Warrior’s Redemption Read online

  He almost made it.

  “She’ll die if you don’t find her, you know. Out in this weather. Unprotected. She’s but an innocent, sent here because of you. It’s your conscience that will have to bear the burden of her death.”

  Elesyria’s prediction froze his feet to the floor as surely as if the stones beneath him had turned to ice.

  “What say you? Who’s this woman of whom you speak?” He forced the words past a tongue gone thick and dry, turning slowly as he spoke to stare at the witch who claimed to be his mother-in-law. “I have no knowledge of any woman. And certainly no responsibility for her.”

  She shrugged her shoulders, a perfectly fabricated look of innocence spreading over her features. “I know not who she is, only that the Goddess was to send her here because of you. Perhaps as a test? Though I suppose it matters not, since she has little chance of survival out there.” She fluttered her hand vaguely in the direction of the wall. “I do wonder, though, how long she might hang on. Suffering. In the cold. Lost. With no food or water. No protection. No—”

  “Enough!” Malcolm roared, unable to listen to any more of her guilt-baiting.

  What if the things she said were possible? There had been a woman central to his troubled dreams. He remembered that much. Could it be that this Faerie had conjured someone? Someone she’d stranded in the wilderness to meet some horrible fate? But why would she . . .

  Revenge! The word lanced through his heart on a shaft of guilt. Revenge for the part he played in her daughter’s fate. Revenge for his having failed to keep Isabella safe.

  “Where do I find her?” He all but choked on the question.

  Her lips thinned, all veneer of innocence gone. “I have no idea. It was you the Goddess chose to share that information with. Not me. Only you know the answer to that question.”

  His stomach lurched even as his breath caught in his chest, the morning’s helpless distress rolling back over him full force. He could not stand by and allow another innocent woman’s death. And yet, his dreams had been a jumble of unintelligible scenes and sounds. He had no way of knowing where she might be . . . if she even existed.

  “You spoke of a ring of stones. I have seen such a place on my rides. A half day’s journey north of here.”

  Malcolm jerked his gaze up, his attention riveted by his brother’s claim. “You could find this spot again?” Patrick wandered on occasion, exploring the land for days at a time.

  “Aye. I believe I can. If you think it’s possible . . .”

  Patrick’s words hung in the silence between them, a siren call he had but to answer.

  “It is possible,” Elesyria broke the silence. “A stone circle has power to us. I would deem it more than possible, in fact. I would deem it probable.”

  It was settled then.

  “We ride.”

  Without a word, Patrick was at his side, keeping pace as they ran from the keep to ready their mounts.

  His only concern now was whether or not he could reach this mystery woman in time.

  Eight

  HOURS ON HORSEBACK had brought them well into the mountains and still Malcolm had found no sign of any ring of stones similar to what he’d seen in his dreams. His patience wore thin, his spirits as damp as the fine cold mist that stung his skin.

  He wiped the moisture from his face, refusing to allow himself to brood over how much they could have used this weather a few months past. Instead he focused on their current quest.

  “Are you sure we—”

  “Yes,” Patrick cut in, “just over this ridge, in the valley below.

  Malcolm nodded, instinctively tightening his thighs against his mount’s sides. The big horse’s steps quickened over the rough terrain, moving faster as if keeping pace with the growing sense of urgency bearing pressure in his chest.

  At the top of the ridge he pulled up the reins. Below him, the valley lay shrouded in a gray blanket of fine rain, all but obscuring a copse of trees off to his right.

  “The stone circle lies at the very heart of the grove. If we’re to believe the Elf, we should find her there.” Patrick pulled his horse to a stop soundlessly beside him.

  If they were to believe. And how could he not? How could he ignore the nameless worry clawing at the back of his throat like a living creature?

  A slight pressure with his heels and his horse sprang forward, taking the downward slope as quickly as possible.

