Branna hummed the tune her mother used to sing when she was scared. Her intuition told her to leave, but she wasn’t about to relinquish her quest. The song’s words spilled from her lips in time with her work. Scrape using the spade, wiggle the rock, wrest it out of the ground and throw it aside. It could have been minutes or hours she worked making small, but determined progress.

«I see you dig your own grave.»

Branna whirled. She lost her balance and sprawled at the feet of a large, white stallion. Through strands of her tousled hair, she stared at the imposing man upon the great steed.

Wrapped in a dark cloak, the moonlight creating shadows across his face, he wielded a great broadsword. He vaulted from his mount and brought the point of his sword to her throat.

Her heart thumped wildly. Just as sure as Aunt Meeda had warned, she looked straight into the face of evil.

Two

Devlin gripped the weapon tightly, his anger building. «Who dares to dig a hole on my property?»

He couldn’t keep the venom from his voice. «State your business.»

The intruder brushed aside long, wavy hair exposing a delicate face. Devlin realized his thief was a woman. He instantly withdrew his sword, but didn’t yet sheath it.

When his horse Ailbay had scented someone unfamiliar, Devlin expected to find sheep thieves or wolves, but a woman singing and digging in the dirt? Never.

She stood, brushing soil from her skirts. «’Tis my concern and not yours.»

Devlin lifted his brows at the edge of impatience in her tone. Her feathers were ruffled, were they? The moonlight offered a taste of her light eyes and high cheekbones. Her voice, strong, confident and with a hint of tantalizing sweetness, poured over him like thick Irish cream. Her other features would wait for better light.

He rubbed a hand over his face, irritated at her intrusion. He was already on edge. «I’m Devlin, Lord MacKenna, Master of Hollylough. Every rock holds my interest.»

«Then your land holds an object of mine.»

Devlin sensed movement in the shadows behind her. His hounds had spread out in the darkness. Waiting. Watching.

«What here would be of interest to a common grave robber?»

Her quick intake of breath told him he’d hit a sensitive mark.

«Nay. ’Tis nothing common I seek.»

A high-pitched howl split the quiet. The dogs grew bolder, circling closer. The woman heard it and bolted towards him, coming dangerously close to the blade of his sword.

Devlin sheathed it with a snap. «Witless goose, do you wish to die by my sword?»

She stepped back. «Nay. I’ve no wish to die by sword or by dogs.»

«The hounds are restless. You’ll be safe with me.» He offered her his arm.

«Nay. I’m not leaving till I find what I seek.»

He felt his ire rise at the battle of wills. If she told him nay once more, Devlin would be tempted to leave her.

He glanced towards the trees, then to the sky. His response was curt. «You’ll be fortunate to escape with your life. Come, the moonlight has disappeared and a storm threatens.»

She pointed to a horse in the distance and worried her bottom lip. «I’ll follow on Molly. I’ll not leave her to the dogs.»

Her horse stomped nervously outside the stone circle. Devlin understood her uneasiness. He had yet to take his vows, not for another night. He wasn’t sure he could control them should they attack.

«Nay. She is too distant. I’ll grab her reins as we pass. Get on Ailbay.»

The woman approached his white steed with caution. Giving her no more space to disagree, Devlin reached down and grasped her about the waist. He easily lifted her to the neck of his horse, her legs positioned to the side. Then he settled back into the saddle and brought her back against him. He crossed his arms around her waist to keep her seated safely and grabbed the reins.

Devlin spurred Ailbay forward, his horse easily taking the extra burden over the stone wall, and galloped towards the protection of Hollylough.

Devlin leaned over to grab Molly’s reins.

The woman blocked his arm. «Nay.»

She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled loudly. Molly raised her head and fell in step behind Ailbay. Devlin nodded his head, impressed.

«My lady, your horse is well trained, as if she’d follow you to the ends of the earth.»

«Aye, she would.»

With each stretch of Ailbay’s stride, his arms clasped the woman’s ribcage, her warmth infusing his upper body. She felt trim, but muscular, not so delicate that she’d break at the slightest stumble.

Her rose scent reached his nostrils and dared him further. He’d been a long time without a woman to warm his bed and blood. This comely one aroused his interest as well as his manhood.

