A Warrior's Taking

by Margo Maguire

  “I th-thought you were asleep.” She felt half naked, wearing only her thin sleeping gown. Her nipples pebbled against the cloth, and Sarah reached for her shawl to draw it over her breasts, but it was not on her shoulders. It lay on the chair at the other side of the room.

  “I was…out walking,” he said. His hair was thick and dark, and so glossy that the highlights shone nearly blue in the lamplight. His jaw was shaded by the day’s growth of beard, and the dark shadow added to the primitive air of danger. He was in shirtsleeves, his collar gone and his sleeves rolled to the elbows.

  Sarah knew she should not be alone with him, yet she could not move. She was struck again by his untamed appearance and his masculine strength, even in stylish clothes. Her eyes were drawn to the hollow at the base of his throat, his only vulnerable spot, brushed by the dark hair of his chest.

  She’d seen most of him when he’d washed up on their shore, but he seemed even more potent now, with his powerful body confined inside the bounds of his civilized clothes.

  Sarah felt almost breathless as his eyes drifted over her barely concealed figure, and she curled her toes underneath the hem of her gown, hoping that he would not find her lacking.

  Yet he was a stranger who would soon be leaving. His opinion could not possibly matter.

  Unbidden came the image of Sarah curled up with him in one of those big chairs, reading her favorite book of poetry together as a fire crackled nearby and the fall rains pelted the windows. Stunned by the clarity of the image, she felt her face heat. She tried to walk away, to move from his presence, but her feet would not obey her will.

  Neither of them spoke.

  It was so quiet in the room that Sarah could hear the rustling of the trees and the occasional haunting cry of an owl nearby.

  Mr. Locke’s blue eyes pierced her with a direct glance. He moved a step closer. “Miss Granger, why have you never wed?”

  She crossed her arms over her breasts and looked up at him, disinclined to enumerate the reasons no man had claimed her. It would be too embarrassing to recount the way the boys in town had ridiculed her frayed clothes and leaky shoes. Or how they’d teased her for her freckles, and called her clumsy when they tripped or pushed her. They’d been cruel to her, citing her poverty, her father’s overfondness for drink, and his failure at business.

  And when she’d gotten older, they pinched her and tried to corner her, putting their hands where they shouldn’t, frightening her with their cruel strength.

  “’Tis not your concern, Mr. Locke.”

  “Are you waiting for Squire Crowell, then?” A muscle in his jaw clenched, but there was no mockery in his question.

  Sarah clenched her own jaw. “Of course not. He is well above my station.” But at least he’d nodded kindly to her whenever their paths had crossed. She’d been free to dream her improbable dreams about him…but she could barely picture Squire Crowell’s face while Brendan Locke stood so near.

  “Then why? Is the thought of marriage to any other man so distasteful to you?” Mr. Locke moved closer, and Sarah could see his pulse beating steadily in his neck. He raised his hand to her cheek, cupping her chin, tracing the slight cleft with his thumb. No man had ever touched her so kindly, yet it was not kindness that Sarah sensed in him.

  Her eyes drifted closed and she dropped her hands to her sides. Her breasts tingled uncomfortably, and her womb felt tight and languid, hot and sensitive. His touch had triggered the compelling sensations; she knew it could quell them, too.

  Sarah leaned toward him and spoke, her voice almost a whisper. “You would not understand.”

  “Try me, lass.” His voice was a caress, as much as his touch on her face. His hand glided down her neck and over her bare collarbone. Sarah’s knees quivered when he slid his fingers just inside the frayed neckline of her gown. He skimmed his other hand around her waist and pulled her toward him.

  She swallowed. She did not want to talk about Squire Crowell or her difficult years in Craggleton, not while Mr. Locke was drawing her so close that she could see flecks of black in his dark blue eyes.

  Not for the first time, Sarah felt as though he were from a different world, a powerful Celt from days of old, a warrior lord who could take her without resistance. She snapped her eyes open. No man of Mr. Locke’s stature would give her the time of day, which only meant he was toying with her, just as he’d done on the beach after she’d pulled him from the water.

