Druid's Daughter

by Jean Hart Stewart

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Druid’s Daughter

  ISBN 9781419908477

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Druid’s Daughter Copyright© 2007 Jean Hart Stewart

  Edited by Helen Woodall.

  Cover art by Philip Fuller.

  Electronic book Publication: April 2007

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.

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  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  DRUID’S DAUGHTER

  Jean Hart Stewart

  Dedicated to my husband, who every day encourages me to be more than I think I can be.

  Chapter One

  London, July, 1898

  The black dog bared his teeth at the sergeant guarding the doorway, growling deep in his massive throat.

  Morgan reached down and patted his silky head. “Ambrose, this gentleman is only doing his duty. Quite evidently the Chief Inspector wasn’t expecting you to escort me. Sergeant, will you please tell the Chief Inspector that Miss McAfee is here?”

  She had to give him credit. The sergeant stood his ground, even though Ambrose advanced on him and slowly backed him against the door, rattling the hinges.

  “Sorry, Miss, I wuz told to let you in when you came. I got no orders about a beast like this. Cor, that’s the biggest Labrador I ever did see.”

  Morgan laughed, just as the door opened and Chief Inspector Lord Laniston Dellafield stood glowering in the doorway. A man as imposing as his title was cumbersome. A mouthwatering male—large, handsome and gloriously masculine. Also a male looking at Morgan and Ambrose with unambiguous disdain. His hazy aura was a deep gray shot through with yellow of disbelief in her abilities.

  “I assume you’re Miss McAfee. Step in, please. Sergeant, get rid of the dog.”

  Morgan chuckled as Ambrose ruffled his fur and turned to growl at the Chief Inspector.

  “Ambrose is quite gentle unless provoked. I think you’d be wise to let him in. He’ll tear the place apart if you try to separate him from me.”

  Chief Inspector Dellafield gave her a disgusted look and then held the door open. Morgan and Ambrose entered, although Ambrose uttered a vibrating “grrr” as he marched past the Chief Inspector. Dellafield waved her to a chair in front of his big uncluttered desk and seated himself behind it, laying his folded hands on the surface. Large hands with long, strong fingers. Morgan could feel his waves of antipathy. She was used to disdain for her Druid abilities, but she regretted his hostility was consuming so much essential time.

  After all, the missing child was more important than the personal feelings of either of them.

  His implacable face made her furious, although she gave no sign. He was wasting valuable minutes when every second was needed to find out who’d kidnapped the little boy.

  Dellafield went on the attack immediately.

  “I understand you are a Druid, Miss McAfee and claim to have psychic visions. I did not know you claimed to be a witch. At least I take it the dog is your familiar.”

  Morgan tried to keep her sigh of exasperation silent.

  “You are wrong, sir. Ambrose is my companion only, although I rely on him to help me. However, I am not a witch. Druids and witches are very different, as I would explain if you cared to listen. And if I were not more interested in finding the child.”

  Dellafield quirked his heavy eyebrows. “But I understand one of your visions is why the Commissioner asked me to work with you. That you had a vision showing the hiding place of a necklace stolen from Commissioner’s mother?”

  His delaying tactics were annoying her to the point of lashing out and telling him so. Only the fact they must work together stopped her.

  “That is true. I saw it hidden under a pile of laundry and Ambrose immediately found and uncovered it.”

  His dark brows raised in disbelief.

  “And the Commissioner expects you to have another vision, but this time one that reveals where the kidnappers are keeping his son?”

  This time her anger flushed her face, as she looked into those cobalt blue eyes with a disdain to equal his.

  “Commissioner Randall is a good friend to my mother and me. I understand he also is a friend of your family. You must know he is not the sort to expect impossible deeds. If I have a vision, it will be welcome. I cannot call them at will and he knows this. He is only expecting I do my best.”

  Her expertise in reading small involuntary movements caught the slight lifting of his dark brows. So. He hadn’t known the Commissioner’s request was personal.

  “But I thought—”

  “That I can command a vision to appear? Of course not.” She let a little of her impatience show in her peremptory tone. Sinfully handsome or not, she was getting more and more irked at His Muscled Elegance.

  “I am not a magician, nor a witch, as I’ve said. I am merely a Druid, trained in Druid ways. And now, if it’s not too much trouble, could you fill me in about Jamie? I know he’s been missing two days and the newspapers haven’t yet learned of it. I would appreciate anything you feel you can reveal.”

  His heightened color showed he was finally embarrassed. She didn’t need to check his aura. His basic feeling was antipathy. He resented her and the fact he must at least make an attempt to work with her and had not the slightest belief she could help. Not for the first time, she wished she could call up a vision at will. His brain was too bound by prejudice to accept anything less than a miracle.

  “I pray to the Goddess of us all I am granted a vision,” she said quietly.

  Her soft tone seemed to reach him and he finally leaned back and answered.

