Chapter 4

 

Eric.

He was another Eric MacCannan, like the bold Highlander in the picture above the stairs in the gallery. His name—she knew that at least, for though he managed to avoid any of her determined questions, he had been quick enough to answer Kevin and Angus and the others.

But then, they were treating him like a conquering hero.

It was difficult sitting in the main hall that night, for naturally all the men who had not been injured in the battle were gathered around the table, intent on getting to know the man who had come to their rescue.

Eric.

At the swift rise of her brows when he had mentioned his name, he had smiled serenely and informed her it was a very old family name; that if she were to delve, she would discover any number of Eric MacCannans in their history.

Somehow, she didn't doubt him.

His explanations to her clan were no more satisfactory than any words he had given her, but not a man among them seemed to care.

He had changed the tide of battle. He had ridden out, and the Camerons had been bested. That was enough. And he seemed to have proven that he was an extraordinary man in battle, for in the midst of the meal, Kevin and Angus and the others were forming maps of the area, pointing out their weaknesses and their strengths, and planning ways to fight off a larger army indefinitely. And they hung on his words as he explained why both the Camerons and the MacNamaras would fight with the MacCannans when the British came, for in their numbers they would find a strength that they had never found before.

It had been one thing for the English horde to defeat them at the site of the previous battle. Now the Highlanders would be in a position to weary the Englishmen, for the enemy would have to come after a sheer wall of stone, time and time again, taking great losses for very little gain. Once they had done this, a negotiated settlement could be achieved, and that was all the Scots sought at the moment.

The prince was still in the Highlands, but he was not at Fortress Glenraven, and his cause was lost, truly lost, in the bloody field at Culloden.

Marina maintained her place at the table, listening to the man and watching the faces of the others around them.

She was at the head of the table. She was the MacCannan. And despite the fact that he seemed to know very well what he was doing, she was determined to question him sharply at every turn.

Angus and Kevin, it seemed, had been ready to hand the fortress over to him the moment they saw him climb from the cliffs with her safely in his company. But then, they had already fought with him. And they were men. Show them a good warrior, and they would ask no other questions, just gladly accept him.

Marina was not so certain. She sat out the meal, and she was careful to keep her tone level and her words civil as she spoke with the blond intruder. But there was something about him...

Something that both angered and excited her. Something that made her want to lash out at him...

And something that made her want to touch the handsome, clean-shaven lines of his cheek. The mere sound of his voice still created a slow-burning fire within her. The flash of his eyes on her could make her feel a simmering in her blood, a fire deep within her center.

And each time he looked at her, it was as if he knew her so well. As if he could read her mind. As if he saw into her soul, and even into the secret, intimate places where she burned and wondered. And he was amused, so it seemed.

With the meal barely over, she rose in a sudden and swift determination to be away from him. She stared straight at him while she excused herself, explaining that she was bone weary.

As she left the room, she could hear Angus complaining that she had entered into the battle herself and must not do so again.

She could also hear the stranger answering Angus.

"Oh, aye, she'll not do anything so foolish again, Angus, I shall see to it, I promise."

He promised, did he? Well, he had best learn to take grave care regarding his promises!

She had thought that she was exhausted, but when she reached the second level, she did not proceed up the steps to the laird's—or lady's—bedchamber. Rather, she found herself in the upper gallery again, striding along the length of the room, idly gazing at the pictures.

Aye, he might well be a distant MacCannan, an Eric MacCannan at that. With his eyes so fierce a blue and his hair so bright a reddened gold, he might well fit in with many a MacCannan male.

She had walked down half the length of the hallway when a curious feeling crept over her.

She knew that she was being watched.

And she knew by whom.

She spun around. Just as she had suspected, he was there in the doorway, arms crossed idly over his chest as he watched her.

"Aye, what is it?" she demanded sharply, staring at him.

He strode into the room, gazing over the portraits and paintings.

"'Tis a long and restless history we've made, eh, Lady MacCannan?"

"The 'we' of it I most certainly still question," she told him coolly. The closer he came, the faster the blood seemed to race through her body. She must not allow him to see his effect on her.

She backed away from him.

