Defending Destiny (The Warrior Chronicles) (7 page)

She kept his hand in hers as she cocked her head at him. “I’m Merry Peacock. Any chance you’re the metallurgist?”

When most people referred to his profession they called him a jewelry designer or a weapons maker. Both were true and accurate, as far as they went. No one ever referred to him by what he considered his magical calling, metallurgy. Magnus felt a bone-deep recognition of a fellow practitioner. The second he did, Merry Peacock dropped his hand.

“I am,” was all Magnus could think to reply.

Merry Peacock asked Daisy to sign the visitor’s book, and just like that, the magical hum in the air subsided. “I’ll be show’n you to the New Kilmartin House, then. The MacBain is wait’n for you.” Merry handed Daisy a key ring with three heavy skeleton keys on it. “Here you go, love. You’ll be need’n these.”

They headed across the street and up the lane before Magnus could shake the cobwebs from his head. Whatever had just happened, that split second of recognition was real.

Merry Peacock was much more than what she appeared to be.

…

Daisy was taken back by Magnus’ sudden silence. It was different from the silence of the car. That was filled with enough sexual tension, at least on her part, that it was practically alive. This silence was different. More contemplative, as if the synapses in his brain were rapidly firing, trying to figure out something vital. He’d always had the ability to go deep inside himself in search of answers or understanding, when the situation called for it.

Magnus was thoughtful in everything he did. That was why his cruelty burned as deeply as it did. He meant what he said the morning of their wedding. Every word of it burned its way onto her heart, cauterizing it into an organ that no longer bled.

The quiet threesome made their way to a large, three-story stone and block house that, aside from the modern windows, could have been built in the 1600s. “This is new Kilmartin House?” Daisy asked.

“Aye. It is,” came Merry’s reply.

“Is there an old Kilmartin House?”

“There is,” Merry said, sounding amused and so cheerful, Daisy smiled with her. Merry nodded toward the tree-covered hill behind the house. “It’s up there, but it’s all in ruins now. I’ll take you there later, if you’d like.”

“I’d like that very much. Lauren may want to do some filming there if the ruins have a story attached to them.”

“Oh, there’s a story to be had, that’s for certain. Whether the MacBain will like it or not, well, that’s another cup o’ tea all together.”

Daisy let that go. She had enough to focus on learning all she could about the ancient cairns, stone burial mounds in the glen that predated the pyramids. Dolmens, standing stones, and stone circles also peppered the countryside, making it one of the richest areas of Scotland to find ancient structures and spiritual places of the Celts.

Merry led the way up the stone steps to the massive wooden door. No wonder the key was so big—the lock was enormous. Merry motioned Daisy up to open the door. She got a chill when she walked through. A fleeting memory came with the chill, then the déjà vu feeling left as quickly as it came. The house
was
cool. Probably all that stone.

Being the last one in, Magnus shut the door as Merry called out a greeting. “Are ye’ decent, MacBain? You’ve company, laird.”

Her words bordered on rude, but Mary’s tone was filled with laughter, so it was hard to take offense. That wouldn’t stop Lauren from feeling offended. He was way too rigidly polite for the kind of easy familiarity Merry seemed to wrap everyone else she met in.

Lauren walked into the large foyer lit in rainbow colors. The sun shone through the vividly colored stained-glass panels of various Scottish clan badges and totem animals, along with other symbols Daisy wasn’t immediately familiar with. He looked as put together as always, refreshed even, although he couldn’t have been there very long.

Lauren was dressed casually in a starched, long-sleeve French blue dress shirt, tucked into perfectly pressed khaki pants with edges so clean they could cut paper, lightweight worsted wool navy blazer with four gold buttons at the cuff, and soft hand-sewn black Italian oxfords. His nod to casual was the two open buttons at his collar. Daisy hadn’t seen Lauren dressed this casual in years. That alone was surprising.

The look on his face was downright shocking. Lauren was smiling. Full-face smiling. He looked years younger and strikingly handsome—Brad Pitt handsome. Daisy looked from Lauren to Magnus, who’d dropped his duffle and was staring at Lauren as if he’d grown a third eye, and back to Lauren.

