It seemed as if she’d always been alone, at least until she’d come here.
Captain Barstow had given her a home at Ravenfield. She’d belonged here, and the least she could do was to make a home for the captain’s daughters when Mr. Ridley told them to leave.
She vowed they would never feel the same isolation and shame of poverty that had dominated her own life before coming to Ravenfield.
Brogan heard the floor creaking above him and realized he was hearing Miss Granger moving around upstairs, preparing for bed. She was a feisty lass, surprisingly different from the obsequious Druzai women whose deference to his family might have become a wee bit tiresome.
Sarah Granger knew naught of his lineage, so her treatment of him was entirely honest and unpracticed. ’Twas oddly refreshing.
He imagined her unfastening the row of small white buttons that trailed from her waist to her neck, then slipping the gown off her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. His arousal at the thought of her standing in her underclothes should not have surprised him. It seemed to take only the merest flash of her bright eyes to make him desire her.
A Tuath lass.
He leaned against the door and focused, perplexed by the lust coursing through his veins. It should have been grief. Hatred. Vengeance. It was a worthless son who forgot the pain and suffering of his father.
He straightened and decided he could not let it happen again. The battle for Coruain loomed ahead, and he needed to keep his attention on his priorities and not on a spirited Tuath maiden.
As soon as the house became still, he went to work. ’Twould be so simple to create light by extracting energy from the air around him, but doing so might attract Eilinora’s Odhar. He lit an oil lamp instead and left his chamber, first searching through the drawing room where he’d found Miss Granger. He looked in every drawer and every little nook where the dull red blood stone might have been stored and forgotten.
It was unlikely the stone would be perceived as a valuable item. According to legend, it had no luster, and no particular outward beauty. It was egg-shaped and rough-surfaced, and small enough to fit in a child’s hand.
Merrick had warned him to avoid any mention of the stone to Ravenfield’s occupants, for they might suspect it had some hidden value, and try to prevent him from taking it.
Brogan had doubted they’d be so astute, but after his exchange with Sarah Granger, he was not so sure. He continued his search in the shabby little kitchen and looked through cupboards and shelves. Finding naught but a glass jar containing the sweet paste that Sarah had spread on his bread, he wondered why they had no such food on Coruain. He’d always believed the ancient elders had brought everything of value to Coruain when the Druzai had left Tuath. Yet clearly they’d missed this.
Retracing his steps, he returned to the drawing room and went into the adjoining chamber. ’Twas a library with a massive desk and walls lined with shelves full of books. Once again, Brogan resisted the urge to cast a spell that would remove every book from every shelf. He spent the next hour physically moving ancient tomes and more recent works from their places, looking behind every book for some secret place where the stone might be hidden.
He found not one speck of dust, nor did he discover the one thing he sought.
Brogan took a seat at the desk and searched through each drawer, finding three sets of papers tied with black ribbons. He also found a plain gold ring in the center drawer, and a miniature painting of a fair-haired man in a military uniform. No doubt it was the hapless Captain Barstow.
Brogan sat back in his chair and pondered going up the stairs to continue his search. Visiting Miss Granger in her bedchamber had some appeal, but he was not to be distracted. Besides, she’d made it clear that she found him rude and uncivilized.
He shook his head at her misconception. If only she could see how he lived on Coruain, she would understand how barbaric her life was at Ravenfield.
Brogan stood abruptly and shook off the notion of showing Coruain to Miss Granger. Druzai and Tuath did not, should not, mix. The disasters of the previous millennia had proved that beyond a doubt. Eilinora’s crime had been her great pleasure in instigating the bloody Druid wars and causing untold damage to the clans.
The power of the Druzai made interference much too tempting. The disasters of the past could easily happen again. ’Twas the reason the elders had created Coruain and commanded all the Druzai to retire there. Brogan agreed with them, yet Merrick and their father had not. Brogan even suspected that Merrick had made other visits to the Tuath world, violating Druzai law.
He finished searching the lower levels of the house, then returned to the kitchen and let himself out the back door into a courtyard. By the light of the moon, he could see that Ravenfield’s grounds were overgrown and in need of attention. There was a fountain at the midpoint of the garden, but it was dry. The center statuary was nearly as tall as Brogan, and bore the shape of a human warrior with wings. His head was mostly concealed by a warrior’s helmet.
“Dragheen?” Brogan asked quietly, though he had no hope of finding an ally here. He was thoroughly astounded when the guardian answered and stepped away from his perch in the fountain, moving slowly in typical fashion for a dragheen.
“By Téadóir’s beard!” said the deep, gravelly voice. “’Tis many a long year since I’ve seen one of yer kind, Druzai man.”
“Keep your voice down,” Brogan said. “Who do you guard?”
“All who dwell at Ravenfield, of course.”
“There are Druzai here?” It seemed inconceivable. Yet there was much Druzai history that had been obscured by time. ’Twas possible that a sorcerer had remained in the Tuath world to protect the brìgha-stone.
Brogan shuddered at the thought of being marooned here.
“Who be ye to ask such a question?”
