Page 10 of Mist Warrior (Legacy of the Mist Clans #1)

Days passed since the memorial, and it had helped Branan heal, although he was not sure about Catriona and Gavin. They had thanked him for a beautiful ceremony, but otherwise did not speak of their loss. He resolved to keep a close eye on both of them.

Although most of the work at Thistlewood concentrated on rebuilding the tower, Branan did not ignore their military purpose. Each day, he gathered the men to work in the lists. Most were quite competent and Branan found himself enjoying the sparring. Branan also worked extensively with the younger lads. If the situation had been normal, young noble sons would foster with their laird, learning to fight, just as he had fostered with the de Reignys. It was a common practice and one that strengthened alliances between households, sometimes with marriages as the lady of the house not only raised her own daughters, but also fostered other girls.

Branan made sure the youths’ education lacked for nothing. Yet this situation offered a rare opportunity. Because of Thistlewood’s unique community, Branan trained any youth who wished to learn. It mattered not if they were serf or peasant, freeman or journeyman, tradesman or noble, he taught them all and he taught them well. Perhaps, those of lower rank could use his lessons to reach for a better life.

“An interesting technique you have, MacTavish,” de Courcy said as he approached the lists.

Branan told the lads to keep working and strode across the field to de Courcy. He glanced at the mercenary knights sparring a short distance away. Duguald and Gavin had joined them.

“The Scottish claymore has a different strategy than the English broadsword,” he said.

De Courcy nodded, his eyes glinting in a manner Branan did not like. He drew his own weapon, leaning against it like a cane. “And you mostly practice with whalebone or blunted weapons?”

“Aye. Especially with the youths. I dinna need anyone felled by a simple cut which might grow gangrenous.”

“Still, a man goes soft if he does not face a real weapon from time to time.” He paused and lifted his sword, gazing at it critically. “What say you, MacTavish, care to try that claymore of yours against this Englishman’s broadsword?”

Branan scowled. He had a feeling de Courcy hoped to embarrass him publicly and prove he was the greater swordsman. A sideways glance told him their conversation had gained the attention of the mercenaries. Branan knew he could not refuse the challenge, especially with such a stern lot of hired swords watching. “Verra well,” he said softly. “I shall try no’ to hurt ye.”

With a bitter smile, de Courcy stepped onto the list field. Branan hefted his claymore and followed.

Everyone stopped their work and gathered in a circle around them. Soon, they drew the attention of the women and children in camp and the crowd increased. Branan listened closely, and sure enough, the wagering began. The odds favored him, but many did not underestimate de Courcy.

De Courcy gave him a quick salute and immediately lunged, trying to drive his sword into Branan’s gut. Branan quickly slapped the man’s blade away and stepped to the side. He arched an eyebrow. Neither wore armor. Even though they worked with real weapons, this spar should not be as intense. “Be cautious, de Courcy, or one may think ye have it in fer me.”

De Courcy charged again, his broadsword lighter and faster than Branan’s claymore. Cautiously, Branan continued to defend. He had not achieved his physique lazing around his keep in Scotland. Hours upon hours of blood and sweat had forged not only his strength and stamina, but also a formidable defense that allowed him to wait until his opponent exhausted himself.

Silently they moved across the field, the only sound the ringing of their weapons. Branan maintained his defense and sensed de Courcy growing more desperate, struggling to find a way to breach it and failing, exhausting himself in the process. Branan waited patiently for the proper timing.

He again deflected de Courcy’s blade, but this time it went wide on the return stroke, leaving an opening. Branan instantly changed the tempo of the fight and launched his attack. De Courcy barely managed the block, staggering backward. Branan used the greater weight of his blade and his strength. Each blow drove de Courcy backward and opened his guard just a little more. De Courcy’s wasted energy now became a serious liability as his muscles could not find the strength to maintain his defense correctly.

Although the claymore was slower than the broadsword because of its heft and size, Branan demonstrated that it could still be wielded with amazing speed as he snapped it out and around, clearing de Courcy’s block completely. Branan lunged, holding the heavy blade in one hand is if it were as light as a feather, the weapon an extension of his arm. Branan’s size and reach, combined with the length of the claymore, allowed him to close an expansive amount of distance. De Courcy had no choice but to throw himself backward. He fell, knocking the wind from his lungs. Branan slid to a stop, his blade pointed at de Courcy’s throat. Unlike his opponent, Branan’s breathing, while heavier than normal, was still even and controlled. The tip of his sword remained rock steady.

