Mystical Warrior

by Janet Chapman

  “They told you they’re orphans,” Trace repeated, deadpan, remembering that this was the man he had seen transform into a panther.

  “Aye,” Kenzie said. “And they gave me their word they won’t spray anyone not directly threatening them.”

  Trace closed his eyes on a silent groan. Great. Wonderful. How friggin’ fantastic nice of them.

  “Ye needn’t worry; they’ll be taking their winter sleep soon, and Fiona offered to let them stay in the barn only until spring.”

  Trace snapped his eyes open. “Can she talk to animals?”

  Kenzie chuckled at his alarm. “Nay, but she does have a certain … empathy for creatures. Ye might remember she was a red-tailed hawk for several centuries.”

  What he remembered was that he was dealing with a clan of magic makers.

  One of whom could turn him into a toad.

  Trace scowled out the window again when he saw Fiona wrestling another board into place, two nails held between her pursed lips and a fine sheen of perspiration making her hair cling to her flushed cheeks. “One week,” he snapped, not caring if Matt turned him into a goddamned slug. “You get your sister and her zoo off my property by next Tuesday, or I swear, this place is going up like a rocket on the Fourth of July.”

  A loud sigh came over the phone. “Can ye not give this arrangement more of a chance? It means a lot to me, Trace,” Kenzie said, his voice growing thick. “When I brought the mare to her, I saw a hint of the woman Fiona was becoming before that bastard assaulted her. Just give me enough time to explain to her that she can’t take over your home, and I’ll persuade her to turn her energies toward pleasing herself instead of you.”

  Trace suddenly stiffened, not knowing which shocked him more, that Fiona was working her pretty little ass off making sure he liked her or that he hadn’t realized what she was doing. The eggs and fresh-baked bread he kept finding on his doorstep, the boughs she had tucked along the house before he could do it himself, the barn swept clean of every damn last cobweb, his tools organized, her living in virtual darkness every evening—she’d been building brownie points against his ever getting angry at her.

  How in hell had he missed that?

  For chrissakes, he was trained to read people.

  Which was why, when he had seen it was taking every ounce of courage she possessed just to ask him if she could keep Misneach, he’d folded like a house of cards. And going against his own better judgment, he’d conned her into helping him bank the house, hoping she would see that he wasn’t anyone to be afraid of.

  Only he’d nearly blown it when she’d dropped that pail of nails.

  Christ, he’d wanted ten minutes alone with the bastard who had caused the terror he’d heard in her screams.

  And when he’d continued having her help him as if nothing had happened, she’d become no better than her clueless puppy, eagerly pitching in and even appearing disappointed when he’d sent her inside. And then she’d worked nonstop for the next six days, turning his house into a goddamned home.

  “Your sister’s demons are not my problem, Gregor. And if you can’t deal with them, then move her in with some little old lady who needs mothering.” Remembering the flood of inquiries he’d gotten down at the docks about his pretty new tenant, Trace snorted. “Just make sure you find one who owns a shotgun, because some of the idiots around here have the finesse of a bull moose when it comes to courting women.”

  “This is why it’s important that Fiona live over you.”

  “Dammit, Gregor, I am the last person you want around her.”

  Trace immediately realized his mistake, and the prolonged silence on the other end of the phone told him that Kenzie hadn’t missed it, either.

  “You’re attracted to her,” the highlander said quietly.

  “Goddamn it!” Trace growled, kicking the wooden barrel he was standing beside as hard as he could. “I am—”

  Trace snapped his mouth shut when the air compressor sitting on top of the barrel rolled off and slammed down onto his workbench.

  Or more important, it slammed into the box holding the skunks, the startled screams of its occupants mixing with his own panicked shout. Trace dropped the phone to catch the box, at the same time trying to turn the opening away from himself.

  He’d have succeeded, too, if the heavy compressor hadn’t continued its descent and slammed into his knee. Trace fell with a shouted curse, shoving at the box as he tried to scramble away. And that’s when the damned compressor struck his head, just as the skunks tumbled onto the floor beside him.

