Warrior Untamed (2 page)

“The whole of the castle?” she asked, a trace of a smile lighting her eyes. “Would that include you as well, big man?”

He snorted to cover his surprise. “I’m not
in
the castle, now, am I, little one?” It was answer enough and all that she would get from him.

Any sign of her smile retreated behind the hard mask of a warrior. “Perhaps you’d like to explain to me why the MacDowylt still lives. Why did you allow him to escape, when you assured me that if I went quietly with the Tinklers and left it all to you, you yerself would deal with the man.”

As if she thought her staying behind wouldn’t have made everything twice as difficult as it had been. His work in seeing to the safety of Chase Noble had been fully cut out for him. Still, she deserved an explanation for what was clearly his failure.

“The Beast now possesses what was Torquil
MacDowylt. You must have recognized that much for yourself. The Beast can only be killed using the Sword of the Ancients, which has gone missing.”

For a moment her mask slipped, and one hand fluttered up to cling to her throat.

“Would that be the sword I saw in Torquil’s tower?”

“One and the same.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “If it’s gone missing, I’d lay wager it’s that damned greedy Hugo MacFalny what has it. He and his brother Mathew snuck off on our first night away from Tordenet. Once we discovered them gone, the Tinklers thought it best we seek protection for a few days at a place they called Rowan Cottage. Just in case the thieving minstrel should try to lead the MacDowylt laird back to us.”

So that was where they’d been. Holed up with Orabilis. He’d assumed the old woman was nothing more dangerous than a witch, but she was obviously much more powerful than that if the Tinklers sought shelter under her roof.

“You’d lose that wager,” he said at last, remembering the minstrel’s fate all too well. “Hugo had a rather messy run-in with the Beast. His thieving days are a thing of the past now.”

A shiver shook Bridget’s body, a sure sign that she understood the implication of his words.

“And the brother?” she asked quietly. “Mathew’s but a boy.”

“No sign of him. So, as he’s our most likely candidate
to have disappeared with the treasures, it’s him I’m off to find now.”

And he hoped he could find the lad before the Beast did. For Mathew’s sake as well as for theirs.

Bridget nodded her agreement, lifting an arm to him. “That’s a wise plan. Help me up. I’m coming with you.”

Like hell she was. The task ahead of him was daunting enough without his having to watch over a woman. Especially a woman who thought she could take care of herself. They were the most dangerous kind of all.

“You’ll do no such thing. You’ll continue on with the Tinklers to Castle MacGahan. I’m sending Eric along with you to make sure of that.”

Her hands fisted once again on her hips. “You canna think I’ll sit back and let you do this on yer own, big man. You failed me the last time. I’ll no be shuffled off to safety again.”

“You will, and that’s the end of it. And don’t even think,” he cautioned as she started to protest, “to give Eric any trouble. The poor man has a new bride waiting at home for him, and he wants nothing more than to get back to her. Now go on with you, and do as you’re told.”

“Do as I’m . . .” She sputtered to a stop, her eyes wide with indignation. “You must listen to me. There are things I can tell you—”

“Enough!” Hall interrupted. “I’ve listened all I care to. My mind will not be changed.”

He turned his horse and headed off at a canter, anxious to get on with his quest. Anxious to put distance between himself and the angry woman behind him.

“You canna leave without me!” she yelled after him. “I willna be treated like some delicate flower!”

What possessed him then, he had no idea. But he drew up on his reins and turned his mount back toward her. The satisfied smile on her face when he reached her side this time was everything he’d expected when he first arrived.

She lifted an arm up to him but he pushed it aside to lean down and wrap his hand in the silky length of her braid. In a single move, he pulled her close and fastened his lips over hers.

Coming to his senses, he broke the kiss and pulled away. Bridget stood, full lips parted, eyes closed, her face tilted up to him as if captured by some magic spell.

Magic he quickly dispelled. “Just this one time, Bridget MacCulloch, try to do as you’re told without a blighted argument. And, for the record, there’s little chance of your being mistaken for a delicate anything.”

