T he stone ledge around them fell away, leaving nothing but a small platform to crouch upon atop the jagged spire. The wall of shale at their backs crumbled, becoming a waterfall of oily black shards showering down into the abyss. Grant held Jessa tighter, shielding her as much as he could from the stinging debris.
The shuddering upward thrust of their dangerous perch halted with a violent stop. As Grant lifted his head to look around, bony fingers closed around his throat, tearing him away from Jessa as they squeezed off his air. He fought to free himself, baring his teeth at the dark, empty eyes of the skull staring at him from the depths of Morrigan’s hooded cloak.
“Ye will remember me always,” she said, her voice a deadly hiss as she crushed his throat. “Ye will tell yer children of the benevolent goddess who spared ye this day because ye possess the heart and soul of a truly courageous warrior. Ye will teach them my name until they chant it in their dreams.” She shook him, nearly snapping his neck with the strength of her bony grip. The warm trickle of blood where her sharp fingertips pierced his flesh turned into a steady stream. “Tell Mairwen I’m coming for her. Our mothers canna protect her forever. When I take down the Veil, she will join Lùnastal and Valan in their crystal prison for all the rest of her days.”
Vision failing, lungs burning for air, Grant grappled a dagger out of his boot and stabbed it deep into the bony specter’s eye socket. She burst into a whirling mass of ravens that shot up into the sky, leaving him coughing and wheezing on the grassy knoll.
Must get to Jessa. He shook his head, fighting to clear his vision while wheezing in great gulps of air. He dragged himself back to her, pulled her close, and rolled to his back. The sudden brightness of the sky blinded him as he sank into the softness of the heavy sea grasses covering the top of the cliff. For that was where they were. Somehow, the cliff overlooking the sea had been restored.
Morrigan’s dark chasm, her icy hell, was gone.
Something dug into his back, right between his shoulder blades, vibrating as if trying to shove him away. He found the strength to shift, reach underneath him, and free the gently glowing sword. He laid it at his side, keeping his fingers on its haft in case the dark one returned.
“Jessa,” he whispered, his raspy voice breaking. Ignoring the pain, he turned his head and kissed her forehead. Lore a’mighty, his dear one was icy as death.
And she didn’t answer. Nor did she move. She lay in the curve of his arm, her head on his shoulder. Her stillness was not that of sleep or a lady caught in a swoon. His precious one’s soul hovered at death’s threshold. Struggling, he forced himself to his knees, gathered her up, then staggered to his feet. He had to get her to the keep. To a fire. To a dry bed and shelter.
“Let me carry her, brother,” said a strangely muffled voice to his left.
Grant slowly turned, fighting to remain upright. Henry looked at him with pity and resignation, filling him with raging determination. “Fetch the witch,” he croaked to the man. “My Jessa must be saved.”
“I shall fetch Mairwen,” Lachie said from his other side, his voice just as muffled.
Grant swallowed hard and shook his head, trying to clear his ears without dropping his precious wife. “Nay. Walk with me,” he told them, reluctantly acknowledging he might not make it to the keep. “Help me save her.”
Flanking him, they stayed close, joining him in one painful step at a time. The skirting wall seemed so very far away.
His feet caught in the long, matted grass, making him stumble and fall to his knees more than once. Each time, with Henry and Lachie steadying him, he rose and whispered to Jessa, “Nearly there, my own. Hold on.”
By the time they reached the split in the skirting wall, swirling spots of blackness filled his vision, making him stumble to lean against the ancient barrier built by his ancestors. His shoulders throbbed with a pain so powerful he couldn’t draw a full breath.
Henry caught hold of him. “Ye brought her home. Now let us serve ye as we are meant to. Give her over, man. I’ll carry her to yer chambers, and Lachie will lend ye his strength and get ye there as well.” He squeezed Grant’s arm and leaned in, forcing Grant to look him in the eyes. “Dinna let yer stubbornness and pride kill the both of ye, aye?”
As much as Grant hated giving in to the weariness and pain, Henry was right—although Grant would never admit it out loud. Grudgingly, he dipped a weak nod. “Take her—but mind her head. She is weak as a blade of brittle grass in a windstorm.” As Henry gently took her, Grant sagged back against the wall and almost went to the ground.
Lachie caught him, pulled his arm across his shoulders, and helped Grant stand. “Lean against me, brother. I’ll nay let ye fall.”
