After The Storm (29 page)

* * *

Cheryl was not in the habit of riding her horse hard
on pavement, let alone on a dimly lit street, and even though the
circumstances warranted speed, she maintained a quiet pace. She had
no doubts about her situation as she slowly trotted her mare toward
freedom. She was sure she was doing the right thing. She would not
be forced like some meek nothing of a girl into a loveless
marriage. Her dear friend Lizzy had been forced into one just last
year, and she was miserable while her awful husband chased
everything in a skirt! That was not for her.

She had been so caught up in her defiant thoughts
that she had not yet considered the dangers of her expedition. A
fog had set in. She made an incorrect turn, backtracked, and found
herself suddenly surrounded by a group of young, grimy street
urchins. They blocked her path, and she put on a stern look as she
commanded, “Do stand aside.” Her tone was firm and showed no signs
of the sudden panic that she was beginning to feel.

“Whot’s this? Why—’tis a mort, God love ye! A
blooming mort. Fancy, ain’t she?” one of them said as he moved
closer.

Cheryl lifted her crop out of her boot and held it
menacingly. “I wouldn’t come any nearer if I were you.” A threat
hovered in her voice and in the style of her movement.

He looked at the four boys with him now spreading
around Cheryl and her mare and snorted. “She do be warning us,
lads … whot say ye to that?”

Cheryl didn’t wait for their answer. She gave Bessy
some leg, and they moved immediately into a canter and headed
straight for him. He cursed out loud and jumped out of her way.

They rounded the bend in the street, and there Bessy
found something that frightened her more than the boys she had just
encountered. The poor mare spied something dark and weaving
ominously towards her, and as she blew out a snort, she hopped and
bucked. Cheryl released a surprised cry, for she hadn’t expected
this, and grabbed at her horse’s neck as she attempted to regain
her seat and control of her reins. Bessy shifted to the left, and
the force of the movement sent Cheryl the remainder of the way to
the ground!

She landed on her feet but lost her balance and
reeled backward into a body that felt more like iron than man.

* * *

She didn’t see him until she was on him. She felt a
hard body and then a pair of large hands take hold of her shoulders
and steady her. Instinctively, she reacted to his tight grip by
stepping on his foot. Instead of letting her go, his grip tightened
on her. She didn’t have time for this—from the way Bessy whinnied
and jostled about, it was clear the mare was getting ready to bolt.
He still held her fast as she tried to yank out of his steel grip.
“Let me go, do please, I have to reach Bess!”

He looked hard at her face, and she watched the
flitting expressions cross his countenance, noting that he was,
even in the dim light, quite handsome. However, he raised an
eyebrow and said, “What the devil is a beauty like you doing out
here alone at night?”

“My horse!” is what she answered as she tried
reaching for Bess’s reins.

“Stay here!” the stranger said as he turned and moved
gently towards the mare and managed to gather her reins. Bess
snorted but made no attempt to run from him as he spoke soothingly
to her and led her towards Cherry.

“Your horse,” he said softly.

“Thank you, but you didn’t have to … if you had
just let me go, I could have gotten her and been on my way,” Cheryl
returned, feeling suddenly shy. Here was this fashionable, handsome
rogue, and she felt she must look a fool.

“Ungrateful girl, and after you nearly knocked me
down,” he teased. His speech was only slightly slurred but enough
for Cherry to raise her brow and regard him with some
amusement.

“But I did not knock you down, and you, sir, were the
cause for all of it,” she answered, a smile curving her lips.
“Whatever were you doing walking about in the middle of the road?”
It was a counterattack to save face.

“I? Well, I was looking for an angel, and I found
one …” So saying, he had her well into his embrace, heedless
of the fact that the driver of his coach watched with some keen
interest at his back.

