Night's Kiss
Page 6

Taking the eggs, she placed them on the table. Those who came seeking her aid rarely paid in coin. "You are welcome, Mr. Linder."
He gaze slid away from hers. "Would you…?" He cleared his throat. "Would you go… go walking with me… to… tonight?"
"I do not think that would be a good idea," she replied gently. The last time she had gone walking with him, he had kissed her. It was her first kiss. She thought it was probably Mr. Linder's, as well. It had been awkward and unpleasant and not something she cared to experience again.
His blush deepened. "Good day to… to you, then, Mistress Flanagan."
"Good day, Mr. Linden."
She stood in the doorway, watching him walk away. From time to time, in moments of weakness, she had considered marrying John Linder, not because she loved him, but because she yearned for a child, a daughter with whom she could share her gift, the way Granny O'Connell had shared her magick with Brenna when Brenna was younger. But it was only a foolish girl's foolish dream. Marriage had brought only misery and servitude to the women in her family. Early on, she had vowed that no man would rule over her.
Brenna lingered in the doorway, one hand resting on the jamb as she watched the sun sink behind the distant hills in a blaze of crimson and ochre and lavender.
She blinked and Roshan DeLongpre stood in the yard before her. Startled, she took a hasty step backward, her hand flying up in a gesture to ward off the supernatural, for surely that was what he was, to have appeared so suddenly out of nowhere. And if he wasn't a warlock, then…
"What manner of man are you?" she asked, disliking the faint tremor of fear underlying her tone.
He lifted one brow in wry amusement. "What manner of greeting is that, Mistress Flanagan?"
"Answer me, or be gone, sir!"
Roshan glanced over his shoulder. "Was that young Linder I saw leaving here?"
"Perhaps."
"He will not survive your death."
"What do you mean?" she asked, alarmed by his words. Though she didn't love John Linder, she was fond of him, flattered by his infatuation, in awe of his talent.
"He's going to kill himself the day after you die."
She opened her mouth but words failed her.
"He must love you very much."
She didn't know what to say to that, and so she said nothing.
Roshan regarded her for several moments. There was always the possibility that if she simply disappeared, Linder would still throw himself off a cliff. It was a chance Roshan was prepared to take. The boy meant nothing to him. If it was John Linder's fate to commit suicide, so be it. It was Brenna Flanagan's life that concerned him. Now that he had seen her, he knew he could not let her perish.
"Who are you?" she asked at length.
"I told you. Roshan DeLongpre."
"What are you?"
He considered her question a moment, wondering if the truth would serve him better than a lie, and decided it would not.
"A friend," he replied. "I mean you no harm."
"You are no friend of mine, sir. And I believe you not." And so saying, she stepped inside and closed the door firmly behind her.
"Brenna, wait!"
"Go away! You are not welcome here!"
"Brenna, I've come here from the future."
"'Tis impossible."
"Nothing in this world is impossible," he replied. "You should know that."
"How far in the future?"
"When I left, it was the year two thousand and five."
Even through the wood of the door, he heard her gasp in disbelief. "What manner of magick brought you here?"
"I'm not sure. But here I am. And I want to take you back with me before it's too late." His own words surprised him but, once spoken, the decision was made. He had no intention of living through these primitive days again, nor did he intend to leave Brenna behind to suffer the plagues and poverty to come.
Brenna put her back to the door and closed her eyes. Dare she believe him? What if he spoke the truth? What if her life was in danger and he was the only one who could save her? With her own eyes, she had seen him in her scrying mirror, seen him conjure her portrait, a portrait no one knew existed save for herself and John Linder. Deny it though he might, Roshan DeLongpre must be a powerful sorcerer.
Dare she trust him?
No! Not now. She would not bid him enter her cottage after the setting of the sun, when a dark wizard's magick was strongest. If he could indeed travel through time, then he possessed sorcery far stronger than her own magick. And if he delved into the dark arts, as she suspected, she feared she would have no defense against him.
"Come back tomorrow," she said, "when we can speak in the light of day."
"I can't do that. We must leave this place now, tonight. Tomorrow will be too late."
"Do you think me a fool, sir, to go off with a man I do not know?"
"You know me," he said. "Why do you not trust me?"
"I know you not!" she denied vehemently.
"You recognized me when we met. You said, " 'tis you.'"
Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes. It was true. She had dreamed of him one night, a dark dream filled with violence and blood and death.