Grant locked his gaze ahead on Henry’s back, watching the man as if doing so was the same as carrying Jessa in his own arms.
“Make way for our laird! Make way for our lady!” The cry went up again and again as they crossed the courtyard and entered the keep.
Grant was barely aware of his people. He had to focus on Jessa. If he kept his eyes locked on her head resting on Henry’s shoulder, her soul wouldn’t slip away and leave him all alone.
“Mrs. Robeson!” Mairwen shouted from somewhere nearby as they crossed the length of the main hall. “Every tonic and herb ye have. Boiling water. Plenty of linens. To the master’s chambers. Now.”
At least, that was what he thought the old witch said. Every sound was still so feckin’ muffled. He stumbled and went down to one knee again, nearly pulling Lachie down with him.
“Ye will never make it up the stairs,” his friend told him while helping me rise. “And we’re too broad to climb them side by side. Give me yer arms.”
“Why?” Grant squinted at the man, fighting to clear his failing vision.
“Because I mean to drag ye up the stairs while ye lean on my back because yer arse is too big to carry. Now give me yer arms. Put them over my shoulders so’s I can hold them to keep ye from sliding back down.”
“This is feckin’ humiliating.”
“Do it, man. It’s either this, a battlefield litter, or I leave yer stubborn arse at the bottom of these steps. Now what shall it be?”
Lachie always did have a way with words and no patience whatsoever when times demanded action. Deciding not to spend what little strength he had on arguing, Grant wrapped his arms around Lachie’s neck as if about to choke him from behind. And then they entered the stairwell and climbed, one slow step at a time. Grant helped as much as he could. With his forehead shoved against Lachie’s shoulders, he concentrated on lifting his feet and supporting his own weight at least a little. Feckin’ hell. Climbing the stairway was like plowing a hard-packed field, and he was the ox lashed to the plow.
“Nearly there,” Lachie told him, grunting as he tugged him up another series of steps. “What is that unholy humming?”
“The sword shoved through my belt.” Grant dragged his foot up to the next step, then fought to find the strength to lift the other. “It is Caladbolg.”
When Lachie didn’t answer, Grant knew his kinsman thought he had gone mad from all that had happened. He would’ve thought the same if he’d not seen the blade’s power. “If aught happens to me, guard it well. Only yerself or Henry should carry it, ye ken?”
“ Aught is not going to happen to ye. Get that through yer thick skull, aye?”
Head swimming, Grant closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He had to make it to his chambers. “Can ye see Henry? Has he got her to our rooms yet?”
“He is out of the stairwell. I am sure Lady Jessa be in the hands of the women by now. Take heart, man. The Weavers and Defenders plan to surround the keep. Probably already have.”
“Morrigan will not return. At least not here.” A knowing filled Grant. The dark one had as much as given her word that she would threaten them no more. He and Jessa were safe, but God help Mairwen, the Veil’s protectors, and the other fated mates. “Tell them to stand down.”
“They surround the keep to join auras and bathe the place with healing.” Lachie sagged against the wall and drew in several deep, ragged breaths. “Why the devil did ye put yer chambers on the third floor?”
“Because it suited me.” Although Grant didn’t disagree. He presently wished he had made his rooms on the ground floor. “And what do ye mean bathe the place with healing ?”
“I canna tell ye,” Lachie said, as he resumed climbing. “Ye’ve not taken the oath, ye ken?”
“Now is a hell of a time for ye to get so high and mighty about Defender rules. My not taking yer damned oath didna give ye pause whenever ye needed my help.”
With a mighty growl, Lachie dragged him up the last few steps, swung him into the third floor hallway, and dropped his arse to the floor. Doubled over, his hands propped on his knees, he bared his teeth and looked ready to spit. “Once ye’ve healed, and yer fine wife is doing well, we will continue this discussion. It would not be fair for me to thrash yer arse in yer current condition.”
Henry joined them, impatiently waving for them to follow. “Mairwen said to make haste.”
Fear jolted through Grant, forcing him to his feet. “Jessa!” His vision failed, trapping him in frustrating darkness. He hit the wall but kept moving in the direction he knew he needed to go. “Get me to her! My sight has left me.”
Strong hands caught hold of his arms and dragged him along. A solid thud and then a loud bang told him that either Lachie or Henry had kicked open the bedchamber door so hard it had bounced off the wall.
