Highlander Ever After

  “He is the laird. Egan explained it to me once upon a time. It means he’s a landholder, but it’s more than that. He’s their protector.”

  “He doesn’t want to be.” Zarabeth explained the fiasco with Jamie and Mary trying to marry him off to one of the two anxious debutantes. Olaf began to laugh, a sound Zarabeth had very much missed.

  “Mary wants him wed because she believes it high time he starts a family,” Zarabeth concluded. “But Egan wants to pass the lairdship to Jamie because of his brother Charlie. I’ve told him Charlie’s death wasn’t his fault. I don’t know why he continues to blame himself—”

  “I do,” Olaf interrupted.

  Zarabeth blinked. “You do?”

  “Indeed, I do. While Egan regained his health after we found him, he and I had many long talks. He was a very troubled young man.”

  “Can you tell me why?” Zarabeth asked, her heart beating faster. “I am struggling to understand him.”

  Olaf barked a laugh. “I don’t think anyone will truly understand Egan MacDonald.”

  That was very true. “He told me his father blamed him for Charlie’s death,” Zarabeth said. “And that his father even cut Egan’s portrait to ribbons. As though Egan ought to have tied up Charlie in his tent before the battle,” she finished angrily.

  “That isn’t the whole of it,” Olaf said in a gentle voice. “Egan had grown used to disappointing his father, more’s the pity. What Egan can’t forgive himself for is losing Charlie.”

  Zarabeth frowned. “But I’ve just said … Egan couldn’t have prevented Charlie from riding to battle.”

  “No, I mean lost him in the literal sense, child. After the battle, Egan could not find Charlie’s body. A blast during the battle had pulled down some of the walls on top of the bodies of Charlie and his men. What was underneath was a terrible jumble, with uniforms burned beyond recognition and limbs scattered, faces destroyed. Egan never did discover which of those poor broken men was Charlie.”

  “Dear heavens.” Zarabeth imagined Egan, blood and grime on his face, sifting through the carnage, knowing his brother was there and not finding him, searching frantically … Pain squeezed her. “Poor Egan.”

  “He brought a body back, one so disfigured that no one could tell who it was, and helped his father bury him. Egan never knew if the man was truly his brother. Perhaps some other family keeps Charlie’s grave.”

  Zarabeth wiped away a tear that had fallen to her cheek. “And Egan never told anyone?”

  Olaf shook his head. “He could stomach his father blaming him for the death, but he’d never be able to explain he’d had no idea which was Charlie’s body. Egan quit Scotland and did some determined traveling on the Continent, which is how he ended up in Nvengaria for you to find.”

  “I’m glad I did find him,” Zarabeth said softly. “He would have died if I hadn’t seen him, wouldn’t he?”

  “Indeed, my love. He was lucky you were so watchful.”

  Zarabeth remembered how she’d begged her father to stop the carriage on that brutal winter’s night. She’d thought at first that she’d read Egan’s mind, heard him silently calling for help as he’d lain in the freezing water, but later she’d learned she could not read him at all.

  Then how had she known he was there? The darkness had been complete, snow falling, Zarabeth snuggled in warmth in the coach with her mother and father. She should have passed on by and never noticed him.

  Likewise, Egan had found Zarabeth on the black rocks of the Devil’s Teeth, washed up by the sea, telling her he’d heard her call out when Zarabeth never had.

  She peered out the window into the darkness, watching flakes of new snow drifting past the high window. Egan had gone to look for Valentin—she knew that even though he’d not announced it. Zarabeth knew Egan wouldn’t rest until he discovered whether Valentin was all right. Egan was that sort of man.

  She wondered if she’d hear Egan again if he were in trouble, calling out in the night.

  * * *

  Egan found Valentin huddled in his wolf form behind a standing stone in the Ring of Dunmarran.

  Valentin snarled a warning, his blue eyes filled with rage and pain, as Egan slid from his horse. The gelding jerked the reins from Egan’s fist and bolted, the horse’s dark rump disappearing into the fog and snow.

  “Idiotic beastie,” Egan called after him.

  Valentin growled, his lips peeling back from knife-sharp teeth. The ground around him was dark with blood.

