A Warrior's Taking

by Margo Maguire

Sarah’s heart began to pound. She was not ready for this. “Mr. Ridley? How do you know?”

  “I saw him.” Margaret’s breath came out in short sobbing bursts. “He’s horrible!”

  “Are you sure it was not Andy Ferris?” Sarah asked. “He sometimes wanders these woods.”

  Margaret’s chin quivered. “No. Andy has no fine clothes nor top hat. And he drools.”

  Sarah noticed Mr. Locke’s frown and gave a brief explanation. “Poor Andy is simpleminded. He begs in town and sleeps wherever he finds himself. Sometimes in our barn.”

  “Simpleminded?” asked Mr. Locke.

  Sarah nodded. “Surely you’ve known someone like Andy—a poor soul without all his faculties.”

  His eyes lost their focus as he pondered Sarah’s description of Andy. Sarah felt an eerie prickle at the base of her spine that dissipated the moment he spoke. “I doona believe I have. ’Tis strange…” He turned his attention to Margaret. “Where did you see the intruder?”

  Margaret looked up at him with teary eyes. “I was up in the tree and I heard him whistling. So I hid in the branches and waited for him to pass.”

  “When?” Sarah asked, lowering Margaret to the ground.

  “A long time ago,” Margaret said, straightening her clothes. “Hours and hours. I was afraid to come down.”

  “Whoever he was, he did not come to the house, Margaret.”

  Shuddering visibly, she shook her head. “He stood upon Norton’s Fell and looked at our lady warrior on the cliff. Then he turned to look at Ravenfield. I stayed perfectly still until he went up the path through the fells to Squire Crowell’s house.”

  Mr. Locke moved away in order to get a clear view of the sturdy stone warrior who stood on the promontory. When he returned, he placed his hand on Margaret’s shoulder and went down on one knee beside her. “What did he look like?” His tone was serious, his voice gruff.

  “He was nearly as tall as you, but he wore a gray coat and a top hat.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  Sarah did not know why that should matter, but the questions seemed to calm Margaret as she focused her attention on them, rather than her worries.

  “His hair was light like mine and Jane’s. Like Squire Crowell’s. But his eyes were black as coal.”

  Mr. Locke paused only a moment, then turned away slightly. “We ought to return to the house. Would you care for a pony ride, Miss Margaret?”

  When she nodded, he pulled her onto his back and stood, easily managing her slight frame. “In my country, lasses named Margaret are called Meglet. Might I call you that?”

  “I…I suppose so,” Margaret replied.

  “Weel then, Meglet, I think you should try no’ to worry so much about Mr. Ridley. ’Tis my guess that things will work out much better than any of you could possibly foresee.”

  Sarah bristled at his words, for he could not possibly have any idea how they would survive after Mr. Ridley took possession of Ravenfield. It was cruel to raise Margaret’s hopes.

  Brogan doubted that the dreaded Mr. Ridley would climb to the top of this fell to survey his new property and then walk in the opposite direction of the house. The stranger Margaret had seen could very well have been sent by Eilinora.

  Or he was merely a visitor to the local squire, a harmless man who’d taken himself on a hike in the hills. In any case, the appearance of the strange man gave a new urgency to Brogan’s search. He had not planned on being so distracted by the Ravenfield females.

  Or Ravenfield itself.

  The land was lovely. From Margaret’s tree, he’d been able to see the craggy cliffs of Ravenfield and the sea beyond. Heather and wildflowers grew profusely on the hills, and small, colorful, winged creatures flitted across the fields. Sarah called them butterflies, and Brogan was struck by an awareness that Coruain was not as perfect as he’d once thought. He wondered how the ancient elders had neglected to bring butterflies when they’d created Coruain. And jam. ’Twas unforgivable.

  “Who is Squire Crowell?” he asked.

  “He’s the most comely man in the parish,” Margaret announced. “And Miss Granger has—”

  “He’s a member of our local gentry,” said Sarah, cutting off the child’s chatter. “And our magistrate.”

  Brogan ignored Sarah’s praises of the man and turned to speak to the child on his back. “And Miss Granger has what, Meglet?”

