Sword of the Raven (3 page)

I want my life back. I want my brother safe.

“Delaney?” Concern warmed Rowan’s soft brogue. “What’s wrong?”

She cleared her throat. Tears never solved anything. Marching to the doorway, she handed him the pants and sweatshirt, then gestured at her concealed pistol. “Be straight with me. You’re not under the delusion that you’re some sort of…uh…vampire or something, are you?”

His lips twitched. “I’m sky-clad and battered, not barmy.”

“Do you believe you’ve traveled here from another time?”

“Points for imagination, but no.”

“An alien scout on an earthbound mission?”

“Absolutely not.”

“An immortal 16
^th
century Highlander who believes ‘there can be only One?’”

He snorted.
“Bloody hell,
lass, you watch too much Syfy Network.”

Desire and deep regret twisted inside. How could she be so attracted to this enigmatic Scot…while at the same time so very afraid of him?

Delaney studied the sincerity stamped on Rowan’s striking features, and every instinct clamored in warning.

Despite his protests to the contrary, Rowan MacLachlan was no ordinary man.

Chapter 2

In the kitchen, Delaney dipped sturgeon chunks into spicy beer batter and plopped them onto a plate. Julienned potatoes soaked in a bowl of ice water beside her while canola oil simmered in a cast-iron skillet on the stove.

Blackness smothered the twilight outside the windows as October’s screeching tantrum raged unabated. The first weeks of autumn could be crisp and sunny, but western Oregon climate fluctuated wildly with Mother Nature’s moods. Apparently, Mom was pissy this weekend.

Down the hallway, the bathroom shower picked up tempo and the cabin’s sixty-year-old pipes groaned and rattled in protest. She’d at least provide MacLachlan with a hot shower and food before driving him into town.

Hopefully she wouldn’t regret her generosity.

Delaney chopped and mixed and grated. She diligently did
not
think about Rowan in the shower. Didn’t imagine sparkling rivulets flowing through thick, wavy locks. Or soap bubbles caressing bronzed, sculpted pecs. Refused to picture pearly suds gliding over a fierce eight-pack, down that treasure trail of dusky hair circling his navel—and then sliding lower, to…

 
“Ow!”
She’d grated her knuckle instead of the onion meant for the tartar sauce.

Cursing, she stuck her bloody finger beneath the faucet before improvising a paper towel bandage.
Serves you right.
After the Zack disaster, she’d sworn off men. Not forever. Just a decade or so. And her time-out had barely edged past year one.

Delaney clamped her renegade hormones into lockdown as she stalked down the hall, leaving the fish and potatoes sputtering in hot oil. She waited outside the bathroom door until the shower hissed off, then knocked. “Hey, MacLachlan. After you’re dressed, could you please pass me a Band-Aid and antibiotic ointment from the medicine cabinet?”

“You said you weren’t burned.” The door flew open, and she was confronted by a hot cloud of clean-man-scented steam billowing around a very large, gleaming wet Scotsman. Wearing a very small towel.

“I…uh…” Her hormones broke into a celebratory riot and her stomach flip-flopped.
Stuff your tongue back in, woman.
“It’s…not for a burn. I cut myself.”

“Badly?”

His hand shot out to grab hers, but she jerked away. “No. Just get me the supplies.”
And for cripe’s sakes, put on some clothes!

 Rowan disappeared into the steam, almost instantly reappearing with a bandage and tube of ointment. For such a big guy, he moved disconcertingly fast. He waved at her to enter. “Let’s have a look.”

“Nah, it’s nothing. I’ll take care of it in the kitchen.”

He reluctantly surrendered the first aid supplies, and she retreated to bandage her knuckle. She finished just barely in time to rescue the fish and chips from immolation.

Delaney slammed mismatched Fiesta dinnerware onto the tabletop, added utensils and red-checkered napkins. She used to be a decent cook—before her synapses took an unauthorized leave of absence to Scotland.

She plunked down a pitcher of ice water. “Rowan? Dinner’s ready.”

The bathroom door snicked open, and a barefoot, nefarious pirate sauntered to the table. She’d thought a sweatshirt and jogging pants would decently cover the guy. But the shirt molded his wide chest, the sleeves hitting him mid-forearm, and the pants— Delaney choked on her own breath. Black fleece stretched to hazardous limits that—
ohmigod.

She yanked her gaze to his face. He hadn’t dried his tousled hair, and dark stubble still shadowed his high cheekbones and chiseled jawline.

Of course, a testosterone jockey
would
sneer at shaving with a pink-flowered plastic razor.

He drew out her chair. “Lasses first.”

