Shadows of the Keeper (5 page)

Her new opponent was angelic, tall
with long white hair, his blade currently locked against hers.  Stepping
back, she swung her weapon around, attempting to disarm him.  Their blades
continued to clash, sparking as the lethal weapons glided against one another. 
He mumbled while Emily thrust fiercely, forcing him to backpedal several
paces.  She offered him no opportunity to regain footing against
her.  Peripherally, she witnessed men stationed on the stairs, their
arrows aimed at her.  “In the time it takes for their arrows to soar
through the air, I will have cut off your head,” Emily stated.  “Hurtyn!”

Maeve gasped.  “She speaks
Gaelic?”

“And well!  Aunsgar, she’s
called ye’ an idiot . . . lest ye’ be wonderin!” Raucous laughter filled the
great hall.

“This is not a repast,” Aunsgar
warned his rowdy audience.  He resumed his incantations, more
loudly.  His blue eyes chilled.

Her sword’s weight increased.

His voice escalated.

Her shoulder blazed.

He flung out his hand, as if
showering her with something.

Strength poured from her. 
Trembling, teeth now chattering, Emily looked down at her weapon,
dumbfounded.  Its clatter against the flagstone floor deafened.

“Take the discarded weapon,
Garreck,” her opponent calmly ordered.

Emily pressed palms against her
temples and closed her eyes against excruciating pain.  Slow, deep breaths
expelled before she dared ease her hands from her head.

Ominous silence greeted her. 
Dozens of armed men glared.  Fear rippled through her.  Up on the
landing and down along the stairs, men were lined up, their arrows aimed at
her.  Strange men.  Long white hair . . . pointy ears? 
Where
the hell am I? Shit-hell-damn!

Call to me, Keer’dra, and I will
exterminate their pathetic existence
.

Emily’s gaze flicked to the man
she’d been fighting.  That strange voice again.  His stare did not
offer comfort.  In her mind, she could see snatches of the battle, but it
was more like vague memories of a long ago movie. 

Unfortunately, her migraine was
not.

“Ahhhh!”  Palming her eye,
sharp pain pierced for a way out.  “What’s happening to me?”  She’d
fought with the intent to kill—that much, she sure remembered. 
Impossible. 
I’m an amateur!
  Muttering penetrated her fog of pain and
confusion.  The man in front of her, his hair as white as her own, deep
blue eyes, and a face so angelic, it reminded her of—“I know you.”

“Qui’ altinir’ dijion.”

“Yeah, okay.  Whatever.” 
Still . . . his foreign words sounded familiar. 
Impossible
.

“I told my guards to lower their
weapons.  You are no longer a threat to my life.”

“Well, at least I don’t have to
worry about twitchy fingers.”

“They are highly skilled.”

“I’m hardly a threat to you.”

“Not any longer, you aren’t.”

Trembling resumed.  Her chin
quivered, teeth chattering.  “So . . . cold.”

Strong hands gripped her from
behind, steadying her, ignoring her flinch.

“I just want to go home.”

“Mi’ lady, ‘tis been an ordeal for
you.  I promise, we mean ye’ no harm.”  A large blanket followed the
words of comfort.  Emily huddled deep in what to her looked like a
Highlander’s plaid.  The warmth it offered was tremendous.  She eased
around and looked up into sympathetic meadow-green eyes—

“You’re real?”  She gave her
head a quick shake.  “But that means I really woke up to you.” 
Guffaws erupted, blessedly thinning the simmering tension. 

He bowed deeply.  “The laird’s
captain, I am Lord Garreck.”

“I thought you were a dream.” 
Déjà vu, she’d uttered those very words before.  The room dipped.  “A
bad dream with much pain.”  Backslapping a few shouted foreign words and
male boisterous laughter made obvious they were throwing ribald remarks at the
man kind enough to have offered her a blanket.  His blush confirmed her
suspicions.  He turned from her and looked somewhere down the length of
the vast hall.  She followed his gaze.

He’d said his name was Broc. 
She’d awakened in his bed. Clean, bathed, stitched, and on the mend. 
And
I thanked him by nearly killing him
. 

Her guilt must have tapped him on
the shoulder.  He turned from the massive hearth he warmed himself by and
glared.  Others must have noticed for humor was quickly swept away. 
Intense betrayal, despair and contempt churned within her. 
Why? 
I’ve never seen him before
.

“Escort Lady Emily to her
borrowed
chambers, Aedan.”  Broc turned back to the fire, dismissing her.

“Hey!  Wait just a damn
minute.  How dare you?”  She ignored collective gasps.  “I’m
leaving.  Final!  Call a taxi, or I call the police!”

He slowly turned.  His
expression scared her to death.  “Aye?  Police?”

Her chin jutted.  “Yes.”

“On what phone?”

