His Immortal Embrace Read online

  HIS IMMORTAL HUNGER

  He tensed as he heard someone slip into his room. The fact that the scent he picked up was Sophie’s did not ease his tension at all. This was a very bad time for her to come to his bedchamber. He listened to her take a few hesitant steps toward him, then stop. Slowly, he took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he savored her scent.

  Another scent tantalized him, and he grew so tense his muscles ached as he opened his eyes to stare blindly out the window. Sophie smelled of desire. Alpin hastily finished his drink, but it satisfied only one hunger. There was another now raging inside of him, fed by the hint of feminine musk. He breathed it in, opening his mouth slightly to enhance his ability, and the blood began to pound in his veins.

  “Go away, Sophie,” he said. “ ’Tisnae a good time for ye to be near me.”

  “I felt ye return,” she said, taking another step toward him. “I wished to see that ye had come to no harm.”

  “I am still alive, if ye can call this living.”

  She sighed, but decided not to try to dispute his words this time. “I felt—”

  “What? The beastie in me? The ferocity? The bloodlust? Or,” he looked at her over his shoulder, “just the lust?”

  Sophie shook her head. “I felt that ye needed me, but, mayhap, that was just vanity.”

  He turned to look at her more fully. “Nay, not vain. I do need ye, but I willnae allow myself to feed that hunger…”

  From “The Yearning” by Hannah Howell

  His Immortal EMBRACE

  Hannah Howell

  Lynsay Sands

  Sara Blayne

  Kate Huntington

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  CONTENTS

  THE YEARNING

  by Hannah Howell

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  BITTEN

  by Lynsay Sands

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  STRANGER IN THE NIGHT

  by Sara Blayne

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  THE AWAKENING

  by Kate Huntington

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE YEARNING

  Hannah Howell

  Prologue

  Scotland—A.D. 1000

  “Nay!”

  Morvyn Galt woke shaking and sweating with fear. The scent of magic was thick in the air. She scrambled out of her bed and yanked on her clothes. She could feel her sister’s anger, feel how Rona’s broken heart was twisting within her chest, changing into a hard, ugly thing that pumped hate throughout her body instead of the love it once held. Morvyn knew she would not be in time to stop the evil her sister stirred up, but she had to try. She grabbed her small bag and raced toward Rona’s cottage, praying as hard as she could despite her fear that her prayers would go unheeded.

  When she reached Rona’s tiny home, she tried to open the door only to find it bolted against her. The smoke coming from the house was so heavy with the scent of herbs and sorcery that her eyes stung. She banged against the door, pleading with Rona as she heard her sister begin her incantation.

  “Nay, Rona!” she screamed. “Cease! You will damn us all!”

  “I damn but one,” replied Rona, “and well does he deserve it.”

  Placing her hand over her womb, Rona stared into the fire and saw the face of her lover, her seducer, her betrayer. He was marrying another in the morning, forsaking love for land and coin. She would make him suffer for that, as she now suffered.

  “Rage for rage, pain for pain, blood for blood, life for life.” Rona swayed slightly as she spoke, stroking her belly as she tossed a few more painstakingly mixed herbs into the fire.

  “Rona, please! Do not do this!”

  “As mine shall walk alone, so shall yours,” Rona continued, ignoring her sister’s pleas. “As mine shall be shunned, so shall yours.”

  Morvyn scrambled to find something to write with. She needed to record this. As she sprawled on the ground to take advantage of the sliver of light seeping out from beneath the door, she realized she had no ink. From beneath the door she could see the smoke curling around her sister and saw Rona toss another handful of herbs upon the fire. Morvyn cut her palm with her dagger, wet her quill with her own blood, and began to write.

  “Your firstborn son shall know only shadows,” intoned Rona, “as shall his son, as shall his son’s son, and thus it shall be until the seed of the MacCordy shall wither from hate and fade into the mists.”

  Morvyn scattered her blessing and healing stones in front of the door, praying they might ease the force of the spell.

  “From sunset of the first day The MacCordy becomes a mon, darkness will take him as a lover, blood will be his wine, fury will steal his soul, yearning will devour his heart, and he will become a creature of nightmares.” Rona felt her child kick forcefully as if in protest, but continued.

  “He will know no beauty; he will know no love; he will know no peace.

  “The name of the MacCordys will become a foul oath, their tale one used to frighten all the Godly.

  “Thus it shall be, thus it shall remain, until one steps from the shadows of pride, land, and wealth and does as his heart commands.

  “Until all that should have been finally is.”

  Morvyn sat back on her heels and stared at the door. She could not believe her sister had acted so recklessly, so vindictively. Rona knew the dangers of flinging a curse out in anger, knew how the curse could fall back upon them threefold, yet, in her pain, she had ignored all the dangers. Morvyn placed her hand over her heart, certain she could feel the pain and misery of countless future generations, those of their blood as well as those of the MacCordys.

