Sword of the Raven

by Diana Duncan

  She sat cross-legged on the floor, watching Rowan MacLachlan. Even lost in unconsciousness, his face revealed strength of character. The man had a sex-god mouth…the bottom lip sensually full, the top lip chiseled into a fine arch. That luscious mouth could tempt angels into carnal sin.

  And her past proved she wasn’t even casually acquainted with sainthood.

  Delaney got up and stalked into the bedroom. She wasn’t in the market for a man. Especially not a hunk of prime Highland real estate. She changed into dry jeans and a lime green T-shirt, and then zipped on a turquoise hoodie, secreting the heavy Glock inside the front pocket.

  If Connor found out she was packing his gun, he’d blow a gasket. Three years her senior, her brother had always looked out for her. Though just a kid himself when their dad had died, it was Connor who’d fed her when she was hungry, Connor who’d bandaged skinned knees and scared away bad dreams. He’d helped her solve math problems and conjugate verbs while their mother drifted through their childhood in depressed apathy.

  Her brother had given up his life to save her.

  And Delaney would give anything—everything—to save him. Nobody was going to hijack her mission.

  Thunder rattled sturdy pine-paneled walls, and rain assaulted the roof and streamed down the windows as Delaney paced the living room, eyeing the still oblivious man on the hearth. She was stuck in a tiny cabin with a huge problem. But trouble had become her specialty.

  Especially this past year.

  She strode across the open space into the adjoining red-accented kitchen where her laptop sat on the scarred tabletop. Sliding into a chair, she booted up the computer. No cell service, but the local wireless connection worked. She couldn’t call 9-1-1, but could surf eBay. Technology. Go figure.

  Her job had taught her how to access classified intel, and she was equipped with a photographic memory. “Time to cough it up, MacLachlan.” She used every resource, searched everywhere. And found nothing.

  Delaney dug deeper, nationally and internationally. Nada.

  She had the time, the tools, and tenacity. And found zilch on Rowan MacLachlan. As if he didn’t exist.

  Impossible.

  Though she’d shielded her information, anyone with ‘Net savvy could dig up basic stats on her own obscure existence. Despite her vigilance, too much info and speculation was floating around about her and Connor’s “situation.”

  And if the wrong person saw it… Her chest constricted as her hand again sought the comforting weapon. Exactly why she was packing Glock insurance.

  Yanking her thoughts from what-ifs, she Googled Celtic knots. Many designs symbolized eternity, but she couldn’t find anything like her knotted charm with its four garnets. A search of Morrigan turned up myriad legends about a Celtic goddess of prophecy and war who could transform into a gigantic raven.

  Delaney snapped her laptop shut. Well, that was helpful.

  Restlessness drove her to the vintage stove. By the time MacLachlan stirred two hours later, beef stew simmered in a cast iron pot, and cornbread muffins and a marionberry cobbler wafted fragrant steam from the oven.

  Rowan’s guttural groan sent her rushing to where he lay beside the fire. The vivid flush that stained his cheekbones made her stomach jump. That couldn’t be good. “Rowan? How do you feel?”

  Wary diamond eyes glittered. “Like I could quaff the whole of Loch Fyne,” he croaked.

  “I’ll get you some water.” Anxiety gnawing at her heels, she sprinted to the kitchen, filled a glass, and then hurried to kneel beside his head. “You look feverish.”

  “‘Tis no wonder.” The strapping Scot propped himself on one elbow, the blanket sliding off rock-hard biceps to his tapered waist. “You’ve swaddled me like a wee bairn.”

  Delaney kept her eyes locked on his as she handed him the tumbler. Well, as focused as possible with acres of hard, tanned pecs and a washboard eight-pack staring her in the face. “I didn’t want you to get hypothermic.”

  His too-bright gaze cruised down her body, then slowly up again, spiking her temperature into the stratosphere. “Nary a chance of that, is there, now?” His hand wasn’t quite steady as he tipped the glass and gulped.

  She did not watch his mouth greedily cup the rim, or the glittering trickle of water slide over his chin and trail down the strongly working column of his throat. Instead, she forced her attention to the crackling red-orange flames. He had a point. The cabin was plenty warm. “Who are you? What are you?”

