Chapter Three
“I can’t…”
He wasn’t sure if he’d spoken the words, but somehow he knew there was another presence beside him.
“Yes, you can.”
She spoke. It was a woman. Perhaps an angel come to lead him to Heaven. But if so, why was she taking him here?
The thick fog became a thinner mist and he was able to make out some familiar details. Green hills, waterfalls, lakes of silver and small holdings dotting the landscape. It was Ireland. He was home.
“My land,” he whispered.
“Yes,” came the answer. “It’s beautiful. Where is it?”
He wanted to chuckle. An angel who couldn’t recognise the Emerald Isle? “’Tis Ireland, of course.” His gaze roamed over the distant hills, topped with grey clouds. “The most wonderful place on earth.”
“And yet you are not happy to be here…”
He gulped. The view was shifting, blurring, then clearing to reveal his home. “No, I cannot say that I am glad to be here.”
“Why is that?”
Always the gentle prodding, the soft questions he felt obliged to answer. “There’s none left. Nobody. My family…all gone…” A sob rose in his throat but he choked it down. “I didn’t know they starved. I didn’t know they fell ill. When I got to them it was too late.”
“Such terrible things,” murmured the voice. “No one has escaped this tragedy.”
“Why do I still live? Why am I seeing this? I need to die, to end this misery.”
“Tell me your name,” said the sweet voice.
He paused, seeing the images of his home fading away, to be replaced by an empty sea lapping at a deserted coastline. His name…she’d asked him his name… “I cannot remember,” he sighed. “I am no one.”
“You are someone. You are important, dear sir. How should I address you?”
He frowned. Why didn’t she stop questioning him? Tormenting him for words he could barely form? A tiny lick of anger shot through him and he clenched his teeth, fighting to find something in his head…some sound…some utterance that would silence her.
“F—F—” he stuttered, “my name…it’s Finn…”
“There you are. Well done, Mr. Finn. You have a name. You are someone…someone I’d like to know better.”
He had a name. He was Finn.
It sounded right, comfortable even. So yes, he was Finn. And he was so tired.
The images, visions, were fading. Afraid that this was the last time he’d see anything at all, he gripped the small hand that still held his. “Is this the end?”
“Only for now. You must sleep, Mr. Finn. And you will get well. I promise.”
A hand brushed his forehead, and the soft scent of something flowery filled his nostrils. Lilacs, maybe, or lily of the valley…he wasn’t sure…and he was too tired to think about it anymore…
*~~*~~*
Hecate slumped in her chair, breathing slowly and deeply as she emerged from the psychical link she’d managed to share with the man she now knew as Finn. She’d dabbled in such things before, but never to such a detailed extent.
And it had drained her.
She was physically and mentally fatigued, as if she’d run a long race while holding an egg on the edge of a sword. There were so many elements in play when connecting to another’s thoughts; more than some of the simpler experiences she’d come to accept as a routine part of who she was. Her intuitions, which many viewed as predictions, were really just intuitions, but when she believed something might occur, it usually did. Others said the same things, but with less assurance.
She was no different in that regard, just more convinced that she was correct.
Recently, she’d learned that she could influence her surroundings. She could not recreate a room, of course, but she could influence the way it was perceived by others.
Again, this was simply a matter of suggestion. Some people, when told a piece of cloth was black, would see it as black. Even if it was a dark blue. Hecate did much the same thing, on a deeper level, merely suggesting that a room appeared cosy and warm for example, so that guests would feel at home. She’d tried that with much success during her time in Chillendale just before Christmas, but again it had completely exhausted her.
The feelings and emotions she picked up from others—they could be worrisome. So she’d taught herself how to block them, filter them, to choose those that were important and leave the rest behind.
Of course, all her good intentions had gone out of the window when Dancey Miller-James had walked into her life and swept her off her feet. She felt the usual dart of disgust for herself when she thought of him, and now, being tired and worried about her patient, she deliberately closed that door. Old mistakes would always be there, but didn’t need to be brought into the light of day when she wasn’t up to dealing with them.
More composed, she stood, wincing a little as her leg reminded her that sitting a long time in one position was not always the best idea. Rubbing her hip, she wandered around the room, stretching a little, ordering her body to function much as she ordered her mind to focus. She needed to sort out what she’d learned and add it to what she already knew.
A soft tap on the door announced Dal, come to take over the night hours of watchfulness.
She smiled at him. “I made progress, Dal. We have exchanged thoughts.”
“Indeed, Miss Hecate?” Dal’s eyebrows rose. “This is good news. Now we can be reassured there is still someone in there.” He looked at the man lying beneath the covers. “I confess to some concern in that regard, given his lack of conscious behaviour.”
“As was I.” She rotated her shoulders, letting the muscles relax. “His name is Finn, and he’s from Ireland.”
“Excellent. Two details we did not know until now.” Dal paused. “Would that be a Christian name or a surname?”
“Hmm.” She blinked. “I don’t know. We didn’t really get that far.”
Dal put another log on the fire, then turned to take Hecate’s vacated chair. “So Mr. Finn from Ireland is here with us. Did he tell you how he came to be here?”
She shook her head. “No. His thoughts are filled with pain, Dal. It would seem his family all died before he reached them. Perhaps he was elsewhere with his brigade—we know he was a soldier from his clothing—and when he returned to Ireland, there was no one left.” She sighed. “He said they’d starved or passed away from some disease. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was typhus, since one doesn’t need to be brilliant to realise that starvation and fatal illnesses walk hand in hand.”
Dal nodded. “’Tis so, I’m afraid. Your assumptions have merit.” He looked back at the dark hair and pale face of their patient. “Perhaps the touch of your mind is enough to rouse his.”
