Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (45 page)

“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.

Days 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.

HHH

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 physique—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.

She watched the gradual change in his movements as his muscles became fatigued and could no longer maintain the perfection he once had, and that devolution became reflected in his expression. The planes of his face grew harsher with anger, the calm but intense concentration he had possessed slowly crumbled away. She watched the warrior before her build himself up then, brick by brick, tear himself apart.

His expression changed from anger to fury.

He snarled in rage as he again brought the claymore down, but this time Lia heard a telling clink as the tip grazed the flagstones at his feet. As if to compensate for the mistake, he roared and snapped it out and around with such force the swing unbalanced him. He staggered and almost fell. He bellowed a curse, again snapping the weapon out and around in what appeared to be an attempt at a block, but even Lia could see it went so wide that if it had been meant to stop a real weapon, he would have left his chest exposed, which would have resulted in a blade through his heart.

Again he roared in rage, fighting to control the claymore. It was as if he no longer practiced but was fighting a terrible battle against an unseen enemy, something within himself, some horror that only he knew. Lia squeezed her eyes closed, tears burning; he was fighting the horror in his soul.

Another bellow from him snapped her eyes open. Again he staggered off balance, but this time he was unable to recover and dropped to his knees. His gasps for air echoed in her ears. The rage he evidenced became a palpable thing in the room. Black, terrifying, deadly. He threw back his head and uttered a strangled cry.

Every instinct within Lia drove her to move forward, to go to his side, but she remained rooted, an inexplicable fear growing within her with each heartbeat.

Still on his knees, Ronan dropped his claymore. He lifted his hands, shaking violently, and stared at them. The shaking grew worse as he focused on the white scars of newly healed flesh on his wrists, permanent marks from the manacles that had shackled him. He looked down at his chest and the vicious scars riddling his flesh.

“Nay!” he roared, his snarl of fury dying in a choked sob. He clutched at his head. “Be silent,” he gasped, and a second sob broke free. Suddenly, his hand closed again on the hilt of his claymore. Lia’s gaze locked on his steel-gray eyes. They reflected such agony, such utter desolation. He choked on another sob and tears streamed down his face. His grip shifted on the claymore slightly . . . and he changed the angle of the blade . . . he was going to—

“Nay!” Lia screamed and bolted toward him. “Ronan!” She crossed the room with a speed she did not know she possessed. Her arms wrapped around him as she interposed her own body between him and the claymore he held and knocked it from his hand. Her arms pulled her to him and she cradled his head to her breast with such strength he could not resist her. “Nay, Ronan, please!” she cried, tears flooding down her cheeks.

He gasped for air but abruptly relaxed against her. A second tortured gasp ripped from him and his arms closed around her as he sobbed like a child, shaking to the core of his being.

Lia clung to him so hard it was a miracle he could breathe. He cried against her as if his soul had been torn asunder. Her own tears bathed his hair and face as she held him, but she was not going to release him.

She had treated so many people in her young life, but never had she seen one suffer through so much yet fight so hard to survive . . . to return to the man he once was. But he didn’t understand. He would never again be the man he once was—that man was truly dead to him. He needed to grieve the loss but also find the strength to face a new future and not fear the man he could become.

His sobs gradually faded and he grew still against her, but his arms remained tight around her. She continued to hold him, whispering soft reassurances and kissing the top of his brow, her hand caressing his face and hair.

He caught her hand and slowly looked up at her, tears continuing to stream down his face. “Nay, Lia,” he said hoarsely. “I canna do this . . . the pain is too much . . . the memories . . . the nightmares—” His voice cracked and he drew a deep breath. “I still hear his voice, his laughter. I canna rid myself of it. I am no’ strong enough.” The desolation in his gray eyes shattered her heart.

Her fingers brushed away a tear as it rolled down his cheek. “Ronan, you are strong enough. You have proven that every day since this began. I have seen your strength.”

“Ye’ve only seen my weakness and failure.”

“Nay,” she said firmly. “I’ve seen the strength of a man, who alone, freed himself from his captors. Who was strong enough to escape despite his wounds. Who found the strength to fight an illness, and who stood before the superstitious fear of his own clan. You did all of this alone and survived.”

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but she gently traced her fingers over his soft lips and stopped him. “But now you are no longer alone.”

He blinked at her, and a small spark of hope ignited in his gray eyes. “Not alone?” he whispered.

She smiled down at him. “You will never be alone again.” She threw caution to the wind, seized the initiative, and started to lower her head, but fear suddenly stopped her. What was she doing? But Ronan slid his hand behind her neck and pulled her closer. His lips touched hers, and Lia kissed him with all the passion her heart held for him.