When Marcail tilted her head to the side she could see Quinn and his midnight skin fading into the shadows that surrounded him. Her curiosity was too great not to want to know what was going on. Her heart pounded in her ears as her anxiety rose.
“Easy,” Duncan whispered to her. “All will be well.”
Marcail wanted to believe the light blue Warrior, but nothing had been “well” for her in weeks, years even.
“It’s not Deirdre.”
She looked up at the big Warrior. Only his silhouette could be seen, but even that little bit showed her his gaze was riveted on Quinn.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“The other Warriors. If it was Deirdre, they would hide.”
The only Warrior she could catch a glimpse of besides Quinn, Arran, and Ian was the one across from them. The Warrior leaned one shoulder casually against the stones, his arms crossed over his thick chest.
The torchlight flickered, revealing his copper skin and chin-length brown hair that parted in the middle and hung on either side of his face. His kilt was in better condition than the twins’, but she didn’t recognize the tartan. On either side of the Warrior’s temples were two thick horns that curved around his forehead.
If the Warrior was any indication, Duncan was correct and it wasn’t Deirdre who was coming into the Pit. But if it wasn’t Deirdre, then who was it?
“Quinn,” a deep voice echoed through the Pit.
Quinn wasn’t surprised to find Broc beckoning him. What did the flying Warrior want, though? Quinn had the urge to look back at Marcail, but he kept his head forward and trusted Duncan to watch over her.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Arran asked.
“Nay. I’ll deal with Broc on my own.”
Quinn hadn’t understood Broc’s need to torment him while he had been in the mountain, but the indigo Warrior made sure to look in on Quinn often enough.
Whatever Broc wanted, he didn’t wish for the others to hear it. Broc wasn’t afraid of anything, not even being attacked in the Pit. It had been Quinn’s plan. Attack the Warrior, and he would get free. Though Arran and the twins were up for the task, the other Warriors refused to commit to the plan.
Quinn took his time walking to the door that locked them in the Pit. As with everything, the door was made of stone, with a square large enough for food to be passed through but too small for anyone to escape through. Besides, Deirdre had used her magic, and no matter the power of a Warrior, he wouldn’t be able to flee the Pit without the door being opened.
And even then it was risky.
“What do you want?” Quinn demanded when he reached the door.
Broc flexed his great wings that loomed over his head and folded his arms over his chest. “Your time is running out.”
“Does Deirdre send you here to annoy me, because you aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know?”
Broc rolled his eyes. “You may be the smart one of the brothers, but sometimes, Quinn MacLeod, you are dense.”
Now that got Quinn’s attention. He moved closer to the door and lowered his voice. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you really believe Fallon and Lucan will come for you?”
“Without a doubt.” Though he’d had his reservations a time or two. After all, he hadn’t been the best of brothers.
Broc glanced at the guard to his left and lowered his voice. “She will make it difficult for them and you. She wants you, Quinn, wants you enough to make sure you never leave.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I think you need to understand where you stand. You’ve been in the Pit for a few weeks. You’ve stated your authority with the Warriors, which just proved to Deirdre that you are the one she needs.”
Quinn narrowed his gaze on Broc. “It doesna matter what she threatens me with, I will never succumb to her.”
“Be careful what you say,” Broc warned and backed up a step. “Your time is running out.”
Quinn wanted to call Broc back and ask why he had repeated that last statement. Just what did Broc know? Quinn knew better than to ask the Warrior, though he longed to call him back. If Broc had wanted him to know, the Warrior would have said.
Quinn turned and walked back to his cave. He didn’t stop at the entrance but continued inside to Marcail. As soon as she saw him, she stood, once Duncan had moved aside.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“One of Deirdre’s Warriors, named Broc. He’s the only Warrior I know that has wings.”
“Wings?” she repeated, her eyes wide.
Quinn nodded and glanced down to the torch that Duncan grabbed to relight. “Every Warrior is different.”
“I’m beginning to realize that,” she murmured. “What did Broc want?”
“To warn me.” Quinn looked from Arran to the twins. “Broc asked if I was sure my brothers would come.”
Arran snorted. “Of course they will come.”
Quinn began to wonder, though. Maybe Deirdre hadn’t told his brothers where he was, as he had been led to believe. Maybe she’d told Lucan and Fallon that he had joined her.
He should never have run from his brothers no matter how painful it was to see Lucan and Cara together. If, no,
“What else did Broc say?” Ian asked.
Quinn shrugged. “He just wanted to remind me that Deirdre has noticed how I’ve taken over down here.”
“I assume that has pleased her,” Arran said dryly.
“Unfortunately.” Quinn looked down at his black claws. They were long and sharp and had seen much blood since his god had been unbound. How much more blood would have to be spilled before he found some peace?
Marcail’s hand touched his arm. In a heartbeat he tamped his god down. He didn’t like her being around him when he was transformed. It was silly, he knew. She saw the others in their Warrior form, but he had spent so many years with some part of his god showing that he wanted to prove to himself he was in complete control.
It took a moment for him to realize the others had left him and Marcail alone.
“They are never far from you,” she said of his men.
Quinn looked back at her hand on his arm. “You touch me more freely than anyone ever has.”
“And that bothers you?” She let her arm drop to her side.
“It should.”
“My grandmother taught us that sometimes a touch can do more for a person than any amount of words.”
Quinn clenched his hand in an effort not to wrap his fingers around her wrist and pull her against him. “Your grandmother was very wise.”
“Why is it my touch disturbs you so?”
“I told you. It’s because I’m not used to it.”
She shook her head, the rows of braids falling into her eyes. “That’s very sad.”
“My wife didn’t like my touch.”
Quinn wasn’t sure what made him share such a secret with Marcail. It could be because the Druid hadn’t judged him in any way, or it could be that he just wanted to talk about Elspeth.
Marcail grabbed his fist with both of her hands and gently pried open his fingers. She sat on the slab and tugged him down beside her. “What kind of woman wouldn’t want your touch? You’re a handsome man who comes from a powerful family. You had your pick of women, didn’t you?”
