by Nora Roberts
“Let her.”
“We’ll take her down. I damn well finish what I start, and I swear I’d like to go all Black Widow on her ass. But I’m reading the signs, heeding, we’ll say, the seer, so it’s most likely going to be you. A sword ends her—so says the prophet.”
“If I do, it’ll be the biggest pleasure of my life. And I’ve had more than a few.”
“Really?” Since he’d opened the door, she shifted to face him. “So it’s not all dour and dark in immortal land?”
“You’re a pain in the ass, Gwin.”
“I have a medal. Truth,” she said when he flicked her a glance. “It’s a silver disk with PITA engraved on it. A professor I had as an undergrad gave it to me. I wore it when I gave the valedictorian address. I worked with him on a dig about five, six years after, and we ended up sleeping together one night.”
“Just one?”
She only shrugged. “Nothing there, on either side. We decided we’d been attracted to each other’s brain, and the rest didn’t work. It was just weird.” She pointed at him. “Weirdest sexual encounter.”
“No.”
“Come on!” she said with an easy, appealing laugh. “I slept with my anthropology prof’s brain in a tent in Mazatlán. Balance it out.”
He wanted to laugh, barely restrained it. “All right, at random. I slept with a woman who performed in a traveling circus. Tightrope walker, aerialist.”
“What was weird about it?”
“She was crazy as a rabid cat, claimed she was really a snake who’d taken human form in order to procreate.”
“Huh. What century?”
“Ah . . .” That took a little thinking. “The nineteenth, early nineteenth, if it matters.”
“Just curious. What part of her did you sleep with? Yeah, yeah, all of her, but I mean like my professor’s brain.”
“She was fearless.”
“That may have been the crazy, but fearless appeals. Pull over.”
“Why?”
“Pull over,” she repeated.
Though he muttered, he swung over to the excuse for a shoulder. “If you need to piss, we’ll be in Ennis—”
“See that bird?” she interrupted. “On the signpost.”
“I see the bloody raven.”
“It’s not a raven, and it’s the seventh I’ve spotted since we left the barn.”
“It looks like a damn raven.” But he felt a prickle along the back of his neck as the bird sat, the bird stared. “And there are more than seven ravens in the county of Clare.”
“It’s not a raven,” she said again, and shoved out of the car.
When Doyle saw her pull her gun from under her shirt, he pushed out quickly. “You’re not going to shoot a goddamn bird just for—”
As he spoke, the bird screamed, flew straight for them. Riley shot it in midair, turned it to ash.
“Not a raven,” she said yet again, spun around, shot two others who came at them from the rear.
“I stand corrected.”
“Damn right.” She waited, watching, but no others came. “Scouts. She must be feeling better.” After holstering the gun, Riley turned back to the car.
Doyle took her arm. “How did you know what it was? I’ve got eyes, same as you.”
“Moon or not, the wolf’s always in me. The wolf knows when a raven’s not a raven.” She took a moment, leaned back against the car, looked out over the near field where sheep cropped among gravestones and the ruin of what she judged had been a small chapel.
And the quiet was glorious, like a deserted cathedral.
“Don’t you wonder who built that, and why there? Who worshipped there, what they worshipped?”
“Not really.” But the pettiness of the lie stuck between his shoulder blades. “Yes,” he corrected, “now and then, if I walk through a place. You’re right when you say you can feel what and who were there before. In some places, at some times.”
“Battlefields, I find, especially. Ever been to Culloden?”
“Yes, in 1746.”
She pushed off the car, eyes alight, and now she gripped his arm. “April 16? You were there? Actually there, in it? Oh, you’ve got to tell me about that.”
“It was bloody and brutal and men died screaming. That’s any battle.”
“No, but—” She stopped herself. He didn’t tell war stories, but avoided them. “You could at least tell me which side you were on.”
“We lost.”
“You were in the Jacobite army, in the rising.” Completely fascinated, she stared up at him. “Captured or killed?”
“Captured and hanged, and it’s an unpleasant experience.”
“I just bet. Did you—”
When he drew away, skirted the hood, she decided to detour from wars before he just shut down. “Most important societal advance,” she said when she got in the car.
“I don’t think about it.”
“You have to live in society.”
“I try not to.”
“Sociopolitical movements, whether or not they spark and result from revolution, form past, present, future. The Magna Carta, the Elizabethan Religious Settlement, the Bill of Rights, the Emancipation Proclamation, the New Deal. And you can go back to—”
He gripped her shirt at the shoulders, lifted her out of her seat. The movement, completely unexpected, had her falling into him. He had his mouth on hers before she could react.
Then her reaction was elemental, as his mouth was hot, a little frenzied, and stirred needs barely buried. His mouth was rough; so were his hands.
And that was just fine.
He’d snapped, no question, but at least now he had something he wanted. A taste, a release, however they incited more hunger. He’d known, just known, she’d grab on rather than pull away. Known she’d cover him in that wild and earthy scent.
He gripped her hair now, the carelessly sexy chop of it, and took his fill.
Then released her, plopping her back in her seat as abruptly as he’d yanked her out of it.