  “Odd question, Delaney Morgan.” The way her name rolled off his tongue in that low, melodic purr made goosebumps shiver over her skin. “Considering you’ve seen all my worldly goods.”

  Not quite. Another mental podcast attacked her…of MacLachlan’s impressive bod sprawled face down in the sand. Not one of the new weird whirl and spew visions. More like frustrated fantasies. Yeah, she’d admit to having had a couple of those in the past few years.

  Blatant assessment smoldered in his intent gaze and his sensual lips curved, as if he knew exactly where her thoughts had wandered. She snatched back the empty cup. Rowan MacLachlan should have “flammable” stamped on his hard-muscled ass. “I know it’s an oxymoron, but you are an exceptionally exasperating man.”

  His attention wavered over her shoulder. “Delaney—”

  “No more evasions. Look at me. I want answers, and I want them now.”

  “Right.” One brawny shoulder lifted. “But you may also want to know your kitchen’s on fire.”

  “Oh, hell!” Delaney bolted across the room. On fire was an exaggeration, though not by much. She snatched the smoking pot off the burner, then dropped the pan into the sink and cranked on the cold water faucet. Choking, swearing, she flung aside red gingham curtains and shoved open the window to let in storm-drenched air. Peering into the oven, she flipped the dial to off. The stew was charcoal, but at least she’d salvaged the muffins and cobbler.

  “You’ve quite an impressive vocabulary, lass. Are you burned?” Suddenly directly behind her, Rowan grasped her hand, and she yelped in surprise.

  How had he moved so fast? Pulse pounding, she turned and yanked her fingers from his grip, which was warmer than the overheated cookware. Her attempt was successful only because he willingly released her. “N-no.”

  Mere seconds ago, he’d been flat on the floor, fevered and sick. Now he was too close, looking too dangerous, too capable—even wearing just a blanket slung low on angular hipbones. Delaney swallowed. Gun or not, this man could easily snap her neck. In a heartbeat. Surrendering, and hating herself for it, she retreated from the heat that radiated from his big body.

  “Sure you’re all right?”

  “Yep.” Sort of. Unless totally freaked-out counted.

  His focused scrutiny didn’t waver. “While I was unconscious, did you ring the police?”

  “I—” Lose/lose. If she said yes and he was avoiding the cops, he might get agitated. If she admitted she had no phone service, he’d know she was vulnerable, with no access to help. “They’re busy handling fallout from the storm.”

  Was that disguised relief flickering in Rowan’s expression…or just a lightning flash through the windows? “We won’t bother them with a non-emergency just yet, then.”

  “As soon as the weather eases up, I’ll call. So, about how you got here...”

  “Sit down at the table.” Thunderclouds overhead rolled an eerie hypnotic echo to his deep brogue. Thick, suffocating power seemed to emanate from him, and an odd trick of the shifting light shaded his irises from gray to sea green. “Tell me about yourself.”

  The fine hairs on Delaney’s body stood on end and she couldn’t breathe. I don’t want to. Denial jammed in her throat, she edged farther away.

  “Delaney?” He offered his hand. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Penetrating green eyes pierced clear to her soul, sent her staggering backward. She should not, would not touch him.

  Rowan’s brows lowered. “Look into my eyes, Delaney.” Her templ
es throbbed with pain as his voice pulled at her will, compelled her to obey. Uncanny knowledge glinted in those endless jade pools. “Just take my hand. ‘Tis easy.”

  Her back hit the sink. She couldn’t run any farther.

  Both body and mind aching from the onslaught, she fought to force her gaze downward, to reject the intimate invasion. “No,” she finally managed to choke out, flinging her hands up as if to deflect a punch. “Stop it!”

  The smothering power lifted. “Stop what?” Rowan’s even tone sounded as careful as if he were juggling live grenades. “Delaney? Are you all right?”

  She risked a glance at his face. His puzzled eyes were a lovely shade of silver-gray. Oh, man. He probably thought she was Looney Tunes.

  She swallowed again. Reality check. She normally kept her feet planted solidly on terra firma. Stress must be frying her brain cells. Or maybe she was PMSing. Sci-fi and fantasy were her brother’s thing, not hers.

