“I know not why you persist in addressing me by that appellation. I am Vengeance,” he said, his voice like a blade against rough stone.
Jane’s mouth popped open in an “O” of surprise. “Vengeance?” she echoed blankly, round-eyed. Then, “This is a dream, isn’t it, Aedan?” It was quite different from her usual dream. In her dreams everything was soft-focus and fuzzed around the edges, but now things were crystal clear.
A little too clear, she thought, frowning as she glanced around.
The interior of the castle was an absolute mess. Grime and soot stained the few furnishings, and cobwebs swayed from the rafters. There was no glass in the windows, no draperies, no sumptuous tapestries, no luxurious rugs. A lone rickety chair perched before a dilapidated table that tilted lopsidedly before an empty hearth. No candles, no oil globes. It was spartan, gloomy, and downright chilly.
He pondered her question a moment. “I doona know what dreams are.” There was only existing as he had always known it. Shadows and ice and his king. And pain sometimes, pain beyond fathoming. He’d learned to avoid it at all cost. “But I am not who you think.”
Jane inhaled sharply, hurt and bewildered. Why was he denying who he was? It was him … yet not him. She narrowed her eyes, studying him. Sleek dark fall of hair—same as in her dreams. Chiseled face and sculpted jaw—same. Brilliant eyes, the color of tropical surf—not the same. Frost seemed to glitter in their depths. His sensual lips were brushed with a hint of blueness, as if from exposure to extreme cold. Everything about him seemed chilled; indeed, he might have been carved from ice and painted flesh tones.
“Yes, you are,” she said firmly. “You’re Aedan MacKinnon.”
An odd light flashed deep within his aquamarine eyes but was as quickly gone. “Cease with that ridiculous name. I am Vengeance,” he said, his deep voice ringing hollow in the stone hall. He thrust his shirt at her.
Eagerly, she reached for it, intensely unsettled, needing clothing, some kind of armor to deflect his icy gaze. As her hand brushed his, he snatched his back, and the shirt dropped to the floor.
Doubly hurt, she stared at him a long moment, then stooped and placed the kitten on the floor, where it promptly twined about her ankles, purring. Fumbling in her haste, she swiftly slipped the shirt over her head and tugged it down as far as it would go. The soft fabric came nearly to her knees when she rose again. The neck opening dropped to her belly button. She laced it quickly, but it did little to cover her breasts.
His gaze seemed quite fixed there.
Taking a quick deep breath, she skirted the amorous kitten and stepped toward him.
Instantly, he raised a hand. “Stay. Doona approach me. You must leave.”
“Aedan, don’t you know me at all?” she asked plaintively.
“Verily, I’ve ne’er seen you before, human. This is my place. Begone.”
Jane’s eyes grew huge. “Human?” she echoed. “Begone?” she snapped. “And go where? I don’t know how to leave. I don’t know how I got here. Hell’s bells, I’m not certain I really am here or even where here is!”
“If you won’t leave, I will.” He rose and left the hall, slipping into the shadows of the adjoining wing.
Jane stared blankly at the space where he’d been.
Jane studied the lake a long moment before dipping her finger in, then licking it. The tiger-striped kitten sat back on its haunches, twitching its wide fluffy tail and watching her curiously.
Salt. It was no lake she was surrounded by, but the sea. What sea? What sea abutted Scotland? She’d never been good with geography; she was lucky she could find her way home every day. But then again, she mused, never before in one of her dreams had she bothered to wonder about geography—more evidence that this dream was strikingly abnormal.
Jane dropped down cross-legged on the rocky shore, shaking her head. Either she’d gone completely nuts, or she was having her first-ever nightmare about her dream lover.
As she sat, rubbing her forehead and thinking hard, the soft syllables of a rhyme teased her memory. Something about saving him … about being in his century.
Jane Sillee, you’ve finally done it, she chided herself, you’ve read one too many romance novels. Only in books did heroines get swept back in time, and then they usually ended up in medieval—oh!