  It seemed an eternity cutting down the distance between them and their destination, but at last they made their way through the close-growing trees, to the opening at the very heart of the copse.

  There, in the center of a stone ring, on a strangely green clump of vegetation, lay a crumpled body.

  “By Freya,” Malcolm hissed, sliding down from his mount and hitting the ground at a run. He remembered this place from his dream now, reality sharpening the hazy dream vision into clear focus.

  She lay curled on the ground, wet hair the color of an autumn field splayed across her face.

  It was only as he reached her side and knelt next to her that the enormity of her being here struck him. He’d dreamed it. He’d ridden all this way to find her. And yet, somehow, he’d half expected to find the ring of stones empty.

  Expected or hoped?

  With a shaking hand, he gently swept the hair from her face and ran one finger down her cheek.

  By the Gods, she was lovely!

  “She lives?” Patrick stood beside him, his eyes scanning the forest.

  Aware of his brother’s attention, Malcolm willed his hands to steady as he slipped his fingers to the side of her throat.

  The beat beneath his touch was strong and regular.

  “She does.”

  “Then best we keep her that way by getting her out of here and back to Castle MacGahan. She’s trouble enough without our adding more to it.”

  Acknowledging the wisdom of Patrick’s words with only a nod of his head, he bent again over the woman. He thrust his arms under her shoulders and knees and rose to his feet, lifting her, cradling her close to his chest.

  Her eyelids twitched and one corner of her softly pink lips lifted as if in amusement.

  By the gods!

  He would admit that his brother’s worry for their safety was all too real. Someone had to be responsible for this woman being here. Someone who could yet lurk under cover of the forest. But Patrick was wrong about the woman herself. The beauty in his arms was anything but trouble. She couldn’t be.

  He breathed in the scent of her, light and fragrant, like a warm day in spring. Her skin, soft and flawless, brought to mind the petals of a newly unfurled flower.

  That was her exactly. A delicate flower.

  He turned his head to say as much as Patrick tracked round the circle, when a flash of movement caught his eye. The “delicate flower’s” fist smashed into his jaw before he could draw his next breath.

  “What the hell?” she demanded, her eyes sparkling with her emotion even as her fists flailed at his head and shoulders. “Get your hands off me. Right now! Put me down!”

  While he would not harm her, he harbored no illusions as to her intent. The woman packed the punch of a blacksmith.

  “Calm yerself, my lady,” he cautioned as he allowed her feet to touch the ground without releasing his hold around her shoulders.

  “Calm myself, my ass! Let. Me. Go.” She shoved her weight against him, swinging her fist again as she tried to turn.

  Prepared this time, her blow was easily deflected.

  “As you will it, my lady.” He lifted his hands into the air to signal his capitulation to her demands even as he stepped back.

  Silence reigned in the circle as they waited, her gaze swinging wildly from him to Patrick and back again, her arms held in front of her as if in preparation for attack. Bright red splotches bloomed on her cheeks just before she blinked her eyes several times in an exaggerated manner, lifting her eyebrows as if it were the only way to force her eyelids to open.
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  “Whoa,” she muttered, bringing one hand to her forehead. “Where am I? Who are . . . ?”

  Her words trailed off as her head lolled over and her knees buckled beneath her, her body crumpling down.

  “Bollocks!” Malcolm dove forward to catch her before she hit the ground, lifting her once again into his arms.

  Behind him, Patrick snorted. “I said it before, did I no? Plain and simple. This one’s trouble.”

  Settling onto his mount, his new charge in his arms, Malcolm shook his head in denial.

  Not about the trouble part. Though Patrick always claimed that of any woman in his path, he could very well be right about trouble this time. But there was nothing either plain or simple about this woman. And even if she weren’t the trouble his brother claimed, neither was she the delicate flower he’d earlier imagined. In fact, if he were to compare her to any flower at the moment, it would have to be one with thorns.

  He rubbed a hand absently over the throb in his jaw.