  The cottage door opened and Morvyn looked up at her sister. In the light of the torch Rona held, Morvyn could see the glow of hate and triumph in Rona’s blue-green eyes. Rona thought she had won some great victory. Morvyn knew otherwise and was not surprised to feel the sting of tears upon her cheeks.

  “Rona, how could you? How could you have done this?” she asked.

  “How could I? How could he?” Rona snapped, then frowned when she saw the blood upon Morvyn’s palm. “What have you done to yourself, you foolish child?”

  Morvyn began to pick up her things and return them to her bag. “I had no ink to mark down the words.”

  “So you wrote in blood?”

  “ ’Tis fitting. The Galts and the MacCordys shall be bleeding for ages after what you have done this night.” She felt the heat in her stones as she put them away and hoped the power they had expended had done some good.

  “You cannot keep such a writing about. Not only is it considered a sin for you to write at all, but those words could condemn me, condemn us all.”

  “You have condemned us, Rona. You knew the dangers.
”

  “Unproven. That is proof of sorcery, however,” she said, pointing to Morvyn’s writing.

  “I shall write the tale upon a scroll and hide it. Mayhap one of our blood will find it one day, one with the wit and strength to banish the evil you have stirred up this night.”

  “He had to pay for what he has done!”

  “He was wrong, but so were you. The poison you have spit out tonight will infect us all, the venom seeping into our bloodline as well as his. To do such magic on this night, at the birth of a new century, only ensures the power of the evil you have wrought.” Morvyn stood up and looked down at what she had written. “I fear you have stolen all hope of happiness for us, but I will not allow this to endanger your life. It will be well hidden. And every night for the rest of my life I shall pray that, when it is found, it will be by one of our blood, one who can free us all from the torment you have unleashed this dark night.”

  Chapter One

  Scotland—1435

  Sophie Hay stumbled slightly as another fierce sneeze shook her small frame. A linen rag was shoved into her hand, and she blew her nose, then wiped her streaming eyes with her sleeves. She smiled at her maid, Nella, who watched her with concern. Considering how long she had been scrambling through this ancient part of her Aunt Claire’s house, Sophie suspected she looked worthy of Nella’s concern.

  “I dinnae ken what ye think ye will find here,” Nella said. “Old Steven said her ladyship ne’er came in here; thought it haunted, and he thinks it may not be safe now.”

  “’Tis sturdy, Nella.” Sophie patted the stones framing the fireplace. “Verra sturdy. The rest of the house will fall ere this part does. The fact that that stone was loose,” she pointed to the one she had pried away from the wall, releasing the cloud of dust that had started her sneezing, “was what told me that something might be hidden here.”

  “And ye dinnae think this place be haunted?”

  Sophie inwardly grimaced, knowing she would have to answer with some very carefully chosen words or Nella would start running and probably not stop until she reached Berwick. “Nay. I sense no spirits in this room.” She would not tell Nella about all the others wandering in the house. “All I sense is unhappiness. Grief and a little fear. It was strong here by the fireplace, which is why I was searching here.”

  “Fear?” Nella’s dark eyes grew wide as she watched Sophie reach toward the hole in the wall. “I dinnae think ye ought to do that. Fear and grief arenae good. God kens what ye might find in there.”

  “I am certainly nay sticking my hand in there with any eagerness, Nella, but,” she sighed, “I also feel I must.” She ignored Nella’s muttered prayers, took a deep breath to steady herself, and reached in. “Ah, there is something hidden here.”

  Sophie grasped a cold metal handle on the end of what felt like a small chest. She tugged and felt it inch toward her a little. Whoever had put it into this hole had had to work very hard, for it was a tight fit. Inch by inch it came, until Sophie braced herself against the wall and yanked with all her might. The little chest came out so quickly, she stumbled backward and was only saved from falling by Nella’s quick, bracing catch.

  As she set the chest on a small table, Sophie noticed her maid edge closer, her curiosity obviously stronger than her fear. Sophie unfolded the thick oiled leather wrapped around the bulk of the chest, then used a corner of her apron to brush aside the dust and stone grit. It was a beautiful chest of heavy wood, ornately carved with runes and a few Latin words. The hinges, handles, and clasp were of hammered gold, but there was no lock. She rubbed her hands together as she prepared herself to open it.

  “What are all those marks upon it?” asked Nella.

  “Runes. Let me think. Ah, they are signs for protection, for hope, for forgiveness, for love. All good things. The words say: Within lies the truth, and, if it pleases God, the salvation of two peoples. How odd.” She stroked the top of the chest. “This is verra old. It must have just missed being discovered when the fireplace was added to the house. I wouldnae be surprised if this belonged to the matriarch of our line or one of her kinswomen.”

  “The witch?” Nella took a small step back. “A curse?”

  “I doubt it when such markings cover the chest.” She slowly opened the lid and frowned slightly. “More oiled leather for wrapping. Whoever hid this wanted it to last a verra long time.” She took out the longest of the items and carefully unwrapped it. “A scroll.” She gently unrolled the parchment and found another small one tucked inside. When she touched the erratic writing upon the smaller parchment, she shivered. “Blood. ’Tis written in blood.”