His blood.
Her death.
She opened her eyes, overcome with a cold sense of dread and foreboding. If she went with him, she knew she would surely die, not at the stake, but by his hand.
Roshan paced outside her door, wondering how he could persuade her to trust him. He could not storm the house since she had withdrawn her welcome; therefore, he must somehow lure her outside.
Concentrating, he sent his thoughts winging through the night. If he could not go to her, then she must come to him. His mind touched hers and then, to his amazement, she pushed him out of her mind.
Roshan swore under his breath. In all his years as a vampire, he had never met anyone, male or female, who had the ability to shut him out. Truly, Brenna Flanagan was a most remarkable woman! And if he could not convince her that he spoke the truth, she would die before the sun rose on a new day.
"Brenna! Dammit, woman, listen to me! We have to leave this place, now!"
"Be gone from here lest I put a spell on you and turn you into a hop toad!"
He swore under his breath even as he fought back his laughter. A toad indeed!
Once again, he gathered his preternatural power around him. "Come to me, Brenna Flanagan," he called softly. "Let us walk together in the moonlight and share our thoughts and our secrets."
"Nay!" she retorted. "Be gone!"
Cursing softly, he resumed pacing back and forth in front of her cottage. What could he say to entice the woman to come out, or, better yet, to invite him inside?
How much time did they have before the mob came to drag her away?
"Brenna… " He frowned, overcome by a sudden urge to hop away, find a lily pad in a nice shallow stream, and catch flies. And then he laughed out loud. "It will not work, witch woman," he called loudly. "You can't turn me into a frog or a newt."
He heard a crash from inside the house and grinned as he imagined her throwing something against the wall.
"Come to me, Brenna Flanagan," he cajoled. "You know you want to."
Brenna blew out a sigh as she began to sweep up the broken crockery. Why had her spell failed? It had worked countless times before. It was a harmless spell, one that lasted only an hour or two. Why was he so handsome? Why did his voice appeal to her so? Even now, she could hear it in her mind, a deep dark voice that promised pleasure beyond compare if she would only yield her will to his.
But she could not, would not, put her life in his hands! She dared not trust this dark stranger with his hypnotic voice and fathomless midnight blue eyes. Warlock or wizard, she would not open her door to him this night!
For the next hour, he called to her, beseeching her to come to him before it was too late. And while he tried to coax her from the safety of her house, she conjured a dozen spells to send him away, her anger and frustration growing as each one failed.
Going to the window, she peered outside. She could see him, just there, pacing in the moonlight, a tall dark form that seemed to be a part of the night, a part of the darkness itself.
He moved with effortless grace, as if he walked on air instead of solid ground.
He walked in the light of the full moon and cast no shadow.
She was trying to absorb this bit of witchery when she saw flickering lights moving through the woods beyond her cottage. As the lights drew nearer, she heard the sound of voices.
Men's voices, filled with anger and laced with fear.
"Brenna, we're out of time!" And even as Roshan spoke the words, he vanished from her sight.
She drew back from the window, her heart pounding in her chest, as a man's voice demanded she show herself. A low growl rose in Morgana's throat as she rubbed against Brenna's ankles.
"Come out, witch! And bring your familiar with you!"
"Aye, come out and meet your fate, witch!"
Amid cries and curses, the men began pounding on her door. With a shriek like a woman in pain, the door exploded inward amid a flurry of splinters. Rough hands seized her and dragged her outside.
Kicking and scratching, Brenna tried to wrest free, but to no avail. Heart pounding in terror, she watched as they stripped a young tree of its branches. She screamed as they tied her to the stake and stacked the branches at her feet, along with a handful of kindling.
She glanced at the faces of the men, men she knew, men she had healed in the past. They refused to meet her gaze. In the glow of their torches, their faces looked grotesque, devilish.
She struggled against the bonds that held her as the pile of kindling grew higher. Her stomach churned with fear. Terror choked her until she could scarcely breathe.
Why hadn't she gone with Roshan? Where was he now, when she needed him? Why, oh why, hadn't she listened to him?
She cried out as the men circled her, putting their torches to the bits of wood at her feet. She stared in morbid fascination at the tiny flames that sprang up around her. Soon they would be licking at her ankles, catching at the hem of her dress. How long did it take to burn to death? She blinked the tears from her eyes. Oh, Lord, this could not be happening!