Poorly done! she warned herself. She mustn't let him see the weakness in her movement.

But he smiled and seemed to sense her unease. Her temper soared quickly. "MacCannan or nay, sir, you are unknown to me, and you are a guest in this house, and I do not remember inviting you here. I do, in fact, specifically remember saying that I was weary, and that I was going up to bed."

"But you're not in bed, are you, my lady?" he queried softly.

"Where I choose to be is none of your concern!"

Despite her words, he walked toward her. She backed away again, her eyes widening. "I am the MacCannan!" she began indignantly.

But he had come before her then, directly before her. And she was backed against a wall, and his hands were on either side of her face, and the muscled length of his body was like the wall of a dungeon about her. "My lady—"

"How dare you!" she breathed furiously. "Leave me this instant!"

He was not about to leave her. She saw the wild challenge and defiance in his eyes, and she knew she had merely piqued his interest in their battle.

"I dare anything, lady," he assured her.

She slammed her fists hard against his chest, trying to pass by him. She might as well have chosen to push by the wall of stone that formed the fortress.

"I shall have you thrown out—" she began imperiously, her green eyes flashing.

"I think not," he advised her softly. The blue of his eyes burned into her. Burned like a swift and secret fire, igniting her anger, igniting a raw and reckless stream of excitement. How could he know what she felt?

She lifted her chin again. "I am the MacCannan, and you mistake the gratitude of my menfolk if you dare to harm me in any way—"

"Had I thought to harm you in any way, my lady, I had the opportunity in the cave and on the rocks earlier today. And not to disillusion you, for your menfolk do love you, lady, but those same menfolk have already and eagerly offered you in marriage to me for the strength of my sword."

Marina gasped, amazed. They couldn't have done such a thing! They hadn't even mentioned such an arrangement to her!

"I don't believe you!"

He shrugged. "As you wish."

Her eyes narrowed sharply. "If that is the truth, Eric—if that is really your name!—why aren't you down below now, completing those arrangements? You are intending to be laird here, are you not?"

"Oh, aye!"

She hit his chest furiously again. "Arrogant oaf!" she gasped. "Then—"

She didn't complete her words. Before she knew it, her fingers were entwined with his, and his head was lowering to hers. And even as she cried out, trying to twist aside, his lips found hers. Found and seized them, his mouth parting hers beneath it in a wild, reckless onslaught of heat and searing fire. For a dazed moment, she remained there, awed by the masculine command of his lips and mouth and tongue, knowing the feel of him, the taste of him, and the wonder of the sensations that burst and shivered and grew within her.

Then she realized that she was but a pawn in his expert hands. She was the MacCannan. He was a stranger with much more to prove.

She twisted from his kiss at last, shoved against him, and tore free, spinning around. "Ah! So you are better than Geoffrey Cameron, eh? You'd choose a gallery instead of a cave of rocks!"

He moved toward her, his eyes narrowing sharply. "I haven't that much time, my lady, else I would take greater care. But, aye, lady, I am better than Cameron. I am better than any man you have known."

"And more humble, too!" she exclaimed.

"Nay, I am better, lady, because I love you. And I've no intention of forcing you. I seek only to make you remember."

"Remember what?" she exclaimed in exasperation. She was free of him now. She could run if she chose.

But she was trembling, watching him. Waiting...

He bowed deeply to her. "I'll bid you good night, Lady MacCannan. I am here to obey your every command."

"Indeed!" she said incredulously.

"Aye," he said, stepping by her and heading out. He paused, looking back. "You shall command me to love you, and that, as you know, I do."

He was gone then. She wasn't even sure that she really saw him leave the room. She only knew that he was gone.

She let out a long oath of extreme aggravation, slammed a fist against the wall, and started out herself.

But there was something wrong, she thought as she left the gallery. She had seen something that wasn't quite right...

She turned around and studied the pictures. She could almost see it, almost touch it...

But it eluded her.

She hurried on, determined to sleep.

 

* * *

 

That night, she dreamed again.

He was there once more, the man who had come before, the tall, striking blond.

And she was expecting him.

