Druid Surrender (A Druid Quest Novel Book 1) (2 page)

The hungry flames galvanized Wyatt into action. At his urging, Crusader surged forward without hesitation.

“Halt!”

The order was drowned under the villager’s cheer.

The fire shot through the kindling and leapt higher, greedily licking the ever-narrowing distance toward the woman.

“Holy hell.” Wyatt leaned over Crusader and urged the beast to even greater speed.

He surged into the crowd at a fast clip. Several grumbled when jostled by the horse’s bulk, while others scattered rather than risk being trampled. Confident Aaron would cover his back if the crowd turned ugly, Wyatt never allowed his attention to waver from the woman behind the growing wall of flames.

The girl remained motionless, her eyes squeezed tight against the heat and smoke. Fire ate its way toward her feet, flirting with the edges of her skirts.

Time stilled.

Voices became muted by the roar of the blaze.

He refused to believe he was too late.

A violent cough racked her petite form, lifting the near-suffocating pressure from his chest.

She was alive, but he had to act immediately if he wanted to keep her that way.

Wind gusted, shooting the flames higher against the night sky. A yard from the inferno, Wyatt reined in Crusader and jumped to the ground before the animal even halted. The impact jarred his knees, but he refused to slow down when seconds could mean the difference between life and death.

The two men who’d tossed the torches blocked his way. Wyatt narrowed his eyes and assessed the danger. Their wide stances threatened mayhem should he interfere. Their shoulders were lined with muscles from years working the fields, but they lacked the focus of a true fighter.

“Step aside.” He tried to muscle his way forward, but the two men shoved back, doing their best to throw him on his backside. The urge to bash in their skulls rippled through him, and only his grim determination to rescue the woman kept him focused on his task.

Behind him, a disembodied voice rose from the crowd. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

England had stopped burning witches in the seventeenth century, but being near the Scottish borders kept the superstitions alive and well. Wyatt couldn’t imagine what these idiots were thinking. “Holy hell, you’re daft! There is no such thing as witches. You’re about to kill an innocent woman.”

Not giving anyone a chance to react, he tossed two punches, his rage giving him the extra strength needed to knock both men out cold. He relished the sting on his knuckles, the way his blood raced. Aaron restrained the third man, then lifted his revolver and sent a shot in the air, effectively clearing the rest of the way.

Wyatt groped behind him, grabbed the collar of his overcoat and yanked it over his head before jumping through the flames. A flash of heat seared his skin as he staggered over the shifting kindling, sending sparks swirling through the air to bite at his flesh. As if sensing his intent to steal her away, the fierce howl of the fire became deafening, the flames dancing angrily at being deprived.

Sooty air scorched his lungs, and he yanked on his cravat, tucking his mouth and nose in the loosened folds. With his eyes glazed over with tears from the heat, the girl’s form appeared like a shadow in the thick smoke. Wyatt stumbled toward the back of the stake, reaching for the silent woman, gritting his teeth when the flames singed his exposed hands. He kicked away the smoldering twigs and branches that threatened to consume them both.

Racked by coughs, Wyatt strove to take small, shallow breaths to combat the suffocating air. He fumbled with the hot twine, the heat having melted the strands. At his hard jerk, they finally gave way.

He caught the female close when she sagged, forcing her upright, then shrugged out of his jacket and covered her as best he could. Blistering heat baked his skin until it felt stretched taut. He couldn’t imagine how she was managing to survive the prolonged exposure. He scooped her into his arms and dashed back through the ring of flames.

The rank, charred odor of singed hair clogged his nose and tickled the back of his throat. Gasping for air, he inhaled a mouthful of smoke and cursed hoarsely when it seared his lungs.

The crowd watched him struggle in silence, the horror etched on their faces revealing that they had finally recognized him. Or maybe they understood the full extent of the crime they’d been about to commit. Wyatt focused on the still form in his arms, only relaxing when he felt her chest rise and fall rhythmically.

