Demon Laird (Legacy of the Mist Clans) (27 page)

It was a good plan except for one problem.

Her gaze fell on his face now relaxed in sleep. She liked it here, with the clan, and she felt she had earned her place here. But she had to admit one simple truth. She didn’t want to leave Ronan.

“Lassie,” his voice, harsh and grating
, made her jump.

To her surprise
, his eyes were open and he gazed at her intently. The draught should have knocked him senseless by now.

“I
dinna like the expression on yer face. What troubles ye?”

“Nothing to worry over, Ronan,” she said and smiled
, continuing to stroke his hair.

He shocked her again by sitting up just a bit so he could wrap his arm around her waist and pull her closer.

“Stay with me, please,” he murmured.

She remembered her promise to him
—that she would not run. She nodded but pulled away enough to untie the laces of her dress and pull it over her head. Wearing only her chemise, she returned to the bed. Once again Ronan pulled her tight against him so her back was to him and his body wrapped around hers. He pulled the blankets up, and she extinguished the small candle at his bedside. As she settled, she felt him lean closer until he had buried his face in the wealth of her long hair. He pressed his lips to the skin on her neck, sending sharp tingles racing down her spine.

“
Mea dulcis puella pulchra,”
he murmured.

“What—”

“Latin… my sweet, bonny lass,” he whispered the translation into her hair and relaxed against her.

She swallowed hard
, and a few minutes later heard his soft snore and felt him finally uncoil.

****

Now
this is
the way tae awaken in the morning,
Ronan decided as he realized Lia was in his bed, her body conforming to his. No nightmares, no horrific memories, no confusion as to where he was. His arms tightened around her and he pulled her closer.

“Ronan,
” she asked sleepily, “are you awake?”

“Aye,” he murmured and buried his face in her hair until he could nuzzle her neck. He wanted nothing more than to take advantage of her at this moment. Surely making
love to her would heal the bleeding wounds on his soul.

He caught his thoughts and abruptly wanted to kick himself. How could she ever desire him? Although the scars were fading on his body, they were still there, still
abhorrent. How could she suffer his touch without recoiling?

She moved
, and despite his doubts, Ronan’s arms tightened around her. He did not wish to give her up. But she only turned in his arms so she could face him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep. “But I feel as if I can go right back tae sleep.”

“Then you probably should.”

“I should,” he admitted, but in spite of himself, he found his fingers tracing over the soft skin of her face and through the locks of her wonderful auburn hair.

“Do you want
to break your fast?”

“I am hungry,” he admitted then moved so he could nip at her ear. “But not for food.”

“Ronan!” she protested playfully and flinched. “That tickles.”

A low chuckle rumbled through him. Finding all of her ticklish spots would be a delightful adventure.

She cupped his face in her hands and gently forced him to back away. “Behave yourself.”

“Where be the fun in that?”

She smiled up at him and Ronan’s gaze focused on her lips. He started to lower his head, but suddenly she jumped out of bed. He blinked, surprised, then felt his face burn and he ducked his head.

“Ronan,” she chided. “I need to fix your medicant and I’ll get some
food started for you. After that, if you still want to sleep, you can.”

Ronan flopped back onto his pillow and threw his arm over his eyes. Disappointment roared within him
, but he marveled at himself. What in the hell had he expected? He sighed miserably.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Aye, lassie.”

She finished pulling her dress back on and Ronan wanted nothing more than to remove it immediately.

“I will be right back.”

“Aye,” he said, unable to hide
the frustration coloring his voice.

A sennight passed and Ronan groused as he realized he was approaching the same predicament as before. After sleeping deeply thanks to the draught Lia had given him, he had felt much better. The first night after was also a good night’s rest. If he had any nightmares, he did not recall them. The only thing he was disappointed about was waking up without Lia in his arms.

But the peace was short lived
, and on the second night, the nightmares returned. The third night they grew even worse, and Ronan awoke in the middle of the night, shouting his fury, pain, and terror.

He longed to hold Lia in his arms but remembered his strange hallucination. He had felt flesh under his hands
; he had been ready to snap the bastard’s neck without hesitation. The flesh he felt had to have been Lia’s.

But she still insisted he had not touched her. He paused, opening his hands and staring at them. If he had not touched Lia, why
, then, was the sensation so clear? It was almost as if he could still feel her vulnerable throat as his fingers clamped around her.

He shivered, not liking the morbid turn his thoughts were taking. He had been so close to hurting Lia, not realizing who she was. He
would never do anything to harm her and was ashamed and appalled at himself.

Day four proved to be his undoing as the night terrors awakened him almost hourly. Finally
, giving up on sleep, he rose from his bed, trying to find a diversion.

Day
s five, six, and seven, Ronan did even bother to attempt sleep. He wished Lia could give him another draught, but she was worried about dosing him again, at least until more time passed.

Unfortunately for Ronan, he once again found himself avoiding sleep, avoiding his own bed. He couldn’t take much more of this. There had to be a solution. There just had to be.

He squeezed his eyes closed as le March’s laughter whispered through his thoughts and grew in strength. “You will never be free!”

“
Nay,” Ronan snarled, barely stopping himself from putting his fist through the table. He had to be free of this! He couldn’t take any more. He snarled to himself, his hands pressing against the sides of his head, trying to silence the mocking voice within it. Then his gaze fell on his claymore. Still snarling curses, Ronan grabbed the weapon and donned his cloak.

