Immortal Desires (Well of Souls) (7 page)

Somewhere far off she heard voices laughing, perhaps the dead coming to claim her as one of their own. The sky gave a thunderous crack, whipping the other sounds away until all she could hear was her own labored breathing.

Deanna curled into a fetal position, the smell of dirt and her own blood mingling in her senses as the blue vortex surrounded her, blocking out the rest of the world.

"If you're going to kill me, get it over with!" She screamed but no one heard her. "This wasn't supposed to happen," she cried, her tears salting her lips.

Where were the pictures of loved ones you were supposed to see in the last minutes of life? The terrorizing wind left her empty of any comfort. Only a few moments had passed but it felt like forever. Deanna strained to get up—or at least crawl—but her muscles refused to obey her commands.

Darkness slammed into her; a living thing at once both full of warmth and threatening. Blacker than night, it posed choices—decisions to be made leading to different paths.

"I don't understand!" She sobbed, spent of all energy yet still it pressed for answers, a malevolent touch that cast doubt on her sanity.

The face of the laird of the castle, Ian Mackay, floated in front of her and Deanna clung to the image as the only recognizable thing in this violent place. The ground slipped out from beneath her and she fell.

***

Boulder, May 2012

"You fool!" Ian shouted at the heavens in a futile effort to be heard five centuries into the past. He sank to his knees on the wet grass and pounded his fists into the earth. "We love her. Are you so arrogant you canna open your eyes and see that?"

Cold rain splashed his face, carving icy rivulets through his hair. Ian felt none of it. Only despair pulsed through his veins as his plans turned to bitter ashes.

Chapter Thirteen

Highlands, May 1505

Ian Mackay surveyed his warriors during battle practice with a sense of satisfaction. Claymores swung high in the air, their blades catching the dull light of a waning sun.

"Bonnie lads, every one of them." His good friend, William Munro, gave him a wink. "Still, I dinna think they're a match for my men."

Ian eyed him carefully, looking for the challenge in the man's face. He found it. "You think to pit your best warriors against mine in a contest?"

"Aye. That I am, laddie." Munro stared him down, using his older years to advantage even though he was a head shorter.

An easy smile crossed Ian's face. "Bring ten of your best men. A barrel of whisky says they willna last against mine."

"Done." Munro slapped him on the shoulder. Barrel-chested and stocky, he had to reach up to accomplish it. "You need a wife to take your mind off of battle training, lad. If you keep growing, I willna be able to keep up with you."

Ian frowned at him. "I havena found the woman for me yet. I'll ken her when I see her. Who's been asking you to push me this time?"

Munro shrugged. "'Tis no natural to be alone. You need a woman by your side."

"I've women to warm my bed. A wife wouldna be a blessing, only trouble." He wouldn't admit to his dissatisfaction with the casual bedding of the lassies lately and his own yearnings for something more permanent. In truth, none of them sparked his interest. The thought of wedding anyone around here depressed him.

Munro gave him a sly look, as if he'd spoken aloud. "You'll meet her one day. Dinna fash yourself."

"Hmpf." Ian flexed his muscles and showed his teeth to Munro as he picked up his claymore to go join his men in practice. It didn't seem likely. He wanted too much—more than just a bed partner. He wanted a woman to stand by his side. To laugh and cry with. To fight with and love. Someone who'd stand toe-to-toe with him. An intelligent woman who didn't bow to his every word, who could hold her own in a conversation. Chances weren't good he'd find someone like that around here—not unless she fell out of the sky. He snorted at the thought and stepped into the clash of swords.

***

Supper started out pleasantly enough. Cook had fixed special breads to go with the meaty broth and laughter filled the air. His sixteen-year-old sister squirmed at the other end of the table, her cheeks flaming as ribald comments flew after Ian announced her upcoming betrothal. Seven years younger than he but Mairi had already found someone suitable to marry. He shook his head and bit into the bread before it cooled, concentrating on his meal.

His mother rose from the table and tapped him on the shoulder. "May I speak with you—in private?"

Ian nodded and followed her outside, his appetite fleeing in the face of her formality. Her gift of Sight was troublesome, at best. He braced himself for whatever she had to say.

She didn't stop outside the door, as was her habit, but continued to walk toward the graveyard. Ian followed, timing his steps to match her slow pace. She seemed to have forgotten he was there as they continued to the far end, worrying him even more. This was outside of her normal behavior for a vision.

At last she stopped and turned to face him. "I saw the Bean Nighe in a vision."

His blood ran cold. When someone saw the washer woman it was meant to predict a death, but what did it mean to see one of the Bean Sidhe in a vision? "You saw her out here?"

"It was a vision, mind you, and the graveyard looked different than it does now." His mother shook her head slightly. "I canna explain that part. She wasna alone either. A woman was with her as well. Long golden hair and blue eyes, but dressed as a man in trousers."

Ian breathed a little easier. "All right. What does this have to do with us?"

"I dinna ken." Her face drew pinched with a frown. "But I think she's coming here."

"For what purpose?" Ian knew the answer already. His mother wouldn't know. Her visions didn't work that way. Let the Gods have their joke, he thought bitterly.

She laid a hand on his arm, her voice soft. "You canna blame the Gods for my lack of understanding, Ian. They didna kill your father."

"I didna say that. Stay out of my head." He hadn't meant to dredge up the past for her. As for his father… He knew quite well who killed him—a Cameron.

She laughed, the sound bubbling from a well of happiness she kept deep inside. "You didna have to. I can see it on your face. Besides, no everything I see is a bad omen. Some are good. Come on now, let's get back to the table before they come searching for us."

As they stepped through the back door, Ian could hear a commotion in the front hall. "Stay here," he ordered his mother and ran toward the trouble, pulling a dirk from his belt.

