Redeemed (Heroes of the Highlands) - By Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,29

greens curtaining the sky, dancing seductively with each other just out of reach of the human scope, conjured her specter to his thoughts. Not that she hadn’t been lurking there since the previous night.

Nay. He sighed. Since he’d heard her heart-rending scream in his cave, she hadn’t left him for a moment. Like a tune tripping through one’s mind uninvited, or a desire that drove every action, there Kylah was. Unattainable and ever-present. Glowing and chattering and filling the lonely darkness.

Or reminding him of it. Every time his body hardened, remembering the glorious beauty of her pleasure, the image of her stricken astonishment while she held her robes together pricked his conscience with a thousand tiny barbed needles.

She silently settled herself on his left side, and he winced. Most people, especially women, shrank from the peculiarity of his runic tattoos. But not his Banshee. She studied them. Sometimes overtly, her rapt curiosity painfully obvious on her lovely, expressive face.

He was too much of a coward to look at her now. He’d be able to read exactly what she was thinking. And he didn’t want to know.

He knew too much. Always had.

“They’re so beautiful,” she breathed, turning her face up to watch the lights bend and snap across the sky.

There was that word. Beauty.

Kylah scooted almost imperceptibly closer to him. “My father used to say that Biera, the Queen of Winter, was a selfish and power hungry goddess. He said that she causes the storms and sea gales in January and February because she wants to prolong her reign. In ancient times the Spirit of Spring went to Bel, the Summer God, and asked for his help. In turn Bel sent the lights in March as a warning to Biera that her reign is absolutely ended. But to balance this, he also sends them in October and November to tell her that she may begin winter early in the Highlands.”

Daroch shifted, still unable to look at her, but studied his hands which were now cast in a jewel blue. “Winter doesna start until December.”

“According to legend, Crom Dubh is the powerful, carnal god of harvest and death.” Kylah repeated her father’s story with the deftness and drama of any bard. “He emerges from his underworld domain early in August and angers Bel. They compete for power and for the favor of Danu, their mistress, and goddess of all creation. Bel calls in Beira as early as he dares, hoping that winter will overshadow the debauched revelry of the harvest and send the sensual Crom Dubh back to his lonely Underworld and away from Danu’s bed.”

“Yer father told ye all this when ye were four?” Daroch chanced an irate glance at her and instantly wished he hadn’t. All he could see was her fingers disappearing into her soft mouth. Then drifting lower, obeying his commands as though they were his own hands.

He cleared his throat, smothering a groan as his cock twitched and threatened to take over the situation.

She shrugged, “He was a bawdy blacksmith, or so my mother says in the rare moments she mentions him. And I believe it. I mean, she did spend nearly three of the six years of their marriage pregnant with us.” Her voice became wistful, but he could also hear a smile in it. “I asked her once if he’d ever been disappointed that none of us had been a boy. She told me that she’d asked him that very question not long before he died, because she was pregnant with Kamdyn and was worried it was another girl. Do you know what he told her?”

Daroch shook his head, surprised by how much he wanted to know.

“He said he hoped all their children were girls so she would let him keep trying for a boy.”

He couldn’t pull back the half-hearted sound of amusement that escaped his throat. Her father sounded like someone he would have liked to know. Someone who loved his family. Took pride in his work. Cultivated a reputation for fairness and strength. A man with a life. Who knew who he was and what he wanted and worked hard for it. A man like Daroch had strived to become once. Long ago.

“Do you pray to them, the ancient gods?” she asked.

He snorted. “Hardly.”

“Why not?” She gestured to the shimmering lights flaring ever brighter in the sky. “Bal is a vengeful god. His magic is right there, closer to the earth than any other time. It is said he also holds no love