Читать книгу Highland Thirst - Lynsay Sands - Страница 11

“He is dying, mistress.”

Brona nearly snarled at Colin, but took a few deep, slow breaths to calm herself instead. Colin was only speaking the hard, cold truth and he did not need to be snapped at because of that. They had been hiding in the bowels of Rosscurrach for two days and Sir Heming grew no better. He was so pale he would probably blend into the linen he slept upon if not for his long black hair, and his breathing had grown shallow, weaker, and less even. Her constant tending of his many wounds had done nothing to help him. There was no sign of fever or infection and, horrendous though they were, his wounds no longer bled. Yet he only grew worse. It made no sense to her.

What also made no sense to her was how upset she was about that. She had seen death before. It was a part of life one could not ignore. She also did not know this man and, if even half of the things Hervey said about the MacNachtons were true, that was probably a blessing. Yet Brona felt a cold fear growing inside of her, as if she was about to lose something precious. She inwardly shook her head, deciding the situation she found herself in plus working day and night to try to save a man’s life was making her fanciful, if not completely delirious.

“I think he needs blood,” a swiftly recovering Peter said.

It had to be the fact that she was watching a man die that was making her so irritable, Brona thought, biting back the urge to snap at Peter. He, too, only spoke the hard truth, just as Colin had. Soon after they had brought Sir Heming into this chamber set deep beneath Rosscurrach she had begun to suspect that her healing skills were not really what the man needed. Hervey speaking of how the man’s wounds had healed after drinking Peter’s blood had echoed in her mind time and time again, but she had fought to ignore it. She could no longer do that. If she did, Sir Heming would surely die.

“Weel, he isnae having any of mine,” Fergus muttered.

Before Brona could respond to that the man on the bed groaned softly and then opened his eyes. “Where am I?” he asked.

Heming blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the beatings he had suffered had left his eyes too swollen for him to see clearly. His first thought was that Mistress Brona had decided to help her cousin torture him, for he could think of no other reason for her to be in his cage. A moment later he realized he was lying on something soft and a blanket covered him, a welcome comfort he knew would never have been given him if he was still Hervey Kerr’s prisoner. Three men stood a few feet away looking at him and he could see no bars, could feel no chains weighting down his arms and legs. Then a soft hand touched his forehead and he turned his gaze toward the woman leaning over him. He was free, he thought, and was it not just his luck to be set free only to die.

“Ye must tell my kinsmen what happened to me,” he said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

“Ye may tell them yourself when ye return to them,” Brona said.

“Nay, I willnae be seeing them again in this life.” He felt the pain of that loss, but struggled against the urge to rage and grieve.

“Aye, ye will, Sir Heming.” Brona took a deep breath, wanting to speak of something she found a little horrifying with some appearance of calm. “Do ye need blood?”

For a moment Heming could not think of how to answer her question. It was obvious the fact that he had been driven to feed from that poor man was no secret. He hoped the number of people who had learned about that was small. The very last thing his clan needed now was someone who had actually seen a MacNachton drink blood spreading the tale, adding veracity to some of the many whispers about his clan. Unfortunately, his choices at the moment were dismal. If he tried to deny what she already knew, claiming it as some aberration brought on by long hours of torture, he would not get the aid he needed to survive.

And he really needed to survive, he decided. He needed to help fight the hunters who wished to destroy his clan. He needed to find Tearlach and warn his clan. Heming ruefully admitted that, if there was even the smallest chance of survival, he wanted to grasp it and hold on tight. He could deal with any consequences of revealing a few of his clan’s secrets later, when he was strong again.

“Ye saw that, did ye?” He tried not to blatantly sniff her clean, sweet scent when she slipped her arm around his back and helped him sip from a tankard of wine, easing the painful dryness of his throat.

“Nay, I didnae, but Peter has survived and he hides here with us. Also, I o’erheard my cousin speak of it with his first.”

“Then, aye, blood will aid me to heal myself.”

She could see how much he hated to admit that. The man was obviously not comfortable with those not of his ilk knowing that he had such a dark hunger. He looked both embarrassed and wary. The man might fear that such a confession would now end the life he was clinging to by the very tips of his fingers. Brona was still not sure how she felt about such a thing or exactly what such a hunger made Sir Heming, but she could not let him die.

“Will the blood of some animal work just as weel?” she asked.

“Nay this time. I am weak nigh onto death. There isnae—” Heming decided he would not get into a discussion about the varied qualities of blood right now. “’Tis nay strong enough.”