  “Damn you too,” Egan told him. “What happened to ye?” He crouched down, well out of the wolf’s reach. “Can ye even understand me?”

  Valentin’s black fur glowed in the ghostly light of the fog, blue eyes piercing. Wolves had yellow eyes, Egan thought irrelevantly, but Valentin kept his own color when he changed.

  “I can’t leave ye here,” Egan went on. “I’d have to face Zarabeth and tell her I didn’t help ye. And ye know what she’d say.”

  The wolf watched him, his snarl quieting but fury remaining in his eyes.

  “She’d say, Egan MacDonald, can’t ye even look after one wolf? And ye call yerself a laird. And she’ll tell her father on me. He’s here. Prince Olaf.”

  The wolf jerked upright, alert.

  “Ah, that’s interested ye. Olaf arrived tonight—was our first-footer, what ye were supposed to be.”

  The wolf tried to rise, and Egan saw the wound, a bloody hole where his foreleg met his shoulder.

  “What happened to ye?” Egan repeated softly.

  Valentin buckled into a heap, staining the ground with more blood.

  “Stay quiet, now.” Egan began creeping forward. “I need to help ye, but it’s best ye stay a wolf and stay warm.”

  Valentin subsided, watching warily as Egan made his way toward him.

  “Someone shot ye, did they? A Highlander thinkin’ ye were out to steal their sheep? Or someone else?”

  The wolf’s hot breath hissed between his teeth. As Egan leaned forward, Valentin’s form shimmered and became demon.

  Egan leapt back and rolled out of the way as the demon launched himself at him.

  “Damnation,” he muttered as Valentin’s clawed hands came down at him. “This is why I hate logosh.”

  * * *

  Egan got Valentin back to the house by at last persuading the man to shift into his wolf form and let Egan carry him across his shoulders. Egan was bloodstained and exhausted by the time he reached the castle gate, much of it from fighting off Valentin’s instinctive attacks. He’d finally got through the man’s pain by admonishing him to protect Zarabeth. They must both focus on that—protecting Zarabeth.

  Egan lowered Valentin to the stones of the courtyard, grunting with effort—the wolf Valentin could become was quite large. The strains of the fiddle playing inside and the lively pounding of the drum floated to them.

  “Ye’d better become a man,” Egan told the limp pile of fur at his feet. “There’ll be a fuss, but unless ye want to explain why you’re a wolf …”

  Valentin opened his eyes a slit. He made no noise but shimmered to become a man lying on the pavement, his skin caked with blood.

  The door of the castle swung open, and Mary of all people ran out. “Egan, I thought I heard you …” She stopped in shock, her gaze fixing on Valentin curled in on himself on the cold stones.

  “He’s hurt,” Egan said quickly. “Shot. Help me carry him inside.”

  Mary stared at Valentin as though she’d never seen him before. He was stark naked, his clothes who knew where. When shifting, Egan had come to understand, a logosh’s clothes didn’t vanish—he had to remove them first or painfully tear free of them.

  “Mary,” Egan said impatiently.

  Mary shook herself, dazed. “I’ll get some blankets.”

  “Make no noise,” he said. “I don’t want the lot of them swarming out here.”

  Mary nodded and disappeared into the house, returning in minutes with a pile of coverlets. Egan wrapped these
around Valentin’s limp form, and Mary held the door open so Egan could carry the man into the house. Egan lugged the unconscious Valentin upstairs, Mary following anxiously.

  The revelry in the Great Hall drifted up the staircase and into the bedchamber even after Mary closed the door. Valentin lay motionless on the bed where Egan carefully laid him, his face gray, his skin covered in blood.

  “He’ll need a decent surgeon,” Egan said. “T’ find out whether the bullet’s still inside.”

  “Who shot him?” Mary asked, one hand to her face.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll wager Zarabeth’s husband is still after her, the bastard.”

  Mary, surprisingly, volunteered to stay with Valentin so Egan could send for a surgeon. Mary was calm, keeping the cloth pressed to Valentin’s wound, no hysterics or distress. Egan patted her shoulder in thanks and left her to it.

