Amethyst Destiny (3 page)

But if he was hungry and in need of food, he only got sustenance if he complained to the ring he was growing weak and demanded the ring strengthen him.

Setting the lantern on the washstand, he searched for the Fire Chalice of Veskin, or anything that might tell him where to find the treasure that was his latest mission. The bloody amethyst had sent him to Castle Rayne for a reason.

None knew he had the ring, for none could see it but him. His fist closed tight. The ring might be a pain in his arse, but he’d not give it up, even if Hegarty returned for it as he’d promised he would. The ring was his life now. Everything had changed for him that dark day all those years ago.

The Wizard had been born.

He’d learned to manipulate the magic, soon realizing no task was beyond him. At seventeen, having gotten his growth at last, he’d left home and sold himself and his talents to the highest bidder.

None but him knew he actually possessed magic. They simply believed him a man who could do anything. For the right price.

Over the years he had indeed accomplished an abundance of impossible tasks. He’d delivered a brigand to his hanging, a lost child to her mum, a cache of gold to one who sought to steal his enemy’s treasure. Talon cared not who hired him or why.

The Wizard never failed.

He grimaced. Until now.

A fortnight he’d tarried in this castle to no avail. Now only two weeks remained of the month he’d been given to find the chalice and deliver it as promised. But the damnable ring refused to cooperate. Every day, ten times a day, in every way he could think of, he asked the ring to show him how to find the chalice. So far, all it had done was tell him to come to Castle Rayne.

Finding nothing, he reclaimed the light, left the chamber, and started up the narrow, twisting tower stairs. The light flickered along the whitewashed stone as he rose.

“All right, ye worthless piece of rock. How can I put this that ye’ll understand? How about this ... help me find what my client, Niall Brodie, seeks?” His words held a hard, frustrated edge, for he was fast running out of patience. The Wizard never failed.
Never
.

Yet he was utterly dependent on the ring, for without it, he had no chance of finding the chalice. The Brodie chieftain knew only that it had been stolen sometime within the past twenty years. He knew neither when, nor why, nor by whom. The chalice could be anywhere. But he was willing to pay a king’s ransom in silver to get it back.

And the Wizard had promised to do just that.

Bloody, traitorous ring.

Talon continued up the tight, turnstile stair, then stopped suddenly as the familiar prickle of magic rushed over his skin. With a leap of his heart, he stilled, waiting for the slight change in the air that presaged the ring’s magic. But the air dropped to frigid, charging as if he’d stepped into the heart of a thunderstorm.

The hair rose at his nape and his pulse began to pound. He was well used to the feel of magic by now, but this was different. Like a winter gale instead of the usual spring breeze.

From far below, he heard shouts of fear and knew he wasn’t the only one feeling it. Excitement and anticipation raced through his blood.

“Chaplain!” The voice echoed from far below, seeking his chaplain’s cross, no doubt, to ward off what they would believe was evil.

He made no move to answer, but held his lantern high as he stood poised on the stairs.

Waiting.

The firelight flickered. The magic burned through him in a quick, tingling rush. And suddenly he was not alone.

His pulse raced as he stared at the woman. She appeared into empty air a half-dozen steps above, bent as if sitting, then sat hard on the step behind her with a yelp. Her head jerked up, her gaze wide as the moon as she stared at him with the strangest eyes he’d ever seen—one brown, the other pale green. Though clearly a woman grown, she was a wee bit of a thing with shorn golden hair that just brushed her jaw, and odd, male clothing that molded to her slender form.

She scrambled to her feet, facing him with a wild confusion of fury and terror. Never had he seen a more bonny lass.

Slowly, he raised the ring to his lips and kissed the stone. “I take back every bad thing I’ve said about ye.”

God in heaven, the ring had sent him an angel.

“Chaplain!” The steward’s voice rang over the stone, nearer now. By the sounds of it, he was climbing the stairs a couple of floors below.

