My Immortal Protector Read online

  MY IMMORTAL PROTECTOR

  Prologue

  StrathwicK, Scottish Highlands 1597

  It was another troubled night for Deidra.

  Her father blamed it on the storm—the screaming wind, the driving rain, the rumbling thunder. But it wasn't the storm; at least not entirely. The storm made the creatures restless and fright­ened. And when they were afraid, Deidra didn't sleep. William MacKay sat on his daughter's bed in the candlelit room. He’d already checked under the bed and behind the screen and deemed them animal-free. Deidra believed him. She would know if creatures were in the room. She knew it was all very strange to her father. There had been a time when Deidra had been more comfortable with animals than with people, a time when the thoughts and feelings of creatures had comforted her.

  Now they haunted her.

  Her cries of terror had brought her father rushing to her room. He sat with her now, gazing down at her with fur­rowed brow. Rain danced against the shutters. Her new stepmother, Rose, stood in the doorway, red hair streaming over her shoulders, pale brow creased with concern.

  "What is it, sweeting?"

  Tall dog, tall dog, tall dog. The frantic chant filled her mind, pressing out other thoughts. She slapped her hands over her ears just as Billy, the large mastiff, nosed past Rose, searching for it’s master. Once it saw that William MacKay was in Deidra's room, relief poured from the dog. He crossed the room to sit at William’s feet. Unfortunately the chant continued, but now it was filled with adoration and hope of table scraps later.

  Deidra couldn't stand it. She wanted them out of her head. Her body went stiff, eyes screwed shut and teeth clenched. Get out! Leave me alone!

  Her father’s hands circled her wrists. "Deidra? What is it?"

  Rats were on the move, in the walls, heading for the kitchens, excited at the prospect of rummaging through the rushes for dropped food.

  Something growled in her head, rum­bling in her chest and growing louder, fill­ing her like the thunder. No more, no more, no more. Her father took her shoulders and gave her a hard shake.

  "Deidra! Look at me!"

  "She's growling," Rose whispered, her voice hushed with concern.

  Deidra twisted, hands gripping the sides of her head. "Make them stop, Da, I pray you!

  Her father gathered her close, arms wrapped around her. "What is it? The animals?"

  The rats, the dogs, even the horses, all of their thoughts filled her mind like a roar. She had no thoughts of her own; she was nothing but a container they filled.

  “Aye," she whimpered. "Make them stop, please, Da, please, please, please]"

  Her father’s arms tightened. He didn't say anything, and, young as she was, Deidra understood why. There was noth­ing he could do. Nothing anyone could do. They were witches, and this was their lot. They could not undo what they were.

  When you were born a witch, you died a witch.

  "Why, Da, why? I don't want to be a witch anymore. Why are we this way?"

  He inhaled deeply, his eyes shifting inward with thought. "My mother told me it was a baobhan sith."

  "A blood witch?" Rose asked quizzically, approaching the bed.

  William sat back and nodded, his hand still on Deidra's back. She liked it there; it was warm and strong and comforting. When he was with her, she felt mayhap she could bear the thoughts, mayhap even learn to ignore them one day.

  She swiped at the tears that leaked from her eyes and tried to focus on what her father was saying. It was easier to ignore the animals when she had some­thing else diverting her attention. She asked, "What's a baobhan sith?”

  He smiled at her. “A witch that drinks blood and has many special powers. They derive power from the moon. My great-great-grandsire made a pact with one many years ago."

  "I thought they killed men," Rose said. All the stories I've heard tell of them lur­ing young men with their beauty and dancing, then draining their blood. You can talk to them?"

  William shrugged and ran a careless hand over his graying hair, leaving it in disarray. He wasn't an old man, but his black hair had a metallic sheen to it from all the silver strands.

  “Aye, apparently so," he said.

  Rose sat on the end of the bed. "What sort of pact?"

  "I don't really know, exactly. His son was dying.. .he asked for the magic to heal him...and the baobhan sith made him a witch," he said as he smiled down at Deidra, "a healer like Rose and I." He shrugged. “And we've had witches in the family ever since."

