Argh! he thought, closing his eyes. How?

Though he grudgingly accepted his immortality, after five hundred years there was much about himself he still despised. By Dagda, he’d been born in the ninth century! There was a part of him that was hopelessly old-fashioned. Although time’s passage had carried him out of the ninth century, nothing could remove the ninth-century sensibilities from his heart. Part of him was a simple warrior and superstitious man who believed that magic sprang from evil; hence, he was an abomination teetering on the brink of corruption.

He suspected that holding on to his birth-century’s mores made him a bit of a barbarian, but that was preferable to what he might have become.

Still, he had to reach a decision, and soon. He needed to tell Lisa what he was and offer her the same, before her mortality completely undid him.

Helplessly, he’d begun to obsess about her environment. She suddenly seemed incredibly vulnerable. He’d begun to blow out rushlights compulsively, afraid they might spark and catch the tapestries and she would die in something as senseless as a castle fire. He’d begun to study every man he encountered, seeking hints of any possible threat to her existence. Armand’s attempt to abduct her had escalated his fears. She was delicate, and one slip of a knife could steal her from him forever. Once, he’d thought forever was bitter indeed, but now, having loved her, if he lost her, forever would be a cold, bleak hell.

Perhaps, via their special bond, she would understand and accept. Perhaps the thought of living forever would appeal to her. He would never know until he tried. The worst that could happen was that she would be horrified, reject him, and try to escape. If that occurred, he worried, he might truly revert to his ninth-century self, and lock her up until she agreed to drink from the flask. Or worse—do to her what Adam had done to him.

* * *

Lisa was curled in a chair before the fire when he entered the study. She smiled warmly at him. They shared a wordless greeting with their eyes, then she patted the chair beside her. He moved to her side and rested a portion of his weight on the arm of the chair, and bent to kiss her thoroughly. God, he couldn’t bear the thought of ever losing her.

When he finally forced himself to break the kiss—it was either that or tup her right there in the chair with the study door open—she glanced at him curiously and said, “You were frustrated today. Many times. What is worrying you, Circenn?”

He sighed. Sometimes their bond was a troublesome thing; there wasn’t much he could hide from her, and the effort of withholding his emotions was exhausting. “You were stricken by ennui,” he countered, not yet ready to broach the difficult conversation. Better to savor a few moments of peace and intimacy. “But then you seem to be that way often when you are not in my bed,” he teased. In bed was precisely where he wanted her now. Perhaps lulled by sensual satisfaction she would be more receptive. A mercenary tactic, but deployed with love. He caressed her hair, savoring the silky feel between his fingers.

Lisa laughed, a low, inviting sound. “Circenn, I need something to do with myself. I need to feel … involved.”

He’d been thinking that very thing, as her frustration had attended him for quite some time now, ever since their bond had blossomed into existence. He knew that in her century Lisa had worked constantly, and she was a woman who needed to feel she had accomplished something worthwhile at the end of the day.

“I will have Duncan bring you the list of the pending disputes to be heard in the manor court in Ballyhock. Would you like that? Galan has been hearing the cases for the past few years and would be pleased to get quit of the position.”

“Really?” Lisa was delighted. She would love to immerse herself in the villagers’ lives, perhaps make friends among the young women. Someday, she would have children with Circenn, and she missed having a girlfriend. She would want her children to have playmates. She didn’t understand why Circenn had kept himself so distant from his people in the past, but she planned to bring him close again. Hearing the cases and mingling with the clansmen would be the perfect way to set her plans in motion.

“Certainly. They will be most pleased.”

“Are you certain they will accept a mere lass deciding disputes?” she asked worriedly.

“You are not a mere lass. And they adored you when they met you at the feast. Besides, I am Brude, Lisa.”

“I must have missed that part of history in school. Who were the Brude?”

“Ah, merely the most valiant warriors who ever lived,” he said, arching an arrogant brow. “We are the original Picts; many of our kings were named Brude, until we assumed that as our name. Brodie is merely another form.” Is now the time to tell her more of my history? That my half-brother Drust the Fourth was slain by Kenneth McAlpin in 838? “Being Brude, the descent of royalty in my line was matrilineal for centuries, handed down through the queens, not our kings. The crown transferred to brothers or nephews or cousins as traced by a complicated series of intermarriages by seven royal houses. My people will readily accept the decisions of the Lady of Brodie.”