No Other Woman (No Other Series) (5 page)

And he had come to reclaim it.

Yet even as he stared at the castle, he looked at what remained of the old stables, and a fire began to burn within him as fiercely as that inferno which had raged that night, five long years ago. He could remember the heat.

And he could remember
her.

The whispers, the pleas, the promises, that had brought him to destruction. The ebony of her hair, splayed out upon the bunk. The ivory silk of her flesh, the sky blue promise in her eyes. He remembered her arms around him, her fevered words. A mint freshness in the warmth of her breath against his lips as she whispered her lies, the fire within her that made him heedless of the warmth igniting around him until he turned, too late...

... and entered into a world of damnation.

Ah, but miraculously, he was back. From the dead. A demon returned from the fires of hell—to discover the truth.

She'd not been in it alone. And he'd come back as he had with no word or warning because he intended to know just what had happened, just who had been involved with her. And they would all be made to repent.

Ah... but she would be the first from whom he would demand justice for the past.

She would be the first....

* * *

The night air of autumn was beautiful, crisp and clear, against her cheeks and flesh. It felt good to be out and good to run. She mocked herself, telling herself again that running in the moonlight probably certified her for madness; it would not help her escape the past. Maybe she just wanted to run away from the future, maybe it would be harder to face Andrew Douglas now than it had been when David had died.

She was accustomed to running over this terrain, riding over it, swimming within the cold waters of the loch, but tonight, she didn't seem to have her usual stamina. She was running from herself because she was...

... guilty.

Not guilty! She had never meant such awful harm to come to David; she had been more than halfway in love with him most of her life. Nay! Oh, God, how proud and arrogant she had always been around him! But she had been younger; he had been the great laird. He'd known many women. Easy to admit now that she had been jealous, and therefore as disdainful as she could manage to be at all times.

Until that night.

Well, he was dead and buried, and she was at least partly to blame.

Her lungs were growing sore. Her thoughts were robbing her of breath. Even as she ran, she knew that she had to pause. She stopped at the ancient Druid Stones to catch her breath, inhaling, exhaling, raggedly.

Leaning against the stones, she studied them in the moonlight. There were twelve of them, each stone standing at least ten feet high. Time and exposure had eroded whatever ancient writings might have been upon them, but some of the deep etchings of men, women, and animals remained. The stones were quite beautiful, arranged in a circular pattern, with a thirteenth stone set horizontally in the center, like an altar. Just to the side of it was a circular stone weighing a good two tons, a stone that still cast shadows from which people could tell the time of day.

Shawna loved the stones. They had all played here as children, she and her cousins as well as the Douglases, though David had been older and tolerant of their games, rather than a part of them. Shawna had wanted the stones to be on MacGinnis property, but they were not. She had made up stories when she was little that changed the events of history, and gave the stones to the Clan MacGinnis. David had told her curtly once that she should not be so fond of them; the altar had most probably been used for human sacrifice in ancient times. She should have realized that—since they still celebrated so many of the holidays around the stones.

Christian holidays.

That just happened to coincide with many of the old pagan celebrations of the ancient inhabitants of the Highlands.

She ran her hand over the cool roughness of the tallest stone. The old ways were enchanting. She was grown now, but she still loved the stories and the legends. Yet as she touched the stone, she suddenly became certain that she heard a noise.

A footstep?

One...

... and then another.

Aye, footsteps. Someone else, out in the night.

She moved suddenly and swiftly from one of the stones to the next.

Again, she thought she heard footsteps.

Someone was following her.

Unease swept through her.

In the middle of the night, when all the world lay still, someone was following her. Someone was coming behind her in the night. Someone...

You are losing your mind,
she thought.
This is madness!
She told herself sternly that she had to be imagining the sounds... no one would come after her so furtively in the night. There was no reason to be afraid.

Again, she moved a few steps forward, moving on to a third stone, and paused.

She just barely caught the sound of shuffling feet before those footsteps paused as well.

This was her home. These were her people. She'd never been afraid of the dark. She'd never been afraid here because she knew everyone who lived in and around Castle Rock.

She kept very still, waiting and listening.

Nothing.

She was afraid, imagining things, because of her nightmares, she told herself. She'd been remembering all the stories they had told and all the games they had played by the stones, which were still considered sacred and mystical by many superstitious villagers. She was letting her imagination run away with her.

No.

She had really heard footsteps. Or something. A rustle in the grass. A soft pounding on the earth.

Fear was settling into her.

"Who's there?" she called out in the night.

In answer, the wind seemed to rise, keening suddenly against moonglow and shadow. She waited, pressed now against one of the stones, but she heard nothing else.

No one would come after her. She had no reason to be afraid!

"Answer me!" she said sharply. "Who's there?"

Still nothing.

She pushed away from the stone and started walking once again. This time, she decided to leave the stones behind her. She moved easily, barefoot over the heather toward the shore. The strangest sensation of unease swept along her spine.

There was nothing at first. No sounds of anyone following her.

Then again, she heard a rustling.

She turned back.

She saw a shadow, slipping behind one of the stones.

Or did she?

In the night, light and shadows blended. The Druid Stones cast strange lines against the hills and vales. Had she seen movement? Or had the moon shifted, and lengthened the eerie play of light and dark that filled the night?

"Who is it? Who's there?" she cried out sharply.

No reply.

Yet there was someone or something in the night. She was convinced of it.

Looking back at the stones, she was suddenly quite certain she was being watched. Icy water seemed to run in rivulets down her neck and spine.

What kind of fool had she been to leave the castle and run into the night? she queried herself. Not a fool, she countered herself passionately. She had known this land all her life, knew the earth, the stone, the loch, the cliffs and hills and rocks.