  “She has loved—”

  “’Tis rude to tell tales, young lady,” Sarah admonished before Margaret could finish. But her face turned pink with embarrassment at the little that was said. “I barely know the squire.”

  Brogan felt an immediate dislike for the man, but only because of his foolishness in ignoring Sarah Granger. “You never saw this blond fellow on the hill before?”

  “No.”

  “I shouldn’t think that’s terribly unusual,” Sarah remarked. “The squire is an important man who must have many acquaintances who visit him. Friends from the city and country alike.”

  Brogan’s dislike grew with Sarah’s defense of him. “Do these friends and acquaintances visit him often?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Sarah said, her tone piqued. “My path does not often cross Squire Crowell’s.”

  “You were quite anxious to summon him yesterday, Miss Granger, when you found me on the beach.” Brogan knew he sounded equally annoyed. He could not understand why Sarah’s esteemed squire had not once sought her company in the time Brogan had been at Ravenfield. Was the man blind as well as a simpleton, like Andy Ferris?

  Brogan wondered if the man had noticed her.

  Sarah did naught to make herself attractive, wearing clothes that concealed her feminine assets and made her complexion dull. Her glorious hair was forever pulled so tight, ’twas surprising her face hadn’t frozen into a perpetual smile.

  He realized she had no awareness of her appeal. She was lovely. She needed only to loosen her hair and wear more attractive clothes and her squire would notice her.

  “Well, of course I thought of summoning the squire,” she said. “I’ve probably violated any number of laws by neglecting to call in the authorities. I’ve never heard of a man washing up from the sea.”

  “And now your squire has a guest, so it would be inconvenient to trouble him,” he said.

  “Exactly right,” she remarked, obviously relieved to have the matter settled. Yet his unorthodox arrival had been the perfect excuse for her to call on the squire, the man she loved.

  ’Twas curious. Could it be that she was shy? Or lacking confidence?

  “Is this the path to his house?” Brogan asked, turning his attention to the more weighty matter at hand—a stranger in the vicinity.

  Sarah and Margaret nodded together. “Over the next rise and through the trees,” said Sarah. “Corrington is a huge estate. ’Tis much larger than Ravenfield.”

  But close enough that an Odhar warrior might establish his own base there as Brogan had done at Ravenfield. Mayhap he should pay a visit to Corrington House and see Crowell’s visitor for himself. He decided to wait until after dark, then he would make a quick trip to Crowell’s estate and try to determine whether the visitor was a magical being, or nothing more than a Tuath gentleman, come to visit a country acquaintance.

  In the meantime, Brogan intended to discover what made Sarah Granger so skittish with men.

  They descended the steep path carefully in consideration of Sarah’s flimsy shoes, and Brogan grabbed her arm when she tripped, keeping her from falling. Her hair came loose, and when it brushed his hand, she quickly drew away and twisted the glorious mass into a tight loop at her nape.

  He wondered if Crowell could possibly be Sarah’s true céile mate. If so, ’twould be a simple enough matter to make him realize it. The Pruitt woman’s event would likely be the best opportunity for Sarah to show herself to good advantage. If she wore flattering clothes and softened the arrangement of her hair, the only thing lacking would be confidence in herself.r />
  As to that, mayhap all it would take would be a bit of flattering male attention and she would learn to trust her feminine charms.

  “My papa used to carry us this way,” said Margaret. “We had to take turns.”

  “Aye. ’Tis a fair occupation for a father,” Brogan said, enjoying the simple pleasure of touching Sarah and carrying Meglet.

  Brogan had yet to meet his own céile mate, the woman with whom he would share sòlas forever. He had come to doubt that he would ever sire the children Kieran had wanted to see before he died. None of Brogan’s past mistresses aroused more than a passing interest. They hadn’t needed him particularly, nor had Brogan had much need for any of them, beyond the obvious.

  “Did your papa take you on pony rides, too?” Margaret asked.

  “Aye. And like you, I recently lost him.” He didn’t know why he’d said it. The information could make no possible difference to his quest here, or the fact that he would soon be gone.

