Wicked Highlander

But then he thought of his conversation with Broc and the Warrior’s words of warning.

“You’re frowning,” Marcail said.

“Broc told me I was running out of time.”

“What does that mean?”

Quinn leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. His head dropped down as he blew out a deep breath. “I have no idea. I’m assuming it has something to do with Deirdre. Everything in this cursed place has to do with that bitch.”

“Lucan and Fallon will come, Quinn. I know they will.”

Quinn wished he had her confidence.

Charon tapped his copper claw against the rocks at the entrance to his cave. He hated the Pit, hated the mountain, but just as with the rest of them, he wouldn’t be leaving any time soon.

He would depart before many of them, though. Deirdre had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Everyone suspected there was a spy in the Pit, but no one had realized it was him.

Though he was interested in what Quinn MacLeod did, Charon didn’t enjoy spying when he was forced into it. He liked to choose his own vices, and he had many.

He was surprised at how quickly Quinn had stamped his domination over the Warriors in the Pit. Charon hadn’t fought him. Yet. It would come to that eventually. But Charon was biding his time.

Everyone had a weakness, including the great Quinn MacLeod. Charon would find that weak spot and use it to his advantage against Quinn and Deirdre. It was all a matter of time before Charon put this heap of stone behind him and got back to the pursuits he enjoyed.

Charon smiled at Arran, the white Warrior who always stood near Quinn. Arran didn’t trust Charon, as well he shouldn’t. What was interesting was Quinn saving the woman. Not that Charon wouldn’t have helped her.

He was a man after all. It had been a terribly long time since he had slaked his lust between a woman’s thighs. And the wee Druid was certainly delectable enough.

Quinn, however, had reached her first. And now Quinn sheltered her as if she were the answer to his prayers. Arran and the twins were never far from the woman either.

Fascinating, very fascinating.

Charon wasn’t surprised when Arran walked across the space to him. “More protective than usual, aren’t you?”

Arran stopped in front of him. “Tell me, Charon, why haven’t you sided with us? You don’t help Deirdre. The more Warriors on Quinn’s side, the better our chances of escaping.”

“It’s been many decades since anyone has escaped from this mountain. I doona expect to be seeing someone do it anytime soon.”

“Why not help?”

“Why should I?” Charon asked.

A muscle in Arran’s jaw jumped. “Because we’re put in here to either die or convert. Personally, I would rather do neither. Quinn is our best hope.”

“He’s your best hope. For me, I look to myself.”

“One day you’re going to need my help, and I’m going to be in the position to tell you nay.”

Charon laughed. “That day will never come.”

“We shall see,” Arran said before he turned on his heel and strode away.

He kept the smile in place even as Arran disappeared into Quinn’s cave. Charon didn’t like predictions of any kind, because he had learned early on just how far a foretelling could go.

Marcail tried to pass the time by thinking of the spells her grandmother had taught her instead of gazing at Quinn like a girl who had never seen a handsome man before.

She had seen handsome men, but none of them had been Quinn MacLeod.

For all her words to Quinn, Marcail had kept much of her mother’s ideas throughout her learning. The Druid ways hadn’t been part of Marcail’s upbringing, so to hear her grandmother spout words such as “war to end all wars” and “the end of all that is good in this world” hadn’t meant much to Marcail.

They hadn’t until Dunmore and the wyrran had shown up at her village. All the while Marcail had run through the forest she had tried to recall every word her grandmother had ever told her. But it was too late.

The magic she should have held easily within her body didn’t respond when she called it forth. She could heal herself, aye, but only because her grandmother had made her do it every day while she had been alive.

Her grandmother had made Marcail practice it so often that it had become second nature to her, unlike any of her other magic. Marcail’s one great power, discerning people’s feelings, came to her at unexpected times. And other times, like now, when she wanted to discover what kept Quinn so reserved, her magic ignored her call.

It was beyond frustrating. And she hated herself at that moment. Her grandmother had tried to warn her, tried to prepare her for what was to come. Maybe it was because Marcail hadn’t paid attention as she should have that her grandmother had buried the spell to bind the gods in Marcail’s mind.

Marcail held out her hands. The flickering light of the torch cast her hands in a red-orange glow. She had the hands of a Druid, with strong Druid blood in her veins, but she couldn’t help the men around her fight a relentless evil.

At one time the mie could have stood against Deirdre, but Deirdre had kept her growing power to herself, quietly hunting along the countryside for any Druids and stealing their power. By the time that the mie realized what she was about, Deirdre’s magic was too strong. It would have taken many mie standing against Deirdre, and the Druids, both mie and drough alike, were too afraid of her.

Marcail sighed and clenched her hands. She could focus her power and make a flower bloom, but she had nothing with which to fight Deirdre or aid Quinn and his brothers on their quest. She was useless as a Druid.

No wonder Deirdre hadn’t taken the time to kill her herself. There wasn’t enough magic in her blood to do Deirdre any good.

A shadow moved and came towards her. Marcail spotted the pale blue skin and long brown hair of Duncan.

He regarded her for a moment in silence. “You are quiet, lady.”

“The gloom makes me reflect on the past, which is never a good thing.”

“We cannot outrun our pasts, no matter how much we want to.”

Wise words. “Is it always this still down here?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes there are fights between Warriors like there was the other night.”

Marcail frowned. Had there been a fight? She didn’t remember hearing one, but she was a heavy sleeper. There was a distinct chance she slept right through it. “Do you ever get involved in a fight?”

“Only if I have to,” he said with a shrug of his thick shoulder. “My loyalty is to my brother, Quinn, and Arran. I will always side with them in battle.”

“How long have you been down here?”

“Much longer than Quinn, but not as long as Arran.”

Which told her nothing, but then again, a person could lose track of time in the darkness. “Were you and Arran friends before Quinn came?”

“We didn’t fight each other if that’s what you mean.”

Marcail glanced at Quinn again. He hadn’t moved from his spot just inside the entrance to his cave. He stood in the shadows, but she felt his presence. “And Quinn? Did you fight him?”

“As soon as he was captured, Deirdre’s Warriors couldna stop bragging that they’d caught one of the MacLeods. I had hoped to meet Quinn, but I never expected Deirdre to toss him in the Pit.”

“But she did.”

“Aye, she did. Ian and I knew by the way she spoke to Quinn that he could be the MacLeod we’d heard so much aboot. Deirdre was careful never to speak his name. It didn’t take us long to discover it, though.”

“I gather the others fought him?”

Duncan scratched his chin. “The way to survive down here is to prove that you cannot be beaten, that you are the strongest, the most powerful. When someone new is thrown in, a fight is the first thing that happens. It was so with Quinn. Ian and I stayed back and watched. All the stories we had heard telling what great fighters the MacLeods were did not lie.”