Chapter Eight

“Isn’t this sweet? Fintan’s getting cozy with the sacrificial lamb. Buttering her up, brother?”

Beth startled at the caustic feminine voice. She opened both eyes, instantly tense. But the strong band of iron around her waist forbade her from sitting. Fintan turned his head toward a woman in the doorway. Long red hair streamed wild and free around her shoulders. Intricate blue tattoos adorned her bare arms, her ankles, her bare feet.

“Get out, Brigid.” Low and menacing, Fintan’s order left no room for argument.

Brigid, however, merely laughed. A sound that chilled Beth to the bone. On more than one occasion, she’d heard the same brittle tone in her damned nightmare. Rising above the chant, the beat of drums, the terrified screams.

“Get out so I don’t alert your prey? You’re offering her on Imbolc, right?” She tsk-tsked. “You shouldn’t mislead the victims, Fintan. It’s far more entertaining to witness their fear just before you slice open their throats.”

“Enough!” Fintan thundered, as he lunged upright.

Yet his adamancy came too late—Beth’s heart careened behind her ribs, and her stomach twisted violently. The image of the eviscerated child surfaced in her memory, the blood so fresh she could taste the coppery tang. If Fintan and his pagan following practiced any kind of sacrifice…

The idea was too horrid to complete the thought. She scrambled for her clothes.

“This is my office, Brigid! You will remove yourself immediately.”

Brigid laughed again, but she took a step backward into the hall. “Yes, I will leave. But rest assured, dear brother, I will not go far.” Her mocking gaze fell on Beth. “Have you told her about the ritual? Have you warned her she’s not safe?”

Fintan’s shoe flew past Beth’s head, crashed into the doorframe with a thud. As it fell to the ground, Brigid shut the door. Her laughter echoed in the hall beyond.

Not safe. Beth’s mind locked onto the two frightening words. How was she not safe?

No, scratch that, she didn’t want to know. She wanted to get the hell out of here. One night was enough. Between the odd standing stones, her recurring nightmare, and the completely unacceptable things she’d allowed to happen with Fintan, she couldn’t take any more.

“I have to go.” Yanking on her slacks, she hastened to escape.

“Beth.”

“No, I have to go. Now.”

Strong arms wrapped around her waist, stilling the frantic fumbling of her hands. “Where are you going to go?”

“I…don’t…know.” Just away. From the crazy stories Fintan wanted her to believe. From his equally nutty sister. From him, before he caused serious damage to her heart…or worse. “I just have to leave.”

****

A thousand oaths filled Fintan’s mind. When he cornered Brigid, when Beth couldn’t possibly witness the depth of his anger, he intended to unleash every one of those oaths on her…and then some. Right now, he was so furious he could have stuffed a fist in Brigid’s jaw. But the knowledge it wouldn’t really hurt her, kept him from doing more than throwing a shoe.

“Beth.” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “Brigid is—”

“Crazy? I’ll second that.” Twisting, she struggled for freedom. “Let me go. You’re just as nuts. Sacrifice? I knew you were pagan, but I didn’t think you’d be capable of that.”

Son of a hellhound’s bitch—he was going to kill his sister. Damn shame she wasn’t mortal, it would make the task ten times easier. “Beth, calm down. I don’t practice sacrifice. Let’s go talk where she can’t eavesdrop.”

Killing Brigid would have to wait. Right now, Beth’s wide-eyed stare ordered him to see to her first. He pulled her flush against his body and wound his arms around her slight shoulders. “Beth don’t run off like this. There are things about Brigid…things you can’t possibly fathom.” Nuzzling her hair, he willed the shaking to leave her limbs. Or perhaps it was his—he couldn’t be certain. Brigid opened doors he wasn’t willing to reveal to Beth just yet. Now…he realized he couldn’t leave her in ignorance.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Stepping away by a half-step, he clasped her by one hand and bent over to grab their jumbled clothing in the other. “It’s early. I’ll have Muriel bring us a breakfast upstairs. We can talk. I’ll explain my sister. Then…” He trailed off, glanced at her, and his throat closed around the possibility. In a rough whisper, he finished, “If you still want to leave then, I won’t argue.”

She did nothing more than swallow. But her hand didn’t tremor against his. Taking that small sign as progress, Fintan hurried her from the room, down the private corridor, to the spacious guest chambers he’d had readied for Beth’s visit. Inside, he slid the massive, ancient, locking bar across the heavy old wood.

Beth huddled into herself, arms clasped over her bare chest, dainty ankles crossed. Not from cold—Muriel kept the hearth burning as instructed, and several years ago, Cian helped to seal the cracked walls and replace brittle windows with custom insulated glass. Beth’s gaze followed Fintan, watchful and mistrusting.

With a pinched frown, he passed her the long terry robe hanging behind the door. She shrugged it on while he pulled on his clothes from the night before. “The Imbolc ritual celebrates the renewal of life.”

She gave him a jerky nod and took a seat on the edge of a navy blue, watered-silk armchair.

“True, once the Selgovae—all the Celts—practiced the rites of blood. Well…” he paused in thought. “Perhaps the better statement is the Druidic Priests and Priestesses who the Celts looked to for guidance.”

Again, Beth nodded, encouraging Fintan. He took a deep breath and sat in the chair opposite. Reaching over the three-legged wooden table, he clasped her hand in both of his and gently squeezed. “I’m not capable of taking life, Beth. I didn’t ask you to stay with any particular motive. What happened last night…” Fintan heaved a sigh. “Yes, I’ve hungered for you. But I’m not the sort manipulate you to my desires.”

Ever-so-slightly, her fingers tightened against his.

