A Warrior's Taking

by Margo Maguire

  “My charges are young, sir,” she said. “They are naturally curious.”

  “Well then,” he remarked as his attitude lightened. “As it happens, I came to your shores in search of ancient ruins to explore. Your castle—”

  Jane clapped her hands with excitement. “You want to stay and visit our castle?”

  Sarah gave him an inquisitive glance, but found his expression shuttered. Ravenfield Castle attracted a few visitors every summer, but Sarah could not help but wonder at his interest. Neither Mr. Locke’s appearance nor his bearing resembled that of any scholar who had ever visited before. Nor had any of those old professors asked for lodgings at Ravenfield.

  “I’m sorry. That will not be possible, Mr. Locke. We are a household of females. As I said last night, we cannot afford to host a gentleman in our…i-in our…”

  Her words trailed off when he reached into his pocket and removed two gold coins, which he placed on the table beside the butter. “I’ll be here only a few days.”

  “I’ve already spoken to Maud,” Brogan said. “And we’ve come to an agreement.” He took perverse pleasure in the discomfited expression on Sarah Granger’s overly proud face.

  “So much money!” declared the serious child, Margaret. Her features were dominated by a penetrating scowl, an incongruous expression for someone of her tender years.

  “Miss Granger,” asked Jane, the cheery one. “How many jars of jam would it take—”

  “Hush, girls,” said Sarah.

  She took a deep breath, chewing her lower lip as she was wont to do when she was perplexed. Brogan slid a finger under his cravat, which seemed suddenly much too tight for his neck.

  Her well-fitted green gown was a vast improvement over yesterday’s attire, its neckline cut a few inches below her collarbone and trimmed in white lace. The waist was gently gathered just below her breasts, and the sleeves reached only to her elbows, showing the smooth skin of her arms. He wondered if he could raise goose bumps on that delicate surface by sliding his fingers along it.

  “Well, then.” She eyed the coins. “If Maud agreed…”

  “Tell me about the castle,” he said, forcing his attention to the matter at hand—the only question of importance. “Have you ever found any treasures there?”

  “Oh yes!” Jane cried. “I have!”

  Brogan steeled himself against showing too much interest. “Wha’ did you find, lass?” he asked.

  “Mouse bones!”

  In frustration, he clasped his hands ’round his teacup. “Naught but mouse bones?”

  Both girls shook their heads, and Miss Granger shrugged. “What treasures would you expect in a thousand-year-old ruin? Everything of value has crumbled away.”

  “’Tis a thousand years old?” Brogan asked, trying another tack.

  “No one knows exactly how old it is. ’Tis said the castle’s origins are not mentioned in the parish records.”

  Brogan knew that any ancient records of Ravenfield and its Druzai lord would certainly not be obvious. “What about tales? Are there any legends about Ravenfield?”

  Jane clapped her hands with excitement. “Miss Granger knows the stories! She can tell you about the Luck and the—”

  “Jane, I’m sure Mr. Locke is uninterested in our children’s tales.”

  “On the contrary—”

  “Are you going to look for treasure?” Jane bounced in her chair, clearly excited by the prospect.

  Brogan shook his head, resolved to learn more about Sarah’s stories. They were likely mere myths that had little truth, but there might be a seed of something useful in them.

  “There will be no treasure at this late date,” he said to the child. “But if I find anything of interest, I will be certain to show you.”

  Miss Granger pocketed the coins and gathered the children to her, her expression one of care and worry. For half a second, Brogan let himself wonder what troubled her, then stopped, turning his attention to his sole reason for being here.

  Sarah took the girls into the next room, where Margaret went to a cupboard and took out their reading primers, setting them on the table. Sarah picked up the books and set them aside. “We’re going to have a holiday today, girls.”

  Jane and Margaret gave her incredulous looks, and Sarah realized it had been the wrong thing to say. The last time she’d unexpectedly announced a holiday had been the day she’d given them news of their father’s death. Her news today was not nearly as bad, but certainly bad enough.