“If I can’t use yours, I’ll walk
until I find one.”

“Ye’ will find a thousand years o’
walkin’ will not garner yer’ modern contraption.”

“Excuse me?”

“Phones do not exist,” Garreck
muttered behind her, attempting to draw her away from the laird’s fury.

“You finance a castle, but no
phone?  Brilliant.”

“Do you see electricity?” 
Broc taunted.

She’d assumed candles and
torchlight were for ambiance.  “You can’t keep me here.”

“Aye.  Can and will.  Ye’
no longer reside in yer’ realm, Emily, ye’ have traipsed into mine.”  He
stalked her, his voice descending into deadly octaves.  “And, now that ye’
‘ave returned, so too will those hunting ye’.”

Broc revived his tankard, his scowl
as murky as his ale.  Around him, Forest Lords carried on in their usual
boisterous way, as if nothing were amiss.  His mood fermented more and
more each day as a certain lass schemed to infuriate him enough that he’d send
her back to her barbaric country. 
Why spend good coin when sword to
gullet will suffice
?  This morning, he’d come damn close to dragging
her from her chambers and tossing her from the turrets. 
Who the hell
did she thinks she was to waste good parchment, tacking the scrap of paper to
his study door with the label: Sir Pissed?
Envisioning her spending several
days in his dungeon brightened his mood. 
And every one of these loons
I suffer can join her
!
Let’s see how loudly they laugh then!

“Where is our
guest
?” Broc
growled as Maeve passed by, serving women trailing behind her with their
heavily laden trays.  “Does she no’ find our company fitting to dine
amongst?”

“You leave her be.  I sent her
upstairs hours ago with oatcakes and ale.  She was weavin’ and about ta’
collapse from exhaustion.”

“Aye, making fools of men is hard
work.”

“Cleaning up after fool men is hard
work.  She has helped me clear out all three hearths, clean cooking pots
and clean up yer’ boot trails throughout mi’ hall.”

“
Your
hall?”

“Aye, and until ye’ carry the wood
ta’ fill the hearths, ‘tis mi’ hall.  Those stacks you see today, Lady
Emily brought in.  I’d ‘ave asked ye’ for help, but I dinna wish ta’
interfere with yer’ need ta’ hide from the wee lass.”

“I do no’ hide.”

“Lady Emily warned ye’ would ‘ave a
need ta’ pout after she put a . . .”

Obsidian eyes glinted. 
“Finish yer’ tale, woman.”

Forest Lords ceased their
bantering.  Maeve pretended to be busy with serving.  Broc’s tone
dropped to notorious dead tones.  “I’ll have her words, Mistress Maeve.”

“Braggarts are usually lazy
bullies, content to have auld women perform arduous chores while they
themselves stomp and rut, bleating about their male prowess.”  Maeve
pretended indifference while pouring herself Merlot, one of her favorite treats
supplied by Allen from Emily’s realm. 

Tension thickened. 

Urkani chuckled, Aunsgar’s
commander surprising everyone with his non-Elvish display of emotion.

Ever-so-slowly, Broc rose from his
seat.  “I think it surpasses the time for Lady Emily and I to have a
discussion.”

Maeve dabbed her mouth before
answering.  “Mayhaps ye’ could let her know the meal is served?”

“Oh, aye.  I’ll
fetch
her!”  Broc rushed up the immense stairs, boots furiously pounding the
ancient marble.

“Och, did ye’ ‘ave ta’ stretch yer’
words as if on the rack?”  Garreck whispered when Broc was well out of
hearing range.

“We want ta’ see them getting’
along, not Lady Emily skinned by his raging, woman!” Reignsfeugh hissed.

Erchyll look hopeful.  “I’ve
yet ta’ make him repent anything.”  He slurped a mouthful from his
trencher.  “What say you the chances of him attendin’ mi’ church after
he’s strangled the wee lass?”  He reached for more bread, tore off a
chunk, and tossed the remains back onto a central platter.  Baleful glares
finally drew his attention.  “A priest can hope his laird will attend
church. I doona care what it takes ta’ make him find God and repent.”

Several waved him off, disgusted.

“I made none of it up,” Maeve
defended.  “Just so ye’ ken.”  She mopped butter with thick steaming
bread.  Another luxury supplied by Allen.  She was too old to be
churning butter like days of old.  “Made me realize I should be requestin’
more help from you lads.  Put me in a whole new mind ‘bout how things
should be ‘round here.”

“Nothin’ good ever comes from
womenfolk sharin’ ideas,” Erchyll warned.

“We, uh,” Reignsfeugh coughed into
his fist, eyeing his comrades.  Impatiently, they waved for him to get on
with it.  “We could help ye’ clean the rest o’ the hearths throughout the keep.”