She did not know why, but she was not frightened in
the least, although as his tongue probed and found hers with an
expertise that made her feel warm and willing, she was surprised at
herself. She pulled away hard, although she didn’t have to and lost
her balance as he released her immediately. He reached out to
steady her, and she slapped his hands away, saying, “Well, you
haven’t found one—an angel, that is, for no one has ever called me
that!”

With one devilish movement he had her back in his
arms, and his voice was husky with the intent of his measure. “Are
you not?”

She didn’t have the opportunity to reply, for his
lips were already on hers, already parting. His tongue found his
way easily and teased with gentle expertise. His hand pressed her
body against his own, and she felt a frightening surge of
desire.

Cherry was astonished, as much at herself and her
reaction as she was at his sudden move. She had certainly been
kissed before, often in fact, but this was the first time she had
been so totally aroused. He was a stranger—ah, perhaps the
excitement of the adventure was at work here, she told herself.

She slapped at his shoulder, and when he released her
she felt his eyes look into her hers. She made a face at him and
announced in a whisper, “You, sir, are taking a liberty. I am at a
loss, for you are taller, stronger, and perhaps wicked enough to
pursue this further. If that is what you intend … proceed, for
I have always wondered what it would be like to be ravished on a
London street.” This was meant to make a mark and hit his sense of
honor, and it did that very well.

He pulled himself up to his full six feet and stared
hard at her. “My dearest child, I am not in the habit of ravishing
young women on London streets.”

“Ah, are you not? Then I do apologize,” she said
meekly. Again a flush hit.

He growled at her. “What the bloody hell are you
doing out here alone anyway? ’Tis folly.”

He sounded to Cherry as though he were fast sobering
up in spite of the drink she had tasted on his delicious
tongue.

“I am running away from my … er step …
father.” She tweaked the truth just a bit, as she didn’t need
anyone putting two and two together.

“Why?”

“I cannot tell you that, but it would be very nice if
you would let me go on my way before I am caught,” Cheryl returned,
smiling charmingly at him, but she could see by the curious
expression on his face that he wasn’t about to let this go so
easily.

“Running away? Stepfather? This sounds like some
blasted fairytale. You can’t go about London alone at night. Might
be accosted by any number of scalawags.”

“So you have made me aware …” she started, but
he took up her arm and led her towards his coach.

“I shall take you to where you wish to go.”

She could now see she had been wrong. He was not in
the least bit sober.

“But I am going to the New Forest,” she answered
doubtfully.

“Are you? Whatever the hell for?” he asked, his brows
well up.

“My nanny lives there. She will know what to do.”

“For no good reason, that makes sense. Take you to
your nanny,” he announced happily.

Hungry Moon:
Quicksilver

~ Prelude ~

There are more things in heaven and earth,
Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

—William Shakespeare,
Hamlet

1575, Scottish Highlands, where many honored their
clans and chose to follow the old ways

Quinn MacValdane had a great deal of weight on his
shoulders, but those shoulders were huge and certainly capable of
carrying the burden. The weight, however, was unlike any other he
had ever lifted, and he was tired of constantly having to deal with
it. He just wasn’t ready to get married!

He was more than six months away from turning thirty
and tired of the nagging as his birthday drew closer. He had to get
out and away from it!

Mayhap he just needed a tussle with the pretty tavern
wench, Sarah, to loosen up his nerves? Och but he liked her full
breasts. The notion of her naked body under him made him smile, and
he felt his dick spring up, ready for action.

A crackle of twigs made him look around and hold his
lantern up.

He had heard the rumors but had shrugged them off. He
wasn’t concerned—why should he be?

He was a sorcerer with supreme powers and had naught
to fear from the beast.

Thus, he proceeded into the woods to take the
shortcut to the town tavern. He grinned and hummed to himself, much
like a boy at the thought of a few drinks with his friends and then
a bit of fun with Sarah. She was a lovely, full-bodied
woman …

He heard something again.

His hearing had always been extraordinary, and it
told him now that something moved stealthily through the woods at
his back and was eating up distance between them.