“I’ve gone years without sex, Beth.” Decades. “It’s not something…I look at frivolously.”

“So what was she talking about? Why would she say those things?”

Sighing again, Fintan shook his head. He reclined in his chair, regretfully letting go of her hand. Eyes closed, he scoured his mind for the explanations that would give insight without returning her to a state of panic.

Nothing came to mind. He had two choices—completely lie to her and hide the dark truth of his family’s origins, or spill the unbelievable.

He couldn’t bring himself to lie to Beth.

Opening his eyes, he held her gaze. “You asked me why you see the standing stones. You dream of them, don’t you?”

The tightening of Beth’s jaw provided all the answer Fintan needed.

“The Selgovae…our people…Beth, they weren’t just destroyed by a man bent on power. He was…inhuman.”

She jerked away and began to rise. Frantic to keep her in place, Fintan snatched at her wrist. “Wait. Hear me out. Agreed it sounds insane.”

With one eyebrow arched, her gaze narrowed in apprehension, Beth slowly sank into the seat. “You’re not helping to prove you aren’t crazy.”

“I’m not.” Despite himself, he chuckled. “He wasn’t human, Beth. He was a product of negative energies, a demon bent on infinite power.”

Beth blew out an exasperated sigh. “Legend might say that, Fintan. It concerns me you’d believe it.”

“What do you see in your dreams? Do you see him? You told me you see Nyamah.”

Throwing her arms wide, she bolted to her feet. “Good grief! This is crazy talk! How do you know I see Nyamah, or whatever her name is? It’s nothing more than a product of my imagination. The woman could be any woman, for all you know.”

Back-up, quick. He was losing her. If he pushed this discussion, she’d never agree to stay, and staying was precisely what she needed to do. Both because she needed to understand her past, and Fintan held more than a slight suspicion the scroll she brought required her participation.

He also suspected the way his heart painfully twisted at the thought she might leave had a deeper, damning meaning. Which put him in a quandary. Logic said he should push her as far away as possible. On the other hand…he craved freedom from the darkness of his soul. Longed for the cleansing of mortality.

He wanted normal. Life. Death.

Love.

Very well—no more talk of Drandar and Nyamah. “Ah, Beth. Why is it so hard to believe that you might be witnessing a glimpse of actual history?”

She turned a look on him that solidified his presumption that she believed he’d lost his mind. “Can you hear yourself?”

“Yes, I can, damn it. And I can hear you too. You knew those runes were on that stone. You went right to them.” His own exasperation set in. “I didn’t show them to you. And it isn’t like I had any way to erect an exact picture of the place you described. It took thirty strong men and forty more horses to move those damned—” Fintan snapped his mouth shut. That he couldn’t explain without including the little tidbit that he was over two thousand years old.

Swiveling in his chair, he lifted the back of his shirt to expose the band of Celt scrollwork at the base of his spine. “Tell me what it means, Beth.”

“How should I know?” Her voice rose in indignation. “It’s tribal art. There could be a dozen interpretations.”

Fintan ground his teeth together, measuring his breaths until his temper no longer threatened to erupt. Low and quiet, he insisted, “Tell me what it means. You do know. Listen to your heart.” He paused a moment, then added, “If nothing else, Beth, you’ve studied the Celts enough to make an educated guess.”

Several moments of silence passed, leaving Fintan’s nerves in knots. Had he pushed her further away? Had she clammed up out of stubbornness? Or would she take a chance and try? The meaning lay in her blood. Nothing could convince him she didn’t know, even if she didn’t understand how she knew.

He glanced over his shoulder to find her sitting in the chair once more, her eyes closed, hands folded in her lap. Fintan let out a quiet sigh of relief. Her brow was puckered, but anger didn’t harden the soft fullness of her mouth or etch tension into her jaw. Relaxing, he twisted away once more, content to let her think as long as necessary.

Please, Beth. Open your heart.

“It’s the branches of the Sacred Tree, twined together to protect you.” Her voice was a whisper that trapped the air in Fintan’s lungs. “The swirls on both sides of your spine represent your birth. I don’t know what they mean, but they symbolize you.”

The chair creaked as she rose to her feet. A heartbeat later, her fingertip traced over the leftmost side of his tattoo. “And this…dagger…protects you.”

Fintan’s head bowed to the soft fabric, and he let out an unsteady breath. Time passed at a crawl with Beth trailing her finger over the intricate loops and swirls, each feather-light touch churning the desire that simmered in his veins. He couldn’t move, could scarce think, her accuracy so affected him. All he knew was she understood. She recognized the ancient markings his mother had placed on his back, and had placed on all his other siblings, to protect them from their sire until they were old enough to do so themselves.

“How, Fintan?” Disbelief thickened Beth’s hesitant question.

Pulled from the intoxicating velvet of her caress, Fintan lowered his shirt and swiveled to face her. His gaze latched onto her troubled jade eyes. “Because you’re Celt, Beth. Selgovae. And the history lives in your soul. Scotland is part of you. You belong here. It’s called you time and again. You’ve never stopped to listen.”

She drew away, but her actions lacked the fire of her earlier protests. Her forehead puckered with a deep frown, and she moved to the chair, sitting to stare out the window in silence. In the delicate contours of her expression, he recognized the struggle he had witnessed the last time she visited, the same battle that waged each time she fought what her heart desired and what her head refused to accept.

Quietly, he rose. The urge to haul her into his arms and kiss away that troubled expression pressed on him like a weighty fist. He resisted, aware that distracting her now would only lead them back to this place, this uncomfortable crossroad, in short time. Moving to the door, he murmured, “I’ll be in my study.”

Her distant nod bid him a cold farewell.