2

Cameron wasn’t even aware of moving. One moment, he was standing at the top of the steps staring down at the Maclaren lass, and the next, he was surging forward to catch her before she could fall. He didn’t reach her in time, but he quickly scooped her into his arms. “Send for Agnes.”

“Right away,” said his brother. Ian directed the comment to Ross and Stewart, and though they were councilmembers, neither hesitated to obey.

He paid little mind to them as he rushed the Maclaren girl into the keep, through the Great Hall, and up several flights of stairs. He wasn’t even aware of really doing so until he put her on the bed and realized he’d brought her to the lady’s chamber, which hadn’t been occupied since his mother’s death years before. Despite that, the bedding smelled fresh, and there were new reeds on the floor.

As he laid her down and stepped back, a gasp escaped him. The plaid she had worn wrapped around her more like a blanket than an arasaid fell open, revealing an English dress beneath it. It was clear the girl wasn’t a Maclaren, and he had brought an Englishwoman into his keep, and into his mother’s room. A surge of rage filled him, and he shouted as his dragon roared to the surface, wanting to rend the Englishwoman on the bed even as another part of him wanted to keep her from harm.

At his roar of anger, her eyes snapped open, and she started to tremble. “Please do not kill me,” she said, proving she was certainly not mute.

As part of studying his enemy, Cameron had learned the English tongue many years ago, and he recognized it with no difficulty now, particularly the accent. She spoke like someone who had peasant roots but had received education as well. She was a dichotomy and a puzzle he had to solve quickly for the safety of his people. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

She was still trembling as she scooted up the bed, sitting instead of lying down. She was clearly pressing as far away from him as she could get, as though she expected to feel the fiery lick of his dragonfire on her skin at any moment. “Do not kill me.”

“Who are you?” he asked again, making no attempt to hide his anger and irritation. “You will answer,” he said with impatience.

“I have escaped Sir Frederick Walstone. Please, I beg you for sanctuary from him.”

Cameron frowned at the sound of his nemesis’s name on her lips. He had no love for any of the English, and he would happily watch all their soldiers burn, but he had a particular loathing for Walstone, who’d cost him a number of friends and family over the years during the conflict. The man was heading up the Scottish invasion, and he was a true enemy to every Scotsman, regardless of clan or shifter ability.

Before he could stop the impulse, his hand wrapped around her throat, holding her still and keeping her from pulling away from him. “Who are you?”

“My name is Brenna,” she said in a trembling tone. “Brenna Taggart.”

He scowled. “I care not for your name, lass. Who are you to Walstone?”

She closed her eyes, and she seemed to surrender for a moment. He half-expected her to pass out again, but her eyes opened, the startling blue catching his attention once more. He nearly lost himself in the depths, and he might’ve done so if he her words hadn’t snapped him back to awareness.

“I am a Seer, and the blood of your people is on my hands.”

His eyes crossed for a moment in his anger, and he turned his head as a surge of dragonfire shot from his mouth. It was an uncontrollable impulse due to his rage but quickly burned out before it could touch any of the fabric on the bed and start an inferno. He was aware of the importance of maintaining control, and he rarely lost it these days as an adult dragon, but rage had been a curse that had plagued him since he was a dragonling. “I should kill you at this moment.”

“Yes,” she said in a trembling voice, her throat still wrapped in his hand, though he wasn’t squeezing. “I know you should, but I ask you not to. I have been held prisoner by the man for eleven years, taken from my family, who are dead now, save for my sister. I do not give him the visions because I choose to, sir. He gives me powerful magic that forces them forth. I am a victim as much as you are.”

Still scowling, he turned to glare at her again. “I am no victim, lass.”

Her eyes widened, and she was still trembling, but she nodded as much as his hand around her throat would allow. “Of course you aren’t, but I am. I am pleading for your help, sir. Please, Laird Balfour.”

“You are a risk I cannae take, lass. If he gets you again, you will be used against us as a weapon.”

“Only if I still retain my virtue,” she said in a rush.

He frowned. “I… What?”

The young woman licked her lips, and he was powerless not to notice how plump and savory they appeared. He wondered how she would taste, and his mouth watered at the idea of finding out for himself. Slowly, he released his hold on her throat and instead grasped the braid confining her black hair. “Explain what you mean, lass.”

“Witches like me only retain our power as long as we have our virtue. If a man steals it, we lose whatever gifts we have. If you were to deflower me, sir, I would no longer have the gift of Sight.” She licked her lips and looked down as her cheeks flushed. It was clear the topic embarrassed the poor girl.

He frowned. “Must it be me specifically?” He wasn’t certain why he asked the question, for the idea of allowing any of his warriors to be the one to take her virginity immediately caused a surge of anger he had to bank down and breathe through.

She looked reluctant as she shook her head. “I… I guess not. I suppose it could be any of your men.” She shuddered slightly, clearly horrified at the idea.

It seemed obvious she didn’t mind the thought of him being the one to perform the duty, at least not as much as she dreaded any of his men. He frowned at that tidbit, but he couldn’t convince himself that was the right course of action. He needed to think on it, and Agnes’s arrival allowed him to do just that.

He stood up, reluctantly releasing his hold on the girl’s braid as he faced the apothecary. “She is English and a Seer, so be careful and watch yourself.”

“Most witches only have one particularly powerful gift, Laird Balfour,” said the older woman. She didn’t seem fearful. “More importantly, I can read auras, and hers is terrified, not threatening.”

He frowned. “Wounded and panicked animals are often the most dangerous, Agnes. I shall send in a guard while you tend to her.”

“Ye could stay yerself, Laird Balfour,” said Agnes, though she wasn’t paying him much mind as she opened the valise and started removing bottles of herbs and potions.

“Nay. I have far more important duties to which I must attend.” He said that in a scathing way as he shot a glance at Brenna, one he hoped conveyed his dismissal of her.

If only were so effortless to dismiss the idea of taking her to his bed. As he left the bedchamber, he could easily envision the pleasure of doing so, and he knew it wouldn’t strictly be to strip the English witch of her powers.

It was certain to be pleasurable for both of them, but he was afraid it could develop into more. With the offensive against the English and the constant battles, he had no time for unimportant considerations like romance. He certainly wasn’t ready to take a mate, and if he did, it would never be an English witch who bore the blood of his people on her hands, no matter how reluctantly.