Druid Surrender (A Druid Quest Novel Book 1)

by Stacey Brutger

  Aaron smothered a smile. “Angelica’s not husband-hunting, she’s found her stag. She’s tracking him, waiting for the opportunity to bring him down.”

  It was enough to strike terror in any bachelor’s heart. “But I’m married.” It should absolve him from her machinations.

  “To an outsider. A nobody.” A brow rose. “How secure is your marriage?”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw as he wrestled to control the sudden murdering rage that flooded him. “The marriage is indissoluble.”

  “Yet you already have a wedge between you.” He set the book aside and leaned forward. “How much harder would Angelica have to push to break it?”

  “I will never set Brighid aside.” Wyatt stiffened, his fist clenched as if he would physically hold her to him if he had to. If Aaron hadn’t been such a close friend, he’d rip the man’s head off for even suggesting it.

  “I know it. You know it. But neither of the women do. Neither took the news of the marriage well. If I were you, I’d watch your back.”

  Wyatt grunted. “That’s your job.”

  “I’m trying, but I swear Angelica has the ears of a bat. Every time she hears my footsteps, she turns tail and runs.” His brows furrowed, his voice a tad bewildered.

  “She probably does. What are our options?” Not yet defeated, Wyatt sat at his desk, drumming his fingers as he studied the problem.

  “Nothing.” Aaron shrugged. “Not as long as she’s your guest.”

  “Mother.” Relief had him sitting back in his seat.

  “What?”

  “Mother can manipulate anyone. She’s had years of practice.” He rubbed his hands together, relishing the upcoming battle. “Once she’s on the job, it will give us a bit of breathing room.”

  Wyatt did not wait for a reply, nearly yanking the door off its hinges in his rush. He took the stairs two at a time, stopping only long enough to catch his breath before knocking on the door to freedom.

  After few hours of doing nothing but staring at the ceiling, Brighid couldn’t stand it anymore. She waited for Trudy to return the tray to the kitchen. The instant the door closed, she jumped out of bed and quickly dressed.

  She studied the room. It represented safety, something she hadn’t had in so long it felt foreign not be looking over her shoulder and measuring everyone as a potential threat.

  Wyatt did that for her.

  And that scared her more than the people chasing her.

  It made her weak.

  Dulled her reflexes.

  The need to escape the room and think clearly crawled over her skin. She snatched up her lorg and headed toward the door. With a quick glance down the hall, she slipped out. She half expected Wyatt to pop around the corner at any moment and catch her.

  Her husband.

  She brutally cut off the yearning. She was too vulnerable to deal with him yet. If she allowed Wyatt close, he would steal her determination to keep her distance with that mischievous smile of his. Or the way his eyes turned a light green, not with just desire, but with a longing to have someone to call his own, so similar to her own dreams, it was painful to witness.

  Trudy did her best to keep him at bay, but Wyatt was persistent. She wouldn’t be able to hold him off much longer. Her reprieve was at an end. She needed a place where she could plan her next line of defense.

  Brighid refused to call it hiding, considering it more of a strategy. Once she entered Wyatt’s orbit, her analytical process slowed to a snail’s pace. Neither of them could afford the lapse in judgment.

  Laughter echoed down the hall, and she hurried in the opposite direction, her limp almost gone. It was such a large house, it should be impossible for people to find one another, yet the voices pursued her relentlessly.

  She increased her pace, skidding to a halt in front of a set of double doors. A dead end. She tugged on the handles, but they stubbornly refused to budge. She jiggled the handles, muscles straining as she continued to yank, when the door finally gave. A terrible creak from the wood must have alerted everyone in the vicinity.

  Fearful of discovery, she darted through the tiny opening, barely able to wedge herself inside. She heard Wyatt and Angelica’s muffled voices through the heavy oak doors.

  The latch turned.