  “A pact," Deidra whispered with won­der. It was so simple.

  Her father rubbed his hand over her head. Aye, lass. That's from whence MacKay magic springs." He stood, plant­ing a kiss on the top of her head. "You'll be fine now?"

  Deidra didn't know if she would. She still heard the animals, but now she had something to ponder, something to dis­tract her from all the noise in her head. She nodded, since she knew it would please him.

  Rose and her father bid Deidra a good night and left her alone in the darkness. She closed her eyes and listened to the rain tapping against the shutters. Animals chattered in her head, and she thought about pacts and baobhan siths.

  Her situation had seemed hopeless before. But suddenly she had options, possibilities.

  If pacts could be made to create witch­es...perhaps they could be made to take magic away.

  Chapter 1

  Twelve years later

  For a while, Deidra thought Luthias had actually forgotten about her. Hoped. Prayed.

  But she did not possess such blessings. Apparently he'd been no more than dis­tracted, busy hunting other witches. Word had reached her of a spectacular witch trial and hanging in the low­lands—complete with torture and dunkings. The images it brought to mind made her want to crawl under her bed and hide like she had when she’d been a wee bairn. No doubt Luthias's stink was all over those trials.

  Luthias Forsyth was a witch-pricker, a man well versed in the torture and exe­cution of witches. The past few decades had been very prosperous ones for Luth­ias and very dangerous ones for Scotland's witches…and women. That was the diffi­culty with being a woman in Scotland. One did not have to be a witch to burn for witchcraft. One merely needed breasts.

  That had changed for a time in 1597, when King James had rescinded his edict that had allowed witches to be hunted and killed like wild game. But King James ruled England now, too, and the Presby­teries had control of Scotland. Witch hunting was regaining popularity. Today, it had come to Strathwick. Again.

  For the past three days Deidra had hid in the tower room of Strathwick, her fam­ily's home. It had been a while since she'd been forced to hide out in this manner. So long, in fact, that she'd begun to hope that perhaps the hiding was finally over.

  She stretched out on the bed, reading by candlelight a chapbook about Saint George slaying the dragon. When she was younger, she had loved these stories, but the older she'd grown the less likely the stories had seemed. She had read her father’s histories and attempted to read her mothers journals and herbals, but she couldn't stay awake while reading any of them. She had read and reread their trans­lations of the Greek myths. There was nothing left to read but these chapbooks, and they just made her roll her eyes. She shut the book with a sigh.

  A dog had followed her upstairs and now sat beside the bed, staring at her. When she turned even slightly in its direction it whined softly and shifted from foot to foot.

  Deidra ignored it.

  She never knew how long Luthias would nose around the village, asking questions about her, making sure she wasn't practicing magic. Checking up on her. Once, when he'd come, she had not hid. She'd been eighteen and feeling very idealistic and full of the need to cure injustice. She had imagined h
ow, when he came sniffing around her, she would give him a flaying about all the innocent women he had murdered. She'd thought that somehow she would be able to make him see the error of his ways.

  It hadn't turned out the way she'd planned. By the time he'd found her, she'd been surrounded by animals—dogs, cats, sheep, chickens. It had been difficult to explain them away when he'd asked why all the animals in the village migrated to Goodwife Anne's house, where Deidra assisted in the shelling of peas.

  She had started out strong, telling him it meant nothing; they were pets, that he was the monster, not the girls he killed. His long angular face had hardened to granite, and he'd started in on her, calling her a foul witch who communed with the animal spirits, quoting the Bible and how she was a blemish on humanity. In the end, she had run away, more frightened and confused than ever. He had followed, harrying her home, promising that soon she too would pay, as all witches did.

  Her father had run him out of the vil­lage and threatened to kill him. He'd stayed away for a time, but of course he'd come back. He always came back, and when he returned he brought reinforce­ments. From that day forward, when he'd brought a guard of mercenaries with him, rendering her father powerless. The only thing Deidra had been able to do was hide.

