A Warrior's Taking

by Margo Maguire

  “Mr. Ridley?”

  “What is it, Miss Granger?” His tone was harsh.

  “I’ve come to ask your permission…” No, that was not what she’d intended to say. “That is, I have a request to make.”

  “Well? Speak up. What kind of request?”

  “I would like your consent to take Margaret and Jane with me into town.”

  “For what purpose?”

  She gritted her teeth in frustration. This was not coming out the way she’d practiced. Her phrasing was all wrong. “T-to live with me, sir,” she said. “I’ve let rooms in Craggleton and I will be taking in students—”

  “No.”

  He looked back at his charts, and his two visitors also turned back to their work, dismissing her.

  “But sir,” Sarah protested. “You would not have to worry about school fees, and since the girls are accustomed to me, they will be happy to stay with me in Craggleton.”

  “No, Miss Granger,” Mr. Ridley said. He opened a drawer and pulled out a folded sheaf of paper, then handed it to her. “In two weeks’ time, they will go to Loncrief School. See that they are prepared and have what they need.”

  Sarah looked down at the paper, but the words were blurred, and she realized her eyes had filled with tears. She’d so hoped that he would allow them to stay with her…“Mr. Ridley, I beg you to reconsider. Margaret and Jane consider me their only family.”

  Ridley looked at her coldly. “Or is it the other way around, Miss Granger? I understand you were a charity case before coming to Ravenfield. ’Tis likely you have more need of them than they you.”

  Sarah’s mouth went dry. The man actually thought to turn it all around. Though she readily admitted she did not want to lose them, her primary reason for taking those expensive rooms in Craggleton was to provide a decent, caring home for them. If she were alone, she would have been satisfied with much less. She would be free to go to Scotland if Brendan Locke asked her to come. “Mr. Ridley, I have thought only of the girls’ welfare in this. They will be much happier—”

  “’Tis not their happiness that concerns me, Miss Granger,” he said brusquely. “They need more education than you can give them. And more discipline.”

  Sarah stood speechless. She realized she was wringing her hands, so she stilled them and thought of the only argument that might convince him to change his mind. “Sir, Captain Barstow would have—”

  “That will be all, Miss Granger. Leave us.”

  It took a moment before Sarah realized there was nothing more she could say, nothing more to do. Her throat burned and tears welled in her eyes as she reached for the library door.

  Wiping the moisture from her eyes, Sarah went to the back of the house and looked out the window at the girls, playing happily near the fountain, unaware of the fate that awaited them. Furious with herself for bungling the interview with Mr. Ridley, she was not going to be defeated.

  She went into her bedroom and gathered her belongings into a traveling bag. Mr. Ridley was not going to send those girls to Loncrief, not when Sarah was perfectly capable of providing for them. She had good, respectable lodgings in town, and money in her pocket, enough to keep them warm and fed through the winter, at the very least.

  On the momentum of her anger, she emptied her trunk, shoving her belongings into the bottom of the bag. She realized then that they could not stay in Craggleton. Ridley would just take the girls away from her. They would need to go far away, someplace where Ravenfield’s master would never find them.

  It would not be easy, but Sarah still had some of Brendan’s money. She could pay their fare to…to Scotland, if necessary. And if she knew where Brendan’s lands were…

  No, she could not think of Brendan Locke, or the soiree they were going to miss, or how upset the girls would be to leave in the dead of night.

  She stopped suddenly and sat heavily on her bed, holding her head in her hands. It was hopeless. She could not take the children away from their rightful guardian. It would not be possible to hide from someone as wealthy and powerful as Charles Ridley. He would find her within hours and show her no mercy once he discovered her. The law would not be sympathetic, either.

  Her heart breaking, she wept freely now, aware that she had no choice but to let Ridley send them to Loncrief. She wanted to rail against him, to protest his decision, and to inform him that his cousin’s children deserved better than that cold and distant institution so far from their home and everything they loved.

  She wanted someone to reassure her that all would be well.

  Brogan told himself that his promise to escort Sarah and the lasses to the soiree had no particular significance. He hadn’t found the stone, so he could not yet return to Coruain, anyway.

  With one last glance toward the house, he decided ’twould be best to spend the rest of the day at his cottage, working on the crìoch-fàile and poring over the old book he’d found in the library. Staying near Sarah would tempt him far too much. He wanted her with every drop of his blood, and knew that if he stayed, he would find a way to entice her out to the barn or into the caves.

  He would seduce her, and nothing could stop him from making love to her fully this time. His too few, too brief tastes of her had not been nearly enough, and every time he saw Sarah, he wanted her more. He wanted to breathe in her scent, taste her delectable body, and slide inside her hot, tight sheath.

  She’d been beautiful in the new gown, yet she’d had no awareness of her own appeal. Brogan knew ’twas going to be pure torture to escort her to Mrs. Pruitt’s, where every man at the soiree would notice her, would want her as desperately as he did.

  He muttered a curse and mounted his horse, then rode to the cottage. ’Twas not a great distance away, so he arrived quickly, and let himself into the cold, dreary house. He lit a few lamps, then went into the small drawing room, where he pulled his papers from his jacket before taking it off and pulling his suspenders from his shoulders. He sat down, smoothing out the diagrams on the table beside him. Finding the stone was even more urgent now.