  “Not a complete holiday,” Sarah amended. “But I want to talk to you.”

  “What is it, Miss Granger? What’s happened?”

  They went into the drawing room, and Sarah bade them to sit down on the sofa, one on either side of her. “I saw Mr. Merton when I went into Craggleton yesterday.”

  “Papa’s solicitor?” Margaret asked.

  “Yes. The very one.” Sarah held out her hands, and each of the girls placed one of her own in hers. This was going to be so difficult, she hardly knew where to begin. “Well. Mr. Merton had some news…some not-so-very-good news, I’m afraid.”

  “I knew it,” Margaret said before Sarah could even begin to tell the girls what Mr. Merton had told her.

  “’Tis not good news, but neither is it the end of the world,” she informed them. “We will make do.”

  “What is the news, Miss Granger?” asked Jane, squeezing Sarah’s hand tightly.

  “Well…your papa had a cousin…a Mr. Ridley…who has inherited Ravenfield.”

  Now even Jane looked up at Sarah with a guarded expression in her eyes. “Inherited? What does that mean?”

  Sarah tamped down her own emotions, but could do no better than give a halting explanation to the girls. “It means th-that Mr. Ridley…is now master of Ravenfield.”

  “But Papa…” Jane’s voice was plaintive.

  “Papa is dead!” cried Margaret.

  Sarah hugged Margaret close and squeezed Jane’s hand. “The solicitor believes Mr. Ridley will soon come to Ravenfield and take up residence.”

  Margaret started to sob. She covered her mouth with her hands and laid her head in Sarah’s lap. “Will he turn us out? Where shall we go?”

  Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat and stroked Margaret’s blond braids. “I do not know, but Mr. Locke just gave us a grand sum of money. We’ll be able to let some fine lodgings in Craggleton—”

  “Leave Papa’s house?” Jane cried. “We cannot go away!”

  “Jane, we’ll soon have no choice. ’Tis the law, love. We must honor whatever Mr. Ridley decides.”

  With Mr. Locke’s money, Sarah would be able to find decent lodgings in town. Maud could go and live with her sister, and Sarah would find a way to support herself and the girls. She’d been decently educated before her father’s illness and death, and knew she could manage somehow.

  She would have to.

  Brogan overheard just enough to make him wonder what kind of world he found himself in. He was disgusted to think that Tuath law would allow a stranger to come here and evict these women—these unprotected women and children—from their home. It only reinforced his aversion to these primitive people, making him even more anxious to get the blood stone and return to Coruain, where society was civilized.

  The children left the house in distress, and Sarah wisely let them go. Brogan finished his toast and jam and noticed that the house was empty. Maud was working in the garden, and Sarah had left the house carrying a large basket of laundry. It was his chance to search the upper levels of the house.

  Feeling like a lowly prowler, he climbed the steps and started with the housekeeper’s bedroom first. Finding naught of interest, he made his way down the hall, going inside every room and searching thoroughly, until he reached Sarah’s chamber. He glanced at her meager belongings, and touched the thin nightdress hanging on the back of her door. She would not be able to conceal her feminine curves from him while wearing her frayed and threadbare night rail.

 
; He brought himself up short. Sarah Granger’s curves were not his concern. The only female who warranted his attention was Eilinora.

  Starting with the bed, he knelt to search under it, but stopped when he came upon a pair of wet leather shoes. They had once been sturdy, but there was a hole in the sole of one, and the other had nearly worn through. He had no doubt that Sarah had been wearing these when she’d jumped into the surf to save him.

  A Druzai woman would have lifted him from the surf with just a wave of her hand and the few muttered words of a spell. Sarah had had no such abilities, but she hadn’t been stopped by the consequences of running into the sea for him, fully aware that she had no resources to replace the shoes or other clothes she ruined by doing so. She was far too impetuous for her own good, and certainly nothing like the sophisticated, reserved noblewomen of his acquaintance.