Bollocks.

Talon pursed his lips. He needed to hide the lass and he didn’t have much time. Her appearance would raise too many questions, questions he was neither inclined nor able to answer. Who she was.
What
she was. How she’d gotten here.

“I have to hide ye,” he told her, wondering if she spoke Scots or English.

“Where am I?” she asked in English, a strangely accented English. Her voice at once demanded and trembled. Her already pale face was losing color by the moment.

“Come.” He raced up the few stairs and grabbed her arm, then pushed past her and pulled her with him.

“No,” she gasped, but stumbled after him.

He pulled her into the passage then opened the door of the nearest chamber and ushered her inside. The space was small and dusty—the chamber of one of the lady’s maids. It would have to do.

The lass stumbled and he grabbed her to keep her from falling.

“I’m going to pass out,” she gasped.

“Aye. ’Tis for the best.”

“No!” She fought the weakness, struggling to free herself from his hold.

From below, he heard the steward calling for him again.

“I must leave ye, lass.” She needed to be out and he feared she’d not go willingly. With a sigh, he set down the lantern and clipped her under the chin with his fist, hitting her just hard enough to knock her unconscious.

He caught her as she went down and lifted her into his arms, marveling at the lightness of her. “My apologies, lass.” With quick steps, he strode into the window alcove and deposited her on the cushioned bench, deep in the shadows where none would find her unless they searched. “I’ll be back for ye.”

At last, the ring had sent him the tool he needed to find the chalice and complete his mission. But ...
a woman?
From whence had the amethyst pulled her? Questions knotted in his head. Was she even human? Foreboding wound through his gut.

His jaw clenched tight, he grabbed his lantern and hurried back down the stairs, reaching the chapel just as the steward stormed out.

A man of medium height, little hair, and sharp, suspicious eyes, the steward scowled at him. “I felt magic, Chaplain. Black magic.”

Talon gathered the cloak of the chaplain’s serenity about him and smiled calmly. “Nay, my good man. Not magic at all, but the gates of hell opening to accept the evil souls fleeing this place. ’Tis as I told ye, aye? Bad spirits haunt Castle Rayne. What we felt was the first lot of them leaving. My work hasna been for naught.”

As always, the ring had provided him an alias when he arrived at his destination. A role. But, although the steward had accepted him and allowed him entrance, he’d never entirely trusted him.

A smarter man than most, unfortunately.

A bead of sweat rolled between his shoulder blades. Finally,
finally,
the ring had answered his plea. He needed the steward to believe in him just a bit longer.

“I’ll persist with my work until the evil spirits are all returned to the hell where they belong.”

The steward eyed him sternly. “One more day, Chaplain, then ye’ll leave us. The lord is due back at any time.”

Talon held tight to his serene expression. “Aye. ’Twill be enough.” Now that he’d been sent the lass, he believed it might be so. Perhaps, finally, the ring would reveal his purpose for being here. He would know he’d found that purpose when the chaplain’s robes and the full beard on his face disappeared with the role, as all ring-given tools vanished once he’d used them to the amethyst’s satisfaction.

The moment the steward was out of sight, Talon retraced his steps to the room where he’d left the lass. He pushed through the door and strode to the tiny window enclosure where she now lay in a pool of moonlight, sleeping her unnatural sleep. Jesu, but she was a strange and bonny thing. He reached for her, lifting a silken lock of soft, golden hair. Aye, an angel. An angel with missing wings, shorn hair, and lad’s clothing.

Was she human? His skin prickled at the thought she might be other.

That was the problem, he supposed. Though he’d used the ring’s magic for more than twenty years, he’d never understood its source. Just as he’d never been certain who or what Hegarty was. Until now, he’d given the question only passing thought, for what did it matter so long as the ring’s magic was his to control?

But now he found himself fiercely curious and more than a little wary as he stared at the woman. A lass, he was most certain, who was not of this world.

