Page 4 of Her Highland Destiny

Magic.

His heart slammed with a frenzy in his chest. The presence of it hissed everywhere, reminding him of that night.

Nay.

He wanted to clutch his head in his hands and roar until his throat bled, he wanted to claw at his chest until his heart was a pathetic pulsing bloody pulp in his palms. He would endure any injury over the memories of that night.

Fergus jerked to the side, as though doing so would wrench the memory free and fling it from his mind. But it was not that night that came to him. The rain parted and peeled away the gray sky for sunlight to pour in. Fergus squinted against the brilliance, but did not pull away his gaze.

A woman’s face appeared at its center, one he’d never seen before. She was young, her skin practically white against the dark mass of curls spilling over her shoulders. Her gaze flicked up and met his, a piercing blue. A flush of pink showed on her cheeks and lips, giving her the allure of true innocence. Confusion crossed her comely features. Her hand moved over her right hip, the opposite side as his mark, but in the same place, and he knew.

The stone had passed to its new Protector.

A dulled practice sword thwacked against his chest, but he did not move.

The former Protector was dead. She’d hidden herself away for well over a decade, impossible to find despite Fergus’ efforts to find her. He’d searched with desperation, all to no avail. There was a new Protector now, which meant he would have another opportunity to lure her back to King Edgar, and there would be another opportunity to claim the stone as his.

His mind spun with possibilities and what they might bring to him. After years of fruitless searching, and as many years of separation from the son he had never met, he may finally have his opportunity.

The practice sword skimmed off the shoulder of his chain mail. Fergus had completely forgotten their mock battle. He turned his head to regard the youth, and the young man stepped back. Rightly so.

Power thrummed through Fergus’ veins with all the force of a decade of rage and loss and longing. A single blow could kill the lad.

“We’re done,” Fergus said flatly.

The lad nodded. “Mayhap again? At another time?” He watched Fergus with a hopeful expression.

“There is business requiring my attention.”

The young man gave a slight bow. “It was an honor to fight with ye.”

Fergus inclined his head respectfully and quit the training yard for the palace. Inside, King Edgar sat on his throne as he did most days, his elbows rested against the carved sides of the regal seat, his fingers steepled between them. He flicked a hand outward in dismissal of others.

“Leave us,” King Edgar’s voice echoed in the large stone room.

Advisors and petitioners alike silently obeyed the order, streaming past Fergus’ large frame in a clatter of footsteps on the stone floor. The last man out pulled the massive doors shut behind him, letting them close with a deafening slam. Silence followed while the king stared down at Fergus.

There was an arrogant victory about the king, not outwardly, but a glow deep inside his chest where the rest of him was rotten and dark. He already knew.

“The Protector is dead.” Fergus spoke as if he was unaware of the king’s knowledge. Likewise, he concentrated on keeping his own emotions and thoughts contained within himself.

He was not certain how the king came upon his uncanny revelations, whether he himself had power, or someone else in his employ did, but Fergus knew better than to let his own thoughts be read and heard.

King Edgar’s eyes widened. “I am aware. Which means a new Protector will have been found. I’m assuming ye can find this one.”

Fergus gave a sharp nod.

The king’s fingers separated from where they steepled together and clawed over the arms of his throne like long limbed insects. “I was too lenient last time. I see as much now.”

Fergus said nothing, focusing instead on muffling the rapid beat of his heart and silencing his racing thoughts.

“Find the stone this time and bring the lass here.” The king paused to lift a gilded chalice from a tray beside his throne. He drank long and deep so the lump in the middle of his long, skinny neck bobbed several times before he set the cup aside. Moisture clung to his upper lip, but he did not blot it away. “Ye have two moon cycles to bring them both to me.”

“If I do not?” Fergus pressed.

“There will be consequences.” King Edgar’s mouth curled up in a wolfish grin. “Consequences ye willna like.”

Fergus did not respond. Why bother when he had no choice?