The crowd that had gathered roared their approval, cheering for Branan. Only a few grumbled over lost bets.

“It seems ye are in a bit of a fix,” Branan said. He hesitated another moment, but de Courcy said nothing, simply staring at the glittering weapon that could end his life in a heartbeat. Hopefully, the sod had just learned his lesson. Branan lowered his weapon and turned his back, striding from the field. He spotted Catriona watching. Suddenly, her eyes widened in horror and her face lost all color. He heard the noise of a heavy footfall behind him.

“Branan!” Catriona screamed.

His heart lunging in his chest, Branan spun, barely bringing up his sword in time. De Courcy’s blade crashed down on his and Richard stepped in and met him with a knee to the groin.

Shock and agony coiled through Branan as he dropped like a stone. This was only a practice spar, but now de Courcy was out for blood. A booted foot caught Branan in the jaw and snapped his head back. He found himself sprawled in the dirt, his sword gone.

De Courcy hesitated only an instant, a maniacal smile on his face. Horrified, Branan watched him lift his sword for the death blow.

“Richard,” Catriona screamed, rushing toward them. “Nay!”

De Courcy froze for a heartbeat and Branan saw his struggle plain on his face. Kill Branan now and be done with it—though that would destroy the betrothal contract. Or allow him to live and maintain the threat of Branan winning Catriona’s heart.

A roar resounded and a dark blur passed over Branan’s vision. A man plowed into de Courcy, knocking him into the ground. Branan blinked and saw Gavin. He drew back his fist and let fly, slamming it into de Courcy’s jaw.

Catriona slid to her knees and tried to throw her body over his.

“Nay, Catriona,” Branan growled, shoving her away, but she clung to him with surprising tenacity as the pain still radiated from the core of his being. “If he slips away from Gavin, I dinna wanting him hurting ye.”

“You bloody, cur!” Gavin bellowed and Branan abruptly realized de Courcy was not going anywhere. “Have you no honor? This was a spar and you turned it into a brawl. You attacked when he showed you mercy. You were going to kill an unarmed man!” He slammed his fist into de Courcy’s nose.

Catriona also realized her brother had things well in hand and moved away enough to help Branan sit up.

His eyes watered and anguish continued to course through him. Dear God, the sod had probably ruined him for siring children.

Someone handed Catriona a bowl of clean water and a cloth. She dampened it and used it to clean the dirt from Branan’s face. “Are you all right?”

Branan fought to grab a breath. “I...I think so, lass. I should have ken no’ to drop my guard.”

Duguald joined him with his flask. Branan took it and drank deeply. The mercenaries gathered around Gavin and de Courcy. Angry shouts rose against de Courcy’s dishonorable conduct.

Gavin lurched to his feet, hauling de Courcy with him. Blood streamed from de Courcy’s nose and his eye rapidly darkened and swelled. Gavin had probably broken his nose.

“I should flay your hide,” Gavin snarled. “If you ever try anything like that again, I don’t care who you are, I will kill you.”

De Courcy appeared appropriately cowed. “Forgive me. I don’t know what came over me.”

Gavin shoved him off the list field. “Get the hell out of here.”

De Courcy shuffled away.

Gavin faced Branan. “Are you all right?”

“Aye. Thank ye, brother.” Branan held out his hand.

Gavin smiled and easily pulled him to his feet. “I couldn’t believe what I saw. What in the hell was he thinking?”

Branan swayed, waiting for his vision to clear.

“I think I ken what that was about,” Duguald said. He looked pointedly at Catriona.

Fortunately, Catriona’s attention was focused completely Branan and she did not see Duguald’s gaze.

“Aye,” Gavin said tightly. “Let’s get you cleaned up, Branan.”

As they walked away, Branan heard Duguald curse softly under his breath. “I warned that ye might find yer bollocks on his plate and ye didna listen.”