  Sarah stepped away, appalled at her behavior. She gathered up her shawl and her book, then started for the door.

  “There are carriages for hire in Craggleton, Mr. Locke. Once you tire of our ruins, no doubt you will be anxious to be on your way.”

  Chapter 7

  The evening had nearly been a disaster, in every possible way. Brogan had left traces of magic for any Odhar hunter to find, and he’d come very close to kissing Sarah Granger. He could hardly explain what had happened in the library with Sarah.

  She was Tuath, a woman with no true magical arts. She had put no spell on him, nor had the dragheen suggested this attraction to him, for Brogan—being forewarned—would have felt it.

  Yet she’d intrigued him from the moment she’d dragged him out of the sea, and her feats of Tuath magic had beguiled him. The jam she made was superb, but her pies were pure sorcery. Her music, with all its complexity, puzzled and enchanted him. And when he’d come inside to find her standing in the library with her hair curling loose about her shoulders and wearing naught but her shift, he’d wanted her with a ferocity he could not explain.

  Though she’d left the room several minutes ago, Brogan was still aroused, pacing, and having to force his attention on the diagram he’d made and the runes he’d translated. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the crìoch-fàile, but he could not shut out the image of Sarah, nearly exposed beneath the thin shift. She was as lush and seductive as he’d imagined, from the fire in her eyes to the full, pink lips that he longed to taste.

  If not for her abrupt interruption of their encounter, he’d have seduced her. He, a disciplined Druzai warrior, would have laid her on the drawing room sofa and made love to her as though there would be no consequence to his actions.

  His desire made no rational sense. ’Twas best for Druzai and Tuath to remain separate. Yet when he was in Sarah’s presence, his ability to think logically escaped him. Thoughts of sòlas came unbidden, unsettling him even more than his primal urge to possess her.

  ’Twas absurd. None of his Druzai mistresses had ever awakened such a driving need in him. Surely, this Tuath lass didn’t, either. He could shut her out of his mind and turn his attention to more important matters, such as his unfortunate use of power at Crowell’s house.

  If Eilinora had hunters, they would be able to see the sparks left behind by his disappearance, which only made Brogan’s search more urgent. He’d remained hidden in the tree near the house, waiting to see if anyone of Crowell’s party would come out after they’d all retired. But all had remained quiet, which led him to wonder if any of the company at Corrington House was Odhar. Mayhap they felt so confident with Kieran’s scepter that they were not concerned with the possibility of a Druzai warrior nearby.

  The morning dawned cloudy and cool, threatening rain, but Brogan intended to pursue his search in the walls of the castle itself, whether it rained or not.

  As the occupants of the house began to stir, he took the last piece of Sarah’s pie and carried it outside before he would have to face the woman herself. He needed to find the stone and get away from Ravenfield before there were any more interludes like the one in the library the night before. Or near encounters with Eilinora, though he almost wished she would appear so that he could deal with her once and for all.

  He did not like knowing she or one of her minions had been here during the night, and could return at any time. The thought of it was unnerving.

  Brogan headed straight for the castle, but stumbled upon Andy Ferris in the garden. The poor fellow looked eve
n worse in the early morning light. One of his eyes was skewed to the left, and the other focused directly on the pie that Brogan had just raised to his mouth for his first bite.

  Brogan could almost taste the sweetened fruit and the vanilla and cinnamon flavors that gave Sarah Granger her alluring scent. The pastry was so fine it almost crumbled in his hands, but he gave it one longing look before lowering the succulent treat and handing it over to Andy. The pathetic little fellow obviously had a much greater need.

  Brushing the pie crumbs from his hands, Brogan collected his shovel, then proceeded to the castle, thinking Lord Dubhán might have hidden the stone inside the castle itself, to keep it close to him. Mayhap ’twas in the chamber where the man had slept. Just the thought of finding the stone and leaving this confusing world was enough to spur him on.

  He removed his coat and cravat and jammed his shovel into the dirt beside one of the stone staircases. Placing his hands on his hips, he gazed upward.