“We shall see.” She moved to the door. “He sleeps now, and the typhus has passed, so let us pray that his rest will start to heal the parts that are still damaged.”
“A worthy suggestion.”
“Oh, one thing…” She paused. “When you have been caring for him, did you notice that lump on his head? Do you have any idea what might have caused it?”
Dal frowned. “I assumed his perilous progress through a rough forest would have accounted for it. I did not concern myself unduly. Why?”
“That was my first thought too. But upon consideration, such an accident would most likely have affected his face or the sides of his head. Not the back of it. I would venture a guess that it might well be a strike by something hard, and with great force.”
“That makes little sense, Miss Hecate,” puzzled Dal. “Unless you believe someone attacked him?”
She nodded. “I hate to say it, but yes, that is my initial assessment. What if his physical state was so poor that he could not defend himself? His body barely had enough strength to fight the typhus, let alone avoid attack. Now that he’s healthy again, we might also see bruising, perhaps. Or other manifestations of injuries that would otherwise have been readily visible. We’ll watch for them.”
“’Tis a theory, I suppose. But I cannot speak to its veracity.” Dal was nothing if not honest.
“That’s all right,” yawned Hecate. “I’ll not ask you to speak to anything, dear Dal.” She grinned. “Especially not now. I’m exhausted.”
“Then rest.” He settled himself into the chair. “We are warm and comfortable. All is well.”
“Very good. I will.” She opened the door and looked back. “And a good night to you both.”
She walked to her room and sighed with relief as the glow of the fire welcomed her into her personal sanctuary. The scent of sage and thyme greeted her, familiar friends who travelled with her down paths that others might not even realise were there.
Slipping into her nightclothes, Hecate knew she should simply scramble into her lovely bed and sink into blissful sleep. But something was nudging at her mind, a half-formed thought, perhaps, or an idea that required pursuing. Her scrying bowl sat ready on a low table by her window, and it drew her as surely as if it had called her name out loud.
Cut from dark stone and smooth as silk, it was filled with fresh rainwater, and stood between two candles cradled in small crystal candlesticks. She lit them with a taper, then sat in front of them, watching the surface of the water ripple slightly at her movements. When all was once again still, she opened the lid of the small box that sat off to one side, and removed an elegant glittering shard of amethyst crystal. It was her favourite piece and the one she’d found worked best for scrying.
Placing it in the exact centre of the bowl, she took a cleansing breath and cleared her thoughts, focussing only on the shades of lavender and purple emanating from the crystal. It was a familiar process and in only a matter of moments she felt peacefulness sweep over her. As if a door had opened inside her mind, she grew aware of her surroundings in a different way, connecting to the elements, alert to the slightest wisps of sound, and calmly absorbing all these sensations with an expanded sense of her reality.
As she sank deeper, the surface of the water blurred, and she slowed her breathing, letting her body completely relax as her mind took over and watched as pictures began to form.
It was him. Finn.
He was riding, his face joyful, holding a huge flag which billowed out behind him. Then his body bent forward, his expression changed to one of serious intent and he spurred the horse, galloping furiously into a dusty cloud of something…a battle…flashes of steel, flying dirt, bodies—so many bodies—and Finn riding pell-mell over the chaos, shouting now, lifting the flag high.
She lost sight of him as the battle raged on, the flag vanishing into the massive eruption of soldiers and swords and cannon fire.
Her heart thudded and she fought to slow the pace, lest she lose this vision, this glimpse into Finn’s past.
It was too late. The battle vanished, but another image began to form…this time, Finn was laughing with a mug of ale in his hand. He was bare to the waist and looking across the room at a bed. His eyes were merry, his hand slipped to his breeches…and Hecate gasped as he unfastened them, letting them fall to the floor over his bare feet.
Nude, he put the tankard down and walked slowly to where an equally nude woman awaited him, her limbs sprawled languorously over the tumbled linens, her head hidden by the pillows.
Hecate sat transfixed. Finn, healthy and well fed, was a beautiful sight. Sleek muscles were well-defined, his legs strong and firm, his shoulders wider than she’d imagined.
And he was aroused, too. Such matters were not a surprise to her, since she had long studied nature and the human body. Those studies had helped her understand some of the healing processes she used, and had also educated her on the business of begetting a child. So Finn’s nude body and his aroused cock caught her attention but did not shock her as much as intrigue her.
He jumped onto the bed, making the woman bounce. She laughed and Hecate felt the excitement that rolled over her at his touch. God, would she feel that same thing if she were touched like that?
It seemed almost improper to have discovered this moment in her vision, but she was helpless to look away. Finn pushed the woman’s legs wide and settled himself between them, touching her breasts, running his hands over her skin and finally positioning himself to thrust within.
Hecate almost felt it—the stretching penetration as he entered the woman’s body to be greeted with a cry of pleasure.
She tried to clear her mind, but the image was there, inexorably filling her thoughts, showing her the pleasure to be had between a man and a woman. Between Finn and a woman…
His buttocks were firm and the muscles flexed as he began to move, in and out, sliding his hands to her thighs and gripping them, pulling the woman into his strokes.
Hecate felt herself dampen, her body responding enthusiastically to the vision of Finn’s thrusts.
She fought it, tried to extricate herself from the scene of passion playing out before her psychic eyes.
But it was too late.
The woman cried out—a sound that rang in Hecate’s ears—and as she found her release, she arched and lifted her head from the pillow. Her head turned and she stared directly at Hecate, whose breath caught in a giant choking gasp.
The woman beneath Finn?
It was her.