  Apparently believing that this was well within the bounds of being directly threatened, both skunks let loose everything they had, hitting him point-blank.

  Trace’s roar ended on a choked gag when a cloud of putrid musk enveloped him. He blindly rolled in the direction of the door, his eyes burning as if they’d been dosed with acid, his mouth and throat on fire as he held his breath while fighting the urge to vomit. But finding that he couldn’t crawl on his right knee, he ended up dragging himself from the barn even as he scrambled out of his jacket and ripped off his shirt. He tried getting to his feet then, only his knee gave out, and he fell to the ground.

  He threw up and lay there gagging, gasping for breath.

  “I’ve got you,” he barely heard over the roaring in his head.

  “No, get away,” he choked out on a series of convulsing heaves. He blindly swatted at her, but she still managed to manacle his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip and then wedge her shoulder under his armpit as she straightened to lift him.

  They stumbled toward the house. “Water. Outside faucet,” he rasped, fumbling with his belt buckle with his free hand.

  Christ, he couldn’t breathe!

  He slammed against the granite foundation as he felt for the faucet and gave a shout of relief when the deluge of water gushed over his head. He lay on his side, not caring if he drowned in the icy water, because it sure as hell was better than drowning in skunk piss and vomit.

  Trace felt something tugging at his feet and realized that Fiona was taking off his boots. He unfastened his jeans and gritted his teeth against the pain in his knee when she pulled them off. He dragged himself back under the spigot again and let the water continue to flush his eyes and pummel his body.

  Misneach, who’d been barking incessantly the whole time, jumped at him but gave a strangled yelp and ran away in a fit of sneezes.

  Trace didn’t know how long he lay there and didn’t even care that he was naked; he only knew that whenever he moved from under the water, he started gagging again.

  The water suddenly shut off, and his protest got lost inside the heavy material that enveloped him. “Go away!” he shouted, blindly feeling for the spigot as he tossed the material away and turned the water back on.

  “Oh, thank God you stopped by!” Trace heard Fiona cry as she was moving away. “You have to help me get him into the house. He hurt his knee and can’t walk.”

  The water shut off again, and the material returned, this time wrapping around him like a straitjacket just before he was hauled to his feet.

  “Christ, Huntsman, did ye kiss their asses?” Kenzie growled. “Fiona, grab that jug of vinegar I brought.”

  When Trace’s knee gave out on him again, the highlander hefted him over his shoulder with a muttered curse and started off.

  “Not the house!”

  “Nay, I’m taking you down to the salt marsh. Fiona, go get a blanket and bring it and the vinegar down to us.”

  Great. Wonderful. Friggin’ fantastic. A swim in the freezing ocean was exactly what he needed. Trace vomited again, which started his nose and throat burning all over again. “Forget the week,” he ground out, wiping his face on the back of Kenzie’s jacket. “I’m torching the house today.”

  Kenzie chuckled. “You’ll likely want to burn the barn, at least, along with your clothes and my sister’s coat.”

  After wiping the tears pouring from his eyes, Trace held his
head to keep it from bobbing with Kenzie’s strides. “My face is numb,” he muttered. “I swear, skunk piss is worse than pepper spray. The military should bomb the bastards out of those Afghan tunnels with this shit.”

  “Aye, I’ve seen the little buggers send warriors scattering right in the middle of battle. Here we go,” Kenzie said with a grunt, shrugging Trace off his shoulder and dropping him next to a tidal pool. “Hell, Huntsman, couldn’t ye have left your shorts on, at least?”

  Trace leaned over to splash some seawater on his face and gave a snort. “Apparently, your sister isn’t so shy that she wasn’t afraid to strip me naked in a matter of seconds.” He looked toward the house and saw the blurry figure of Fiona racing down the path along the paddock fence, a blanket in one hand and a jug in the other. He glared up at Kenzie. “She goes home with you today.”

  The highlander bent over and gave the coat Trace was sitting on a sharp tug, rolling him into the pool—his roar of outrage turning to curses when he landed in freezing water up to his chest.