  She whirled and cast a hurried glance around the cavernous room and discovered she was in a fifteenth century chapel. Colored sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, providing the only illumination. When the doors screeched open, Brighid dashed behind the large stone statue of some long-dead saint and tucked her skirts close so not to give away her location.

  The moment she heard Wyatt’s voice, she crammed herself further back into the small space.

  Then she heard tinkling laughter ring in the chapel.

  Angelica—the woman Wyatt claimed he needed to be protected from.

  Her fingers curled into fists as a burn of jealousy surged through her. Unable to suppress her curiosity, Brighid twisted until the couple came into view. Angelica clung to his arm, her side pressed so close that not even a sliver of light could pass between their bodies. Wyatt smiled down at the petite blond, patting her hand possessively.

  Brighid’s mouth tightened at the way he didn’t seem to want any protection right now.

  A moment of inattention was all that took for her powers to break free. Strips of fire wound around her legs so sudden that a hiss of pain escaped from behind her clenched teeth.

  “Did you hear something?”

  Brighid jerked back behind the statue.

  Damn Wyatt and his sixth sense when it came to her.

  As if noticing she’d lost his interest, Angelica giggled in a way that men found captivating. Brighid flinched, really beginning to dislike the twit. Thankfully, the ninny turned the conversation.

  “This is a beautiful chapel. Is it true that all your ancestors who married in this chapel had long and happy marriage?”

  Brighid couldn’t stop herself from peering at Wyatt, intent to know the answer as well.

  Wyatt nodded. “Every Castelline man for centuries has chosen to marry the one they love in this chapel.”

  Something fragile shattered in her chest.

  Wyatt hadn’t married her in the chapel.

  Angelica’s smirk caught her attention, and a dark suspicion formed.

  The trollop knew she was listening.

  But the sad truth was that it changed nothing.

  Love would only complicate things.

  So why did she feel such devastation to learn he didn’t love her?

  Her power swelled in denial, seeking escape from the truth. She gritted her teeth, her jaw aching as she struggled to contain its destructive force.

  Sunlight touched her face almost like a loving caress, and her eyes sprang open. A stained glass window filled her vision. But as she watched, the sun heated the panes until the colored glass began to melt like wax.

  She gasped, then quickly slapped a hand over her mouth, her breathing stalled as she waited for Wyatt to investigate.

  Silence echoed in the space.

  Working up her courage, she peeked out from her hiding spot.

  Only to be confronted by an empty chapel.

  Wanting nothing more than to leave this wretched place and the painful truth behind, she headed for the door.

  She glanced around the chapel and realized each of the windows told an episode in the story of the Castelline family through the eras as they conquered the land and claimed it for their own. Some showed the family crest, others displayed fierce fighting men, while a few pictured the women they’d chosen for their own.

  Every women was unique in some way, not the proper English ladies she expected to find.

  Women like her.

  Brutal hope surged to life before she could crush it. The room darkened as the afternoon sun began to fade. Without the sun, the stone walls gradually stole the warmth from the room, dropping the temperature in minutes. The windows dimmed, lost their vibrant col
or and she remembered the one she’d destroyed. She scrambled back to her hidden spot, the cold stone stinging as she rushed toward the last window.

  There had been a garden with a bench in the window, but no matter how hard she tried to recall the rest of the image, it remained elusive.

  She couldn’t leave the mutilated window behind without trying to correct her mistake. She couldn’t afford to have people ask questions. Though she hadn’t intended to use her powers, they had escaped her control, proof that no matter how much she wanted it, she would never be able to live a normal life.

  Swallowing past the ache in her throat, Brighid lifted her chin, determined to fix the damage she’d inflicted. She planted the staff, gave a silent prayer, and summoned her gifts.

  They answered reluctantly, as if protesting the idea of leaving. “Banida, please help me fix the mess I’ve made of things.”

