A Warrior's Taking

by Margo Maguire

  “I do not know how things are done in Scotland,” she said, her cheeks flushing with color, “but it is highly improper for you to appear outside the bedchamber unclothed, sir. Get dressed while I prepare a meal for you. Then we’ll talk.”

  He could easily have stopped her, but the firm touch of her hand and her obstinate manner interfered with his good judgment. He’d never been treated in such a way by any woman. In any case, if the lass’s tongue would be loosened by his donning the clothes he’d brought, then he was willing to comply with her command. He let her take him back to the small, musty room, and did not once regret having embarrassed her.

  Not when her blushes were so enchanting.

  Removing his clothes from the satchel, he could not explain what it was about this thorny Tuath lass that made him lose track of his priorities.

  Sarah leaned back against the closed the door of Captain Barstow’s room and took a deep breath as she tried to erase the sight of the Scotsman’s bare body from her mind. She knew she should call Maud to come down, but the poor woman had been so worn out after supper that Sarah didn’t have the heart to wake her.

  She had to deal with the pompous Scot herself. For all his size and strength, Sarah believed he meant her no harm, just as he’d said. He was obviously a stranger to Cumbria, seeming almost as though he’d come from another world. She guessed much of his peculiarity was due to his near drowning. It would likely take some time to recover from such a shock.

  Yet his arrogance grated on her. He was little better than a half-drowned dog, washed up on their shore, yet he behaved as if his presence at Ravenfield honored her in some way. He was as bad as the philanderers in Craggleton.

  In the kitchen, she added wood to the stove, then went outside to collect a couple of eggs. When she returned, she cut two slices of bread and spread jam on them, keeping her attention solely on the tasks at hand, and not on the solid wall of muscle she had just prodded into the bedroom. She did not know where she’d gotten the nerve to touch his bare skin now that he was fully awake.

  That scrap of fabric that hung from his hips was unlike any of the linens Maud had ever washed and hung on the line for Captain Barstow. Sarah felt her face heat at the very thought of the inadequate purple garment and what must lie beneath. Quickly, she turned her thoughts elsewhere.

  The man could not possibly have fallen into the sea, not unless he was wholly incompetent, and he did not strike her thus. There’d been no storms for at least a week, which meant something had happened to incapacitate him. Or he’d been pushed.

  Sarah shuddered at the thought of foul play.

  Perhaps Squire Crowell really should be summoned. After all, he was the magistrate, and if someone had intended to harm the Scot, there should be an inquiry.

  Her inclination to call upon the squire had nothing to do with wanting to reinstate him in her mind as the most handsome of men. The interlude with the drowned Scot had merely shaken her sensibilities, causing a brief deviation from what she’d always known to be true…that John Crowell was the kindest and most attractive of men. She had only to think of him to remember it.

  The big Scotsman soon came out of Captain Barstow’s bedroom, fully dressed in a well-pressed woolen suit with a silk cravat awkwardly tied about his neck, and his top boots neatly folded. His black hair fell nearly to his shoulders, and the shadow of a beard darkened his angular jaw. For all the civility of his clothing, he still looked a bit wild, like a primitive warrior king from some unexplored country.

  “Where did you find that suit?” she asked, annoyed by the breathless quality of her voice. The man was an arrogant and barbaric foreigner, and she had every intention of sending him on his way. Tomorrow, in fact.

  She had no time to deal with a stranger, not after hearing what Captain Barstow’s solicitor had to say.

  The Scotsman glanced down at himself, and for the first time since she’d pulled him out of the water, the haughty man showed a glimmer of uncertainty. His moment of doubt tugged at an unwelcome cord of sympathy somewhere deep inside Sarah.

  “What’s wrong with it?” he asked.

  She could not soften toward this man. She would feed him, let him sleep in Captain Barstow’s bed, then send him on his way. “’Tis not the suit I set out for you.”

  Turning a fierce scowl toward her, he straightened and resumed his superior air. His uncertainty disappeared so quickly, Sarah wondered if she’d imagined it. “This one belongs to me, lass.”

