With a wave of Tiarna’s hand the priest continued with his final prayer and blessing. He placed the cup in Mama’s two hands. She turned, faced Tiarna and took a sip, her blue eyes meeting his above the gilded rim.

«’Tis my heart’s desire.»

Mama looked beautiful. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders in gentle waves, haloed by the circlet of white flowers Branna had tied all by herself. Her mother passed the chalice to Tiarna and he sipped from the cup.

The blessed quiet was pierced by a chorus of high-pitched howls. Branna grabbed her mother’s skirt when three white hounds crashed through the double doors and galloped down the isle towards the priest.

Mama bent down and whispered, her voice calm, «Hide, my sweet, under the bord’s sacred cloth.» Mama pushed her towards the table, and then stepped off the dais. Branna saw Mama take the chalice and Tiarna’s proffered hand. He raised Mama’s hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. Then they turned, standing shoulder to shoulder to confront the terrible dogs.

Branna faced the altar, but her feet would not obey Mama’s command. She could only stare at the table covered by crossed white cloths embroidered with the same tree as in the windows. Tears stung her eyes. She wanted Mama.

Tiarna scooped her up, kissed the top of her head and pushed her under the table. «Do not come out till the dogs leave, Little Raven.»

Branna crouched under the heavy table. From a gap between the cloths, she saw the frenzy of the battle. The priest chanted words Branna did not understand. He stood before Mama and Tiarna, drawing a cross in the air. For a moment, the dogs hushed. Then, the hound with the reddest eyes leaped upon the old man, ripping at his throat. Branna had seen Tiarna’s hounds tear apart a hind in the same manner. The dogs turned next to Tiarna and Mama.

Mama stepped forwards and raised the chalice. Wine sloshed over the lip and down her arm. She stood ready to strike down the lead dog. Tiarna swept her behind him.

Terrified, Branna squeezed her eyes shut, determined to make the bad dogs disappear. The screams died quickly and all was quiet again. Branna felt hot, tinny air upon her face. She slowly opened her eyes straight into the blazing red orbs of a dog. The hound panted in her face, its breath heavy with the scent of the battle, his white fur flecked with blood and wine.

He growled low in his throat, and Branna crawled further under the table. With a last threatening snarl, the dog captured the chalice in his jaws, and led the other Hounds of Hell out of the chapel and into the night.

Branna ventured from beneath the table. Tiarna and the priest were sprawled in the aisle, not moving. Branna crawled to her mother who lay still at the base of the dais. The white flower crown had broken, its blossoms scattered about her mother’s body. Branna touched her beautiful mother’s face, which was torn and bloodied. Mama’s lifeless eyes were locked on Tiarna.

Branna screamed, the sound echoing in the empty chapel.

Branna swallowed the scream that threatened to escape her lips. She rode past a snagging tree, its bare branches sticking out like fingers twisted by age. The nearly full moonlight shimmered off its bark, turning it silver. A light breeze shook its limbs, as if warning her away. She shivered and wrapped her heavy, fur-trimmed cloak closer. She squeezed Molly’s ribs urging her on. The terrifying images of the past still left her quaking, but it would not dissuade her from her task. She must find the emerald chalice.

Branna’s memory of the man her mother had loved was small. She did not know his full name, only had called him «Tiarna», the Gaelic name for lord. Two things she knew for certain — he had made her mother sing and he’d saved her from certain death. No matter what Aunt Meeda whispered amongst her friends, Branna knew Tiarna had been good.

Her life after that night had changed. She’d been whisked away and taken to her uncle’s modest house to live, but had never felt welcomed by his family. Her raven-dark hair and blue eyes, different from their red and hazel, had not helped.

Molly picked her way over an ill-repaired, stone packhorse bridge, its rough surface interspersed with timber planks. She stopped the mare on the other side and looked across the rocky field towards the imposing Norman castle upon the hill.

Castle Hollylough.

Aunt Meeda had warned her to never travel to this land, as it was evil, but Branna could no longer abide her wishes. She would face down evil if necessary. She had to find the magic chalice and bring her mother back.

Dismounting, Branna removed the small spade from her leather pack. She led her horse across the field, carefully stepping over a low hedge, moving closer to the standing stones. Outside the ring, she dropped Molly’s reins to let her graze on the last of summer’s sweet grass.

Branna entered the circle, striding to the large dolmen in the centre. This is where Grandmama had said the chalice might be buried, inside the portal tomb. Branna couldn’t have attempted this without Grandmama’s assistance.

Her mother’s mother had been Branna’s only friend and confidante after Mama died. She had oftentimes been the shield between her and Aunt Meeda, who’d never been warm to her. Branna not only wanted to find the chalice for herself, but for Grandmama, who was becoming frailer every day.

Branna stepped beneath the huge angled capstone, supported by other upended boulders. Looking around the perimeter, she estimated the centre of the tomb and pushed her spade into the earth, marking the spot.

Sweeping the hood of her cloak from her head, Branna tied a loose knot in her hair. She knelt and easily scraped away the upper layer of hardened topsoil, hitting solid rock with the next thrust of her shovel.

On her hands and knees, Branna grabbed the rock nearest the surface and wiggled it to and fro, moving it enough for her to grab. Sweat beaded her forehead as she threw the rock aside and began working the next one.

A soft snort and whinny sounded from the field. «Patience, Molly. The ground is harder than I expected. I’ve only made a small hole.»