Brogan could not see the dragheen’s facial expression, but he was right to ask. Brogan’s queries would have to wait until the guardian was satisfied. “I am Brogan Mac Lochlainn of Coruain, son of Kieran, Druzai high chieftain.”
“Ach, aye. Kieran’s fame has been whispered on the winds for many years. I be Colm, of the Abarach Contingent.”
“Salutations, Colm.”
“Ye be far from the isle, in years and in distance,” he said in the guardians’ canny way. Somehow, Eilinora had disabled all the dragheen who guarded Kieran at Coruain House. She could do the same to Colm. “What business brings you to Ravenfield?”
“Eilinora has escaped.”
The dragheen made a noise that sounded like stones dragging across gravel. “Truly, ye say?”
“Aye. She and her clan murdered my father and stole the chieftain’s scepter.”
“Ah, then. So yer after the Druzai brìgha-stone.”
At the dragheen’s words, Brogan’s chest filled with relief. “Aye. If you’ll just tell me where it’s hidden, I’ll take it and go.”
There were more sounds of rock grating on rock. “I have no idea where it is, lad. I doona guard it, nor was I ever privy to such knowledge.”
The moment’s elation drained from Brogan. “You must know something.”
“Little.” The dragheen turned away from Brogan and gestured toward the house. “The house is new…has only been standing two hundred years. Mayhap three.”
Dragheen moved very slowly and lived for centuries. They reckoned time quite differently from most other beings.
“Then the stone is not here,” Brogan said. “My information—”
“Likely relates to old Ravenfield. The castle.”
“Mo oirg,” said Brogan, rubbing a new ache from his forehead. “I might have known this quest would not be so easy.”
“Ravenfield Castle—yonder—is in ruins.”
Brogan turned to view the jagged silhouette of a fortress beyond the garden, not far from the house. It looked massive. He dragged one hand across his face in frustration at the daunting task before him. “Is there naught you can tell me? Who wer
e the Druzai who dwelled here?”
“Ah, ’twas eons ago. Lord Dubhán Ó Coileáin bade me to remain with him to keep watch over his family when the Druzai departed. But he and his issue have long since perished.”
“And you’ve been standing quiescent in all these centuries since then?” Brogan had never heard of any Druzai remaining here, or dragheen, either.
“Of course not. There is still a family here…one whose fortunes have been poor of late.”
“And what do you do for them?”
“I can still whisper a thought that needs thinking.”
The dragheen had powers and talents independent of the Druzai. They were ruled by none but themselves, and fortunately, they were benign creatures by nature. They were capable of making suggestions to unwary minds, thoughts that would never be detected as coming from another being. These ideas would fade after a few days or weeks, sometimes leaving the recipient feeling vaguely puzzled, sometimes unsettled. Even Brogan, a powerful sorcerer-warrior, might be subject to a dragheen’s suggestion. ’Twas why Coruain law forbade dragheen guardians to whisper thoughts to anyone, unless they be warnings of impending trouble. The guardians seemed always to have the best of intentions, yet their whispered ideas had the real potential of going askew.
Here in the Tuath world, there was no one to gainsay the dragheen’s interference. Brogan gave Colm a sidelong glance. “What thoughts have you whispered?”
“Ah well, ’tis my concern, now, isn’t it?”
“I warn you, dragheen…think naught in my direction while I’m here.”
“I would not dream of it, m’lord,” Colm replied, his gravelly voice sounding offended at such a suggestion.
“Are there others? More dragheen nearby?”
“Aye, m’lord. A few, also Abarach. You will meet Seana on an overlook not far from the castle. Geilis resides a few miles away.”
“Will you stand sentry while I’m here?”
Colm’s stone wings crackled.
“I canna allow Eilinora or her minions to find me before I locate the brìgha-stone,” Brogan said.
“I will keep watch, m’lord,” Colm replied, “though I have no extraordinary powers of recognition. The witch might have already come, and I would not have known her.”
Brogan clenched his jaw. “Let me know if you take note of anything out of the ordinary, then.”
The dragheen gave a quick nod. Brogan was glad of the dragheen’s assistance, yet well-aware that Kieran’s dragheen guardians had been rendered useless during Eilinora’s attack. The same could happen to Colm, or worse.
“M’lord…”
“What is it?”
“The young lady of the house…Miss Granger.”
“Aye? What of her?” Brogan asked.
“This be a different world than that of the Druzai.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“’Twill be fair damaging to the lass if anyone hereabouts learns you’re a stranger here, sleeping under her roof.”
“I’ll bear it in mind, dragheen.”
“One last thing, m’lord.” Colm stepped up to his pedestal. “Beware of the sìthean.”
“They’re no trouble to me.”
“Take care just the same, m’lord,” said Colm. “The sìths who went to Coruain were mild compared to the little demons who stayed here to plague the Tuath.”
Brogan did not know how that was possible, for the nasty sprites managed to do plenty of damage to the unwary on Coruain.
He gave a quick nod to the dragheen and left him, returning to his room to sleep until dawn. He awoke before the rest of the house, used Captain Barstow’s razor to shave instead of eliminating his whiskers by his usual method, then dressed and went to the castle ruins at daybreak.