  “Oh, my lady, put it back. Quickly!” When Sophie simply pressed her hand upon the smaller parchment and closed her eyes, Nella edged nearer again. “What do ye see?”

  “Morvyn. That is the name of the one who wrote this. Morvyn, sister to Rona.”

  “The witch.”

  “Aye. No ink,” she muttered. “That is why this is written in blood. Morvyn had naught else to write with and she was desperate to record this exactly as it was said.” Sophie opened herself up to the wealth of feeling and knowledge trapped within the parchment. “She tried to stop it. So desperate, so afraid for us all. She prays,” Sophie whispered. “She prays and prays and prays, every night until she dies, sad and so verra alone.” She quickly removed her hand and took several deep breaths to steady herself.

  “Oh, m’lady, this is no treasure, is it?”

  “It may be. Beneath that despair was hope. That would explain the words carved upon the chest.”

  “Can ye read the writings?”

  “Aye, though I dinnae want to.”

  “Then dinnae.”

  “I must. That chest carries the words ‘truth’ and ‘salvation,’ Nella. Mayhap the truth as to why all the women of my line die as poor Morvyn died—sad and so verra alone. I willnae read it aloud.” Sophie’s eyes widened and she felt chilled as she read the words. “I cannae believe Morvyn wrote this. She feared these words.” Sophie turned her attention to the larger scroll. “Oh, dear.”

  “What is it?”

  “I fear Rona deserves her ill fame. She loved Ciar MacCordy, The MacCordy of Nochdaidh. They were lovers, but he left her to marry another, a woman with land and wealth. He also left her with child.”

  “As too oft happens, the rutting bastards,” muttered Nella.

  “True. Rona was hurt and her pain twisted into a vindictive fury. One night she cursed The MacCordy and all the future MacCordy lairds. Morvyn tried to stop it, but failed. Her fear was that the Galts would pay dearly alongside The MacCordy, if in a different way. She writes out the curse again and, trust me, Nella, ’tis a bad one. She expresses the hope that some descendant will find this and have the courage and skill to undo what Rona did. Ah, me, poor Morvyn tried her whole life to do just that, with prayer and with healing spells. She wrote once right after the curse was made, and again when she was verra old. She leaves her book of cures and spells as well as her stones. The use of the stones is explained in the book.

  “Morvyn says she thinks she has discovered the sting in the tail of Rona’s curse. A Galt woman of their line will know love only to lose it, to watch it die or slip through her grasp. She will gain land and wealth, but such things will ne’er heal her heart or warm her in the night and she will face her death still unloved, still alone.” Sophie wiped tears from her cheeks with the corner of her apron. “And she was right, Nella. She was so verra right.”

  “Nay, nay. Your ancestors just chose wrong, ’tis all.”

  “For over four hundred years? This is dated. It was written in the year 1000. The verra first day.” Sophie muttered a curse. “That fool Rona sent out a curse on the eve of a new year, a new century. It was probably a night made to strengthen any magic brewed and she stirred up an evil, vindictive sort.”

  Nella wrung her hands together. “There isnae any of that evil in this house, is there?”

  Sophie smiled at her ma
id. “Nay. I sense that magic has been stirred in here, but nay the black sort.”

  “Then from where comes the fear and sadness?”

  “Heartache, Nella. Lost love. Loneliness.” Sophie cautiously picked up the two small bags inside the chest and gasped. “Oh my, oh my.”

  “M’lady, what is it?”

  “Morvyn’s stones.” She gently placed one bag back inside the chest on top of what she now knew was Morvyn’s book of cures and spells. “Those are her healing stones. These,” she clasped the small bag she held between her hands, “are her blessing stones.”

  Nella stepped closer and shyly touched the bag. “Ye can feel that, can ye?”

  “Morvyn had magic, Nella, good, loving, gentle magic.” She put everything back inside the chest. “How verra sad that such a woman suffered heartache and died unloved because of her own sister’s actions.” She closed the chest and started out of the room.

  “Where are ye taking it?” asked Nella as she hurried to follow Sophie.

  “To my room where, after a nice hot bath and a hearty meal, I mean to read Morvyn’s wee book.” She ignored Nella’s mutterings, which seemed to consist of warnings about leaving certain things buried in walls, not stirring up trouble, and several references to the devil and his minions. “I but seek the truth, Nella. The truth and salvation.”

  It was late before Sophie had an opportunity to more closely examine her find. The house, lands, and fortune her Aunt Claire had bequeathed her were welcome, but carried a lot of responsibility. Aunt Claire had been ill during her last years, mostly in spirit and mind, and there was a lot that had been neglected. Although wearied by all the demands for her attention during the day, Sophie finally sat on a thick sheepskin rug before the fire, sipped at a tankard of hot, spiced cider, and looked over what her ancestor had left behind.