Celtic Fury Read online

  “There, girl. I promise to help ye. Try to be still now. Ye’ve suffered a terrible accident. I’m takin’ ye to safety.” She was not certain but she thought she felt him kiss the side of her face, like someone who was used to soothing a small child. She was in too much pain and she felt so very tired, she could do naught but cease struggling and relax against him.

  When next Brielle woke, she saw they were quickly approaching the MacCollum stronghold.

  She tensed and began to protest, “No…dunna take me there.”

  Rory heard the burr and asked, “Are ye' Scottish lass?”

  She began to weep bitterly and she just said, “Please don’t take me there.”

  Rory eased his hand over her hair and he said, “Hush girl. No one there will hurt ye', we are gonna’ take care of ye' and get ye' well.”

  She continued to cry and Rory could tell she was just exhausted. She had been through so much.

  “I give you my word, Brielle. No harm will come to ye.”

  Somehow, Brielle knew that when Rory MacCollum gave his word, he would sooner die than break it.

  Still, when the truth came out about who she really was, things could get dangerous.

  “Hold on a little bit longer, lass. We will get ye' to a place that will be much more comfortable. Ye have done really well considering your injuries.”

  The riding party was met with some of Rory’s brothers and his father. Rory gently handed Brielle down to one of his brothers. He explained that he had come upon a carriage wreck and that he needed to help the injured girl. Once he dismounted, Rory took the girl back into his arms and he carried her into the keep. She looked so pale and the purplish bruising was more prominent now in stark contrast to the whiteness of her skin. Caleb MacCollum, laird of the clan and Rory’s father looked at his son, knowing that Rory’s own personal battles made him need to save her. He patted his son’s shoulder and he said, “Son, she looks very sick. I know we will do what we can…but…”

  “No, Da! Dunna’ say it. She has to live. She is not going to die. Dear God I wish Rhianna was here. She would know what to do.”

  Rory had gotten to watch Rhianna Ragnorsen work time and again in the village with the sick and injured while he stayed on at Ragnorsen keep. His sister’s husband, Drew Brandham had been captain of the elite guard of Erik Ragnorsen and while Rory was there, he had made friends with both Erik and Rhianna. Rhianna was a natural healer, but she was home in England and far from MacCollum land. Rory settled Brielle into a bedchamber close to his own. She had once again slipped into unconsciousness. Caleb watched his son gently stroke the girl’s face. Rory took a cloth and began washing the dried blood from the wound and from her hair. Caleb’s heart broke for Rory, knowing more was at stake for his son than just saving this poor girl.

  He cleared his throat and said, “Perhaps Morag will know what to do. She has many remedies and potions that have healing properties. I will have her come and tend the girl.” Rory just nodded, continuing to wash the blood away.

  Once the blood and dirt was washed away, Rory felt like he had been punched in his chest, for he could see she had the face of an angel, despite the vicious purpling of her skin. Rory’s heart slammed into his ribs as he gazed down at her. She had soft full lips that Rory suddenly wished he could kiss. He chided himself for such an odd feeling to have. The girl was injured and yet, he felt such a strong urge to kiss her. He needed to focus on helping her.

  In cleaning her up he was able to see that her hair was a delicious dark sable brown, but it had soft strands of gold mixed in. It was nearly long enough to reach her waist. Her dark lashes were lush and long as they rested on her delicate cheekbones while she slept. He remembered her eyes; lavender flecked with hazel and he thought how very beautiful she was. While he was exploring her for broken bones, Rory was now reminded how shapely her legs had been. She was curvy and feminine, even though her mourning attire did nothing to accentuate her shapely figure. Rory felt dumbstruck by the broken beauty before him. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes on, even with her bruises and cuts. He could not resist touching her as his hand gently stroked over her hair and softly down her cheek.

  Brielle's eyes fluttered open at his touch and they met the golden gaze of Rory MacCollum, her enemy and her saving angel. He had been so gentle with her. He was a giant; big in every way, from his broad shoulders, big gentle hands to his massive and strong legs. She drew in her breath. He was lethal, yet he was absolutely the epitome of male perfection. Despite his size, he touched her with the most-tender care. How could a man like this be gentle, too? Her brothers surely never were. They were brutal and mean; rough and cruel. There was something kind about this man.

