Page 9 of Her Highland Destiny

“When will this happen?” Cassandra demanded.

“Some will begin immediately, but the worst will follow in two moon cycles.”

“I must go now.” Cassandra leapt to her feet, but exhaustion caught at her and she stumbled backward.

Morag smiled sadly. “If yer fate is as yer predecessors, ye have a lifetime of battle ahead of ye. The war between light and dark is one driven by the balance of life and will ensue until the end of time. Rest, my dear. Ye may leave in the morning. Then yer fight will begin in earnest.”

The man’s image filled Cassandra’s mind. The impossibly large man with dark eyes and dark hair, the way he’d stopped in his desperate charge to stare at her, as though he were fascinated. Curious, mayhap. Her pulse flickered at her memory. She had not been unaffected. Would she truly need to battle him?

She supposed she would discover as much once she found him, and she knew she would. The earth hummed beneath her feet with an eagerness to lead her to him. She would have to reclaim the stone, even if it did mean a fight. Though in the depths of her heart, she hoped it did not.

The woman had begun to follow Fergus the prior day. He'd sensed her presence as soon as she'd left the veiled cover of the mystical pools. She moved swiftly, and with purpose, and yet even though he was just south of the Isle of Skye, she took long enough to strain his fragile patience.

Fergus paced his narrow room in the inn. It had already seemed small when he'd first rented the chamber, but now its walls threatened to crush in against him with more insistence, its ceiling impossibly low. Anticipation was getting the better of him.

He put his hand over the stone where it lay tucked beneath his leine. Power pulsed against his skin. But it was not anything he would possess forever. Even if he had intended to keep it for his own, he would never grow accustomed to its warm, unnatural glow.

It didn’t stink of magic. Not like the witch had. But it was reminiscent of it all the same, filled with too many bitter memories. The sensation of it prickled at his skin. He wanted to scrub his hands over his body and remove every bit of it from his person. If the stone did not heighten his ability to read people, if he did not need it on his person to bring to Edgar in bartering for his son, he would throw the blasted thing away.

For now, it was half of what the king required. Once Fergus had the woman in his possession, he would make haste to Edinburgh where King Edgar awaited the woman and the stone. The idea of it was simple, an exchange of sorts - the stone and the Protector for the boy.

The boy.

Fergus snorted derisively into the empty room. He didn't even know the lad's name. In every way, he had failed as a father. First he'd failed to protect the lad's mother, then when he'd been persuaded by the king to join his guard, he’d accepted in the hopes of finding the lad within the keep somewhere. All attempts to locate his son had met with more failure. The king was a crafty devil.

The sweet scent of apples caressed Fergus’ senses and took the edge off the restlessness rattling through him. She was near.

He lifted his pack from the floor and strode from the crude rented room. It would be better for her to assume she caught him rather than discover him awaiting her arrival. His horse whinnied upon his arrival, the massive black hooves stamping into the hay-covered earth in the stable.

Fergus swung into the saddle and urged his steed through the streets, away from the dismal village. The sun shone openly upon him, the sky a stretch of clear, cloudless blue. He rode on for the lesser part of an hour when he sensed her. The force of her energy swelled against him, rendering her presence unmistakable. An eagerness sizzled through his veins and surprised him.

He could too easily recall the flush of her cheeks and mouth, the gentleness of her face. She intrigued and enticed him, a delicate wisp of a thing who hit stronger than any knight he’d ever fought.

Then again, mayhap it had been his surprise at finding she could hit at all. Perchance she was not as strong as he remembered. Soon he would find out, and this time he would pay careful attention.

Only her attack did not come when expected. She hung back, hidden from sight. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the wavering warmth of her presence lapping at his awareness, he would have assumed she’d left.

Like a true warrior with proper training, she bided her time, her patience immeasurable. She didn’t attack when he’d stopped to camp, nor when he’d hunted his supper, or even when he’d stopped to eat the roasted meat. Nay, it was long after he’d lain still in his bedroll, beyond the time it took before the fire smoldered into glowing red embers. That’s when the sweet scent of summer apples filled the cave where he’d taken refuge.

Her movement rippled through his consciousness though her feet made not the slightest shuffle. She crept close enough so he could feel her like a wave of heat. His nostrils flared at her delicious scent, as though he might devour the smell as readily as he could the fruit.

She stood over him, but did not move to attack. He curled his hand around the hilt of his dagger and waited.

Nothing happened. Her breathing remained smooth and even, while her movements did not arc out toward him to indicate her intention of an attack. What the devil was she getting at?

He opened his eyes and stared up at her. She did not flinch from his glare.

God’s teeth but she was beautiful. A dark cloak had been pulled over her black curls. It shaded her face and left her eyes glowing pale and luminous in the firelight. She crouched near him, yet her hands were free of a weapon.

“Why do ye no’ attack?” he demanded.

“I do not wish to fight,” she answered simply. Her voice melted over him like honey, light and feminine, quietly breathy.

“Because ye will fail,” he surmised.

“I do not fear defeat. Nor do I fear you.” She tilted her head. “I think I may be one of the few who does not.”

She was correct, but he would not give voice to such affirmations. Not when he was unsure what she was about. He sensed curiosity from her, but naught else. No malice, nor ill intent.