****

The next morning, needing a distraction from her chaotic emotions, Catriona headed for the tower. Branan was no worse for yesterday’s events and already working. Why had Richard done such a terrible thing? He almost killed an unarmed man in the lists. She sighed, trying to force her thoughts away. One of the women had tended to Richard’s broken nose; Catriona had been so angry with him she refused. But instead of leaving, as Catriona had hoped, he had stayed in one of the extra shelters.

Inside the tower, workers tore out the rotted wood, tossing it in piles on the ground while some women and children picked up the broken pieces and carted them out. Catriona spotted Branan with a huge beam balanced on his shoulder as he carried it into the keep.

He smiled and winked at her. “I feel as good as new, lass.”

“Good,” she replied.

Branan leaned the beam against the wall and shouted up at the workers on the scaffolds above him. They lowered ropes. He tied the beam securely and three of them hauled it up.

Catriona shook her head. “You carried that beam in here like it was nothing, but it takes three men to haul it up.”

“’Tis a bit more difficult when trying to heft it from a scaffold, but...aye, ye have it aright.” His grin turned wicked.

Her stomach did a funny flip, but she returned his smile.

“I jest, my sweet,” he continued. “It’s all a matter of balance. If I had to pick it up straight from the ground, it would be a different story.”

“I see,” Catriona replied. She turned to the work at hand. Moving a pace away, she found a pile of debris and put it in a basket to be hauled away.

Branan proceeded to carry out the heavier pieces that were too large for the women and children.

Next to Catriona, an elderly matron also grabbed handfuls of rotted wood, filling a basket.

Above Catriona heard sudden curses. “Watch that rope!”

She flinched, looking upward.

“Don’t worry, m’lady,” the matron said, “they do that all the time.”

“I have it now,” a voice barked.

Catriona sighed in relief and returned to her work.

Richard appeared in the doorway, his expression as dark as a thundercloud, and it was not from the two black eyes he possessed courtesy of his broken nose.

“Catriona, why did you insist on this foolishness?”

By the saints, she was tired of this. “Richard, leave me be. Until I become your wife, I shall live and work as I please.”

Branan approached Richard from behind. Although he could not see Richard’s face, Branan’s expression turned flat and his nostrils flared.

“God’s wounds!” a voice barked from above. “I told you—”

Catriona heard a sharp snapping sound and jerked her head up.

“I got—”

“Idiot!”

One of the ropes on the huge beam had snapped. It shifted violently. One end dipped and the beam slid out of the other two ropes. It crashed through the rotted floor above, plummeting straight for Catriona.

Suddenly, a body collided with hers. Richard tackled her. She would never forget the look of terror she saw in his eyes. The beam descended and slammed onto his back, its full weight falling on his shoulders. He uttered a strangled cry and went limp on top of her.

Debris poured down around them, raising a thick cloud of dirt that choked her throat.

“Richard!” she screamed. “Oh God, Richard!”

The shower of wood and dirt ceased, but Richard didn’t move. Catriona tried to squirm out from under him, but his body, with the broken beam still on his back, pinned her in place. He had taken the full force of the blow that surely would have killed her. She stared in horror at his dirt-covered face, resting so still against her. Oh God, was he dead?

The tower exploded with activity. Suddenly, Branan stood above her with Duguald, Jamie, and Gavin right behind. “Catriona, are ye hurt?”

“Nay,” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “It landed on Richard.”

Branan reached down, wrapping his arms around the huge beam. “Sweet Mary,” he whispered. Catriona remembered his words only a moment ago and wondered if he intended it as a prayer.

Muscles in his arms and chest corded as his grip tightened. With a primal groan he lifted. The wood creaked, but slowly Branan, his body straining its limits, lifted the beam. “Now, Duguald,” he snarled, his face red and contorted. “Get them out now.”

Duguald and Gavin both moved, dragging Richard off of Catriona as quickly and as carefully as they could.

Jamie reached down and grabbed Catriona, yanking her free. The moment she cleared the beam, Branan dropped it. He staggered and fell to his hands and knees, gasping for breath.

“Branan?” Catriona asked.

“I’ll be all right,” he panted. “See to de Courcy first.”

Catriona distantly noticed that others helped people who had been partially covered in the debris, but Richard seemed to be the only one injured.

She lurched to Richard’s side as Duguald and Gavin eased him face down on the ground. A bright red stain on his back grew larger by the moment.

