"I'm not!" What an absurd notion.
"You cannot love me. Is that it?" The pained expression in her gaze magnified.
"Nay, I do." Torr squeezed his eyes closed and allowed the turbulent emotion free rein—a tender, raw sentiment he had tried to block. "Saints, I do love you," he whispered fiercely. Why had he only now realized it? Of a sudden, 'twas as though he had loved her for a lifetime. How could something so profound smash into him, like a cannonball to the chest?
She kissed him, and he accepted. How precious and enchanting she was. He brushed her tears away with his thumbs, wishing she'd stop crying, but at the same time, cherishing the reason for it.
"I love you, Cat. Never doubt it." He stared directly into her eyes, hoping she would believe him, while seeing her love reflected back at him.
"Oh, Torr. Thank God. I feared you would never have feelings for me."
"Of course, I do,mo chridhe. The thought of you—the hope that I would see you again—kept me sane while I was bound."
"I thank you!" She placed sweet, cherishing kisses over his face.
"There's nay need to thank me."
"But I'm so grateful."
"And I'm grateful for you and your patience. Sometimes I can be stubborn."
"Nay. Indeed?" She grinned.
Feeling happier than he had in years, he kissed her firmly, then feasted upon her delicious mouth.
Blissful delight immersed him for several seconds, but then a strong wind hit him, rocking him back on his heels. His eyes sprang open, and he broke the kiss.
Wilona MacRae materialized ten feet in front of him.
Alarm slamming through him, he put Cat behind him.
Saints, where was the old man? Torr withdrew his sword and pointed it at the hag, his gaze searching the area. "Have you hurt Finnian? So help me if you have."
Wilona vanished, then appeared several yards away. Her powers seemed even stronger than before. She lifted her arms and murmured a chant.
"Finnian?" Torr shouted over the rising chill winds twisting the trees and swirling dried leaves. Heavy dark clouds obscured the sky.
Wilona chanted louder and louder in the old Gaelic language. Behind them, a man's voice rose over the wind.
Torr turned to find Finnian behind them, arms raised, staff in hand, facing off against Wilona.
"What are they doing?" Cat tightened her arms around Torr.
"'Tis a battle of sorcery. Come." He drew her farther away from the two.
Lightening split the sooty-gray sky, eerily illuminating the area.
A short distance away, Torr knelt behind a boulder and pulled Cat to him. He held her tightly, her face pressed against his chest, while watching Finnian combat the witch. The air was heavy and oppressive, the sky murky with low, turbulent clouds. Something fell around them. What was that? Not rain. Black objects. Black... creatures. He frowned. Dead bats and ravens.Saints preserve us.
The chanting swelled louder. Wilona's arms shook with the power she wielded. A great wind swept through, sucked all the dead leaves and animals from the ground, and lifted them through the tree limbs and into the sky. A moment later, they dropped again. Hail followed. The coin-sized pieces of ice bounced off everything, including his head. "Ow, 'slud." He tried to shelter Cat from the worst of it.
The hail gradually turned to giant snowflakes, falling thick, blanketing the ground quickly. The temperature plummeted like mid-winter.
Finnian dropped to his knees, his weakened arms lowering and trembling.
Nay! Get up, Finnian! Get up!
