Chapter 6 #3
The trajectory veered away at a sharp angle, and the rock landed in the fire. Flames, smoke, and sparks exploded outward.
'Slud! How had that been possible?
The strange woman's face flickered and blurred to gaunt and older, like an illusion.
What on earth? Her hair shimmered as if moonlight beamed over it, turning it from dark brown to flaming ginger.
Her midnight eyes glowed and lightened to a vicious, poisonous green.
Elsea blinked hard, thinking her head injury must have skewed her vision.
But nay, she had seen that woman before.
She murmured unintelligible words and... vanished.
The witch!
Elsea's gaze searched the cavern, her head throbbing.
'Twas the witch who had threatened to kill Brodie. She had cursed him, Torr, and Gavin.
Why was Brodie here with her? Having a tryst? The idea turned her stomach. Did he ken who she was?
Nay, the witch had altered her appearance.
Elsea remembered her name. "Wilona MacRae."
The witch appeared right in front of Elsea, startling her backward.
"That's Lady MacRae to you. And if you tell Brodie who I am, I will kill him," she promised in a low, guttural sound.
'Twas the same threat she'd made a year and a half earlier, the one that had destroyed Elsea's life.
Would the hag do it? Or was that an empty threat?
"If 'tis true, why are you having a tryst with him?" Elsea demanded.
Wilona smirked. "I find him... entertaining. Is it nay rich that he is giving immense pleasure to the woman who cursed him, and who could easily slit his throat?"
Nausea welled. "You disgust me! He deserves to ken who you are, at least."
"Keep your gob shut, wench, or I shall turn you into a mouse. Or better yet...." The witch spoke ancient Gaelic words in a rhyming tone that sent a chill over Elsea.
Was that a spell? She opened her mouth to ask, but when she tried to speak, sharp pain speared her vocal cords. She grabbed her throat.
"What goes on here?" Brodie demanded, striding into the cave.
Her first sight of him was like a glimpse of heaven.
Breath refused to enter her lungs. It would not flow past her aching throat.
She drank in the gorgeous sight of him, so much more real and stunning than her memories and dreams. Midnight hair, a few inches longer than when she'd last seen him, a short beard, as if he hadn't shaved in a fortnight, and spellbinding eyes.
He wore a belted plaid about his waist and naught else.
The honed muscles of his shoulders, chest, and abdomen were even more pronounced than when she'd last seen him bare.
His wounded soul shone through his obsidian eyes, and she dropped her gaze.
I am sorry.
Her eyes felt like the sea, overflowing with salt tears. She wiped at them and forced a burning swallow down her throat.
"Oh, my darling!" Wilona put on her youthful glamour, then whirled to face Brodie.
"When did she wake up?" Brodie demanded, his dagger sharp glare shot toward Elsea.
"A moment ago." Wilona waved a dismissive hand. "She's as addled as a daft mouse. Cannot speak, poor thing."
His eyes narrowed on Elsea. "Say something."
She opened her mouth, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not force out a sound. Pain latched on to her throat again, and she placed her hand around it.
"Do you remember me?" Brodie's tone was surly.
She nodded. Of course. How could she forget?
"She has her wits about her," Brodie said, his mistrustful gaze scrutinizing her.
"Doubtful," Wilona scoffed. "She wishes to please you, as all women do, my handsome beast," she said in a teasing tone.
He snapped his glare to Wilona, but he had no clue 'twas indeed Wilona. She had him fleeced. Elsea wished she could enlighten him.
"Move back. You're scaring her," Brodie ordered.
"Nonsense." Wilona smirked. "We get on just fine. We've become fast friends."
"Her eyes are as wide as platters," he said.
"She's a lackwit. That head wound has done her in. She's fit for naught but Bedlam now." Wilona eyed her, grinning.
How on earth could she tell Brodie that his mistress was the very witch who had trapped him in a curse and promised to murder him? Elsea had no way of communicating.
"Try to speak," he urged.
Hesitating, Elsea nodded, then attempted to make an ahh sound, at least. But nothing happened, except a burning ache in her throat.
"I must get her to Farspag and Finnian," Brodie said.
"Nay!" Wilona shrieked. "He will kill the lass."
"Are you mad? You don't even ken Finnian. He's a physician."
"I know of him. He's an evil sorcerer."
Elsea's second cousin Torr had an elder clansman named Finnian who was a physician. Why was he at Farspag instead of with the MacPherson clan?
"He has special abilities, but he's nay evil. I'll take you to the mainland," Brodie told Elsea. "Back away, Margaret! Leave her be."
The witch threw her hands into the air, whirled, and stormed toward the other cavern, mumbling more sinister ancient Gaelic words in a guttural tone. She paused in the opening and turned to glower at Elsea.
Warm liquid dripped from the ceiling onto Elsea's head. Cringing aside, she swiped her hand over her hair and found it covered in dark blood. She tried to gasp, but no sound emerged.
Her thoughts vanished as she stared at the blood.
She could not figure out why blood stained her hand, or—she glanced around—where she stood.
'Twas as if swirling mist off the sea flooded into her mind. She knew she was Elsea MacAuley. She remembered her parents, her brothers, and her clan. Her home was at Kincreag. But this place and these two people... she had no memory of them.