A Warrior's Taking

by Margo Maguire

  “Send them on, Miss Granger. I’d like you to summon a groom to take care of my horse.”

  “We have no groom, sir.”

  He gave a great, irritated sigh. “Well, you’re a country girl. You must know what’s needed. See to it.”

  Brogan climbed out of the cave and over the stone wall of the ruins. He looked up at the towers and wondered if his cousin Ana could have been wrong. Mayhap the stone had been hidden here at an earlier point in time and removed by one of Dubhán’s successors.

  If so, his time here had been wasted.

  Mo oirg, not wasted. He could never think of the moments with Sarah as wasted. Even now, he could not stop thinking of her sweet responses to his touch, or of her magical lips and tongue.

  He hardened at the thought of her sensual reaction to his kiss, his touch. No other woman had inflamed him so…and Sarah had done it without even completing the sexual act.

  Thoughts of being inside her had made it impossible to concentrate on his search. Yet he knew his duty, and knew he had to return to Coruain, soon. With the brìgha-stone. He folded the diagrams he’d made and placed them in a pocket, then climbed up to the promontory to see if Seana could tell him who had come down to the cave the night before. From her height and position, she would have had a good view.

  As he headed in her direction, he did not see her silhouetted against the sky. He decided her form must be obscured by the trees, so he continued until he reached her pedestal.

  She was gone.

  ’Twas impossible. Dragheen were never known to move more than a few feet from their positions, and if danger threatened, they were unable to move fast enough to save themselves. Brogan searched the vicinity near Seana’s promontory, but found no sign of her. He clambered up to her thick stone platform and turned his gaze toward Ravenfield’s caves.

  Through the branches of the trees that lined the path, he was able to see the castle below. Seana would have had even a better view. He pulled himself all the way onto the pedestal and looked down.

  Seana lay in pieces at the bottom of the dell, sections of her gray stone body scattered at the base of the promontory a hundred feet below.

  Brogan pushed back, horrified by the sight of the dragheen’s vicious death. Seana would not have fallen. Someone had done this to her, had killed her just as they’d killed Jane’s cat. It had to have been Eilinora, or one of her followers, for there’d been no lightning, no other reason for a dragheen to fall to her death when she’d stood in the same place for centuries.

  Brogan had no need to shutter his vision and hunt for sparks of Odhar magic. Without a doubt, he would find them there. Seana must have seen the Odhar at Ravenfield the night before. They’d become aware of her and decided to eliminate her. They would not have known that she had no interest in their—or anyone else’s—activities.

  Feeling a renewed urgency to find the blood stone before Eilinora could do any more damage, he went back down the path, intent on resuming his search. He took a side path to go into the garden and approach Colm, the winged dragheen. He’d told Brogan that something was amiss the night before. If he’d had a bond with Seana, he must have felt what was happening to her.

  “Greetings, m’lord,” said the guardian.

  “Colm…”

  “M’lord.” His wings shifted slightly and his brow shadowed his eyes. “I know aught is…Ye must tell me.”

  “’Tis Seana. I found her dead.”

  The sound Colm made was harsh to Brogan’s ears, reminding him of the sound of teeth grinding teeth. Had it been louder, ’twould have been intolerable.

  “It grieves me to bring you such tidings, dragheen,” Brogan said. “I canna think ’twas anything but Eilinora or one of her followers that caused Seana’s death.”

  The dragheen gathered his wings close to his body. “Ye must defeat her, m’lord. Avenge Seana now, as well as your father,” he said, his voice choked and gravelly.

  Brogan gave a quick nod, feeling the dragheen’s grief, though he himself felt little for the aloof dragheen. “Colm, it would be helpful if you could try to remember back to Dubhán’s time. I have yet to find the blood stone, and there is some urgency to my search.”

  “What would ye have me remember, m’lord?”

  “Was there ever any talk of riddles? Of puzzles, or secret places?”