Lurching to her feet, she spun back toward the castle and took a long, hard look at her surroundings. To the left of the castle, some half mile in the distance, was a village of thatch-roofed, wattle, and daub huts, with tendrils of smoke curling lazily skyward.
A very medieval-looking village.
She pinched herself, hard. “Ow!” It hurt. She wondered if that proved anything. “It’s not possible,” she assured herself. “I must be dreaming.”
Free him from his ice-borne hell and in his century you both may dwell. In the Dreaming hast thou loved him now, in the Waking must thou save him. The rhyme, elusive a few moments ago, now resurfaced clearly in her mind.
“Impossible,” she scoffed.
But what if it isn’t? a small voice in her heart queried hopefully. What if the mysterious tapestry had somehow sent her back to medieval times? Accompanied by pretty clear instructions: that if she could save him, she could stay with him. In his century.
What century was that?
Jane snorted and shook her head.
Still, that small voice persisted with persuasive logic, there are only three possibilities: You’re dreaming. You’re crazy. Or you’re truly here. If you’re dreaming, nothing counts, so you may as well plunge right in. If you’re crazy, well, nothing counts either, so you may as well plunge right in. If you’re really here, and you’re supposed to save him, everything counts, so you’d better hurry up and plunge right in.
“I’m crazy,” she muttered aloud. “Time travel, my ass.”
But the small voice had a point. What did she have to lose by temporarily suspending disbelief and interacting with her surroundings? Only by immersing herself in her current situation might she be able to make any sense of it. And if it were a dream, eventually she’d wake up.
But heavens, she thought, inspecting the landscape, it all seemed so real. Far more real than any of her dreams had ever been. The dainty purple bell-shaped flowers exuded a sweet fragrance. The wind carried the tang of salt from the sea. When she stooped to pet the kitten, it felt soft and silky and had a wet little nose. If she was dreaming, it was the most detailed, incredible dream she’d ever had.
Which made her wonder how detailed and incredible making love with Aedan in this “dream” might be. That was incentive enough right there to plunge in.
Her stomach growled insistently, yet another thing that had never happened in one of her dreams. Resolutely, she turned back toward the castle. The kitten bounded along beside her, swiping at the occasional butterfly with gleeful little paws, then scurrying to catch up with her again.
She would keep an open mind, she resolved as she stepped inside the great hall. She would question him, find out what year it supposedly was, and where she supposedly was. Then she would try to discover why he didn’t know her and why he thought he was “Vengeance.”
Aedan sat again, as he had before, staring into the empty fireplace. Clad in loose black trousers, boots, and a gloriously naked upper torso, he was as still as death.
When she perched on the chilly stone hearth before him, his eyes glittered dangerously. “I thought you left,” he growled.
“I told you, I don’t know how to leave,” she said simply.
Vengeance considered her words. Had his king deliberately placed the female human there? If so, why? Always before when his king had sent him into the mortal realm, Vengeance had been given precise instructions, a specific mission to accomplish. But not this time. He knew not what war to cause, whose ear to poison with lies, or whom to maim or kill. Mayhap, he brooded, this was his king’s way of testing him, of seeing if Vengeance could determine what his king wanted of him.
He stud
ied her. There was no denying it, he was curious about the human. She was the antithesis of all he’d encountered in his life; vibrant, with her flaming hair and curvy body. Pale porcelain skin and rosy lips. Eyes of molten amber fringed by dusky lashes and slanted upward at the outer corners. She had many facial expressions, lively muscles that pulled her lips up and down and many which ways. He found himself wondering what she would feel like, were he to touch her, if she was as soft and warm as she looked.
“Would you mind building me a fire?” she asked.
“I am not cold. Nor do you look cold,” he added, his gaze raking over her. She looked far warmer than aught he’d seen.
“Well, I am. Fire. Now, please,” she said firmly.
