To Tame A Highland Warrior
Page 75
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“That’s weak! You don’t know what caring is,” she shouted furiously. “Caring is love. And love fights! Love doesn’t look for the path of least resistance. Hell’s bells, Roderick, if love was that easy everyone would have it. You’re a coward!”
He flinched, and a muscle jumped furiously in his jaw. “I am doing the honorable thing.”
“To hell with the honorable thing,” she shouted. “Love has no pride. Love looks for ways to endure.”
“Jillian, stop. You want more from me than I’m capable of.”
Her gaze turned icy. “Obviously. I thought you were heroic in every way. But you’re not. You’re just a man after all.” She cast her gaze away and held her breath, wondering if she’d goaded him far enough.
“Goodbye, Jillian.”
He leapt on his horse, and they seemed to melt into one beast—a creature of shadows disappearing into the night.
She gaped in disbelief at the hole he’d left in her world. He’d left her. He’d really left her. A sob welled up within her, so painful that she doubled over. “You coward,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 22
RONIN INSERTED THE KEY INTO THE LOCK, HESITATED, then squared his shoulders firmly. He eyed the towering oak door that was banded with steel. It soared over his head, set in a lofty arch of stone. Deo non fortuna was chiseled in flowing script above the arch—“By God, not by chance.” For years Ronin had denied those words, refused to come to this place, believing God had forsaken him. Deo non fortuna was the motto his clan had lived by, believing their special gifts were God-given and had purpose. Then his “gift” had resulted in Jolyn’s death.
Ronin expelled an anxious breath, forcing himself to turn the key and push open the door. Rusty hinges shrieked the protest of long disuse. Cobwebs danced in the doorway and the musty scent of forgotten legends greeted him. Welcome to the Hall of Lords, the legends clamored. Did you really think you could forget us?
One thousand years of McIllioch graced the hall. Carved deep into the belly of the mountain, the chamber soared to a towering fifty feet. The curved walls met in a royal arch and the ceilings were painted with graphic depictions of the epic heroes of their clan.
His own da had brought him here when he’d turned sixteen. He’d explained their noble history and guided Ronin through the change—guidance Ronin had been unable to provide his own son.
But who would have thought Gavrael would change so much sooner than any of them had? It had been totally unexpected. The battle with the McKane following so quickly on the heels of Jolyn’s savage murder had left Ronin too exhausted, too numbed by grief to reach out to his son. Although Berserkers were difficult to kill, if one was wounded badly enough it took time to heal. It had taken Ronin months to recover. The day the McKane had murdered Jolyn they’d left a shell of a man who hadn’t wanted to heal.
Immersed in his grief, he’d failed his son. He’d been unable to introduce Gavrael to the life of a Berserker, to train him in the secret ways of controlling the bloodlust. He hadn’t been there to explain. He’d failed, and his son had run off to find a new family and a new life.
As the passing years had weathered Ronin’s body he’d greeted each weary bone, each aching joint, and each newly discovered silver hair with gratitude, because it carried him one day closer to his beloved Jolyn.
But he couldn’t go to Jolyn yet. There were things yet undone. His son was coming home, and he would not fail him this time.
With effort, Ronin forced his attention away from his deep guilt and back to the Hall of Lords. He hadn’t even managed to cross the threshold. He squared his shoulders. Clutching a brightly burning torch, Ronin pushed his way through the cobwebs and into the hall. His footsteps echoed like small explosions in the vast stone chamber. He skirted a few pieces of moldy, forgotten furniture and followed the wall to the first portrait that had been etched in stone over one thousand years ago. The oldest likenesses were stone, painted with faded mixtures of herbs and clays. The more recent portraits were charcoal sketches and paintings.
The women in the portraits shared one striking characteristic. They were all breathtakingly radiant, positively brimming with happiness. The men shared a single distinction as well. All nine hundred and fifty-eight males in this hall had eyes of blue ice.
Ronin moved to the portrait of his wife and raised the torch. He smiled. Had some pagan deity offered him a bargain and said, “I will take away all the tragedy you have suffered in your life, I will take you back in time and give you dozens of sons and perfect peace, but you can never have Jolyn,” Ronin McIllioch would have scoffed. He would willingly embrace every bit of tragedy he’d endured to have loved Jolyn, even for the painfully brief time they’d been allotted.
