Authors: Hannah Howell
Highland Hunger (20 page)
Chapter Eleven
The smell of food woke her, wafting through to scent the air; the pungent aroma of roasted beef and creamed gravy mixed with the equally mouth-watering aroma of warmed, fresh bread
. . . topped with a pat of butter. Tira lifted her head in appreciation and sniffed. It felt like weeks since she’d eaten, and her belly growled with emptiness while her mouth filled with moisture.
It was night dark, but that was odd unless she’d slept the day away. Tira stretched and moved a bit from the cool feel of what could only be Iain’s skin. The sensation was a bit like sleeping beside polished alabaster marble. She shivered and pulled into a sit, sliding her buttocks along texture that resembled woven hemp or rough-finished wool. She spread her arms out, looking for covering. Useless. There wasn’t a stitch of fabric anywhere. She was hungry and she was tired and she was chilled. And it was dark and foreboding. Cramped. Like a tomb. Tira grazed her hands along the pallet thing beneath her, reached bare plank floor, and within inches, her fingers met polished wooden wall. She ran her hands along the wall to a spot just above her head, where the delicious smell of a roast beef supper was getting overlaid by the sounds of someone eating it. And that angered her.
Tira narrowed her eyes and glared at the blackness, and from the exact spot came a glow. Feeble at first and then growing, it spread until the haziest bit of light carved out Iain’s form for her and then her own. As well as the finite amount of room they shared. She blinked and the light disappeared.
“Iain?”
The name hadn’t left her throat before she was seized, pulled into an embrace resembling iron, her mouth covered while Iain hissed a word at her ear. Tira’s heart ceased beating with the fright, and then restarted with a thud that hurt. It was impossible for anyone to move as quickly as he had, or the darkness warped reality.
“Hush!”
She nodded slightly and the hand at her mouth eased. It took another moment before she could pull enough moisture into her mouth to swallow. And then breathe. It felt like Iain matched her, taking his own breath. His skin was growing warm, too. And then he was running a tongue along her shoulder, making her scrunch it with the tickle.
“What . . . are you doing?” She barely made a sound with the whisper. He returned it in kind.
“Keeping you occupied.”
The touch of amusement feathered across her skin with the reply.
“Why?”
“Seems a pleasant way to spend an eve. With my bride. Whilst I await the sunset and our sup.”
“But . . . that’s not fair.”
“Nae?”
“I’m hungry now.”
His tongue lifted from her as she watched the compartment brighten again. This time a heady, golden glow infused it.
“You’re doing that?”
“Aye.”
“You truly can control . . . light?”
“I can illuminate in stages, but it takes from me.”
“How?”
“That is just one of my powers, love. One.”
Tira swallowed again, wondering at that vagary of nature as she nearly choked. Footsteps echoed across the floor above them and then the door shut. She felt the man about her relax. He eased the confine of his arms and legs as the light dimmed to a portion of before, making the planking about them indistinct and faint even when she squinted.
“Can I have just a small spot of tea? Maybe a scone? Or a bit of bread?”
“There will na’ be any left.”
“There won’t?”
“Na’ if Grant follows orders, as always.”
“You order him to eat in your chamber?”
“And take the leavings when he finishes. Or pitch it all overboard. Must have been a verra good sup if he ate it, since he has his own to now partake.”
“Your man eats your meal for you? And you allow it?”
“I canna’ do it justice,
leannan
.”
leannan
.”
“That’s ridiculous. Just look at the size of you. You eat. You have to.”
“My size does na’ change. Ever. This is what my Honor Guard works to avoid.”
“Your size?”
“Rumor and speculation over such a thing. And how the years fail to dent any of it.”
Tira shook her head to clear it. It didn’t work. Everything felt muddled and fogged. “Where are we?” she asked.
“Safe.”
“Where exactly is safe?”
“Beneath my cabin. In a chamber I had constructed and designed. In secret and with a fortune in bribe money.”
“Why go to all that trouble?”
“So my Honor Guardsmen can partake of my meal and na’ one soul is the wiser that it was na’ me at that table.”
“Maybe he didn’t take it all. Maybe he left a slice of bread?”
“Bread? You want bread?”
“It smelled heavenly, didn’t it? And I’m famished. I haven’t had as much as a crust since sometime before our—uh . . . wedding and—”. . .
the consummation that followed
. Her words dribbled off in recollection of how he’d shown her absolute heaven. And had it been twice? Last night was a darker blur than the space about them. It
had
been twice. She’d started the second one. Tira blushed. That made everything moist and warm in the enclosure where it had been chilled and inhospitable.
the consummation that followed
. Her words dribbled off in recollection of how he’d shown her absolute heaven. And had it been twice? Last night was a darker blur than the space about them. It
had
been twice. She’d started the second one. Tira blushed. That made everything moist and warm in the enclosure where it had been chilled and inhospitable.
“You can smell it?”
“What?” Tira had to keep her thoughts on what he said and not what he made her feel. But how was she to do that when everything about him seemed created to heighten and enhance? No wonder women acted as they did around Iain MacAvee. She was in danger of it herself.
“Bread.”
“Oh, yes . . . bread. Of course I smell it. You can’t?”
“Na’ unless I want to. All I smell is blood,
leannan
. That . . . and lust. Yours for me is particularly noticeable.”
leannan
. That . . . and lust. Yours for me is particularly noticeable.”
“Of all the odious, egotistical, arrogant—”
“Are you saying ’tis untrue?”
Tira turned her head and put her cheek against his chest and listened to the solid thump of his heart, oddly mimicking hers. Her tongue felt larger, thick, useless. She bit at it and felt the minute sting of a cut before shaking her head slightly.
“That’s what I thought you’d be saying,” he finally answered.
“I don’t understand, Iain.”
