Although Dageus had referred to Cian as “kinsman” in Tiedemann’s, Jessi had decided that Dageus must have believed they were somehow distantly related in current day, that Cian was an illegitimate, distant cousin or something.
Certainly not that he was an ancient ancestor who’d been trapped in a mirror for eleven centuries. Really, what sort of person would readily accept that kind of nonsense? She certainly hadn’t. She’d resisted until the last possible moment, only when she’d been forced to concede that her life was at stake.
But Dageus wasn’t having any problem with it at all. Which pointed to only one logical conclusion.
“So, I guess none of you MacKeltars are normal, huh?” she probed.
He smiled faintly. “Nay, not exactly. I’m fair certain my wife will tell the tale better than I, but I and my twin, whom you’ll meet shortly, are from the sixteenth century.”
Jessi blinked. “Did you turn too? Is that how you got here?”
“Turn?”
“Into a dark sorcerer,” she clarified. “Is that how you and your brother ended up here? Did you guys get stuck in things, too?”
Dageus made a choking sound. “By the sweet saints, is Cian a dark sorcerer, then, lass?”
“Don’t you know anything about your ancestor?”
“His name was stricken from all Keltar annals eleven centuries ago. Verily, until just recently when the underground chamber was reopened, we believed him a legend, naught more. Is he a dark sorcerer, then?”
“He seems to think so. I’m not so sure.”
“How did he end up in the mirror?”
“I don’t know. He won’t talk about it. Yet,” she added firmly. Jessi’d had several epiphanies today while hunting for Cian, terrified that she might never see him again. The day had stretched on and on, and, alone with her thoughts and fears, certain facts had attained a stark clarity in her mind.
One was that she wanted to know everything there was to know about Cian MacKeltar. All of it, good and bad. She knew from the parts of his stories that had penetrated her stupor the night he’d killed the assassin masquerading as Room Service, that he’d had a wonderful childhood in the Highlands. She knew also that, somewhere, something had gone terribly wrong. She wanted to know what it was; how he’d ended up in the mirror; how he could think he was a dark sorcerer when every time she looked at him, she saw light.
Oh, not pure sweet blinding light. Not even close. Cian MacKeltar wasn’t that kind of man and would never be. Truth was, she didn’t much like that kind of man anyway. Cian wasn’t one of the bad guys—but he could be if necessary, at the drop of a hat and utterly without remorse.
But “bad guy” wasn’t his primary persona. He was what psychologists and anthropologists would call an Alpha male, men who were defined by an inherent lawlessness. They obeyed only their own code, and if it happed to briefly converge with the laws of society-at-large, it was mere coincidence. One could never be completely certain what an Alpha male would do if he, or those he considered his, were threatened. One could only hope to stay within an Alpha male’s protected circle—or as far out of his line of sight as possible.
Jessi knew where she wanted to be, smack at the center of Cian MacKeltar’s protected circle. And not just because someone was after her, but because he wanted her there under any circumstances. That was the second epiphany she’d had today while frantically hunting for him.
“But you doona think he’s dark, eh, lass?” Dageus jarred her from her thoughts. “You think he’s a good man? Do you believe in him, lass? With your heart?”
She looked at him curiously. There was a note of urgency in his voice, as if the question was very important to him. “You don’t even know me. Would it matter to you if I did?”
“Och, aye, Jessica. A woman’s thoughts and feelings always matter to Keltar men.”
Hmmm. With each passing moment, she was liking Keltar men more and more.
“So? Do you?” he pressed.
“Yes,” Jessi said without reservation. “I do.”
When they got to the castle—Crimeny, she was in a castle!—Dageus guided her through at such breakneck speed that her surroundings whizzed by and she hardly managed to see a thing.
She got a brief, astonished glimpse of a magnificent great hall with a fabulous fairy-tale staircase that descended from both sides of the upper stories, a rapid look at a stunning suit of armor in an alcove, and a much-too-hasty glance into a darkly paneled room adorned by ancient weaponry, with claymores, battle-axes, spears, and broadswords gracing the walls in intriguing geometric patterns. She’d positively itched to grab a chair, pull them down, and begin testing for authenticity. Though she suspected everything she was seeing was the genuine article.