Her angry screech reverberated in his ears as he rode away.

“I’ll no forget this, Halldor O’Donar!” Bridget called. “I’ll no be forgetting you, you great bristly-faced ogre!”

With the feel of her burning on his lips, it wasn’t likely he’d be forgetting her anytime soon, either.

T
HE NERVE OF
that man! The unmitigated gall! To leave her behind as if she were some . . . pathetic weakling woman. And to kiss her like that! Like he had the right to do it! How
dare
he?

Brie’s whole body trembled with anger.

That he’d saved her life back at Tordenet was all that kept her from wishing a pox to fall upon his head. Lucky for him her bow lay in its corner at Castle MacGahan, or she’d be tempted to . . .

Brie took a deep breath and blew it out with great deliberation, forcing her clenched fists open. How many times had her father counseled her on controlling her wild temper?

Losing herself to fury wouldn’t accomplish anything. There was nothing she could do right now. She had no horse and she had no weapon. But things would not always be this way.

“So be it,” she ground out, turning to find all her traveling companions staring in her direction. “So be it,” she repeated, this time on a huff of breath meant to calm her as she mentally wrestled the red haze of anger flooding her mind into a small, manageable ball.

If only Hall had listened to her, she could have helped him in his quest. What she knew of Mathew MacFalny and Eleyne, the cousin he’d left behind
with the Tinklers, might have saved him days in his search.

But no, he’d left her behind with a stinging insult ringing in her ears.

If only he hadn’t kissed her. If only he hadn’t made it feel so—she touched a finger to her lips—so
enjoyable.

Next to her, Eric cleared his throat. “The sooner yer back in the wagon, the sooner we can be on our way.” His horse pawed at the ground as he spoke, as if the animal could feel the emotions roiling within her.

The animal was obviously smarter than his rider, since the annoying man could barely hide his grin.

Bridget locked her jaw to keep from swearing aloud and strode back to the wagon to climb inside.

Patience,
her father had always counseled. She wished to the Seven that she possessed even some small measure of that elusive virtue, but it just wasn’t a part of who she was. Determination was what kept her going.

For now, her path was to return to Castle MacGahan. Perhaps her brother would be there by the time she arrived.

Things would be different when Jamesy came home. Together, they could set out to track the sword themselves. They would find it, and they would put an end to both Torquil MacDowylt and whatever creature lived inside him. Revenge for her father’s murder would be hers.

And as for Halldor O’Donar?

Turning to look over her shoulder, she cast one last glare in his direction. As she’d promised, she wouldn’t forget this latest slight, his sending her away for a second time as if she were some fragile maid in need of his protection.

By the Seven, he was the most arrogant creature she’d ever met. But she’d show him. She’d track him and find him, and when she did, she’d give him a piece of her mind.

“What’s got that silly smile upon yer face?” Eleyne asked, her fingers twitching at the blanket covering her lap.

“I’m no smiling,” Brie denied, carefully wiping all expression from her face.

And even if she had been, it was only the thought of getting even with O’Donar that made her smile. Certainly not the prospect of meeting up with him again.

F
INGERS SPLAYED, THE
hand reached out to cover the meat in front of him. With little effort, the fingers closed around the morsel and efficiently brought it to his mouth.

This body, this vessel that had become Fenrir’s new abode, was becoming his now, responding to his thoughts as if he had been born in this form.

A pity this casing was so weak and vulnerable.

Fenrir bit into the hot mutton and shivered, longing for the banquet tables of old in his home world. He longed for raw meat that dripped warm blood, fresh from the kill, rather than this pale, tasteless cooked fare that these creatures insisted on consuming.

Those days, like his original form, were long gone. But if he had his way, they wouldn’t be gone forever.

He was Torquil MacDowylt now. Laird of the MacDowylts of the North. And in this guise, he would soon rule all he set his sights upon. Nothing in this world could stop him.

At least, not once he regained possession of those treasures that were rightfully his.