  He could not doubt that Eilinora was searching, too. Brogan did not want to stay away from Ravenfield too long, though so far, the witch had confined her searching—and her other evil activities—to the dark hours of night.

  Brogan looked at the symbols that lay before him. He hated puzzles. His brother was the thoughtful one, a man who considered every angle to every situation before making a decision. Merrick was the one who should be here, working out the crìoch-fàile, leaving Brogan to engage Eilinora in battle.

  He glanced at his drawings in frustration. Each of the crìoch-fàile patterns was incomplete. He’d drawn them exactly as he’d found them on the walls of the ruins, but they made no sense.

  Unless he tore the paper into sections containing one crìoch-fàile each. Then he might actually be able to piece them together the way they were meant to go.

  Turning his full attention to the paper, he tore out the symbols he’d drawn, separating each from the others. He carefully trimmed them to make clean pieces of a puzzle. He tried fitting each open circle and dot pattern to another, but the game was ridiculously complicated, and certainly not exact. Some of the symbols overlapped and some abutted, and some seemed as though they were only close matches. Brogan could only hope he’d copied the symbols exactly.

  He worked at it awhile, but a number of the patterns had no match. There was no way to get some of the circles to fit together with others. So he eliminated those, one at a time, and concentrated on finding the ones that fit well together.

  It took some time, but he finally made eight solid circles, putting the dots and lines together so that they fit together sensibly. Then he searched out the runes that had been etched alongside each of these eight crìoch-fàile and discarded the ones that had gone with the symbols that did not fit.

  He came up with eight lines that made no sense. He arranged them and rearranged them, frustrated by his lack of practice at such riddles. Finally, after
trying every possible combination of lines, he came up with a short verse that was typical of an old Druzai song.

  Seek ye daughters / with depth of sight,

  With blood and bone / that shimmer in light.

  Muscle and stone / are hers to say,

  And hide from all, / precious gift of the fae.

  He felt certain this was it, but now he had to sort out its hidden meaning—if it actually had one.

  Depth of sight would indicate a seer, and he thought mayhap the seer in question referred to a daughter of Dubhán Ó Coileáin.

  He knew that the brìgha-stone would shimmer a deep red light when it was held in a Druzai hand, so the second line clearly referred to the stone. The third line made no sense to him, other than referring to the stone itself, but the fourth seemed obvious. The stone had been a gift of the fairy, as ancient Tuath Druids had called the Druzai.

  The thought of Druids reminded Brogan of the very valid reason for Druzai remaining separate from the Tuath. It was much too easy to dominate these people, to stir up rivalries, to meddle in their legal affairs, in their families. Eilinora was not the only vicious sorcerer who had ever risen from Druzai blood, nor would she be the last. ’Twas Brogan and his warriors who made sure they never gained the power to act.

  Yet Eilinora had been the worst. Many worthy Tuath warriors had lost their lives in the terrible wars she’d orchestrated. The witch had committed murders and instigated rivalries, played on fears and weaknesses that had caused the clans to go to war. ’Twas after she and her followers had been captured that the elders had created Coruain and mandated that the Druzai remain separate from Tuath.

  No matter what the circumstances.

  Brogan let out a frustrated sigh and set aside thoughts of his beautiful Sarah in her burnished copper gown. He felt restless, and if he’d been at home on Coruain, he’d have challenged a few of his men to combat, honing his physical skills while he burned away his desire for the Tuath woman.

  Forcing his attention back to the clues, he reminded himself he was not a man to be ruled by the demands of his cock. He had yet to be governed by his desire for a woman, and Sarah Granger was surely not the most desirable of the women he’d known.

  He could not think of one who was more appealing, but certainly there had been a Druzai female in his past who’d captured his attention as intensely as Sarah had.

  There must have been.

  Disgruntled by the direction of his thoughts, he reconsidered the clues, going over each line of his translations. But no new thoughts came to mind. He turned to the book he’d brought from Ravenfield and began to read the only volume he’d found in Ravenfield’s library that might refer to Dubhán’s descendants.

  The earliest entries were written in the familiar runes. There was mention of Lord Dubhán, the hollowing of the caves and the building of the fortress over them. The author referred to warring parties that tried to overrun Ravenfield, and their persistent lack of success.

  Brogan did not doubt it. There were no Druids or tribes of Tuath that would ever be able to overcome a Druzai lord. Yet the Tuath could easily be subjected to an ambitious Druzai sorcerer. He continued reading the entries, eventually locating a familiar passage. It differed only slightly from what he’d put together from the crìoch-fàile puzzles, and carried essentially the same message.

  Seek ye daughters with depth of sight,

  With blood and bone that shimmer in light.

  She holds the luck within her bower,

  The key to ancient Druzai power.

  Muscle and stone are hers to say,

  And hide from all, precious gift of the fae.

  Brogan rubbed his forehead. ’Twas more than what he’d determined from the puzzle, but still no clearer. It was a disappointment. He’d been certain that the puzzle would solve the location of the stone.

