Scent of a Witch (7 page)

Amusement softened his features and showed just how handsome he was and her breath caught. He leaned ag
ainst the tree across from her.

“Your talisman,”
h
e
said,
point
ing
to her necklace
,
“
i
s the Celtic Knot
.
I
ts interlacing bands symbolize no beginning and no end, an eternal joining. The gold represents the Sween
eys and the silver the Hughes.”

She gasped, grabbed the charm
,
looked at it then back at him.

“All I know is my family had one and so did the Sweeneys. It was a binding of the only two clans with time sorcery in their line in order to protect each other. There are those who would challenge us or
try to use us for our powers.”

Fionn fell into silence, but Maeve could feel his eyes on her. She considered his words and found in one explanation several of her previous questions were answered. Nevertheless, new ones emerged.

“You held on to it an
d that’s how you slid with me.”

“Aye.” His brogue deep and clear engulfed the one word answer.

“So your father has the other one?” she inquired, scared she was fixing to find out the Hughes were the ones who kidnapped her mother long ago. With his left foot, he pushed off the tree and began to pace while runnin
g his fingers through his hair.

“At one time he did. Patrick Sweeney and my father were once great friends but then something happened and there was a rift…a feud almost. In the drama, both medallions were stolen and my father accused Patrick of stealing them. That’s all I’ve been told. And the one you wear
is the first I have ever seen.”

Maeve considered his story, comparing it to the information she knew not only from her grandparents but also from the personal journals she had read. She knew exactly what had caused the rift. It was a woman…her grandmother. The Hughes Laird loved her too. But perhaps that was something she should keep to herself.

“I see,” was all she could say.

“What will you do after we return?” Fionn asked, his eyes locking with hers.

“I’ll hide
,
”
s
he answered
,
rubbing the tops of her arms. “I’ll run. I’m actually very good at disappearing.”

“What are you hiding from? Who are you running from?” He insisted kneeling in front of her after wrapping his overcoat around her slim frame.

“Well I know it’s not you at least.” She half laughed. “I’m not sure…it’s as if a darkness follows me. Pursues me and my only chance of survival is to keep moving.” She shrugged her shoulders and raised her glance to meet his. “It would make sense
the Board of Witchery
,
would find out they had a granddaughter.
S
ince they were murdered by magic
proves it.
”

“Come with me…” Fionn pushed the hair that went in every direction but the
way it should, behind her ear.

“I would…but I can’t.” She touched his cheek. It wasn’t wise to go to the man who loved her grandmother once. After seeing her in this time, Maeve knew she resembled her too much and would only cau
se heartache for the old laird.

“I made a vow that I intend to keep,” he said, standing up and holding out his hand.

“Well, I release you from it,” replied Maeve, ignoring his offer and standing up on her own. “I can take care of myself Fionn.” She almost stomped her foot, she was so frustrated with this confusing man. One moment he was nurturing and sweet
,
the next demanding and brutish.

“I don’t know about that, little sister.” A voice that made every inch of Maeve’s skin bubble into a fearful awareness spoke from the darkness. Just as she turned to see the owner, a shot rang out and pain erupted in her b
ack. Then darkness claimed her.

Fionn yelled a warning for Maeve to get down, but he was too late. A patch of crimson blossomed on the front of her right shoulder. Immediately the scent of
Shamrocks and H
oneysuckle permeated the air, nearly crip
pling Fionn with its intensity.

The m
an had called Maeve his sister.

Fionn pulled upon energy from reserves he’d been unaware of, enabling him to move faster than ever before. With movement so swift there was no sound, no indentions left behind in the earth from his feet. It was as if no one had passed by at all.

The air literally cast an offensive assault on his senses and his mind as the signature scent that
was
Maeve grew stronger. At the opposite side of the cemetery he hid and waited, leaning against the cold stone wall of a mausoleum, which was now wet with predawn dew.
If they could hide until sunup, he would get her to his
clan where she would be healed.

She was limp in his arms but still breathing. He sat her lower body on his thigh to look at her injury. He knew from the smell that she was bleeding too freely. The air’s attack waged on, causing emotional reactions Fionn didn’t comprehend. Fury raged in him as if this woman was his, but he couldn’t be sure. Possessiveness wasn’t
an
emotion he had ever experienced—until now.
He tore his sleeve and used the material
to apply pressure on her wound.

“You can have the body immortal. All I want is the necklace. It is mine by birthright. I am the oldest Sweeney. And soon I’ll be the only Sweeney.” The man’s words from somewhere across the cemetery confirmed the fact that he was Maeve’s twin. There was so much more going on more than either of them had known. But all Fionn cared about for the moment was getti
ng Maeve to safety…to his home.

The soft shuffle of footsteps whispered through grass. Their pursuer grew closer. Fionn held his breath, praying Maeve wouldn’t stir and moan. Quiet was imperative.
He closed his eyes
and willed the sun to come up.

“Ahhh…the sweet scent of
Shamrocks
,
a signal
of her death. She is fetching. Did she capture your heart?” He taunted Fionn as he gained even more ground on their hiding place. “Trust me, you don’t want to have anything to do with this family…the way they treat their blood is
truly shameful.”

Fionn considered his options. He would have to release Maeve to fight. He eased
his hold on her lifeless body.

A finger of light poked at the fabric of night. Dawn was imminent. Time seemed to slow as the ray grew a bit wider, gathered strength. Finally, with an explosion of light, the sun broke over the horizon.

The acrid scent of diesel mingled with fast food, and whirled together with autumn; a reassuring blend of aroma that told Fionn they had safely returned to her time. However, it wasn’t enough. Maeve needed healing. No regular hospi
tal could provide that for her.

More important, no one could protect her better than he could with the support of his clan.

