Her breath feathered over his lips and he gripped her hips, reveling in the feel of her beneath his hands. She was hot and soft against him and smelled so good that his mind—
“Oh, check it out.” A giggling voice filtered into the alley.
The sound of laughing witches disappeared down the street, but rational thought snapped back into place, cold as the Arctic. He pushed away.
“What?” Confusion and lust clouded her eyes as they searched his face. “Why’d you stop?”
Warren’s breath heaved out of his lungs as his mind scrambled to understand what he’d almost done. “Because it’s a bad fucking idea. You’re a damned power leech. A mercenary who’s spent decades selling your loyalty to whoever pays the most.”
The words were true, but too harsh. He’d said them to remind himself of what she was and why he shouldn’t want her. With Aurora nearly on the loose, he couldn’t be distracted by Esha.
Comprehension cleared the confusion from her eyes. Hurt and anger followed. Her jaw hardened. “Fuck you, Warren. I came here for a lay. I figured you were just as good as the next guy. It’s not often that I get to fuck a Mythean.”
Jealousy tore through him at the idea of her with another, but he crushed it. “I’m the only immortal you canna destroy and I’m no’ interested. Go find yourself a mortal to play with.”
CHAPTER FOUR
17th century, Scottish Highlands
“All I knows is, there’s witches here. In this very town.”
“Aye. I heard that red-haired Megan is one. Only a matter of time afore they catch her.”
Warren slouched farther into his seat in the dark little pub and tried to ignore the voices behind him. It was all the same these days—villagers grumbling about witches and ridiculous hysteria about black magic. None of it existed, of course, but it didn’t stop the cruel idiots from buying into the madness that was being imported from Edinburgh and farther south.
He gripped the tankard in his hand and focused on the amber liquid within, having to forcibly repress the desire to stand up and smash it over the heads of the bastards behind him. Their prejudice cost good lives. Had cost the life of his grandmother, a batty old woman, but not a witch. It hadn’t stopped them from putting her on the pyre, though.
“You’ll want to loosen your grip there, lad, before you lose your drink.” The deep voice knocked him out of his foul memories and he looked up to see Bruce.
“About time you got here,” he said, and loosened his grip. He couldn’t do anything to the bastards behind him. Like cockroaches, there were too many of them. Kill those and a dozen more with the same deadly, moronic beliefs would replace them. And he’d be hanged for murder, unable to do what good he could. Because even if he hated the type of bastard sitting behind him, he loved his clan and wouldn’t watch their women burned.
“I’ve got a pregnant woman who needs to make it to the port,” Bruce said under his breath. “Tomorrow night.”
Warren’s lips tightened. A pregnant woman. Bloody hell. Would the horrors never cease?
“From our village?” He didn’t know of any pregnant women being targeted as witches. As part of a covert band of individuals who helped smuggle women to safety once they’d been labeled witches, he should know of her if she were from here.
“Nay. From the other side of the mountain. She’s got kin in America. Now that she’s only a trial away from going up on the pyre, she’s decided to join them.”
Warren couldn’t laugh at the dark joke. It hit too close to home. The trial would find her guilty. If his comrades smuggled her to him, he’d get her through the forest and to the port. Safely, if they could stay out of sight of his fellow citizens.
The next night arrived moonless and rainy. A terrible night to try to get through the woods. Worse, the pregnant woman, called Avera, looked to be about a day away from giving birth. Wrapped in a dark cloak, she was slender but for the great belly that slowed her walk to a waddle.
“Are you sure you can do this? We have miles to go through the forest,” he asked her as the rain pounded down upon them. They stood on the side of the road where his colleagues had delivered her to him.
“I’ve no other choice.”
A rustle from the farm cart behind them drew his attention and another cloaked figure climbed out, apparently done talking to the driver.
“Mother, let me go with you,” the figure said as she approached. Warren caught sight of golden eyes and a strong face. The woman looked too old to be the daughter of the pregnant woman.
“Nay.” Avera’s voice was hard. “You won’t survive in the New World. There’s no’ enough power there.”
Warren frowned at the odd turn of phrase.
“How will you survive?” There were tears in the younger woman’s voice.
“I’ve no choice, you know that. You canna protect me. You’ll die trying, and I won’t have that. In a few years, if more of our kind go to the New World and you can survive there, I’ll send for you. But for now, you must look out for yourself without me to burden you.”