  As Brielle's eyes searched his, she saw it; the deep sadness that had nothing to do with her pitiful state. No, this sadness went much deeper and had a vastness she could not comprehend. Something about this man was broken.

  Rory felt a shift in his reality as Brielle looked into his eyes. He almost could not tear his gaze away and he felt her almost invading his psyche. She seemed to be looking deep into his soul and he realized that he did not like such scrutiny. Finally, he tore his eyes from hers and looked away. He didn’t need her looking at him like that, as if he was the one battered and broken. However, looking away or not, he knew she could feel that he was indeed broken. That thought made him uneasy. He surely did not want her pity.

  He cleared his throat and he said, “How are ye, lass?” When he spoke, she was reminded who he was and she remembered, “It was him, the Wolf of the highlands”. She hadn’t dreamed him.

  “I hurt…all over.”

  “I know, lass. I know. Can ye move, though?” She nodded and moved her arms and then her legs, but just that small attempt to move filled her with pain.

  “Could I have a drink, please,” she asked shakily.

  Rory poured her a mug of cool water and helped her sit up enough to be able to take a drink. The water felt like pure bliss as it eased down her parched throat.

  When she had had enough to drink, she laid back and said, “Thank you. You have been so kind to me.” She said, no longer thinking about the stories she had heard about him. He had taken such good care of her.

  Rory was embarrassed by her praise. “T’is nothing, lass. T’is the very least I can do.” Then thinking about her welfare, he asked, “Lass, who should we contact about ye?” A look of terror came over her. Rory didn’t miss it. Was she running from something?

  She answered, “No one…I am alone in this world, now.” He took her hand and patted it.

  “Were ye goin’ to a funeral, then?”

  At this question, her eyes welled with tears. She choked out, “No.” She realized she truly was alone and tears splashed down her cheeks.

  “But ye are dressed for a funeral, lass.”

  She sobbed, “No, I'm a . . . widow… dear God, I am a widow.”

  Though she had been a widow for two months, she never had said the words out loud. Saying it out loud had made it suddenly very real. She was truly alone. Rory thought her sobs were from her grief. He had no idea it was because she felt truly lost.

  “I am sorry for yer loss, Lady,” he said raising her hand and kissing it. He understood how it felt to lose a mate; how life seemed unreal when that person was gone. Poor little thing. She was so young and now she was injured and battered.

  “Surely yer husband’s family will wish to find you.”

  She laughed bitterly. “No, they are glad to be rid of me. T’is why I was…coming home.”

  Rory’s eyes snapped back to hers. So she was a highlander after all. “Home, Brielle? Ye are Scotts?”

  “Aye, but all my family is gone,” she added hastily. “I just wanted to return to the land I remembered and loved,” she said, telling a half-truth. While her brothers lived, they were no family to her. She did not want them to know she was back in Scotland. She knew she had better come up with a story quickly. She could not tell this man
who she was. She knew Rory deserved the truth, but she feared the truth would put her in grave danger.

  “Where were ye from, Brielle? Where was yer’ home?”

  “I don’t know,” she lied, thinking she did not know a better story to dissuade Rory's questions.

  “What do ye mean, lass?” Not wanting to meet those intense eyes as she lied, she turned away and stammered; “I don’t remember everything, since hitting my head.” She felt the truth would be worse to tell him than her lie. Thankfully, someone knocked on the door and broke his inquiry.

  The old chatelaine, Morag, entered the room, carrying a sack of jars, which Brielle knew would be filled with things to tend her. Even though the woman was very old and frail, there was an intensity in her grey eyes that was unmistakable. She was of the “Old Ways,” Brielle was certain.

  The old one hugged Rory and she said, “Good to see ye’ home, Lad. Ye have been gone so long.” The old woman spoke Gaelic to him. He nodded and answered, “Good to be home, Morag.”

  “Ye brought us a broken bird, Ruiri?”

  “Angel…” he mumbled and looked away, realizing the young widow may understand Gaelic.

  He said, “She is Scotts. She may speak the old tongue. But…she doesna’ remember everything…she has had a nasty blow to her head.”

  Morag looked at the girl and asked if she spoke the ancient tongue.

  “Aye,” Brielle answered.

