Callum stared at the innocent-looking jar on the cottage’s table and knew it for it was…
Devorgilla’s anti-cat scratch unguent, risen from the dark and freezing depths of the North Sea to haunt him, driving home that no man is the true master of his fate.
Destiny is inescapable and at times such as Yule, the gods and their minions like the Highland’s own mischievous and meddlesome crone have their way with mortals.
And their amusement, he was sure.
“Holy gods,” he muttered, not wanting to go anywhere near the jar, but somehow finding himself right beside the table, reaching for it, lifting it in his hand.
“Your back, sweeting.” He turned to Lady Alanna, tried not to sweat because –he was doomed– the deep, Nordic-accented voice wasn’t his. “If your cat has scratched you so deeply to cause you pain, the wounds must be tended.”
She looked at him, puzzled yet saying nothing about the change in his voice. “The scratches will heal in time. They always do.”
No’ this time, my love.
Callum’s gut clenched. The same voice, but now in his head. A horror that proved along with the crone’s wretched gift, that his days were numbered.
A man could only come so close to such interactions with gods and immortals and not slip headlong into their nebulous realm, the world of the living and all things earthly, forever gone to them.
He shuddered, felt the damned jar begin to warm and vibrate in his hand.
Tamping down a curse, he drew back his arm, intending to hurl the jar into the hearth flames.
But…
His fingers only clutched the jar tighter.
How sad that he knew exactly how to be rid of the nightmarish unguent.
“Enough, lass.” His voice again, praise Odin. “If you willnae throw off those plaids and loosen your gown, letting me have a look at your shoulder, I shall remove them for you,” he said, his tone and the words coming harsher than he’d intended. “I’ll no’ be telling the King I brought you all the way to the Skerries only to have you perish on cat claw scratches that festered.”
“But-”
“Nae buts.” He took two steps toward her. “Let me see your back.”
“You said my shoulder.”
“Aye, that, and your back.” He took another step. “I would see them both.”
She frowned. “You are mad.”
He laughed, he couldn’t help it. “Tell me something I dinnae ken. Now have done with the gown.”
“Nae.”
“Och, aye.” One step and he towered over her, his heart thundering, his loins tightening, the granite hard length of him shaming him so greatly he wanted to roar with rage.
He wasn’t a man given so easily to lust – of a certainty, not when he was angry.
Yet for reasons he couldn’t explain, he burned with a ferocious need to grab her and crush her to him, swooping his lips down onto hers and kissing her again and again until the end of all days when, they’d start again, kissing for another thousand years.
“Ye, gods.” He wheeled away from her, clutched his head with his hands. “Dinnae come near me, lady,” he said, reason, and his honor, rearing up to battle the madness.
Grateful, he thrust his arm out behind him, offering her the little earthen jar. “This contains cream. An unguent to heal and soothe cat scratches.”
She took the jar, gods be good.
“Did Ula give this to you?” she asked, the voice of innocence.