“What has she done that you would condemn her?” His shoulders heaved as he greedily gulped lungfuls of fresh air and waited for someone to answer him. Sweat dripped from his face, the heat unbearable even with the cool air swirling around them.

Most refused to look him in the eye. Several others spoke at once. “She’s been murdering people in the factory.”

He stiffened in protest against their charges. The small woman in his arms was not much taller than a child and as threatening as one. “How?”

Their grumbles died away, snatches of their conversation trailing off.

No one dared speak.

“Answer me!” He thundered and pointed to the man in front, one who still held a lit torch.

“Someone has been sabotaging the mill, causing accidents. People stopped showing up for work. I found her snooping around where she shouldn’t be. She’s been causing trouble. She’s cast a curse over the place.”

Understanding dawned, creeping across his consciousness with fatalistic horror. His jaw was clenched so hard, he barely managed to utter the words. “You mean she was trying to find the cause of the accidents, risking her life to help you, and you’ve condemned her.”

There must be another reason.

Wyatt shifted, and the girl nestled closer, as if sensing safety in his arms. A painful tightness filled his chest, and the protectiveness burning through him deepened.

The villagers were terrified, using the mysterious deaths as an excuse to justify their actions. Otherwise, the truth was too barbaric to believe.

An old woman shouted from the back, her voice rising over the crowd, commanding attention. “Everyone was fine until she arrived. She’s a witch. In my grandfather’s time, there was only one way to kill a witch. Burning.”

“Who are you?” Wyatt took a step forward to demand answers, but halted, stopped by the weight of the woman in his arms, unwilling to risk her safety further.

A man in the front responded first, his voice defensive. “Giselle’s the matron in charge of the women working at the factory. If we had listened to her, the others would still be alive.”

“You are on my land,” he informed them with a roar. “Reports of the accidents have been escalating over the past few months. The last report indicated mechanical failure. She’s innocent…unless you believe that she knows enough about machinery to sabotage them without blowing herself up in the process.”

Wyatt turned to the matron, his hold tightening around the girl as if the old crone would snatch her away. “She was investigating the accidents, something that you and the manager should have been doing, and you reacted out of petty jealousy and fear that she might take your job.”

Giselle’s chin snapped up in defiance, but something flickered in her eyes, and Wyatt knew he hit upon the truth. He glared at the woman, unable to control his outrage. “You targeted her because she was a stranger, the only one brave enough to try and find answers. What did you think would happen when the accidents continued after you murdered her? Would you start to turn on each other?”

This time no one met his gaze.

Wyatt strode through the chastised crowd toward his horse. The peaceful homecoming he expected…needed after so long…lay shattered around him. His ugly mood darkened when he reached his horse. He looked from the bundle in his arms, then to the horse, his frustration building to explosive.

“Aaron—”

“Ready when you are.” Aaron stood with his arms outstretched, ready to take the unconscious woman.

Wyatt tightened his hold, reluctant to release her, not convinced that they wouldn’t attack her again without his protection. The best way to protect her was to leave. Tightening his lips, he made the transfer quickly, and mounted in one smooth motion.

Controlling the horse with his legs, he bent and quickly reclaimed the young woman, relaxing only when he held her in his arms again, heard the small catch of her breath against his shoulder. Though she might be the size of a child, the weight of her soft curves would never allow him to mistake her for anything but pure woman.

Wyatt pinned the villagers under his furious gaze, and they froze like misbehaving children. “I’ll deal with you later. If she dies because of this night’s events, every one of you will be tried for murder.”

No one spoke as he wheeled Crusader around and departed.

They rode only a few yards when the heavens opened, dousing them with freezing rain. Despite the trees blocking a portion of the rainfall, water seeped through Wyatt’s linen shirt in a matter of seconds, the chill stinging his skin after such heat.

“Balls.” The clouds thickened, and thunder rumbled in the distance, the rain making the path treacherous. He hunched over the silent woman, angling his shoulders to keep her as dry as possible.

