Page 50 of Tair

Lucy heard his voice, although his lips weren’t moving. Then she realized she was hearing his thoughts.

There must live one with a heart large enough to accept a dark-blooded swine like me. I should wish for naught more in my life but her.

Tair tossed the damp, dirty linen on the side of the barrel, and when he turned away it sparkled with copper-violet light before it disappeared.

“So that’s why you took me from my time?” She swiped at her burning eyes. “You should have brought him someone closer.”

In all of time in the mortal realm, you are the only woman who may fulfill Tair MacRune’s wish. If you desire give him what he longs for, you must choose again, and give him your heart.

Lucy sat up, jerking on her chain as she came fully, instantly awake. “It was Tair?” She looked down at her sleeping lover. “You wished for me?”

The laird murmured something unintelligible and curled an arm around her, pulling her down to him.

Osgan paddled the skiff the magistrate’s wife had left for him so that it lay partially hidden beneath the dock on the MacRune’s island. Tying it off there, he waded ashore, and concealed himself in some brush as a group of patrollers marched by. The darkness had hidden his approach, but from here he could be discovered by the clan if he wasn’t careful. In his chest something tugged at him, a sensation he hadn’t experienced since crawling into the enchanted hollow after the battle with Rune. After stealing the cluet from the dark Fae queen and bringing it to the mortal realm he had the same awareness of the treasure, as if some unseen cord tied him to it.

The clan had not yet found the cluet, so it lay concealed somewhere here, likely inside the stronghold.

Before sailing to the island, Osgan had changed into the rough garb of a drover, which he would claim to be if caught by the MacRune. He had invented an entire story about a ewe running off in this direction, and how he was searching the loch to see if she had fallen into the water and drowned. Since the clan were halflings he was certain his tàladh would help him convince them. He might even seduce one of the senior men if he had to.

I must retrieve that facking rag, no matter the cost.

Slowly he made his way toward the gate of the outer curtain wall, taking care to avoid attracting the notice of the watchers. As a group of patrollers approached the gate he took out a small black crystal from his belt pouch and gripped it tightly. The crystal cast a dark shadow over him that allowed him to follow the patrollers through the open gate as if he were no more than one of their shadows. Once he’d trailed after them across the outer bailey and into the inner gate he dropped down in the gardens, waiting until the patrollers went inside the garrison hall before studying the five arches that led into the stronghold.

“Och, there you skulk, lad.” A large man stinking of horse manure came staggering up to Osgan and seized his arm. “Where did you stray tonight?” he demanded, blasting his face with hot, whiskey-laden breath. “Didnae you ken I’d be eager for you?”

The drunken man kept hold of him and dragged him into the stronghold through one of the back arches, rambling on about how much he hated to be kept waiting. The guards they passed only gave them amused looks, as if they were a familiar sight.

Finally the odorous man pushed Osgan into a small chamber, and dropped the bolt bar before he shoved him face-down on the bed.

“Maister, please.” He tried to rise and groaned as the stableman yanked down his trews and kicked his legs apart. “I’m no’ your lad.”

“So you claim every night,” the drunkard panted against his ear, weaving a little as he tried to penetrate him. When he couldn’t he shifted down to tongue his pucker and push two fingers inside.

Aroused by the rough treatment, Osgan lifted his hips and groaned as the man straightened and pressed inside, jerking as he began thrusting.

Osgan closed his eyes as the drunkard facked him, recalling the night the dark Fae queen had summoned her guards to violate him one at a time while she watched and stroked herself. He’d forgotten how delightful it could be to be made helpless and taken over and over, although this idiot mortal would never last as long as a dark Fae killer. Just as he’d expected, all too soon the drunkard stiffened, spilled and collapsed facedown beside him on the bed. Osgan watched him for a few moments before he stood and stroked his throbbing cock, jetting onto the big man’s face before hauling up his trews.

“I shall repay you someday, fool,” he promised the drunkard before he went to the door and opened it to look outside.

A big fist hauled him backward. “I’m no’ done with you yet, laddie.”

Chapter Thirteen

Dorchad watched as Lucy Brooke left the laird’s chamber with one of the kitchen maids, aware that he could snap her slim neck with but a twitch of his hand.

The notion appealed to him, far too much.

The injuries he’d sustained yesterday during his sparring match with Tair in the afternoon had already healed, but not the blow to his pride. He never allowed the laird to win a bout, which was why they so often sparred together. Yet the entire time he’d been in the circle Tair had been distracted, as if he couldn’t stop his thoughts from wandering. Whenever Dorchad had drawn close he’d smelled the unmistakable scent of Lucy Brooke coming from him, so much so that it was obvious they’d become lovers again. That his lord wished more to think on that wench than pay attention to their bout had been the final indignity.

Since then the bout had played out over and again in his memory, beginning at the moment when he’d taunted Tair about the wench.

“The guards claimed you went off in the woods with that pretty harlot of yours after you took her to the village. Do you enjoy swiving her so much?” Dorchad struck Tair in the ribs with his stave, nearly hard enough to crack the bones. He then clouted his hands, bloodying his fingers and making him drop his stave. “You wish go and fack her again now? For you fight like your head’s up your arse.”

The laird gave him an ugly look as he retrieved the wooden staff. “Dinnae speak of my woman thus. Dinnae think of her.”

The sky turned dark, telling him that Tair meant every word. In the sparring circle, where they had sworn to face each other without grudges, that proved too much for his own ragged temper.

“How may I no’? You stink of that insolent hoor.” He circled around Tair, not caring if he saw an opportunity to strike again. He had to empty his rage before it exploded inside him. “She’s naught to the clan, and yet you act as if she’s more precious to you than your blood-kin. Her quim drives you that mad?”