  He entered the kitchen and took a seat at the table without waiting for her to sit, or even asking if she’d care to join him.

  Warrior king, indeed.

  “You need a valet,” she remarked, glancing pointedly at the cravat, the only aspect of his appearance that was not perfect.

  He grumbled unintelligibly while Sarah wondered how his suit could possibly have survived its bout with the sea. The wool was perfectly pressed, and his linen shirt had not a wrinkle in it. And his boots—how had they fit inside his small satchel? How had everything stayed dry?

  She eyed him thoughtfully and passed him his bread and jam. Obviously, the clothes had fit, and they were dry, so it was useless to wonder about them. Especially since there were more pressing questions at the moment. “You never gave me your name, sir.”

  He ignored her, gazing at the bread as pensively as she had looked at him. Instead of answering her question, he took a bite.

  His features changed as he chewed and swallowed.

  Sarah eased into a chair across from him and watched the frown lines in his brow disappear and the taut line of his mouth soften. With his features so transformed, he was even more comely than before.

  Sarah pressed her hands to the tabletop and reminded herself to remain firm. The man was a stranger in their house, and she needed to know more about him. “Your name, sir?”

  He looked down at the second piece of bread. “What do you call this red substance?”

  She could not believe his cheek. “I will not be diverted. You are a stranger to us, and I insist that you give me your name.”

  He swallowed again, then looked at her, resuming his stern expression. “You may call me Brendan Locke.” He said his own name as though he were unaccustomed to it, somewhat in the same manner as he had looked down at his clothes. As if they were foreign to him.

  Deciding it was just a quirk in his manner, she let out a long breath, glad they were finally getting somewhere. “I am Sarah Granger, and this house belongs…belonged to Captain Barstow.”

  He tipped his head at her introduction and finished the last bit of bread. “I’ve never tasted such good…”

  Sarah waved off the compliment. Her jams were highly regarded in Craggleton and provided a small income for their household. It was beside the point.

  She leaned forward. “Mr. Locke, I find it difficult to believe you fell from your boat. The weather has been good—”

  He shrugged. “A clumsy moment.”

  “You do not strike me as a clumsy man.”

  Brogan had no intention of fabricating a more complex story, not while that amazing tart-sweet taste still tingled on his tongue. They had no such concoction on Coruain, where they used butter and honey to sweeten their bread. For all their backward ways, this Tuath mixture was…magical…as was the hard glitter in Sarah Granger’s pretty eyes.

  He took her combative gleam as a challenge. “This place is Ravenfield?”

  Abruptly, she rose from the table, crossing to the stove, where she cracked eggs into a bowl. At least there would be no surprise as to how those would taste. Eggs were a favorite on Coruain.

  “You are far from home, are you not?” she asked.

  “You have no idea.” Far enough that the charms of his most recent mistress eluded him. Far enough that he had to remind himself repeatedly of his purpose here.

  His mind was filled with only this woman, in spite of her stiff manner and hideous clothes. Even her hands bespoke hard times, with roughened skin and reddened knuckl
es. She was a Tuath with primitive skills and no knowledge of the Druzai world that existed only a few leagues from her shore.

  He should not feel the slightest attraction. But he spied a stray curl brushing the skin above her collar and felt a burning urge to approach her and inhale the enticing scent that had teased him ever since they’d fallen together on the beach.

  He moved quietly, unable to resist touching that bit of coppery hair at her nape, forgetting, for the moment, that she was not Druzai, and would not hear his approach. His touch startled her, and she jumped, fumbling with the bowl of eggs. Brogan caught it as it slipped from her hands, averting a disaster. She pressed a hand to her breast as if to slow the reaction of her heart, drawing his attention to the full swell of feminine flesh hidden beneath her gown.

  He should have taken no notice of the thick lashes framing her expressive eyes, or the way she pulled her lower lip through her even, white teeth. They might be backward, but the Tuath did not lack beauty.

  “You may stay the night here, Mr. Locke, but then you’ll need to find lodgings elsewhere.”