“Pray it didna break his spine,” Duguald muttered.

Catriona felt for the life beat in his throat and sighed in relief when she found it. “He’s alive.” She examined the wound closely. The edge of the beam had sliced him open from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. “Get me water and clean cloths.”

“Lass, we need tae get him out of here,” Duguald said, looking up at the tower fearfully .

“Not until I know how badly he’s hurt. If we move him too much, we could make the injury worse.”

A young lad ran in with a water bucket and the cleanest cloths he could find. Catriona carefully tended the wound, her fingers gently probing the bone around it.

Richard groaned then coughed, trying to blink open his eyes.

“Richard,” she called. “Richard, can you hear me?”

He tried to look over his shoulder, but groaned again.

“Where does it hurt?” she asked, fear rising within her. “Can you feel your legs?”

“Aye,” he said, his voice rasping. “I can feel my limbs.” He sucked in his breath and groaned again. “Oh God!”

“What?”

“My ribs. It hurts to breathe.”

Catriona quickly checked him and discovered two cracked ribs. If that was the worst of it, he was very lucky indeed. The beam could have easily driven a broken rib into his lung. She looked up at Duguald. “Get him to his shelter; I’ll tend to his wounds there.”

“Aye, lassie.” He and Gavin carefully picked Richard off the ground. As they carried him out, Catriona turned to Branan. Jamie helped him to his feet.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Aye,” he said. “But I vow I pulled every muscle in my back.”

“I’ll tend to you as soon as I finish with Richard.” She gripped his arm and impulsively kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Branan. You just saved the life of a man who hates you.”

He shook his head. “I helped the man who offered his life in place of yours.”

****

Catriona followed Duguald and Gavin. They placed Richard on his pallet and she worked quickly, cleaning his wound and stitching it closed. He seemed to fade in and out of consciousness, his eyes opening occasionally to stare at the wall, only to close again and remain that way for a long time. She knew he wasn’t completely coherent as he did not react to pain. Gavin remained with her while Duguald went to check on Branan.

She worked in silence, needing Gavin’s help when it came time to wrap Richard’s broken ribs. When she finished, she brewed a medicant and she and Gavin worked to get de Courcy to drink it. Finally, she finished and Gavin placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“’Tis all right, sister, he is alive. It could have been much worse.”

“Aye,” she replied and called for de Courcy’s steward, Edmund. “He is resting well,” she told the worried man.

His expression eased, but he continued to twist his wool cap in his hands. “We need to get him back to Brackenburgh. If he is gone much longer it will be suspicious.”

“Take him in a wagon. As long as you travel slowly, he should be all right.” She handed him several steeping bundles of the medicant she had used. “Make sure he drinks this three times a day. Do not allow him to get out of bed until his ribs begin to mend. Do you understand me?”

Edmund nodded. “I do not doubt my lord will listen to the wisdom of his betrothed in the matters of healing.”

“I hope so, otherwise I’ll have to clout him over the head.”

“I will make sure he understands that.”

“Good.”

Together, Edmund and his men took Richard to a wagon. Soon they departed and Catriona went to check on Branan.

****

“Sweet Jesu,” Branan growled. He knew better than to move, but he had to find a way to ease the agonizing pain in his back. His leg shifted only slightly and his muscles clenched again, sending fire through every part of his body. Branan sucked in his breath, fighting to clear his vision.

“Och, laddie, I keep tellin’ ye not tae move,” Duguald said.

Never had Branan imagined such misery from a strained back. The pain confused him...and worse…unmanned him. It was just a foolish muscle spasm. Why then, did it make him feel as helpless as a babe in swaddling? A part of his mind insisted that if he would just ignore the pain, if he could master it, he would be able to move. He wasn’t bleeding to death, a sword had not tried to spill his guts on the ground, he wasn’t fevered into a delirium, he didn’t have a broken bone shoved through his flesh...but in the face of this pain...he was utterly lost.

“Here comes the lassie now,” Duguald said.

Nay! Branan’s thoughts screamed, his shame battering his wounded pride. Dinna let her see me like this, Duguald, please!

Catriona entered his shelter without so much as a by-your-leave. Branan squeezed his eyes closed, willing her to be gone. Duguald had stripped him and helped him to his pallet. Now he only had his plaid partially covering him.