  “The boy. Jamie.”

  He hooded his eyes, but not before she’d caught the flash of pain. Some personal affection, then. She liked him a little better for that brief, unguarded reaction.

  His magnificent body was still tense, but his voice softened as he surrendered and began to talk about the child. He steepled his hands and stared down at them.

  She sat quietly, watching and listening. She’d heard Dellafield was called Lucky Lance by his men, although never to his aristocratic face. May the Goddess preserve his luck by helping him find Jamie.

  “Jamie was taken to the park two days ago by his nursemaid. He chased a ball into the bushes and never came back. After searching the maid came home and police were called. Naturally we questioned the nanny thoroughly, but I’m convinced she knows nothing. Jamie is six years old.”

  He paused as if unsure how to go on. No, it was distress that had stopped him. Good for him.

  He cleared his throat and raised his eyes to hers.

  “There were few others in the park and no
one saw a thing. There has been no ransom note, so we truly have no clues. I fear not sending a ransom demand is a deliberate ploy to make the Commissioner more frantic.”

  As he talked Morgan rose and went slowly to the window. When he finished speaking she turned and scrutinized the room. She found his office informative.

  Dellafield’s office was spacious. Books lined one wall, their papery smell blending with the aroma of the red leather chairs. A small Turner watercolor of a scene in Wales hung over a three-legged table placed against a wall. A large walnut table dominated the center of the room with some papers in neat stacks. Good taste and good work habits.

  Her respect for his abilities went up a notch. Only a valuable man could commandeer this much space. Being the fourth son of a duke would count for something, but not this much in the police hierarchy. He had to have earned his reputation through intelligence and hard work.

  She scrutinized the man once again. Her impression of his physical strength was not wrong. She doubted he had a soft ounce on him. His sable hair showed a few white hairs at the temples. That hint of white surprised her, since the Commander had mentioned he’d just turned thirty-two.

  She liked his looks, as any breathing woman would. Darkly handsome as a brooding Zeus. She loved his resonating baritone. His imposing air of competence definitely was appealing. An aura of power clothed him like a second skin. So far though, she didn’t much like him.

  She grinned at the last thought and watched him frown in reaction. He waited for her to speak, so she obliged him.

  “I don’t know what you’re planning, but I’ll try to help. As I told you, I can promise nothing.”

  He looked skeptical again, but said no more about her abilities. Or lack of them.

  “You are not what I expected. However, it seems we must work together. What do you want of me, Miss McAfee? I would not have it said I was uncooperative.”

  Morgan felt a sudden spurt of anger. “I’m not likely to report on you to the Commissioner, my lord.”

  He put down the pen he’d been twirling between his fingers, looking embarrassed. “I spoke rashly and I apologize. And please, I prefer to be called by my police rank rather than my title.”

  She always thought better in motion. She began to circle the big walnut table while he watched her from under half-shut eyes. On the third round she stopped in front of Chief Inspector Dellafield.

  “I need to visit the boy’s room as soon as possible.”

  Dellafield’s thick eyebrows rose. “Are you sure this is necessary? I hesitate to disturb the family. There’s an aunt, Lady Cynthia Thornton, who cares for the boy since his mother died four years ago. Lady Cynthia is completely distraught. I’m loath to go against her wishes.”

  “I appreciate her feelings. I’m not insensitive. But I must insist on this. The more I know of his habits and his interests, the better my chances of helping.”

  The pen was back as he twirled it again with his fingers.

  “I am very much against this, Miss McAfee.”

  His skepticism and hostility were again in place. He stared at Morgan and she stared back. She was not going to be the one to blink first.

  “I can do nothing without my own awareness of the child. His room will tell me much.”

  Her voice was quiet, but as firm as his.

  The Chief Inspector looked down his nose, but said nothing for a long space. Probably seconds, but it seemed like minutes to Morgan.

  She could not quite grasp his essential aura. Now shimmering a brighter shade of grayish blue, but still too hazy to pin down. His scent swirled around him, a combination of sandalwood, soap and potent masculinity. Common enough ingredients and not unusual except he smelled so clean. The aroma held nothing to betray the inner essence of his thoughts. Merely a sensuality she could discern by looking at him.

  What a shame anytime she found a halfway attractive male his prejudices marked him as out of bounds for even friendship. No one, especially an arrogant Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard, would ever comprehend the mystical world into which she’d been born. He’d find it effortless to attract any woman of his own sphere. He’d consider a psychic Druid as anathema. An abomination.

  She stood silently for a moment, then half-turned to leave, her own nose as high as his.

  “Let me know as soon as I can go to Jamie’s room. I assure you my request is urgent.”

  Putting all personal thoughts into a separate pocket of her mind, she gathered her skirts in one hand and swept toward the door. She noticed Chief Inspector Lord Laniston Dellafield staring before she started to swish away.

