CHAPTER FOUR #2
Brie did fear him. He made her uncomfortable, and he was so unpredictable. She was terrified of the Wolf. But she didn’t think he would hurt her. She’d meant what she’d said earlier. He’d had many chances to do so. “He still has a conscience.”
Malcolm started. “Ye have faith. I am pleased.”
Claire spoke grimly. “Befriend him—save him if you can—but do not trust him,” she warned.
Brie knew it was really good advice. And the truth was, she didn’t quite trust him, so Claire’s advice would be easy to follow.
Malcolm spoke. “I still fear fer ye, lass. In good conscience, I canna leave an’ Innocent in this place with my brother. Would ye care to come to Dunroch with us? Ye can save him in bits an’ pieces, from a safe distance.”
Brie wasn’t going anywhere. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll stay here.” She couldn’t befriend Aidan if she was at Dunroch. She stared at the handsome couple. “Do you guys know Black Royce and the lady of Carrick?”
Malcolm smiled. “Royce is my uncle, lass, and we ken them well.”
Brie felt so much relief. She desperately needed backup, and Allie was the best backup there was. “Are they far from here?”
“By horse, Carrick is a two- or three-day ride, depending on the time of year,” Claire said, grinning. “I should have known you and Allie were friends. I’ll let her know that you’re at Awe.”
“Thank you,” Brie said. She wasn’t as alone as she’d been an hour ago, and now, understanding more of what had happened to Aidan, her purpose was becoming clearer. “I have one more question. What is today’s date?”
“’Tis November 18th,” Malcolm said. “November the 18th, in the year 1502.”
Brie froze in horror.
HE LAY IN THE COLD, WET EARTH, panting hard, uncontrollably, his head on his paws. Overhead, the moon was huge and bright. Brianna could see his son.
He’d howled his anguish until he could not howl anymore. Why could she see Ian when no one else could, except for him?
The pack of wolves that had gathered, heeding his despair, ringed him in the glade where he lay unmoving, overcome with torment.
The females wanted him; the males would die for him, and they would remain there until he changed forms, protecting him.
He made no move to do so. In that moment, he did not ever want to go back to Castle Awe.
Why had Ian gone to her today, instead of to him?
And why could she see him so clearly, for long moments, when he was cursed with a brief glimpse?
A wolf could not weep. A wolf could not moan. He rose up on his haunches, and this time when he howled, the sound reverberated through the forests and to the mountain peaks. The pack took up his cries.
His son had been haunting him since the day he had been murdered.
It did not matter whether he was at Awe, at Dunroch, at court or in battle, whether in the future or the past—the moment came unfailingly every single day.
He might be turning the corner of a corridor, leaving the great hall or exiting a stairwell.
He could be hunting a stag, or in the bow of a galley.
But from the corner of his eye, suddenly and with no warning, he would glimpse his small son.
And for one heart-stopping instant he would come face-to-face with Ian, who would stand there looking at him, so very frightened, and then vanish.
There had been 14,093 such moments in the past sixty-six years.
But today, Ian had gone to Brianna.
What did it mean?
No one had ever glimpsed the small ghost except for Aidan. He knew that his servants thought him mad, as did Malcolm and most of Alba. And now she had seen Ian, too.
Not a single day passed in which he did not yearn for and anticipate that momentary sight of the only person he still loved.
Not a single day went by in which he didn’t dread the sight of his dead son.
Because that single glimpse wasn’t enough. That single glimpse was torture. It was so obvious that Ian wished to speak with him—but the moment he tried to do so, Ian would vanish.
The howls faded. The pack was restless, sensing his intent. Aidan stood, hackles raised, the pack gathering. Her image was engraved on his mind. He did not want her at Awe—he did not want her in his life—but he would never let her go now.
He bounded into the woods, the pack following, to take out his fury on the innocent beasts of the wood.
“HAVE YE SETTLED HER FER THE NIGHT?” Malcolm asked with a smile. As concerned as he was for his brother, the sight of his wife always made his heart leap and his body stir.
Claire closed the chamber door behind her. “Yes. She’s so exhausted, she passed out the moment her head hit the pillow. Malcolm, I’m worried about her.”
Malcolm went to her, pulling her into his arms, wanting to pleasure her a hundred times before the sun rose but knowing their passion had to wait. “Claire, I can send her back against her wishes.”