“And how be Lord de Courcy?” Duguald asked Catriona.

Branan stopped his silent diatribe in order to hear her answer.

“He is doing well, Duguald. Only the cut on his back and two cracked ribs.”

“That be good to hear.”

Branan also breathed a sigh of relief. He may have had his disagreements with de Courcy, but that was no reason to want the man dead. Plus Branan feared what it might do to Catriona since de Courcy had saved her life. She would have been guilt-ridden if he had died .

“And as for you,” Catriona said softly, kneeling next to his pallet.

Branan’s eyes flew open. She gave him a perfunctory glance, but a soft blush highlighted her cheeks. Branan’s embarrassment burned again, his plaid only covered the essentials, and his fruitless struggling to find a comfortable position had shifted the thick wool. Yet he could not help but wonder what she thought of him. Many a lass had complimented his powerful form, and a part of him wondered if Catriona would find his body as pleasing...and a tinier part actually hoped for it. Mentally, he kicked himself—and even that made his back hurt worse.

“Now,” Catriona said, rummaging through the items she brought with her. “Duguald, would you be so kind as to start a pot of water to boil? I have some valerian root that will do wonders for Branan.”

“Aye, lassie,” he replied.

Branan watched Catriona search through the small box where she kept her herbals and medicants. She pulled out a small ceramic jar.

“Branan, can you turn over on your stomach?”

“I’m afraid no’, lass.”

“All right. We will help you.”

“Help me?” he yelped.

“Duguald, when you are finished, I need you for a moment.”

“Of course, lass,” he said and approached.

“Brace yourself in front of Branan. Branan, hold strong to Duguald’s hands and use the strength of your arms to pull yourself on your side. I will help from over here.” She moved to the other side of his pallet.

“From over where?” he asked, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

“I will brace your back and legs as you turn on your side, keeping your body straight. It will be painful, but not as much as if you twist to do it yourself. Just remember, do not use your back and legs, but the strength of your arms. Duguald, don’t try to pull him, simply act as his anchor and let him do it himself.”

“As ye will, lass.”

Branan, his heart thundering like a drum, stared up at Duguald.

Catriona knelt and placed one gentle, warm hand on his ribs and the other on the outside of his thigh.

Duguald gazed back at him, his eyes glinting knowingly. Damnation, he enjoyed Branan’s discomfiture.

“Lad, I ken how ye feel, but perchance it would be better tae do this quickly and have it finished.”

That was probably the sagest advice he had heard yet. Gripping Duguald’s hands and trying to ignore Catriona’s vibrant touch, Branan managed to turn himself over. But the pain was enough to make him forget the warmth of her hands. He snarled against the agony.

It took a moment for his pain to dull enough to realize that Catriona now sat before him, her fingers lightly caressing his face and hair. She spoke in soothing, gentle tones, words of calm and comfort. His eyes closed and he fought to steady his breathing.

Her voice was hypnotic as she moved away. He heard the clink of glass and the sound of her hands rubbing together, but her voice never stopped and he wondered idly if she’d cast some enchantment over him.

Suddenly, her warm, well-oiled hands descended on his shoulders, kneading the thick muscle stretched taut with pain. Her touch sent a blaze of lust through him. She continued to stroke and caress his back. His heart thundered so hard he was certain she could feel it battering his ribcage. She worked with agonizing yet wonderful slowness. God’s blood, how could he endure this?

Slowly, he became conscious of her words, although her voice continued its soft and soothing cadence. She could tame the wildest of stallions with her words.

“Branan, did you hear me?” she asked.

He jerked, startled, and pain rocked through him.

“Nay,” she said sternly, but her voice remained soothing. “Do not tense yourself. Relax, Branan.”

He tried, he really did. But her hands on him ignited something so deep that he did not know its source and it tightened him like a ballista.

“I was saying,” she continued, her voice dulcet. “This oil is specially made to relax the muscles. It has a tiny bit of ginger in it, so when I finish it will create its own warmth.”

Right now, the heat of her hands alone seared his soul. Despite his rebellious body, which he now cursed for being so faithless to its owner, her touch gradually succeeded in unclenching his muscles. She seemed able to find each knot and work with it, moving her fingers along the length, encouraging it to stretch out and relax. Catriona never exerted too much pressure, working lightly and gradually increasing her strength as the muscle eased its terrible hold.