After a moment’s hesitation, he complied with her command, layering the bricks, making swift work of it, never taking his gaze from her. He felt greatly intrigued by her breasts. He could not fathom what it was about those soft plump mounds beneath the worn linen that so commanded his attention. Were they on his own body, he would have been appalled by the excess fatty flesh, yet gazing upon her, he found his fingers clenching and unclenching, desirous to touch, perhaps cup their plump weight in his hands. For a mere human, she had a powerful presence. He considered the possibility that—wee as she was—she might be quite dangerous. After all, there were things in Faery minute of stature capable of inflicting unspeakable pain.
“Thank you,” she said, rubbing her hands together before the blaze that sputtered in the hearth. “Those are peat bricks, aren’t they? I read about them once.”
“Aye.”
“Interesting,” she murmured thoughtfully. “They don’t look like I thought they did.” Then she shook her head sharply and focused on him again. “What is the name of this castle?”
“Dun Haakon,” he replied, then started. Where had that name come from? His king had told him naught about his temporary quarters.
“Where am I?”
More knowledge he had no answers for: “On Eilean A Cheo.”
“Where?” she asked blankly.
“ ’Tis Gaelic for ‘misty isle.’ We are on the Isle of Skye.” Mayhap it was knowledge his king had taught him long ago, he decided. There, silent until needed. His king had oft told him he’d prepared him for any place, any time.
Jane took a deep breath. “What year is it?”
“Fourteen hundred twenty-eight.”
She inhaled sharply. “And how long have you lived here?”
“I doona live here. I am to remain but one passing of the moon. I arrived yestreen.”
“Where do you live?”
“You have many questions.” He reflected for a moment, and decided there was no harm in answering her questions. He was, after all, Vengeance. Powerful. Perfect. Deadly. “I live with my king in his kingdom.”
“And where is that?”
“In Faery.”
Jane swallowed. “Faery?” she said weakly.
“Aye. My king is the Unseelie king. I am his Vengeance. And I am perfect,” he added, as if an afterthought.
“That’s highly debatable,” Jane muttered.
“Nay. ’Tis not. I am perfect. My king tells me so. He tells me I will be the most feared warrior ever to live, that the name of Vengeance will endure in legend for eternity.”
“I’m quaking,” Jane said dryly, with an aggrieved expression.
He looked at her then, hard. Her hair, her face, her breasts, then lower still, his gaze lingering on her smooth bare legs and slender ankles. “You are not at all what I expected of humans,” he said finally.
Go with it, she told herself. Since none of this makes any sense, just run with what he’s told you and see where it leads. “You aren’t what I expected of a faery,” she said lightly. “Aren’t you supposed to have sparkly little wings?”
“I doona think I am a faery,” he said carefully.
“Then you’re human?” she pressed.
He looked perplexed, then gave a faint shake of his head.
“Well, if you’re not a fairy and you’re not human, what are you?”
His brows dipped and he shifted uncomfortably but made no reply.
“Well?” she encouraged.
After a long pause he said, “I will be needing my shirt back, lass. You may find clothing in the round tower down the corridor.” He pointed behind her. “Go now.”
“We’re not done with this conversation, Aedan,” she said, eyes narrowing.
“Vengeance.”
“I’m not going to stop asking questions, Aedan. I have oodles of them.”
He shrugged, rose, and wandered over to the window, turning his back to her.
“And I’m hungry, and when I get hungry I get grumpy. You do have food, don’t you?”
He remained stoically silent. A few moments later he heard her snort, then stomp off in search of clothing.
If you’re not a faery and you’re not human, what are you? Her question hung in the air after she’d left, unanswered. Unanswerable.
Verily, he didn’t know.
Five
SHE WAS A DEMANDING CREATURE.
Vengeance ended up having to make three trips into Kyleakin to acquire those things the lass deemed “the bare necessities.” It was abundantly clear that she had no plans of leaving. Indeed, she intended to loll in the lap of luxury for the duration of her stay. Because he wasn’t certain if his liege had arranged her presence as part of some mysterious plan he’d chosen not to impart, and because he’d been told to reside at the castle until summoned, it seemed he must share his temporary quarters. He was greatly uneasy and just wished he knew what was expected of him. How could he act on his king’s behalf if he knew not why he was there?