Devlin knew he was restless. He had grown to manhood knowing this day would come. His family’s bloodline was cursed. Written long ago, all the children were destined to become Hellhounds. He was the Chosen One; the one selected to master the hounds that guarded their supernatural treasures. This rite would occur on the day of his twenty-fifth year, on the morrow. He’d become one of them.

His attention strayed to the woman who relaxed against him, snuggling deeper into his chest as she adjusted to Ailbay’s motion. With her buttocks nestled between his thighs, he realized she fitted well enough in his arms, better than most. She might prove to be the distraction he needed this night.

Once past the gatehouse and inside the curtain walls, he slowed Ailbay and angled him towards the stables in the lower bailey. He reined in and slid off the horse, handing both horses to his waiting groom. Devlin ruffled the boy’s hair.

«Finn, I know ’tis late and your mother wishes you to be abed. The horses have worked hard tonight. Give them extra oats and curry them well. I shall make sure tomorrow you have a lighter load.»

Devlin reached to assist the woman down.

She put her hands on his shoulders and winced, pulling her hands away as her feet touched the ground. Devlin snatched one hand and saw her roughened, bleeding fingers.

He gently touched her abraded palm. Before his groom left the yard he called, «Finn, bring me the healing salve.» He waited for the lad to hand him the paste, then took her arm and led her towards his keep.

Branna pulled back. Lord MacKenna, with his fierce, dark eyes regarded her critically. She prayed he couldn’t know how badly her hands shook. «I. I should return home, my lord.»

Branna didn’t wish to be with him a moment longer than necessary. She had no idea why she couldn’t breathe.

He shook his head. «Not this night.» The stony stillness of his expression gentled when he gave her a half-smile. It changed his face, softened it, adding a touch of vulnerability.

«I will escort you home on the morrow. For now you are under my protection.»

They entered the great square keep from a steep set of stone stairs and a thick wooden door. They climbed more stairs at the corner, spiralling upwards past several floors to the top, where he opened another heavy door and they entered the upper solar. «This is my private chamber. In here you will be safe.»

Safe from whom? Him?

He strode to a sideboard against the far wall. While he searched for something, Branna looked about the room, soft light from several candelabras illuminating the darkest corners.

The primary item of furniture dominating the room was a great bed with a heavy wooden frame overlaid with quilts, a thick fur coverlet and pillows. The bed was curtained; its linen draperies pulled back and tied to the bedposts with leather straps. An arched fireplace took over one wall, soot blackening the protective hood of stone. Several chests and a hanging tapestry graced the opposite side of the room.

«Remove your cloak.»

Branna complied, even though the room was damp. She laid it over a nearby slatted chair.

Devlin came back to her with the pot of salve and a cloth. He dipped his fingers into the paste and took her right hand.

With surprising gentleness, he rubbed the waxy paste into the palm of her hand, covering the cuts and abrasions.

«Your name?»

«’Tis Lady Branna Mordah.»

«Pray tell me, my lady, what was of such significance tonight that you would risk your life?»

She glanced at his face. His eyes met hers, as dark and shiny as wet slate.

«I seek an heirloom of my mother’s which was stolen when she died.»

«And you think ’tis buried here? You are surely mistaken.»

The salve had been well worked into her skin, but he continued to massage her hand, sending delicious tingles up her arm and down to her toes, making her even more nervous.

«Your one hand will need a dressing. ’Tis the most damaged.»

«What is this ointment? It has the scent of flowers.»

«’Tis calendula salve, made from the leaves of marigolds and lavender. ’Tis used upon the horses.»

Did his horses receive such wonderful rub-downs? She wanted to be covered with the fragrant salve. Branna shook her head before those thoughts went further.

As he wrapped her right hand with a cloth, Branna shifted her eyes to the decorative windows. Moonlight spilled through, glinting off the pieces of coloured glass, highlighting the central tree design. Branna gasped and pulled her hand away.

«Your windows. I’ve seen that design.»

«Nay, ’tis impossible. It was created for Hollylough Castle years ago. My home is so named for the holly trees in the thicket by the lough’s edge. There are no windows like it.»