Despite the abysmal lowlands of her emotions and feverish highlands of her hormones, she was bone-weary and desperate for the plateau of sleep. She'd gotten more exercise today than she got in a month at home. The small pile of her clothing near the fire suddenly seemed as inviting as a down bed. "What about you?" she asked, reluctant to sleep if he was going to be awake.
"Although you doona believe me, I slept for a very long time and find I am most reluctant to dose my eyes again. I shall stand watch."
She regarded him warily and didn't move.
"I would be pleased to give you something to help you relax," he offered.
Her brows furrowed. "Like what? A drug or something?" she asked indignantly.
"I have been told I have a calming effect with my hands. I would rub your back, caress your hair until you drifted peacefully."
"I don't think so," she said icily.
A quick white flash of teeth was the only indication she had that he was amused. "Then I bid you, lie down before you fall down. We must cover a great deal of ground tomorrow. Although I could carry you, I sense you would not appreciate it."
"Damn right, MacKeltar," she muttered, as she relented and dropped to the ground near the fire. She bundled her button-down into a pillow of sorts and stuffed it under her head.
"Are you warm enough?" he asked softly out of the darkness.
"I am downright toasty," she lied.
And in truth, she shivered for only a short time before inching closer to the fire and falling into deep and dreamless oblivion.
* * * * *
Drustan watched Gwen Cassidy sleep. Her blond hair, streaked with darker and lighter highlights, shimmered in the firelight. Her skin was smooth, her lips lush and pink, the lower one quite a bit fuller than the top. Kiss-ably full. Above almond-shaped eyes, her dark-blond brows arched upward at the outer edges, adding an aristocratic disdain to the scowl she so frequently wore. She was lying on her side, and her plump breasts pressed together in dangerously tempting curves, but it wasn't her physical attributes alone that stirred him.
She was the most unusual woman he'd ever encountered. Whatever had shaped her temperament, she was a curious blend of cautiousness and audacity, and he'd begun to realize she had a clever and quick mind. So wee, she was unafraid to thrust her chin in the air and shout at him. He suspected that audacity was more her nature, while her cautiousness was a learned thing.
Her audacity would serve her well in the trials to come, and there would be many. He poked at his memory fragments, which were still frighteningly incomplete. He had two days to reclaim perfect recall. It was imperative that he isolate and study every detail of what had happened prior to his enchantment.
With a heavy sigh, he turned his back to the fire and stared out into the night at a world he didn't understand and had no desire to be a part of. He found her century unsettling, felt bombarded by the unnatural rhythm of her world, and was comforted by the knowledge that he wouldn't have to spend too much longer in it. As he listened to the unfamiliar sounds of the night—a humming in the air few would hear, a strange intermittent thunder in the sky—he reflected upon his training, sifting through neatly compartmentalized vaults of information stored in his mind.
Precision was imperative, and he subdued a surge of unease. He'd never done what he would soon have to do, and although his upbringing had prepared him for it, the possibility for error was immense. His memory was formidable, yet the purpose for which he'd been trained had never taken into account the possibility that he would not be at Castle Keltar when he performed the rite, and thus would not have access to the tablets or any of the books.
Although it was widely believed that Druidry had waned—leaving only inept practitioners of lesser spells—and that the ancient scholars had forbidden writing of any kind, both beliefs were myths that had been cultivated and spread by the few remaining Druids themselves. It was what they wished the world to believe, and Druids were ever adept at illusion.
On the contrary, Druidry thrived, although the prone-to-melodrama British Druids scarce possessed the knowledge to cast an effective sleep spell, in Drustan's estimation.
Many millennia ago, after the Tuatha de Danaan had left the mortal world for stranger haunts, their Druids—mortals and unable to accompany them—had vied among themselves for power.
There had ensued a protracted battle that had nearly destroyed the world. In the horrifying aftermath, one bloodline had been selected to preserve the most sacred of the Druid lore. And so the Keltar's purpose had been mapped out. Heal, teach, guard. Enrich the world for the wrong they'd done it.
The fabulous and dangerous knowledge, including sacred geometry and star guides, had been carefully inked in thirteen volumes and upon seven stone tablets, and the Keltar Druids guarded that bank of knowledge with their souls. They tended Scotland, they used the stones only when necessary for the world's greater good, and they did their best to quell the rumors about them.