by Mina Carter
She let out a long sigh and sat back. “That was great, thanks. Now, you said I can basically make my own hours, but what are the specific dos and don’ts?”
She knew she had been direct—perhaps too much so because she saw withdrawal in his bright eyes. A smile curved his lips regardless—that was good, right? Dark brows drew together over his smile and he exuded predatory grace. Clearly, he was unused to employees speaking their mind. He began listing his “rules” in quick clipped order. Hours were her own to make. Two days off, weekends preferably, he told her. An old jeep was in the garage for her use should she need to go into town on errands. She had the run of the house with the exception of the east wing, which was closed and not in use.
That done, he explained that as it was Saturday, and his household servants were off for the weekend, he would show her to her room.
Chaz bounced up and declared in her usual light and casual style, though a part of her was thinking, he is taking me to my room…alone…he and I will be alone. Her smile faded ever so slightly as she said, “Great…good deal.”
Chapter Three
CHAZ FOLLOWED JETHRO as he led her toward the stairs. She discovered the view of his perfect butt forced her to look up his broad back to his wide shoulders. She swallowed hard. Nice…she thought as her gaze studied his many well-formed assets. He turned and she snapped her eyes up.
One dark brow arched before he frowned again as a jerk of his chin indicated the closed wing. “Aye then, lass, remember now that door is locked because that part of the house is not in use. No one is allowed there—but feel free to roam anywhere else.”
“Right.” Chaz nodded. “Not in use. Roam elsewhere. Got it.” Briefly she wondered why, but then relegated the question to the box labeled non-important head. What did catch her attention was the family emblem in what looked like gold and silver on a shield over the door that led to that ‘no-no’ part of the house. Curiousity bubbled, but she managed to stop herself from asking about its history.
She had seen a flicker of discomfort cloud his baby blues when he spoke of the unused wing. His sensuous lips had tensed and his jaw clenched. Chaz came to attention, suddenly on guard. What was it about that part of the house made him react like that?
Chaz’s mind worked furiously. Warning signals vibrated in her head. She sensed a lie in his words, as though he were hiding something. But hey, his house to use or not use as he sees fit. She was probably overreacting which is what she did when undisclosed secrets tickled her ‘need to know’ brain.
He pushed a door open to what turned out to be not a bedroom, but a suite, and she was pleasantly diverted into ooohing and aahing over her accommodations.
A king-size four-poster bed dominated the main room of the suite. Triple French doors made up a good part of the wall that ran parallel to the bed, and those doors opened to a charming balcony overlooking manicured lawns and a large horse paddock.
Chazma’s hands came together and she narrowly resisted clapping. Horses. She spotted horses—beautiful horses. She couldn’t wipe the smile off her face. An inner voice, a nagging horrible waspish voice, reminded her why she was in Ireland.
Yes, she answered that voice, but why couldn’t she be pleased with her surroundings? Comfort was good and the sight of horses fed her soul.
Another ooh escaped her as one of the horses reared and took off in an exuberant run.
“Lovely,” she breathed.
Jethro’s voice dragged her from her eyes back to him, “Ah, so ye like horses, Chazma?”
Chazma smiled. The look on his face said he warred with himself between interest and annoyance that he had prolonged their conversation. Irritation settled over his features, and his body language said he wanted the hell out of her room. He was a stranger; it shouldn’t have annoyed her. Why should she care if he liked her or not? But she did. With a shrug, she accepted she could only be one person, herself, so she decided to go with that.
“Like them? I think you could describe my relationship with horses as a love affair.” She hadn’t meant to expose herself so openly, but the words were out before the thought had time to settle.
“Then please, whenever ye have a spare moment, walk over to my stables and see Patrick, the driver who brought you to Brionn. He is the best horseman I have ever come across and I am lucky to have him run my stables. He’ll match ye to a horse. Ye will find Brionn bridle paths, I think, quite a lovely ride.”