  He was so persistent, so intent on her. She hadn't practiced any sort of witchcraft in more than a decade, and yet still he was obsessed with her. She didn't under­stand why he couldn't just forget, move on, hunt other witches. And she sup­posed he did in the time between visits, but he never forgot about her. Every year he returned, as reliable as the seasons, and stayed for several days. But this time nearly two years had passed with no sign of him, and she’d begun to hope.

  There was a tap on the door. Deidra closed her book and twisted toward the door, “Aye? Come in."

  Her stepmother, Rose, peeked her head around the edge of the door. “Are you hungry?"

  Deidra swung her legs over the side of the bed and sighed. "Not really."

  Ignoring this, Rose entered, balancing a tray, and crossed the room. The warm smell of herbs wafted to Deidra and her stomach rumbled. Rose set the tray on the bed.

  "I heard that," she admonished. "Stop being a wee fool. You will eat my soup." Rose rarely took no for an answer. A strong woman, made of steel and as beau­tiful as a well-honed sword. Deidra wished she could be more like her. She doubted Rose would hide from Luthias.

  Rose smiled as she uncovered a dish to reveal a savory bean soup, warm bread with jam, and dried fruit. All of Deidra’s favorites.

  Deidra sighed but gave her stepmother a grateful smile. Rose was an amazing woman and had more than made up for the years Deidra had been motherless. She had married William MacKay twelve years ago. She was still a relatively young woman—in her thirties—but her hair had turned almost completely white. Her face still held a youthful beauty, but nei­ther William nor Rose could resist using their healing magic at every opportunity, and it aged them both. Yet another rea­son Deidra hated this witchcraft curse—it would eventually take away everything that mattered to her. It had already altered her father and Roses life in ways they'd not anticipated.

  After they'd married, Rose had borne William a son, Ross. And had miscarried every pregnancy since. It was the healing magic; something about it made her dif­ferent, made her unable to bear any more than Ross. And now Ross was gone, sent to King James's English court to learn English ways so he would not be a heathen like his parents.

  Luckily, thus far Ross had shown no signs of magical ability. It appeared he might be like William’s brother, Drake. Deidra envied him.

  "Is Luthias still in the village?" Deidra asked.

  Not meeting Deidra's gaze, Rose fussed with some currants that had spilled out of the little bowl.

  "What is it? Its been three days and he's still here?"

  Rose straightened and planted her hands on her hips. "I think you're just going to have to show yourself. He knows you're here somewhere and he's not going away until he sees you." Her voice and face softened. "It'll be just as it always is.

  He'll see you are not doing any magic and go away."

  Deidra dropped her chin on her fist and glowered at the wall. She did not want to show herself. A dozen years had passed since the incident that had sparked Luthias Forsyth's obsession with her, and Deidra was no longer a child but a wom­an...and yet she still trembled in his pres­ence. She felt eight years old again, ter­rified and wanting to bury her face in her father's shirt.

  "I should go away," Deidra murmured. "It brings danger to you and Da when he comes here searching about for witch­craft. There is plenty to find here. One day he will strike against you for shelter­ing me. I feel it." She shook her head, fear gripping her shoulders tight. "I bring dan­ger on us all."

  "What foolishness. Don't be ridiculous." Rose pushed the tray at her insistently. "You know we won't hear of it. You will stay here with us until you marry and that's the end of it."

  Deidra chose to ignore that and picked at the currants instead. No man would ever marry her. She was one and twenty, and not a single offer had been made for her. Her parents took her to gatherings, but the men she met did not seem to find her looks pleasing or her person inter­esting. It was her hair. Wild and woolly, like a sheep's. She'd heard what the other lasses said about her. She was ugly and a mute, raised by animals. No, she would never find a man with such references.

  She snatched a roll off the tray and stood, pacing the room. "I will live in the mountains, somewhere far away from here, on the Continent perhaps...the Alps, in a remote chalet where hell never find me and I bring danger to no one."

