by Regan Black
She pressed the soft paper to his skin, then moved one of his hands up to take over the task. He blotted and dabbed, shocked by the blood he saw. “This is from the wi-”
“Woman?” Tara said over him, with a sideways look at the driver. “Yes. She sucker punched you.”
He wasn’t clear about that phrase, but supposed her twisting of the conversation was for the driver’s benefit. How had Morgana taken him unawares? His temper simmered, fueled by the embarrassment of being manipulated so easily. The witch had made him bleed.
He was better than this. Or he had been at one time. Whether it was a lingering effect of the witch’s attack, or simply the brutal truth slamming home, Wayne worried he would not be able to fulfill his quest and conquer Morgana.
Chapter Seven
Tara knew the tissue was relatively useless against the rapidly flowing nosebleed, but it had to suffice until they reached the hospital. She wanted Wayne checked out immediately.
Something had gone terribly wrong tonight. He’d been weird at the bar until Sterling intervened and started the fight. On the street, one moment he’d been bigger-than-life strong, the next he was collapsing. He’d crumpled in slow motion, as if someone was letting air out of a Wayne-shaped balloon.
The woman across the street wearing that smug expression didn’t piss Tara off as it should have done. It terrified her. Wayne was bleeding for no good reason and she had to hope modern medicine could help.
She hadn’t missed his mention of Morgana. Could it be possible the notorious, twisted witch was here in the 21st century? One glance at Wayne and his dog and she realized the silliness of her question. However they’d leaped through time, it was definitely possible. Not only that, whoever stole her dagger and attacked them had a distinct advantage right now.
“I’m texting Nick,” she said, pulling out her cell phone. Her cousin knew far more than he’d let on and she wanted answers. “The bar too. I hate that we ran out on that fight.”
“Fight?” the cabbie asked. His eyes narrowed in assessment as he studied her through the rearview mirror’s reflection. “No criminals.” He pulled to the curb. “The dog is bad enough. You get out. I don’t drive criminals.”
She was done with obstacles and challenges for tonight. “We’re not criminals,” she assured him. When he protested again, she leaned forward and sweetly requested his green card.
The cabbie wisely turned his attention to the street and turned the corner, taking the shortest route to the hospital.
“What’s a green card?” Wayne asked quietly.
“I’ll explain later.” She didn’t want to admit she wouldn’t follow through on the threat. “You’re leaking.” He frowned and she pointed to her nose. “Blood.”
“That should have stopped,” he muttered from behind the soaked tissue.
She agreed. Before she could assure him the doctors would help, a text message came through from Nick. No hospital. Get to the house.
Tara rolled her eyes. “Change of plans,” she leaned forward and gave the cabbie the address for the brownstone.
“No.” The cabbie braked hard in front of the hospital. “One stop only.”
“Aw, come on,” she fired back. “I’ve got cash.”
He shook his head. “No criminals. Get out.”
“Do something,” she whispered at Wayne. “Can’t you change his mind?”
He closed his eyes for a moment and then shook his head. Aggravated, she pulled a twenty dollar bill and pressed it to the divider. “It’s been a bad night, mister,” she began, summoning a smile. “We’ll tip big, I promise.”
The cabbie hesitated, his eyes darting from her to Wayne and the dog and back again. “You won’t leave blood in my car.”
She raised her hand as if she was taking an oath. “I promise.”
When he nodded, she gave him the money. When he put the cab in gear, she sagged against the seatback. “Is it getting worse?” she asked, handing Wayne another tissue.
“Yes.” He sounded stuffy as he covered his nostrils with the tissue.
“You’ve tossed around spells,” she murmured the word, “right and left today. Why can’t you do something to stop the bleeding?”
“I do not know.”
His honesty didn’t make her feel any better. She shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets to chase away the chill. Staring out the window only sharpened the leading edge of her paranoia as every shadow turned into a potential threat.