  There had once been three towers. The roofs were long gone, but the steps to the top were relatively intact. The floors were missing, but indentations in the walls and a few stone supports still remained. Brogan saw ancient fireplaces on all three levels, brushed clean and smooth with disuse over time. At the rear of the building was a passage to the foundation that led to the underground caves.

  The urge to use sorcery was strong, but Brogan knew better. His search for the brìgha-stone would take no minor use of power, nor had his quick vanishment the night before. He hoped his mistake would escape the notice of any Odhar who came to find the stone.

  Using magic would likely be a futile effort, anyway, for he’d been warned that the stone would be protected against every spell he knew. Brogan reasoned that he would be able to find it through one of two means. Either the runes would give him clues to a puzzle that would lead to the hiding place, or he would have to find it physically—look at every inch of every wall and floor to discover its hiding place.

  The underground runes and crìoch-fàile had not made any sense, so he decided to climb up to the tower rooms and see if the etchings on the high walls were more intact…and more obvious.

  He started up the curving steps to the largest tower chamber. Stones broke away as he climbed, but he soon arrived at the topmost landing without mishap. The inside walls were jagged and uneven, and the markings closest to the stairs had faded so that Brogan could not make out their meaning.

  But there were more on the far side.

  As he looked across the distance, his attention was diverted by the sight of Jane Barstow running through the courtyard, past the dragheen, heading south. She was calling for her cat.

  Brogan swore. ’Twas another thing he’d have to remedy before he left. Though he could not return the wee beast to life, he could certainly see to it that she had another to replace the one Eilinora had killed.

  He rubbed one hand across his face, then looked back at the house, half expecting Sarah Granger to come out after the child. He found himself wondering if Sarah would see fit to wear her best gown again.

  “Mo oirg,” he muttered when he realized the ridiculous direction of his thoughts. What Sarah Granger wore made absolutely no difference to him.

  Resolved to finish his task in the shortest possible time, Brogan returned his attention to the castle walls and looked for a handhold to steady himself.

  Every wall had deteriorated over time. From his place on the top stair, he saw naught that looked like a niche where the blood stone might have been stowed. Turning his attention to the etchings on the opposite wall, he took stock of the space, then rolled up his sleeves.

  Grabbing hold of a jutting rock overhead, he stretched one leg to step on a narrow floor support. He’d nearly reached it when a black, leathery figure jumped down from the top of the wall and perched on the very spot where Brogan had intended to step.

  Brogan lost his balance and fell, sliding down the wall. The jagged rocks tore at his hands and elbows, knocked into his knees, and bruised his feet before he came to an abrupt stop on a rocky ledge that had once supported the second floor. He grabbed hold of a jutting ledge and caught himself before plummeting all the way to the ground, cursing the sìthean that had intentionally sabotaged him.

  The miserable little sprites were unpredictable and capricious, and to Brogan’s knowledge, they bore no allegiance to anyone or anything. They existed only to trip the unwary, causing accidents and mayhem wherever they willed. And Brogan’s fall could have killed him had he not had the strength to slow his descent and hold on when he’d reached the ledge.

  He steadied himself and looked up. “When I catch you, you are dead, sìthean!”

  It twitched its tail and looked down at him in horror. “Ye can see me?”

  “Aye,” he called, marking the sìthean’s surprise, “and I’m comin’ for you!”

  Brogan had forgotten the dragheen’s warnings about the mischievous sprites. Judging by the creature’s surprise that Brogan could see him, he concluded they must not be visible to the Tuath. He shuddered at the kind of havoc the invisible little beasts could wreak in this world.

  The damned sìth blinked its huge eyes and woggled its pointed ears at Brogan, then flitted to the top of the wall as quickly as it had jumped down. Scrambling over the top, the wee devil slipped out of sight.

  ’Twas no matter. He would seek it out later, and then exact his revenge.

  Carefully, Brogan stood up on the perch that had saved him, and made his way across the rocky wall to the steps. He sat down and wiped blood from the small scrapes and cuts on his hands, avoiding his inclination to use a simple spell to heal them. Here, he would have to live with them.