His men stood in a tight knot but moved aside as he came through. Ian's teeth ground together as he witnessed his mother's vision come to visit her trouble upon his household. Only Munro heard the slight gasp that escaped his lips and raised an eyebrow at him. Ian ignored him, focusing instead on the confused woman who lay at his feet. Her golden hair spread in disarray, looking kissed by the sun; blue eyes stared at him in shock as if she knew him—which she certainly didn't. He would have remembered this one.

Dressed as a man didn't quite fit the description of the clothing she wore. The soft shirt of wool and trousers hugged her all over like a second skin. Ian let his eyes roam from her breasts to the vee between her long legs. His cock grew hard in an instant despite the knowledge that she was surely trouble.

"Ian Mackay?" Her sweet voice spoke his name through lips that begged to be kissed and it took him a second to gather his wits together. She must be Fae to entice him this way.

"What's your name?" he demanded but she crinkled her nose in an endearing manner, puzzlement plain on her face.

"I don't understand." She spoke in English with a strange accent. Not Sassenach then, but what?

"Why do you speak in English, lass? What is your name?" he repeated.

Her chin rose and she gazed at him with soft eyes. "Deanna Cameron."

His world tilted and he tasted blood.

Chapter Fourteen

Hard stone dug into Deanna's back. A sonic boom split the air and she moaned as the sound reverberated in her skull. It left a nasty headache in its wake, as if she'd been up all night drinking. Everything she looked at when she opened her eyes wavered and doubled. As she tried to focus, the main lobby of the hotel came into view…sort of. The walls were the same anyway, but the furnishings were different and moved around.

Feet pounded on the floor and Deanna heard several men yelling, their voices rapidly moving toward her from some point she couldn't see in her prone position. Their words made no sense to her. She struggled to get up, her head still throbbing, but several heavy swords moved into view and she collapsed back to the ground. The owners of the blades all wore kilts. Was there some sort of battle enactment going on?

"Where the hell am I?" The sound of her own voice hammered at her temples and she winced, closing her eyes again.

A bold voice spoke with more unintelligible words but the speaker seemed familiar. Deanna tried to sit up and get a look at him. The point of a sword dissuaded her. He walked into her field of vision and she gaped.

"Ian Mackay?" What would he be doing here? His emerald eyes hardened as she looked into his face. It was Ian…but not. This man was a few years younger than the man in the portrait and his hair fell several inches shorter down his back. A younger relative then? He said something to her in Gaelic.

"I don't understand." Nothing made sense here. Deanna brought her hand up to her forehead and massaged between her eyes.

"Why do you speak in English, lass? What is your name?"

What did he want her to speak in? Gaelic? She glanced up at him again. "Deanna Cameron."

She saw a vein throb in his neck as he stared at her. His mouth formed a stern line as she heard someone behind her gasp. Something was very wrong here but her head hurt too much to clear the fuzziness. "Look, would you go find Mr. MacFegan? He knows who I am."

"You'll be quiet." Mackay glared at her.

"And I need some aspirin too."

"You dinna listen well, lass, but you'll soon learn what we do to Cameron spies. Bring her." Mackay turned his back on her and strode from the room. Two burly men grabbed her arms and pulled her along with strides too long to keep up with. As she stumbled between them, Deanna took note of the furnishings. Medieval authentic would be an understatement, even if this were a re-enactment.

They entered the dining room where hours earlier she'd had supper at a cute little table by the window, the view overlooking the River Naver. Deanna was sure it was the same room. The broken piece of stone sat in the same spot on the massive fireplace. Now though, no windows opened out to the view and one long trestle table stood where multiple small tables had graced the room before.

Deanna closed her eyes. She must be dreaming of the history that Mr. MacFegan told her about the castle, although she'd never had a dream hurt so much before. She shuddered and willed herself to wake up.

His voice intruded on her efforts. "It's a sad day when the Camerons have to send a lassie to do their spying. Why dinna you make this easy on yourself and tell me how you made it past my guards?"

Deanna opened her eyes to find the laird smiling with all the warmth of an ice sculpture. She felt like a sheep surrounded by wolves in this room crowded with kilts and massive swords. He'd sat back down and picked up a hunk of bread, leaving her to stand.

"Where's your hospitality?" Deanna returned his smile and managed not to snarl at him. "Am I supposed to stand here and watch you eat?"

One of his men guffawed but cut it short when Mackay glanced over at him. "I didna think you'd mind standing, since you're dressed like a man."

What? Deanna looked around the room once more, breathing hard. Impossible. She trembled and would have fallen except for the steel grip of the guards who still held her.

"What year is this?" She willed herself to remain upright no matter what the answer.

"That's your defense? That you're daft and canna remember where you are or what year it is?" Mackay shook his head and picked up a cup, chugging the contents.

"Are you afraid to answer my question?" The anger at least cleared her head, even if it did nothing for her headache.

His eyes bore into hers, as if trying to sort fact from fiction. His face softened a bit, perhaps formulating a different opinion of her.

"'Tis 1505. What year do you think it is?"

"2012." Deanna couldn't believe she answered so calmly. Maybe because none of it seemed real to her. She'd wake up and tell Mr. MacFegan about her wild dream over coffee and they'd have a good laugh. Mackay was staring at her again.

"Your name is Ian, isn't it?" He was the laird of the castle during this time period—the last laird, according to Mr. MacFegan.

"Aye, but everyone knows who I am."

"Okay." She needed to think of something else to convince him she wasn't a Cameron spy, just someone caught in time.
Yeah, right. Even I don't believe me on that.
"I found a brooch in the graveyard, right before I ended up here."