****

After everyone was abed, Lia worked in the small room Ronan had granted her. She had a small bed, a desk, and enough room to keep her medicant chests. But more importantly, it was far enough removed that she could work by candlelight, documenting in her journal, mixing various medicants, and not disturb anyone else. She was also not far from Ronan’s solar. His strength steadily returned and his healing seemed well underway, but she was glad she was not far should something unexpected arise. She worried most over his violent fits and the blow he had received to his head. Although the fits seemed to be leveling off, if he should have one and fall and strike the back of his head again, it was possible it could cause his death.

Lia sat, staring at her journal, deciding it was time
to attempt more specific adjustments to his medicant. A strange sound reached her and she looked up. Her worried thoughts from moments ago returned with a vengeance. She wore only her chemise. She reached over to her bed and pulled the plaid MacGrigor had given her from it, wrapping it around her shoulders. She picked up the candle stick, opened her door, and peered into the corridor.

An icy breath of air shivered past her
, and she pulled the plaid tighter around her. It was amazing how early fall came to the Highlands, the weather growing noticeably colder with each passing day. Lia was about ready to decide it was all her imagination when she heard another noise.

Scowling, she stepped into the corridor and walked the few paces
to the stairs that led to the great hall. She paused, able to view Ronan’s door from her place. It was closed and all seemed silent. But movement to her left caught her eye and she turned. She thought she saw the trail of a cloak disappear down the stairs and into the great hall.

“Ronan?” she whispered
, but there was no answer.

Had he
, for some unknown reason, returned to wearing his cloak and stalking the shadows as the Demon Laird again? He had not done so since he began helping her with the sick villagers. Suddenly worried, Lia hurried down the stairs after him.

She caught another glimpse of the heavily cloaked Ronan as she crossed the great hall and entered a corridor that traveled alongside the
kitchen. What in the name of the Almighty was he doing? She knew, even though she viewed only his cloaked back, that she followed Ronan. Although he had a similar body shape as his brother, he was taller and he had a definitive stalking stride that was completely different from Aidan’s.

As he approached the end of the corridor and turned
to follow the stairs that led to the keep’s cistern and storage areas, she hesitated. She should not be following him, or at the very least, she should announce herself. But her curiosity got the better of her, and she found herself hurrying after him.

Ronan descended the flight of stairs and entered the corridor, only pausing long enough
to light torches and candles with a fire-striker as he went. Lia had been down here only once, but she remembered the corridor ended in a large cross-shape lined with boxes and barrels storing various items. At the base of the stairs, she placed her candle in a small alcove designed to hold it so Ronan would not notice the flickering light.

Ronan reached the end of the corridor and stepped around a bench. He removed his cloak
, and only then did Lia notice he carried his huge claymore. What in the world? She also noticed he wore only boots and trews. He stepped into the center of a large area that appeared to be strangely open, with no boxes or barrels placed for storage. He rested the tip of the claymore on the flagstones and lowered his head, his back to her. Lia stopped her advance, leaning against a stone pillar. She held her breath; it was so very quiet. She feared he could hear her heart beating.

Ronan rotated his head in the silence
, and she could hear the small bones pop. With a snarl, he moved, bringing the claymore up in a defensive stance. Before she could blink, he snapped it out and around to his right in what would have been a devastating blow if an enemy had stood before him.

Lia’s eyes widened as she realized he worked a memorized pattern of blocks and attacks with the claymore.
He brought the huge weapon up in a horizontal block overhead, turned around, his footwork perfectly balanced, and smashed it out and down, but did not touch the flagstones at his feet. The muscles in his arms and chest contracted sharply under his skin, stopping the weapon a hairsbreadth from the stone and arcing it back around him as he again turned.

The weapon was so large and heavy, Lia wondered if she would be able
to even pick it up. But Ronan wielded it as if it was an extension of his own body. He shoved it forward in a straight lunge, his body fully extended but still incredibly balanced. He held the claymore in one hand, the massive weapon combined with his long reach would have slain someone standing over six feet away. He paused for a moment, as if frozen. The tip of the claymore was perfectly steady; it did not tremble as he kept its weight and balance under perfect control.

Ronan returned
to his fighting stance and brought the weapon on guard again, continuing to work through the movements of the pattern only he knew. The strength of each swing was clearly evident to Lia; the balance he maintained made him appear as if he moved through the steps of a dance—graceful, elegant, and terrifying at the same time. A light sheen of sweat quickly covered his torso, the flickering light of the torches making his skin glisten as he moved in perfect harmony with the deadly weapon, the firelight lending a sparkling aspect to the blade.

Ronan
was so beautiful to watch he brought tears to her eyes. Even his breathing sounded controlled, and he moved the claymore with such force it made strange noises as it cut through the air.

Lia suddenly understood just how Ronan had achieved his physi
que—he had probably practiced and worked like this since childhood. She also understood that this work was the best thing to return to him the strength and stamina he had possessed before his wounding. He just needed to be cautious of overextending himself. Lia stood, mesmerized by the actions of the beautiful warrior before her.

He continued his dance of deadly elegance
, and the sweat on his chest began to trickle and roll down the deep cuts of muscle. His breathing grew less controlled, becoming grunts then gasps for air. But he did not slow his movements. He extended the claymore in another lunge, but this time the tip trembled. Lia bit her lip. He would have to stop soon, but somehow she knew he wasn’t going to.