Wyatt slowed his horse and shouted to be heard over the ferocious storm. “We need to get out of the weather. Head toward the lodge. We’ll never reach the house before catching our death.” Wyatt left the path without waiting for a reply, the woman tucked securely in his arms.

T
he low hum
of male voices roused Brighid from the all-too-frequent nightmare that haunted her dreams…seeing her mother trapped and burned to death. When she opened her eyes, she realized it was no dream and sucked in a startled breath.

Then coughed as her raw throat protested the action, a loud hacking sound that echoed in the empty room before she could muffle it. She struggled upright, and the thick comforter fell to her waist while she fought for air.

She fumbled for the glass of water on the nightstand, gulping the cool liquid, grateful for the soothing effects on her tender throat. With the back of her hand, she wiped away the drops spilled on her chin and glanced around the room.

Empty.

The perfect time to depart.

Since she wasn’t dead or trussed up like a goose, someone had worked up the courage to come to her rescue. But rescuer or no, it was well past time for her to leave the home she’d built for herself. The commotion was bound to bring unwanted attention to this small town.

Attention she could ill afford if the men hunting her caught wind of it.

She endangered everyone if she remained, and she refused to repay her saviors by getting them killed.

She threw the blanket aside with an impatient flick of her wrist. The damp, clinging clothes sent a shiver down her spine. The rain she needed had arrived late, but better late than never. She couldn’t have been inside long, yet warmth from the fireplace eased the chill that raced over her skin. She shuddered at the near miss, eyeing the flames with morbid fascination.

She touched a finger to her aching head and winced at the persistent throb. An assortment of bruises and lacerations marred her wrists, but those, along with a few minor burns, were all that remained of her close brush with death. Brighid vaguely remembered two men had broken her concentration at a crucial moment, threatening to scatter the storm before it released the torrent she needed to douse the fire. The wind had died down a fraction, allowing smoke to steal into her lungs. The last thing she remembered was a man’s shape charging through the fire.

Brighid fingered a hole where a spark singed her skirts, and thanked the goddess she was still alive. She’d been lucky. But for how much longer?

Even now, they could be gathering for another attack.

She was alone.

Vulnerable.

She jerked her head up, trying to scent danger. No matter how hard she listened, she couldn’t hear any angry shouts from the villagers. Her heart took its own sweet time to resume its normal pace, as if it wasn’t convinced either. A glance about the room revealed no clues as to who had rescued her.

The room was well kept with a minimum furniture. The walls, devoid of pictures, appeared freshly painted. No sign of the owner or what they intended to do with her. The drawer in the nightstand revealed nothing.

No weapons.

The room had no damn windows in which to to escape.

Before she could explore further, male laughter drew her attention. Brighid stiffened, but when no one barged into the room, she dragged herself out of the bed to investigate. Then cursed the way her muscles trembled as she staggered toward the door.

Weakness was not something she could afford.

Weakness and compassion would ultimately kill her. No matter how many times she told herself that, she always failed to remember.

And look where her misplaced compassion had led tonight.

She leaned heavily against the doorjamb until she was sure her legs would keep her upright, and rejected the idea of searching the rest of the upstairs for weapons. If she could hear the men, they would be able to detect her movements as well. She needed to learn their intentions before they discovered she was awake.

Trying to be stealthy when she was ready to pitch forward flat on her face was laughable. It took her twice as long as it should have to locate the voices downstairs. The stairwell lay in darkness, the steps invisible in the gloom. A glow at the bottom shouldn’t have been inviting, but she wished for an opportunity to rest without being afraid someone would drag her back into the world that wanted her dead.

With deliberate care where she placed her feet, she inched down the stairs. Wood creaked, low and agonizingly loud, and she froze, one leg suspended while she waited for them to investigate.

Seconds passed and…nothing.

When the men continued their conversation without pause, she allowed herself to breathe again. Two distinct male voices rumbled in the distance. One voice was clipped, while the other was lower, rougher, like water over rocks. It called to something primitive in her. The need to be closer clutched in her gut, and she found herself shuffling forward to get a peek at his face.

