Free A Storm of Passion by Terri Brisbin

someone of his importance to the overlord of Mull.
    After one more circle of the perimeter wall, he shook his head and turned back to the stairway. His body was wound tight, and he’d not slept in days. Every sound made his head throb. Every step or movement reverberated through him. And every touch made his skin ache both in pain and hunger.
    Another month had passed, and more visions were close. So close he felt the ripples of power teasing his thoughts and pulsing in his veins, deep in his blood. Desire traveled there, too, ever seeking satisfaction, but his mind sought the one who had made a difference. At least, he suspected she had.
    Instead, he would face the woman who tried to kill him. A laundry woman, a common servant among the myriad who worked for Diarmid, had almost killed him. Though Diarmid would have gladly executed her, Connor wanted to know why. Other near accidents and apparent attacks had been foiled and always the perpetrator had been killed, never leaving any answers for him.
    Diarmid took it in stride as a part of being a man of power—other men wanted what you had. For Diarmid that meant power in the number of warriors at his call and allies who backed him. For Connor, it was the power of the visions, the power in seeing what had already happened or yet waited ahead.
    He pressed his hands to his head, hoping that the roaring inside of it would cease. Some days, like this one, it was louder than even the roar of the storms that came off the sea to the west and pounded the coast. Some days it simply sat in the background, threatening to burst out without a moment’s warning.
    He rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the tightness there and avoid worsening the pain in his head. Some clouds passed in front of the sun and dimmed the glaring sunlight, easing the need to squint so strongly. He wanted nothing more than to go back to his chambers and drown his pain in mead or wine again, but something deep within him forced him back to the wall to search the bay for signs of the boat.
    Just like his self-control over the pain, the visions, and even his growing need for women in his bed, everything in his life seemed to be spiraling out of control. The visions that had fallen into a pattern over the last several years, now grew in intensity and frequency, happening now with the full moon’s passing through the sky. The effects of them increased every time; he endured the pain and blindness for nearly a week now. The pulsing, growing lust in his blood grew more potent and demanding with every vision.
    But because he did not know the origin of his powers, he had no way of telling how this would end for him, if this was leading to an end at all. Would his eyes finally burn out from the fires the visions brought? Would the pain and blindness be his punishment for some unknown transgression or misuse of the visions? Would he never calm the heat in his veins? Was there anyone who could tell him the truth of it or how he came to be so gifted?
    Connor smacked his hands down on the cool, stone wall and gathered his control from within, allowing the winds to buffet him and soothe his frayed nerves. From here he could watch the villagers scurry from keep to town, Diarmid’s warriors train in the yard, and even a few of the children who lived within the walls run freely around sheep and cattle being driven into the pens outside the keep. Life continued on, regardless of his questions or his pain.
    And for some reason he didn’t yet understand, Connor suspected that the woman who tried to kill him had more knowledge than he did about his past and his future.
    The clouds moved once more, and a beam of sunlight struck a small object on the horizon, gaining his attention. A boat glided toward him in the distance. He did not move from his place there high on the walls as it grew closer and closer, finally stopping at the wooden dock near the main gate. Now he could see three occupants in it—clearly two men and a