Chapter 30
Broc knew he held Sonya too tight, but he couldn’t seem to make his arms loosen their hold. There had been a moment when panic set in and the door wouldn’t budge.
Visions raced through his mind of her suffocating painfully, slowly as he stood outside the tomb.
“We should leave,” Fallon said.
Broc nodded and buried his face in Sonya’s neck.
“Wai—” Sonya said just as Fallon put his hand on Broc’s shoulder.
“—t.”
Broc lifted his head when they arrived at the bailey of MacLeod Castle. Fallon and Galen moved away as Broc looked down at Sonya.
There was sadness and disappointment in her gaze. “There was something I wanted to show you,” she told him.
“Something in the tomb?”
“Aye. There was a sword with the body, a sword with Celtic designs and Gaelic writing.”
Broc glanced at Fallon. “We can always return later. I needed to get you away from the burial mound before Deirdre decided to attack again.”
He wasn’t able to say more as the women surrounded Sonya. He stepped back, his gaze never leaving hers. Soon she was swept into the castle. Sonya turned and looked at Broc once more before the castle doors shut behind her.
Broc tamped down his god as he blinked and focused on the Warriors around him. It was Galen’s curious stare which caught his attention. “What is it?”
Galen lifted a shoulder in a shrug, his blue eyes troubled. “I’m no’ sure. I saw...something... in Sonya’s mind when I touched her on our return.”
“What?” Broc demanded. His heart lurched as he thought of her thinking of another man.
Galen blew out a long breath. “All I saw was spirals. Two spirals, actually. They were connected.”
“The equinox,” Ramsey said.
Broc didn’t like the feeling that began to fill his chest. “There were many spirals carved all over the tomb, as well as other designs.”
Fallon slapped Broc on the shoulder. “Maybe we should ask Sonya. Until the women are finished with her, why no’ rest?”
Broc knew if he went into the castle he’d seek out Sonya. Instead, he took the path around the castle by the kitchen down to the sea to think. Of Sonya, the curse, and his future.
He stood on the shore and watched the waves roll in. The cliffs on either side of him stood like sentries guarding the MacLeod land.
Waves crashed violently against the rocks, sending spray high into the air as the razorbills flew along the swift air currents, their cries drowned out by the roar of the sea.
A sound, barely discernible to his enhanced hearing, reached him. Broc shifted his eyes to the side and caught sight of Ramsey.
“You look troubled,” his friend said.
Broc picked up a small rock at his feet and tossed it into the sea. It bounced on the water several times be-sore sinking out of sight. “Have you ever wanted something so desperately that you knew you could never have? And then suddenly, it’s yours?”
“I've no' been so fortunate. I do know what it is to long for something you cannot have. If you’ve wanted this thing, and it’s now yours, why does that cause a problem?”
"There is a difference in craving something you know you cannot have and having something you know you cannot keep.”
One side of Ramsey’s lips lifted in a smile as his silver eyes met Broc’s. “You would be wise to let Sonya make her own decisions, my friend.”
“What makes you think I speak of her?”
Ramsey snorted. “I doona need magic to sense there is a bond between you. All I have to do is look at you together.”
Broc sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. There was a bond between him and Sonya, a bond he had tried to ignore but couldn’t. A bond that had grown stronger, steadier each moment they had been together.
A bond that could kill her thanks to his curse.
Deirdre’s gaze scanned the valley. Only two of her wyrran remained, but that wasn’t what infuriated her. What had raised her ire was that she hadn’t realized until after she had run away from the burial mound that power had been used.
It hadn’t been Druid magic. It had been the power of a Warrior.
There was only one Warrior who could alter a person’s perception of their surroundings with such ease.
“Phelan,” she murmured.
His power was so great, she and her wyrran had thought they were being attacked by at least a dozen Warriors.
Their claws had felt real as they scoured her skin, their roars loud to her ears.
It had been so authentic that most of her wyrran had died because of the wounds they believed had been inflicted upon them.
“Where are you hiding, Phelan? Do you watch me still?”
She knew the gold Warrior loathed her. He had sworn many times through the years that he would kill her.
Is that what he had planned? Or had he been helping Broc?
Neither scenario was acceptable. Phelan was a prize she had kept to herself for many decades.
Few knew of his existence. Not even Broc had known of the Warrior.
It hadn’t taken her long to determine it had been Isla who freed Phelan. Isla had never forgiven herself for deceiving the boy and taking him away from his family. Deirdre wasn’t sure whom Phelan hated more: her or Isla.
She pushed aside thoughts of Phelan and strode toward the burial mound, the wyrran close at her heels. Deirdre looked to the one on her left. “Open the door of the tomb.”
No sooner had the wyrran walked beneath the archway than it screamed and smoke billowed from inside.
“So, the spells are as powerful as legend says,” she murmured to herself.
She sank onto the ground and spread the black skirts of her gown around her. If she wanted in the tomb, she needed to find someone else who could gain her entry.
Deirdre held her hands over the ground and called to her black magic. Words, long unheard, tumbled from her lips. Words of power, words of magic.
Her voice sank into the singsong chant of the ancient dialect. Magic, dark and potent rose up inside her, filling her.
Wind began to howl around her, lifting her long white hair. Thick, black clouds gathered overhead, darkening the skies, but she paid none of it any heed.
Her attention was on her magic. It poured from her hands as flames erupted before her. They shot high into the sky before lowering.
She smiled into the deep red flames as a face took form.
Broc rubbed his eye and shifted in his seat at one of the long tables in the great hall. He wore a new tunic of bright blue. He had no idea where it had come from, but when he had returned from his swim it, along with new breeches, had been laid on his bed.
He was sure Cara was most likely responsible. Lucan’s wife always made sure everyone had whatever clothes they wanted or needed at their disposal.
Broc ran his hands through his wet hair. He glanced at the top of the stairs, waiting to see Sonya. They hadn’t spoken of what had transpired between them. There had been no pretty words, no promises of the future.
“She’ll come,” Ramsey said from beside him.
He wanted to see Sonya with a need that bordered on obsessive. At the same time, he feared seeing her. He had enjoyed their time alone together. It had felt right, good.
Now, back at the castle, would they go back to trying their best to ignore the passion which tied them together? It was for the best, but Broc wasn’t sure he could keep his hands off Sonya after having her for his own.
She was his calm in the storm that was his life.
He felt the strength, the sensuous touch of her magic a heartbeat before she came into sight. He lifted his eyes to her and sucked in a breath.
Her long flame curls were free of her braid. They hung in vibrant disarray down to her waist and over her shoulders to her breasts. The pale yellow gown only accentuated her hair and the amber color of her eyes.
Eyes that were locked on him.
Broc slowly rose to his feet as she descended the stain.
She said not a word to anyone as she walked down the opposite side of the table from him.
He expected her to stop and sit across from him.
Her steps slowed as she neared, but she continued on to the head of the table.
Once there, she looked around at the occupants, but her gaze returned to Broc.
He started toward her when she gave a barely discernible shake of her head.
Broc didn’t like the pain that swept through him.
So, she wanted to pretend the intimacy they had shared had never happened.
Maybe she knew the curse she had been so hasty to disregard was real and she wanted no part of him.
Broc looked away from her and sat. If that’s what she wanted, that was what he would give her.
For Sonya, he’d cut out his own heart.