What little appetite he had for the tasteless swill in front of him disappeared completely at the thought of his missing treasures, and he tossed the overcooked meat back onto the table.

With the scrolls gone, it was as if a large chunk of him were gone as well. The most powerful of his ancient spells had been locked inside those pages when Odin had bidden the Elves of Niflheim to imprison him. And now, finally, after more time than he could gauge had passed, now that he once again had hands to hold those scrolls, they were gone!

The scrolls and the jewels that were the keys to unlocking his Magic from its prison. The scrolls and the jewels that were the means to imprison him again. Gone. Taken by some pathetic, putrid little human.

And the sword!

He forced himself to breathe, drawing air into the pitifully small lungs this body afforded him.

The Sword of the Ancients could not remain adrift. Steel forged in the fires of Asgard, honed on the bones of the warriors filling Valhalla, this was a weapon he must possess. This was a weapon, the only weapon, he feared. It alone had the power to steal his freedom. The power to end his life.

Not just the life of this pathetic body he inhabited, but his, Fenrir’s, very existence. It had been created for that purpose.

The legs of his chair scraped loudly across the
stone floor as he pushed away from the table to stand, fury beating in his chest. Around him, the insignificant mortals who assumed he was their laird stilled, turning their frightened faces in his direction.

They should be frightened. Though they knew it not, their lives were no longer their own. Their laird had been a formidable tyrant, but at his worst, he was a frail maiden compared to Fenrir in full ferocity.

Without a word, he strode from the great hall and up to his bedchamber. Once there, he sat upon his large bed and removed his shirt, dropping it next to him.

He had sent a party of men in search of his treasures days ago, and he needed to see what progress they’d made. He needed to see if he could yet break through the mental barriers of the one who had stolen what belonged to him. Once he accomplished that step, it would be easy enough to direct his warriors to the exact location of the wretched thief and reclaim his rightful belongings.

He rubbed his hand over the smooth skin of his new body, still somehow surprised at the lack of fur. He glanced down as his fingers encountered a twinge of pain where five oozing, festering marks circled his heart. He didn’t know what Torquil had done to damage their body in this fashion before he’d taken control of it, but he’d been unable to heal this unusual wound, no matter what he’d tried.

It was a mystery he would have to deal with at a later time.

He lay back and nestled his head into the pillow beneath him. Eyes closed, he retreated into his mind, ignoring the piteous cries coming from behind the black door deep within the hidden recesses there. Plead as he might, what was left of Torquil MacDowylt’s soul would remain in that place until Fenrir no longer needed this form.

Calming his thoughts, Fenrir set them free, flying through the world of the between in search of the sparkly bits of stone he sought.

Only when he found them did he slow, taking care to avoid their siren pull upon him. As long as the thief kept them all together, he had no chance. But once they were separated, their power was his.

He was in luck. Carefully, slowly, he fit his essence inside the one jewel that had been separated from the others. Beyond the red shimmer of the ruby’s walls, he could just make out the shadowy, wavering form a man.

“There you are,” he growled, pushing his voice beyond the stone, into the cold night air. “Did you think to escape me so easily?”

The young man yelped in fright, whatever he’d held clattering to the ground at his feet.

The thief was little more than a terror-stricken boy? He couldn’t have asked for better luck. Since his power rode the wings of terror, this was going to be much, much easier than he had expected.

M
ATHEW
M
AC
F
ALNY STEPPED
out of the small house and into a narrow, dirty alley deep in the bowels of Inverness. He didn’t have to count the paltry sum of coins in his sporran again to know he’d been cheated.

The old merchant’s eyes had lit with greed when Mathew showed him the jewel. He’d closed down his stall and brought Mathew here, to his home, where they could conduct their business in private.

Hugo had often said he trusted no one. Though his brother had been sorely lacking in scruples of his own, he’d been right on that count. Because of his brother’s training, Mathew had split up the treasures the night before he’d reached Inverness, carrying only one of each in his sporran and hiding the others in the small pack he carried.