“Oh, my lord…” In her enthusiasm, she placed her hands on his arms and patted those thick biceps gratefully. Arms—so hard, like patting rock, she thought. “Thank you…thank you, my lord, so much.” His closeness and the feel of him was enticing. It sent a wave of sensation through her. What the hell was that? It was electrifying, that was what it was. She chided herself and dropped her hands as she forced herself to step back.
His eyes dropped to half-mast as he looked at her. Again, he appeared torn, out of his element, and it surprised her. Without realizing it, she took another step back, tripped over her own feet, and swayed. He reached out to steady her and somehow she came up hard against his body with his arms around her waist.
Her hand pressed into his firm chest. Firm chest was not the only thing she felt against her body. Eyes wide, her gaze flew to his face. He looked like he was trapped in hell and needed an escape route.
He managed to take a step away just as she did. She couldn’t help but notice he looked rigidly uncomfortable as he moved backward. When his voice arrived it was low and hoarse. “No thanks necessary. I should be thanking ye. If ye exercise any of my horses, you’ll be keeping them fit for me.”
A smile flickered on her face and she discovered her voice was not much better than a squeak. “Even so…” She cleared her throat. “My lord, thank you just doesn’t seem enough. I love horses and riding.”
“My name is Jethro. Please call me Jethro.” His voice was clipped and back to polite but aloof. It was obvious he intended to maintain a stiff employer-employee relationship, an intention quite at odds with giving her use of his name. He really looked like he was groping his way through hell.
Confusion swamped her with the contrariness of his behavior, and then she saw his eyes scan her body, linger at her breasts. What the…? She pretended not to notice as she made a slight turn, because she had to get away from those eyes…those beautiful eyes of his.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand reach out and brush off an imaginary speck of nothing from his shoulder.
Nope, no air in her lungs. Breathe—suck in that much-needed air. She couldn’t speak. Vocal cords gone. He was raking her over with that lazy blue gaze and her skin felt singed wherever his eyes licked—whoops, no, looked. Finally she found her voice. “Jethro. Suits you better than ‘my lord,’ er, I mean…I am not saying you don’t look like a lord, but…well…lords are older…or I always thought of…” She was babbling. She knew she was babbling and if he had not interrupted she would have gone on babbling.
“Easy, lass, I understand.” He was smiling. He enfolded her hands in his and it happened again. Electric charge. Power surge. Her thighs clenched. Blood flowed almost violently through her veins.
His eyes focused on her palms, his lowered voice swept through her. “Lovely and delicate. Keep them quiet on the reins or I am afraid Patrick won’t let ye have a second ride.” He chuckled.
“Neither would I.” She shook her head. “I may be many things, but ham-handed is not one of them. At home I don’t even use a bit on my old Butchy, just a hackamore.”
She watched his reaction, astonished that he actually seemed intrigued with her love of horses, and then she caught him looking at the bed before he turned to look at her. Okay, here’s a player—a big, sexy bad boy. Hurt in the making. However, he astonished her then by giving her an aloof and cold vibe. Gone was any friendliness, or flirtation.
“Right then…why don’t ye get some rest after your long trip?”
Rest? She was pumped up, and wired. Horse
s! She hadn’t seen any along the drive up to the house and had wondered if there was a place nearby where she could lease a riding horse. And now she would have one at her fingertips. That was beyond wonderful.
An avid equestrian, she had decided to allow herself the comfort of horses. Comfort? If it weren’t for the fact that she was here to find and destroy her parents’ murderer, life would be almost perfect.
As soon as his lordship bowed himself off, she darted to the balcony door. A black wrought iron railing created a barrio along the sizeable stone balcony. Potted green plants offered a lush counterpoint, and a couple of garden chairs invited one to sit. She scarcely gave them a glance as she studied the five beauties grazing quietly on the lush Irish grass. One in particular caught her eye and she wondered if he belonged to Jethro.
