A Warrior's Taking

by Margo Maguire

  “Is a woman alone, is she no’?”

  “Her father was a drunkard, sir,” the solicitor said, as though that explained it all. “She is accustomed to making her own way.”

  Brogan restrained his anger and stood, his business concluded. No woman would be left in such straits on Coruain. Every opinion he’d had about these Tuath was correct. “And the children?”

  “A guardian was named…” Merton furrowed his brow. “Once the captain’s commission is sold, there will be some money for them. With careful supervision, it might keep them for several years.”

  Disgusted by a society that took such slipshod care of its women and children, Brogan left the office. His horse awaited him, so he gathered its reins and walked to the draper’s shop where Sarah had gone.

  Preoccupied by the strange notion that Sarah and the children would fare much better on Coruain in spite of their Tuath blood, Brogan dismounted and went into the shop where bolt after bolt of fabric lined the shelves on every wall.

  Two women stood waiting on Sarah, their expressions unfriendly and impatient. There was one long, glass case where Sarah stood, pointing out ribbons and buttons to the older of the two women, who wore a pincushion tied ’round her wrist and had a long measuring strip draped ’round her collar.

  There were two neatly folded mounds of cloth, one of shiny, pale yellow and the other a delicate pink.

  “Are you sure you have the coin to pay for all this, Sarah?”

  Brogan stopped short at the comely young woman’s sharp, discourteous tone.

  “Of course I do,” Sarah replied, and Brogan saw her straighten her back and raise her chin at the woman’s words. “But I’m not finished.”

  “The cloth is cut,” the older woman said brusquely. “If I have to put it back—”

  Brogan stepped up beside Sarah, troubled by the other woman’s surly attitude. “Are these the fabrics for the children?” he asked.

  The shop woman looked up at him and raised one brow. She was nice looking, if he counted only facial features. But Brogan had felt her ugly animosity. He could not imagine anything Sarah might have done to deserve such a raw opinion in Craggleton. It raised his ire to think she was being judged because of her sire’s failings.

  “Yes, the pink is for Margaret,” she said quietly.

  “And the bonny yellow for Jane?”

  Sarah nodded.

  She had naught for herself. That made Brogan angriest of all. He looked ’round at all the bolts of cloth until his eyes lighted on a shiny, coppery cloth on one of the top shelves. With no doubt it had to be among the most expensive fabrics in the entire shop, but it was the one that best suited Sarah’s coloring. He went to the shelf and reached up for it, then found a bolt of rich, brown silk on a lower shelf.

  “Add these.”

  “But sir, white is most fashionable—”

  “White would not suit Miss Granger’s coloring.”

  “Oh, but sir—”

  “She’ll have these, one for the gown, and one for trimming. Miss Granger, choose buttons and any other bric-a-brac you need.”

  Sarah felt perilously close to tears when Brendan Locke pulled down the very fabric she’d eyed earlier, deciding it would be too expensive. She could hardly meet Frederica Hattinger’s cold stare when he put the beautiful, burnished cloth on the counter and handed her the money to pay for it.

  The seamstress, Nettie Burrows, had once turned Sarah away from this very shop when she’d come looking for scraps of fabric to make a cloak for herself. It had been a particularly bitter winter, and Sarah’s old cloak had been threadbare.

  Miss Hattinger was a year older than Sarah and not yet married. But Sarah could not believe she lacked for suitors. In the years Sarah had lived in town, boys had flocked to Frederica’s door, carrying her parcels and currying her favor at every opportunity. Her father owned the draper’s shop as well as several other businesses in town, and it could only be a matter of time before she made an advantageous marriage. A girl as pretty as Frederica, and with such good connections, could not have escaped Squire Crowell’s notice. But Sarah hoped the man would consider her unattractive character before falling for her more obvious charms.

  “My word, Sarah,” Frederica said in exaggerated astonishment. “I had no idea you had a protector—”

  “I’m an old friend of Captain Barstow—Brendan Locke,” he interjected. He gave a polite bow, though Sarah noted a tightening of his jaw and a stiffness of bearing. “I’m staying at Mrs. Hartwell’s cottage while I’m visiting his family.”