The sight of the decayed building hit him with a wave of grief so powerful that he was compelled to sit down on a decayed step. The stone shell of the castle was the ultimate symbol of Kieran’s life. Once a proud and majestic man, his father was dust now, even less substantial than the rubble surrounding Brogan now.
His chest hurt.
His eyes burned.
He had not sufficiently appreciated Kieran while he was alive.
They’d been at odds for the past few years, Kieran arguing that it was time for Druzai and Tuath to intermingle. He believed it was the duty of the Druzai to enlighten the Tuath and ease their lives with the ancient knowledge they possessed as they’d once done with the Tuath Druids. Brogan had disagreed, vehemently. Their peoples had mingled eons ago, with disastrous results.
In the centuries since then, the Druzai had been a content, peaceful people, their warriors trained in mind and body to keep their world safe from intrusions by the rogue forces of the world. Yet Brogan had failed. He alone bore the responsibility for his father’s death, for failing to anticipate Eilinora’s escape from her ancient prison.
Brogan would not falter again. His mind and body were strong, giving him the power to succeed in his quest without the use of magic. Once he and Merrick returned to Coruain with the blood stones, they would call on all their considerable powers to destroy Eilinora once and for all.
Then they would deal with the powerful entity that had freed her.
Brogan stood, jabbing his fingers through his hair at the thought of the monumental search before him. With all due respect to his father’s ideas, he had no intention of mixing any more than absolutely necessary with the plain folk here.
He familiarized himself with the castle and the surrounding area, noting that it had once been a huge and formidable fortress, its stone walls situated on the edge of a high cliff. He wandered inside and looked out one of the lower window openings, noting that the entire space below the castle was riddled with caves.
Brogan assessed the structure and realized his search might take a few days, time when Coruain was virtually unprotected. With Merrick and Brogan gone, and Kieran’s scepter missing, Coruain was vulnerable to attack from the Odhar. And there was no way, at least none that Brogan knew, to stop time on the isle until he returned with the stone. His homecoming would occur after the exact number of hours or days he’d been gone.
For the time being, it was up to Ana and the elders to hold a shielding swathe ’round the isles to keep them hidden from Eilinora. Brogan prayed they’d be successful until he and his brother returned with the stones.
He intercepted the housekeeper when she came out carrying her marketing basket, and spoke to her about keeping his room at Ravenfield. As opposed to the way Miss Granger would react to his proposal, Maud was pleased to take one of Brogan’s “guineas” for the use of the chamber he’d slept in the night before. He promised more coins for the run of the castle over the next few days, gratified that he’d packed a veritable fortune in his charmed satchel.
Sarah did not sleep well at all. She’d had too many strange dreams that left her feeling unsettled and discontented. They felt like premonitions, but were much too vague to interpret.
“You’re wearing your best dress today, Miss Granger,” said Margaret. “’Tis not even Sunday.”
“If you remember, I went into the sea wearing my everyday dress, Margaret. I must give it a wash today,” Sarah replied, wishing her young charge was not quite so observant. ’Twas no one’s concern that she wanted to appear anything but a ragamuffin when she encountered Mr. Locke today.
“But what about your gray gown, the one you changed into last—”
“May I have more jam, Miss Granger?” asked Jane, who sat at the kitchen table beside her sister.
“Of course, love,” Sarah replied, glad for the diversion. Mr. Locke’s bedroom door was still closed, leaving Sarah to believe he must be sleeping late, still recovering from the previous day’s ordeal.
She wondered if he slept in that small violet garment that had barely covered his—
“We’ll run out of jam before winter, Jane,” little Margaret scolded. “You must not use so much.”
“A bit more won’t hurt, lov
e,” Sarah interjected. “We’ll put up lots more this summer.”
“But then we must sell it in Craggleton, mustn’t we?”
The squeak of the door caught their attention. “’Tis a dark view you take of things, lass,” said Mr. Locke, looking dour and rather formidable himself.
He wore the same staid and proper suit he’d put on the night before, yet he looked anything but a staid and proper gentleman. Sarah recalled the primitive torque that had encircled his thick, muscular arm. He looked as dangerous as a pirate with his hair tied in a thick queue at the back of his head. All he needed was a gold tooth and an earring, and perhaps a sword in a colorful sash to complete the picture.
He came into the room, and Sarah pressed a hand to her chest as his presence seemed to pull the air from her lungs and make her heart beat a bit faster.
She found her voice. “Will you join us for breakfast, Mr. Locke? ’Tis a fair walk to Craggleton, and you’ll want some nourishment before you leave.”
He accepted her offer and came to the table. Sarah made the introductions, and her young charges stood and curtsied politely, giving Sarah a moment to collect herself. Appalled by her lack of proper discipline where Mr. Locke was concerned, she stepped away from the table and poured him a cup of tea. He had not even looked at her. “Have you decided what to do about your boat?”
“How will you get home?” Margaret asked.
“Are you really a Scotsman?” asked Jane.
He took a seat. “Do you interrogate all your guests thus?” Though his expression was dark and forbidding, his tone was not harsh.
Margaret had the grace to look abashed, but Jane continued to gaze up at him, expecting a reply. Sarah bristled when the man did not answer.
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