“Can you believe they thought her a witch?” Laughter followed the statement.

Brighid peered around the corner. Two men sat with drinks in their hands, both had removed their jackets, setting them to dry by the flames, but only one man drew her attention.

Her rescuer.

His light brown hair still glistened from the rain, a smudge of soot on his face the only remaining evidence he’d risked his life to save her. Her stomach lurched at the thought of him holding her while she’d been unconscious. She should have been horrified, but her body still tingled from his embrace, almost like she missed having his protective arms around her.

He leaned back, his chair tipped on its hind legs, his laugh rusty, as if he’d forgotten how. Balanced on his chest was a glass of dark port, his hand wrapped around the tumbler. His shirt was damp and molded to his chest, tempting her gaze to linger, and the flickering firelight played across his bronzed skin. His strong jaw and sculpted mouth invited her to linger and fantasize about the impossible.

She told herself to stop gawking, her instincts screaming that any entanglement with this man would be dangerous. The last thing she needed was for this too-handsome man to take notice of her, not when she needed to focus on survival.

The cottage was two complete levels, larger than any in the village. The place held very little furniture, but each piece was exquisitely crafted with an intricate scrolled design. Though the room showed no signs of a woman’s touch, there was not a speck of dust on any surface.

She bit her lip at the sumptuous environment, trepidation sinking its cold fangs into her. The rich tended to have more resources. A villager would run her out of town, while someone with money could pursue her until they got what they wanted. She ignored the spurt of panic, ignoring the way her pulse raced. She needed to remain level-headed and evaluate the situation instead of react mindlessly.

First rule, always note the exits.

Only one.

She swallowed hard at the prospect of sneaking past the men without being noticed.

She needed a weapon.

Nothing obvious jumped out at her. She scanned the walls, her eyes passing over a scenic painting, when her head snapped back and her mouth parted in shock to see the forest decorated with nude wood nymphs.

She peered closer at the voluptuous image when the deep, husky sound of
his
voice drew her attention.

“She’s not dressed like the other factory workers. The fabric of her dress is too fine, something available from only the best modistes. With that fiery hair, green eyes, and a body like hers, I imagine she would be able to enchant many a man, but she’s no witch.” The sensual quality of his voice sent heat racing along her skin, and a yearning to be normal, worthy of being courted by a man like him, took her by surprise.

Then the implications of his words struck her.

She was not a harlot!

Humiliation stung her cheeks. She was a fool. Of course someone like her wouldn’t be worthy enough to court. Her anger seeped into the air, and her powers surged forward like an unstoppable tide.

Frantic to curb the impulse, Brighid concentrated on the power, and viciously yanked it back. For her effort, the power scorched her insides in retaliation before finally settling back to sleep under her skin.

Though she managed to suppress most of it, Brighid wasn’t reassured in the least. Every time her power escaped, something always went horribly wrong.

She held her breath as she waited to see what new catastrophe would manifest.

Nothing happened.

A sigh of relief escaped, and she leaned weakly against the wall, pleased that months of practice were finally paying off.

Then tiny cracks spidered across the surface of the glass in her rescuer’s grip. A sharp crack filled the room and the glass exploded, sending red port spraying across the room. The liquor soaked into the fine linen of his shirt like blood from a wound, and she flinched at the clear premonition of what would happen if she dared stay.

“Balls.”

The man lurched forward and shards of glass scattered across the floor. The chair teetered, and he threw his arms wide to catch his balance. She held her breath as the chair wobbled precariously. Seconds of calm passed during which everything appeared fine. Then, in slow motion, the chair toppled backward and sent the man crashing to the floor.

He landed with a grunt and rolled.

And ended up sprawled a foot from her hiding place.

Brighid gasped in dismay and shrank back into the shadows. When the other man laughed, she allowed herself to relax.

She was safe.

Then her rescuer glanced up.

Warm gray-green eyes pierced her soul.