Fionn balanced Maeve in one arm and held the Celtic Knot in the other as he closed his eyes and cast a spell for home.
“A Sweeney and a Hughes. Call upon the blood bond. Between the
two,
to travel out of time but part of space, far away to t
he safety of the Hughes Place.”

A familiar bellow erupted and Fionn smiled as he opened his eyes. Some things never changed. His father, Laird Rordan Hughes, was never one for
using words to express himself.

“Call the healers!” he yelled, and ran to his son across the great hall of their ancestral home. Then he saw her and fell to his knees. For the first time in Fionn’s life, he saw emotion in his father’s demeanor
:
raw, sincere emotion. Not even when his mother had died had the man shed a tear. But now, standing over a woman he didn’t even know, he brushed hair from her brow and the glistening of unshed tears bub
bled at the corner of his eyes.

“This is Cordelia’s progeny?” Rordan asked.

“Aye, sir.”

“And only her blood is on you? You are well, son?”

“Ay
e, sir.”

If it wasn’t for the lifetime’s worth of discipline that demanded Fionn reply to his father when spoken to, he would have been shocked to silence. It had been so long since his father referred to him as son, he couldn’t recall the last time. It had only been recently since the banishment
from his clan had been lifted.

Young, arrogant, and proud, Fionn had left to work for the Board of Witchery. Rordan hollered and swore, calling the whole lot an organized form of pompous corruption. Fionn ignored him, even more motivated to go and become a glorified immortal tracker, a vocation that had beckoned to him like the call of a siren. Only it hadn’t been as glorious as he’d thought it would be. When the banishment was lifted and his father had sent for him, Fionn had disobeyed the Board and now he’d been branded an outlaw.

Neasa Hughes, Fionn’s aunt and the most renowned healer in the world of Witchery, appeared, followed by two young males—both Fionn’s cousins—carrying a litter
.
Hair the color of golden wheat sat high and tight at her crown in a neat knot, giving her the look of being in her thirties and not somewhere in her fifties as she actually was. A petite woman, still thin after multiple births, she walked with the air of confidence, of knowledge—secret knowledge. Her sons, identical twins, Simon and Sigmour
,
had changed drastically since Fionn’s last visit. Tall and broad with the appearance of manhood
,
they still bore the Hugh
es brand of dark eyes and hair.

“Quit your bellowing Rordan,” Neasa yelled back, sounding much louder than her diminutive form should allow. “Hello, nephew. Tell aunt Nea what happened,” she continued, cooing as though he was a child again. The embarrassing thing was it actually did comfort him.

“This is Maeve. She’s been shot, and I can’t stop the bleeding,” he explained as his cousins listened intently over their mother’s shoulder.

The vast difference between the Hughes and the Sweeneys was
that
the Hughes were indeed fertile, especially in the male offspring department. There was no fear of their line dying out anytime soon. The cursed part being he had so many cousins he didn’t always know who was who. Most of the cousins were poor fatherless offspring from either banished males or female relatives whose husbands were worthless. Funny thing about the laird
…
he never turned family away, which was why his keep was exploding with youth. More importantly, no man would live after striking a Hughes woman or child. That also contributed to the amount of fatherless children.

Neasa urged him to lean Maeve forward so she could look at the wound. She cursed the invention of gunpowder, then whispered soothing words to her patient. Fionn hesitated before placing Maeve on the stretcher. Looking into her placid face
,
the feeling of helplessness propelled him back to his childhood when his mother had died. He kissed Maeve’s forehead and withdrew slowly, an inch at a time. Finally, only his fingertips touched hers, and then the connection was severed.

“Don’t worry lad. I’ll fix her
,
” Neasa assured him before following close behind the stretcher, already headed to the infirmary. With the loss of Maeve in his arms, Fionn simply stood, un
sure what to do or where to go.

“Son, go clean up and meet me back here.” His father briefly clasped Fionn’s shoulder, then used the touch to push him toward the steps to his room. Obedie
nce propelled his feet forward.

Cleaned, shaved, and dressed in a loose button up shirt and jeans, Fionn sat at the table in the great hall finishing his dinner when his father appeared. Rordan Hughes was not a y
oung man by any means but at six-foot-four
, broad-shouldered and still muscle–bound, with eyes blue as ice, he commanded respect with a mere grunt. He paced before the blazing hearth
,
a wild look in his eyes like nothing Fionn had seen before. After his fourth pass, Rordan finally stopped and joined Fionn at his usual
place at the head of the table.

“Your aunt says the lass fares well,” he said, as if speech was a hard thing.

Fionn shook his head in acknowledgement and restrained himself from sprinting to her side to see her for himself.

“You did well son…real well.”

His father had praised him? Fionn almost choked on his ale. He sat the tankard down so he didn’t spill it. He felt ridiculous drinking from the blasted things, but his father insisted his household make use of them.

“Are ye all right, lad? Ye’ve been away too long. Can’t stomach a man’s drink,” Rordan goaded, eyeing Fionn over the lip of his own tankard while he took a long swig. “Well ye are back now and won’t be staying away so long again.” He slammed the cup down like a judge banging his gavel to declare a verdict. Laird Rordan Hughes wasn’t a man who spoke much, and never about his emotions, but as the warmth of connection that only being home could stir enveloped him, muscles he hadn’t realized were tense suddenly relaxed.

Father and son sat at the table together in silence, each casting his eyes toward the stairs that led to the healing rooms. Just as the stillness became uncomfortable, the soft tap of footsteps on the stairs drew Fionn’s attention. He glanced up, met his father’s eyes. The laird heard the approach also, and they stood in unison. A girl, petite like her mother and with long golden hair, appeare
d, out of breath from hurrying.

“Mother says you
are to come now…both of you.”