  Rose made a dismissive sound and waved a hand. "That kind of behavior never brought anyone any happiness. Remember you Stephen Ross?" She raised her copper brows. "We all loved him well, but he was so miserable he couldn't see it. So away he went and now everyone thinks he's a monster, living in the moun­tains. No friends or family. People fear him."

  Deidra did remember Stephen Ross. He’d been a young man when she’d been a child. Crippled in an accident, He’d tried to live among friends and family, but the pain and bitterness over what had hap­pened to him had cankered his soul and made him unpleasant. Eventually He’d moved to one of his estates in the far north to live in isolation.

  "People say he is a baobhan sith" Rose said. "That he traps unsuspecting travel­ers and drinks their blood. Would you like them to say that about you?"

  Rose was clever, playing on Deidra’s need for acceptance and approval. Deidra disliked the taint of witchcraft. But she ignored the question and slid Rose a dubi­ous sidelong look. "I thought blood witches were all women."

  Rose shrugged. "I suppose they can be either men or women. I know not." Rose smiled slyly. "Perchance Mr. Forsyth could tell you more about them. Go see him and find out."

  Deidra scowled and returned to the bed, where Rose sat. "Is it true? Is Ste­phen Ross really a baobhan sith?" She still remembered the tale her father had told her as a child, about how her great-great-great-grand-sire had made a pact with a blood witch. She’d always found the story compelling but not par­ticularly useful. After all, she'd assumed the baobhan sith were not real. A story told to children to keep them close to home.

  When Rose didn't reply, Deidra pressed, "So...do you believe in the baob­han sith? Do you really think there is such a thing?"

  Rose gave her a mildly condescending smile. "If you grew up in my family.. .and married into such a family as I did...well, you would understand that anything is possible."

  This was true. Rose's sisters were both powerful witches. Rose herself had mar­ried a witch. And Deidra was a witch, though she hadn't used her magic in years.

  At least not intentionally. To be precise, she had become proficient at ignoring it, and it didn't trouble her overmuch these days. But that mattered little in Mr. For­syth's world. He knew what she was capable of. He had seen it with his own eyes. And even now, though she might deny her magic to herself and to others, th
e animals knew and would never allow her to forget it. They sensed it in her and flocked to her. Most of them did not have the capacity for reason. They did not understand that she would never speak to them again. They all wanted something, so they kept trying.

  "Drake went to a blood witch."

  Deidra nearly dropped her bread. Her jaw did drop. "Uncle Drake?"

  Rose nodded, the corners of her mouth tight, her gaze turned inward. She obvi­ously wasn't certain she should be speak­ing of this, but she had decided to any­way. "Do you recall when Ceara was ill? And your father and I could not cure her?"

  Deidra remembered well. Aunt Ceara's deadly ailment was what had turned her parents' hair white through their constant attempts to heal that which not even magic could cure.

  "He took her to the blood witch."

  "And?" Deidra prompted, breathless.

  Rose shrugged. "I know not. Ceara is dead. Drake is...different. But he did say that he saw her. So there must be such a thing."

  The baobhan sith was real after all. Deidra was intrigued. Perhaps another path lay open to her, one she had not pre­viously considered. However, the visit had not benefited Ceara. Perhaps she should go to the source, find out what had really happened.

  Her mind turned to Stephen Ross. She’d not known him well. He’d been a good friend to the MacDonells, Roses family. He was the illegitimate nephew of an earl and very wealthy. He could afford to live off in some remote castle, far away from the stares. She remembered the way He’d limped, the lines pain had drawn in his youthful face. He'd not been born crip­pled, but Deidra had not known him when he'd been a whole man.

  What Deidra remembered most of all when she recalled Stephen Ross was that he'd been beautiful. She'd found him angelic in countenance and particularly enchanting when he'd smiled, which had been rare. He'd never paid much atten­tion to her, except once, when her ani­mals had bothered him. He'd bellowed like a baited bear, terrifying her. She'd cut a wide swath around him after that.

  But that had been a very long time ago. She was not a little girl but a woman, and he did not scare her.