A large snowy gray gelding sporting a white mane and tail streaked with black threw his head and took off running. A stunning piece of horseflesh. In her mind’s eye she pictured Jethro on the gelding cantering through the field.
She rolled her eyes and told herself she had just crossed the line. No imagining him on a horse, a bed, or anything.
She spun on her heel back to the four-poster bed. She had to keep this man out of her thoughts. More than likely a dangerous guy when it came to his dealings with women, he was obviously a wild player. No doubt he had a long list of broken hearts and she didn’t want to be one of them.
Oh, but holy cow. He was a sculptured hunk of rugged beauty. There was a feral, raw look about him. She had thought him disinterested in her until she caught the desire in his blue eyes. It had riveted her and made her mindless. Hastily she reminded herself, No romance, and certainly not with him.
She didn’t want to be star-struck by his masculine demeanor and his hard, enticing body. This one was not a keeper. Maybe it was time to have a good, old-fashioned fling with the best piece of eye candy she had ever seen. Forget it, Chaz.
The open archway to her left beckoned. It led to a sitting room with a settee and a small dark oak desk. Bookshelves loaded with light reading material covered the walls. She thumbed through them before returning to the main bedroom, crossing its twenty-foot length to yet another archway. This opened into a luxurious bath area with both a Jacuzzi and a roomy shower.
A picture of Jethro McBain naked and with her in her tub, soaping her down, pulling her close…
Where the hell did that come from?
Okay, no more. She didn’t even know the man.
She had no idea what sort of person he really was. Of course, she knew he had presence with his wide shoulders, his amazing arms, his trim waist, and his eyes, blue, yes, so blue…and cold. Except for the moment when she caught him off guard. They had been warm then—very warm—stop!
She was drawn to him, but his looks shouldn’t matter. Character mattered. If she were looking, which she was not, that would be what mattered. Yeah, right. Her body answered this with a big fat question mark.
A sigh escaped and she shook her head. What and who is Jethro McBain? Better find out before you continue fantasizing about him.
Time would tell. But now was the time to do her stuff.
Chaz closed her eyes, and began the process of initiating what her mother, Rachel, had started teaching her when Chaz was only five years old.
It was a skill well learned, expanded upon, and perfected. Her mother taught her the skill to keep her safe amongst strangers.
Seven months ago, a month before she lost her parents, Chaz’s mother had been astonished when Chaz had demonstrated the extent of her innate ability. Now, she could almost feel her mother’s affectionate touch as she had stroked her cheek that day. She could still see the look in her mother’s green eyes (a reflection of her own) as she spoke: Darling, you are so much better than even I.
Scanning was a skill she had not used in months, but every instinct told her it was time she did. She opened her mind and called on the power.
Without warning, mist and dark shadows formed a huge hand and smacked Chaz so hard she stumbled backward. Tentacles reached for her, but she put up a force against them, and pushed forward. A wall of resistance shot up to contain her effort. Her hands and her mind went into action. Pushing outward with her fists, Chaz used her mind to smash the dark fog open. It cracked and splintered a sliver before it slammed her backward again.
Chaz pushed on. She jerked her hands up in automatic defense as a ball of fire hurtled toward her. Heat singed her. Startled, she retreated. What was going on here?
Black magic—here, at Brionn? Wards. She was fighting to get past ancient wards and could feel the power of those wards.
Whoever had put these in place was a powerful entity beyond an ordinary witch’s measure. Did Jethro McBain or one of his ancestors put the wards around Brionn? What did the McBains need to guard against? More importantly, how did they have such strong and arcane magic?
She had not sensed a warlock in McBain. She had touched him and had been sure he was not a warlock. What then was he? A glan was a clear mortal and he gave off the scent of a glan. Jethro couldn’t be a warlock and get past her detection.
Wards of such strength stemmed from black magic. That did not necessarily portend that it was the work of a dark conjuror. A white witch or warlock could install such wards and not be part of the dark side.
