Page 38 of Leila’s Legacy

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Sleep did not come easily for Leila. Despite the luxurious relaxation of her body following her release, her mind was like a hive of bees, all darting this way and that in chaotic abandon.

Her gaze wandered back to the solid wooden door. Not with fear as before, but with anticipation. No longer did she dread Alban would swing it open and make good on his threats. Nay, now she wished it would part to reveal the Lion in the doorway, still hot and hard. Ready to show her how a woman’s wetness helped to accommodate within her that most intimate part of him.

With Niall guarding her door, she’d put aside the shaft of wood she’d peeled from the bed. The ache of her fingers from prying it free had eased with her balm he’d brought her. Her eyes flicked back to the door.

Was he still there?

She shifted in the straw mattress. Bits of hay jabbed at her through the thin, rough sheet. Her right side was no more comfortable than her left.

Was he still there?

She drew back the thin blanket and slipped from the bed to the floor, her gaze fixed on the door.

A cool current of air swept in from the crack beneath it as she approached. “Are you there, Lion?” she asked.

“I am.”

She put her hand to the solid wooden surface as though doing so might allow her to feel him through it.

“Do ye need something, lass?” he asked.

She almost laughed at the question, as if she were a guest rather than a prisoner. Aye, she needed much. Her freedom, her family, him.

“Nay,” she replied instead. “Only to bid you good night.”

“Rest easy, Lady Leila,” he replied. “I’ll ensure ye’re safe.”

She pressed her lips together. His reassurances of her safety had been humorous at first, at least in a macabre sense, when she was determined to resist him. Somehow, however, he had slipped past every defense she’d erected and was working his way into her heart. Now his reassurances of her safety, and the reminder of how integral he was to her demise, had lost all humor.

Saying nothing further, she walked backward toward her pallet as she left her attention on the door. Where he remained on the other side. The Lion. Her destiny.

She settled into her bed and drew the covers over her. This time she did not fight the memories of what they’d shared, nor did she try to fight the pull of her thoughts toward him. She ran to them, let them embrace her with comfort and warmth. It was then that sleep finally claimed her, wholly and completely.

Her dreams were senseless shifts of images of her loved ones. She tried to cling to their faces, but the harder she tried to focus on them, the more they pulled away. A tingling sensation washed over her, one so familiar, she could register its presence even in her sleep. It was the same with every vision she received, whether she was asleep or awake.

The village around her was one she instantly recognized, the one located just outside of Werrick Castle beside the pestilence hut. Her nose stung from the smoke hanging thick and acrid in the air and her eyes watered against it. Within the hut came the cries of the dying as they begged for water and pleaded for relief.

Werrick Castle loomed on the horizon as it always did, like a sentry guarding the village and all its people. Her heart leapt at the familiar site. Father was inside, as well as Isla and Nan and Bernard and Peter, and all the servants she’d come to love as family.

She raced toward the castle, alight with joy to see them all once more. A violent gust blew at her, sending her staggering backward as a shadow appeared behind Werrick Castle. It was like a cloud, but thicker, darker, glistening as if a sheen of oil had been slicked over its surface.

It rolled through the sky like something living, bringing with it the sickly-sweet odor of illness. Terror gripped Leila. She stopped struggling against the wind and was blown onto her back. She watched, helpless, as the mass stopped over Werrick Castle, casting a shadow of death on all those she loved.

Her right shoulder burned where Death had left his mark. “Nay,” she cried. But the cloud did not leave despite her pleas. Everything in her sagged in defeat, for there was nothing she could do to stop it. The pestilence would descend upon Werrick Castle.

The wind ceased abruptly, and water rushed over her feet. She jolted upright as the scene changed into the rushing river where the sky was gray, and the banks laid white with a dusting of snow. She gasped harshly. Not this. Not him.

He was there, bathed in the chilly winter light as he stalked toward her, his face set with determination. Except now she knew that face in passion, when his lips were not thinned, and his eyes were tender.

“Leila.” He was next to her now. A hand at her back pushed her onward.

The water was up to her calves, so cold it burned like Death’s mark on her shoulder. She shook her head.

“Leila,” he said her name again in a gravelly voice. His hands came up to her shoulders.

The river was at her thighs now, stealing her breath and filling her with fear while he pushed her down. The frigid water stung like a thousand arrows and left her momentarily stunned as it filled her nose, her mouth. That was when she struggled for her life, and when he pushed down all the harder, intent on her death.