The damp fog crept off the sea, moving onto the land and over the hills of Quinag like tendrils of sticky sea grass. It seemed alive even as it covered the dead of her village. The smoke from fires set by their enemies choked her and burned her eyes as she searched for someone, anyone, still alive in the destruction. Struggling through the hazy gloaming, Moira slipped in the mud and fell once again.
She pushed her hair out of her face and rubbed her eyes. Shoved into a hidey hole by her mother at the first sound of the attack, she’d stayed as long as she could, resisting the urge to fight back, to stand with her father and brothers, to protect her mother and her sister. Now, they lay dead, their life’s blood draining out onto the ground in the center of their village. Unable to help them in life, she knew she must help them find peace now.
It took hours but she worked into the night to find and drag the bodies of her sister and mother nearer to the burned remains of their cottage. She worked on and on, sometimes giving in and crying out her grief, especially when she looked on the battered and bruised face of her sister. Then only her mother was left to bury.
When Moira reached under her mother’s arms to pull her into the hastily-dug grave, her mother’s hand twitched, scaring her and sending Moira scurrying back. Taking a breath, she crept forward and touched her mother’s cheek, hoping against hope and sense that she was still alive.
“Mam?” she whispered. “Mam?”
Moira knew that her mother could never survive the wounds she’d received. Then, a rasping, labored breath, drawn in and sputtered out of her, spewed more blood on the ground. Moira tried to lift her, but the hours of digging had left her with little strength now.
“Get away,” her mother said, choking with each word. “They will return. . . “
Tears flowed down her cheeks as she watched her mother struggle for a breath and lose that battle. She did not ken how long she sat there, holding her mam in her arms, but the growing light of dawn creeping over the mountains to the east told her too long. She would be vulnerable in the light of day, a lone girl amidst so much death with no one to protect her. Gently, she laid her mother down and offered a short prayer for her soul, their souls, and then she ran.
Their enemy did return as her mam had warned and she was able to avoid them only by squeezing under a decaying tree and hiding in the morass of roots and grass at its base. Moira listened to their words and the only bit of it she could hear and understand was that they’d been sent by someone called The Seer. The soldiers spent hours in the ruins of her village and then they left.
With hunger and thirst driving her, she waited for the sounds of their leaving to cease completely before creeping from her hiding spot. Stumbling through the forest, she stopped to drink from a stream and pluck some berries. So confused, so tired and so heartbroken, Moira could not think of where to go or what to do. Looking around, she knew she must find shelter for the sun was sliding down the sky towards the sea.
Gathering what berries she could stuff into the pocket of her skirt, she found the path that led away from the sea and towards the mountains. If she could follow the path through the mountains, she could find the village where her mother’s sister lived. Surely she would take her in.
The final shock met her as the path rose to enter the first mountain pass and she nearly buckled under the pain of it. If she had kept her eyes on the rocky trail, she might have missed it, but it was at that very moment when she looked up.
Her father dangled at the end of a rope, his body twisting in the winds. Moira’s stomach clenched and heaved, forcing her to her knees. His eyes were gone and his body showed signs of torture at the hands of his enemies. She crawled on, not daring to look back.
When she reached a place where she could not see him clearly, she stood and, from someplace within, some strength she knew not of, a burning desire for vengeance rose. Clenching her hands, she offered not only a prayer for the soul of her father, but also one for courage and resolve.
She would find the ones responsible for this and she would make them pay. It might take her years, it might mean more suffering on her part, but she would make someone sorry for the day they chose her family as their target. This man, The Seer, would pay with his life.
Her fingers dug into her palms, mixing her blood with that of her slain mother and sister. Holding her hands up to the sky, she spoke the words of a blood oath to the souls of her family and to any god listening.
“I will not cease until every drop of my enemy’s blood is spilled or until I give my own in the trying. On their blood, I swear this.”
Six Years Later
He didn’t remember seeing her before, either in the keep or in the village or among Diarmid’s people. Connor walked past the woman, but then turned back to face her. When the visions approached, with the power seething through his veins and the heat building throughout his body, it was difficult to think about much other than women. If she stood by his door, she was most likely sent there by Lord Diarmid and for one purpose only.
To sate his lust.
Connor smiled as he considered this one, surely sent to ease his needs. He leaned in closer and allowed his essence to envelope her even as he inhaled hers.
And something more surrounded her like the curtain of her brown hair. He inhaled again, savoring the female essence of her and then he recognized the other scent that she carried.
Anger. A bone-deep, overwhelming rage that she kept hidden from others.
Startled by it, he tried to meet her gaze to ascertain its source, but she only looked away. No matter. She was for him.
‘Twas always the way it worked—Diarmid sent them, the magic in his blood entranced them and he pleasured them even as they did him. His appetite for the fairer sex grew as the power pulsed stronger and stronger and as his body prepared to channel the visions sent to him.
At first the wench did not react, she even shook her head as though trying to clear her thoughts, but when he held his hand out to her, she took it. As he guided her into his chambers he realized that she was not the curvaceous, full-bodied woman that the lord usually provided to him. He’d fallen into a pattern of selecting bedmates whose breasts and hips were voluptuous and soft and whose bodies could take his weight and height and length and Diarmid noticed quickly and provided them to him.
Just as he preferred them.
order at Amazon.com
— Return to Top