He flinched, and a muscle jumped furiously in his jaw. “I am doing the honorable thing.”
“To hell with the honorable thing,” she shouted. “Love has no pride. Love looks for ways to endure.”
“Jillian, stop. You want more from me than I’m capable of.”
Her gaze turned icy. “Obviously. I thought you were heroic in every way. But you’re not. You’re just a man after all.” She cast her gaze away and held her breath, wondering if she’d goaded him far enough.
“Goodbye, Jillian.”
He leapt on his horse, and they seemed to melt into one beast—a creature of shadows disappearing into the night.
She gaped in disbelief at the hole he’d left in her world. He’d left her. He’d really left her. A sob welled up within her, so painful that she doubled over. “You coward,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 22
RONIN INSERTED THE KEY INTO THE LOCK, HESITATED, then squared his shoulders firmly. He eyed the towering oak door that was banded with steel. It soared over his head, set in a lofty arch of stone. Deo non fortuna was chiseled in flowing script above the arch—“By God, not by chance.” For years Ronin had denied those words, refused to come to this place, believing God had forsaken him. Deo non fortuna was the motto his clan had lived by, believing their special gifts were God-given and had purpose. Then his “gift” had resulted in Jolyn’s death.
Ronin expelled an anxious breath, forcing himself to turn the key and push open the door. Rusty hinges shrieked the protest of long disuse. Cobwebs danced in the doorway and the musty scent of forgotten legends greeted him. Welcome to the Hall of Lords, the legends clamored. Did you really think you could forget us?
One thousand years of McIllioch graced the hall. Carved deep into the belly of the mountain, the chamber soared to a towering fifty feet. The curved walls met in a royal arch and the ceilings were painted with graphic depictions of the epic heroes of their clan.
His own da had brought him here when he’d turned sixteen. He’d explained their noble history and guided Ronin through the change—guidance Ronin had been unable to provide his own son.
But who would have thought Gavrael would change so much sooner than any of them had? It had been totally unexpected. The battle with the McKane following so quickly on the heels of Jolyn’s savage murder had left Ronin too exhausted, too numbed by grief to reach out to his son. Although Berserkers were difficult to kill, if one was wounded badly enough it took time to heal. It had taken Ronin months to recover. The day the McKane had murdered Jolyn they’d left a shell of a man who hadn’t wanted to heal.
Immersed in his grief, he’d failed his son. He’d been unable to introduce Gavrael to the life of a Berserker, to train him in the secret ways of controlling the bloodlust. He hadn’t been there to explain. He’d failed, and his son had run off to find a new family and a new life.
As the passing years had weathered Ronin’s body he’d greeted each weary bone, each aching joint, and each newly discovered silver hair with gratitude, because it carried him one day closer to his beloved Jolyn.
But he couldn’t go to Jolyn yet. There were things yet undone. His son was coming home, and he would not fail him this time.
With effort, Ronin forced his attention away from his deep guilt and back to the Hall of Lords. He hadn’t even managed to cross the threshold. He squared his shoulders. Clutching a brightly burning torch, Ronin pushed his way through the cobwebs and into the hall. His footsteps echoed like small explosions in the vast stone chamber. He skirted a few pieces of moldy, forgotten furniture and followed the wall to the first portrait that had been etched in stone over one thousand years ago. The oldest likenesses were stone, painted with faded mixtures of herbs and clays. The more recent portraits were charcoal sketches and paintings.
The women in the portraits shared one striking characteristic. They were all breathtakingly radiant, positively brimming with happiness. The men shared a single distinction as well. All nine hundred and fifty-eight males in this hall had eyes of blue ice.
Ronin moved to the portrait of his wife and raised the torch. He smiled. Had some pagan deity offered him a bargain and said, “I will take away all the tragedy you have suffered in your life, I will take you back in time and give you dozens of sons and perfect peace, but you can never have Jolyn,” Ronin McIllioch would have scoffed. He would willingly embrace every bit of tragedy he’d endured to have loved Jolyn, even for the painfully brief time they’d been allotted.