  She found no point in pretending about that, certain that lying about that would surely come back to haunt her even if none of the other lies did. Brielle felt a stab of regret hearing Rory refer to her as an angel after she had blatantly lied to him. Rory looked at her and she did not meet his eyes. She was hiding something, he was sure of it, but he knew that women sometimes had no one to protect them. He didn’t sense her secret was a danger to himself or his family, but he would try to unlock it in time.

  He said, “She has been in England. Her husband was English.” Morag watched the silent exchange and saw how Rory looked at the girl. Hmm, he was drawn to her, like a moth to a flame. Morag saw the raw attraction building between her nephew and this broken girl.

  Only, now she needed to turn her attention to the injured girl so she said, “Alright Ruiri, leave us. Let me have a look at yer broken little angel.”

  “But I…”

  “Go boy. I need to look at her and I dunna’ want to embarrass her more than necessary. Go visit with yer’ da. He is glad to have ye home.”

  Before he left, Rory turned back to Brielle, sensing her sudden fear and he said, “I will be back soon. Morag will help ease yer’ pain.” Despite her natural fear of him, something made her trust him. Morag watched Ruiri’s gaze meet Brielle’s as a silent communication passed between them.

  Don’t go…I am afraid, Brielle thought, willing him to read her thoughts.

  Lass, you are safe, Rory seemed to answer.

  Morag fought the smile that wanted to lift her lips. It would seem her precious Ruiri had found her at last. Their auras were already quite co-mingled. Oh, but they had a rough road ahead. The girl was hiding the truth from Ruiri, she could feel it. Morag did not know what she was hiding, but she knew there was a story, sure to be told. She knew that the reason was probably because the girl was terrified. She also knew whatever it was surely it was something that was going to shake the foundation of Rory’s world. Despite Brielle’s pull to Ruiri, Morag could sense that the girl feared him almost to the point of terror. Why would she fear him after he had been so careful with her? Who was she that she feared Ruiri?

  It would reveal itself in time, Morag thought. The sooner the better! She wasn’t getting any younger and she wanted to see all her precious bairns settled. After Rory’s ma passed, Morag took them all under her wing. He wasn’t actually her nephew, but their blood ties within the clan made all the MacCollum offspring hers. They had become like her very own children. Now, with Bronwyn happily wed, Ruiri was the last one she needed to see settled. He vowed never to wed after what had happened to Caitlyn, but here was this broken little angel, mysteriously linked to her Ruiri. Without him knowing it, Ruiri had already claimed her. Now, Morag would have to get the girl well. She was still dangerously hurt and the next two days would tell the tale. The girl could die and Rory would be worse off than before he had found her. Morag would do everything to help the girl.

  As the door shut behind Rory, Morag set to examine the girl. Sometimes injuries weren’t easy to see if things were broken inside.

  “I am going to need to get ye’ out of that dress, but I dunna’ want to move ye too much, Sweeting. I am going to cut it up the seam so it can be mended.”

  “Nay, I don’t care. I dunna' care if I ever see it again. I dunna' want to wear it any longer. Cut it to ribbons for all I care.” Brielle hadn’t meant it to sound so harsh but she hated her widow’s weeds.

  She was never really a wife; she felt it so unjust to be a widow. The Widow Val 'Cour, God, how she hated that title, that which was thrust upon her. Morag suppressed a smile.

  Good, she thought. Maybe she would not want to wait the proper year to court and wed. Mayhap she already knew she belonged to Ruiri. Mayhap that would give her the fight she needed to get well.

  Morag carefully cut the gown away and took a quick look at the girl, not wanting to unduly embarrass her. She covered Brielle up, but not before seeing the many bruises on her fair little body. She probably had a cracked rib from the bruises on her side. Her thighs were purple. Her left breast was terribly bruised as well. Morag didn’t like the looks of it. Sometimes such deep bruises were the sign of unfixable injuries inside. She mixed some herbs into a cup of wine and helped the girl to drink it down.

  “That’s to ease yer pain and help you sleep. Sleep will be the best way to heal, Sweeting, but I imagine those bruisies are gonna’ trouble ye some. Let the herbs do their magic so ye' can rest and so I can tend ye.”

