Highland Thirst. Lynsay Sands

      Consciousness came to him slowly and painfully. Heming felt as if his head were going to split apart. Then he recalled sprawling in the dirt, dragged into unconsciousness by some herb or potion slipped into his ale. He slowly opened his eyes and stared around him in utter disbelief. He was in a cage, thick silver chains holding his wrists and ankles to the heavy iron bars surrounding him. He was also naked and weaponless and there was no sign of Tearlach. Hearing footsteps, Heming fought down his rage and the panic he felt twisting inside of him. A moment later a tall, elegantly dressed man stood before his cage.

      “Weelcome to Rosscurrach,” the man drawled and coldly smiled.

      The name sounded familiar but it took Heming a moment to place it. Then he recalled that he and Tearlach had stopped in an inn near the keep a few days ago. It was the home of the Kerrs. Their laird was named Sir Hervey Kerr and he was not well liked, if Heming recalled correctly. This slender man, dressed as if he were about to attend the king, did not look like the cold, brutal man they had heard whispers about, but Heming knew all too well that looks could be deceiving.

      “Tearlach,” he began, intending to demand to know where his cousin was.

      “Your companion? I fear he is now the guest of the Carbonnels and enjoying all the comforts of a secure English dungeon. My ally, Wymon Carbonnel, intends to make your cousin tell us all about the hiding places of your people. We wish to locate your many nests so that we can clean them out.”

      “He will tell ye naught. Nor will I.”

      “Oh, I dinnae intend to ask about where all of ye hide yourselves. Nay, ’tis my intention to find out all of your strengths and weaknesses.” He lightly rubbed his pale, elegant hands together. “I have many an idea on how to test them. I fear ye willnae find that as enjoyable as I will, however.”

      “And just why have ye made us your enemies?” Heming suspected the man knew far too much about the MacNachtons already, but wanted to hear the man admit to it.

      “Ye and your ilk are the enemies of all men. Ye are an abomination. I find it an insult that ye e’en look like a mon instead of displaying clearly the mark of the devil as ye should. No mon of conscience can allow such spawn of hell to continue to exist. ’Tis time the ones ye see as prey become the hunters.”

      Heming did not believe the man was truly on some righteous crusade against evil, but would not try to guess what his game really was. “I am but a mon,” he said quietly.

      “Nay, ye are far more than that. Dinnae play me for a fool. Ye will soon show me all of your strengths and weaknesses; reveal all of your secrets. ’Tis said that your kind can live forever and I mean to find out why.”

      Something in the tone of the man’s voice told Heming that what the man had just said was a clue to his real intentions, but Heming’s head was throbbing too much for him to be able to sort it all out right now. Once his head cleared, his first thoughts were going to be how to escape and then rescue Tearlach, not about what this swine wanted. Heming refused to think that this was how he would meet his end—as a caged beast for this courtier to torment. When the man took a few hasty steps back, Heming suspected his rage was revealing itself upon his face.

      “Ye cannae escape,” the man said, a faint tremor in his voice revealing his fear. “Those chains are made of silver and, just in case that is a myth, the cage is made of iron.”

      “What? In case I am fey as weel as a demon?” Heming was not surprised to hear the low rumble of a growl in his voice, for his anger was running hot and wild. “Ye have heeded too many tales told to scare bairns.”

      “Och, nay, MacNachton. I ken what ye are—a bloodsucking, soul-eating abomination. I will learn all of your secrets, including why ye and yours should be blessed with such long lives. Here is where the truth of your evil will be fully revealed and here is where ye will die.”

      Watching the man stride away, Heming murmured, “Nay, fool, the only one marching toward that fate is ye. Ye are now a walking dead mon.” It was a vow, one Heming full intended to fulfill no matter how long it took.

      One

      He had eyes like her pets, almost solidly black as if the center had grown so that he could see more clearly in the dark. Brona Kerr immediately decided that was not precisely true. The man’s eyes were decidedly far more feral than her dog’s or even her cat’s. The fact that both of her pets were tense, their fur bristling slightly, told her that she was not the only one who sensed a dangerous wildness in the man. Yet she knew her pets were as confused as they were wary, as if they each sensed a friend as well as a foe.

      The man was caged like some feral animal, thick silver chains holding his wrists and ankles to the fat iron bars of the cage. Water and a congealed stew sat in bowls set in one far corner of his cage and a bucket sat in the other. There was no bedding for him, not even the thinnest of old blankets. Despite the fact that he was naked, he did not appear troubled by the damp chill of the dungeon. In the flickering light of the torches she had lit, his skin appeared to be almost golden yet the wounds she could see on him should have left him as pale as a ghost. Those wounds should also have bled away the fury she could see glittering in his feral eyes. Eyes in which she could now see a hint of gold as the black circle eased back into a more human size.

      He watched her like some stalking predator, his golden eyes narrowed slightly and fixed unblinkingly upon her. Thick raven hair hung almost to his trim waist. He was lean and tautly muscular just as a predator should be. Brona did not think she had ever seen a man like him before. He should terrify her and, in some ways he did, but she also felt drawn to him. That made no sense to her and she frowned.

      Heming studied the woman who was studying him. She was an ethereal creature, not very tall and slender yet possessing lush breasts and nicely rounded hips. Horror and curiosity were evenly blended in her expression. The flickering shadows caused by the torches accentuated the fine lines of her face. A thick braid of pale hair was draped over her right shoulder and hung down to the top of her thighs. She smelled of woman, of clean skin and a hint of lavender. It was a welcome change from the damp foul air of his prison.

      To her right sat a very large gray dog and to her left sat a large yellow cat. Heming got the strong feeling that the animals were as much her companions as her pets. It surprised him that Hervey Kerr even allowed pets at Rosscurrach. The fact that this woman had the pets indicated that she was no mere servant of the keep. Few of the poor had the time or the food to pamper an animal and these two animals looked very pampered.

      “Who are ye?” she asked, struggling to keep her gaze fixed upon his face and fighting the urge to look him over, very carefully, from head to toe.

      “Sir Heming MacNachton,” he replied, wondering if she was in league with Hervey and sought to trick some important truth out of him.

      “I have ne’er heard your name before. Are ye one of my cousin’s enemies?”

      “I had ne’er e’en met the fool ere he captured me and brought me here. And who are ye that ye dinnae ken that?”

      Brona heard the suspicion in his voice but was not troubled by it. Chained naked in a cage as he was, the man had every right to be suspicious of everyone at Rosscurrach. She had a few suspicions of her own about him. She knew her cousin was not a good man, but she found it hard to believe