Chaz slumped on the bed as she tried sorting out her thoughts. Wards? Incredible really—she couldn’t get past the thought that wards sealed Brionn Manor. What were the odds that she would take on a job in a place that was sealed in arcane magic? She made a clucking sound and asked herself on a hushed note, “Damn. Something is not right here—but what?” Unexpected, but if she was going to be stumped every time she encountered the unexpected... Well damn, how would she ever find and trump the villain she was looking for?
Chaz pulled a face at herself. She had known as soon as she had arrived at Brionn. Something out of the ordinary triggered her senses. An ancient, deep-seeded mystical power within the walls of the mansion pulsated and she felt the vibration as soon as she stepped through the front door. However, she had never suspected this dark bolt of power.
It was sorcery at its best. The ability to enact such wards was a Fae skill, given as a gift to the Druids who served them, but inherited by the offspring of Fae and human unions.
Well, well, she thought. Her brows rose. Was the present day master of Brionn dealing in black magic? If so, why had she not picked up on an aura of dark sorcery that would surround a warlock and make him unmistakable to a white witch? Had he learned the knack of disguising himself? Why would he disguise himself from her, unless he thought her more than human? Did he know what she was? Again she asked herself, What is he?
Now she was certain that her grandmother had connived to plant her at Brionn. Ah, Grams. What are you up to? Did you force him to take me on here against his wishes? He is too young to be an old friend of yours. So how have you done this?
It didn’t really matter. She wanted to be there because she knew the killer was nearby.
****
“Is it as I told you?” The dowager Laura McBain rose from her maroon brocade lady’s chair and went to look out her tall lead-paned window at the pretty rose garden outside her charming cottage. “I am worried, Jethro. I might have made an error in judgment. There is some dark force working here, and I must not mislead my old friend.”
“It is not what ye told me. It is worse, very much worse than ye thought it might be and it is just as I warned it would be. I promised ye it would be so, but ye wouldn’t listen,” Jethro McBain answered, pulling a face at her, but mitigating the roughness of his tone with the kiss he dropped on her aged forehead. His grandmother had been there throughout his life. He adored her. However, he had strenuously opposed her decision to hire the Donnelly woman even as a supposed favor to an old friend. This had naught to do with friendship. He knew it, and he was certain that his grandmother knew it. There were other reasons this Donnelly lass shouldn’t be at Brionn,
but he wasn’t listing those for her now.
“What can you mean, worse?” The dowager McBain shook her head and patted the soft white waves of hair over her ear. “She has only just arrived. How can you decide such a thing already?” She was watching him from the corner of her eye.
“Och then, Granny love, ye know better than to ask me such a question.” He put up a finger at her. She caught it and shook it in her grasp, and against his will, he released a short sharp chuckle. “I beg yer pardon, but…Lord love ye, woman, this time ye were wrong. This one has power, more power than she knows. I feel the old ones in her and darkness as well, pulsating, throbbing, ready to be called on, and I think she is just about ready to go there.” He shrugged and took a few paces before coming back to frown at his grandmother. “The only thing keeping her in check is the promise we know she made to her mother long ago. She doesn’t want to go against her mother’s wishes. She uses the magic only when she must and for reasons all her own.”
“That was when her mother was still alive. That time is over. Now…now is the time for her to come into her own, to open herself to us.” Laura McBain eyed him thoughtfully. “Jethro, this is important.” They looked at each other a moment before his grandmother put up a thin, bony finger. “I know what you are thinking, that she has become single-minded and of little use to us in her present frame of mind, but what makes you think I can not win her over?”
He shook his head. “I felt it beating inside of her—vengeance. She wants to find and destroy the thing that killed her parents.”
“And our job is to make sure she doesn’t.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Nothing worthwhile, my handsome Jet, is ever easy.” The dowager McBain sighed heavily. “Tell me about her. Is she as lovely as her mother was?”
“Aye—och, Granny, more so and with directness…”