  But when Sarah put her hand on his arm and looked into his eyes with a compassionate gaze of her own, a warm current of contentment flowed through him, an unfamiliar sense of peace.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. I didn’t know.”

  “Was he killed in the Napoleon war, too?” Margaret asked.

  “No, moileen,” Brogan said, using a Druzai endearment as he enjoyed these few moments of tranquility in Sarah’s world. He would not have minded if she leaned closer so he could inhale that scent that aroused him every time she was near. But she moved away when she saw Jane running up the hill toward them.

  It was for the best. When he left, he wanted to leave no lingering impression on them. Nor did he want any particular memories of Sarah Granger to follow him to Coruain.

  “Look, Margaret!” Sarah said. “It’s your sister coming after you, and Maud right behind her.”

  Brogan let Margaret down and she ran ahead to meet Jane and the housekeeper.

  His father had recently died. Perhaps that was why Mr. Locke seemed a bit lost, so otherworldly. It was likely why his attention sometimes seemed to drift. Sarah knew how he felt. After her father’s death, she had not gotten her bearings until she’d come to Ravenfield. She’d felt adrift for four long years.

  He did not hurry to catch up to Maud and the girls, instead falling into a comfortable pace beside her. “My father was hardly an exemplary parent,” Sarah said. “But I missed him terribly when he died.”

  His expression was desolate when he looked at her. “We used to argue,” he said.

  “And you are sorry for it.”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you not think most fathers and sons argue at times?”

  “’Twas different with us, Miss Granger. We argued matters of policy. Of defense. Of marital alliances.”

  “You make it sound as though your father was king of Scotland.” She looked up at him, puzzled. “But there is no Scottish king, is there?”

  “No. He was…” He hesitated, and Sarah thought he considered his next words quite carefully. “He was a very powerful lord of our lands. The lives of many were affected by his decisions.”

  “Even so…Your father must have appreciated a lively discourse with the man he could most trust,” she said. “His son.”

  “But we disagreed.”

  “’Twould be a foolish lord who surrounded himself only with those who agreed with him,” she said. “I would venture to guess your father was not a fool.”

  He shook his head. A lock of his hair dropped onto his forehead, giving her a glimpse of the boy he’d once been. Sarah had the urge to push it back, but such an act would be much too intimate.

  “No. He was brilliant in his way.”

  “You loved him.”

  His jaw clenched tightly. “Aye. I did.”

  Sarah’s throat tightened, and she felt tears welling in her eyes. She blinked them away and put aside the memories of her own parents’ deaths.

  He stopped and turned to her. “I loved him, but no more than you did yours.”

  Sarah took a shuddering breath. “My father was no noble lord, Mr. Locke. After my mother died, he was responsible only for the two of us. And he failed at that.”

  “It changes naught.”

  She shook her head. “You’re right. It doesn’t. He was a drunkard, but I remembered our happier times, when my mother was alive and all was well. After she died, he barely kept a roof over our heads, and food on our table, but he cared for me as best he could.”

  He’d taught her to play the pianoforte, to draw and to speak French. They were all worthless occupations, except to a wife or a governess, and Sarah knew which she would soon be.

  Mr. Locke touched her cheek then, and rubbed away a tear she hadn’t realized she’d shed. “We are a fine pair, are we not, Sarah Granger?”

  She brushed away the other tears as well as his hand, and started walking again. She did not like to think of her father’s last days and the illness that had ravaged him. Nor did she wish to dwell upon the time she’d spent in the parish school or the three years she’d had to rely upon the grudging charity of the wealthy families in Craggleton.

  Those days seemed all too threatening now, with Mr. Ridley on his way to Ravenfield. She didn’t know if she could succeed in the town that had made her an outcast. Yet there had to be some fair-minded families in Craggleton who wanted to educate their daughters, but could not afford the venerable widows who took in students. Her plan depended upon it.

  Mr. Locke fell into step beside her and they walked in silence to the garden, where he retrieved his coat from the shrubs.