  Sharp, prickly thorns, with a temper to match.

  Nine

  DANI AWOKE FROM the nightmare, acutely aware of the chill in her room.

  Damn.

  The mind was certainly a powerful thing. That bizarre dream had felt so real, her hand actually hurt as if she had really slammed her fist into someone’s face.

  Not that she couldn’t figure out why her subconscious would conjure up a scenario like men on horseback taking her captive. After all, she’d spent her evening fending off that octopus-handed, wannabe cowboy, Clay Carter. So much for the horses and captive part.

  She pulled the heavy coverlet up and snuggled down in the big bed, thankful her alarm hadn’t screamed at her yet. Just a few more minutes to savor bits and pieces of the dream. No matter how foolish it might be, a part of her wished some of that dream had been real.

  Or maybe it was only the man she’d dreamed up whom she wished had been real.

  It took no effort at all to re-create him in her mind’s eye. Ol’ Steely Jaw had been something to look at, all right, though if she was going to start regularly making up Scottish warriors to dream about, maybe it was time to give up reading so many of those Highland romances.

  Or time to go buy some more.

  She smiled to herself, thinking once more of the man. How her imagination had managed to create something as wonderful as him when she’d gone to bed thinking about that poop Clay was beyond her.

  Wait.

  The night before flickered through her mind like a grainy movie. She hadn’t been thinking of Clay when she’d gone to bed. In fact, she couldn’t actually remember going to bed. The last thing she remembered was standing in that Faerie Circle she’d built.

  Dani tossed the covers off as she pushed up to sit. The light in the room came not from the streetlamps out in the parking lot but from the glow of burning wood in a fireplace across the room from where she huddled.

  A fireplace that hadn’t been there when she’d gone to sleep.

  She held her breath, listening for any sound of the big rigs that came and went all through the night. Nothing. No sound at all but the crackling of the wood fire in a fireplace she didn’t have.

  This can’t be real.

  She denied her surroundings even as she crawled to the side of the bed and pushed away what appeared to be heavy curtains to peer down at the distance to the floor. Swinging her legs over the side, she dropped, a move she instantly regretted when her feet hit the cold stones.

  Who in their right mind had cold freakin’ floors like this, anyway? Even when she was a kid back on the farm they’d had scatter rugs on their old wood floors.

  She hugged her arms tight around her middle, realizing as she did that what she was wearing was nothing she’d ever owned. It was a thick, long-sleeved, shapeless shift that just hung from her shoulders, so long it trailed on the floor.

  Not that she was going to complain about it right now. It was a good bit warmer than the gauzy summer dress she remembered having on. At least, the last time she remembered anything at all.

  This can’t be real.

  The room was big. Big enough, anyway, that the corners were swathed in dark. The kind of dark that could easily hide any number of unpleasant surprises for someone with an overactive imagination.

  A ledge to the side of the fireplace held an unlit candle, which seemed a prudent item to get her hands on at the moment. A little more light would be welcome. Not that her imagination was overacting or anything.

  Keeping her eyes fixed on her destination, she willed herself to take that first step. And the next. One foot in front of the other until—

  “Shit!”

  Her toe smacked into the unyielding stone of a raised hearth, and the second or so it took for the pain to race from her abused digit to her brain gave that imagination of hers more than enough diversion.

  She balanced her weight on one leg, her good foot pressing down onto her injured toe as if force alone could stop the pain.

  The initial wave passed, leaving only irritation in its wake.

  Stupid girl.

  If she’d paid more attention to her surroundings rather than letting the panic of them consume her, she could have avoided that little mishap.

  Lesson learned.

  Shifting her weight back to both feet, she stepped up onto the hearth and stretched to retrieve the candle. Bending down, she held it close to the glowing embers until its wick sizzled and caught fire.

  Not even the additional light helped her make sense of her surroundings.