  Brogan turned his attention to the cool wooden floor under the bed, looking for anything that might be stowed there, or a flaw in the floor where a trapdoor might be concealed.

  When he found naught, he examined the window and the walls, then went to the trunk at the foot of the bed. Inside were two pairs of woolen stockings, both mended. There were underclothes—a plain, white chemise that would hug her breasts and drape her body down to her hips, and another garment that appeared to be used as an underskirt.

  As plain as they were, her underclothes were surprisingly sensual, and the thought of Sarah in them was enough to cause Brogan a stunning erection. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to look at her again without thinking of these fragile, threadbare garments that kissed her bare skin. A lover would have to be very careful when he removed her linens, to prevent shredding them in his haste.

  Swallowing thickly, he set her intimate clothing aside and got on with his search. At the bottom of the trunk was a piece of yellowed parchment, folded into a square. When Brogan peeled it open and looked inside, he found two locks of hair, each bound separately. Next to the envelope was a small tin box with a cracked top and some markings that had been worn nearly smooth. The top was jammed so Brogan was unable to open it, but it seemed to have little value, other than being a keepsake like the locks of hair.

  He quickly replaced everything as it was and left the room, aware that he must turn his full attention now to the castle ruins. As ancient as it was, this had always been the more likely site for the stone to have been hidden.

  But what if Sarah was right and everything of value was long gone?

  Now that he considered it, Brogan was not certain the stone had been placed here by the elders in ancient Tuath times. Mayhap it had only recently appeared at Ravenfield.

  He discounted that possibility. There was a reason the Druzai lord had remained here, and ’twas likely for the purpose of protecting the stone and other Druzai treasures Brogan had never heard of. He was on the right track, he was certain of it.

  He went out to the castle and started down a long stone staircase, ending in a cave at the bottom. A small amount of light emanated from fissures in the wall, but Brogan found a torch lying on the stone floor. He lit it, then checked the walls for signs of a hiding place.

  When he found none, he took the torch and squeezed his body through a narrow passageway into the next chamber. This, too, had been swept of all litter and debris, but the walls bore signs of ancient Druzai runes. Beside the runes were crìoch-fàile patterns, circles nested within each other, with small holes and narrow lines carved beside them. Crìoch-fàile were favorite Druzai puzzles, and notoriously difficult to decipher. Brogan had never been one for such games.

  The runes had been carved into the walls, but time had worn many of them smooth. Lifting the torch high, Brogan tried to read them, but he could only make out a few of the words…

  Shimmering light…

  The next symbols had rubbed away, so he moved down to the next section.

  Seek ye daughters…

  Farther in, another set of runes read, Hide from all…

  None of the carvings was in good condition, and Brogan could easily have misinterpreted what he read. The runes gave him hope that he would eventually find a clue to the location of the blood stone, but none of these hinted of it.

  He continued examining the walls, making a cursory search for cracks and fissures that might be hiding places.

  But he saw naught.

  The next chamber was more of the same, but instead of it being a dead end, Brogan found another set of steps carved into the floor, leading down to another small cavern that opened out to the cliff beyond. From where Brogan stood, the opening seemed large enough for a man to fit through, but the ground must be at least thirty to forty feet below. ’Twould be a fatal drop for the unwary.

  On a quick glance, he saw no runes, or any secret hiding places. And since the small chamber was going to be dangerous to explore without a securing rope to prevent an accidental fall, he decided to search aboveground first.

  He climbed back to the surface and spied an old wooden shed near a broken-down barn. Thinking there might be shovels and ropes inside, he tried the door, but found it locked. He resisted disengaging it with a few magical words and a quick touch, and walked ’round to the house.

  “Mrs. Maud has the key,” said the dragheen in a low voice when he passed.

  Brogan muttered his thanks and brushed the dust from his clothes, passing through the rear door of the house once again.