“I doona care much for
heights.  Perhaps one of ye’ is brave enough ta’ stand upon a ladder and
fetch cobwebs as well?”

“Aye, that task I’ll do for ye’,”
Kaven offered.  “I’m atop battlements during the night.  Can’t be
afraid o’ heights up there, now can ye?”

“No, I supposed ye’v a point there,
lad,” Maeve agreed, eyes glittering.

“I think the lass teaches ye’ the
art o’ manipulation, auld woman,” Reignsfeugh stated, stuffing his mouth with a
meat pasty.

“She’s well versed in poisons too.”

The Celt spewed his food.

*   *   *   *   *

Never in his life, and it had been
a very long one indeed, had his men dared pranks—save for Aedan.  Sir
Pissed.  His mouth quirked, laughter threatening to escape.  That
maddening piece of paper had found its way to his chair in the great hall, and
then pinned to his plaid hanging from the drying hook.  A
conspiracy.  Aye, ‘twas time ta’ cease being easy on their arses during
strategy, and make them earn their keep.  

Strategy.  Once upon a
time, we had real enemies ta’ test our competence against.  The lads have
become soft.  Daft as well.  Apparently, pride is nonexistent when it
comes to one wee lass
. 

Pounding on her door, Broc
seethed. 

Thirty-six hundred years, we’ve
waited for Aurelia’s return.  That the lass lacks knowledge of her true
identity only continues to waste our time here, in this realm far from Quemori
. 
He shook his head, knuckles clunking against her door again. 
She’d
been sent to purchase mi’ castle.  How? None in her realm know of its
existence.  A set up.  Pendaran?  Dezenial?  Aye, which of
the two I’d kill first, I know not.  One day, I will have my face-to-face
with the Lumynari.
  Broc’s temper increased.  Whatever schemes
the druid or the Shadow Master had manipulated into happening, Emily had nearly
paid with her life.  If Aunsgar hadn’t sent Garreck . . . he pounded the
door again, more to dispel aggravation than to garner entrance.

“Lady Emily!”

Silence mocked him.  Perhaps
she sat upon the terrace? 
Perhaps treacherous enemies of old had
scaled the outer wall—

Broc barged into her room.

Sprawled across the bed, and laying
on her side, the she-devil slept soundly, her hand cupping the paperback she’d
been reading.  Some nonsense Allen had found in the wreckage of her
automobile.  The ridiculous book told of a Highlander turning into a
besotted fool over an even more foolish woman who had the mohn eating out of
her hand by chapter eleven.

He’d read its entirety, unable to
put it down, vigilant by her bedside when she’d first been brought to his
hall.  Easing the sinful pages from her fingers, he cupped her brow. 
Just for good measure,
he told himself.  No fever.  His anger
eased.  They’d nearly lost her, before they’d even realized she walked
amongst them. 
That damn fool Allen had no business driving.  How
many times have I railed against the spirit operating an automobile? 
Absurd, how much we’ve come to rely on the Sassenach keeping us stocked with
supplies from the modern realm
.

Gently, he glided wisps of hair
away from her face.  Silky hair.  Damp.  She’d worked too hard
for someone still recovering from near fatal injuries.  Lugh’s blood, but
the woman was lucky to have survived.  His eyes fell to her long white
hair glowing upon the coverlet.  She could pass as Aurelia’s twin. 
His lip curled of its own accord.

“Broc,” she mumbled, turning her
head slightly, nuzzling his hand.  He snatched his fingers away as if
burned.  “Was . . . not . . . no . . . not my fault.”  She nuzzled
deeper into the coverlet, sound asleep.  Broc’s pulse pounded his ears.

She’d spoken Quemoric!

O’Shay jumped onto the bed. 
Broc yelped.  Settling back on his haunches, the huge tom tilted his head,
diamond pupils locking on Broc.

“Watch over her,” the laird
commanded, his voice cracking.  O’Shay meowed, turned one rotation and
settled down, his tale wrapping around him.  Quilts retrieved from a cedar
trunk, Broc covered Emily.  His hands trembled.  He held one up,
eyeing the appendage.  “Not a word,” he admonished O’Shay, for the cat
stared at his hand as well.  To his shame, his hand quivered like a youth
after his first kiss.  Meowing mocked him.  Not used to unsettled
nerves being witnessed, Broc hastily took his leave. 
Scotch.  A
full bottle tonight.  Not her fault?  What the hell was that all
about?

“Will she be comin’ down, milord?”

“S’blood, woman, you could scare
death with all your creeping about.”  Broc refrained from grappling where
his heart stuttered.  Lairds were not jumpy!  “Where did ye’ come
from?”

Maeve pulled away from
shadows.  “The tunnels.  Fastest way to this corridor.”

“She sleeps.”

“O’Shay be with her?”

“Aye.”