Yep. Still smiling. With eyes only for Merry Peacock.

Daisy took a step back, closer to Magnus. If lightning struck, she didn’t want to be too close to Lauren and Merry. Daisy reached down and took Magnus’ hand in hers, in case they had to make a run for it. He didn’t pull away. His fingers closed around hers, but his gaze never left Merry and Lauren.

Merry put one hand on a well-rounded hip and smiled up at Lauren. It was a saucy smile that oozed a Mae West kind of sex appeal. “Well if it isn’t the laird of the manor, Mr. Starched and Perpetually Pedantic himself. Good to see you again, your royal pain in the arseness.” She curtsied.

Daisy closed her eyes, waiting for fireworks that didn’t come. When she peeked through one eye, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Lauren had gone from smiling to full-fledged grinning; a bawdy grin at that. Daisy’s eyes widened and she squeezed Magnus’ hand. She knew Lauren had sex. She’d just always seen him handle his liaisons with the same coolness he showed when bidding at Christie’s and Sotheby’s for antiquities of historical significance, knowing that if he bid, it was a foregone conclusion he’d secure the prize. A business transaction. Nothing more.

This wasn’t business. Lauren was having…
fun.

Daisy watched open-mouthed as Lauren bowed formally in response. “The pleasure is all mine, my rumpled, flour-streaked lady of the crazy hair in dire need of a spanking.”

Merry laughed and Daisy had to bite her lip to keep from laughing with her. It was like a trainwreck happening before her eyes. Daisy didn’t want to see where this was leading, but there she stood, transfixed, holding her breath, waiting to see what her boss was going to do next.

Merry winked at him, pushed out her ample breasts, and cocked her hip, giving Lauren a fine look at her posterior. “I’d love to see you try. I’ll even return the favor, laird. If you’re lucky.”

Lauren’s expression turned downright wolfish. Daisy squeezed Magnus’ hand and backed toward the door slowly, hoping to exit without being noticed. She needn’t have bothered. She could have lit the place on fire and neither of them would have noticed. Daisy wanted to get gone before she saw more of them than she wanted to. She and Magnus made it out the door, but not before they heard Lauren’s statement of intent.

“My dear Ms. Peacock, I am always very, very lucky. In fact, I’m feeling lucky right now, madame.”

Daisy flew down the stairs, pulling Magnus with her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It’s good to be King.

Being King of a secret society that predated modern peerage by hundreds of years was far better than being recognized by th
at same peerage as the current Earl of Dreich. “Your majesty” resonated so much better than “your lordship” or “my lord, earl.”

Ah yes, being King was much better, the Arm-Righ of what was now called the Damselfly Society thought, as he settled into the hand-carved, high-backed chair that was an exact replica of the first known throne of the Scottish kings. It was too bad that the craftsman who made it had to die in a warehouse fire along with his files and prototypes. That was the cost of doing business with the King, and the cost of business was high. The moralistic, rule-driven members of the Council wouldn’t condone his need to wear the auspices of the crown in daily life. Daily life wasn’t secret after all, and they were sticklers for appearances.

And so was he.

The Bennett family had gotten away with murder. They continued to hide behind appearances using their philanthropy as a shield. The King, the Arm-Righ, had never been certain whether Taryn Campbell had killed her aunt, his mistress, Olive Campbell, or if Taryn’s husband, Jesse Bennett, had been the one to stick the needle into Olive’s neck. It didn’t matter. Jordon Bennett had made sure the murder was officially listed as death by natural causes. The Bennetts claimed self-defense to the Council. The Council agreed, thereby tying his hands as King. He could not avenge Olive’s death openly. The Bennetts had paid no price for their duplicity.

Now they would.

James Duncan, Earl of Dreich, Arm-Righ of the Damselfly Society, called in his secretary, a quiet, efficient man whose capacity for cruelty was surpassed only by his own. A man who also served as his Second at court. The only man he trusted with his own secrets, as much as he trusted anyone. “Kolin, come in please. Bring your n
otebook.”