Searching for a distraction, she pulled out her phone. “Look at this.” She showed Wayne the pictures she’d caught during the bar fight. “This tattoo was on the guy who came at me. Is it some symbol of Mor- our situation?”
“It was on the man with the knife as well.” The muscle in Wayne’s jaw jumped as he ground his teeth. Sterling shifted, flopping his head across Wayne’s thigh for attention.
She tucked her phone back in her pocket. “I’ll look into it.” Once they were behind protective wards and Wayne stopped bleeding. “Maybe Nick will have some idea.”
This morning her world had made sense, despite the theft of the family dagger. Tonight she wondered if anything would be sensible again. Everything she thought she knew and understood had flipped upside down with Wayne’s arrival and the repeated magical attacks. And she wasn’t foolish enough to believe it was over.
Neither of them spoke for the rest of the ride. When they exited the cab in front of the brownstone, Tara gave the driver a hefty tip and then eyed Sterling for any sign of trouble. It was a relief to see the dog calm and his ears at the mildly curious point. “Good boy,” she said, patting his head while Wayne did his thing with the mystical protections.
Inside they dispensed with coats, and she removed Sterling’s collar and leash. The dog made a beeline for the living room and curled up on the couch. It was so normal, she had to smile.
“To the kitchen,” she said to Wayne. They needed to take care of that nosebleed before anything else.
“It is subsiding,” Wayne protested.
“Not fast enough.” She replaced the bloody tissues with a folded dishtowel. “Take a seat,” she said, nudging him toward the counter stool. He slipped the sword and scabbard over his head and laid it within reach behind him. She placed his thumb on the pressure point between his lip and nose. “Press here. Hard,” she directed.
“Not how it’s normally done,” he muttered.
“Pardon me. Was your way working?” He’d tipped his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose as well as his nostrils during the cab ride, with no success. “Is it...” The question had to be asked, no matter how weird. “... is it a spell or something?”
His gaze slid past her to the hound, then to the doors leading away from the kitchen. She wasn’t going to let him off the hook.
“I was there,” she said, “You were fine during the fight, but before that and then on the street you weren’t yourself.” It was the safest description.
His sky blue eyes, clear now, met hers with a sizzling intensity as something hot flared between them like an electrical current. Was he angry that she’d noticed his trouble? Maybe he was embarrassed the witch had fooled him twice in the span of a few hours.
“Was it really Morgana out there?” Surely he couldn’t blame himself if they’d been outmaneuvered by the most powerful witch of his time.
“Forgive me.” His gaze drifted to a spot somewhere past her ear. “I was reckless tonight. I won’t put you in danger that way again.”
Why dodge the question? She tipped his battered face toward the light for a better look. “You didn’t look entirely reckless to me.” From her perspective in the bar, he’d looked magnificent when he’d leaped into the fight. She didn’t tell him that. She shouldn’t admit the observation to herself.
He remained quiet, staring at her as he pressed his thumb to his face.
She decided not to push him for answers or explanations. Not yet. Retrieving the first aid kit she’d found under the kitchen sink e
arlier, she soaked several paper towels and prepared to clean him up.
It was her turn to care for him. He’d shielded her and helped her recover from that magical attack in the office. Now his knuckles were scraped and he had a deep cut over his brow that arrowed into his hairline. He’d taken a fist to the cheekbone and the wound was splitting thanks to the swelling underneath. All because he stepped up to protect her.
“Let me see,” she said, gently moving his hands away from his face. His fingertips brushed hers, sending a flash like a sparkler zipping along her nerves. She felt foolish that it required a concerted effort to return her attention on his injuries rather than linger on that alluring awareness. To her immense relief the nosebleed was done. “The bleeding’s stopped.” She used one of the damp paper towels to wipe away the dried blood.
She took a step back in a brief attempt to reclaim her sanity, to catch a breath that wasn’t full of his masculine scent. Only an idiot would start crushing on a knight from the past. The emotions, hormones and attraction would only complicate an already difficult situation.
