Ruby - Book 1 (Daughters of the Dagger Series) (27 page)

"I'll allow no other kind among my army." .
. . .

She pulled a pouch from under her arm, and
poured what smelled like whisky into a wooden goblet she retrieved
off the shelf.

"Do me eyes deceive me or is that an animal
bladder that holds yer whisky?" asked Storm.

"The animal was dead when I found it," she
explained. "A poacher shot it before I managed to scare him away."
She turned abruptly toward Storm and marched directly for him.
Holding out the goblet, she offered him the drink.

Storm sat motionless for a minute, not sure
why she hadn't even acknowledged the fact he was sitting on the
chair untied, barefoot, and working on removing his shackles.

"Me many thanks," he carefully chose his
words, letting both his hands grab the goblet while he surveyed her
face. There was something strange about the whole situation. She
never really looked straight at him, and hardly ever blinked. Of
course, it was still a bit dark in there, and he could be mistaken,
but only a blind person could not notice what he had done.

"You asked for it, now drink it," she
commanded. Without waiting, she quickly turned away and walked over
to pet the owl which had fluttered silently to the table and was
now eyeing him suspiciously.

"Ye dinna haveta tell a Scotsman to drink."
He held the goblet to his lips and gulped it down greedily.

Wren half-turned her head waiting for a
cough or a gag from the potent hell-fire she had just served her
prisoner. She had used this trick many a times on guards before she
attacked the English camps. The potency of the liquor alone had
made many a drinking man fall into an unconscious state for several
days at a time.

"Blazin' fires o' hell!" cried Storm through
a raspy voice.

Wren smiled knowingly, expecting to hear at
any moment the goblet falling to the ground as he passed out.

"I havena tasted whisky like that in a long
time."

Wren's eyebrows dipped as she turned away
from the owl and curiously headed in Storm's direction.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Losh me!
What a grand
uisque
baugh.
Aye, this whisky is truly the water of life."

"Have another sip," Wren coaxed, guessing he
hadn't yet had enough to effect him.

"I canna."

"Why?"

"Becooz me cup is empty."

"Empty?" gasped Wren. "And you're still
conscious?"

"Me grandda used to make a
mountain
magic
that tasted jest like this," he exclaimed excitedly. "I
used to drink it since I were but a bairn, barely able to walk.
When me grandda disappeared, I was sure his secret brew died with
him. Tell me, where did ye get it?"

"Never mind that." Wren quickly made her way
toward the bladder of whisky lying on the table. "Maybe you should
have some more." She walked back to his chair and held it out for
him to take. When he neither answered nor grabbed for the bladder,
her arm lowered to her side and she cocked her head like a bird of
prey listening for its victim.

Suddenly, from behind her, Storm brought his
shackled wrists over her head, clasping her arms tightly to her
sides so she couldn't move. The bladder of whisky slipped from her
hand into the pine boughs at her feet.

"No wonder ye didna need a candle," he
whispered into her ear which sent a flaming shudder up her spine,
"for ye are blind arena ye?"

Wren turned her head slightly and felt his
hot breath on her cheek. The smell of whisky permeated his words,
intoxicating her to the warmth of the man's body that now pressed
against hers.

"What does it matter?" she asked softly,
knowing that once men found out she was blind, they usually avoided
her with the same caution of meeting with a leper.

"It doesna seem to slow ye down," he
observed, pulling his arms tighter around her.

"Release me," she commanded, "or I'll scream
for my army to come to my aid."

"I dinna think ye'll do that."

"How can you be so sure?"

Storm shimmied his body around her so they
were now facing each other. She felt an inner warmth, being pressed
against this savage's strong chest. A wave of raw excitement swept
her body, being held so close by a man who had such an unspoken
power about him he made her forget she was holding
him
captive.

Excerpt from
The Duke and the
Dryad
, Book 2, Elemental Series:

Wolfe charged through the forest on
horseback, a burning torch in his hand to guide his way. A dozen of
his men followed close behind, but they moved too slowly in the
darkness for his liking. He broke away and headed toward the stone
ring just at the clearing of the mighty oaks.

He knew this druid circle well, as ’twas the
place he used to sneak to as a child to watch the pagans,
especially during a full moon. This had also been the place where
his mother lost her life, thanks to him. He would never forgive
himself for telling his father the whereabouts of the druids. His
father hated the druids and their heathen ways, and now Wolfe hated
them as well.

He could see the white hooded robes of the
druids within the henge as he approached. The moonlight spilled
down upon them, lighting up the midst of the stone circle, giving
it an eerie, mysterious appearance. He didn’t like coming back
here, as it brought too many memories to the surface of which he’d
rather forget. He pushed forward, anxious to retrieve his bull and
head back to the castle. He wanted naught more than to be out of
this night air and far away from his past memories. As far away as
possible.

But when he rode closer and heard the
chanting and shouting from within, he knew he was too late. The
deed was done.

“Nay!” he cried, jumping from his horse,
torch in one hand and unsheathing his sword with the other. He
rushed into the outer stone circle only to stop dead in his tracks
by the horrific site that greeted him further within.

His prized bull was tied down with many
ropes and laid atop a huge flat stone. In the moonlight he could
see the carved adders encircling the outer rim of the sacrificial
altar. Two phallic-looking standing stones were on each side, a
carved spiraling snake with an egg in its mouth etched into each.
And then his eyes fell upon his rare, white bull. Blood-splattered
and not moving, his heart sank to see it was already slaughtered.
He was too late, and because of it, his animal was now dead.