TWO

Julia woke slowly, her head aching, her body uncomfortable as sin on the lumpy mattress. Her cold nose twitched against the musty smell of old wool, though the rest of her felt warm beneath the blankets.

Nothing resonated as familiar to her sleep-dazed mind and she forced her eyes open, trying to remember where she was. She started, staring at the man sitting not three feet away. Confusion fogged her mind. She tried to lever herself up, but pain ripped across the base of her skull and she stopped abruptly.

“Easy, lass.”

A Scotsman. She was still in Scotland. Memories flooded back. Catriona’s wedding. The drive to Glasgow.

Had she been in an accident?

And just where was she? Because this sure as heck wasn’t a hospital. The room was tiny and Spartan in appearance. Big enough only for the small bed she found herself on—if the lumpy thing could be called a bed—a tiny wardrobe, a washstand, and the spindly chair upon which the man sat. The only normal-sized thing in the room was the fireplace. It was tucked into the wall beside a deep window alcove where sunlight trickled in through ancient-looking glazed panes.

And it sure as heck didn’t smell like a hospital. Her nose twitched at the strong smell of oil. Lamp oil? And urine. She must have ended up in some country yokel’s hovel. Great. Just great. She’d almost certainly missed her flight.

The man leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. He clasped his big hands together. “I didna hit ye hard. Ye should be fine in a thrice.”

Julia nodded, her jaw smarting. So there had been an accident. Carefully, she sat up, turning her head until she could face him fully.

The guy wasn’t bad looking for a yokel with a full beard wearing a choir robe. He was big, but from what she’d seen, the Scots tended to grow them that way. His beard probably hid a weak chin and jaw. Who else would wear a beard like that these days? At least his cheekbones were high and well-defined. His nose was slightly crooked, though a nice size and shape, and his eyes were a pretty shade of Carolina blue. If she had to guess, she’d put him in his mid-to-late thirties.

“How damaged is my car?”

“Your
car?”
His brows drew together in confusion.

She stared at him. “I wasn’t in my car when you hit me?” God, why couldn’t she remember? “Did you hit me with a car?”

That look of confusion in his eyes turned wary. “I dinna ken yer car, lass. I hit ye with my fist.”

Julia gaped. Slowly, the memory returned—a hazy memory of him dragging her up an ancient, twisty stairwell and into a dark room, then turning to her. Or on her.

“Why?”
Outrage began to burn through the pain.

“I’m sorry I hit ye, but I couldna have ye wandering the castle.”

“The castle?”

“Castle Rayne. I’m the acting chaplain. Talon, I’m called.”

“Talon.” She frowned, trying to move backward from that moment she’d first seen him on the stairs. The last thing she remembered before that was ...

The necklace. She’d been ready to get out of the car in the rental lot when the necklace Cat gave her had started to act funny.

Her breath caught as she remembered how everything had begun to spin. And then the car seat had fallen away behind her and she’d landed on a stone stair.
In a twisting stairwell.

Impossible.
Clearly, she was missing a chunk of memory.

She met the man’s gaze, her own hard and demanding. “How did I get here?”

His brows drew down. “How is it ye have two different eyes?”

Julia groaned. If one more person mentioned her weird eyes ... “It’s called heterochromia, it’s perfectly natural, if unusual, and it runs in my family. My cousin’s eyes look just like mine. As did my aunt’s and my grandmother’s.”

He smiled at her, taking her by surprise. It was a smile meant to wheedle or charm, but it was breathtaking. To her annoyance, her body reacted like some inexperienced teenager’s, her pulse absolutely fluttering. Fluttering!

“I meant no offense,” he murmured. “I’m thinking I rather like yer eyes, lass. Having two the same color is muckle plain.”

Julia groaned at the blatant flirtation even as she fought her body’s ridiculous pleasure in his words.

“I’ll ask you again, Braveheart. How did I get here?”