  “M’lord, someone comes.” The dragheen became still as stone once again as Sarah came ’round the house, carrying a lamp and leading a black gelding. She seemed tiny beside the great beast, and Brogan could understand why she was afraid of horses.

  She glanced up at him, but turned her eyes down and kept walking toward the barn where Brogan’s horse was housed, alongside the Ravenfield pony. He caught up to her.

  “He’s come, hasn’t he?” he asked, recalling the premonition she’d had earlier.

  But when she bit her lower lip in a gesture so completely feminine and enticing, Brogan almost forgot his question. He pushed open the barn door for her and took the horse’s reins from her hand. “He sent you out here with his horse?”

  “We have no groom to take care of such tasks, Mr. Locke. And Mr. Ridley is master here,” she said resignedly, setting the lamp on the ground. She’d reverted to their formal address, obviously respecting the distance he’d put between them since their interlude at the cottage.

  Yet Brogan longed to hear her familiar use of his fictitious name.

  The lamp cast a soft light, throwing their shadows in distorted forms against the wall. Brogan caught sight of Sarah’s shoes, now caked with mud, and felt his ire rise precipitously. What kind of man had not the decency to see to his own horse when he knew there was no one but a young woman to do it?

  Angrily, Brogan unfastened the saddle and pulled it off the gelding, wondering how Ridley had ever thought Sarah would be able to manage it. The man was an idiot.

  “He’d better hire a groom to take care of these chores,” Brogan said.

  “I am sure he will.” Sarah kept her eyes downcast and started for the door. “I-I think it would be best if Mr. Ridley did not find you here tonight.”

  He caught up to her and raised her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Sarah.”

  Her eyes were glazed with tears that spilled when she looked up at him. Her face seemed to crumple, but she turned away quickly and reached for the door.

  Brogan stopped her and pulled her into his arms. “What did he say? Will he send you away?”

  She shook pathetically, weeping in silence as he held her. “I was h-hoping he would w-want to keep the g-girls here.”

  He placed his hand at the nape of her neck and gently rubbed, saying naught, wondering what it would mean to Margaret and Jane to be sent away from Ravenfield. Would they have to rely on the grudging charity of Craggleton’s residents as Sarah had done?

  “He sent them to b-bed barely ten minutes after he arrived,” she said quietly, sniffing into his chest. “He did not want them near. You can imagine what—”

  “Sarah, I have money enough to spare,” he said. “You and the children are welcome to it.”

  He hardly knew what he was saying, only that he was being pulled into this Tuath mire when he needed to be solving the crìoch-fàile puzzle. “Go back to the house. I’ll return in the morning,” he said, though he had no intention of leaving her and the rest of the household alone tonight. Someone with more power than Colm needed to keep watch.

  Sarah took a deep, shuddering breath. “Maybe it would be best if you didn’t. I doubt Mr. Ridley will take kindly to a stranger puttering among his ruins.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “No, but he gave a certain impression…”

  Brogan caressed her head and savored the press of her body against his. Small as she was, she fit him like no other. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, wishing he could do more, certain he should not, at least not until he had the stone and was well on his way home.

  “You should go back.”

  Sa
rah nodded against him, then stepped away. “Maud is getting his supper—oh, I nearly forgot.” She handed him a wrapped package. “It was all I could take without attracting Mr. Ridley’s attention.”

  She left the barn, and Brogan opened the paper. Inside was half a loaf of bread, generously slathered with jam.

  Sarah was not able to escape Mr. Ridley to go up to the girls. He’d apparently tired of Maud’s company, and appeared to be awaiting her when she returned from the barn.

  “Tell me about your duties here, Miss Granger,” he said, though did not ask her to take a seat as he ate his supper in the dining room.

  She remained standing. “Before Captain Barstow died, I was responsible for the girls. For their care and schooling, I mean.”

  “Yes, yes. A governess’s duties, I’m sure. And now that Barstow is dead?”

  Sarah shuddered at the man’s cold tone. “The captain’s income ended. So we have been compelled to earn our keep as well as we can.”