Nay, she was glad of him. She heard her own voice, welcoming him, the soft sound of her laughter as he came around to her. Her arms stretched out to greet him, she was so glad of him.

She heard his voice, husky, tender. Heard her own.

She felt the hot rippling of the muscles beneath his shoulders as she touched him. Felt the ripple of sheerest, softest fabric as the gown she wore slipped from her shoulders, caressing her flesh as it fell.

She felt him...

Felt his arms, felt his kiss. Felt the fabulous eroticism as he touched and stroked her. Caressed the length of her body.

Covered it with the powerful strength of his own.

The movement began. The slow, seductive movement. His eyes touched hers. Their fingers entwined. The slick warm feel of his body sliding against hers, stroking in and out, the wondrous sensations building and building.

His fingers, tightening around hers...

His facial muscles constricting...

The tempest coming faster and faster, and the call to ecstasy building. It burst on her suddenly. A cry tore from her throat and was swallowed up in the sweet fever of his lips as they tenderly caressed hers once again. Falling by her side, he swept her into his arms.

Arms that were so powerful, so warm, so strong, so real.

It was a dream...

A dream with strange shadows. She heard laughter then, and the laughter was hers. And there was comfort, and wonderful security. There was being with him.

Loving him, being loved by him. There could be no greater glory, no sweeter happiness.

But the darkness was still there. Waves of it, washing over them, leaving only glimpses of the happiness between rushes of black. Then she realized that the darkness was a shadow, the shadow of a man, reaching over them. She could see the shadow then, see it plain. His hand was raised, and a dagger was in it.

The dagger was falling down toward her.

She screamed, she raged—and she waited for the blade to pierce her flesh.

But no pain touched her, for he was there. Within seconds, she was swept beneath him.

She heard the fall of the dagger, heard the awful crunch as it connected with flesh.

His flesh.

He did not cry out; he fought the assailant as the blood poured over them both. He leaped from the bed, and she screamed again, calling for help.

It didn't matter. Even stabbed and bleeding, he could wage a one-man battle. The assailant lay on the floor, and her love was over him, demanding to know the truth of the attack.

She was up herself, staring down at the man who would have killed her. She gasped in horror. "We are betrayed!"

The guards were there, dragging away the offender. And her love was up, shouting to her, clutching his side where the crimson tide of his life's blood came through the barrier of his fingers.

He was rushing out to do battle.

It was a dream...

She rose and walked to the tower window, and she watched as he mounted, and his men mounted with him. His sword swung high in the air. She heard cries, and the riders thundered out to the mainland.

It looked as if they rode on water, phantom warriors able to fly, waging their fantastic battle, the sounds on the night air bloodcurdling.

"Nay!" she whispered and touched her cheeks. His blood on her fingers now mingled with her tears. "Come back!" she whispered. "Bring him back to me. Bring him back. Let me staunch the flow of his blood!"

Indeed, they brought him back to her.

He had fought bravely, and he had fought well. But the wound in the side was deep. No dressing held back the blood. He winced, helped by two others, as he returned to her by the morning's light.

"I will heal you."

"Nay, I cannot be healed. And..." He paused. "I have to go out again. Their forces are stronger. The men will only rally if they see me."

Tears streamed down her face. "You cannot go out there! You cannot lead an army! You bleed like a stream. My laird, my love, you must stay with me!"

She gazed down at her hand. Where she had touched him, her palm was now covered in blood again. She stared at him, newly, horribly alarmed.

She had tried so very hard to deny what had happened.

But then she realized the truth. He was dying, and he knew that he was dying. And he knew, too, that he must lead their forces, or they would falter and fall.

"My love..." she breathed. Her words choked off. "Nay, you cannot leave me..."

He found the strength to set his hands on her. His fingers curled around her shoulders, and then he paused, lifting her chin so that she met his eyes. She could scarcely see him, she was so blinded by her tears.

"Nay, you mustn't fear for me, you mustn't weep for me. It will be well, my wife, for I will love you forever."

For I will love you forever...

She looked up. Into the blaze of his eyes. Into his heart. "Forget me not," he bade her. Then his lips closed over hers, and the taste of tears and blood mingled in that kiss. "You must remember me, love," he whispered.

