Daar looked out the window beside the door, in the direction of TarStone. “You said Grace Sutter? Is she our Mary’s sister?”
Another wave of pain rolled over Grey’s face as he stared at Daar. He nodded. “Yes. She’s Mary’s sister.”
The old priest stared at the warrior he’d befriended four years ago, when Grey and nine other men had burst into his church. They had formed a pact of necessary means. The men needed him to show them the way, and he needed Greylen MacKeage to father his heir.
Not that Daar had ever mentioned that little detail to the warrior. He was wise enough to have a care for his own welfare. Laird MacKeage had been dangerously mad four years ago, to find himself in a situation he could not control. And if he could have found a target for his anger, well, Daar knew for a fact he would not be here today. The man had a temper that no sane person—semi-immortal or not — would want directed at him.
The old wizard watched the agitated warrior as he downed another full glass of water. This woman, this Grace Sutter, meant something to Grey.
Daar suddenly became excited. Could it be that he was finally going to meet the mother of his heir?
He looked down at the bairn in his arms and frowned. The babe presented a problem. The woman Grey had traveled so far to claim was not supposed to be a mother already.
“I’m leaving,” Grey suddenly said, heading for the door.
“Once I have Grace, I’m bringing her here to warm her up. Take care of the babe, and have the fire burning strong. And keep your stew warm.”
“Wait. You forgot your jacket.”
“I donna need it. It only makes me sweat. I only wore it for the bairn.”
Daar stared at him. “You’re relishing this challenge,” he said.
“I’m not,” Grey snapped, swinging toward him. “My woman is dying on the mountain.”
Daar held up his hand. “And you’ll save her. But you’ve regressed to your old warrior ways, running through a frozen forest half naked, pushing yourself beyond reasonable endurance. All you’re lacking is the war paint.”
Grey stared at him.
Daar pointed his age-bent finger directly at Grey. “You’re more alive than you’ve been in four years.”
The warrior suddenly let out a Gaelic curse that should have set the cabin on fire.
Daar laughed out loud until his eyes watered. “You’re going to hell for cursing a priest, MacKeage!” he shouted at Grey’s disappearing back. “Go save your woman. And bring her back here for me to meet.”
He was talking to an empty room. Grey was already off the porch and running to Gu Bràth. Daar wiped the moisture from his eyes and looked down at the now sleeping infant. He gently pulled the no longer wanted nipple out of its mouth.
He was a pretty bairn. And young. He weighed less than Daar’s cherrywood cane. The old priest smiled at the picture the child presented. Grey had taken the oversized towel and wrapped it around the babe’s bottom and then over its chest like a plaid. Only his arms and legs and one shoulder remained uncovered.
And that was when Daar discovered another unsettling fact that disturbed him greatly.
Grace Sutter’s babe had twelve toes.
They almost missed her, the visibility was so poor. Grey had the door to the snowcat opened before the track-driven machine came to a stop. He ran to the giant spruce and pulled the stiff, frozen jacket and shirts down as he looked around, getting his bearings. The crust was now thick enough to hold even his considerable weight, and he paced to the north another ten feet.
He looked down and saw nothing but smooth white ice.
“You said you left her in a snow cave?” Morgan asked, coming up behind Grey. “Where?”
“Here,” he told him, pointing at where the entrance should have been. “Right in this drift.”
“It was dark,” Callum reminded him, coming up beside both men. He was carrying an axe.
Grey was glad at least one of them was thinking clearly. He took the axe from Callum and started banging the crust along the drift. Now that it was daylight, but still raining, he could see that the drift was nearly twenty feet wide, running along and below an outcropping of ledge. He ordered his men to be silent and listened to the thump of the axe.
He had never in his life been as scared as he was now. Not even four years ago when the storm had carried them all through hell. Then his only focus had been survival, but if he had died, so be it. This time, however, he feared for the life of another.
And that fear was beginning to turn to panic.
Ian joined the party of three, moving awkwardly as he approached on legs riddled with arthritis. “It’s been hours. The lass might not be alive,” he suggested softly.
“She damn well better be alive,” Grey said, not looking up from his task. And that’s when he saw it, a faint, barely visible glow of blue light just beneath the surface of ice. “Here,” he said, tossing the axe away and getting down on his knees. “Start digging, but use your fists, not tools.”
Morgan and Callum got down on their knees with Grey and began beating the crust with their bare, calloused hands. Ian picked up the axe and used it to pull away the broken pieces they produced.
In less than a minute they broke through the barrier he had used to seal Grace up, and Grey closed his eyes at what he found.
She was dead. There was no color left in her face, save for her blue lips. She was clutching the tin that held Mary’s ashes, and when he tried to remove it he couldn’t. Her arms were locked in their embrace.
Grey pulled himself back out of the hole. He closed his eyes, raised his face to the unending rain, and roared with the anger of a wounded beast.
“By God, that woke the dead,” Ian said, pushing Callum aside to move closer. “She flinched. I tell you, the lass just moved.”
Grey jerked as if he’d been punched. He dove back into the cave and took Grace by the shoulders, gently prying her out. He had her in his arms and was already started for the snowcat before the others could scramble out of the way.
“Morgan. Get her things from the cave,” he said. “Callum, open this door. Ian, get this goddamned cat started again. You shouldn’t have shut it off.”
“Ya wanted silence,” Ian reminded him as he headed around the snowcat to climb into the driver’s seat.
Callum, wisely silent, held the door while Grey climbed inside without loosening his hold on the frighteningly stiff woman curled up in his arms like an unborn baby.
Though Callum and Ian were several years Grey’s senior, all of the men had grown up in a time when a laird’s words, orders, and temper were to be taken seriously.
Grey was glad that some old habits died hard.
He knew he was being unreasonable, but he couldn’t help it. The woman in his arms was lifeless. She had given him the gift of her trust last night, and he’d very nearly broken it.
Grey took up the entire backseat of the cat, which meant that Morgan had to ride in the back cargo area in the open rain. The young warrior didn’t complain. He simply tossed Grace’s bag in with Grey and slammed the door shut. Two seconds later he pounded on the roof, signaling Ian to go.
The large, surprisingly nimble snowcat roared into action, turning around and starting its careful descent back down the mountain, its sure-footed tracks following the same path it had used to ascend. Tree limbs slapped at the windows and roof, raining ice and broken branches over the loudly protesting forest they were leaving behind. Morgan was scrunched up against the back window, his arms covering his head.
Grey knew nothing of what was happening around him. He wasn’t even aware they were moving. He was focused on Grace, his hand over her heart, searching for a heartbeat.
“Good Lord,” Callum said, turning around in the front seat to face Grey. “Her hair is frozen solid.”