She’d have sworn her insides sizzled, but kept her voice steady. “Well, that was interesting.”
“I had an itch, and you make it worse because you won’t shut the hell up.”
“Intellectual curiosity isn’t a flaw in my world.” Mildly insulted, she gave his shoulder a sharp poke. “I defy anyone sitting next to a three-hundred-year-old man not to have questions.”
“The others don’t badger me with them.”
“If Annika badgered you, you’d find it charming. And who can blame you? Sawyer, he’s got a way of figuring out what he wants and needs to know with the subtle. If Bran hasn’t asked you some direct questions in a one-to-one, I’m a dancing girl from Tupelo. And Sasha doesn’t have to ask, but when she does, it comes off—I don’t know—next thing to maternal.”
He waited a beat. “Tupelo?”
“They have dancing girls. Hold on.” This time she just opened the window, hitched up, and shot the black, staring bird off the signpost where it perched.
Satisfied, she put her gun away, closed the window, sat back. “Now what?”
Was it any wonder he had this damn itch?
“Now we go pick up some pizza.”
“Sounds right.”
• • •
Better to pretend it never happened. That’s what Doyle told himself. They drove into the village in blissful silence—since Riley took out her phone, began scrolling something or other.
It took some doing to maneuver the narrow streets thronged with traffic, with pedestrians swimming over the sidewalks.
He supposed tourists found it charming—the pubs, the shops, the painted walls, the flowers spilling out of baskets.
For himself, he preferred the open.
Still, unlike Annika, Riley didn’t exclaim over every shop window they passed—from the car or on foot once they parked.
She moved briskly, a woman on a mission, a trait he appreciated.
“Should be ready,
” she said as they weaved through the pedestrians taking advantage of a pretty day. “I texted our order from the road.”
Something else to appreciate, he admitted. She thought ahead, didn’t waste time.
She’d ordered four large, a variety, and since it was his turn to provide dinner, waited for him to pay. She carried half as they navigated back to the car.
They loaded pizza boxes with the weapons.
“I’ve had a lot of time to acquire funds and what I need.”
She angled her head, tipped down her sunglasses, stared at him.
“I can all but hear the questions rolling around in your head. Where do you get your money, McCleary? What do you do with it? What do you think about the evolution of the tax system?”
“Didn’t ask.” She poked a finger in his chest. “Sir Broody.”
“You will. I may have scared you off for the moment, but you’ll start up again.”
Now she grabbed his shirt, a fast fistful, rose up as she jerked him down. Caught him in a hard, challenging kiss.
“Do I look scared?” Flicking him away, she opened her door, got in.
He’d baited her, Doyle admitted. Deliberately baited her because he’d wanted another taste, another rush of her.
Now let that be enough, he warned himself.
He got in, pushed the start button.
“I don’t badger.”
He maneuvered out of the crowded lot, onto the crowded street. “It’s the word that pisses you off.”
“The insinuation of the term, yeah. I’m wired to learn, and you’ve got centuries of knowledge and experience stored up. But I get there’s knowledge and experience you don’t particularly want to revisit. So it’s a pisser to have what’s natural to me termed as something rude and heartless.”
“You can be rude, I don’t mind that. I’ve never thought heartless.”
He could breathe clear again when they drove out of the crowds, into the hills and fields.
“I admire the Declaration of Independence,” he said, “as a document created from human intellect, courage, and compassion.”
“I agree. Thanks.” Again she tipped down her glasses, gave him a smile with her eyes. “Best era for music.”
“You’re daring me to say the time of Mozart or Beethoven, and it was a time of brilliance and innovation.”
“No argument.”
“But I’m going to say the mid-twentieth century and the birth of rock and roll, because it’s tribal, and it comes from the loins. It’s seeded in rebellion.”
She pushed her glasses back up, sat back. “You have potential, McCleary. You have potential.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Since Sawyer stepped out of the house when Doyle pulled up, Riley called him over.
“Mission accomplished,” Sawyer said while Riley pulled out the pizza boxes. “Bran and I kicked around where to store all this—other than the pizza. We figured the sitting room, second floor, north side.”
“Attack comes at night, better on the bedroom level.” Riley nodded. “I’ve got dinner. You guys get the rest.”
She carried the boxes straight back to the kitchen, saw Annika and Sasha sitting out on the cliff wall drinking wine. Deciding she’d earned herself a glass of same, she poured one, stepped out.
“You’re back.” In invitation, Sasha patted the stones beside her. “Have a seat.”
“Sounds good, but you may want to come in, see what we bought.”
“I like pizza.” Annika jumped nimbly from the wall. “But I don’t think you bought something fun like a new dress. The rest is guns.”
“Yeah, and I know you don’t like them, but you should know what they are and where they are.” Riley looked at Sasha. “And you’re totally Katniss with the crossbow, but you need to be familiarized with the Rugers.”
“You’re right.” Sasha slid down, gave Annika’s hand a squeeze. “It was a nice break, to just sit for a while.”
“See any ravens?” Riley asked.
Sasha frowned. “Ravens?”