Difficult? Ha! Try impossible. She needed to cling to her logic and analysis, the tools that made her a successful businesswoman. That started with asking smart questions about what she’d observed and felt since he’d walked out of the past and into her present.
“Tara.”
“Tip your head back,” she instructed, using a fresh paper towel to clean the wounds on his forehead and cheekbone. Despite her focus, her brain registered every marvelous sensation of his thick hair under her hand and the rough brush of his whiskers against her knuckles. “You have a bit of glass in here.” She released him for a moment to fish the tweezers out of the first aid kit.
“I can take care of it.”
“Hold still.” If she let him take over, she didn’t have an excuse to stay close. “I’ve got it.” He did as she asked and soon the wound was clean. “That should heal without much of a scar.”
“I’m used to scars, Tara.”
Yes, she remembered the maze of them on his torso. She shot him a sideways look under her lashes. “Well, good for you. I’m not used to men acquiring them on my account.” Cracking the instant ice pack, she laid it on his cheek. “Hold this on your cheek for a few minutes. It will reduce the swelling.”
He stared at the object as if it was magic. “It’s cold.”
“It’s a science thing. On your cheek.” She lifted his hand into place, then turned away. How silly that she couldn’t look directly at him without wanting to melt. After dumping the used paper towels into the trash can, she washed his blood off her hands and debated how to get the answers she wanted about Wayne, this house, the men who’d torn up her bar, and the woman on the street he’d called Morgana.
“Tara.”
She didn’t need any magic to know he was behind her, that he’d stepped in close. Her body seemed keenly tuned to his every move and mood. The air around them was so charged with anticipation it surprised her not to see sparks when he placed his hand on her shoulder.
“Thank you,” he said, the words feather-soft at her ear.
She nodded, speech momentarily beyond her abilities. He didn’t back off. Instead of irritation, she felt another flash of that eager, girlish desire. Kiss me, she thought, knowing it would be a mistake and still wanting it more than a kid wanted Christmas.
Those big hands of his turned her gently to face him. She leaned against the sink, her hands clinging to the countertop, unable to retreat any further from his broad chest. Her gaze locked on the second button of the shirt she’d chosen for him just a few hours ago. If she looked up into his amazing blue eyes, she knew she’d do something stupid.
“Tara,” he whispered, as if he couldn’t quite get used to the sound of her name.
She was suddenly certain she’d never tire of him saying it.
His fingertips brushed the shell of her ear, then forward along her jaw until he tipped up her face with a gentle nudge under her chin. Knowing what was coming, she tossed logic and sense aside just before his lips met hers.
The contact, tender and sweet, lit a fire of longing in her belly. She gripped his shoulders for balance, though she trusted him to never let her fall. His hand slid up into her hair as he changed the angle. She marveled at each small, tempting touch, a gentle exploration that finally exploded in a rush of pleasure when her lips parted and his tongue boldly stroked across hers. He tasted of the stout ale and peppery sandwich, but the scent of him, wild and virile, had her wanting far more than this delightful kiss.
On a ragged breath, he broke the delicious contact, leaving her all too willing to beg. Somehow she bit back the words even as her mind filled with an image of him, over her, inside her. Her fingers slowly released the hard grip she had on his shoulders, smoothing the rumpled fabric of his shirt. She shivered. The man had powers all right, and she wasn’t referring to his connection to the dog or magical talent that defied a scientific explanation.
“Sure you’re not immortal?” she teased. The kiss had made her daring.
“Hardly.” His lips twitched in a smirk. “I’m just like you.”
“Hardly.” No man she knew made her feel this way, made her want to forget everything that wasn’t him. “I’ve done the first aid,” she said, forcing her gaze to his injuries. “Did the spell have any lingering effects beyond the nosebleed?”
“No.” He shook his head, some of that thick, golden hair falling in front of his face. “There is no poison or detrimental material in me.”