“I dinna’ ask for this prowess, Tira. For a man of a score and five, though, ’twas a true gift. At first.”
“At first?” She stiffened slightly.
“Anything done to excess becomes a bore. And then a bane. And then a burden. Trust me.”
“To excess?” She choked on the word as one hand curled into a fist.
“Anything.”
“You might not want to say another word, Iain.” As a threat, it didn’t do what she wanted. He simply sent a breath of possible amusement all over her exposed flesh.
“You canna’ fight it, lass. Well . . . you can, but will na’ change anything.”
“And you’ll be finding yourself locked out of my chamber quite often if you don’t cease speaking, Iain Evan Duncan and-a-few-other-names MacAvee.”
He pulled back. “I doona’ ken you at all, and I’m na’ fond of your track of thinking.”
“Iain—”
“Hush. And listen. I’ve got words that need saying and deeds I canna’ undo. And forgiveness that I dare na’ even ask for.”
“Forgiveness?”
He nodded. She felt it. And then he started talking again, the words low and clear through where her ear rested on his chest.
“The attraction of the lasses was always there. I dinna’ ask for it. I dinna’ want it in particular, but I dinna’ fight it. What man would?”
“Iain—”
He ignored her low-toned outburst. “ ’Tis said all MacAvee lairds have this appeal. It came from birth. Passed on from sire to son. Even with the scars I suffered in battle. The lasses would na’ leave me alone. ’Twas almost a curse.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I could na’ attend the slightest fest without an issue. There’s a sonnet written about the fight that took place on May fest back in 1536. The laird’s wife had a grand lust and was na’ averse to showing it. And acting on it. That fight burnt down Glencairn’s great hall. Took a century until I got the deeds and had it rebuilt.”
“Did you say 1536?” Tira’s voice accurately portrayed her disbelief even if he couldn’t see her expression.
“Aye. I was na’ even a score in age yet,” Iain continued. “That was na’ the first of my troubles, either.”
“I don’t want to hear any more. Really. You can cease regaling me with nonsense. I’ll wait for my supper. I promise.”
He ignored her again. “The worst incident was when I came to the attention of the wife of the Douglas of Loch Nyven. She was a right bonny one. Ripe. Inviting.”
“Don’t you understand English, Iain? I said I don’t want to hear.”
“I should have been forewarned. Na’ of her husband. He was used to being a cuckold. I should have been told of bloody Stewart, King James the fifth!”
“The king?” The words were deadpan as disbelief had gone right over to complete doubt and skepticism. Tira closed her eyes. It was better than rolling them.
“How was I to ken he’d taken her for his mistress? Hell, he already had two of them at Edinburgh right beneath the queen’s nose!”
“You truly expect me to believe this, don’t you?”
“That’s why I was at Solway Moss. I was ordered to be there. Fighting for the king. As punishment.”
“Solway Moss?”
“Aye. November twenty-fourth it was. 1542. Cursed fogged day. See, your King Henry the eighth declared war but sent the Duke of Norfolk to fight his battles for him. It was another defeat for the Scots. One of many, curse them. Doona’ you ken your own history?”
“I have to admit, Iain. One thing you do is spin a grand story.”
“You doona’ believe me.”
“Of course not.”
“I dinna’ at first, either.”
“At . . . first?”
“Aye. At first you fight it. You try and behave as normal. You eat as you used to. Will na’ matter. Roasted meat. Bread. Even ale. Na’ a bit of it will stay in your belly. Turns to poison if you try. You believe you can walk about like other men—in full sun . . . and you canna’. The sun’s rays are worse than a burn from a fire pit.”
“You’re trying to tell me you’re three hundred years old. Is that it?”
“You miscalculate. I am na’ three hundred. I am two hundred ninety-eight. Unless you add in the score and five I was when that wretch turned me. That would make me a mite over three hundred.”
“Iain, please—”
“Is it so verra hard to believe,
leannan?
”
leannan?
”
“In a word, yes. Double yes. And then add a third. This is impossible to believe.”
He gave another sigh. “You’ve heard of the Black Death?”
“You asked that last night, didn’t you?”
He nodded. She felt it. “I was trying for a bit of honor. Restraint. I dinna’ wish to turn you unless you agreed.”
“T-t-turn me?”
“I love you, Tira. You believe that?”
The solid thump of his heart toyed at her ear, while the legs she perched atop had nothing cool about them anywhere. They still resembled iron, although it was flesh-wrapped metal now, while he moved a hand into hair that had to be a nest of snarls. Tira reached a hand to smooth it and collided with his. And that just got hers snatched.
“Y-y-yes.”
“Your little stammer is verra endearing, love.”
“What did you mean, turn me?”
“You’ll recollect I love you, no matter what I tell you? Fair?”
It was difficult to concentrate with what had to be a tongue fixated on her wrist, lapping at the tissue there.
“Black . . . Death, Iain.”
“ ’Twas the start of the talk. Tales of death dealers started up, creatures that walked the night, taking a man’s lifeblood and tossing the flesh. You ever told these?”
“Everyone hears stories like that. To frighten . . . and entertain. I think plays are written about them. They’re not called death dealers. They’re called—I can’t remember the term . . .”
Her voice lowered, losing the words, but that was his fault as he moved his ministration up her arm toward an elbow, wrapping it about him as he went.
“We’re called vampires,
leannan
.”
leannan
.”
“Vampires.”
The word was softly whispered, engendering illicit sensual overtones onto the term. She couldn’t keep her mind functioning and that wasn’t normal. Or sane. Or anything other than complete madness. His touch was at the core of her trouble, too. Just like before.
“Aye, love. Vampires. Purveyors of death. Proprietors of the night. Seeking only to satisfy their lusts while taking their pleasure. Is this the tales you’ve heard?”
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