Even from across the table, he smelled more mouth-wateringly delicious than the food. Fresh water and damp, warm man. Delaney hesitated. She absolutely did
not
want to get that close to him.

His eyes glinted a challenge. “Aren’t you hungry?”

She never could pass up a dare. Setting her jaw, she scooted into her seat.

He sat opposite her and flipped his napkin across his lap. Sharp quicksilver eyes watched patiently as she served herself. Then he attacked his meal with a quiet, but ravenous intensity that left her slack-jawed.

She was used to watching Zack and Connor and their buds chow down. She’d figured Rowan would be hungry and had cooked plenty, but
holy Jurassic Park.
“When was the last time you ate?”

He chewed, swallowed his fifth sturgeon filet. “What day is it?”

“Saturday.”

He cocked his head. “Four days ago, then.”

“Four
days?”
She gave the guy props for restraint. If she’d gone ninety-six hours without eating, she’d have displayed the table manners of a rabid wolverine. She waited until he finished what was on his plate and had dished himself another helping. “Let’s get to it, MacLachlan. How did you wind up on my beach
al fresco?”

“I…can’t exactly recall.”

“Uh, huh.” She’d bet her vintage red GTO he remembered more than he admitted. “I’ve never seen you around Cape Hope before.” He wasn’t a man she’d forget. “Do you live nearby?”

A pause while he consumed another muffin. “I’m not sure.”

“You understand American slang without a problem. I don’t think you just fell off the boat from Scotland today.”

“Figuratively, nay.” A megawatt smile transformed his face from indomitable warrior to mischievous rogue. “Literally, perhaps I did.”

A melting, swoopy sensation tickled her insides. Sort of like eating a hot fudge sundae while riding a roller coaster. Rowan’s sexy grin hadn’t simply derailed her train of thought. It had blown up the subway.

Delaney picked at a crispy golden filet.
Stay on track.
“Um…no wreckage washed ashore.
Were
you aboard a boat?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Well, you didn’t backstroke across the Pacific. What’s your job…where do you work?”

“Depends how you define ‘work.’”

She grimaced. “This conversation is beginning to sound like a Senate hearing.”

“Can’t tell you what I don’t know, can I?” Rowan dispatched the lone survivor of the dozen muffins, not counting the one she’d taken but not eaten. He prowled to the stove, ladled generous scoops of the marionberry cobbler onto his empty plate and returned.

“Mmm…” His sensual moan rippled up her spine. If he was attempting to distract her, he was doing a bang-up job. “Bloody brilliant dessert. You’ve very clever hands, haven’t you, lass?”

“Cut the bull. What
do
you remember?”

He sighed. “My short-term memory is…compromised. ‘Tis like peering into a hazy mirror. Only random clear places appear.”

“All right, tell me everything you
can
see.”

“I don’t believe that’d be wise.” He frowned. “Because I’m fair certain someone tried to kill me.”

Queasy, she abandoned her fork. His admission wasn’t the shock it should have been. Deep down, she’d already sensed that darkness stalked him.

Delaney rubbed the vague ache nagging the back of her neck. And Rowan realized she knew, or he wouldn’t have come clean. She’d met this man mere hours ago, yet they shared a scary subliminal connection. Shared strange, unsettling feelings. “We’d better notify the police.”

“I’d rather not. Until my recall improves, I haven’t any answers.” He cleared his throat. “And I’ve found the authorities can be…less than helpful in certain circumstances.”

Tell me about it.
Especially when you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer their questions. MacLachlan might be on the wrong side of the law. Or not. But she’d learned the hard way “innocent until proven guilty” was an ideal not upheld by everyone in law enforcement.

“You’re deep in alligators, pal.”

He smirked. “Up to my bollocks.”

“You seem pretty nonchalant about it.”

“I remember enough to know this isn’t my first trip to the bog.” He shrugged. “And won’t be the last.”

Maybe he was an undercover Fed. Or yet another casualty of corrupt Judge Zinter, who owned a house nearby. Delaney squelched the urge for details. Sometimes, ignorance
was
bliss. She didn’t want to further endanger Rowan, or herself, by mucking around in his business. She
really
didn’t want the authorities or Zinter to know she was in town.

She’d keep her gun close and MacLachlan at a distance until the storm passed, then they’d go their separate ways. “I empathize with you, honestly. But I can’t get dragged in. I have my own gators to wrestle.”

“That you do.” He studied her face. “What’s
your
profession?”

No harm in telling him. It was public knowledge, and a lie might make him curious enough to dig deeper. “I’m a victims’ advocate for the Portland District Attorney’s office, and working on my law degree.”

At least she had been. Until she’d flushed her hard-won career down the toilet last winter by spearheading an unsanctioned investigation into her brother’s case.

