Page 7 of Her Highland Destiny

He grasped the back of her dress and ripped her from his body. She flew off him, arms and legs outstretched in a fruitless attempt to cling onto him. The woman fought like a damn harpy.

He dragged himself to his feet, sending water flooding off him and dripping from the tightly linked chain mail he wore. The armor weighed practically more than he did. It was a wonder she hadn’t succeeded in drowning him.

She lay face down in the water, unmoving.

Shite.

He stared at her, but saw no ripples in her energy. She’d die if he left her as she lay. If she did, a new Protector would be chosen, and who knew where he’d find the next one.

He heaved a sigh, waded to her still form, and dragged her from the water. She weighed next to nothing, even with her clothing and hair sodden. A sputtering sound gurgled from her chest. He tilted her above the water, and she gave a savage choking cough that expelled the liquid from her lungs.

Cold. She was cold. Freezing.

Jesu, her discomfort was so intense, an icy chill settled into the depths of Fergus’ very bones and cooled him as well. He set her on the sunlit grass and felt the heat of it seep into her back as surely as though it were him lying there.

Her eyes remained closed, her lashes a dark sweep against pale cheeks. He stared down at her for a long moment, transfixed by her beauty. Again.

The last time had almost cost him the stone. But then, she’d been so lovely when she’d stumbled after catching sight of him. As though she had been as taken aback.

Those beautiful blue eyes had focused on him and his world had fallen away. Those luscious black curls now lay in thick, wet waves, but he could all too easily recall how they shone glossy about her fair face. Despite being so very cold and still, her lips were brilliant red and stood out like rose petals against her porcelain skin.

Had he not experienced the hit she’d delivered him, he would have thought her the most delicately beautiful thing in all the world. He stroked a hand down her smooth cheek and her breath drew in, swelling her bosom upward.

She liked his touch. She found it warm. Comforting.

He snatched his hand back. He had no right to touch her. She was his enemy.

It was that final thought which brought him to his senses and reminded him of his obligation. He could not waste any more time, not when he knew the price of his delay.

A feminine whisper sounded on the wind, distant and impossible to decipher. His hair prickled and a chill shivered over his skin.

He narrowed his gaze and surveyed the surrounding area. The sound intensified, a chant of lyrical vowels and hard consonants echoing in his mind. It filled his head until it crushed against his brain and threatened to crack open his skull.

He clutched his head in his hands and grunted through the agony. The pain did not abate. He tossed his head from side to side, but the scent of magic was everywhere. Foul and inescapable.

Leave.

The word resonated through his suffering. He backed away and the hurt ebbed. He staggered back further and the torturous grip eased from his temples.

A figure stood in the distance, her body masked in a green hooded cloak. She lifted a hand, the action so smooth, it didn’t generate any pre-movement energy, as though she knew how to absorb her actions before moving the way he did.

Magic crackled in the air and left a heavy scent of moisture, redolent of the moments before a torrential storm. Lightning streaked across the sky, yet the rain did not come. His skin hummed with the power flickering and snapping around him. Such incredible energy. So much. If he could harness it, learn to use it, he would be unstoppable.

“Neathu,” she whispered.

A blanket of milky fog rolled in front of him, draping his view of the Protector and the witch.

Fear grappled Fergus momentarily. The Protector was lost to him. He needed her. Damn it. He needed her.

The witch had spent almost all her energy on him. A few more moments would have killed her.

Even her thoughts in his mind were faint with exhaustion. If he had withstood the affliction of her curse a bit longer, he would have won.

As it was, he had not truly lost.

He curled his fingers against the stone. He had it, and the Protector would try to get it back. Rather than stumble blind through the mist, he would bide his time. She would find him, and when she did - he would convince her to join him.

He would have the stone and the Protector, exactly as was deemed necessary by the king. Then, at long last, Fergus would have his son.