Highland Magic
Christine Young
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 4
Buy at:
www.roguephoenixpress.com
Scotland, Summer 1513:
For a moment the man's gaze
met hers, bored into her heart, questioned. Blood curdling war cries rode the
wings of death through the timeless night. Claymores clashed. Dark eyes the
color of midnight flashed a challenge. The holy man's opponents hesitated then
lunged once more.
Moonbeams reflected light
from the gold chain he wore around his neck. Brown robes fell from massive
shoulders. Three more enemies appeared from the trees. The priest fell to the
ground, wounded by the broadside of his enemy's weapon. Motionless, he lay on
her flower-strewn meadow, blood staining the grass and wildflowers, marring the
colorful, summer landscape.
Keely Gray woke, heart
pounding a rapid staccato. She pressed against her throbbing temples with
sweat-slick palms, hoping to ease the horrific pain that always accompanied the
dreams. Death--the scent of blood, fear and treachery still hung heavy in the
darkened hut. The prickling sensation radiating from her spine to encompass her
body was too familiar.
She listened and heard
nothing.
A dark void impaled her. The
usual night sounds stilled. She heard no hoot of owl, no chirp of crickets, no
croak of frogs, nor could she hear the mournful sighing of the wind through the
branches of the old oak trees.
Silence emptied her heart as
well as her soul, leaving only an ever-present loneliness.
Keely wanted nothing more
than to cuddle into her bed and pull the covers over her head. Despite the
unspeakable agony deep in the pit of her stomach, she rose from her pallet. Her
limbs trembling, she slipped a shapeless tunic over her head and soft-soled
shoes onto her feet. As she swept past the front door, she grabbed her woolen
cloak.
Light from a full moon
illuminated the path. She could see, but she could also be seen, the moonlight
both a curse and a blessing. Approaching the meadow she'd watched in her
dreams, she slowed her pace and waited. Her fingers wound tightly around the
amber pendant she always wore, her only keepsake from her mother.
The sounds and scents
hovering on the wind would tell her if danger still lurked. Caution guided her.
A vigilance she'd learned long ago held her motionless.
A familiar dragging sound reassured her she
wasn't alone. "Whipple?" she whispered.
A self-appointed guardian
angel appeared as if from nowhere then nodded, though there was a wary cast to
his faded blue eyes. "Aye, lass, I'm here. I heard ye leave your hut. I
would not leave ye alone to face whatever dangerous mission awaited."
Keely waited for Whipple to
close the distance between them before she spoke. "I would argue with you
about your appearance here at this great hour, but I ken it would do no good.
You should not be here. Your heart--"
Whipple spat. "My heart
is fine."
She determinedly stepped
forward, approaching the meadow of her dream, knowing she wouldn't like what
she found.
"Have it your way,
then." Given a choice, Keely wouldn't have come to this meadow. But she
had to know the truth--had she seen the future or something happening at that
very moment?
Whipple didn't reply. On his
clubfoot, he followed her, his trailing leg sliding behind him with a soft
swish. The hard thud of his crooked oak cane followed at a slightly skewed
interval.
Together they crested the
hill. Below her, she saw her dream. A priest lay on the ground, his head
twisted at an odd angle. For a moment her heart stopped. She bit down on her
lower lip while she studied the man.
Keely tried to ignore the
helplessness pooling deep within, and attempted to push the burgeoning tears
away. A frisson swept over Keely's skin.
She approached the priest
cautiously; he could be playing with her, waiting for her to get within reach
of those powerful hands.
Warily, she eyed Whipple. A
few moments of silent observation convinced Keely the stranger wasn't lying in
ambush. He was too still, not visibly breathing. Keely feared the man was dead.
He lay utterly motionless; his limbs at awkward angles, his head wound oozing
blood. The slow welling of blood from the wound told her he was still alive.
She kneeled beside the priest. "He's not dead, Whipple." Her fingers
hovered above his weak pulse. She watched the slight rise and fall of his
sturdy, broad chest. Yet she did not dare touch him.
Whipple inhaled sharply.
"Do ye mean to take him to your hut, lass? I cannae allow ye to do such a
dangerous thing. Ye have no idea who or what he is. Ye do not ken his purpose
here or his intent."
"He is a priest.
Besides, there is nothing else we can do."
No comments:
Post a Comment