  Kenzie turned to block Fiona’s view as she approached them. “Just leave the blanket and vinegar,” he told her. “And go put Trace’s clothes in a pile in the middle of the driveway, along with your coat,” he instructed, handing it to her, “and light them on fire. Then go change your own clothes,” he continued, moving slightly when she tried to see past him. “And after ye do, go in his home, fill his bathtub with hot water, and put a kettle on to boil.”

  “No!” Trace shouted, making the highlander turn to look at him. His vision might be blurry, but he could see the amusement on the bastard’s face. “I can run my own bath. And besides, the door is locked.” He splashed more seawater on his face and screwed his fists into his eyes, trying to clear them. But when he leaned around Kenzie to look at Fiona and saw that her own eyes were puffy with skunk fumes and filled with concern, he blew out a deep sigh. “Just don’t burn my clothes without taking my wallet out of my pants first, okay?” he asked calmly.

  She nodded. Holding her coat away from herself, she turned and started back toward the barn at a run.

  “His house key is likely on the key ring in his truck,” Kenzie called after her. “Ye run a bath and put the kettle on.”

  “Dammit, Gregor, I don’t want her in my house.”

  “Why? Are ye keeping a naked woman tied to your bed?” Kenzie drawled, unscrewing the cap on the vinegar. “Close your eyes; this may sting.”

  Trace snorted, which ended on a sputter when the vinegar cascaded down over his head and into his mouth. He gargled, then spit it out and ran his hands over his face and through his hair. “How did you get here so fast?” he asked, shuddering against the cold as he rubbed the steady stream of vinegar over his chest and arms.

  “I was in town, at Eve’s store. Lucky for you, she uses vinegar to wash the windows,” Kenzie said, directing the stream over his back. “Mind telling me what possessed you to disturb those skunks?”

  Trace stopped washing to glare up at him. “I didn’t; my air compressor did. Apparently, your sister thought it belonged on top of a barrel beside my workbench, and when I kicked the barrel, the compressor fell on the box of skunks. Then it hit my knee just before it smashed into my head.” He touched the stinging lump on his forehead. Finding his fingers covered in blood, he glared up at Kenzie again. “That compressor must weigh as much as she does, so not only why did she think it belonged up on the barrel, how did she get it up there?”

  Kenzie shrugged and poured the last of the vinegar over him. “That will have to do for now,” he said, picking up the blanket. “We better get you into a hot bath before the cold takes your strength.” He laid the blanket out on the grass and reached out to Trace. “If ye have Scotch, I’ll dose your tea with it for you to sip while ye soak.”

  “Not that I’ll taste it,” he said, giving a grunt when Kenzie hauled him out of the tidal pool and dropped him onto the blanket. “I’ll be lucky if I ever get the smell of skunk piss out of my nose hairs, let alone taste anything again.” He pulled the blanket around himself and dropped his throbbing head into his hands with a groan.

  Kenzie squatted down in front of him. “I’m asking as a friend, Trace, that ye please let Fiona stay,” he said quietly.

  Trace lifted his head to look the highlander in the eyes. “I came within one blow of killing a man the last time I got between a woman and her demons, and now she’s dead, the guy who killed her is serving five years for manslaughter, and I got kicked out of the military.” He dropped his head back into his hands. “As much as I’d like to help you, I’ve got my own demons to fight.”

  “What stopped you from killing him?”

  He looked up again. “Only the knowledge that I was as much to blame for her death as he was.”

  “It’s been my experience that intelligent men learn from their mistakes, my friend, and I have every reason to believe you won’t make that particular mistake again.”

  “Oh, I won’t. I have no intention of ever getting involved with another woman.”

  Kenzie chuckled at that and lifted Trace with him as he stood up. “No offense, Huntsman,” he said, hefting him over his shoulder. “But with your stones—even shriveled as they are from the cold—I can’t quite see you becoming a monk.”

