Amethyst Destiny (6 page)

“’Tis rarely pleasant for a lass the first time,” Talon said quietly.

“Yeah, well, there was a second time, and a third.” With a defiant lift of her chin, she met his gaze. “I’ve had four lovers, Braveheart. Enough experience to know you’re not my type. I’m through talking about my love life, so finish dressing me and
back off.”

With her words, his eyes had narrowed, the smile dying from his mouth. She saw the disapproval plain as day, and it hurt.

“Don’t you dare judge me, Talon,” she said heatedly. “Things are different in my world. Sleeping with lots of men is normal.”

If only she could believe it herself. And maybe she would if they’d been relationships strung out over years. But they hadn’t been. And she judged herself bitterly.

Talon’s jaw hardened as he turned his attention to her laces. Finishing quickly, he turned away.

“Ye’ll stay here.” The flirt was gone. All humor and softness had fled.

A fist tightened in her chest.

He strode to the door, his back to her. “As the chaplain, I have responsibilities I must fulfill. I’ll return when I can.” Without a backward glance, he left, shutting the door behind him.

Julia stared at the door as the flush of embarrassment receded, stealing the blood from her face. She sank onto the bed, cradling her head in her hands, feeling emotionally battered. She knew enough history to know that in this time there was only one word for an unmarried woman who’d known four men.
Whore.

Not that she cared what he thought.

She dug her fingers into her hair, tears starting to burn her eyes. Okay, maybe she did care, but she had no one to blame but herself. There was no reason in the world he’d needed to know her sexual history, but he’d been acting too sure of himself and she’d been feeling a little too unsettled by him.

Stupid, Julia.

But, honestly, did it matter? Her only goal was to figure out what she had to do to get out of here. Once she did, she’d never see him again.

And that couldn’t happen soon enough.

FOUR

Talon muttered under his breath as he sprinkled water along the inner walls of the Great Hall, pretending to be blessing the room with holy water, as he had the others. After last night’s blast of magic, the castle’s scarce inhabitants were skittish and fearful, looking to him to protect them from the evil spirits.

But if any got too close to hear his mutterings, they’d hear not prayer but railings at a woman. A woman who’d known four men, yet turned her nose up at the suggestion she lift her skirts for him.

Judge her for taking men to bed when she was unmarried ? Aye, it was hard not to even though he himself had bedded . . .
Jesu,
he didn’t know how many lasses. Scores. Maybe hundreds. Any likely lass who held out her hand to him and lifted her skirts.

In the two weeks he’d been at Castle Rayne, he’d tupped four lasses. No, five. Ah, he’d forgotten the one in the root cellar. Make that six. And two of them twice.

He had no right to judge. But a lass who’d taken four lads to bed could be persuaded to take a fifth. Aye, she could. And this lass was not unaware of him, no matter what she pretended.

A small, determined smile lifted his lips.

Before she completed her task and returned to her time, he would seduce her.

The Wizard never failed.

Several hours later, Talon returned to his chambers, a supper tray in his hands. He held the tray with one hand as he opened the door, praying the lass had remained in the room as he’d bade her. He didn’t think she would leave on her own, now that she knew she wasn’t in her own time. But he’d not put it past the fickle ring to snatch her away just when he’d set his sights on her.

Grabbing the lantern he’d set down, he lifted it high as he pushed into the dark room.

Julia whirled to face him, fury in her unusual eyes, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “The sun’s already gone down. You left me in here
all day.
Without food. Without drink.
Without light.
With nothing but a stinking chamber pot. I had
nothing
to do and no way to know if you’d driven off . . .
walked
off and left me.”

Talon listened to her tirade, delivered, at least, in a voice little more than a whisper. He set the tray on the bed and stepped back.

“Your supper.”

She grabbed the ale and took a long swallow, but she wasn’t through. “I didn’t know if you’d been caught and thrown in the dungeon, or if you’d just conveniently forgotten I was here. Twice . . .
twice . . .
someone knocked on the door looking for you. I had to shove myself under this damned bed. If anyone had come in and sat on it, they’d have flattened me. This has been the longest, most frustrating day of my life!”

Talon watched her grab up a slice of meat and tear into it, his mood swinging between amusement and annoyance. She was a high-strung lass, true enough. Mayhap even a bit of a shrew, though he supposed she had a right to her high dudgeon. He hadn’t intended to leave her for so long.

With a small grimace, he conceded maybe he had meant to, mistakenly believing she’d be so glad to see him when he finally returned that she’d throw herself into his arms in relief.