The man cocked his head, a small smile playing at that well-sculpted mouth. “Braveheart, eh? Well now, how do you think you got here?”

She made a sound deep in her throat, a mix of pain and frustration. “I’m not up for games. If I was in an accident, I don’t remember it.” She frowned “Did you kidnap me?”

“Did I steal ye? Aye, ’twould seem so.”

“Why?”

He studied her. “I need your help.”

Julia frowned, trying to make sense of his answer. Trying to make sense of any of this. From what she remembered, she’d been alone in her car when everything had started to spin. She must have been drugged. But when?
How?
She’d been alone the entire day except for the quick stop for petrol and soda outside of Glasgow. The soda bottle hadn’t been opened, so it couldn’t have been tampered with.

He was playing games with her. She was sure of it. And yet... “If you needed my help, why didn’t you simply ask for it?”

His mouth turned up, forming that devastating smile. “I did, in a manner of speaking.”

Oh man, he was too cute. Even with the beard. But she wasn’t some kid, susceptible to a handsome face. And, dammit, this wasn’t funny.

“You’re making jokes. I want answers.”

“As do I.”

She scowled.
“You
want answers? You’re the one calling all the shots here, dude.”

He looked at her quizzically. “I wish to know who ye are.”

Blinking, Julia stared at him. “You don’t know? You just grabbed me at random?”

“I doubt there was anything random about it. But, nay, I dinna know ye.”

She made a sound of disgust. “I can’t believe I have to introduce myself to my kidnapper. I’m Julia Brodie.”

He frowned. “A Brodie.”

“Is there a problem? Other than the fact that you
kidnapped me?”
She turned slowly, pressing her back to the wall. “Why did you bring me here?
How
did you bring me here?”

Talon cleared his throat, his expression turning boyishly engaging. “I have a talent, ye might say. When I need help with something, I ask for it. And God provides.”

Julia lifted one hard brow. “God?”

The man nodded earnestly. “God.”

“You expect me to believe God snatched me out of my rental car at the Glasgow airport and handed me to you?”

Once again, his expression took on that look of confusion, as if she were speaking another language. She knew the Brits had different words for things, but come on. Was he being intentionally obtuse?

Julia scowled. “Try again.”

“’Tis the truth.”

“I don’t think so. I’m willing to believe God works in mysterious ways, but this is a little too blatant, even for Him.”

“’ Tis a miracle, aye?” Dimples appeared in his cheeks just above his beard.
Dimples.

The butterflies moved into her chest. She bit down on her rising frustration. “This is not a joke!”

He was trying to tease her, cajole her. What was really scaring her was the fact that he wasn’t trying to tell her she’d fallen asleep. Or been knocked out. Or something minimally logical. He was acting as if she had indeed poofed from her car into this castle. Just as she remembered.

He lifted a single brow, keen intelligence lighting his eyes. “Do ye have a better explanation?” Only a hint of his smile remained, but the look he gave challenged her.

“No.” Her voice began to rise. “But people do not simply disappear into thin—”

He moved so fast, she barely saw him coming. One moment he was on the chair, the next he was on the bed, one hand clamping over her mouth as he grabbed her. He pulled her back against his chest, the solid band of his arm across her middle pinning her tight.

“Wheesht!” His voice was low in her ear, but no less sharp. “Dinna shout like that, lass. No one kens yer here and I would keep it that way.”

Her heart began to race. Acting purely on instinct, she struggled to free herself from his iron hold, shaking her head to dislodge his smoky-smelling hand from her mouth.

Pain bolted through her jaw and she quieted, groaning.

Never in her life had she been physically overpowered like this, despite her small stature. This man overwhelmed her in every way. Yes, he was bigger and stronger than she, but who wasn’t? Much more frightening was the certainty that he was a man who would do whatever he damn well pleased. She could feel it in the way he pressed her against him, in the sure, unflinching way in which he’d grabbed her and controlled her. Hadn’t he already hit her once, hard enough to knock her out?