That was a disappointment, Brona decided. Disgusting as it might be, there would have been no trouble amongst the men if she could have slipped up into the kitchens and gotten some animal blood. To save him, however, he was going to have to be allowed to drink from someone. It took only one glance at Fergus, Colin, and Peter to reveal that there would be no rush of volunteers from amongst them. Oddly enough she got the feeling that it had less to do with someone drinking their blood than with the fact that that someone was a man. That left her and she was not sure she had the stomach for it. It would probably hurt, if nothing else, and she was a coward when it came to pain.

Even with his poor sight Heming could see that none of them wished to do what was needed. He could understand that. Not only was there the fear that somehow he could suck out their soul along with their blood, but Outsiders had a natural distaste for being seen as prey, as food. Some men also found it all a little too intimate to be comfortable sharing blood with another man. Usually he did not need blood, not as some of his kinsmen did. An occasional drink of some blood-enriched wine was enough to keep up his strength. Since he was born of a MacNachton and an Outsider, there were a lot of differences between him and a Pureblood MacNachton. One was that he really only needed a hearty drink of blood if he was wounded or ill. Since most of the time he had been at Cambrun during such times, one of his clan had given him what he had needed. Except for being forced to feed from Peter, Heming had never drunk the blood of an Outsider before.

If given a choice he knew which one of the people watching him he would choose to feed from. Heming covertly watched the woman, sensing how hard she was thinking over the problem. He desperately wanted to live and, without blood, that would not happen, but he would not beg.

“Weel, then, I guess we had better give ye some blood,” Brona said, pleased at how calm and brave she sounded even though she was shaking inside. After glancing at the three other men, she murmured, “And I guess it shall be me who does so.”

“Nay, mistress,” said Colin, hastily stepping up to the side of the pallet. “I will do it.”

Brona could not help it. She laughed and then reached out to pat Colin on one of his thick, muscular arms. “Nay, Colin, though I thank ye most kindly for choking out the offer.” She grinned when he blushed and grimaced. “’Tis fine. I am the one who has pulled him free of my cousin’s grip. Aye, and ’tis my kinsmon who has done this to him. I will do it.” She looked at Sir Heming. “Just how does one do it? I hope there is no need to cut my throat first as was done to Peter, for I willnae be able to do that and I doubt any of these men will be able either.”

“Nor would they allow me to try,” said Heming. “Nay, ’twas your cousin who cut Peter’s throat, as I had no intention of giving the bastards a show. Unfortunately, I was weak and maddened with pain so that when they kept pushing a bleeding mon beneath my nose, I couldnae stop myself. I also thought that I had best do so if only to close the wound that was made ere Peter bled to death. They didnae care and he was cut badly.”

Brona had to lean closely to him to hear him clearly as his voice wavered from being clear if hoarse, to being little more than a ragged whisper. “Best we do this now. I dinnae think ye will be able to stay awake much longer. Do ye need to do it at the throat?”

“’Tis easiest.”

Heming could not believe this woman was going to allow him to feed from her. She was afraid for all she sounded calm, but she was not resistant. He glanced at the men as she leaned closer, holding her thick hair away from her throat. They looked grimly curious.

“Should we leave?” asked Colin. “Nay sure I should watch this, or e’en want to.”

“Stay,” Heming said. “I am sitting on the edge of death and I need at least one of ye to stay here to be certain to stop me if ye think I am taking too much from her.”

“How will we ken if ye have taken too much?”

“Ye will be able to see it. Trust me in this. I wouldst rather none of ye see this or e’en ken about it, but I dinnae really have a choice now, do I?”

“Nay if ye wish to live.”

Brona looked at him as he slipped his hand around the back of her neck and tugged her closer. She could see the glint of the gold of his eyes behind his bruise-swollen eyelids. Otherwise he was a mess. It almost looked as if Hervey or one of his men had resented the man’s handsome looks and had done his best to utterly destroy them. She felt uneasy as he pulled her so close she was laying on top of him. This seemed uncomfortably intimate.

“Be at ease, wee Brona,” he whispered in her ear. “It willnae hurt.”

“How can ye say that? Are ye nay about to sink something sharp into my neck?” she whispered back.

If he was not in so much pain and fighting to control the hunger the sight of her slim, lovely neck stirred inside of him, he would have laughed. “Aye, but just as I was able to make sure Peter didnae bleed to death, I can make it so that ye are barely aware of what I do.”