He’d misjudged her reaction badly. And he’d given no thought to how long she’d been without food before the ring called her.

She dug into the meat as if she’d not eaten in days. In between bites, she glared at him. “When I’m through eating, you will get me out of this room or I’m going to start screaming and never stop.”

He raised a harsh brow, his amusement fleeing. “You make any noise approaching a scream and I’ll either gag you or knock you out again.”

She stared at him as she chewed, then scowled. “I didn’t mean that literally. I’m claustrophobic, Braveheart. I wasn’t before today, but after at least a dozen freaking hours in a ten-by-six room, I am now, thanks to you.”

“You’re claus . . . ?” He didn’t know what she was trying to tell him.

“Claustrophobic. Afraid of closed spaces. Going stark-raving mad. Insane. Loony. Nutso. Are you catching my meaning
at all
?”

“Aye.” And, yes, definitely a shrew. Though in her ire she was, if possible, even more bonny. Her color was high, her eyes flashing. He rather enjoyed her fury.

“When you’ve finished your supper, I’ll take you into the tower for a wee spell. Mayhap we can figure out why you’re here.”

She stared at him as she tore off another chunk of lamb with her teeth, then nodded, the stiffness draining from her body as if the mere promise of escape was enough to keep the desperation at bay. She sank onto the bed and pulled the tray onto her lap, careful not to spill a drop. Her fury seemed to dissipate as she devoured the meal.

Not until the food was more than half gone did she look up at him again, pleasure warm in her eyes. “This lamb is amazing. The best I’ve had.”

The praise for the food pleased him almost as much as that glimpse of warmth. “The cook is surprisingly fine to have been left behind when the marquess is not in residence.”

“Do you know the marquess?” She took another bite.

“Nay. I’ve not been to Castle Rayne before a fortnight ago. I’d not be here now if not for the ring.” He eyed the bed beside her and took a step toward her, intending to sit at her side and test the attraction he knew existed between them. But as she realized his intent, she stiffened, her hand stilling, her supper forgotten. So he changed his path and leaned against the wall, instead.

Julia watched him warily as she finished taking the bite. He would test that attraction later, when it wouldn’t interfere with her meal.

“Why are you looking for the chalice?” she asked.

“I’ve been paid to do so.”

“Someone hired you to find it?”

“Aye.”

“They know about your magic ring?”

“Nay. None know of it. None know I have magic at all. But for you.”

She eyed him, a lovely brown eye pinning him. “1688. Isn’t this prime witch-burning time?”

“’Tis why I tell no one.”

“They just think you’re really good at finding things?”

“Aye.
The Wizard
they call me.”

To his surprise, a flash of humor gleamed in her eyes. “Cute. And ironic.”

Many of her words made little sense to him, but he gathered their meaning through context well enough. Cute meant nothing to him, but
ironic
he understood. And he’d, too, oft thought it ironic he was known as the Wizard.

Her expression sobered as she chewed another bite. His gaze lingered on her mouth and he watched the movement of those supple lips, wondering if she would taste as good as she smelled. He was certain she would. A small, secret smile lifted his spirits. He’d find out for himself soon enough.

“You’re really taking a risk trusting me with the truth, aren’t you?” A glimmer of wariness entered her eyes.

“Aye. But not so much, I’m thinkin’. You’re an outlander, lass. Your speech and hair give ye away as not Scottish, though most will have trouble placing your origins. Nay, I dinna think most will listen to you if you accuse me of magic. And if they believe magic’s been done, they’ll almost certainly point the finger at you.”

Julia watched him thoughtfully. “You’re probably right.” She finished her meal, leaving not a morsel uneaten, then set the tray aside and rose from the bed. At the washstand, she rinsed her fingers with a bit of water from the washbasin and dried them on her skirts.

He watched her, intrigued by the grace with which she moved. When she turned, fervent desire lit her eyes and sent his pulse soaring. The blood pounded through his veins, gathering between his legs. He was about to close the distance between them when she spoke.

“To the tower?” she asked hopefully.

Belatedly, he realized the desire in her eyes had naught to do with him and everything to do with freedom from her day’s confinement. He stood rooted, struggling to gain control.

Jesu. A simple look and she had him nearly on his knees with wanting her. He whirled away from her, picked up the lantern, and opened the door. Neither seeing nor hearing anyone, he held out his hand to her, not terribly surprised when she ignored it.