“She needs your heat,” Mairwen said from somewhere to the left. “The mate bond will help her heal—and help you too.”
Grant pulled the mighty, humming sword out of his belt and held it out. “Guard this, Lachie,” he said. As soon as his kinsman took the sword, Grant felt around for the chair that was usually on the side of the bed closest to the door. Once he found it, he sat, stripped off his boots, then teetered back to his feet and stripped off the rest of his clothes.
“Yer back,” Mairwen said from behind him. “Yer throat. Morrigan’s work?”
“Aye.” Grant didn’t care that Mairwen or anyone else would see his nakedness. The need to get to Jessa consumed him. Nothing else mattered. He bumped into the bed, fumbled his way under the coverings, and pulled himself around his lady love. “Lore a’mighty, she is as cold as the bottom of the loch.”
“Too much time in the Morrigan’s domain poisoned the both of ye,” Mairwen said. “Mortals canna tolerate her overlong or the darkness she breeds. Give me yer hand.”
With Jessa wrapped in his arms, Grant was reluctant to turn loose of her long enough to do what the old witch said, especially when he couldn’t see anything other than swirling darkness. “Will it help her?”
“It will help ye both. Put yer hand out of the covers now. Time is of the essence.”
Gritting his teeth, he slid his left hand out from under the covers and waited. A strong yet feminine touch grasped his wrist.
“Keeva, hand me the crystal athame, then hold her right hand steady alongside his left,” Mairwen instructed. “Emily, be ready with the bindings, aye? Our hands must be joined for no less than three full breaths.”
“How many are in here with ye?” he asked.
“As many as needed,” Mairwen said. “Now quiet yerself. If this doesna work, I canna save either of ye.”
Something cold and hard dragged across his palm so quickly that it took a moment for him to realize his flesh had been sliced. Then a hand gripped his, clasping tight and pressing their palms together.
“The binding, Emily. Now.”
It was then he realized it was Mairwen’s surprisingly strong grasp holding his. A cloth wrapped around their hands and wrists, lashing them tighter together.
“ Unum Sumus ,” Mairwen intoned, the depth of her voice mysterious and powerful.
“We are one,” said Emily. Keeva echoed the same.
“We are one,” Henry repeated in his booming voice.
“We are one,” Lachie said even louder, not about to be outdone.
A blinding blast of the purest white light exploded in Grant’s mind—or maybe it was in his sight. He couldn’t tell because its power consumed him. There was no pain. Merely a sense of completeness. Of belonging. It reminded him of the sense of rightness he had felt when he and Jessa had acknowledged their bond and melded as one.
Then a wave of the quietest silence, the serenest peace, washed across him and closed his mind.
* * *
“When will we know if they will be all right?” Emily asked as she smoothed a healing balm across the cuts on Mairwen’s palms.
Mairwen kept her attention focused on the pair in the bed, closely monitoring not only Jessa’s breathing but Grant’s as well. “I dinna ken, child. Morrigan tainted them both with her darkness. The mating bond protected them somewhat, but not enough. By filling them with my light and surrounding them with the devotion of not only the Defenders and Weavers but also those who care about them, it is my hope that we healed wherever she touched.”
Emily held out her hand, showing Mairwen her palm. “My cut is already gone. Why?”
That pleased Mairwen greatly. If there had ever been any doubt about Emily’s Spell Weaver ancestry, the speed of her healing cast it aside. “Yer bloodline, child. That of a Weaver. See?” Mairwen opened her hands, revealing hers to be healed, and the balm glistening on fresh new skin. “Go see to Henry and Lachie. They added their blood to the bond. See to their wounds.”
As the girl left to attend to the men, Mairwen allowed herself a deep sigh. The ancient ceremony had taken much from her. If not for the others adding their blood to the bindings as she mixed her blood with Grant’s and Jessa’s, she wasn’t certain she could’ve completed the draining ritual. Morrigan’s darkness was strong, and the cruel goddess had laced it with painful images. Mairwen blinked them away, refusing to give them power over her. After all, Bride and Cerridwen had given her their promise, and they never lied.
Grant stirred, rumbling with a soft growl, as he tightened his hold on Jessa without opening his eyes.