“What the hell have you done?” he shouted,
fighting back the anger that was threatening to unleash itself on
these unarmed people. Flashes of memory ripped through his brain of
the night his own father sent out a raid on the druids, killing
every one of them that were present – including his own mother. Had
his father known his mother was hidden under a robe, he would have
called off the attack. And had Wolfe told his father his mother’s
secret, none of it would have happened this way. If only he hadn’t
been so stupid at the young age of eight to tell a man who hated
druids where to find them. And if only Wolfe had known about the
raid ahead of time, he could have stopped his mother from being
killed and also saved his father from taking his own life
afterwards when he realized what he had done.

The anger growing within him through the
years was now rising to the surface. He felt like killing every one
of the druids for the sins of those of the past, convincing his
mother to turn from her Christian ways. But he wasn’t one to strike
down those that were unarmed and helpless. That’s where he differed
from his late father.

He was used to dealing with warriors and
facing those who put up a fight. He knew he wouldn’t get a fight
from these pagans, and that only made it harder for him, as he
really wanted to strike out and make them pay for what they’d
done.

He could hear his men approaching from
behind. The circle of druid priests looked over to him, but his
eyes fastened on the odd girl standing over the bull with the
bloodied axe in her hand.

“This is a sacred circle,” called out the
man behind the girl whom he figured was in charge. “You and your
men are not allowed in here and neither are your weapons.”

His men dismounted and ran to join him.

“I find that amusing since you’ve just used
a weapon to slaughter my prized bull -which, by the way, you also
stolen from me.”

“We did not steal it,” said the man.
“Rae-Nyst brought it to us at our request.”

“Who is Rae-Nyst?” he asked.

“I am.” The girl with the axe stepped
forward, firelight from his torch lighting up her clear green eyes,
reminding him of the plants of the forest.

She was dressed not in plain white robes,
but rather a colorful long gown of green trimmed with pink. Long
scalloped sleeves hung well past her knuckles. Her hands were
covered with green fabric, her fingers emerging from underneath,
giving her the essence of royalty - perhaps even a queen.

Her hair was long and oaken in hue with the
front died some exotic pink by berries or roots he guessed. Her
head was crowned with mistletoe and ivy. Flowers of various colors
were interwoven throughout. And the oddest thing about the girl was
the painting on her skin. Pink and green flowers, berries, and
fauna, traveled up the left side of her face and arched over one
eye. And now that he looked at her closer, he realized he was
mistaken. For believe it or not, there was something even odder
about her yet. ’Twas her ears. He couldn’t see clearly in the dark,
and they were partially hidden beneath her headpiece, but he was
sure they were slightly pointed at the tips, giving her an
otherworldly appearance.

“You!” he ground out, feeling the anger
inside him growing with each drop of blood that dripped from the
axe in her hand onto the ground at her feet. He hated Druidism and
this did naught to quench the fires that burned within him. “You
stole my bull and killed it and now you will all pay. I should kill
each and every one of you in exchange for the death of my bull.”
His own words shocked him, and he felt his warrior father’s blood
pumping furiously through his veins.

He raised his sword and motioned for his men
to come closer. He moved forward into the inner circle, and
immediately the druids all knelt – but not in homage or fear of
him. Instead, their attention was on the odd girl they’d called
Rae-Nyst.

“Guardian of the forest and of all nature,
come to our aid and protect us from the blades of the soldiers,”
cried out the chief druid.

Wolfe was confused, as they seemed to be
talking to the odd girl, instead of one of their pagan gods.

Before he had a chance to tell his men to do
anything, the girl named Rae-Nyst dropped the hatchet and raised
her hands in the air. She closed her eyes and threw her head back
to let the full moon bathe her face.

Wolfe hesitated, mesmerized by her exotic
beauty. The moonlight illuminated her skin, her delicate features
taking on a sense of power and strength. He felt so awed by the
girl that he didn’t know what was happening until he heard the
shouts of his men and also felt something winding around his ankle.
He looked down to see vines of the forest creeping along the ground
and wrapping around each of his men, tightening and bringing them
to their knees. The vines moved upwards, wrapping around their
hands and bodies next, so they couldn’t move. He took his sword and
severed the vine, but two more sprung from the cut end instead.

“What is happening, Lord Wolfe?” shouted Sir
Braden, finding the same thing happening to him, though he was yet
to be immobilized by the vines.

“I don’t know,” he answered, baffled by the
whole situation. He had never seen anything like this in his
life.

“’Tis the girl,” shouted another of his men,
struggling on the ground as a vine wrapped around his neck. “She is
bewitched and commanding this to happen. She is using magick. She
means to kill us, the witch!”

“Nonsense,” he replied, not wanting to
believe any of this was real. But his men were falling fast, and
his sword was useless against these woody warriors. Then he looked
to his other hand, having an idea of something that may just stop
it after all. He took his torch and moved it toward the attacking
vine. The greenery almost seemed to back away from the fire. He
could have sworn he heard a scream as he touched the flame to it,
causing a small sizzling puff of smoke to waft up into the air.
Immediately, the earthen soldier pulled away, releasing him from
its grip.

“Use your torches,” he called out to his
men. “Use the fire to burn it.”

“Nay!” came the girl’s voice as she rushed
forward. “Do not harm the vines with fire.”

He turned abruptly, his torch coming near
her in the process. Her eyes opened wide and she backed away. She
was obviously afraid of fire, same as the vines at his legs.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Afraid of a
little fire, but not afraid of slaughtering a defenseless creature
with a blade?”

She held one hand up to block her face from
the flame. He could have been mistaken, but he thought he saw her
body tremble.

“Put out the torch,” she said in a shaky,
soft voice. “And don’t use it on the vines anymore, please.”

“You give me one reason to adhere to your
wishes after you just killed my best bull.”