Through all her life, she had known nothing but security here. She had never known what it was like to be afraid until...

Until the night The Fire had raged. And the kiss of the flame had been burned into her heart forever.

Oh, God. That was so long ago.

And this was now.

Happening. In truth.

She barely breathed, studying the stones that stood like silent sentinels on the hill crest.

Again, she heard movement. And this time she cried out in fear.

The shadow was definitely no figment of her imagination. A caped figure was now running directly toward her.

The night had been so still. When he first heard the cries, he thought that they were whispers of the rising wind. Then he heard them more clearly.

And he saw the woman running from the shelter of the Druid Stones. Saw her clearly, for the moon chose that moment to break free from the clouds and cast a shimmering glow of light down upon her.

She was dressed in ivory cotton and lace, a gown appearing soft and fragile as it flowed behind her on the wind. Like the sheer gown caught on the wind, waves of ebony hair were caught in a banner flow as she ran. She was fleet and agile, running barefoot across the terrain with the grace of a gazelle. She appeared like an ancient wood nymph, a sprite, seductively magical in the mist beneath the moon, that dark hair of hers, appearing, blacker than midnight, floating in her wake, rich, wild, as full a cloak about her shoulders as the soft knit shawl that covered the soft cotton of her gown.

Dear God. Shawna.

Aye, Shawna.

Come to him already...

It seemed that every muscle within his body went suddenly tense, as if a fire, liquid and wickedly hot, ignited within his limbs at the very sight of her.

How often had he dreamed of seeing her again. Of the fury he would feel. Of the longing to reach out and shake her.

Or just touch her. For it seemed that even now, just the sight of her awoke in him a passion that was fueled by both fury... and hunger.

Shawna...

He would not be swayed by emotion. He would be as hard and steadfast in his purpose as the rock with which the castles had been built.

Yet, she came to him still. Here.

How damned curious.

Then he saw that she was being... chased.

Chased!

Indeed, from the stones burst forth another figure, tall, caped, features hidden beneath a cowl.

What in God's name...?

He'd be damned if any other man was going to get his hands on the girl. Not when he'd come back from hell itself for his own vengeance.

He crouched instinctively at the water's edge.

And he watched.

And waited...

* * *

This is madness.

She'd lived here almost all of her life. She was the lady here; she knew not just every soul who resided in their wild hills and valleys, she knew their life histories as well.

Yet she was being chased.

She had to be dreaming, she told herself. However, this was a very realistic dream. She could feel the dew-dampness of the grass beneath her feet, feel the soft caress of the misty night, the movement of her muscles, the chill touch of the wind....

She could hear the gasping of her breath, the rampant pounding of her heart. She could feel the burning sensation in her lungs.

Oh, God, wake up.

She couldn't wake up. It wasn't a dream. She could hear and feel now the pounding on the earth behind her as her pursuer gained on her.

Then she stepped down upon a rock. Screamed in startled pain, staggered, fell.

It felt as if a thousand needles were ripping into her foot.

The footsteps were still coming from behind her. Coming harder.

Coming closer.

Running.

Coming after her with sheer menace.

She staggered back up, found her balance. Ran again. She had given him time, allowed him to come closer and closer. She zigzagged, realizing that she had been heading straight for the water.

A good idea, perhaps? She was an excellent swimmer. Yet, where would she swim? It was more than a mile across. Perhaps her pursuer could swim as well, swim, and drag her down...

She heard a strange rasping sound and turned back. In horror she saw that the dark figure had drawn a sword. She gasped out again, seeing the sword glitter in the moonlight.

Then suddenly, all light was gone. A cloud had scuttled cleanly beneath the moon, and hills and valley both had been cast into total darkness. She swallowed back a cry and spun, terror filling her heart as she raced along the shoreline.

He was behind her. So close she could hear him, almost feel him, smell him. He was going to reach out, touch her. A scream rose in her throat. Exploded from it.

The cloud slipped slightly. The palest light ventured forth upon the night once again. She veered toward the water, gasping, choking...

Then suddenly, out of the strange glow and shadow of the night, a form appeared.

Tall, massive, in the near darkness.

Huge, growing...

A beast coming from the water. Nay, a man. Nay, a demon.

Rising.

A man's form. Towering against the moonlight, dripping, broad-shouldered, formed as hard and solid as a Greek statue that might have been thrust up from the loch.

Naked—save a sword.

A massive, naked form, risen from the water.

She had lost her mind completely.

But the vision didn't go away.

And she could not stop herself. Her momentum was such that she couldn't stop; nor could she veer away. She saw the sudden, startling, impossible form, and then she crashed straight into the man, beast, or demon who had risen like the mist from the water's edge.

He was real. As solid as rock.

She shrieked in terror.

Hands gripped her shoulders; powerful, rough hands. Cold as ice from the water. Hard pressed against the figure, she could feel muscle and flesh.

She shrieked again, yet before she could fight the steely hold upon her, she found herself cast aside, and falling down to the damp softness of the earth.

She tried instinctively to turn as she fell, to watch what was happening, to discover if she was being rescued—or damned.

She had to catch herself, had to fight herself, if she was going to survive.

But she could not stop her fall.

Her body struck the ground against a cushion of grass; her head struck a jagged piece of rock.

Sharp pain exploded in her head.

As her vision blurred, she saw the naked figure of the man who had seemed to appear like a selkie or demon from the water quickly raise the sword he carried. His steel sliced the air just split seconds after he had cast her aside.

The hooded figure was upon him already, his sword slashing as well.

Slashing air...

Where she had stood just a breath of time before.