But then he was gone. And when she tore from the tower, she discovered that he was tied into his saddle so that it could not be seen that he slumped.

"Come back to me!" she shrieked to him. And as the horses pounded away, she fell to her knees, defying the Christian god and all the gods. "Bring him back to me! Please, bring him back, for we were betrayed! It should not have been, we deserved life, bring him back!"

And he came back again. Still tied upon his horse.

But the fierce blue eyes were never to open again. The handsome face was ever still in repose.

With his body laid before her, she shrieked and covered it with her own, weeping.

They could not take the body from her, or her from the body.

Nor did she even care that the isle had been saved from the attempt to overtake it.

She closed her eyes, and darkness descended.

She stood on the shore. The distant shore. She was still at last.

The body was laid out at last.

Dressed in his finest, clad in linen and leather and fur, his sword stretched out above his head, his belongings around him, he was ready for his bier to be set out to sea and set afire.

The smoke would carry him to Valhalla.

She stood, cold and alone, for ice now seemed to weigh down her heart.

One last time, she kissed his lips. She tried to breathe life into him again.

But his lips were silent, his body cold.

Then his eyes flew open. Blue as the sea. His lips moved. One word touched her.

Remember.

"Wait!" she cried, but the bier had been set free, the torches had been lit. The bier was set adrift, and the flames should have risen in seconds.

They did not. As the people lined the shores and watched in wonder, it seemed that two white-clad figures formed on the bier.

They were clouds, they were fog...

Whatever, the fires ceased to burn.

The bier drifted into the clouds of eternity.

Her tears fell. "I will love you forever," she whispered. "Forever."

 

* * *

 

Marina awoke, shaken. She touched her cheeks. They were soaked with tears.

She was shivering, and she leaped up and found a warm robe at the foot of her bed. She wrapped it around her, breathing deeply as the details of the dream began to fade.

"I am losing my mind!" she said aloud.

Perhaps she was.

She needed a drink.

With her robe around her, she hurried downstairs to the great hall. A fire still burned there. The fortress wolfhounds lay about the hearth one big nose laid on another as even the hounds sought companionship. Marina patted a dog and made her way past the table to the buffet and the bottles of liquor there. She didn't read any labels, but selected one and poured herself a long drink.

She had barely taken a swallow before she heard a crackle in the fire and knew that she was not alone. "Oh, nay," she moaned and spun around.

And indeed, he was there.

"What is it, sir? Must you plague me every waking moment?" she demanded.

He smiled and shook his head. "I did not mean to plague you, my lady. Only to guard you. I heard that you were up and about and came only to see to your safety."

"Well, I am quite all right."

"Just thirsty, eh?"

"Aye, just thirsty." Defiantly, she cast back her head and gulped the glass of whiskey she had poured. It was too much. She coughed and choked and started coughing again, and before she knew it, he was behind her, laughing, patting her on the back.

"You're shaking," he said. "You're cold."

She wanted to protest. The searing blue of his eyes was on her, and no words would come. He lifted her up, fur-lined robe and all. Cradling her in his arms, he carried her to one of the deep chairs before the fire and held her there, gently.

Firelight touched his eyes. They were the most extraordinary blue. Really, she couldn't deny the family resemblance, no matter how he infuriated or disturbed her.

She reached up and touched his chin. "Who are you?" she demanded softly.

"Does it matter so much?"

At the moment, it did not. She didn't understand him, nor did she understand her dreams.

But somehow, he was the lover in them. The tall, blond giant who came to her, haunting her sleep.

"I keep dreaming..." she whispered.

"We all dream."

"But you know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

He didn't reply at first. His eyes were on the fire. "You needed help. I was here. Why must you question these things?"

"You came back—from where you will not tell me—just in time to save us in battle. How is that?"

He smiled. "My lady—, we are always at battle, so it seems. It is not hard to come upon a battle here at the Fortress Glenraven."

"You know the family history then," she murmured, studying him.

"Aye."

"Tell me about the Viking."

"The Viking?"

"The Viking Ulhric."

