Sword of the Raven (2 page)

Delaney covered him with blankets and a quilt, cushioned his head on one pillow and propped his feet on two more. The fact that he’d managed to bully himself up the bluff in such battered condition was a miracle. She looked at his haggard face. No, it was a testament to MacLachlan’s steely will. A chill shivered over her.

A warning lurked there somewhere.

He seemed to be resting comfortably, his breathing normal. She collected the first aid kit, a bowl of warm water, and a washcloth.

Delaney knelt and touched his head wound with the damp cloth, and the wracking, foggy vertigo clobbered her again. This time, ancient war cries magnified the sight of slashed tartans and hideous gaping wounds. Terrified women…children…running, screaming. She smelled blood and fear.

Death.

The fog evaporated, along with the horrible visions. She bolted to the bathroom and lost her lunch.

Trembling, she huddled on the cold tile floor. What was
wrong
with her? Unlike Mommy Dearest, she’d never done drugs. Drank only moderately. If stress was going to unhinge her, she’d have flipped her lid long before today. Raw breaths sawed in her throat. Oh, God, maybe she had a brain tumor. Brain tumors caused hallucinations, nausea, and phantom odors.

Delaney inhaled slowly. Exhaled.
Chill.
She shoved to her feet and rinsed out her mouth, then brushed her teeth. It was food poisoning, or a virus. She couldn’t afford to be out of commission. She was her brother’s last chance for rescue.

Delaney returned to kneel at MacLachlan’s side again. The spook-fest hit only when she touched him. And was it coincidence that she’d seen and heard
Scottish
weirdness? She studied his closed eyes and slightly parted lips. “If you’re pulling some kind of mind-freak on me, knock it off. Or I swear, I will get in my car and leave you to fend for yourself.”

Steeling herself, Delaney picked up the washcloth and cautiously dabbed his cut. Nothing happened. The tension eased from her shoulders. She cleaned and bandaged the wound, touching him as little as possible. Since none of his other scrapes were actively bleeding, she left well enough alone and kept him covered.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, watching Rowan MacLachlan. Even lost in unconsciousness, his face revealed strength of character. The man had a sex-god mouth…the bottom lip sensually full, the top lip chiseled into a fine arch. That luscious mouth could tempt angels into carnal sin.

And her past proved she wasn’t even casually acquainted with sainthood.

Delaney got up and stalked into the bedroom. She wasn’t in the market for a man. Especially not a hunk of prime Highland real estate. She changed into dry jeans and a lime green T-shirt, and then zipped on a turquoise hoodie, secreting the heavy Glock inside the front pocket.

If Connor found out she was packing his gun, he’d blow a gasket. Three years her senior, her brother had always looked out for her. Though just a kid himself when their dad had died, it was Connor who’d fed her when she was hungry, Connor who’d bandaged skinned knees and scared away bad dreams. He’d helped her solve math problems and conjugate verbs while their mother drifted through their childhood in depressed apathy.

Her brother had given up his life to save her.

And Delaney would give anything—everything—to save him.
Nobody
was going to hijack her mission.

Thunder rattled sturdy pine-paneled walls, and rain assaulted the roof and streamed down the windows as Delaney paced the living room, eyeing the still oblivious man on the hearth. She was stuck in a tiny cabin with a huge problem. But trouble had become her specialty.

Especially this past year.

She strode across the open space into the adjoining red-accented kitchen where her laptop sat on the scarred tabletop. Sliding into a chair, she booted up the computer. No cell service, but the local wireless connection worked. She couldn’t call 9-1-1, but could surf eBay.
Technology.
Go figure.

Her job had taught her how to access classified intel, and she was equipped with a photographic memory. “Time to cough it up, MacLachlan.” She used every resource, searched everywhere. And found nothing.

Delaney dug deeper, nationally and internationally.
Nada.

She had the time, the tools, and tenacity. And found zilch on Rowan MacLachlan. As if he didn’t exist.

Impossible.

Though she’d shielded her information, anyone with ‘Net savvy could dig up basic stats on her own obscure existence. Despite her vigilance, too much info and speculation was floating around about her and Connor’s “situation.”

And if the wrong person saw it… Her chest constricted as her hand again sought the comforting weapon. Exactly why she was packing Glock insurance.