Her eyes grew wide when she felt him lick her neck, causing a river of heat to suddenly flow through her body. Brona was just trying to figure out what that was when she felt a sharp pain immediately followed by more of that heady fire. She could feel him drawing the blood from her body, but all of her fear was gone, replaced by what she was beginning to think was pure, hot lust.

He stroked her back lightly with one hand and gently rubbed the back of her neck with the other, his touch becoming stronger and more sure with each passing beat of her heart. Brona had the strongest urge to rub her body against his, to relieve a sudden ache in her breasts and her groin, but she held herself as still as she could, all too aware of the other men watching her. Just as she began to think she was going to have to rub against him or go mad, he was licking her throat again. Dazed though she was, Brona actually had to bite back a protest when Colin lifted her away from Sir Heming.

Heming closed his eyes and felt the magic of her blood flow through his body. It had been difficult to stop, even more difficult not to start to make love to her. There was a deep ache in his body at the moment that had nothing to do with his injuries. He took a deep, slow breath to try to calm the lust raging inside of him and for the first time in days, felt no pain as he did so. Brona’s elixir was already working its magic and, to his utter astonishment, doing so as swiftly as the rich blood of a Pureblood of his clan, even an Elder. He had never heard of an Outsider’s blood being so potent.

Brona struggled to shake off the effects of the strange feelings Sir Heming had stirred inside of her and found Colin, Fergus, and Peter all staring at her neck. “Is it bleeding?” she asked and hastily touched the place where Sir Heming had bitten her, but could feel nothing, which was very strange indeed.

“Nay,” answered Colin. “’Tis fine. Looks like nay more than a wee love bite.”

“What is a love bite?”

“Ah, weel, ’tis when a mon has a wee nibble on a lassie’s neck—”

“Hush, Colin,” snapped Peter. “Ye dinnae talk of such things with a weelborn lass and a maid.”

“Actually, I was rather interested in what he had to say,” said Brona.

“Sweet Jesu!” cried Fergus.

Turning to see Colin’s brother staring wide-eyed at Sir Heming and crossing himself, Brona quickly looked at Sir Heming. For a moment she feared he had died despite taking her blood, or, God forbid, her blood had poisoned him, but she could see that he was still breathing. In fact, he was breathing very well, deeply and evenly and not even wincing a little as he did so. Looking at his face, she gasped along with Colin and Peter. She could actually see the bruises and swelling fading. She glanced down at his broad chest and watched the lash marks and knife slashes slowly fade away as well.

“Ye must have some verra powerful blood, mistress,” muttered Colin.

“Are ye still sure he isnae a demon?” asked Fergus in a slightly unsteady whisper.

“He isnae a demon. I dinnae e’en feel faint so he didnae take much blood from me. And I am quite certain I still have my soul.” She shook her head. “’Tis miraculous.”

“This is what the laird seeks,” said Peter.

“And ’tis something I cannae give him e’en if I wanted to,” said Heming as he opened his eyes, speaking to Peter but staring at Brona. “’Tis something that is unique to the MacNachtons, something that has been a part of us forever. The clan is ancient, as are these gifts.”

Heming finally looked at the men, although it was hard to tear his gaze away from Brona’s wide sea-green eyes. The three men staring at him looked more amazed than appalled or afraid, even a little stunned. None of them was rushing to find a weapon, either.

“And, Fergus, I am nay a demon,” he said and decided that Fergus’s guilty flush was a good sign, for if the man could feel uncomfortable about calling him a demon then it meant Fergus did not fully believe it. “I truly am just a mon, one with a few special gifts and a few, weel, curses.”

“Curses like having to drink blood?”

“Aye, I suspicion ye could call that a curse, but I have ne’er worried o’er it much as I dinnae have to do it verra often.” He shrugged, silently pleased over how his abused muscles now allowed him to do so easily. “It doesnae matter. Just cease to worry that I am about to suck out your soul. And I would like your word to nay speak of what has happened here. ’Tis talk about such things that has brought me into this hell.”

“Fair enough,” said Fergus. “Ye have it. Dinnae think anyone would believe me anyway.” Peter and Colin nodded in agreement.

“How did my cousin come to ken about ye and your clan?” asked Brona. “None of us have really heard more than a whisper here and there about the MacNachtons, and some nay e’en that.”

“Your cousin has joined with others who have made it their crusade to hunt down me and mine and kill us all. As your cousin so sweetly told me, the MacNachtons are an abomination that must be cleared from God’s earth.”

“Hervey sounded that pious?”