“Then all is as it should be. 
None be disturbin’ her as long as her shield guard watches over her.  A
good night ta’ ye’, milord.  I’m weary and in need of mi’ own bed. 
Allysyn will tend the morning fires in the kitchen.”

“Och, but Henry’s lass is terrified
of bein’ here.”

Maeve shook her head.  “Nay,
she’s sweet on mi’ Aedan and fears I’ll no’ accept her.”  The elder woman
shrugged.  “I leave it to the lad ta’ decide whom his mate will be.” 
The laird’s arched brow said otherwise.  With a laugh, she swatted his
arm.  “Ah, go on wi’ you.”

“Send word to Aunsgar.  I’ll
await him in the library.”

Maeve paused.  “Aunsgar,
milord?”

“Aye.  And tell Garreck no’
ta’ make me wait.”

“Something’s happened?”  Maeve
looked beyond his shoulder at the closed door, her hands twisting and choking
her apron.  “Does the other come?  Already?  Surely, ‘tis too
soon for him to claim her.  She remembers nothing of who she was. 
She’s no’ ready for him.”

“Nothing ta’ fash yer’self
with.  Get ye’ below woman.  Ye’ said yer’self, yer’ exhausted.”

Maeve bobbed a quick curtsey and
spun away to do his bidding.  Torchlight danced with their shadows as he
followed her wake. 

Neither were aware of the third
shadow watching their descent before easing into the room Broc had just
vacated.

*  
*   *   *   *

“You cannot remain here,
Keer’dra.  Why have you come to this realm?”

“A redundant question I ask myself
daily.  Advice from a gorgeous chauffeur when I caught Peter with another
woman.”  Emily shrugged at the voice speaking from darkness. 
“Welcome to my angst.  Gorgeous men forever equate my downfall.”

“Manipulations.  I would have
stopped you, had you not worn the amulet.”

“Amulet?  Oh, right, the
necklace.  I’d forgotten about that.  That chauffeur said it was a
wedding gift, money pooled by Peter’s staff.  They hate what Peter did to
me.  If you don’t mind, I really don’t want to talk about the guy who
screwed me over.  I must have lost the necklace in that accident.”

“Yes, this
chauffeur
is
suspected as being none other than
Pendaran
.”

“Who?”

“You must leave.  I will
escort—“

“Yeah, good luck with that. 
I’ve been trying nearly every day to leave this place.  They find
me.  Always.  Unless you have a devious plan, they don’t allow me out
of their sight.  Even that damned cat stalks me.  Broc said something
about being hunted.  Lame.  Why do you hide your face?”

“You aren’t safe.”

“From you?”

“
Especially
from me.”

“Comforting.”

“
Keer’dra
.”

“Come morning, I’m trying my hand
at sneaking away again.”

“Traveling on your own,
here
,
would not be wise.  Too dangerous.”

“
You
just said I need to
leave.  This is why I hate men.  Nothing but riddles.”

His deep sigh provoked Emily to
move deeper into the shadows where he remained hidden.

“Stay where you are.”

“And if I don’t?”  She edged
closer.

“I command—“

“Shut up.  You and your ilk
will never command me.  Stupid man.”

“I am not a man.”

“Really?  Sound like
one.  Deep voice.  Arrogant.  Bossy.  Chauvinistic. 
Yep, man.”

Growling erupted.  A faint
orange light bloomed in front of her.

A face too beautiful to be real
stared down at her.  Emily gawked.  High cheekbones, almond shaped
azure eyes, and glowing white hair spilling all the way down to narrow
hips.  Disappointed the best part of lower extremities remained in shadow,
she ignored his sudden chuckling as her eyes swept upward to drink in his wide,
naked shoulders.  “Who
are
you?”

“You lack fear.”

“Kinda hard to fear something that
looks like it should be wrapped in a candy wrapper.”

Low rumbling came from his
direction.  “Keer’dra . . .”

His voice, she noted, had become
very husky.  Coupled with his accent, she was blissfully aware of her
ovaries high-fiving each other.  “Keep growling like that, and I’m liable
to pounce.”

“You warrant a sound beating.”

“Peter beat you to it.”  She
ogled his bare torso.

“Yes, the human will suffer—“

“The
human
?”

“Slumber, Keer’dra.  I must
take my leave of your dreams.”

“Oh.”

“Disappointed?”

“Not every day a girl gets a dream
phantom as gorgeous as you.”

“Who said I was a phantom?” 
Wicked grin melted her.

“Oh, I don’t know, glowing
moon-white hair, bluish gray skin—what’s up with that anyway?  And, are
those
fangs
?  Sweet Jesus, I’ve hit the mother lode!”  Her
brows waggled.  “I need to have car accidents more often if that’s what
brings on dreams of serious sex masters!”