  Power surged at her plea, and she relished the first touch of warmth. The heat soon became blistering, reminding her of the flames that had so greedily nipped at her flesh less than a week ago. She bit back a groan of pain, struggling to take back control and not let her fear win. The heat tempered, then turned malleable to her will, and she pushed the inferno toward the globs of glass, painstakingly melting the pieces back together into a flat surface, shaping the molten glass back into its original form and hoped no one would notice any slight variations.

  It felt like hours had passed by the time she finished, and she released the energy with a grateful sigh. With the sun only a glimmer through the windows, the stained glass remained dark, giving her no clue at how the finished product looked. Steam rose from the glass while it cooled, and she staggered, her legs shaking under the strain of channeling such power. She leaned against the wall for support, needing a second to gather herself.

  The stones were much colder than earlier, the air searing her lungs with each breath, and the staff blazed to life like a live ember. The influx of energy hurt like the dickens as it settled just under the surface of her skin like a thousand spider bites, slowly spreading their poison through her body, urging her to move before she collapsed.

  Brighid scurried toward the impressive double doors, more than ready to leave.

  She grasped the handle and pulled.

  Nothing.

  She used both hands and hauled back with all her might.

  The door was locked tight.

  After enlisting mother’s help, Wyatt had been so jubilant that he failed to check the hall when he exited. Angelica turned in a twirl of skirts. Her frustrated expression melted into delight, and she pounced on him before the latch clicked shut. That she had been waiting for him, he had no doubt.

  He had no one else to blame but himself.

  “I am so glad I ran into you.” Weaving her arm through his, she pressed her breasts against him, and smiled up at him through her lashes. A slender hand rested on his upper arm, and she squeezed gently…or perhaps she was setting in her claws. “It’s been ages since I saw the whole house. You’ve had it redecorated. Would you mind terribly granting me a tour?”

  A toxic cloud of perfume invaded his lungs in a suffocating wave. All he wanted to do was shake her off and find Brighid. “I have papers—”

  “Wonderful! I knew you wouldn’t turn me away. I’ve always loved this house. Do you remember running down this hall when you were a child? I can imagine you, such a cute little boy.” She gave him a coy look from under her lashes. “Michael loved visiting.”

  Wyatt’s felt his eyes glaze over. He heard all the old stories at least a dozen times. They went through half the house, the church, and he was bored out of his bloody mind while she continued to prattle. As if she sensed his preoccupation, she spoke louder and flirted harder. Patience at an end, Wyatt pulled to a stop. “Angelica—”

  “Oh, is this new?” She touched the vase, running her fingers lightly over the design. “It’s a very good Ming copy.”

  Wyatt blinked. “It is a Ming.”

  Her laughter trilled down the hall, dancing along his nerves like the screech of a cat in heat. “It’s so unique it must be worth a fortune.”

  “What?” Annoyed with himself for falling into her conversational trap, he turned to study the vase, but she’d already started down the hall. Since their arms were linked, he ended up jerking her to a halt when he didn’t immediately follow. Her grip loosened, and, with a sigh of relief, he watched her talons drop away from his arm.

  Not willing to be recaptured, he reached for the vase, but halted inches from it in confusion.

  It appeared to be upside down.

  Only it wasn’t.

  This was his vase; he recognized the crackled design. He tipped it sideways to see what should have been the top, and sure enough, the hole was sealed off. He eased the delicate porcelain upright.

  He wanted to say it was a masterful copy, but the artist mark was an exact match. Could someone be playing a trick on him? But how? The vase was thousands of years old. No one could age a copy that well.

  “Wyatt?”

  He winced at the breathy way she stretched out his name, and he froze, afraid to move lest she interpret it as encouragement.

  A door opened down the hall, and he turned.

  “Johnson.”

  The servant paused in the act of carrying a tray down the hall. “Sir?”

  Wyatt waved a hand to the vase, unwilling to let the mystery drop. “Have this delivered to my room when you’re finished.”

  “Right away, sir.” With a bow, he departed.