  “Lovely, Gregor,” Trace muttered, gritting his teeth at being carried like a stinking sack of grain. “How friggin’ nice of you to notice.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Go ahead, Peeps,” Trace drawled, shifting the ice pack on his knee. “You keep right on talking about me as if I’m not here, and I’ll continue telling your husband all about your more colorful teenage antics.”

  Maddy turned away from Fiona and Gabriella to glare at him, her nose wrinkled against the eau de skunk still oozing from every pore on his body. “Don’t you believe one of his stories, William. I was a saint compared to Midnight Bay’s infamous hell-raising Huntsman.” She moved her gaze around the room. “Jeesh, Trace, would it kill you to pick up a dust rag once in a while? Everything in this place looks like it was here when you bought the house, including the dirt.”

  “That’s because it was.”

  Maddy looked around again in surprise. “All this stuff is old man Peterson’s junk?” Her eyes turned sad. “Do you own anything?” she whispered.

  “I own my boat, my truck, and a falling-down house that sits on twelve acres of oceanfront property. But if you don’t slap a bandage on my knee so I can go fishing tomorrow, I won’t be able to pay the taxes on any of them.”

  “Sorry, big man, you’re laid up for at least a week. If you push that knee, you might end up needing surgery, and that’ll put you out of commission for over a month.”

  Trace closed his eyes on a stifled groan.

  He’d lost the battle with Kenzie. Not only was Fiona still there but she was in his living room, receiving instructions from his cousin—who was a geriatric nurse—on how to take care of him for the next few days. It was the least Fiona could do, Kenzie had said right after he’d called Maddy, for not immediately putting the skunks in a dark corner of the barn as he’d instructed.

  God only knew where the little pissants were now; probably hiding under the porch recharging their stink guns for another shot at him.

  He still couldn’t feel his face, his constantly weeping eyes were so bloodshot that everything appeared red, and half a bottle of Scotch hadn’t done a damn thing to kill the foul taste in his mouth except make him just drunk enough not to care that he smelled like a skunk.

  “If ye want, I can go out fishing with Rick tomorrow,” William offered.

  “And I’ll come back in the morning,” Gabriella interjected, “and help Fiona … um … straighten things up here.”

  Wonderful. Then he’d have two women messing with his stuff.

  Trace gave the young girl a drunken smile. “That’s very kind of you, Gabriella, but I rather like my things just as they are.” He looked at William. “And no offense, Killkenny, but I still ha
ven’t recovered from the last time I took you out fishing.”

  William gave him a pained look but then suddenly grinned. “Not a problem; Rick can run the winch this time, and I will drive the boat.”

  “No!” Maddy yelped, drowning out Trace’s muttered curse, both of them horrified at the thought of William getting behind the wheel of his boat, considering the Irishman couldn’t keep his truck off the shoulder of the road. That’s why William was still riding his motorcycle long after everyone else had put theirs away for the season, as he claimed straddling a bike was just like riding a horse. And drivers and pedestrians—and mailboxes—everywhere thanked God that Killkenny didn’t mind the cold.

  “I mean, really, William,” Maddy said more softly, smiling at her husband. “Rick is more than capable of pulling Trace’s weight for the next few days.”

  Feeling his burning eyelids growing heavy, Trace sighed in defeat. Maybe he’d just stay drunk for the next few days. That way, he wouldn’t care if they all climbed onto his boat and sailed away—just as long as he wasn’t on it with them.

  He finally found relief from the fumes by falling asleep to the rhythmic chatter of everyone planning his week without him, likely right down to which one of them got to organize his sock drawer.

  When Trace woke up to sunlight hitting his face and found himself in his bed, although he had no recollection of how he’d gotten there, he snapped his eyes shut again with an agonized groan.

  Christ, he stank.

  His head felt like someone was striking it with a sledgehammer, and he hoped like hell that was a bandage on his knee and not fluid making it so swollen he couldn’t even bend it. His eyes were still running and apparently had been all night, judging by the crust around them, and when he opened them again, everything was still blurry.

  He was tempted to just roll over and go back to sleep, but somewhere in the foggy regions of his throbbing mind, he remembered hearing Maddy say something to Fiona about rubbing his knee with horse liniment.