  “Oh my heavens! Are you all right?”

  Brogan muttered a curse, whipping his head ’round to see Miss Granger hurrying to the bottom of the tower’s stairs. To her, he must have looked like the clumsiest oaf, rather than a man who’d been foozled by a sìthean. From below, his mishap must have looked ridiculous.

  He jabbed his fingers across his scalp, annoyed that her opinion mattered. “Aye, I’m fine. Just a few scrapes,” he said, but his assertion did not convince her, for he could see her trembling even from his high perch. Her face had no color whatsoever, and she was pressing one hand so hard against the center of her chest, he was surprised she could breathe.

  She clearly did not believe him, for she lifted the skirts of her best gown and started up the stairs, her expression alternating between worry and annoyance. “Mr. Locke…”

  “I assure you I am quite all right.” He headed down the steps, intending to send her away from the dangerous staircase. ’Twould be too easy for her to misstep and fall, especially with a sìthean on the loose.

  But she climbed up, meeting him halfway. “Perhaps you should not go climbing about up here,” she said, as though he were a clumsy child.

  The color returned to her face. A few small wisps of her hair had become dislodged, and they softened her censorious attitude. In a very businesslike manner, she took hold of his hands, turning them over to assess his injuries.

  In spite of her coolness, she slid her fingers over the scrapes, and Brogan noticed her brow was furrowed with care.

  His chest tightened at her touch, and he couldn’t seem to draw sufficient air into his lungs. Heat arrowed down his spine when she looked up at him, and his blood left his brain. Arousal hit him sharply, with an intensity that was nigh impossible to control. He pulled his hands away.

  “These will need bandaging,” she said, pressing her empty hands to her waist, nervously smoothing her skirts.

  Such small injuries needed no skilled healer on Coruain, but when Brogan looked into Sarah’s eyes, he couldn’t recall the spell he’d have used to heal them had he been at home.

  Nor could he quite recall his reasons for believing Druzai and Tuath should remain separate.

  Unable to help himself, he reversed their positions, taking her hands in his. He pulled her closer and inhaled the alluring
scent that was hers alone. He felt the pulse in her wrist beating harder and faster, and when her breasts touched his chest, her breath caught. Without thinking, Brogan lowered his head and brushed his mouth against hers.

  Though he knew ’twas impossible, the earth seemed to shudder beneath his feet.

  When she let out a small sound, Brogan pulled her closer. His need to touch her was more potent than any magic he’d ever experienced. Turning her on the step, he pressed her against the rock wall of the staircase, wildly aroused by the sensation of her breasts quivering against his chest. Sighing, she lowered her eyelids, and Brogan slipped his tongue between her lips to deepen the kiss.

  The earth beneath him seemed to wobble again when he tilted his head to savor her taste and the texture of her mouth. He could not get close enough to her, even when he pulled her hips tight against his own and she drew her hands up to his shoulders and slipped her fingers into the hair at his nape.

  He pulsed against her, his erection hard against her soft, welcoming cleft, and he felt a driving urge to raise her skirts and bury himself inside her. He sensed her arousal as deeply as his own, and knew she would fit him perfectly. Desire was hard and hot as he slid his hands up her sides, drawing his thumbs to the lower curves of her breasts. He was about to lift her into his arms and carry her down to the Druzai caves when a shower of rocks and dust rained onto them.

  Sarah suddenly realized where she was, and what she was doing. She had intended to keep her distance from Brendan Locke, but when she’d seen him falling from the tower, she hadn’t been able to remain aloof. Now that she knew he was unharmed, she pulled away from him, though doing so felt as if she’d just stepped off the castle steps and into the void below.

  In spite of her withdrawal the Scotsman did not release her. He sent a quick glance to the top of the tower wall as though he could see the cause of the rocky shower. Sarah pressed a hand to her mouth, mortified that she’d succumbed to him once again. Only this time…She gulped audibly and tried to slip away from him, but he pinned her with his dark blue gaze, his expression as bewildered as hers must have been. “’Twas just a kiss, lass.”