  As if roused by the noise, a second door down the hall opened, and he spotted his sister peering into the hall like a nervous mouse. He narrowed his eyes, ready for some retribution, his lips twitching in a mockery of a smile. “Lydia!”

  She gave a start at his bellow, pausing in the midst of slamming her door shut. When she met his gaze, he knew he had her. Manners prevented her from retreating. He wanted to rub his hands together in sadistic pleasure. Tiny lines fanned out from her eyes as she narrowed them in his direction, and he knew he could expect to have his bed short-sheeted for the next week.

  It was worth it.

  She shuffled closer, and his smile grew.

  “I was just explaining to Angelica that I have quite a bit of estate work to complete. Why don’t you finish the tour of the house?” Wyatt walked away, his boot heels thundering down the stairs in his hurry to escape, pretending deafness when the women called after him. He slammed the door to his study and leaned against it, ready to hold it shut by force if they dared try to follow. When their voices gradually faded, he heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Is she gone?” Aaron chuckled even as he said it.

  Wyatt closed his eyes and thumped the back of his head against the door. “Yes, thank God. I tell you, I don’t know how much longer I can keep dodging her. I’ve been relegated to sneaking food to avoid being spotted. I sleep with one eye open for fear the brazen hussy will slip into my room at night.”

  “When does her brother return?”

  Wyatt shoved away from the door, heading straight toward the sideboard and poured himself a generous amount of brandy. He inhaled deeply, the smell settling his nerves. “I don’t know. Not bloody soon enough. Next time you see her, and she has me in her sights, you can ask.” He tossed back the full drink, grimacing when the liquor seared a path down his throat. The warmth spread and he gasped, slamming the glass down with a clatter. “At this rate, we’ll run out of brandy.”

  “Were you not the one who said brandy was to be savored, not guzzled like ale?” Aaron’s sardonic voice brought back memories of their first case in a small, seedy inn nearly ten years ago.

  He raised a brow and replied as Aaron had so many years ago. “Yes, but these are trying times.” A tired sigh escaped, and he dropped into the chair, placing his elbows on the desk. “I want to visit Brighid.”

  “She’s resting.”

  Wyatt snapped straight at Aaron’s mild tone, searching his friend’s face fo
r answers. “You saw her? How did she look? Did she—”

  “I visited this morning, but she was sleeping. I talked with that little maid of hers when she answered the door.”

  “Trudy. Tenacious little terrier, that one. She won’t even let me enter.” Wyatt grunted, slumping back into the chair. He’d known he would regret placing a lock on that blasted door.

  “What you need is a distraction. If we head out to the village now, we can put in a full day of work before they lock down for the evening.”

  Wyatt perked up. “It could take a while. It’s a shame that we’ll miss lunch, but I guess we can eat at the tavern again.”

  Aaron chuckled. “Avoidance will only get you so far, my friend.”

  Wyatt scowled and shoved to his feet. “I think you’re getting far too much amusement out of this situation.”

  “Oh, now come. The ladies’ man of London trapped in a house with one woman chasing him, while the woman he married does her damnedest to avoid him?” Aaron shook his head in mock pity.

  Wyatt’s stride hitched at the comment, and his stomach jumped up his throat so fast speaking became near impossible. “Is she?”

  “Of course.” Aaron slapped him on the back and directed him out the door. “You said she was smart, but I think you underestimated her. She’s removed the biggest threat to her…temptation. She’s essentially has you hobbled. Your charm is the most effective weapon in your arsenal, but it’s useless if you can’t get close enough to use it. You’ll have to start fighting back if you want to win the war.”

  Chapter 16

  The door could not be locked.

  Brighid yanked on the handle, but it refused to budge.

  “No.” She pounded on the massive oak door for a minute before admitting defeat. No one would hear her. A quick search revealed the only other exit was sealed from the outside.

  The temperature continued to drop so dramatically her breath began to fog the air.

  Besides spending an uncomfortable few hours, she would be fine. Trudy would notice she was missing, but it galled her to have to be rescued again.