She cleared away more dirt with the spade before hitting additional rocks. Branna attacked those with as much strength as possible, not caring if she tore fingernails or suffered cuts and scrapes. The dirt and pain would pale if she could see her mother again.

Molly whinnied again, this time louder and of a different timbre. Branna straightened and looked over her shoulder. Molly stood still, her ears pricked forwards. Branna scanned the field. Had a shadow moved near the thicket of trees in the distance? The hair rose on her neck and arms. She squinted, forcing her eyes to pierce the darkness. Her heart pounded in silence for several minutes, but nothing stirred.

Branna hummed the tune her mother used to sing when she was scared. Her intuition told her to leave, but she wasn’t about to relinquish her quest. The song’s words spilled from her lips in time with her work. Scrape using the spade, wiggle the rock, wrest it out of the ground and throw it aside. It could have been minutes or hours she worked making small, but determined progress.

«I see you dig your own grave.»

Branna whirled. She lost her balance and sprawled at the feet of a large, white stallion. Through strands of her tousled hair, she stared at the imposing man upon the great steed.

Wrapped in a dark cloak, the moonlight creating shadows across his face, he wielded a great broadsword. He vaulted from his mount and brought the point of his sword to her throat.

Her heart thumped wildly. Just as sure as Aunt Meeda had warned, she looked straight into the face of evil.

Two

Devlin gripped the weapon tightly, his anger building. «Who dares to dig a hole on my property?»

He couldn’t keep the venom from his voice. «State your business.»

The intruder brushed aside long, wavy hair exposing a delicate face. Devlin realized his thief was a woman. He instantly withdrew his sword, but didn’t yet sheath it.

When his horse Ailbay had scented someone unfamiliar, Devlin expected to find sheep thieves or wolves, but a woman singing and digging in the dirt? Never.

She stood, brushing soil from her skirts. «’Tis my concern and not yours.»

Devlin lifted his brows at the edge of impatience in her tone. Her feathers were ruffled, were they? The moonlight offered a taste of her light eyes and high cheekbones. Her voice, strong, confident and with a hint of tantalizing sweetness, poured over him like thick Irish cream. Her other features would wait for better light.

He rubbed a hand over his face, irritated at her intrusion. He was already on edge. «I’m Devlin, Lord MacKenna, Master of Hollylough. Every rock holds my interest.»

«Then your land holds an object of mine.»

Devlin sensed movement in the shadows behind her. His hounds had spread out in the darkness. Waiting. Watching.

«What here would be of interest to a common grave robber?»

Her quick intake of breath told him he’d hit a sensitive mark.

«Nay. ’Tis nothing common I seek.»

A high-pitched howl split the quiet. The dogs grew bolder, circling closer. The woman heard it and bolted towards him, coming dangerously close to the blade of his sword.

Devlin sheathed it with a snap. «Witless goose, do you wish to die by my sword?»

She stepped back. «Nay. I’ve no wish to die by sword or by dogs.»

«The hounds are restless. You’ll be safe with me.» He offered her his arm.

«Nay. I’m not leaving till I find what I seek.»

He felt his ire rise at the battle of wills. If she told him nay once more, Devlin would be tempted to leave her.

He glanced towards the trees, then to the sky. His response was curt. «You’ll be fortunate to escape with your life. Come, the moonlight has disappeared and a storm threatens.»

She pointed to a horse in the distance and worried her bottom lip. «I’ll follow on Molly. I’ll not leave her to the dogs.»

Her horse stomped nervously outside the stone circle. Devlin understood her uneasiness. He had yet to take his vows, not for another night. He wasn’t sure he could control them should they attack.

«Nay. She is too distant. I’ll grab her reins as we pass. Get on Ailbay.»

The woman approached his white steed with caution. Giving her no more space to disagree, Devlin reached down and grasped her about the waist. He easily lifted her to the neck of his horse, her legs positioned to the side. Then he settled back into the saddle and brought her back against him. He crossed his arms around her waist to keep her seated safely and grabbed the reins.

Devlin spurred Ailbay forward, his horse easily taking the extra burden over the stone wall, and galloped towards the protection of Hollylough.

Devlin leaned over to grab Molly’s reins.

The woman blocked his arm. «Nay.»

She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled loudly. Molly raised her head and fell in step behind Ailbay. Devlin nodded his head, impressed.

«My lady, your horse is well trained, as if she’d follow you to the ends of the earth.»

«Aye, she would.»

With each stretch of Ailbay’s stride, his arms clasped the woman’s ribcage, her warmth infusing his upper body. She felt trim, but muscular, not so delicate that she’d break at the slightest stumble.

Her rose scent reached his nostrils and dared him further. He’d been a long time without a woman to warm his bed and blood. This comely one aroused his interest as well as his manhood.

Devlin knew he was restless. He had grown to manhood knowing this day would come. His family’s bloodline was cursed. Written long ago, all the children were destined to become Hellhounds. He was the Chosen One; the one selected to master the hounds that guarded their supernatural treasures. This rite would occur on the day of his twenty-fifth year, on the morrow. He’d become one of them.

His attention strayed to the woman who relaxed against him, snuggling deeper into his chest as she adjusted to Ailbay’s motion. With her buttocks nestled between his thighs, he realized she fitted well enough in his arms, better than most. She might prove to be the distraction he needed this night.

Once past the gatehouse and inside the curtain walls, he slowed Ailbay and angled him towards the stables in the lower bailey. He reined in and slid off the horse, handing both horses to his waiting groom. Devlin ruffled the boy’s hair.