Her fury might have dissipated, but she was far from smitten with him. A temptation and a challenge she would be, of a certainty. He enjoyed a challenge as well as the next man, but rarely had his body risen as quickly and as thoroughly as it did with this lass.

The thought of her ultimate surrender brought a smile to his lips. For the first time in as long as he could remember he was tempted to put off seeking whatever the ring had sent him for, at least for a few days. Because once he found it, he feared the lass would be gone. And he was loath to see that happen yet. Not only did he fully intend to bed her, but she intrigued him mightily.

She followed behind him as he lifted the lantern and lit their way up the tower stairs, the very ones on which she’d first appeared a night ago. As they passed the spot where he’d first seen her, he reached back and took her hand, half-afraid he might lead her through a hole from which she’d return to her own time unless he held her tethered.

To his surprise, her cool hand closed tight around his.

“I hate these stairs,” she murmured, as if feeling the need to explain her sudden willingness to accept his touch.

He didn’t care why she didn’t pull away, only that she didn’t. Her hand in his felt small and delicate, yet surprisingly strong. Surprisingly right.

They climbed the stairs without incident and he led her into the passage at the next level. As soon as they were off the stair, she tugged her hand from his and he released her. He hung the lantern from a wall post and led her into the large lady’s chamber beside the one where he’d hidden her last eve.

“You don’t want to bring the light?” Julia asked.

“’Twouldn’t do for the guards upon the wall walks to see it. This tower is supposed to be closed until the marquess returns. The moon is already risen and nearly full and will provide adequate light.”

“This room is huge,” she breathed.

Though he’d been in this guest chamber several times already, on the pretense of blessing it, he looked around, trying to see the space through her eyes. Though it was now draped in colorless shadows, he knew it to be adorned with wealth and beauty, expensive red and green papers covering the walls, the high, curtained bed draped in the finest red satin.

How he would love to lay Julia Brodie on that bed and lift her skirts to her waist, parting her thighs . . .

Heat rushed through his body as the thought took on a life of its own inside his head. He could almost feel the silken skin of her inner thighs against his fingertips. Could almost hear the racing of her heart. Heaven knew he could feel the pounding of his own.

“This isn’t the room where you took me last night,” Julia murmured.

“No. You’ll forgive me for hitting ye, lass. I couldna let you draw attention to yerself until I had a chance to figure out who and what you were. And explain to you why you were here.”

She turned to him sharply. “You could have broken my jaw.”

“Perhaps. But you were far from the first I’ve sent into an unnatural sleep. I knew where to hit you and how hard. You were in little danger.”

Silhouetted as she was in moonlight, he watched her lift her hand to her jaw. “Easy for you to say.”

Talon tried to close the distance between them, but she backed up a step.

“Let me feel it, Julia. I would know how badly I injured you.” He would take any excuse he could find to touch her.

As if she understood that all too well, she replied, “I’m fine.” But she didn’t fight him when he slid his fingers along the line of her face, cupping her soft skin.

“Does it pain you, still?”

“No, not really. Only when I touch it.”

“Or I touch it”

She shrugged and stepped away from him again, then turned to roam the room.

“Dinna step into the moonlight, lass. The guards may see ye.”

Her low, determined voice floated back to him. “I need to figure out why I’m here. There has to be something I know, or something I can do, that would help you. Can you read?”

“Aye. Well enough.”

“So you don’t need me for that. What languages do you speak?”

“English, Gaelic, and French.”

“More than me. I have some French, but I’m not fluent And I know almost nothing about Scottish history.” She turned back to him, cocking her head. “I thought Scotsmen wore kilts or plaids or something, yet watching the courtyard all day, I never saw a one.”

“Highlanders wear the plaid.”

“And we’re not in the Highlands?”

“Nay. Castle Rayne is north of Edinburgh, but not in the Highlands.”

“Have you ever been to the Highlands?”

“I was born there. Only a Highlander would speak the Gaelic, eh?”

“Then why aren’t you wearing plaid?”

“I wear the robe of a chaplain. The ring dressed me much as it dressed you.”

“Seriously? Would plaid have given you away as an imposter?”

“I could have sought work in the clothes in which I travel, which is generally not the plaid. But that is not the way of the amethyst. I requested a reason to be in this castle, which the ring had already directed me to through a dream. The stone responded to my request by providing me with the robe and trappings of a visiting chaplain. I’ll know when I’ve completed my task here, for the robes will disappear and I’ll once more be standing in my travel clothes.”