  Connor. Like a lifeline, she clung to thoughts of her brother. She could almost hear his warning. I taught you better, Lanie. Letting an opponent know you’re scared gives him the advantage. Get a handle on it.

  “Nothing. I’m not—” She turned around, fumbled to shut off the cascading water. “You must be starving.”

  “Aye. I’m a mite peckish.”

  “The stew’s a goner, but there’s sturgeon in the freezer and a six-pack of Henry Weinhard’s in the fridge. I’ll whip up beer batter and fry fish and chips to go with the muffins.” She’d veered from mute to a raging case of runaway mouth.

  “Sounds brilliant. But first, would you have a shower?”

  She stopped on her way to the freezer for a startled moment before she processed his request. Singular, not plural. “Sure. Yeah, you should clean your other wounds. I’ll get you something of Connor’s to wear. He stashes extra clothes here. We both do.” Connor was a 6’2” former high school quarterback who’d kept in peak physical condition. Though Rowan was nearly three inches taller and twice as muscular, Connor’s jogging clothes should stretch enough.

  “Connor?” Barely perceptible tension edged his tone.

  “My brother.”

  “Ah. Where would this brother be, and how is it that he lets you stay in such a harsh, remote area alone?”

  “Bathroom’s the first door on the left.” Scowling, she gestured at Rowan to precede her down the hallway. She wasn’t about to turn her back on him a second time. Or tell him the truth. “Wait here, outside the bedroom.” She blustered past him—past the painful half of his question—as she stalked inside to open the bedroom closet. “Newsflash, Braveheart, this is the twenty-first century. We wenches do whatever we want.”

  “What do you want, Delaney?”

  That compelling power pressed against her again. The harder she resisted, the worse her head pounded.

  She concentrated, gave the intrusion a hard mental shove. Back off!

  From the doorway, Rowan grunted.

  She gritted her teeth. Coincidence. On top of the fever, he must have a mother of a headache. Probably why he was acting so…strange.

  What was her excuse?

  She pulled out black jogging pants and a faded yellow and green University of Oregon Ducks sweatshirt and hugged them to her chest. Just last fall, which seemed like an eternity ago, she’d tackled her brother during her traditional birthday picnic football game in the park with their friends. Connor had toppled into crisp autumn leaves, laughing while his best bud Zack had swept Delaney up, kissed her, and wisecracked about her ball-handling ability.

  She buried her face in the worn fleece as scalding sorrow fought for release. Sometimes a photographic memory was a blessing…and other times a curse. Zack was nothing but a bad memory, and Connor seemed beyond her help.

  I want my life back. I want my brother safe.

  “Delaney?” Concern warmed Rowan’s soft brogue. “What’s wrong?”

  She cleared her throat. Tears never solved anything. Marching to the doorway, she handed him the pants and sweatshirt, then gestured at her concealed pistol. “Be straight with me. You’re not under the delusion that you’re some sort of…uh…vampire or something, are you?”

  His lips twitched. “I’m sky-clad and battered, not barmy.”

  “Do you believe you’ve traveled here from another time?”

  “Points for imagination, but no.”

  “An alien scout on an earthbound mission?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “An immortal 16th century Highlander who believes ‘there can be only One?’”

  He snorted. “Bloody hell, lass, you watch too much Syfy Network.”

  Desire and deep regret twisted inside. How could she be so attracted to this enigmatic Scot…while at the same time so very afraid of him?

  Delaney studied the sincerity stamped on Rowan’s striking features, and every instinct clamored in warning.

  Despite his protests to the contrary, Rowan MacLachlan was no ordinary man.

  Chapter 2

  In the kitchen, Delaney dipped sturgeon chunks into spicy beer batter and plopped them onto a plate. Julienned potatoes soaked in a bowl of ice water beside her while canola oil simmered in a cast-iron skillet on the stove.

  Blackness smothered the twilight outside the windows as October’s screeching tantrum raged unabated. The first weeks of autumn could be crisp and sunny, but western Oregon climate fluctuated wildly with Mother Nature’s moods. Apparently, Mom was pissy this weekend.

  Down the hallway, the bathroom shower picked up tempo and the cabin’s sixty-year-old pipes groaned and rattled in protest. She’d at least provide MacLachlan with a hot shower and food before driving him into town.