Yanking her thoughts from
what-ifs,
she Googled Celtic knots. Many designs symbolized eternity, but she couldn’t find anything like her knotted charm with its four garnets. A search of Morrigan turned up myriad legends about a Celtic goddess of prophecy and war who could transform into a gigantic raven.

Delaney snapped her laptop shut. Well, that was helpful.

Restlessness drove her to the vintage stove. By the time MacLachlan stirred two hours later, beef stew simmered in a cast iron pot, and cornbread muffins and a marionberry cobbler wafted fragrant steam from the oven.

Rowan’s guttural groan sent her rushing to where he lay beside the fire. The vivid flush that stained his cheekbones made her stomach jump. That couldn’t be good. “Rowan? How do you feel?”

Wary diamond eyes glittered. “Like I could quaff the whole of Loch Fyne,” he croaked.

“I’ll get you some water.” Anxiety gnawing at her heels, she sprinted to the kitchen, filled a glass, and then hurried to kneel beside his head. “You look feverish.”

“‘Tis no wonder.” The strapping Scot propped himself on one elbow, the blanket sliding off rock-hard biceps to his tapered waist. “You’ve swaddled me like a wee bairn.”

Delaney kept her eyes locked on his as she handed him the tumbler. Well, as focused as possible with acres of hard, tanned pecs and a washboard eight-pack staring her in the face. “I didn’t want you to get hypothermic.”

His too-bright gaze cruised down her body, then slowly up again, spiking her temperature into the stratosphere. “Nary a chance of that, is there, now?” His hand wasn’t quite steady as he tipped the glass and gulped.

She did not watch his mouth greedily cup the rim, or the glittering trickle of water slide over his chin and trail down the strongly working column of his throat. Instead, she forced her attention to the crackling red-orange flames. He had a point. The cabin was plenty warm. “Who
are
you?
What
are you?”

“Odd question, Delaney Morgan.” The way her name rolled off his tongue in that low, melodic purr made goosebumps shiver over her skin. “Considering you’ve seen all my worldly goods.”

Not quite. Another mental podcast attacked her…of MacLachlan’s impressive bod sprawled face down in the sand. Not one of the new weird whirl and spew visions. More like frustrated fantasies. Yeah, she’d admit to having had a couple of those in the past few years.

Blatant assessment smoldered in his intent gaze and his sensual lips curved, as if he knew exactly where her thoughts had wandered. She snatched back the empty cup. Rowan MacLachlan should have “flammable” stamped on his hard-muscled ass. “I know it’s an oxymoron, but you are an exceptionally exasperating man.”

His attention wavered over her shoulder. “Delaney—”

“No more evasions. Look at me. I want answers, and I want them
now.”

“Right.” One brawny shoulder lifted. “But you may also want to know your kitchen’s on fire.”

“Oh, hell!” Delaney bolted across the room.
On fire
was an exaggeration, though not by much. She snatched the smoking pot off the burner, then dropped the pan into the sink and cranked on the cold water faucet. Choking, swearing, she flung aside red gingham curtains and shoved open the window to let in storm-drenched air. Peering into the oven, she flipped the dial to
off.
The stew was charcoal, but at least she’d salvaged the muffins and cobbler.

“You’ve quite an impressive vocabulary, lass. Are you burned?” Suddenly directly behind her, Rowan grasped her hand, and she yelped in surprise.

How had he moved so fast?
Pulse pounding, she turned and yanked her fingers from his grip, which was warmer than the overheated cookware. Her attempt was successful only because he willingly released her. “N-no.”

Mere seconds ago, he’d been flat on the floor, fevered and sick. Now he was too close, looking too dangerous, too capable—even wearing just a blanket slung low on angular hipbones. Delaney swallowed. Gun or not, this man could easily snap her neck. In a heartbeat. Surrendering, and hating herself for it, she retreated from the heat that radiated from his big body.

“Sure you’re all right?”

“Yep.” Sort of. Unless totally freaked-out counted.

His focused scrutiny didn’t waver. “While I was unconscious, did you ring the police?”

“I—” Lose/lose. If she said yes and he was avoiding the cops, he might get agitated. If she admitted she had no phone service, he’d know she was vulnerable, with no access to help. “They’re busy handling fallout from the storm.”