  Zarabeth and her father were no longer in the Great Hall. Egan took Hamish and Angus aside and spoke to them, then his two cousins went out in search of the surgeon. Adam came to see what was the matter, and Egan gave him the task of quietly ending the night’s revelry. Returning to Valentin’s chamber, he found Zarabeth and Olaf already there.

  Mary sat at Valentin’s side, wiping the man’s face with a damp cloth. Valentin was swathed in blankets but he shivered, his face too pale. Zarabeth stood on the other side of the bed, her hands clasped, eyes wide.

  “Poor Valentin,” Zarabeth said when Egan came in. “If he dies…”

  She did not need to finish. Egan saw the same rage reflected in her eyes that he felt in himself. Whoever did this would pay.

  Olaf, on the other hand, showed no sympathy. He remained ramrod stiff and stared at Valentin with and expression of pure rage. Egan raised his brows at him, and Olaf said, furious, “Damien sent him to protect my daughter?”

  “Yes,” Zarabeth answered before Egan could speak. “Why? He has been a most formidable protector so far. There was nothing he could do to help on the ship—it happened so fast.”

  Olaf glared at Valentin’s unmoving body. “Because he is a murderer, that is why. A trained assassin, an enemy of Damien—of the entire country of Nvengaria.”

  * * *

  Zarabeth went numb at her father’s announcement, first in disbelief, then in fear. Had Valentin been the one who’d orchestrated the kidnapping, the sinking of the ship?

  But no—he couldn’t have. Zarabeth had never felt any malice from him the few times she’d been able to penetrate his thoughts, only a need to protect her.

  Zarabeth came out of her stupor when Egan shepherded her and Olaf out the door, telling him they’d speak in Zarabeth’s chamber. Mary remained with Valentin, the only one unmoved by Olaf’s declaration. She turned her back on them and went on wiping Valentin’s face, as though happy they were going.

  Once they reached Zarabeth’s chamber and Egan closed the door, he turned a stern gaze to Olaf.

  “What is this about?” he asked. “I’ll not be condemning a man until I know the full tale.”

  “I do not know everything myself,” Olaf said. He had quieted a little, but his face remained red, his blue eyes glittering. “But I do know that Valentin tried to assassinate both Damien and Grand Duke Alexander right after Damien took the throne—he attempted to drive a knife into Damien while Damien supped with the Princess Penelope. Damien’s bodyguards wrestled him down, and Valentin was thrown into prison.” Olaf paused, his anger high. “Why the devil did Damien release him and let him accompany my daughter—the most precious thing in my life—to Scotland?”

  “Damien would not have sent him without reason,” Zarabeth said with confidence, though she hadn’t quite shaken off her numbness, which she knew could rise to stark fear if she let it.

  “Was the journey Damien’s idea?” Olaf asked her. “Or Valentin’s?”

  “Damien’s.” Zarabeth clenched her hands. “Damien guided me out of the palace himself. We met Valentin and my footmen in a tunnel that led out into the hills. Damien kissed me good-bye and told me Baron Valentin would protect me.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with Zarabeth,” Egan said. “Damien is a shrewd judge of character. He would nae have sent Valentin if he couldn’t be trusted.”

  “There is something damned strange going on,” Olaf growled.

  Egan nodded. “I agree with ye. This is what happens when I deal with Nvengarians—there’s always some intrigue floating somewhere. But there’s little we can do until Valentin wakes up and tells his side of the story.”

  “I suppose,” Olaf said, scowling.

  Egan cast a wary eye on him. Nvengarians were notorious for taking matters into their own hands, and Zarabeth saw Egan worry that Olaf would simply stick a knife into Valentin’s chest—end of problem.

  She’d have to explain that her father did not do things like that. Olaf was a fair man, although she had to admit that, at the moment, her father looked dangerously angry.

  Egan declared there was nothing left to do that night. He admonished Zarabeth to go to bed and Olaf to do the same. They parted for the night, Egan giving Zarabeth a long look before he left her.

  * * *

  The surgeon arrived to work on Valentin soon after that. Gemma stepped upstairs to tell Zarabeth the surgeon had removed the bullet and had said that, providing the man took no infection, Valentin would be fine. His arm had been broken, but not irreparably.