  Not even her harsh tone dispelled the sensual haze that came over him as he gazed at her. The urge to taste her was nearly overpowering. “Where I come from, lass, a grand house always offers its hospitality to strangers.”

  “Which is why I’ll allow you to stay, but only this one night,” she retorted, clasping her hands at her waist. She took a deep breath as if to bolster her resolve. “I’m sure there are lodgings to be had in Craggleton if you wish to remain in the neighborhood.”

  He had to remind himself that she was not Druzai. But neither was she the dull, dim-witted descendant of the ancient Druids who’d been tutored by his race. Instead, he’d found something altogether different.

  He gave a nod in the direction of the room where he’d slept. “This chamber suits me well enough.”

  “But it doesn’t suit me, Mr. Locke. Upon the morrow, you can go into town with Maud when she does the marketing, and find a room.”

  Returning to his seat at the table, he hoped he would not have to stay so long. As soon as she retired for the night, he was going to search the house and the grounds. With luck, he would be on his way back to the Astar Columns by the time the sun rose.

  “Are you always so prickly, lass?” he found himself asking. “Or is it me that you object to?”

  She blushed again. “I certainly am not prickly. But I have a family to look after, and it is entirely unsuitable for a single man to lodge here with us.” She sat down across from him and gave him a sidelong glance. “Are you a single man, Mr. Locke?”

  He grinned, curiously pleased to know that his marital state interested her. “Aye.”

  She stood again. “Well. ’Tis of no concern to me. But our neighbors—”

  “Willna even know I’m here.” He dug into his eggs. “I like it here.” And he intended to stay until he found the blood stone, even if it took longer than one night’s search.

  “Mr. Locke—”

  “So, am I to understand you have no husband, either, lass? There is no master here?”

  Her cheeks colored bright pink, and Brogan searched his memory to determine what protocol he’d breached to reap such a reaction. He recalled Merrick mentioning that men held all the power in this age. That women were subject to the will of their husbands and masters. Somehow, he could not imagine Sarah Granger subservient to anyone.

  She returned to her place at the table, but did not sit. “Captain Barstow was killed some months ago in Salamanca. We have been looking after ourselves ever since, Mr. Locke, and doing a fair job of it, too.”

  An unfamiliar sentiment lodged in Brogan’s chest. He cast a glance to the wood that had been stacked neatly beside the stove, and the two heavy buckets of water standing near the back door. She should have a husband. A man to take care of her…

  One who would loosen that tight knot of hair at her nape and kiss her sweet skin, a man who would please her as a woman should be pleased.

  “Do you know, Sarah Granger, that your face goes bright pink when you doona like my questions?”

  “You are impertinent, sir.” She snatched up his empty bowl and placed it in a metal pan full of soapy water. “And I’m seriously considering putting you out for the night.”

  He doubted that, for he had sensed her interest even before taking note of the way her nipples peaked against her dress just as she turned ’round.

  Brogan’s own body surged with arousal as he watched her wash the bowl, then dry it and put it on a shelf. ’Twas a burning awareness of her scent, of every freckle dancing across her nose, of the thick russet lashes that framed her enthralling green eyes.

  He took a deep breath and turned away, reminding himself that his only purpose here was to search the premises for the Druzai blood stone and get it back to Coruain. There was no point in wasting any more time with this thorny Tuath miss.

  Once he found the stone, he would be gone.

  And Sarah Granger would barely remember him in the morning, but for the coins he would leave in exchange for the prize she probably didn’t even know she had.

  Chapter 3

  Sarah doubted she’d be able to sleep. Not when her body tingled in places she hadn’t known existed. Her nipples rubbed uncomfortably against her chemise, and a worrisome sensation crept up her spine.

  It felt suspiciously like yearning.

  Which was utter rubbish. If there was any man in Cumbria who had ever caused her heart to flutter, it was John Crowell. He was the epitome of culture and breeding in a gentleman, with his fair features and noble manners.

  Clearly, the Scotsman was no gentleman at all.

