injured.”
At least Isla now knew why Deirdre hadn’t claimed Marcail’s blood for her own. However, it wouldn’t take Deirdre long to realize Marcail wasn’t dead. And then what?
“Now tell me,” Grania demanded, “did all the Warriors attack the Druid?”
“Nearly. It was brutal. You would have loved it. Now, I must go. I have duties to see to.”
Grania’s blue eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me summon you. You are my aunt, after all. You should visit me often. If I have to call for you again, you won’t enjoy what I do to you.”
“It is never my intention to ignore you, Grania. My duties take me away from the mountain as you well know.”
But Grania was no longer paying attention. Isla took measured steps out of the chamber. Not until she was in the hallway did she breathe freely. Her once vivacious niece had been turned into a wicked monster with a thirst for blood and gore that would rival the Romans’.
Marcail missed the sun. It had only been hours since she last saw it, but already she yearned for it. There was no need for Deirdre to torture her or throw her into the Pit. Just deny her the warmth and light of the sun and Marcail would slowly go insane.
“I’ve brought you something,” Quinn said as he squatted before her as she sat on the floor.
Marcail’s eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light well enough that she was able to see Quinn’s face clearly. Finally. He had pulled back his hair into a queue at the base of his neck, revealing a face women would die for.
Quinn’s was perfection. His strong jawline was dusted with dark whiskers, giving him a lethal appearance and accentuating his firm lips and hollowed cheeks. The beard wasn’t full, which told her he had shaved not too long ago. Though she didn’t mind the beard, she wanted to see him without it.
His forehead was high with dark brows that slashed over eyes of the palest green. She had seen enough of his silhouette in her short time to know he was as tall and muscular as any man in the Pit. But there was a presence about him, an air of command, that got everyone’s attention. Including her own.
“Marcail?”
She blinked and made herself look away from his spectacular eyes. “Forgive me. I’ve never seen eyes the color of yours.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “I could say the same for yours.”
For a moment they stared at each other.
Finally, Quinn cleared his throat. “Your eyes have adjusted to the darkness, then?”
“They are better, aye. The light from the torch also helps. You said you brought me something?”
“Aye. Food. It isn’t much, but it’s something.”
Marcail had been so wrapped up in being in the dark that she hadn’t realized how hungry she was. Just then her stomach growled.
“Eat your fill,” Quinn said as he handed her a loaf of bread. “I will get more if you need it.”
Marcail placed her hand on his arm before he could leave. The feel of thick sinew bunching beneath her palm made her yearn to touch more. “Let me share with you.”
“You need it more than I.”
“Please, Quinn. I don’t want anyone going hungry so that I may be fed.” She broke the loaf in half and held it out. “Won’t you eat with me?”
For a brief moment she thought he would refuse. He eventually took the bread and moved to sit beside her.
Maybe it was because he had saved her, maybe it was because he was a MacLeod, but she trusted Quinn. That trust might very well end her life, but she knew she would die in Deirdre’s mountain one way or another.
“You see in the dark, don’t you?” she asked.
He nodded slowly.
“Why then are there torches down here?”
“For Deirdre. She may be powerful and immortal, but she doesn’t have the powers our gods have given us.”
Marcail pulled a piece of bread apart and popped it into her mouth. “Interesting.”
“How did Deirdre capture you?”
She was surprised by the question. She glanced at Quinn as she finished chewing. “Wyrran were spotted near our village. In the past, small groups of wyrran would roam the countryside looking for Druids. Those were the ones we always fought. But this time, they had a leader. A man.”
“Dunmore,” Quinn spat.
“Aye. I knew they had come looking for me. I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone being killed so I made the decision to leave the village. By that time already half of the village had left to save themselves.”
“That was foolish.”
“It is the thought of every person on this earth to live another day. We all knew what awaited us if Deirdre captured us. I do not blame them for running.”
“Then you left as well?”
“I did. It kept Dunmore and the wyrran from following the others. I stayed to the forest and led them about for nearly a week.”
His brows rose. “A week? That’s impressive.”
“Only because I knew the land. Impressive would have been escaping.”
“You couldna have escape’d the wyrran, Marcail. Magic aided them on their quest to find you.”
“I know.”
“What happened once you arrived here?”
Marcail took a deep breath. “I was immediately brought to Deirdre. She knew I have knowledge of the spell locked in my mind, but she didn’t try to find it. Why?”
“I’m guessing it’s because she’s afraid to.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Quinn shifted to his side so he faced her. “Deirdre is nothing if not intelligent. She hasn’t gotten the power she has now by making costly decisions. I think she knew she couldna kill you or extract the spell the same way she knew you had the spell to begin with.”
“And how is that?”
“Black magic.”
Marcail shook her head. “As a Druid I know just how powerful magic can be, but to get the answers she somehow has…There has to be something else.”
“You know
“If that’s so, why doesn’t she have your brothers?”
Quinn found himself smiling again. Marcail’s mind was quick. “Probably the same reason it took her three hundred years to capture me.”
“Which is?”
“We fought her.”
Marcail grinned, making Quinn forget to breathe. He would never tire of looking at her. She was exquisite. So pure in spirit and form that it boggled his mind that she was sitting next to him.
“There are Druids who fight her. The difference is our magic cannot touch hers,” she said.
Quinn didn’t want to talk about Deirdre any more. He reached out and touched one of the small braids that hung from Marcail’s temple down to her breast. “Why do you braid your hair like this?”
“The holder of the spell always has bound her hair this way. It’s a tradition that has been in my family since before Rome left Britain.”
He glanced at the wealth of sable waves that fell down her back nearly to her hips and wanted to plunge his hands in the strands.
“I like it,” he said.