  She could see now that there were rugs scattered around, furry things that she’d swear were animal skins. The room itself, or at least what she could clearly see, seemed entirely made of stone. Except for the two doors, which appeared to be wood.

  Thick, heavy-looking wood. Like something out of a history lesson.

  And absolutely, positively like nothing she’d seen anywhere in Comfort, Wyoming.

  “I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” she whispered on a shaky breath as she stepped off the hearth toward the middle of the room.

  Two doors.

  If she wanted to find out where she was, her obvious choice seemed to be to go through one of them. But which one?

  “And behind door number one,” she muttered, deciding as she spoke aloud that she would try the door closest to the fireplace.

  It opened easily enough. That had to be a good sign. At least whoever had put her here hadn’t locked her in. She hesitated only a moment, gathering her courage, before stepping through into another, equally poorly lit, room.

  The fireplace in here had burned down to a low ember, giving off even less light than in the first room, but she lifted her arm to hold the candle aloft and examined her surroundings.

  This room was even larger than the one in which she had awoken. To her left, a small table with two chairs stood between her and another doorway, but it wasn’t that direction that held her attention.

  By far the largest single item in the room was a massive bed, with enormous wooden posters and a top rail from which hung dark folds of heavy-looking draperies.

  Ominously, the draperies were drawn shut, obscuring whatever might be in the bed.

  Whoever. Not whatever. Whoever might be in that bed.

  Dani stilled, holding her breath, not even daring to blink, listening for any sound that might be coming from behind those draperies.

  It took a bit to separate the pounding of blood in her ears from the silence in the room, but she concentrated, willing herself to hear, and at last found what she sought.

  A shudder ran up her arms and down her spine as her ears picked up the slow, steady whoosh of someone breathing.

  The internal debate was short but intense, with fear encouraging her to run toward the other door while curiosity pushed her to look behind the draperies.

  Aunt Jean’s oft-used saying about what curiosity did to the cat rang through her thoughts even as she found herself tiptoeing toward t
he bed.

  Mere inches from the bed, she stopped, one hand already on the curtains, fear and curiosity still locked in a vicious battle. Granted, whoever was behind those curtains should have the answers she needed. But what if they didn’t feel particularly like sharing?

  Her candle didn’t make much of a weapon. Sure, she could set the bed on fire, but that wasn’t likely to stop anyone who might be less than happy to see her here. At least, it wouldn’t stop them in time to do her much good.

  Holding the candle aloft, she examined the room again, this time with a purpose.

  Two small bowls and a large vase sat on the table. That would have to do. Turning her back to the bed, she hurried over and set her candle on the table to pick up the vase. One sniff told her this was more decanter than flower holder. Scotch, she’d guess from the smell.

  No matter. It was made of some sort of pottery and heavy enough that it should serve just fine as her new weapon.

  She reached out to retrieve her candle and her hand froze as an impression of movement caught her eye. There, on the wall directly ahead of her, a misshapen blob flickered and danced. Fascinated, she stared for an instant, before her brain registered the form of shadow, a figure caught between her and the glow of the fireplace.

  Arm raised, she stepped backward from the table and directly into a wall of hard flesh.

  A wall with arms of steel that banded around her, one hand at her throat and the other covering her mouth before her first squeak had a chance to meet the night.

  Panic speared through her chest and she swung the decanter up and over her head, wildly hoping to make contact with something. Faster than she could have imagined possible, the hand left her throat. The decanter flew from her fingers and shattered on the stone floor as her attacker deflected the blow by grabbing her wrist and twisting her arm up behind her.

  “Stop it right now,” a male voice ordered. “Behave yerself.”

  “Me, behave?” She sputtered from behind his hand even as he pulled his fingers away from her mouth. “I’m not the one who’s attacking some innocent woman.”

  “Innocent women do not skulk about strange men’s bedchambers. Which, by the way, would be better accomplished under cover of darkness, no by announcing yer presence with yer candle held high.”