  Sarah’s heart filled with gratitude at his words, his explanation thwarting the malicious gleam in Frederica’s eye. She wondered how he’d managed to let Mrs. Hartwell’s house, but it hardly mattered now. Frederica was a practiced gossip. Word of Mr. Locke’s presence, his obvious wealth, and his friendly acquaintance with Captain Barstow’s family—including Sarah—would reach every corner of town by nightfall.

  For a moment, Sarah did not feel quite so alone against the world. She did not like to admit it, but with Mr. Locke beside her, bolstering her, she’d had the confidence to face Frederica and the seamstress without cringing inside. Without feeling worthless, the way she had every day she’d lived in Craggleton, surviving only because of the grudging charity of its occupants.

  “I’ll wait for you outside, Miss Granger,” Mr. Locke said. “Take your time.”

  When he had gone, Frederica leaned forward and gave Sarah a conspiratorial look. “Such a fine-looking specimen he is, Sarah. A Scotsman, by the sound of him. Will he be staying long?”

  “Mr. Locke’s plans are his own, I’m sure,” she said coldly. She did not need to mention that his plans were none of Frederica’s concern.

  “He must be very rich,” the young lady remarked, eyeing the money in Sarah’s hand.

  “He seems to have what he needs,” Sarah said, her tone terse, anxious for the seamstress to hurry and finish cutting her fabric, measuring the ribbons, counting buttons.

  “These are our finest fabrics…Who would ever have thought pitiful Sarah Granger…” Frederica had the good grace to give Sarah a sheepish glance at such an outrageous remark. She shrugged with puzzlement. “Why ever would you need such fine materials up at Ravenfield?”

  Sarah clenched her teeth and wished that Brendan Locke were still standing nearby. Perhaps he’d have had the perfect retort, but Sarah did not, and she had no intention of mentioning that she’d been invited to Pruitt Hall. She turned away as though interested in some other goods, letting Frederica’s question and insulting manner go unanswered, the way she’d done all her life.

  “If you’ll just come into the back,” said Miss Burrows. “I’ll take your measurements—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Sarah responded, unable to forget the woman’s past cruelty. She would not give her business to Nettie Burrows now. “I’ll do the sewing myself.”

  “Oh,” Frederica interjected, “but you obviously have more than enou—”

  “’Tis surely a sin to waste money on a task I can very well do myself,” Sarah said. “I am a fair seamstress and I know what will best suit the children.”

  Miss Burrows pursed her lips and stepped away as Frederica wrapped Sarah’s purchases in paper and tied it with a string.

  “Well, here you are—”

  Sarah took the parcel from Frederica’s hands and hurried away, eager to leave the shop.

  She found Mr. Locke around the corner, standing beside a massive gray horse. When he beckoned to her, she realized she was gaping at him as though he’d made the animal appear out of thin air.

  Even as properly dressed as he was, he looked like a barbarian warrior with his mighty destrier. Sarah could almost see him dressed in leather and armor, a sword at his waist and a lance in his hand, with small braids at his temples and paint on his face.

  “Have you found all you need?” he asked.

  She swallowed and nodded once again, dispelling the odd sensation
of seeing something that was not really there.

  “Good. Hand me your package and let me help you up.”

  “Oh no, sir,” she said, backing away from the huge horse. “I’ve never ridden in my life.”

  “’Tis time you started, then.”

  Sarah glanced left and right. There was no one about, no one to witness her cowardice when she moved away. “On the contrary, Mr. Locke, I have no need—”

  But Mr. Locke did not let her escape. He took her arm and relieved her of her umbrella and her bundle of fabric. These he stowed in a pack on the side of the saddle. “’Tis no great accomplishment to ride. The smallest of children can do it.”