He shrugged, but his arms were warm. The blue steel of his gaze traveled from the fire to her eyes, and then back to the fire once again. "He wasn't a true Viking, you know. He was born on the mainland—his father was a Viking jarl. He had known Illora all his life, watched her from afar as she grew. As she watched him. Those were tempestuous times indeed. The Danes raided, the Norwegians raided, and the host of Picts and Scots and Gaels had waged constant war on one another."

"And what happened?"

"Well, he went to war for her, and for the isle," he said softly. "Radwald, a mainland chieftain, planned to take the isle, and Illora. She hadn't enough men to fight off an invasion herself, so it was a matter of the two fighting over her, and the island. To the victor went the fortress—and the princess."

"Then he was a cruel and brutal conqueror, no more!" Marina exclaimed.

His gaze claimed hers once again. The fire was reflected in the sheer blue color of his eyes as he spoke. "Oh, nay! He had watched her for years, he had loved her for years. And she did love him, you see. No matter what words she said at first, she loved him. Women are like that, so it seems, my lady. They fear a man; — not his strength, but the weakness that he may bring out within the lass herself. So they fight. They say nay when they truly want nothing more than they want him."

She suddenly felt the pressure of his arms and the intimacy of their time together.

And looking into his eyes, she saw the eyes of a dream lover. Of a man who had come to her... somehow. She saw the tattered remnants of her gown on the bed, and she felt the salt tears of her terror and anguish on her cheeks.

She pushed away from him, leaping to her feet. "Nay, sir! When I say nay, indeed I mean the word. If you'll excuse me, I will retire once again."

He did not try to stop her. She did not hear a sound from him. When she was halfway up the stairs, she had to pause to look back.

He was standing by the chair by the fire, noble, striking, handsome. He was still clad in his battle regalia, his frock coat over his kilt, ruffled white shirt, and cockaded bonnet with his feather. He seemed eight feet high there, golden as the sun, regal and glorious.

And her heart began to pound, so fiercely. Her mouth felt dry. Dear Lord, she wanted him. Not a dream. She wanted to touch this man, in the flesh. She wanted to give in, surrender to desire.

Nay...

"Marina!" he said suddenly, striding to the base of the stairway, looking up at her.

"Aye?" She tried to keep her tone imperious, regal.

"Just... remember," he said softly, watching her with a sudden, dark passion. "Remember..., love."

A tension suddenly seized her. "What happened to the princess?" she asked.

"What?"

"The princess. Illora. In your fine family tale. What happened to the princess? I understand that he died. What of her?"

"Ah, well," he said with a shrug. "It was hundreds of years ago. She died, of course."

"But how, when? You know, don't you?"

"Aye. All right. She died nearly nine months later. She gave birth to the son and heir of the fortress, and passed from this life. Crying out her lover's name."

"You do embellish, I am certain. Good night," she said determinedly.

She was certain she heard his laughter as she hurried up the stairs.

When she would have turned to her bedchamber, she paused once again, wondering why the hall and the pictures and portraits had so disturbed her before.

She walked in among them. She looked from painting to painting.

Then she halted.

She went back to the battle scene. The one in which another blond Eric MacCannan had led his forces into war, his sword flying, his passion so great that it could almost be felt from the canvas.

Only... no more.

It was just a painting now. The man leading the charge was scarcely visible.

The life had gone out of the painting, so it seemed. She walked backward, questioning her sanity in truth. Then she looked at the painting of Ulhric the Viking.

And she started to shiver.

It, too, seemed to have changed.

A handsome man was still portrayed, but he was different. He no longer seemed to look on her with burning blue eyes.

Again, the passion, the very life force, seemed to be gone.

"Nay!" she cried out softly.

Illora. She needed to see the painting of Illora.

Nay, nay, not this night! No more dreams, she could not bear the dreams!

She turned to flee the gallery. She took the steps two at a time to her room and slammed the door behind her. She bolted it.

Then she began to laugh and cry, and sank down beside it. A bolt meant nothing to a man, to a lover, who came in a dream.

"Nay, no more dreams!" she cried aloud.

And then she realized that, merciful God, she would have no more dreams that night.

The sun was rising in the eastern sky.