Fear began to cloud her mind. He could do anything to her, anything, and she couldn’t stop him. She was completely and utterly at his mercy. If he decided to rape her, he’d rape her. And if he wanted to kill her, she wouldn’t be able to do a thing to stop him.

The iron band across her chest loosened, though he didn’t let her go. “Easy, lass. I’ve said I’ll not hurt you.”

His hand moved away from her mouth.

“You already did hurt me.”

“I’ve already apologized for that.” He released her slowly, then moved away from her and returned to his chair. She opened her eyes to find his smile gone, as if it had never been. He watched her without softness. “Are ye human?”

“What do I look like, a donkey?”

A glimmer of humor lit his eyes, but did nothing to soften the hard line of his mouth. “Nay, not a donkey. Yer human, then. That’s good.”

This had to be the most bizarre conversation she’d ever had in her life. “What would I be if I wasn’t human?”

“I dinna ken. Ye’ll tell me from whence ye came.”

Did that mean he wasn’t the one who’d kidnapped her? God, she didn’t remember being kidnapped. “I’m from New York. But the last thing I remember was sitting in my rental car in the Hertz lot at the Glasgow airport.”

His eyes narrowed. “Ye speak strangely lass, and of things I dinna ken. But I know Glasgow.”

“Am I in Glasgow?”

“Nay.”

“Still in Scotland, at least?”

“Aye, ye are that.”

She sighed. They’d probably shoved her in the trunk of a car or the back of a van. “How far are we from Glasgow?”

“A week’s ride, mayhap.”

She frowned. Scotland wasn’t that big a country. She was pretty sure she could get from one corner to the other in a day. Two at the most. “On what? A bicycle?”

His brows drew together again.

“Oh, quit it,” she snapped. “You know what a damned bicycle is.”

But his eyes continued to hold that wary, uncomprehending look. “I was speaking of a horse.”

She stared at him, then laughed, a harsh exhalation of air. “Who in their right mind would try to ride a horse across
this
country?”

“’Tis either ride or walk.”

“Chaplain!” a male voice called from just outside the door.

Again Talon leaned forward and covered her mouth with that less-than-clean hand. “I’ll be there forthwith!” He caught her eye, his expression hard once more. “I must leave. Do you wish me to hit you again and make you sleep, or tie and gag you?”

Great set of choices. Being kidnapped sucked.

Her eyes shot daggers at him, but when he lifted his hand, she hissed, “Don’t hit me.”

“Then ye’ll cooperate and be silent.” He grabbed a rag and twisted it, shoving it between her teeth and knotting it behind her head, just like in the movies. The linen texture felt gross against her tongue, and tasted worse, but she reminded herself the alternative was probably another fist to the jaw. No thank you.

As he tied her hands behind her back and looped the rope around the bed frame, she belatedly wondered if she’d missed her opportunity to get some help. She probably should have started screaming when she first heard the other man. But the truth was Talon scared her. One moment he was flashing that killer smile, the next he was looking like he’d happily kill her for real.

Definitely a man to tiptoe around until she figured out where she was. Then she’d formulate a plan for escape.

Before he reached for the door, he sent her a sharp, warning look. “Silent.”

She glared at him, but didn’t make a sound. Julia Brodie was no coward, but neither was she a fool. And right now, staying quiet ... and alive ... seemed like the wisest thing to do.

Talon left the room and closed the door behind him. A moment later she heard voices through the wall.

“My wife, Mary.” The voice was the same deep tone as the one who’d called through the door. “... babe due in June. Same as the queen’s.”

Julia’s brows pulled down. Queen Elizabeth was a little old to be having kids, wasn’t she? Unless Prince William had gotten married and been made king when Julia wasn’t looking. Despite being half-Scottish, she was all American and had never paid much attention to the British royals.

“... praying the queen gives birth to a girl. We dinna need another papist on the throne. King James is naught but a pope lover.”