  “But I really—”

  He placed his hands on her waist, and she could no longer think of anything but the wall of strength that stood so close before her. His outdoor scent surrounded her, and when she looked up, she saw the lips that had kissed her senseless.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  “When I lift you, just throw your leg to the opposite side—”

  Sarah exhaled abruptly and pushed him away. “Astride? Absolutely not!”

  It would be scandalous. Any hope she had of gaining students in Craggleton would end the minute one of the towns people saw her. Even now, Miss Burrows might very well be peeking out of some hidden window to watch them.

  “Sarah, it’s going to start raining soon. We’re going to ride back to Ravenfield.”

  “Together? Oh no. That would be even worse.”

  Mr. Locke shook his head as though she were the most unreasonable creature on earth.

  “Men and women might ride together…astride…in Scotland,” she said, “but it is not done here.”

  She took one step, but Mr. Locke picked her up and lifted her onto the saddle. With ease.

  Sarah grabbed hold of the pommel to keep from falling.

  “There’s naught to it, lass,” he said, and Sarah thought there might be a mirthful sparkle in the man’s eye.

  Contrary to Mr. Locke’s opinion, there was much to it. The horse was so tall, she was likely to break an ankle were she to try jumping down. “Please do not mount this horse with me,” she said as he took hold of the reins. “It will be ruinous to my reputation.”

  He did not reply, but turned the horse into the street and led it to the end of town. Sarah held onto the pommel and braced one foot in a stirrup as she struggled to sit up straight and achieve some dignity, and accustomed herself to the swaying of the horse.

  To her dismay, she soon found her anger mollified as she watched Mr. Locke’s easy manner and purposeful stride. He tipped his head and made polite greetings to the people he passed, who responded in kind.

  His legs were long, and they covered the pretty terrain much more easily than Sarah could do. However, with one quick glance at the sky, she could see that they were not going to make it back before the rain started again.

  They were well out of town when he stopped the horse and came around to the side. Sarah thought something must be wrong, but he took her by surprise, suddenly vaulting onto the horse’s back behind her. Before she could object, he clucked his tongue and they set off at a trot.

  Sarah grabbed hold of his forearms as they bracketed her on either side of her waist. “Mr. Locke!”

  “There is no one out here to see you. So try to enjoy the ride, Sarah.”

  It took several moments to accustom herself to their speed, but once her initial fright subsided, Sarah managed to ease her grip on his arms.

  He leaned close so that his mouth grazed her cheek, and she could feel his breath. “I think you’ve left a few scars on me, lass.”

  The warmth of his voice sent a shiver of awareness through Sarah’s body, and she unconsciously tipped her head to allow him closer access. She hardly felt him press her shoulders back so that she leaned against him, her body languid, yet expectant.

  Surely she did not long for another kiss. She knew next to nothing about Mr. Locke besides the fact that he intended to leave soon. Imminent travel was his only reason for buying this horse. With his boat lost at sea, he could easily return to Scotland at his own pace on horseback.

  Sarah could not imagine Mr. Locke resting content inside a stuffy, stomach-churning carriage. He was the kind of man who would ride like the wind, his cloak billowing out behind him, his horse burning up the ground as he passed. He would go hatless, as seemed to be his wont, and every woman in his path would take notice of the powerful rider who passed so quickly over the land.

  “You turned a number of heads at your passing through town,” he said, voicing the reverse of her own private thoughts.

  “If so, it was only to see my escort,” she replied, remembering Frederica Hattinger’s reaction to him. If he stayed long enough to attend the Pruitt soiree, he could have his choice of any gentlewoman in the parish.

  “They were male heads, Sarah.” He pulled on the ribbons that held her bonnet in place, untying them, removing the hat from her head. “You have bonny auburn hair. You must show it.”

  She knew very well her hair was not only unruly, but a nondescript color that was neither blond, nor black, nor red. But when she felt Mr. Locke’s lips so close, it hardly seemed to matter. He tucked her head under his chin and pulled her against his hard chest, and Sarah wondered if he could be persuaded to stay in Cumbria.