On his first foray into Kyleakin—the only trip made of his own volition while she’d been occupied rummaging through trunks in the round tower—he’d purchased naught but day-old bread so they both might eat that eve. Although he found the heat and colors of the landscape chafing, he was relieved to escape her disconcerting presence and foolishly believed procuring food might silence her ever-wagging tongue.
When she discovered he’d “gone shopping” without informing her, she’d tossed her mass of shining curls and scowled, ordering him to procure additional items. The second time he’d spent a fair amount of the gold coin his liege had given him purchasing clean (so mayhap they were a bit scratchy and rough, but he didn’t even need them to begin with) woolens, meat, cheese, fruit, quills, ink, and three fat, outrageously costly sheets of parchment—the parchment and quills because she’d proclaimed she was “a writer” and it was imperative she write every day without fail. At first he’d been puzzled by her bragging that she knew her letters, then he realized it was, like as not, a rare achievement for a mere mortal. He imagined he knew many more letters than she, and if she still needed to practice them, she was a sorry apprentice indeed.
Unimpressed with the results of his second expedition, she’d sent him back a third time, with a tidy little list on a scrap of parchment, to find more parchment, coffee beans or strong tea, a cauldron, mugs, eating tools, a supply of rags and vinegar for cleaning, soft woolens, down ticks, wine, and “unless you wish to fish the sea yourself,” fresh fish for the useless furry beastie.
Vengeance, being ordered about by a wee woman. Fetching food for a mouse catcher.
Still, she was a mesmerizing thing. Especially in the pale pink gown she’d dug out of one of the many trunks. Her eyes sparkled with irritation or as she listed her demands, her breasts jiggled softly when she gestured, then she turned all cooing and tender as she stooped to scratch the beastie behind its furry ears.
Making him wonder what her slender fingers might feel like in his hair.
He was unprepared for one such as she and wondered why his king had not forewarned him that humans could be so … intriguing. None that he’d e’er encountered in his past travels had been so compelling, and his king had e’er painted them as coarse, sullen, and stupid creatures, easily m
anipulated by higher beings like Vengeance.
He’d not yet manipulated the smallest portion of his current circumstances, too busy being ordered about by her. Build me a fire, give me your shirt, buy me this, buy me that. Hmph! What might she demand next? He—the formidable hand of the faery king’s wrath—was almost afraid to find out.
“Kiss me.”
“What?” he said blankly.
“Kiss me,” she repeated, with an encouraging little nod.
Vengeance stepped back, inwardly cursing himself for retreating, but something about the fiery lass made him itch to flee to the farthest reaches of the isle. At her direction, he’d fluffed several heavy down ticks on the sole bed in the keep. She was happily spreading it with soft woolens and a luxurious green velvet throw he’d not intended to buy. He’d been coerced into taking it by the proprietor, who’d been delighted to hear a woman was in residence at Dun Haakon and had eagerly inquired, “Be ye the new laird and lady of Dun Haakon?” Scowling, he’d flung coin at the shopkeeper, snatched up the bedclothes, and made haste from the establishment.
He was beginning to resent that his king had given him no orders. There, in his dark kingdom, Vengeance knew who he was and what his aim. Here, he was lost, abandoned in a stifling, garish world he did not understand, surrounded by creatures he could not fathom, with not one word of guidance from his liege.
And now the wench wanted him to do something else. Precisely what, he wasn’t certain, but he suspected it boded ill for him. She was a creature greatly preoccupied with her physical comforts, and down that path—so his king oft said—lay weakness, folly, and ruin. Vengeance had few physical needs, merely food, water, and the occasional hour of rest.
“Kiss me,” she said, making a plump pucker with her lips. She gave the velvet coverlet a final smoothing. “I think it might help you remember.”
“What exactly is a kiss?” he asked suspiciously.