She found herself falling, getting lost in them, and her stomach gave a queer lurch at the thought of having this strong man at her feet. A lazy smile stole across his lips while his gaze roved over her from head to toe, and a wave of apprehension tingled along her scalp. Her body felt on fire where his eyes lingered, and she instinctively scooted farther back into the darkness, wishing it would swallow her whole.

Why hadn’t she simply waited for them to fall asleep? Then she could have disappeared without anyone being the wiser.

Now she was well and truly caught.

She replayed the last few minutes in her head. When no trace of the accident could be tracked back to her, the tension in her gut unknotted.

She peered at the other man and saw him standing, his face open, his eyes guarded. Brighid straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin—Druids didn’t show fear, they instilled it.

“Hello.” The man at her feet spoke, his blatant appreciation leaving her both giddy and wary. His engaging smile caused a wild flutter in her chest, and she smoothed down her skirts, feeling warmth fill her cheeks.

Heat tingled along her skin, usually a warning sign of danger.

Reminding her he was too handsome for the likes of her. His appreciation was for one thing…bedding her. The little burst of pleasure turned bitter in her mouth, and she couldn’t respond to the simple courtesy beyond a small nod.

“I’m Wyatt. Who are you? Where’s your family?” He stayed on the floor, his head propped on his hand as if he had all the time in the world. His sloppy drunken grin made her wince.

Men were often unpredictable when inebriated, much to her detriment. Not wanting to invite trouble, she kept her voice brisk. “Brighid Legend and none of your business.”

The silence thickened, and he pursed his lips, then tipped his head toward his friend. “Aaron, I think I am in love. A beautiful woman of few words.” He shook his head but never took his eyes off her. “Will you marry me?”

For one wild moment Brighid was tempted to say yes. She’d be safe. It would serve him right if she accepted. She almost smiled as she imagined his reaction.

But she couldn’t for one simple reason.

It was a trick played on naïve women…promise a girl marriage, bed her, then disappear before being forced to the altar.

“Thank you, no.” She curled her toes and looked toward the door, wishing she could close the distance. Unfortunately, his body blocked the way. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I must leave.”

She inched toward the only exit when his arm shot out. Long fingers encased her ankle in a gentle but unbreakable hold, his touch electrifying. Gooseflesh prickled along her leg. After months of having almost no physical contact, the light touch scattered her thoughts.

“Some cultures believe once you save a person’s life, you own that life.”

Brighid’s jaw dropped that he would even suggest such a thing, unable to imagine the extent of the havoc that would create. “Then I am grateful I was raised in a different culture.”

However, he didn’t seem to hear. Instead, he was staring at her bare toes, his thumb tracing over the tattoos on her feet and ankle in a lazy caress. A shiver of warmth raked over her, the visceral reaction unnerving.

No.

Nonono.

Just no.

She wouldn’t allow herself to feel.

To want something.

She immediately stepped back, but instead of releasing her, his grip tightened, and she flailed to remain upright.

The instinctual urge to run burned through her, but his half-hooded eyes warned that if she tried, he’d hunt her down. The runes carved along her feet like ribbons deepened in color to a dark cerulean blue as the wards of protection flared at the threat. The bindings throbbed with heat in time with her heartbeat as she struggled to keep her powers from surging into the room in search of mischief. Whenever her emotions became entangled, her magic did its best to escape her control.

Pain stole her breath as the bindings continued to tighten. The wards were to protect her, stop others from learning of her gifts…unless they killed her in the process. To her relief, the vise around her began to loosen.

She studied the room suspiciously, waiting for disaster to strike.

As if her thoughts had conjured it, fire leaped from the grate to lick at the mantel. She could all but see the wind feed the flames, urging them to jump higher, burn brighter. It spurred both men into action. Aaron grabbed for a bucket of water while Wyatt launched to his feet, jerking the rug away from the hearth.

Both reacted so swiftly she realized they’d only pretended to be intoxicated, and that frightened her more. With the men occupied, Brighid ignored the sensitive lines of her tattoos and slipped out the door.