  Zarabeth thanked Gemma for the welcome news, and got herself into bed. Sleep eluded her, however. Her father’s arrival, Valentin’s injury, and her father’s announcement about Valentin had left her alternately worried and excited, and overall, restless. She at last drifted to sleep but was awakened by voices in the small hours of the morning.

  Zarabeth sat up. The room was black save for the glowing fire, dawn breaking very late this far north so soon after the winter solstice.

  She strained to listen but heard nothing outside the door. The voices had been a faint whisper in her dreams and then they were gone.

  Zarabeth rose and crept across the room, and softly unlocked and opened the door.

  Egan lay across the doorway like a great bear wrapped in blankets and fur rugs on his long cot. He slept, his snore evident.

  Quick footsteps sounded on the stairs. Zarabeth peered into the gloom, starting when she saw a figure on the landing.

  She relaxed when she realized it was Constanz on one of his patrols. He opened his mouth, but she pressed her finger to her lips and shook her head. Constanz acknowledged her and went on down the stairs, just as Egan emitted a particularly loud snore.

  Strange that the voices had not wakened Egan, though Zarabeth conceded that she might have dreamed them. Sometimes another’s forceful dreams would whisper into hers, although that had not happened since she’d been a very little girl. Her mother, who could also read thoughts, had trained Zarabeth to block out such noise, even in sleep, but with so many people in the castle and so many emotions spinning, someone’s dreams could have trickled through.

  One thing was for certain: Zarabeth now had a perfect opportunity to confound Egan MacDonald.

  She began by pulling off the topmost fur from his bed and slowly dragging it into her chamber. Egan grunted a little in his sleep, but didn’t wake.

  Zarabeth pulled off the fur below that, and then started on the blankets. The last blanket was tricky because Egan had wrapped it around himself and pinned it beneath his arms.

  Zarabeth tugged at the blanket, trying to ease it from under him. Egan’s strength prevented that—she couldn’t budge him. Finally she simply had to yank the cover away.

  Egan came awake, eyes snapping open. He rolled off the cot into Zarabeth’s chamber, his mouth open to roar.

  Zarabeth slammed her finger to her lips and leaned around him to close the door. She surreptitiously turned the key in the lock.

  “What are ye doin’?” Egan asked in a hoarse whisper. “What’s the matter?”

  Zarabeth dropped the last blanket and ste
pped back to stare at him and the plaid pinned around his hips. “You’re sleeping in only a kilt now?”

  Egan looked down at himself, naked from the waist up, his legs bare from the knees down, and a blush spread across his face. “’Tis comfortable.”

  And delectable. His hair hung loose about his shoulders, dark curls mussed with sleep. His wide chest bore creases from the blankets, the wiry hair there as disheveled as that on his head. His kilt dipped below his waist, giving her a tantalizing glimpse of his bare hips.

  Egan stared her down, his eyes shining in the darkness. “Has someone tried to hurt ye?” he asked in worry

  Zarabeth shook her head. She didn’t want to speak, or do anything else but gaze at him.

  Egan watched her a moment, then his muscles rippled in a shrug. “Well, if you’re all right, I’ll restore my bed.”

  He leaned down and gathered up his blankets, hips and thighs moving under his plaid. He reached for the door handle, and found the door locked.

  He swung around, puzzled. Zarabeth held up the key between her fingers.

  Egan scowled. “Now what game are ye playin’?”

  He dropped the blankets and came for her, clearly intending to yank the key from Zarabeth’s hand. She whirled out of the way as he lunged for her, and he came to rest with his backside against the bed.

  “You’re mad, lass. Give me the key.”

  Zarabeth smiled and flung the key to the other side of the room, where it clanked to the carpet. She put both hands on his chest and pushed him.

  Egan’s heels slid on the carpet and he fell back, landing half on the bed. Before he could recover, Zarabeth twisted off the ornate pin that held his kilt closed. The plaid slithered from his hips to the floor, leaving him bare as the day he was born.

  Zarabeth’s mouth went dry, but she stepped back and held up the pin in triumph.

  Chapter 14

  Hogmanay Night