  Hopefully she wouldn’t regret her generosity.

  Delaney chopped and mixed and grated. She diligently did not think about Rowan in the shower. Didn’t imagine sparkling rivulets flowing through thick, wavy locks. Or soap bubbles caressing bronzed, sculpted pecs. Refused to picture pearly suds gliding over a fierce eight-pack, down that treasure trail of dusky hair circling his navel—and then sliding lower, to…

  “Ow!” She’d grated her knuckle instead of the onion meant for the tartar sauce.

  Cursing, she stuck her bloody finger beneath the faucet before improvising a paper towel bandage. Serves you right. After the Zack disaster, she’d sworn off men. Not forever. Just a decade or so. And her time-out had barely edged past year one.

  Delaney clamped her renegade hormones into lockdown as she stalked down the hall, leaving the fish and potatoes sputtering in hot oil. She waited outside the bathroom door until the shower hissed off, then knocked. “Hey, MacLachlan. After you’re dressed, could you please pass me a Band-Aid and antibiotic ointment from the medicine cabinet?”

  “You said you weren’t burned.” The door flew open, and she was confronted by a hot cloud of clean-man-scented steam billowing around a very large, gleaming wet Scotsman. Wearing a very small towel.

  “I…uh…” Her hormones broke into a celebratory riot and her stomach flip-flopped. Stuff your tongue back in, woman. “It’s…not for a burn. I cut myself.”

  “Badly?”

  His hand shot out to grab hers, but she jerked away. “No. Just get me the supplies.” And for cripe’s sakes, put on some clothes!

  Rowan disappeared into the steam, almost instantly reappearing with a bandage and tube of ointment. For such a big guy, he moved disconcertingly fast. He waved at her to enter. “Let’s have a look.”

  “Nah, it’s nothing. I’ll take care of it in the kitchen.”

  He reluctantly surrendered the first aid supplies, and she retreated to bandage her knuckle. She finished just barely in time to rescue the fish and chips from immolation.

  Delaney slammed mismatched Fiesta dinnerware onto the tabletop, added utensils and red-checkered napkins. She used to be a decent cook—before her synapses took an unauthorized leave of absence to Scotland.

  She plunked down a pitcher of ice water. “Rowan? Dinner’s
ready.”

  The bathroom door snicked open, and a barefoot, nefarious pirate sauntered to the table. She’d thought a sweatshirt and jogging pants would decently cover the guy. But the shirt molded his wide chest, the sleeves hitting him mid-forearm, and the pants— Delaney choked on her own breath. Black fleece stretched to hazardous limits that—ohmigod.

  She yanked her gaze to his face. He hadn’t dried his tousled hair, and dark stubble still shadowed his high cheekbones and chiseled jawline.

  Of course, a testosterone jockey would sneer at shaving with a pink-flowered plastic razor.

  He drew out her chair. “Lasses first.”

  Even from across the table, he smelled more mouth-wateringly delicious than the food. Fresh water and damp, warm man. Delaney hesitated. She absolutely did not want to get that close to him.

  His eyes glinted a challenge. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  She never could pass up a dare. Setting her jaw, she scooted into her seat.

  He sat opposite her and flipped his napkin across his lap. Sharp quicksilver eyes watched patiently as she served herself. Then he attacked his meal with a quiet, but ravenous intensity that left her slack-jawed.

  She was used to watching Zack and Connor and their buds chow down. She’d figured Rowan would be hungry and had cooked plenty, but holy Jurassic Park. “When was the last time you ate?”

  He chewed, swallowed his fifth sturgeon filet. “What day is it?”

  “Saturday.”

  He cocked his head. “Four days ago, then.”

  “Four days?” She gave the guy props for restraint. If she’d gone ninety-six hours without eating, she’d have displayed the table manners of a rabid wolverine. She waited until he finished what was on his plate and had dished himself another helping. “Let’s get to it, MacLachlan. How did you wind up on my beach al fresco?”

  “I…can’t exactly recall.”

  “Uh, huh.” She’d bet her vintage red GTO he remembered more than he admitted. “I’ve never seen you around Cape Hope before.” He wasn’t a man she’d forget. “Do you live nearby?”