Page 37 of Shaw

“I’d say she’s a little hot,” Caroline said, surveying the laird’s wife and her flushed face. “I’m also guessing we shouldn’t touch Julianne’s new ink.”

“Not unless you want to spend the day in bed. Goodness.” Valerie pressed the backs of her hands against her hot cheeks. “Whatever that is, Julianne, it relays a very strong desire for one’s lover. In fact, I believe that I have to…excuse me, ladies.” She lifted the bar and opened the doors, hurrying out of the chamber.

“Instant aphrodisiac,” the diver said, sounding impressed. “Okay, so this is new.”

“Shaw’s Pritani spirit likely wants him to have sex with Jules a lot,” Lark said, nodding as if she understood. “So whenever someone touches her in a place only he would touch her, they want to get busy like right away.” She pressed a hand to the side of her head. “I can’t believe all this Fae stuff is starting to make sense to me.”

“If the Big Bad did this to me, then it’s Pritani stuff.” Julianne grabbed her leine and pulled it on. “How could it ink me without a tattoo machine, or like me in that dentist kind of chair trying not to cry?” She glanced at the diver. “I hate needles, too. I totally would have noticed if Shaw stuck me with some.”

“I’m not sure about the how, but there are stories about the Pritani spirits marking a warrior’s fated woman when they have sex for the first time,” Caroline said. “Nyall told me that’s how they know they married the right girl, or something like that.”

“Fated what? I’m not Pritani, and I’m already married.” She rubbed the spot again, frowning as she realized all the ache had gone. “This won’t turn me into a killer super-speedy oil slick, will it?” Before either of them answered she tried dashing across the room, only to discover she still moved at the same speed as before being tat-bit. “Never mind.”

When Valerie heard the sound of the ferryman’s horn announcing his arrival at the island, she hurried to finish dressing. “Get dressed, my lazy darling I think your druid has arrived.”

“’Twill take him some time to walk the dock and climb the cliff stairs.” Connal tucked his hands behind his head as he watched her. “May I remind you that ’twas your notion, seducing me mid-morn. I scarce reckoned what you wished when you pushed me in our chamber, stripped us both and jumped atop me.”

She sighed. “All right, but that wasn’t my fault, and if I explain why you’ll only have a fit. It can wait until after we deal with the druid,” she added at his puzzled look.

“You neednae fret, Wife,” the laird said as he rose and pulled on his trews. “The magic folk, they’re calm and gentle.”

“Calm and gentle,” Valerie repeated as they entered the great hall a short time later, and saw the towering, broad figure in dark embroidered robes warming himself in front of the hearth. “You sure about that? Because he looks like a linebacker for the Giants. Literally.”

The druid turned at the sound of her voice. His long, silky black hair framed a shrewd face partly covered by burn scars, which he averted slightly.

“Dinnae fret, my lady. While no’ a treat for the eyes, my looks, they’re far more fearsome than my nature. Greetings, Laird MacMar.” He bowed.

Connal smiled. “My thanks for undertaking the journey to Caladh. Have you yet dined?”

“Aye, your ferry captain provided a meal before bringing me to the main island. ’Twould seem he favors the same foods as we do.” The druid removed a scroll from a pouch on his belt and offered it to the laird. “I carry a message from the council, although I wasnae told of the contents.”

“’Twill keep.” Connal glanced over at Brochan, who came from the kitchens looking stern. “Master Trabalar doesnae require a meal, Cook.”

“He’s that polite now?” The big man folded his arms as he eyed the scarred druid. “When you lived among us as Taupal I reckoned I’d never fill that bottomless pit of your gut.”

“Och, the brother of my heart.” Trabalar grinned and rushed over with undignified haste to embrace Brochan.

“Reincarnation?” Valerie whispered to her husband, who nodded. “Wow. What are the odds that the one druid you need to talk to is the same soul who once lived here?”

“’Tis more that I hid here, Lady MacMar,” Trabalar said as he slapped Brochan’s back. “My tribe fled the mainland so we might avoid the Roman invaders hunting us, but our vessel, ’twasnae seaworthy, and wrecked on a deserted island near Caladh. Half our men drowned attempting to save our wives and bairns, and we faced starvation, for the island had little to offer as food. ’Twas a great kindness of the MacMar, offering us refuge.” He gave the cook a fond smile. “Brochan took charge of feeding us for the two years we abided on this island. Never did a single soul go hungry.”

“Nor shall you whenever you return. I’ve a brew you must try; ’tis the best herbal blend I’ve managed in centuries.” The cook beamed, and then quickly bowed to the laird. “Forgive me, my lord.” He went back into the kitchens.

“Come and sit,” Connal urged the druid. “I cannae believe he recognized you. In your last life you appeared very slight and short, as I recall.”

Trabalar nodded. “Aye, for I’d lived but sixteen years when I fled with the tribe. The Romans never found us, thanks to the clan providing us with haven, but I died some years after we returned to the mainland.” He grimaced. “Mortals we tended infected my tribe with white swelling, which by winter sent us all to our graves.”

Valerie knew that was the old term for bone tuberculosis. “I’m so sorry.”

“Death, ’tis never truly the end for my kind, my lady.” The druid glanced around the hall, and then as Valerie sat down moved around the other side of the table. “I never imagined seeing Dun Ard again in this lifetime. Now, Laird, how may I advise you? The council mentioned you’ve a concern to do with one of the old Pritani tribes, but naught more.”

In that moment she realized how subtly and yet skillfully Trabalar was avoiding any possibility of physical contact with her. He knows I can read the minds of anyone I touch.

“’Tis in regard to the practices of a renegade tribe called the NightRiver.” As soon as Connal said that the druid’s expression shifted from curiosity to disgust. “You’re familiar with them, then.”

“All that tribe ever spawned, ’twas slavers and brutes, my lord. ’Twas a great relief when the last of them died.” Trabalar made an obscure gesture over the front of his robe, and then repeated it twice more toward Valerie and the laird. “My kind never take pleasure in the end of a people, even the Romans, but the MacMar did a great kindness for all humanity when they slew the last of the NightRiver.”

“Before we faced them on the battlefield, they captured and enslaved my younger brother.” Connal told him the tale of how the Pritani had taken Shaw during a visit to the mainland, and kept him enslaved for a decade before he said, “They subjected him to a ritual possession by some dark spirit. ’Twas bound to him by skinwork on his arm. Ken you of such practices?”