  Now he had to solve the riddle of the lines.

  He realized the room had turned cold, so he set the book aside and went to the fireplace. Stacking wood in the grate, he lit a fire to take away the chill, considering the effort it took to survive in the Tuath world. Naught was easy here, from clothing and sheltering, to something as simple as staying warm.

  ’Twas doubtful there was a Druzai woman in all of Coruain who could make a life for herself here, especially if she were all alone. Like Sarah.

  She deserved a husband who would take care of her. Someone who would see to her needs and…a man who would love her.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, frustrated by…Of course it was due to his lack of success in finding the blood stone. It had naught to do with his promise to escort Sarah to the Pruitt event and making sure that she made an impression on her young squire.

  ’Twas what would be best for her. Ravenfield would soon be secured for her and the children, so she would never again have to worry about losing her home.

  He began to pace. Crowell could not fail to notice her, especially in that gown Maud had made for her. It hugged every feminine curve, and displayed more than a hint of her enticing qualities.

  He decided it was not necessary for her to be quite so alluring. Surely the neckline of her gown did not need to dip quite so low, nor should her arms be left entirely bare to every pair of male eyes at tomorrow’s soiree.

  Gritting his teeth at the thought of the torture he would have to endure on her behalf, he tossed a few twigs on the fire. The evenings were chilly in this place, and Sarah’s gown should provide more warmth. If only one of these foolish Tuath men had bothered to notice more than her lack of property, she would have no reason to display her attributes so openly.

  If they had, one of them would surely have wed her already. She and the children might have been secure in their house and home, and Sarah would not find herself in a position of begging Charles Ridley for the right to keep the lasses with her.

  And if Sarah had trusted him, she would avoid the confrontation he knew she was going to have with Ridley. The man would certainly refuse her request to keep Meglet and Jane with her in Craggleton.

  A furtive sound at the back of the cottage caught Brogan’s attention, raising his hackles. He left the lamps in the drawing room and walked quietly to the kitchen. He had left no traces for any Odhar to follow, but he was prepared for battle. ’Twould almost be a relief to confront one of Eilinora’s minions, face to face.

  If they’d figured out who he was, he would be free to use his magic.

  Something scratched against the door and he yanked it open. Sarah tumbled inside, breathless and disheveled, her face wet with tears. He grabbed her before she fell, holding her quivering shoulders in his hands.

  “Sarah–” He quickly pulled her to his chest, looking beyond her, ready to challenge whoever had accosted her. But no one was behind her.

  “Mo oirg, moileen. You must have run all the way. What’s happened? Are you hurt? Are the children—”

  She shook her head against him. “He won’t let me take them. They’ll g-go to Loncrief.”

  Brogan realized he was shaking, too. He took a deep breath and held her tightly. “I willna let that happen, Sarah. I promise you.”

  “H-he’s their guardian.”

  “Aye. But you must trust me.” He slid his hands down her back, and then up again, and she seemed to melt against him.

  “They’ll be alone, Brendan,” she whispered. “With no one to care for them. They will suffer harsh p-punishments for the slightest infraction of the rules. It will be cold in winter—”

  “Hush, sweet,” he said, his lips against her forehead. “I can prevent it.”

  Her heart beat rapidly against him, and Brogan knew Sarah feared the lasses would experience the same bleak childhood she had known. He hugged her tightly, wishing he could tell her exactly how he intended to make it right.

  Wishing he could have prevented the harshness in her own life.

  He inched back to look at her in the dim light, and brushed away her tears with his thumbs. Her mouth trembled in her distre
ss, and he could not keep from touching his lips to them. To reassure her.

  But when she slid her arms up his chest and ’round his neck, he could not control his reaction. The merest touch of her hands had the power to arouse him instantly. Her lips were warm and soft, and he kissed her slowly and carefully.

  Yet when his cock swelled with need, his tongue boldly sought hers. He feasted on her mouth, reveling in the flavor that was Sarah’s alone. He pulsed against her, his blood roiling through his veins at the cradling of her soft body, the surging of her breasts against his chest.

  She tangled her fingers in his hair, burning his scalp with her touch as he deepened the kiss. Meeting every thrust of his tongue, she made a breathless whimper of arousal, and Brogan could think of naught but possessing her. He wanted her lying beneath him, her legs ’round his waist, his cock deep inside her.

  With only his primal need driving him, he lifted her into his arms. Carrying her through the house, he did not stop until he reached his bedchamber and lowered her to the floor.

  A dim light shone through the curtains, illuminating Sarah’s face, from her moist eyes to the small dent in her chin. Brogan lowered his mouth to hers as he felt for the knot of hair at the back of her head and released it.

  Brogan never felt more alive than when she sighed into his mouth. His body burned, every nerve and vein, every muscle and sinew. Desperate for her touch, he started to unfasten his shirt, but quickly lost all patience and yanked it over his head, letting the buttons fall where they may as they tore from the cloth.

  “You are so hard,” she said, sliding her fingers through the hair on his chest. He growled when she touched his nipples and teased them with her fingertips.