Page 63 of Dorchad

“The MacRune’s second came close to ending me over a female I rescued,” Fifer finally said, and rolled onto his back, pulling Kiamh on top of him. “Soon I fear we shall go to war with that clan. I should send you away for your safety.”

“Keep me at Dun Maor, my lord, I beg you,” Kiamh said. “If we’re parted I think I should go mad with worry. I may help the clan’s healer as well if your men come home wounded.”

The laird sighed. “You’re too good to me, and I dinnae want to see you go. Stay, then, lad.”

Sensing this was the right time to press his cause, he nodded and stroked his hand over the muscles on Fifer’s broad chest.

“The MacRune, they’re brutes beyond what anyone imagines,” Kiamh said carefully. “When last I went to see Healer McIan I heard two of the guards speaking of the magistrate’s lady wife. She’s been meeting with others from the clan while her husband’s on his travels, and they planned to take her together. She’s so delicate and the guards such brutes that I worry she shall come to harm now.”

Fifer frowned. “I’ve heard other reports of Lady Duff’s penchant for men. You cannae report thus to her miserable husband, for I reckon he’d end her for betraying him.”

“Mayhap someone should warn her of the dangers, my lord. I’ve heard whispers that your seneschal’s befriended the lady. Mayhap he could speak with her.” That was all he could say for now. He let his hand drift down to the front of the laird’s trews, which bulged with an erection. “I’m so glad you didnae come to harm at the hands of that fiend. May I adore you again?”

Rebecca spent the night and the next day in Dorchad’s bed. He stayed and held her until dawn, and then promised to return with honey for her throat. She dozed off again, too tired from the horrific encounter to stay awake and wait for him. She didn’t dream, and when she woke the next time it was almost sunset.

“I can’t believe I slept all day.” She expected her voice to still be at whisper level, but it sounded normal. Her throat also seemed fine.

Her ability to speak finally convinced Dorchad to let her go downstairs to have her morning meal with Lucy while he reported to the laird. She found the other woman working alongside Ronan in the kitchens, the two bickering over some sort of pie.

“It’s better if you brush the top with beaten egg,” Lucy was saying. “It comes out of the oven with a prettier crust.”

“Why must a meal look fetching?” the cook demanded. “’Tis to be eaten, no’ admired and courted.”

“I have to look at the food, and sometimes what the girls serve resembles pig slop.” The laird’s wife held up her hand. “I know, the men can be pigs. I’m just married to one.” Her light green eyes shifted to Rebecca. “Hey, Doc. You okay?”

“Better than I expected to be,” she admitted. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

“Beaten egg, all over the top, or we’ll revisit you taking a vacation, sir,” the laird’s wife told the cook before dusting off her hands and leaving with Rebecca.

None of the men yet occupied the great hall, and when they sat down by the banked hearth Rebecca almost changed her mind. As the laird’s wife Lucy shared everything with her husband, and she might not keep this to herself. At the same time Rebecca knew that not saying anything might put others at risk.

“You can trust me, too, you know,” Lucy said, as if she could hear her thoughts. “Even something very personal will stay just between us.”

“Okay.” Rebecca took a deep breath. “The scarf the hunter used to hang me in the barn was the cluet. It showed me my future if I chose not to fulfill the wish that brought me here, and it was pretty ghastly.” She told her about what she’d seen, and then added, “I didn’t know Dorchad had wished for me in a dream, and neither did he, apparently. The cluet only said that it brought me for one of the men needed to preserve and protect this realm. I think it’s deliberately choosing which men whose wishes it grants, and the very specific type of women it brings back from the future.”

“You’re that specific to him?” When she nodded the laird’s wife tapped a finger against her lips. “Okay, so my idea about having the guys all make the same wish while touching different textiles around the castle probably won’t work.”

“That’s not all,” Rebecca said. “There’s something wrong with Dorchad’s brother. I’m not sure what, but for a moment in the barn...” She tried to think of how to explain what she’d seen. “For a moment, I thought I saw his face change.”

Lucy’s brows rose. “Change? How?”

“This is going to sound crazy, and I’m still not sure of what I saw. For an instant right after he and Dorchad killed the hunter, and there was blood everywhere, the seneschal’s canine teeth got longer and pointier.” She grimaced. “Like fangs.”

“No. Really?” The laird’s wife shuddered. “That’s awful but are you sure? You were in a terrible situation.”

“I know. That’s why I didn’t say anything to the chieftain. It could have been a trick of the light, or emotional overload, or both.” She rested her cheek against her fist. “They say that Sgathan doesn’t have a mortal weakness, right? What if he actually does? Maybe it makes him change into something when he smells blood. Something with fangs.”

“You mean, like a vampire.” Lucy swallowed hard. “Okay, so what do we do to find out if you’re right?”

“You’re wrong, Healer.” Sgathan came out of nowhere to appear beside her, calmly taking out the dagger he carried. “And I shall prove it.”

As he made to drag it across his palm, Rebecca’s hand instinctively shot out. “No, don’t!”

But when he paused, her fingers closed around the blade.

“Rebecca,” Lucy said, rising from her seat. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Rebecca said, despite knowing that she wasn’t. Slowly, she opened her hand and stared down at the cuts that were closing spontaneously.