  Mr. Ridley took a sip of Captain Barstow’s port and studied her. “Your keep, Miss Granger? How does one do such a thing? By selling my wool? Has my land produced any saleable crops during the past season?”

  “N-no, sir,” Sarah said, realizing she needed to tread carefully. They’d certainly used his fruit for their pies, and he gave every indication of being a man who would begrudge them that. “We collect cockles on the beach and sell them.”

  “Cockles.” He looked at her with disbelief.

  “They’re very popular in Craggleton,” she remarked. “And our needs are small here.”

  “What of Barstow’s commission? Has it been sold? Should be worth a good six or seven hundred pounds.” He went back to his food. “Suppose I’ll have to ask the solicitor…”

  “It has not yet been sold, sir. We were told it might take some time.”

  Mr. Ridley chewed his food, leaving Sarah standing quietly for several minutes before dismissing her.

  Anxiously, she climbed the stairs and went into the nursery, where Margaret and Jane were huddled together in Margaret’s bed with their night-clothes on. “See?” Margaret whispered tearfully. “I told you he would be horrible.”

  Sarah sat on the edge of the bed and wished she could crawl in with them. And that Brendan Locke could come up and gather them all into his strong arms and take care of them.

  In a way, he’d already done that, with his generous overpayment for his room and board. Now he would not even make use of what he’d paid for.

  He’d been kind to mention to Frederica Hattinger that he’d taken Mrs. Hartwell’s cottage, sparing her reputation, but Sarah had begun to doubt her ability to make a living in Craggleton. She wondered whether the people in town would ever accept her as a teacher. Her experience that afternoon with Frederica Hattinger had made her realize that memories were long. There were some who would never let her forget she was Paul Granger’s daughter, and that the parish had had to support her one way or another for four long years.

  “Margaret says he’ll turn us out of our beds, Miss Granger,” Jane cried.

  “Hush, love,” Sarah admonished. “Keep your voice down. And no, he’s not going to turn you out of your beds.”

  “You, too, Miss Granger.”

  “Well…There may be other…arrangements for us,” Sarah replied, attempting to keep her voice bright. “Do you remember my plans to move us to Craggleton?”

  The girls turned their watery eyes up to Sarah, who felt overwhelmed by responsibility. It was one thing to remain here at Ravenfield, sharing the care of the girls with Maud, making their way as best they could. She could not bear to think what it would mean if she failed in Craggleton.

  “Will you stay with us tonight, Miss Granger?” Jane asked somberly.

  “Of course,” she said as she tucked the girls into the bed. Jane’s cat was conspicuously absent, but Sarah did not mention the missing animal. Matters were bleak enough.

  “Will you tell us a story, too?” Margaret added.

  “A happy one,” Jane said through her tears.

  Brogan spent the early morning hours going over every inch of the first cave before daylight, but he knew he had to speak to Ridley soon. He’d hoped for a sight of Sarah, coming out early to feed the pony and Ridley’s horse, but it was Maud who showed up.

  “I’ve no worries about what will happen to me,” the woman said. “I’ll soon be going down to Ulverston to live with my sister. A couple of old widows together.” She clucked her tongue. “But those little girls…They’re much too young to be turned out of their home. And Sarah…she’s already endured more than she should in her short life.”

  Brogan was quite sure he could change all that. Before he departed the Tuath world, he would return ownership of Ravenfield to the girls, and make certain that Sarah had the funds she needed to survive. But he didn’t want her to be alone.

  For a few of his shillings, she would have a new gown that would show her coloring to particular advantage. And once her delectable figure was displayed, he did not doubt she would have more men than Crowell groveling for her attentions.

  The thought of Crowell fawning over Sarah did not give Brogan the satisfaction he expected. On the contrary, he took no pleasure in the knowledge that the man wouldn’t be able to resist her.

  He walked back to the house with Maud, aware that he needed Ridley’s consent to wander the grounds, and he still had to map the rest of the crìoch-fàile clues. The housekeeper led him into the library and introduced him to the new master before disappearing into the kitchen.