“I know, but she’s so determined, Malcolm. She is not what I would have expected, not for Aidan.”
He looked into his wife’s beautiful eyes.
“Yer a warrior, Lady Allie is a healer an’ Lady Tabitha has great spells.
But can I remind ye that when we first met, ye had no clear power?
An’ when Lady Tabitha first arrived at Blayde, her spells often failed.
Only Lady Allie had great powers when she came to the past.”
Claire bit her lip. “She’s a computer geek, Malcolm. She told me so. She works for CDA, but in the basement. She does research. She isn’t a warrior, a healer or a witch. If Aidan chooses, he will destroy her. She is no match for him. He’s probably already seduced her and used her.”
“She has gifts, Claire,” Malcolm reminded her gently, “and a powerful faith.”
“Yes, she has a deep faith in Aidan, Malcolm. The kind of faith I had in you, the kind of faith Allie had in Royce, the kind of faith Tabby had in Guy. She is in love with him, even if she doesn’t know it.”
“An’ ye dinna think she can survive her love—an’ his hate?”
“I am afraid for her. I want to protect her for the journey she seems intent to start upon,” Claire cried.
“So ye wish fer me to send her back?” he asked, bemused. He knew his wife so well now, and he knew her answer.
Claire hesitated. If she had learned one thing, it was that love could heal anyone and that Fate was the strangest of bedfellows. She had been in over her head with Malcolm, but the impossible had happened—their love had triumphed against all odds.
Reading her mind as he always did, Malcolm said, “She’s a pretty lass, Claire. Mayhap she’s meant to bring my brother back. She thinks so. That kind o’ faith will serve her well.”
Claire breathed, aware that the wrong decision could mean Brie’s death. “Let’s give her a few days,” she said. “Let’s give Aidan a few days.”
brIE WASN’T SURE WHAT AWOKE HER, but suddenly she was staring at a night-darkened ceiling, aware that she was not alone.
Claire had shown her to a small chamber on an upper floor.
She and Claire had begun a conversation about the Brotherhood, and Claire had started to tell her about three holy books and a shrine, but Brie had been too tired—and too upset about the date of her arrival in the past—to listen.
Then she had seen the bed and stumbled toward it, falling into it without even removing her Sketchers.
Brie knew she’d passed out the moment her head had hit the pillow.
Now Brie slowly sat up, trying to adjust her rotten vision to the darkness. A small fire remained, dancing in the hearth. She blinked, tension arising. There was a shadow at the foot of her bed.
She felt so much male power, neither black nor white.
She breathed nervously. “Aidan?”
The shadow did not move or speak.
Brie knew it was Aidan, but he emanated no emotion at all, just heat. She tried to stay calm, but it was impossible. “Is everything all right?”
Suddenly he walked to the fireplace and began throwing more wood into it. The fire blazed, illuminating him as he turned back to her. “Dinna fear me,” he said harshly. Across the small chamber, their gazes locked. “I willna hurt ye.”
Brie did not move. There was only his presence and his power and her acute senses and gifts. In the vacuum of the night, she knew he meant his every word.
She stared toward his blurry shape and he stared back.
She thought about the fact that it was November 1502, and he would hang by the end of the year—if history was right.
She thought about the fact that a long time ago—she did not know how long—his own father had murdered his child.
She thought about the fact that he had once been a man who smiled easily and defended Innocence.
He was grieving now, furious, and he was being haunted by his own dead child.
He hadn’t answered her. She didn’t know why he had come to her room, but she knew she wasn’t in any jeopardy. Compassion swelled. He had spent the night mourning his son. She would never forget the sound of the Wolf howling at the orange moon.
“Are you all right?” she asked again softly.
He remained facing her, too far away for her to see his features or expression. “Aye.”
She needed to see his face. She wanted to know what he was feeling and thinking, without having to experience it as an empath.
On the other hand, she hesitated, because it was the middle of the night, and they were alone in her bedchamber.
She pulled the covers up higher. “Aidan, I met Malcolm and Claire.”
His answer was to take the room’s single chair and move it closer to the bed. He didn’t sit down. “I wish to speak with ye, Brianna.”
She wasn’t surprised. His emotions were blocked, so they might have a normal conversation. She was almost thrilled. “I guess it must be pretty urgent.”
“’Twill be dawn shortly. Please come an’ sit.”