  She refused even to think of the incident on the beach when Mr. Locke had actually pinned her beneath him. He’d been weak and confused, so there was no need for her to flush with embarrassment now. He probably didn’t even remember what had happened…that he’d nearly kissed her.

  But to her complete embarrassment, Sarah certainly remembered. And was mortified to admit she’d thought of it several times since then—the press of his muscled frame against her, the heated gaze of his unusual, dark blue eyes, his obnoxious reminder of her propensity for blushing, as if it weren’t embarrassing enough.

  She stopped at the top of the stairs and smoothed her skirts. Straightening the prim collar at her neck, she pressed the loose wisps of hair back into her topknot.

  Then she caught one hand against her chest and wished it had been Squire Crowell who had made her heart pound and her body ache for his touch. She could not possibly have reacted so wantonly with a complete stranger.

  Could she? He was obnoxious and impertinent, and clearly excessively impressed with himself. He exuded a superior attitude from his very pores, and Sarah took offense at his disdainful perusal of her home, her beloved Ravenfield.

  Well, he’d be gone in the morning. Maud could show him the way to Craggleton, and that was all there was to it. There was no place for such a person as Mr. Locke at Ravenfield. Mrs. Pruitt, the worst gossip in the district, would make much of his presence in a household of females.

  No, he certainly could not remain here.

  Sarah proceeded into the nursery and looked in on the girls. She moved Brownie to the foot of Jane’s bed, then carefully tucked both girls in. Pressing a gentle kiss to each of their foreheads, she tried to quell the unrest within her.

  What a day.

  Not the least of her worries was having to break the news given her by their father’s solicitor. Ravenfield was entailed, and possession of the estate had reverted to Captain Barstow’s closest male relative, a distant cousin named Charles Ridley. He was already considered the master of Ravenfield, making Margaret and Jane trespassers, along with Maud and Sarah. She’d kept the bad news to herself, not even telling Maud, until she knew what they were going to do. She could not just tell the children that they were to be cast out, without some plan for their future.

  The uncertainty would be devastating.
Sarah remembered how it felt to be left alone, reliant on the pity of the parish. She would never allow Margaret and Jane to feel such mortification. Somehow, Sarah was going to provide a home for them, and allow all of them to preserve their dignity.

  She would figure out some solution.

  Leaving Jane and Margaret fast asleep, Sarah returned to the hall and stood perfectly still, listening for any indication that their visitor was up and about. But all was quiet below. The only sound in the house was that of Maud’s soft snores in the room at the end of the hall.

  She went into her own bedchamber and undressed, weary after her eventful day. Her meeting with the solicitor had been momentous enough, then followed by Jane’s discovery of Mr. Locke, nearly drowned in their sea. Sarah hoped she’d done the right thing by allowing him to stay the night.

  For all the man’s imperious looks, Sarah truly believed he meant them no harm. On the contrary, she could not doubt that he would prefer to be miles away from their humble dwelling. He’d practically sneered at the worn-out furniture in the sitting room, and definitely looked down his nose at the meager stores on their sagging kitchen shelves. She was almost surprised that he’d deigned to eat the humble fare she’d provided him.

  Ravenfield had not been prosperous for several years, though there had always been enough with the money Captain Barstow sent them. Now that he was gone, Sarah had had to scrape for every penny. There were no extras at Ravenfield.

  Sarah gazed at her reflection in the mirror and sighed. Even her nightgown was in poor condition. Like everything else at Ravenfield, it was clean, but had been repaired once too many times. And it would be a long, long time before she would be able to buy cloth to make another.

  She took the pins from her hair and started to brush it the same way her mother had done so many years before, in the days of happiness and good health. Though Sarah resembled her mother, she’d inherited her father’s freckled complexion and his curly auburn hair. Her eyes were her best feature, but her figure was not the willowy perfection of the stylish ladies in Craggleton. She’d never been anything special. On the contrary, she’d been the object of scorn in the parish, ever since her father had drunk himself into an early grave.