” he asked his twin, who shook his head and then strode outside.
Dorchad limped over to Rebecca, who lay motionless on the ground. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her out of the barn and into the fading light, where he sat down on a farrier’s bench with her. Only when he brushed the bright red curls back from her pale face did she open her pretty eyes.
I love you, she said, shaping the words with her lips. Thank you for my life.
Kiamh had just finished bathing when Fifer suddenly came into the guest chamber and strode over to the tub, lifting him out of the cooling water and holding him against his chest. The laird smelled of blood, and when he drew back he saw a cut on the front of his throat.
“My lord, who attacked you? Let me fetch the healer,” he said, stroking the laird’s hair.
“No, lad, I’m well. ’Tis but a scratch.” Fifer put him down and got a cloth to wrap around his wet, naked body. “I faced death tonight, and reckoned I’d never see you again.”
He bent his head down and kissed him.
Kiamh held onto his tunic when he would have straightened, and returned the kiss with fervent passion. “Never say such to me, my lord, for I cannae bear to think of my life without you.” He tugged on his arms, leading him over to his bed. “Come and rest. Rest in my arms.”
He lay down with him, holding him without speaking for a long time. Kiamh waited, unsure of what to do to soothe him. Facking again seemed too much just yet; he wished to be comforted, not satisfied. Finally he cuddled closer and kissed him on the neck, pressing his hand to his heart.
“The MacRune’s second came close to ending me over a female I rescued,” Fifer finally said, and rolled onto his back, pulling Kiamh on top of him. “Soon I fear we shall go to war with that clan. I should send you away for your safety.”
“Keep me at Dun Maor, my lord, I beg you,” Kiamh said. “If we’re parted I think I should go mad with worry. I may help the clan’s healer as well if your men come home wounded.”
The laird sighed. “You’re too good to me, and I dinnae want to see you go. Stay, then, lad.”
Sensing this was the right time to press his cause, he nodded and stroked his hand over the muscles on Fifer’s broad chest.
“The MacRune, they’re brutes beyond what anyone imagines,” Kiamh said carefully.
“When last I went to see Healer McIan I heard two of the guards speaking of the magistrate’s lady wife.
She’s been meeting with others from the clan while her husband’s on his travels, and they planned to take her together.
She’s so delicate and the guards such brutes that I worry she shall come to harm now. ”
Fifer frowned. “I’ve heard other reports of Lady Duff’s penchant for men. You cannae report thus to her miserable husband, for I reckon he’d end her for betraying him.”
“Mayhap someone should warn her of the dangers, my lord. I’ve heard whispers that your seneschal’s befriended the lady.
Mayhap he could speak with her.” That was all he could say for now.
He let his hand drift down to the front of the laird’s trews, which bulged with an erection.
“I’m so glad you didnae come to harm at the hands of that fiend. May I adore you again?”
Rebecca spent the night and the next day in Dorchad’s bed.
He stayed and held her until dawn, and then promised to return with honey for her throat.
She dozed off again, too tired from the horrific encounter to stay awake and wait for him.
She didn’t dream, and when she woke the next time it was almost sunset.
“I can’t believe I slept all day.” She expected her voice to still be at whisper level, but it sounded normal. Her throat also seemed fine.
Her ability to speak finally convinced Dorchad to let her go downstairs to have her morning meal with Lucy while he reported to the laird. She found the other woman working alongside Ronan in the kitchens, the two bickering over some sort of pie.
“It’s better if you brush the top with beaten egg,” Lucy was saying. “It comes out of the oven with a prettier crust.”
“Why must a meal look fetching?” the cook demanded. “’Tis to be eaten, no’ admired and courted.”
“I have to look at the food, and sometimes what the girls serve resembles pig slop.” The laird’s wife held up her hand. “I know, the men can be pigs. I’m just married to one.” Her light green eyes shifted to Rebecca. “Hey, Doc. You okay?”
“Better than I expected to be,” she admitted. “Do you have a minute to talk?”
“Beaten egg, all over the top, or we’ll revisit you taking a vacation, sir,” the laird’s wife told the cook before dusting off her hands and leaving with Rebecca.