She started at his neck and shoulders and moved ever so slowly down to the small of his back. That was where it really hurt. But her hands worked with confidence, judging the reaction of his body with simply the knowledge of touch. Branan closed his eyes and groaned in sheer pleasure.

“Ah,” she purred and he heard a distinct note of satisfaction in her voice. “’Tis where I thought the problem would be.”

Abruptly, Branan stopped caring. Her hands worked magic on him. Despite the feral desire coiling through him, he never wanted her to stop. His body began to loosen, sinking deeper into the pallet, the pain eased considerably. She continued, finding every protesting muscle and gently working it, until it surrendered to her touch.

“Lass,” he murmured, “God has blessed ye with healing hands. ”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Branan cracked open one eye and saw her blushing furiously. He could not help but smile.

Her hands continued to glide over his back and Branan squeezed his eyes shut.

Mind ye dinna lose your heart, Duguald had said.

If only she hadn’t put her hands on him, if only he had not discovered how her gentle touch could ease his pain and soothe his spirit, he would have been just fine.

****

Branan’s strained back restricted him to bed for the next two days. He hated being so helpless. Needing assistance simply to answer the demands of nature was too much to bear. He decided if he ever became this decrepit in his old age, he would open a vein with a glad heart.

Catriona tended to him daily, continuing to work her magic with her hands. Although her touch still ignited a fire within his loins, Branan found himself enjoying her visits. Many times, after settling him and giving him his medicant, she would sit beside him, her fingers stroking his hair and face, and talk softly until he drifted off to sleep.

It was late afternoon when she settled beside him again. Branan’s lips tugged upward, feeling her fingers caress his brow.

“What are you smiling about?” she asked.

His smile grew. “How much I am beginning to enjoy this.”

“Do not grow too fond of it. Once you return to your surly self, I won’t feel sorry for you anymore.”

He stared up at her, wounded. “I am no’ surly.”

She chuckled and shook her head, sighing softly as her humor faded. “Tell me about Scotland.”

His brow traveled upward in surprise. “What do ye want to know?”

She shrugged. “Anything...everything...I feel, somehow cheated out of knowing the man you’ve become in the last ten years.”

“Aye,” he replied, understanding exactly how she felt. Branan had left a bonny, wild lass behind only to return and discover a beautiful, spirited woman. One who could never be his.

“’Twas difficult at first,” he finally said. He took a breath, unwilling to dredge up the pain of his memories, but also unable to stop himself. “I felt almost like a wraith floating in nothingness. The world moved around me, but I wasna part of it.” Branan scowled, trying to find the words. “I had gone from a lad with a heritage, to one had no idea who he was.”

“But you do have a heritage, Branan.”

“Aye, but no’ the one I expected. I didna understand anything. I was so grateful to learn that bastard Strickland had not sired me, that I had no’ of his foul blood in my veins, but a part of me almost wished I was his son. I couldna understand how I longed for such a terrible thing. Eventually, I realized one truth. If I was Strickland’s, then leastways I would have known about a part of who I was. I may have hated him, I may have feared I might become like him, but I also could have worked to make sure that never happened. But I would have ken.”

Catriona’s brow furrowed slightly. “But you do know about your true father.”

Branan shook his head. “Only Duguald’s stories and tales, and I vow they grow greater with each telling. It...is like I am the son of a legend, not a man.”

She gave him an arched look, her lips lifting slightly. “Aye, I can understand how you might feel that way.”

He smiled up at her, enjoying the way the soft light of a nearby lantern fell on her face, highlighting the dusty rose of her lips. Her fingers continued their wonderful journey through his hair. For a moment, he closed his eyes and took a deep, contented breath.

“Are you growing tired?”

“Nay,” Branan said, keeping his eyes closed. “Simply enjoying the peace.” Inwardly, he was startled at his own words. He never felt peace when he spoke of his father. Pushing aside the unusual revelation, he realized he was speaking willingly of his past—something he never did. But with Catriona, it was right...he needed to talk to her about it.

“I remember feeling as if everything was happening too quickly. First there was the night my mother died, and the world seemed to turn upside down and my heart inside out. Then, for two years, I found a home with ye and yer family. I...was happy there...I knew I was loved.”

