Page 23 of Alec

“Then I shall beseech the Gods that this proves a persimmon.” He reached out and patted the back of her hand. “Dinnae fret, lassie. Your worries, they’ll all untangle in the end. I ken, for when you’ve gone on as long as we’ve done, ’tis only the business of living that occupies your thoughts.”

“Thank you.” She wasn’t sure how he understood what she was experiencing, but like everything in this place she simply accepted it. “Persimmons have a long taproot, so we should probably put this one in that soft patch of earth there.”

As they worked, Olivia’s worries did seem to drift away. She’d forgotten the simple pleasure of working outside, as she had at the castle experiment in France. Planting the mystery seedlings and wondering what they would grow up to be made her ask if she could come again and help. Eachann told her he’d be pleased to dirty her hands again any day she wished, but suggested she bring an apron with her to keep from staining her good clothes.

On her way back to her room to clean up Olivia walked through what seemed like a pocket of icy air at the end of a passage. She stopped and looked back, but saw nothing but some shadows, thanks to a couple of torches that had burned out.

“I need to start wearing my cloak,” she murmured as she continued on her way.

Ben hovered over his work bench as he scowled at what was supposed to be a miniature treadwheel crane. He’d built it so he could demonstrate to Tasgall McKeran how helpful such a device would be in raising and lowering heavyweight objects intended for the castle’s walls and towers rather than lugging them upstairs. The problem was the damn thing didn’t work, and he couldn’t figure out why. He reached out to adjust one of the compass arm spokes, and the entire assemblage collapsed into a heap.

Congratulations. You screwed that up too.

He walked slowly back to his sitting room, where he took out the only bottle of Armagnac brandy in the stronghold. The spirit had been presented to Tasgall by a visiting official of the king’s court, but the laird had disliked the taste. Thanks to the spell trap it now served as a bottomless supply, as every night the enchantment refilled whatever Ben happened to drink that day. Uncorking the pottery bottle, he lifted it to his lips and gulped down three huge swallows before he nearly choked.

“I’m going to drink all of you tonight,” Ben told the bottle as he put it back. “And then I’m going to drink you again in the morning. All you have to do is keep me drunk.”

He went back out to the work room, where he picked up the remains of his crane model. Heaving it across the room didn’t fix the problem with its construction, but it certainly allowed him to blow off a little steam.

Blame for the disaster could only be his, of course; over the last few weeks all his attempts to fabricate what he needed for his projects had resulted in a series of similar, humiliating failures. Ben couldn’t concentrate on anything long enough to construct it properly because the work room was too quiet now. He also had to do everything himself, and he’d always been better at thinking up ideas than executing them. He’d lied when he’d told Ulf he didn’t need him working as his assistant anymore; it was pretty obvious he was going to get nothing done without the man helping him.

Only the hunter had guessed how much Ben was attracted to him, and even now probably laughed about it with his many female lovers.

“This doesnae want to fly, Healer,” Darro McKeran said, startling him as he brought over the splintered remains of the assemblage. The second-largest man in the clan, he had the same light brown hair as the laird, but soft, dark brown eyes that always looked placid. “Mayhap you may attach wings for the next attempt.”

“I doubt that will help. My apologies, chieftain.” He quickly took the broken apparatus from him and shoved it into a crate. “Did you need something?”

“The laird wished you to join him and Lady Ava for discourse over recent events,” Darro said. “They’re gathering all the senior men to consider Mistress Gibson’s abrupt arrival, and mayhap fathom why the villain flung the poor lass into the trap.”

It still amazed Ben that the McKeran considered him as one of the clan leaders; as far as he knew, besides Ava, he was the only outsider invited to such meetings. For a moment he considered refusing, as he was in no mental condition to be around others. Yet the circumstances of Olivia’s entry into the trap, as well as the strange way she affected their war master, needed to be discreetly discussed.

“Let me clean up and I’ll come down right away,” he told the chieftain.

After washing up and extinguishing the lamps, Ben headed down to the chamber the FBI agent had been using exclusively for her investigation of the spell trap. He knew that Olivia Gibson’s bizarre method of arrival might mean that more variations were on the horizon; the enchanted caterpillars had also been a menacing alteration.

Why now? What’s the motive for mixing things up in a trap that has remained the same for nine hundred years?

Out of the corner of his eye Ben saw Ulf coming down the passage and quickly changed his direction, going through the nearest arch that led into the lists. Fortunately, no one occupied the sparring circles, and all he had to do was wait long enough to allow the hunter to pass by. He walked over to the weapons racks beneath the gallery, wishing once more he hadn’t dismissed the hunter from working as his assistant. Avoiding him had been becoming increasingly difficult, and now he wondered if Ulf were deliberately trying to corner him.

“Do you desire a partner, Healer?” an all-too-familiar voice asked from behind him.

“No, thanks.” He closed his eyes for a moment before he faced the man he didn’t want to see anymore. “I only stepped out here to get some fresh air.”

The Norseman folded his arms. Shorter but far more muscular than Ben, he radiated an intense masculinity that intimidated other mortal men. Contrarily he had so much swaggering charm every woman in the stronghold smiled as soon as they saw him. With his long white-blond hair loose and contempt in his pale blue eyes, he should have looked up at Ben, who was still over a foot taller. Yet somehow he held his head so that he appeared to be looking down his nose at him.

“I have a meeting to go to, so I’ll see you later,” Ben said, and tried to walk past him.

“You shallnae.” Ulf caught his arm and shoved him between two racks of wooden sparring swords. “Ever you run at the sight of me, as you’ve done since casting me from the work room. I want to ken why.” When he said nothing the hunter took a step closer, crowding him. “I called you friend. Tell me, Benedict.”

Ben looked over his head. “I don’t need your help anymore, Ulf. Honestly, I never did. I just made busy work for you out of sympathy. You can’t kill anything here.”

“Ah.” The hunter stepped on the bottom rung on the weapons rack to reach his eye level, and leaned in so close their noses nearly bumped. “So you pity me.”

“I understand how frustrated you must be, trapped in a place where you can’t do as you did in your time. Maybe if you speak with Darro he can find some kind of work for you–” He stopped and stiffened as the hunter pressed his hard body against him. “What are you doing?”

“I weary of your games, Healer. ’Tis time we speak of our dreams.” Ulf brushed his cheek against Ben’s as he put his mouth close to his ear and murmured. “The laird only gave females the right to choose. If I want you, you cannae refuse me—and I ken you desire me. You drink that burning spirit the laird gave you every day now, aye? In hopes it shall help you forget me.”

“You’re wrong.” The words came out squeaky, so he cleared his throat. “I mean, I am drinking too much, but it’s nothing to do with you. You are an attractive man, and I’m flattered by your assumption. That said, I have no intention of being intimate with you or anyone.”