Highland Awakening by Kathryn Lynn Davis

Author:Kathryn Lynn Davis [Davis, Kathryn Lynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Historical, Scottish, Regency, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy, Magical Realism, Historical Romance
Amazon: B0192JX2RW
Publisher: Duncurra LLC
Published: 2014-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

It was the oddest thing. The more Magnus dreamed, the less concerned he became with the factions within his clan. He could see quite clearly they were bored, and he put as many as he could to work shoring up the castle walls, building new ones, bringing in stones for the wall around the moat, and making the intact chambers more livable. It was a wise decision, though he was well aware no one would ever call him Magnus the Astute. Still, he was determined they would not call him Magnus the Foolish.

He continued his healing duties while overseeing the plans for re-making the castle, but he was restless, impatient, as though he were waiting for something he knew nothing about.

“Are ye goin’ to be growlin’ at me today again?” Sam asked flippantly. “Because if ye are, I might as well go home and let my father do it.”

Magnus looked up in surprise. “Growl at ye? Why on earth would I do that, lass?”

Her eyes widened. “Because tis the only way ye talk to me lately. I’d begun to think ye’d forgotten your words.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You’re exaggerating, just like ye always do!” he said with a wee bit more force than he intended.

Hands on hips, she faced him squarely. “Is that so?” Sam was angry herself now, tired of explaining away all his little slights and rudenesses. “Well, then, I’ll take myself from your hearin’, since my voice is so calamitous.” Just like that, she disappeared.

Staring at the place where she had been a moment past, Magnus realized he was frowning fiercely. Sam was right; he was behaving like an ogre, or a MacDonnell, as Hugh would have said. Something was weighing heavily on his mind, and he did not want to admit it might have anything to do with the promise of the dream, which was given again and again, only to be taken away as often. He ached with that lost promise, and that was something he would not confess to anyone.

~ * ~

That night the dream swallowed him whole. Magnus fought it at first, but the pull was too strong. It attacked his body, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, with music that pulsed through his heart and his veins, so he throbbed with each note and rose, full of sensation, with each crescendo. The reed whistle danced along his skin like an invisible caress, while the strings of the hand harp followed, plucking, sliding, skimming along his torso with the skill and the rapture of angels.

When his body sang out for release, the music subsided, and he heard The Voice—strong but imperative. It called to him as a siren would, like the beauties who crooned the great warships of old onto the rocky shores, where they were wrecked and all their treasures and their manhood taken.

It urged him in the tone of a warrior, ready for battle, ready for blood, ready for victory at any cost.

It prevailed on him as warriors prevailed on their destriers to carry them, and their armor to safeguard them.

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