Her breath caught in her throat as she cupped his cheek with her hand. “Aye, Branan, that you were...very much.”

He gazed up at Catriona; the intensity in her vibrant blue eyes almost stole sane thought. She smiled down at him and his heart twisted. She could never be his. In a span of months he would lose her forever.

Strangely, he found the painful memories of his past much more comforting than that last thought.

“When I arrived in Scotland,” Branan forced himself to say. “I felt my life turned upside down again. A second time, I had lost the only people I had loved...but leastways I had the comfort of knowing ye and yer family were alive and well, yet ye were as far from me as my mother was. I was moved from family to family, until I came of age. I learned quickly never to call a place home.”

Catriona sighed softly and Branan saw bleakness in her eyes. “I spent many years waiting for you to return.”

He looked at her, startled. “What mean ye, lass?”

She shook her head and waved him off .

Branan shrugged slightly, deciding to drop the matter for now. “Upon my return, I see how much I have changed. I even speak differently now.”

“You speak as Branan,” Catriona whispered. “You turn your English to Scots in an instant, and I daresay you remember a bit of French as well.”

“It took a long time for me to adjust to the clan. I feared if I cared for any of them, something would happen and I would have to leave again...that somehow I would lose them too. But finally, I relaxed my guard and began to enjoy my life. Penrith, Strickland, and what he had done, seemed so far away it was never real. Although the days passed and I grew into a man, it was as if I didna think about what I must eventually do, it would never come to pass, it would never be real. Then Gavin arrived...and suddenly that day was upon me like a stalking wolf lunging for the kill. Now again, my life has turned upside down...and I’m a wraith moving through the fog.”

She chuckled and Branan looked at her, startled, hurt that she found something so serious amusing.

“Nay,” she said, reading his expression. “I see no jest in this. But you just stated exactly what I thought when I first saw you in the woods.” Slowly, Catriona explained his spectral appearance when he saved her in the forest.

Branan’s hurt eased, glad to know he had made an impression.

She leaned forward slightly. “So, is that who you are, Branan MacTavish, my Scottish wraith who becomes real to wield his claymore then returns to the mist?”

He reached up and caressed the smooth skin of her cheek, memorizing the sweet lines of her face, and thinking her soft lips were too close to his yet too far away. His hand pulled her nearer.

“Aye,” Branan whispered, his voice thick. “I am yer mist warrior, Catriona. I always have been and I always will be.” He gently tugged her to him, kissing her with the primal passion that burned so deep within him. Her mouth responded to his, her body moving closer. He felt the soft curve of her breasts pressing against his chest and suddenly longed to wrap his arms around her and pull her on top of him. Branan wanted nothing more but to feel her body covering him...before he faded into nothingness again. He wanted to love her, to slake the burning need within him, to make her is forever—damn de Courcy and his betrothal contract.

Abruptly, Branan released her. His breath refused to come to him. As he gazed at Catriona, her azure eyes seemed darker with desire, her lips reddened from his kiss. God, he wanted her, but he could not have her.

“After all,” he said hoarsely, trying to ease the sudden tension crackling in the air. “I may be a mist warrior, but what do ye expect of a man whose true father is naught but a legend?”

Catriona blinked, startled, then straightened, her expression suddenly nervous. She stood, brushing her palms along her skirts. “I should let you rest.” She looked at him again, then pressed her lips against his brow. Straightening, she quickly left.

****

Catriona hurried from the shelter and staggered against a tree. She fought to catch her breath and slow her pounding heart.

I am yer mist warrior. I always have been and I always will be.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to fight through the riot of her emotions, the tangled confusion of desire, the memory of Branan’s kiss and his touch...

“Mother Mary, help me,” she whispered, her body shaking violently. Her skin prickled as she thought about the truth of his words, a warrior of the mist, a wraith, wandering lost and alone—and now it seemed as if she was the only one who grounded him, who brought him to earth where he was real and whole, where his feet could walk the land, his hands could touch, his flesh could feel...where he could kiss her so wonderfully.

Only Catriona’s marriage to another man would help Branan leave the mist forever. He had to achieve his destiny or a wraith he would remain.

A single tear slid slowly down her cheek.