“He has become a hunter and they tend to talk that way. My cousin and I were trying to find out more about them as we kenned that they were starting to gather together, to become many instead of one here and there. Several of my clan have met gruesome ends recently and we are sure it was done by the hunters. We have declared them all our blood enemies.”

“Oh, weel, aye. So ye must.” She shook her head. “I confess I dinnae understand what ye are, how ye could drink blood, or how ye could heal as ye have. Howbeit, ye have ne’er harmed anyone at Rosscurrach and ye didnae deserve what was done to ye. Ye certainly didnae deserve what Hervey and Angus had planned for ye.”

“Exactly what did they have planned for me? I assumed they would torture me until I died or, since I would ne’er tell them what they sought to ken, just get so furious with their failure that they simply killed me.”

“I did as I said I would and tried to find out exactly what was going on. Weel, I am nay sure how much Hervey believes in what these hunters do, but he was appalled by what ye are. However, he wants your secret to a long life. When I heard him speak of that, I also heard what he meant to try next. When ye healed after drinking Peter’s blood, Hervey decided that your blood was the secret to your long life. He and Angus intended to drink a potion made from your blood every day for a fortnight and see if they began to heal quickly from wounds. If they did, weel, I fear ye would ne’er have been set free. They would have continued to use ye to make their daily potions.”

“Ye mean they would hold him down here forever and milk him like a cow just so they might live longer?” asked Fergus.

Brona winced, but had to admit there was a certain clarity in Fergus’s words, although it was not an image she really wished stuck in her head. “Aye, in a manner of speaking.”

“Wheesht, I think I have been looking for demons in the wrong place. ’Tis certain Angus and the laird have enough dark evil in them to be the devil’s men.”

Restricting her response to that of simply a nod, Brona fetched Sir Heming a tankard of wine. It pleased her to see him smoothly sit up and take it from her hand, to drink without aid. She still found the idea of drinking blood a little chilling, but could not subdue a touch of pride that her blood had done such a fine job of bringing Sir Heming back from the brink of death.

“Where are we exactly?” Heming asked.

“Deep beneath Rosscurrach,” replied Brona. “This is where the women and children are to hide if the walls of Rosscurrach are breached. I realized that my father ne’er told Hervey about it and few of those who did ken about it are still alive. We ne’er had to use it, ye ken, and so Hervey ne’er had to learn of it. I begin to think my father didnae fully trust the mon he had to name as his heir.”

“It would seem not. Why are we here and nay away from this place?”

“Because we must leave on foot and I didnae think we would get far ere Hervey and his men found us. Especially not with both ye and Peter so weak. I am hoping the hunt for us will soon spread to places away from Rosscurrach and allow us a chance to slip away.”

Heming nodded and settled himself back down on the bed. He was feeling stronger and could feel his wounds healing but he knew the danger of believing himself fully cured. He had just looked death in the eye and had no interest in doing so again for a very long time. Certainly not when he had not even been in a battle. Nor did he wish to waste the gift Mistress Brona had given him.

“A good plan, mistress,” he said. “’Tis best if we try to keep as close a watch as possible on Hervey and his men to see just when that search for us moves away from this land. When the chance comes to flee this place, ’tis wise if we do it as swiftly as possible.”

Brona sighed and looked around the large stone chamber they sheltered in. “Aye, verra wise. As welcome as the safety of this place is, I dinnae wish to linger here any longer than I must.” She smiled at him. “Do ye wish something to eat?”

“Aye, I believe I would though it should probably be weak fare for now.”

After Brona had him settled with a bowl of surprisingly tasty broth, she took Thor for a walk through the passages. Heming finished his food, handed the wooden bowl to Colin, and settled himself back down intending to have a rest. He frowned at the opening Brona had left through as he began to wonder how she would save herself from any consequences of her mercy.

“And when we can flee this place, do any of ye ken where Mistress Brona intends to go?” he asked the three men still watching him carefully.

Colin scowled. “Nay, she hasnae said anything of her plans, but she must have some, aye? She cannae stay here. The laird beats her for the smallest sin as it is. He would kill her for this.”

Hervey Kerr dearly needed killing, Heming thought but said only, “Then when the time comes for us to leave here we will be sure she has a safe place to go ere we all run off to our own chosen havens. Mistress Brona must ne’er fall into that mon’s hands again.”

When all three men grunted in agreement, Heming closed his eyes. He would find out where Brona thought to go and hide and then convince her that his choice of haven was far better. He had no intention of letting her go anywhere without him. Mistress Brona Kerr may not know it yet, but she had done more than save his life by giving him her blood, she had tied them together in ways she could not even begin to understand.