  Brielle was in too much pain to protest. Even though the concoction was vile smelling, Brielle gulped it down. Morag then prepared a balm to put over the purpling bruises. She was careful not to press too deeply, lest she cause the girl more pain. Despite the ugliness of her bruised and battered body, Morag could see Brielle was a true beauty. She had a perfect little shape for her dear Ruiri, and her face, Ach she was like an angel! Never had Morag seen eyes like that. Ruiri would do well to make this one his wife. That was, of course, if she could get the girl well.

  Once the herbal balm was applied, Brielle felt strangely soothed as the Old One tended her. Her fingers, though gnarled with age, were amazingly gentle. She only flinched when Morag traced that old scar from her chin to her chest.

  “Where did ye get that, girl? T’is not from this accident.”

  Brielle looked away. “T’was from a long time ago. T’is no matter now. I know it makes me ugly but, I have learned to live with it.”

  “Girl, you are injured, and though your bruises aren’t pretty, ye are far from ugly. Ye, my dear, are absolutely beautiful.”

  Brielle look miserable. She said, “You are very kind, but I have long accepted that beauty was for other girls.”

  Morag was astounded. Someone had convinced this girl that she was ugly. It couldn’t have been further from the truth and she knew that Ruiri was just the man to appreciate this broken beauty. Trying to take her mind off of her injuries, Morag continued to make small talk with the poor wee lass. “Sweeting, I wouldna’ lie to ye. Ye are beautiful and once those bruises go away some, your beauty will be hard to hide.”

  “I am too full both in face and in body.” Shrugging, Brielle said, “It is no matter really. I am used to being how I am.” Morag harrumphed. Who had made this girl believe such lies? When she looked in a mirror, did she really see a dowdy plain flower?

  “Yer’ face is heart-shaped, and yer body is womanly; curvy, the way it is supposed to be. Surely yer husband…”

  Brielle cut Morag off and said, “My husband barely noticed me.”

 
“Then a fool was he.”

  Shrugging again, Brielle said, “It wasn’t his fault. He was very ill.” That statement reminded Morag of Brielle’s recent widowhood.

  “I am sorry for all ye have lost, Girl.”

  Brielle said softly, “I barely knew him.” Turning away from Morag’s piercing grey eyes, Brielle murmured, “I am sorry, I am very tired now.” She did not wish to discuss her dead husband any more this night.

  “Of course, I will get ye a fresh night rail and help ye settle in to sleep.” Brielle thanked Morag for her help and kindness.

  Morag said, “Dunna thank me, lass. Healing would be thanks enough.” Before turning to leave Morag added, “And lass, ye can trust Ruiri with yer life.” Brielle thought that was an odd thing for the old woman to say.

  “He has been very kind to me.”

  “He is a very good man, Brielle. Dunna’ fear him.” How did the old one know she feared him?

  She stammered, needing to know if her fears were founded, “Is…he the Wolf of the Highlands?”

  Morag frowned, knowing how much that name hurt Rory.

  “Some say so, Lass, but…it is not a name he relishes. He does not like being named thus. It has become something that he has grown to hate. Ye would be wise not to remind him of it.”

  Brielle nodded, but deep down, she felt afraid again, despite Morag’s claim. Brielle did not want to discuss how she felt about the Highland Wolf, her beautiful enemy. She closed her eyes, feigning that she was drifting off to sleep. She did fear Rory MacCollum. He was a force not to be reckoned with but she was afraid of him more than because of their clan feud. That was scary enough, for certain, and knowing he was her sworn enemy, well, that was scary too; and to know that he was the dreaded Highland Wolf that was terrifying. Despite all those reasons to fear him, there was something more that frightened Brielle to the core of her very soul than all the rest. Ruiri exuded male sensuality and power. She didn’t like the way he unnerved her when he looked at her. Brielle didn’t like that sensual power that invaded her spirit, battered though she was. Yet, something in those beautiful golden eyes bespoke of Rory’s own pain and loss. Something in how he looked at her made her feel like she didn’t need words to communicate with him. She truly had felt his understanding when she had silently begged him to stay with her. She knew that despite her pain, when he had held her in front of himself on his horse, she had never felt so safe. Something in how he looked at her made her suddenly so aware of being female. As the strange herbs started to take effect, Brielle became drowsy, no longer pretending to slip into sleep.