  Chapter 9

  Holding Sarah felt much too good.

  But Brogan was not about to deny himself the small pleasure of feeling her body against his own. His horse was a spirited mare, but it was easily controlled, so he gave the horse its head and relaxed his hold on the reins. With his hands relatively free, he brought them to Sarah’s waist and held her close.

  He inhaled deeply of her scent, an echo of the wonders that came out of her kitchen. She always smelled good enough to eat, her fragrance giving him a surprising sense of comfort and contentment. In spite of his reasons for leaving Coruain and his urgency to return with the stone, he was drawn to this prickly yet tenderhearted woman. He wanted to show her how to attract a man who would appreciate her. There had to be a man who would pledge céile to her.

  He had thought more of céile since coming to Ravenfield than he had in years. Neither he nor his brother had met his life mate, though Merrick’s had been foretold at his birth. His brother would pledge to a powerful Druzai sorceress before his thirtieth year.

  But no marriage had been predicted for Brogan.

  It did not surprise him. He’d spent his life in the company of men, commanding Coruain’s warriors, continuing the Druzai tradition of protecting their realm from dangerous forces that threatened them. Brogan had enjoyed the occasional liaison with a comely Druzai sorceress, but he’d never considered the possibility of establishing a lasting bond with any of them.

  ’Twas not that he hadn’t liked or respected his mistresses. But there had been naught beyond the obvious physical gratification they’d shared. There had been no challenge, no real sòlas.

  It had been years since anyone but his own father had gainsaid him. Sarah Granger could not be more different from the obsequious Druzai women who had shared his bed. She would be the last woman to pay homage to a Druzai prince.

  “Why do you laugh?” Sarah asked, and he realized he’d let a chuckle escape.

  “You, Sarah,” he replied.

  “You find me comical?”

  “No…I find myself comical. Look, it’s starting to rain.”

  He kicked his heels and held her securely before him as the horse began to gallop.

  “Mr. Locke, you’re going the wrong way!”

  “We should come upon Mrs. Hartwell’s cottage in a moment.”

  “Well yes, but—”

  “We can wait out the storm there.”

  She said something he could not hear over the sound of the rain and the galloping of the horse, but they were soon ’round the curve in the bridle path and at the house. He pulled up to the barn at the back of the house and dismounted, quickly shovi
ng open the door and leading the horse inside.

  “You really have let the house?”

  “Of course. Your reputation is precious to you, Sarah,” he said, reaching up for her. “I doona wish to cause you any trouble.”

  He lifted her down, taking his time. His pulse kicked up a notch with the caress of her body as he brought her to the ground.

  “We should not be here alone,” she said.

  “Who will know?” He felt like a raw lad, sneaking away with a forbidden lover. He tossed her bonnet onto the pommel of the saddle. “You’re trembling.”

  She went to the barn’s door and looked out at the rain. Though her back was to him, Brogan could almost see her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

  He shouldn’t have brought her here, but there had been no better option for getting them out of the rain since he could not allow himself to stop the weather. Besides, this was the perfect opportunity to show her how attractive she could be. She had the beauty, now all she needed was the confidence to pursue the man of her choosing.

  Brogan approached her, and standing close behind, he placed his hands upon her shoulders. He turned her to face him. “Are you afraid of me, lass?”

  She shook her head, then spoke quietly. “But surely you understand that if I am to make a home in Craggleton and earn a living there, I must be beyond reproach.”

  He lowered his head. “One kiss does no’ a harlot make.” Her mouth trembled and he hungered for it.

  This time, when he touched his lips to Sarah’s, she did not resist. It seemed he’d been holding his breath since their last kiss, waiting for this moment. Yet he’d been breathing all day, hadn’t he?

  Without thinking, he pulled her hair loose from its pins while he deepened the kiss. He felt her tremulous sigh, and the slipping of her arms ’round him. With no further urging, he speared her mouth with his tongue and felt her hesitant response.

  Her innocent reaction inflamed him.