“You’re sure?” She smoothed the hair back behind his ear, enjoying the way he soaked up her attention and affection. Something else lurked in the depths of his blue eyes, a concern for her that tempered his desire. “It scared me to see you under that influence.”
His gaze searched her face, drifted lower, before he stepped away. “I may not be immortal, but my gifts and experience mean I am not easy to kill. The witch hunting us knows this. Again I offer an apology for underestimating her strength and swift response.”
Tara wanted to hug him, to simply hang on until they both felt better. It bugged her. She wasn’t the needy or clingy type. “You’re gifted all right,” she murmured, packing away the first aid kit. He was gifted in ways that drew her closer, like a moth to a flame. She’d rather not dwell on his experiences in the 6th century. “Nothing that happened tonight was your fault.”
“I beg to differ.” Wayne returned to his seat at the counter. “Will you tell me about Peter’s family?”
“Why?” Could he need the topic change to ease the lingering sensual ache as much as she did? When Nick got back she would have a buffer and a reason to maintain a little more of a safe distance around Wayne.
“Your cousin is not here and I am certain we should not be alone.”
“We can manage without a chaperone,” she replied. Although the sexy smile on his face had her heart racing all over again. “Peter and Mabh had two sons and a daughter. My father is directly related to the oldest son. Nick’s line is rooted in the second son.”
“As I suspected,” he said, his eyes serious. “And the daughter’s descendants?”
She shrugged. “They might be the superfluous cousins.” His soft laughter smoothed away the last tension she carried from the fight. And the kiss.
“This house would imply your cousin is normally far more reliable than his actions have shown today.”
“Nick can be annoying, especially to a cousin, but he is absolutely reliable. I’m sure whatever has kept him away has been for the purpose of helping us. You.” She picked up her phone to check for messages and discovered Nick had responded while she’d been locking lips with Wayne. “He’s on his way.”
“Good.” Wayne pushed a hand through his hair and sighed heavily.
“If you’re tired, you can go upstairs.” She didn’t dare mention the bed because that only conjured more images she didn’t want to resist.
“Weary is not the same as tired,” he admit
ted.
“True.” She had to find something to get her mind off that kiss. The cause was futile while he was sitting right there, within reach. If only she had the guts to go to him. She pulled up the saved photos on the phone again. “What about that tattoo on the guy in the bar?” she asked.
“It was not familiar.” He pressed the ice pack to his cheek for a few more seconds, then turned it over and over in his hands, studying it.
“It works better if you keep it on the sore spot,” she said, smothering a smile. The developments that tripped him up and the advances he accepted with ease baffled her.
Unzipping the bag she’d brought from the office, she withdrew her tablet. She turned it on and discovered she needed a password to connect with the internet. Knowing Nick, she made a couple of guesses, factored in the purpose of the place, and came up with the right one on her third attempt.
Taking a seat at the kitchen table, she opened a search window. She’d be more comfortable in the front room, but the idea of her, Wayne, and Sterling hanging out as though they were family would distract her. She brought up the picture stored on her phone. “I know I’ve seen this tattoo before.”
Instantly, she had Wayne’s full attention. “Where?”
“At the bar, probably. I’m searching for it now.”
“You said the men who attacked us were strangers to you?”
“Yes. Well, I recognized the thief from that replay you created, of course.”
Wayne crossed to the table and braced his hands on the back of the chair across from hers. “If the mark is for those who serve Morgana, why choose an unmarked man to steal the dagger?”
Tara figured it was a rhetorical question and she was busy scrolling through the plethora of images filling her screen. There had to be some meaning to what appeared at first glance to be a variation on a compact tribal pattern. “It’s a horse, right?” She hit the phone screen to enlarge and adjust the image. “Stylized and filled in, but a horse. It can’t be that common.”
Wayne came around the table and bent low over her shoulder saying nothing about the technology that had to be as mysterious to him as his magic was to her.