  “Scottish, are you?” Ridley asked. He sat behind the big wooden desk, with papers and journals spread out before him.

  Brogan let the question go unanswered as he glanced ’round the room. He had not been in the library since he’d stumbled upon Sarah one night, disheveled and beautiful in her sleeping gown. She’d been wary then, a prickly female whose situation he had not understood.

  Even now, he barely understood it, or the man who sat across from him, so intent upon dusty journals when his magnificent lands lay no farther than his door. ’Twas a clear, bright morning, and if Ravenfield had belonged to Brogan, he’d have taken his wife to one of the lushly wooded fells and made love to her there.

  Brogan sat down abruptly, taken aback by the clarity of the thought. If only he could think so clearly of the brìgha-stone and the puzzles he needed to solve, he might find it and be on his way back to Coruain. “While I’m visiting your district, I’d like your permission to look over your ruins.”

  Ridley picked up a bell from the desk and rang it. “Damned incompetent servants,” he muttered when there was no immediate response.

  Brogan had met Druzai elders who appeared less formidable than Charles Ridley and wondered how Ridley would react to a man of greater status or wealth. Likely as equals, though the man surely did not feel the same with anyone whose fortunes seemed less.

  Sarah came into the room and dipped in a slight curtsy. She kept her attention on Ridley. “You beckoned, sir?”

  “Get me coffee,” he said without even looking at her.

  “I’m sorry, sir, we have no coff—” She jumped when he slammed a journal onto the surface of the desk.

  “By damn, is nothing in order here?”

  Brogan stood.

  “W-we have tea, sir,” Sarah said quietly. “And the kettle is hot.”

  Brogan loosened his fists and bit back his angry reproof. Sarah would be able to forget Ridley’s meanness once Brogan negated the man’s inheritance. But her discomfiture rankled.

  He decided the mere negation of Ridley’s inheritance would be too kind. He was going to strip him of his property and leave him at Sarah’s mercy. She would surely be kinder to him than he deserved.

  But Brogan could work no changes yet, not when he was wasting time with visits to Corrington House and trips to Craggleton. His priorities had been clear from the start, but he’d allowed himself to be distracted. He waited for Sarah to go for Ridley’s
tea, then posed his question again.

  “Ravenfield interests me, Ridley,” he said, annoyed that he even had to ask. “Do you have any objections to my wandering through the ruins?”

  “Waste of time, but do as you please,” Ridley said. “They’ll be gone soon enough, so avail yourself of them while they last.”

  “You plan to remove the ruins?”

  “Waste of space. When my man of business arrives, we’ll determine what needs to be done here.”

  “You’ll need to do some hiring before then if you want your horse tended.”

  “Eh?”

  “Miss Granger is no groom, sir. She has not the strength to lift your saddle.”

  The man made an inconsequential sound and returned his attention to his books.

  “And what about Captain Barstow’s children?” Brogan persisted, even though ’twas clearly none of his concern. “Have you a plan for them?”

  “Loncrief School will accept them next term,” Ridley replied, fully engrossed in the columns of numbers in the Ravenfield ledgers. He hardly glanced up when he spoke. “I am a bachelor, Mr. Locke. And as my mother is recently deceased, she obviously cannot see to their needs. They must go to school.”

  “And Miss Granger?”

  Ridley replied in an impatient tone. “I am not her keeper, sir. If she is competent, she will find other employment. ’Tis not my concern.”

  Brogan unclenched his teeth just enough to ask, “When does the term begin?”

  “A few weeks. Long enough for Miss Granger to outfit them accordingly.”

  Brendan shuddered at the thought of Sarah’s reaction when she learned of Ridley’s intentions. The sooner he found the blood stone, the sooner he could alleviate her worries. He should take his leave immediately and return to the castle and resume his search, but decided to broach one other subject first.

  “They’ll be able to attend Mrs. Pruitt’s soiree, then.” He mentioned it on Sarah’s behalf, willing to fight for their right to go, in case Ridley objected.