  He could stare as much as he wished. She detested his haughty attitude. Still his superior, Commissioner Randall, wanted her to help. Her own mother seemed on quite friendly terms with the Commissioner and was anxious for Morgan to do what she could. There was no question but she would try. This went far beyond the recovery of a necklace. Far beyond her personal reactions.

  A precious child was lost to dreadful danger.

  She could feel those frigid eyes boring into her back as she left.

  She gave her skirt an extra little flounce as she and Ambrose marched out the door.

  * * * * *

  Morgan and her mother were enjoying a leisurely breakfast the next morning when the footman brought in a note. Chief Inspector Dellafield sent word he’d escort her to Jamie’s home at ten o’clock.

  Surprised, she folded the note into a small square and turned to her mother.

  “I don’t think I’ll take Ambrose. I don’t want to distract the Chief Inspector, Mama and he’s perfectly safe. Aggravating, but safe.”

  Not smiling, she sped upstairs. He’d wasted time and the delay worried her. Still she could only do her best. Doubtless he resented her every bit as much as she’d suspected. Probably he’d chased down every possible clue before turning to her.

  She took more care than usual in dressing, which amused her. Finally she chose a dark green skirt trimmed in yellow braid. Her shirtwaist sported yellow and white stripes and she carefully tied a large green bow at the collar. Turning around several times in front of her mirror, she decided she would do. She’d loved bright green long before being told the color matched her eyes.

  She smoothed her skirt over her slim hips, thankful its fullness allowed her freedom of movement. She pinned a simple straw sailor hat onto her thick hair. Yellow roses decorated the brim and green ribbons floated down her back.

  One more twirl before her cheval mirror and she felt ready. At least Dellafield couldn’t fault her appearance. He might consider her a charlatan but she was a stylish one.

  She went downstairs to await the maddening Chief Inspector Lord Laniston Dellafield. He arrived exactly on time. His punctuality didn’t surprise her, but the carriage and driver did. The driver was a sergeant from Scotland Yard, the same one who’d admitted her into the office yesterday. The luxurious carriage obviously belonged to Dellafield. She leaned back against the velvet squabs with a small sound of contentment.

  “Do you usually travel in such style, my lord?”

  She’d meant the statement half in earnest and half teasingly.

  Dellafield raised his patrician nose. She was beginning to watch for this habit of his. It expressed displeasure even though his words were dispassionate.

  “I do indeed furnish my own coach, but using a sergeant as driver is quite ordinary in the force.”

  “I did not mean to criticize, my lord,” she said. Her own nose went up just a trifle. “I quite enjoy such comfort. If I fault you, it is for the length of time you wasted before calling on my help.”

  His anger at her reprimand showed in the sudden thinning of his lips. He looked away and did not dignify her remarks with an answer. Neither one said a word as the horses clopped along. When they reached the Commissioner’s house Dellafield offered her his hand to help her descend. She barely touched his palm with her glove and walked rapidly ahead of him to the door. The Commissioner’s butler let t
hem in, greeted them gravely, then disappeared.

  The atmosphere of the house closed about them in unnatural and sad silence.

  Morgan flinched as she absorbed the family’s anguish. A dark gray aura of despair hung over the hall and, she imagined, the entire house. Her antipathy to the Chief Inspector disappeared like a hampering phantom.

  Dellafield’s voice was pitched low. No longer harsh, as if the sense of sorrow had also conquered him.

  “Jamie’s aunt is prostrate with worry and grief. I’ll take you to the boy’s room, as I’m well acquainted with the house. I’ve known the commissioner since I was a child.”

  Neither spoke again until Dellafield opened the door of a darkened room. Morgan immediately went to the window coverings and pulled them back so sunlight flooded in. Everything else fled her mind as she stood in the center of the room, turning slowly in a circle. Dellafield propped himself against a wall, his arms folded across his chest as he watched with unreadable eyes. She roamed around trying to sense a mood. The room still held a faint scent of an active boy. The cream-colored walls were bright and the windows cheerful with yellow curtains. Four stuffed animals, stiffly in a line, lay on the bed.

  She spoke softly. “Is Jamie so neat then? I doubt it, but I imagine his playroom has also been picked up. Let’s go see.”

  Dellafield shrugged and opened the door to the adjoining play and schoolroom, which was also scrupulously tidy.

  “An unnatural neatness,” said Morgan. “Someone’s straightened the rooms, of course. His aura tells me differently. He’s as cheerfully messy as most youngsters.”

  She grinned as the Chief Inspector set his teeth and struggled to refrain from telling her what he thought of auras. Morgan sat on the child’s bed and patted the covers, even cradling the boy’s pillow and holding it to her cheek. She noticed Dellafield looking at her strangely, but ignored him. When she concentrated deeply, as she was now, she needed no distractions. She picked up one of the toy dogs and put it down. Going through to the other room she finally focused her attention on a bookcase in the corner.