  Sarah felt embarrassed by her tears, shed for the father who had already been gone ten years. She was no weak-minded female who dwelled on past sorrows, especially now, when she had to find the strength and determination to make a go of it in Craggleton. She was determined to see that Margaret and Jane fared better in their orphaned state than she ever did.

  “You don’t think it was Mr. Ridley visiting Squire Crowell, do you?” Sarah asked hopefully while the children washed their hands and faces. She needed a few more days to make plans, to find lodgings, to advertise her ser vices.

  “Ridley will come directly to Ravenfield,” Mr. Locke said. “What reason would he have to visit the neighboring estates first?”

  It was what Sarah thought, though it did not ease her worries. Mr. Ridley would soon arrive, and Mr. Merton had suggested that she and the children should vacate the house before he came.

  It distressed her to know that Captain Barstow’s cousin, far removed as he might be, intended to cast his cousin’s children from their home with no prospects. Could any man be so cold?

  She knew he could. Shuddering at the memory of her own experiences before coming to Ravenfield, Sarah renewed her vow to take care of the girls if they were compelled to leave. All advice to the contrary, Sarah wondered if Mr. Ridley might let them stay. She said nothing of this possibility to the girls…It was remote at best, and they had to be prepared to leave the home they’d known all their lives.

  When they returned to the house, Sarah noticed a few items that were out of place. Books lay on the desk in the library, and a drawer in the writing table was open. She did not think Maud would leave these items out of place, but her chores must have been interrupted by Jane’s appearance in the house with tales of Margaret’s disappearance. Giving it no further thought, she closed the drawer and replaced the books, and joined the others.

  Maud served supper in the kitchen and they all sat down informally at the table with Mr. Locke. It began as a tense and quiet affair in spite of Sarah’s attempts to speak cheerfully of the life they would make for themselves in Craggleton.

  “What if that man really was Mr. Ridley?” Margaret asked. “Will he turn us out of the house when he comes here?”

  “What kind of lodgings will we find?” Jane asked.

  “Will we have to take the rooms behind the butcher’s shop?” Margaret asked, going pale. She put down her for
k. “Before Papa went away, I saw him give money to a ragged little boy who lived there.”

  “Of course not, Margaret,” said Sarah. “Our rooms will be lovely, with windows and…a small kitchen. We’ll be able to cook our pies…”

  “And sell cockles, too?” Jane asked.

  Sarah nodded. “And I will give music lessons.”

  “Will we have a pianoforte in our new home?”

  Sarah took a deep breath. They would be lucky to have enough beds for the three of them, but she could not tell that to the girls. They would have to face cold reality soon enough. “No, love. I’ll have to go to the homes of those who wish to learn.”

  Mr. Locke stood abruptly and took the pitcher from the table. He said nothing, but went out the door to the well.

  “I think Mr. Locke is angry,” said Margaret.

  Jane nodded. “His brows came together the way Papa’s did when he was displeased with us.”

  Sarah had also noted the dark expression on their visitor’s face. “Perhaps he’s thinking of his boat and the trouble he’s going to have getting home.”

  Maud snorted. “With the money that one has, he’ll have no difficulty hiring his own private carriage to take him home.”

  He’d told Margaret that things would likely work out better than they could imagine. Yet Sarah could not see how. She wondered if Mr. Locke also thought it possible that Mr. Ridley would want the girls to remain at Ravenfield.

  Brogan had to get out of there. He went to the well in the courtyard, but sat down on the low, rocky wall that enclosed the garden, letting the pitcher dangle from his fingers.

  “They insinuate themselves, do they no’?” Colm remarked. He ruffled his feathers, but did not move from his perch in the fountain.

  Brogan did not reply, but he knew the dragheen was correct. He was beginning to care what happened to these Tuath females.

  Kieran’s death had hit him hard, but Brogan’s position on Coruain ensured there would be no hardship resulting from his father’s demise. Brogan would continue to see to the protection of the Druzai isles, training and commanding the elite sorcerer-warriors of Coruain while Merrick became high chieftain. Merrick would wed the Druzai sorceress that had been foretold at his birth, and Brogan could play doting uncle to his children.