“I’ll explain. We actually picked up more than pizza and guns, in the information department.” She led the way in, considered, then grabbed the bottle of wine to take upstairs.
“While you were gone,” Annika began, “Sasha and I helped Bran. He’s making a fire shield.”
“Cool. Is that a shield against fire, or a shield of fire?”
“Both! You’re so clever.”
“If he pulls that one off, I’d say Bran wins the clever award.” She headed for the sound of male voices, and into the sitting room—handy between her room and Doyle’s—where the three men loaded boxes of ammo into an antique display cabinet.
“Edwardian,” Riley noted. “Circa 1900. Nice.”
“You do know everything,” Sasha commented.
“You gotta try. Not its original intent, but it works, and it’ll make it easy to keep track of inventory. Still, maybe we should take a share of it to the main level.”
“Doyle said the same.” Bran stepped back. “Kitchen panty, I’m thinking.”
“And that works, too.” Riley looked over as Sawyer unzipped one of the rifle cases. “It’s got a kick,” she told him.
“It looks very mean.”
Understanding, Riley gave Annika’s back a pat. “It is mean. We’re going to need mean.”
“You stick with your Wonder Woman cuffs.” At Sawyer’s comment, Annika rubbed the copper bracelets Bran had conjured for her. “You don’t have to touch these.”
For himself, Sawyer opened the terrace door, took the rifle out, tested its weight, dry fired a few times.
“We tested it at about fifty yards. We need to practice more distance.” Riley unloaded the second rifle herself, offered it to Sasha. “Get a feel.”
Long resigned to weaponry, Sasha took it. “It’s heavy.”
“Compared to your bow or a handgun, sure. But not for what it is. We’ll work in some practice tomorrow, after the dive.”
“We dive tomorrow.” The tension in Annika’s face dissolved. “This is much better. I can show you some caves, but the water will be much colder for you than the waters in Capri or Corfu.”
“We’ll manage.” Riley topped off Annika’s glass, Sasha’s, then her own. “What do you say, a box of each caliber, a quiver of bolts, down in the pantry? Rotate them from here as we go.”
Because he felt he’d earned a drink himself, and hers was handy, Doyle took Riley’s glass, downed half of it. “It’ll do. But I think now we should have bought a third rifle—he had a Remington in stock. We could keep that in the pantry, have another on the main level if needed.”
“Hindsight.” Riley snatched her glass back. “We can go back if we decide we need another.”
“You said you’d picked up more,” Sasha reminded her. “Information.”
“Yeah, we did. I vote we go down, get into the pizza. I had to smell it all the way home, and I’m ready to eat.”
“Don’t have to ask me twice. I’m going to take this down now,” Sawyer said, rifle in hand. “I’d like to try it out after we eat.”
When they started down with the main floor supplies, Sasha held Bran back.
“Something happened between them—Riley and Doyle.”
“They argued? Not surprising.”
“I don’t mean arguing.”
“Ah.” Now he smiled. “I don’t suppose that’s something that should come as a surprise either, should it? Two healthy, attractive people in a close and intense situation. More inevitable than surprising. Why would it worry you?” He tapped a finger between her eyebrows. “I can see the worry.”
“If it’s just sex, that’s one thing. Despite assignment charts, family meals, Annika’s shopping sprees—all we do to establish a kind of order and normality, we’ve been risking our lives every day since we met. So sex, well, that’s another kind of normality. But . . . he’s closed his heart off, Bran. It’s his only defense against living decade after decade while everyone he kn
ows dies. Even the trust, the connection, the affection he feels for all of us is troubling and difficult for him.”
“I know it. And Riley knows it as well.”
“But Riley is, well, she’s a pack animal. It’s her nature. She needs and values her solitude, her studies, but at the core she’s team and family oriented. And wolves, they mate for life, don’t they?”
“I have a strong suspicion Riley mated before this.”
“He’s her counterpart.”
Now Bran frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve felt it all along. From her, not him. He’s so closed off, it’s rare for him to send out any feelings or emotions—and I don’t push in.”
“You don’t, no.”
“It’s more what I feel when I look at them together, or think of them together. He’s what she wants, whether she knows it or admits it, he’s what she wants for the long haul. I think she could fall in love with him, and it could hurt her.”
Bran laid his hands on Sasha’s shoulders. “She’s the first true friend you’ve ever had.”
“Yes. And she’s the one who offered the friendship, the first who did knowing what I am.”
“So it’s natural you’d worry for her, worry about her. And still, Riley’s a woman grown, and as smart and tough as they come. She’ll have to walk her own path on this. You’ll be there for her wherever it takes her.”
With a nod, Sasha moved in for a hug, held on, and wished with all she had, her first true friend could be as happy as she was.
“Hey!” Snapping with impatience, Riley’s voice boomed up the stairs. “Jump each other later, or we eat without you.”
“We’re coming now.” Sasha eased back, took Bran’s hand.
They’d opened another bottle of wine, and even for such a casual meal, Annika had shaped napkins into swans, draped the necks with collars of tiny flowers, set them to swimming on a pale blue plate.