Once again, he held up his lantern and looked
around—not afraid, but wary, very wary, for he knew that something
evil was at his back.

He touched the silver-tipped sword that was tucked at
his belt. If something rabid was out there, it was time to put an
end to it! And, bloody damn, he was just the man to do it. He would
enact his shield, protect himself from getting bitten, and finish
the beast once and for all. The shield would protect him from the
dangers of a rabid bite.

Everything in the forest seemed to go still.

Nothing seemed to move. Even the crickets had ceased
their chatter.

Warily he started forward again.

His mother’s face flashed in his mind.

If only she would stop her nagging at him. Lately it
was always the subject at the dinner table.

She was a dear heart, but he wasn’t in love, and he
wasn’t ready to tie himself down to one woman.

She wanted grandchildren, something to fill the void
and still the grief of his father’s passing. She wanted him to
carry on the line.

He liked being single … he liked
women …

He had told her to leave him be.

He was the only son, she enjoyed reminding him. She
wanted to keep Valdane in a direct line. If he didn’t have a son,
the castle and the estate would go to his father’s brother. What
she didn’t realize was
he didn’t care
. He loved his good
uncle—why shouldn’t the estate go to him?

These thoughts were once again interrupted, and Quinn
MacValdane knew the creature was not only at his back, it had had
gained ground.

The first
thing that assailed him was the
odor. Musky, and because his sense of smell was as good as his
hearing, the scent of fresh sweet blood filtered through to him. It
was dripping saliva mixed with blood.

The second
thing that assailed him was the
sound of the beast, the low, unthinking wild growl. The sound was
primal as the creature trumpeted hungrily with mindless rage.

The third
thing was the sure knowledge that
this was something sinister, something otherworldly: more, so much
more than a rabid beast—more than the ‘werewolf’ he had actually
expected to appear.

It was near, and it was exploding with Dark
Magic.

This beast was frothing at the mouth and mad.

He would not be able to outrun it, and he wasn’t sure
his shield would hold against its Dark Magic. What was this? What
kind of werewolf had magic?

He felt its power vibrate in the air. He had been
just a teen when the male members of his family had hunted and
killed a werewolf years ago. This was so much more.

Quinn MacValdane did the only thing he could do: he
enacted a spell that enswathed him with a protective shield.

It should have been enough
.

He set down his lantern and withdrew his
silver-tipped sword.

His shield should have worked like a coat of armor,
but he had been right—this was more, so much more than a werewolf.
This creature wielded Dark Magic and had stalked him with
purpose.

It stood a foot taller than Quinn’s six feet. It
clawed the air, its amber eyes burning with bloodlust. It was
drooling saliva and blood from its recent kill, and it roared with
fury.

Quinn looked into its eyes and knew he was looking
into the eyes of madness. It swiped at him, but its claws bounced
off his shield.

Infuriated, it went down on all fours, and Quinn
heard the voice, its voice, in his head as it began reciting an
ancient Gaelic spell.

And then he knew.

It was tearing apart his shield with its magic.

He looked up and noted the moon was in its full glory
as the feral creature attacked with a ferociousness he believed
would kill him.

He picked his spot and began maneuvering it in a
circle. It kept its head low and stared at his sword, which seemed
to deter it.

Quinn couldn’t get over its size … huge and
pulsating with power.

He studied it, trying to get its measure, its
weakness. Its fur was ragged, spotted with what smelled and looked
like blood.

Fangs, sharp fangs snapped as it snarled. Violence
governed its purpose, and that purpose was to tear, maim, kill—and
something else. Usurp. It wanted his magic. He could hear its
thoughts in his head. What kind of werewolf was this?

Devour … take … take
Quinn’s
magic.
Damn, how did it know his name? How the bloody hell
could it know his name? Who was this? Weres lost all memory of
themselves, their loved ones—it was part of their curse. This one
was a thinking, magical beast.