  Sarah Granger was in the kitchen, using a long, wooden roller to press what looked like bread dough into a flat, round circle. She wore a plain white apron tied ’round her trim waist to protect her clothes. Her hair was pinned tightly in her usual fashion, but loose, curly tendrils had escaped their bonds. When she blew the moist curls out of her eyes, Brogan’s breath caught in his throat. Even the smear of flour on her chin and the light dusting of the same white powder on her arms beguiled him.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Have you never seen anyone roll out pie dough, Mr. Locke?”

  He shook his head. “Er, I’ve no’ spent much time in the kitchen.”

  “Typical man, I suppose.” She eased the fragile dough into a baking pan, then cut away the excess ’round the edge, leaving a neatly lined shell. A moment later, she spooned a shiny, fruity mass into it. It was seasoned somehow, and smelled heavenly…like Sarah.

  Unable to stop himself, Brogan picked up a spoon and helped himself to a taste. Sarah quickly admonished him with a nimble blow to his hand. “I’ll save a bit of filling for you later, Mr. Locke. But these pies are meant for sale in Craggleton.”

  He could well imagine Sarah’s pies earning a fair amount of money in town. He put a gold sovereign on the table. “This one is mine.”

  Chapter 4

  Brogan spent the rest of the day in the caves, restraining the urge to use magic as he searched. He translated a good many more runes, but none gave him any clues to the location of the blood stone, nor did he find any more crìoch-fàile.

  Returning to the house after dark, Brogan found his way to the kitchen by the light of a lamp someone had left in the window. The room was empty and the house quiet.

  His pie rested in the center of the table, a plate and fork lying right beside it.

  Brogan pulled out a chair and sat down just as Sarah came through the kitchen door, carrying a small bundle of cloth. She put it down on the far end of the table and left again through the cellar door, soon emerging with a small crock of milk and an iron pan.

  She poured some milk into a saucer for a little brown cat, then filled a glass for him. “Would you like to have supper before your pie, Mr. Locke?”

  “Doona go to any trouble for me, lass.”

  “You’ve paid well for my trouble, Mr. Locke,” she replied, taking a bowl of food from the larder. “Else I’d have retired some time ago.”

  “Then you are missing sleep for naught, Miss Granger,” he said irritably. She might be a simple Tuath woman, but he had not intended to turn her into his servant. “I do
ona expect—”

  “Your payment was far beyond fair.” She filled the pan with a concoction of potatoes and ham, then added wood to the stove. The tantalizing aroma of the dish caused his mouth to water.

  “Then a wee bite would not be amiss, lass.”

  Her offense at the money he’d given her was perplexing. He certainly did not expect her to toil on his account, and the household was clearly in need of funds. He did not understand the problem.

  On Coruain, he would just mutter a few words and draw on the energy necessary to produce a meal. Some cheese and bread, a few slices of meat would suffice. Here, he had to rely on the kindness of Miss Granger and Ravenfield’s housekeeper to keep him fed.

  And their skill. Brogan could see ’twas no easy accomplishment to sustain life without magic. He had never before considered all the Tuath needed to do in order to keep themselves fed and dressed, sheltered and warm. His own people had no such challenges.

  In spite of Sarah’s long day of unending chores and her sharp tone, she looked softer somehow. Mayhap ’twas the glow of the lamp that made her seem less bristly this eve, for her hair was still tightly bound.

  Or ’twas fatigue.

  She stirred the food as it heated, then slid it onto a plate and placed it before him. “You are quite diligent in your explorations of the ruins, Mr. Locke.”

  “Aye…old castles are of great interest to me,” he replied. Since it was clear that his quest was going to take more than one day, he had no choice but to give some explanation for his apparent fascination with the ruins.

  “Are you affiliated with a university, then?”

  “Ah…no.” Had he said aye, she would ask which one, and he had no idea about universities. Nor did he know what reason he could give her for his particular interest in Ravenfield. “’Tis just an idle diversion, Miss Granger.”

  Her expression was skeptical. Taking a seat across from him, she picked up the cloth she’d discarded, and Brogan saw ’twas no random piece of fabric, but an article of children’s clothing. She used a metal needle to pull thread through a hole in the dress.