The Arm-Righ couldn’t touch Taryn Campbell Bennett. She and her charm bracelet map held the key to finding many of the Celtic artifacts he wanted. She was too valuable alive to harm. Jordon Bennett wasn’t part of the Society, so he was fair game, but his celebrity made him a difficult target. Besides, he wanted Jordon to suffer. Killing him would only accomplish that momentarily. No, Jordon and the rest of the Bennett clan had to feel the wrath of the King. Those who thought themselves invincible needed to feel the pain of his power and reach.

Hurting that upstart MacBain, who’d allied himself with the Bennetts, would bring pleasure and would solidify his position as Arm-Righ. MacBain was his only real rival, and MacBain knew it. That made the man dangerous. He needed to be shown his place, and that place was firmly under the scepter of the King.

Hurting MacBain’s protégé, and Jordon Bennett’s only biological child, the baby of the Bennett clan, Daisy—well, that would accomplish much.

Kolin walked in, impeccably dressed with the haughty air of one so used to serving royalty that he considered himself royal by proxy, carrying his leather-bound notebook and sterling-silver fountain pen. The Arm-Righ smiled. Society business was conducted the old-fashioned way: no emails, no text messages, and no phone communication that wasn’t coded. Nothing could trace back to the King, Council, or Court business. That was even truer with the second set of books the King kept. Hence the notebook.

Sometimes old school was the only school.

Kolin took a seat opposite when James Duncan gestured for him to do so. Kolin opened his notebook, uncapped his pen, and waited for instruction.
Loyal minion.

“MacBain arrived in Kilmartin as planned. Daisy Bennett is there with her watchdog and a handful of civilians. I want her watched and tagged. I want eyes on her all the time, and ears in the house. You’ll have to be discreet. MacBain will be looking for surveillance and sweeping for bugs.” The Arm-Righ leaned forward in his seat. He reached for his jeweled scimitar letter opener, the blade of which was crafted from Damascus steel sharp enough to cut through silk. He didn’t unsheath it. He didn’t need to. His message was clear.

“Daisy Bennett needs to bleed, but not before I know what she knows of the Sword of Destiny or the Druid’s Scroll. I don’t care which. I need to know where her sister’s map is leading her and what she finds along the way.” The Arm-Righ stopped spinning his letter opener and focused his gaze directly on his Second. “Get it done, Kolin. Do not disappoint me.”

The King had spoken. His Second closed his notebook, capped his pen, and headed toward the door to do the Arm-Righ’s bidding. James Duncan sat back in his chair, certain of his place at the top of the world he ruled. The only world that mattered to him.

…

Kolin quietly shut the door to the Arm-Righ’s private office on his family estate, Dreich Manor. Kolin had run into Daisy Bennett before. She’d taken his prize, a leaf from an Illuminated manuscript thought to have been penned by Geoffrey of Monmouth
, out from under him. Kolin would do the old man’s bidding because he profited from the old man’s status.

He’d enjoy doing it because he longed to be the one to make the bitch bleed.

CHAPTER NINE

Seeing MacBain on the prowl was jarring. Having Daisy grab his hand like she used to, expecting him to follow wherever she led, was even worse. Magnus didn’t know whether to laugh or kiss her senseless. He did neither. He let Daisy take the lead, waiting to see just how much touching she was willing to do and how far she would go.

She led him to a statuary garden at the back of the house. The garden was no more than half an acre, and it offered no real hiding place for an attacker. Magnus smiled to himself, wondering when the tactical part of his brain became primary and the artistic part of him secondary.

The second you became aware of the Arm-Righ’s threats against Daisy, that’s when you kicked Magnus the Bad-Arse front and center.

Magnus acknowledged the truth of that as he skimmed the area taking note of every access point and the clearest way to escape, should that become necessary. Only then did he see that one of the former owners of the New Kilmartin House had a sense of humor. Every statue in the garden was engaging in some sort of sexual congress. You couldn’t sit and contemplate any of them without seeing the subtle yet inescapable fact that every expression was well and truly pleased.