Mairwen smiled and relaxed deeper into the worn cushions of the chair, envisioning many generations of strong MacAlesters bearing not only Defender blood but Time Weaver blood in their veins. It felt good to have more kin again and gave her even more reason to watch over Grant and Jessa throughout their time on this plane. She swallowed hard against the knot of emotions threatening to overcome her. Valan and Grant would have made good brothers, and Lùnastal would have been so proud to have two such sons.
“Someday, my loves,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Someday, I shall win yer freedom and bring ye home.”
* * *
Wherever this was, it was so very nice and warm. So much better than the pit. Maybe it was a dream, or maybe she was dead and finally out of the Morrigan’s reach. Jessa didn’t know. All she felt was safety.
She drew in a deep breath, and a wave of contentment washed across her. Grant was here with her. That was all that mattered, and that, in and of itself, relaxed her even more. She breathed him in again, reveling in his scent of raw alpha maleness—pinewoods, mountain air, and the clean, briny tang of the sea that could also be pure, unadulterated hero sweat from pulling her out of that dark hell. Yes. He had saved her. She remembered it clearly now. He had ordered her to stay awake while he battled the cage, the Morrigan, and everything in between.
She burrowed deeper into his embrace, tucking herself up under his chin. “I knew you would save me,” she whispered without opening her eyes. “I never doubted you would come.”
His arms flexed, then tightened around her. “Praise God Almighty,” he said, his voice broken and rasping.
She pushed herself up and studied him in the soft glow of the lamp burning on the bedside table. His bruised face, covered in cuts and scrapes, squeezed her heart and made her catch her breath. “How badly are you hurt? Your voice…”
“The dark one crushed my throat.” He gave her a loving smile and reached up to touch her cheek. “It will heal in time—I am already much better than I was. By the time Lachie got me here to our bed, I was blind and nearly deaf as well.”
Guilt crashed through her, sending her heart to her gut. “This was all my fault. I am so sorry.”
Confusion filled his eyes. “What?”
“If I hadn’t held back, had second thoughts about this century, the Morrigan never would have gotten a toehold here and been able to create that…that…horrible place.” Before he could speak, she pressed a finger across his lips. “I did not have second thoughts about us. I was worried about living in this time. Surviving in the eighteenth century.” She gingerly touched his ravaged face, silently begging him to understand and find a way to forgive her. “But now I know all that matters is that I am with you. Everything else will fall into place, and I’ll figure it out. I am so sorry for doubting.”
He pulled her down into a kiss so tender she nearly wept. “Much has happened in a verra short time, m’love. Even though we be fated mates, we know verra little about one another. Doubt is natural—especially with ye coming from the future.” He flinched with a hard swallow. “And the Morrigan wouldha come for us no matter what. Did ye not sense that about her?”
“It felt like she was more after you. Or maybe Mairwen.” Jessa couldn’t explain it, but the entire time she’d been trapped in that dark, icy hell, she had never really felt that the dark one’s wrath was directly aimed at her. “I think I was more of a tool for her to torture others. Don’t get me wrong. I think she would’ve snuffed me out in a heartbeat, but it was almost like I served a purpose. Gave her a way to get back at someone else.”
He pulled her in for another kiss, then held her close and pillowed her head on his shoulder. “Whatever her vile reasons, she’ll not be back for us. Rest now, love. We are safe and where we belong, in each other’s arms.”
“You’re sure she won’t be back for us?” she whispered, giving in to the bone-aching weariness still plaguing her.
“She swore she would leave us in peace,” he rasped, then nudged a kiss to her forehead. “I wish I had the strength to make love to ye, but I fear I’ve a bit more healing to do before I can do right by ye.”
Eyes already closed, she smiled and tightened her arm across his chest. “Raincheck. If I weren’t so weak, I’d heal you, but I’m afraid to even try it right now.”
“ Raincheck ? What does it matter if it’s raining? This is feckin’ Scotland.”
She huffed a laugh. Heaven help her with this infuriating man who made her feel more alive than she had ever felt before. “A raincheck is like a promise, an I.O.U., a voucher for payment later. We are giving each other a raincheck to make love when we’ve both fully healed.”
“Hmphf.”
“And what does that mean?” she asked, still not adept at interpreting all his grunts, growls, and groans.
“’Tis an odd word. Is it from the colonies?”
If her eyes had been open, she would’ve rolled them. “Probably.” She patted his chest. “Go to sleep.”
“I love ye, lass,” he said in a soft, croaking whisper.
“I love you more.”