 “Why did you come to this lonely place, Delaney?” Once again, jeweled green spilled into his irises. Warm waves of inquiry lapped against her skin. This time, the gentle probing was far more subtle. “What do you seek here?”

Pain squeezed her temples. She fought dizziness as Rowan’s essence drifted inside her mind. Sly, silver mist brushed her thoughts. Examined her feelings.

No!
Her wordless scream quivered in the air between them.
Get away from me!

Rowan jolted. Severed the contact.

His mental hit-and-run left her head throbbing. “Stop touching me against my will!” Her fingers crumpled her napkin. “Stop invading my private—” Humiliatingly close to tears, she inhaled a shaky breath. “Whatever the hell you’re doing, it’s too personal, and I don’t like it!”

Sadness weighted his big frame as his concerned gaze locked with hers—gray again. “What is it you think I’m doing to you?”

She was losing it. Turning into a genuine fruitcake. With nuts. A person’s eyes did
not
change color. Thought reading and mind control were
not
possible. Avoiding his scrutiny, she rearranged her napkin beside her plate. Maybe she should have listened to Connor and seen a therapist to deal with the past.

But she didn’t trust anyone with her body or her mind. “I’m sorry. I don’t—”

“Nay.” He shook his head.
“I’m
sorry, Delaney Morgan.”

Rowan pushed back his chair. “Be wary where you tread, lass. The most beautiful reptiles are often the most poisonous.” He rose and strode to the front door, wrenched the handle…and walked out.

The thick oak panel swung shut on his ominous warning.

A dozen paralyzed seconds ticked past before Delaney leapt up to run outside after him.

“Rowan?” Blackness closed over her as she sprinted off the porch, frigid rain drilling icy needles through her sweater. Her pulse hammered. How had he just…disappeared? He was on foot—her GTO was still parked in the muddy driveway. “Are you insane?” she shouted into the wet, wild night. “You’re not wearing a coat. Or shoes. Come back here!”

Impenetrable shadows cloaked the forest. The wind shrieked maniacally in her ears.
“MacLachlan?
Where are you?”

Delaney stood in the dark until she was soaked to the skin. Until the wind shredded her hoarse cries and whirled them into silence.

Waiting for an answer that never came.

Wracked by shivers, teeth chattering, she staggered into the cabin. Wrapping the throw from the sofa around herself, she huddled on the warm hearth. The storm outside was minor compared to her emotional tempest.

Relief clashed with fear. She was glad he’d left. Glad she didn’t have to get sucked into the mysterious MacLachlan’s problems.
Very
happy she didn’t have to battle the tempting chemistry between them, or fight the disturbing infiltration of his mind into hers.

She wanted more complications in her life like King Kong wanted a bikini wax.

But another part of her longed to know the entire story. To help the man who’d been beaten and left for dead on her doorstep. Who had tried to kill him? And
why?

Not man nor beast had stirred in the nasty weather during Delaney’s first recon of Judge Marta Zinter’s coastal hideaway earlier that morning…including the motley group of unidentifiable-from-a-distance new arrivals. Delaney had given up and planned to stay indoors the rest of the day. Ride out the storm curled in the green overstuffed chair beside the fireplace with a stack of legal precedents pertinent to Connor’s situation and a pot of steaming espresso.

Instead, she’d been overwhelmed by the intense desire to go out again and walk the beach. Urgency she hadn’t been able to fight had pulled her to the edge of the storm-tossed sea.
To Rowan.

Delaney stared into the fire, seeing molten silver eyes fringed by thick black lashes. She couldn’t shake the sense that she’d passed some kind of test. She’d fulfilled her duty and rescued Rowan MacLachlan.

But a bizarre, uncomfortable feeling lingered. The feeling that somehow, he had been sent to help
her.

* * *

Awareness stole over Delaney, and she awakened to pearly gray dawn. The same color as Rowan’s eyes.

Some of the time.

Clutching the patchwork quilt to her chest, she sat up in the wide, antique iron bed. Sleep had vanquished her beastly headache, but her temples still felt tender. Delaney’s glance flew to the massive dresser she’d shoved in front of the bedroom door before tucking herself in. Alone. Again.

It had crossed her mind that a man who’d seemed genuinely concerned about her cut finger and possibly burned hand wasn’t likely to return and strangle her in her sleep.

But there were uglier things than death.

So she’d bolted the doors, double-checked the window locks and improvised a barricade. And slept with a loaded Glock under her pillow.

Paranoid, much?

Rain sputtered on the roof as Delaney clambered from beneath the covers. She belted her comfy coral robe over her green thermal shirt and paisley flannel PJ pants. Paused and listened.