Was that disguised relief flickering in Rowan’s expression…or just a lightning flash through the windows? “We won’t bother them with a non-emergency just yet, then.”

“As soon as the weather eases up, I’ll call. So, about how you got here...”

“Sit down at the table.” Thunderclouds overhead rolled an eerie hypnotic echo to his deep brogue. Thick, suffocating power seemed to emanate from him, and an odd trick of the shifting light shaded his irises from gray to sea green. “Tell me about yourself.”

The fine hairs on Delaney’s body stood on end and she couldn’t breathe.
I don’t want to.
Denial jammed in her throat, she edged farther away.

“Delaney?” He offered his hand. “Don’t be afraid.”

Penetrating green eyes pierced clear to her soul, sent her staggering backward. She should not,
would not
touch him.

Rowan’s brows lowered. “Look into my eyes, Delaney.” Her temples throbbed with pain as his voice pulled at her will, compelled her to obey. Uncanny knowledge glinted in those endless jade pools. “Just take my hand. ‘Tis easy.”

Her back hit the sink. She couldn’t run any farther.

Both body and mind aching from the onslaught, she fought to force her gaze downward, to reject the intimate invasion. “No,” she finally managed to choke out, flinging her hands up as if to deflect a punch. “Stop it!”

The smothering power lifted. “Stop what?” Rowan’s even tone sounded as careful as if he were juggling live grenades. “Delaney? Are you all right?”

She risked a glance at his face. His puzzled eyes were a lovely shade of silver-gray. Oh, man. He probably thought she was Looney Tunes.

She swallowed again.
Reality check.
She normally kept her feet planted solidly on terra firma. Stress must be frying her brain cells. Or maybe she was PMSing. Sci-fi and fantasy were her brother’s thing, not hers.

Connor.
Like a lifeline, she clung to thoughts of her brother. She could almost hear his warning.
I taught you better, Lanie. Letting an opponent know you’re scared gives him the advantage. Get a handle on it.

“Nothing. I’m not—” She turned around, fumbled to shut off the cascading water. “You must be starving.”

“Aye. I’m a mite peckish.”

“The stew’s a goner, but there’s sturgeon in the freezer and a six-pack of Henry Weinhard’s in the fridge. I’ll whip up beer batter and fry fish and chips to go with the muffins.” She’d veered from mute to a raging case of runaway mouth.

“Sounds brilliant. But first, would you have a shower?”

She stopped on her way to the freezer for a startled moment before she processed his request.
Singular, not plural.
“Sure. Yeah, you
should
clean your other wounds. I’ll get you something of Connor’s to wear. He stashes extra clothes here. We both do.” Connor was a 6’2” former high school quarterback who’d kept in peak physical condition. Though Rowan was nearly three inches taller and twice as muscular, Connor’s jogging clothes should stretch enough.

“Connor?” Barely perceptible tension edged his tone.

“My brother.”

“Ah. Where would this brother be, and how is it that he lets you stay in such a harsh, remote area alone?”

“Bathroom’s the first door on the left.” Scowling, she gestured at Rowan to precede her down the hallway. She wasn’t about to turn her back on him a second time. Or tell him the truth. “Wait here, outside the bedroom.” She blustered past him—past the painful half of his question—as she stalked inside to open the bedroom closet. “Newsflash, Braveheart, this is the twenty-first century. We
wenches
do whatever we want.”

“What
do
you want, Delaney?”

That compelling power pressed against her again. The harder she resisted, the worse her head pounded.

She concentrated, gave the intrusion a hard mental shove.
Back off!

From the doorway, Rowan grunted.

She gritted her teeth.
Coincidence.
On top of the fever, he must have a mother of a headache. Probably why he was acting so…strange.

What was
her
excuse?

She pulled out black jogging pants and a faded yellow and green University of Oregon Ducks sweatshirt and hugged them to her chest. Just last fall, which seemed like an eternity ago, she’d tackled her brother during her traditional birthday picnic football game in the park with their friends. Connor had toppled into crisp autumn leaves, laughing while his best bud Zack had swept Delaney up, kissed her, and wisecracked about her ball-handling ability.

She buried her face in the worn fleece as scalding sorrow fought for release. Sometimes a photographic memory was a blessing…and other times a curse. Zack was nothing but a bad memory, and Connor seemed beyond her help.