The Countess (36 page)

“You are worth more to me whole,” he snapped, then cut a length of cloth from his tabard. She stared at him in confusion, noting that his move exposed more of his chain mail.

When he reached for her injured ankle, Jacqueline cried out and squirmed away. She would not suffer him to touch her! She rolled and desperately tried to crawl away from him, though 'twas not easily done with hands and knees bound.

He snatched at her foot and caught her all too easily. He held her captive thus, even as she squirmed on her belly, his fingers exploring her ankle as though he was blinded in both eyes. Jacqueline shivered, then felt the heat of a blush stain her cheeks at his familiarity.

“A fine view, but you cannot imagine you would get far.”

“I will not lie meekly while I am raped!”

He laughed then, the sound so surprising that Jacqueline turned to look at him once more. He was crouched behind her, holding her ankle in one hand, his grip resolute but gentle.

He did not acknowledge her gaze, though he must have known she looked. Nay, he frowned in concentration, focused on his task. He removed her shoe and stocking with surprising care. He had doffed his gloves and his hand was warm against her bare flesh.

Jacqueline thought she might die of the mortification of having a strange man touch her thus.

“If touching a woman's foot is akin to rape,” he said mildly, “then there are far more lawless men in this world than even I imagined.”

He glanced up, his smile broadening as he considered her expression and no doubt guessed the reason for it. His smile was cold, but there was a heat in his gaze that made her tremble. “Or are you so innocent of men that you do not know the nature of intimacy?”

There was a look about him that warned Jacqueline he had thoughts of contributing to her education.

She decided to feign boldness, for a show of fear would win her naught. “My innocence is not of issue here,” she retorted and tried to draw her ankle away.

He moved his thumb smoothly across her instep, the deliberate caress making her shiver with something that was not entirely fear. “I should say 'tis. And the preservation of your innocence shall be a considerable concern...at least for others.”

He flicked her a hot glance that made a lump of dread rise in Jacqueline's throat. He did not wait for an answer, but checked the way her ankle had already begun to swell, his fingers moving deftly and gently.

Jacqueline did not know quite what to make of him. She had expected him to harm her, but truly, she had little experience of strange knights and none of it good. And she had no experience of such treacherous circumstance.

She deliberately kept her expression impassive, hoping she could hide both her terror and the curious sensations his touch awakened within her. He finished binding her ankle with the cloth, his gaze hooded as he gave his attention to the task.

“'Tis not broken,” he informed her, then sat back on his heels. He donned his gloves once more and watched her. She nigh fidgeted beneath the intensity of his gaze and felt she should confess something, anything, whatever would make him look away from her. “'Twill heal quickly enough, Mhairi.”

Jacqueline blinked. “Mhairi? I am not Mhairi!”

He shook his head. “You lie.”

“Nay. I never lie!” Jacqueline bristled. “And I would not lie about my own name. Mhairi is my younger sister, she is but four summers of age.” 'Twas a golden opportunity to pretend she did not fear him and she lifted her chin proudly. “Most can tell us apart.”

This seemed to amuse him, however fleetingly. “The Mhairi I seek would be of an age with you.” He studied her intently, as though reaffirming his assessment, though Jacqueline could not guess his conclusion. “More or less.”

“Then she is not me.” Jacqueline spoke firmly, determined to save herself with her wits and the truth. None else could aid her here. “So, you have best release me. This is a simple enough error to amend.”

“Indeed?” His gaze flicked over her ample curves. “Then who are you, if you would not be Mhairi?”

His intimation that she did not tell the truth was irksome, and Jacqueline answered more sharply than perhaps she should have. She did answer honestly, certain her identity would prove his error and win her freedom. “I am Jacqueline of Ceinn-beithe.”

Something flickered across his features, though Jacqueline would not have gone so far as to call it doubt. His words, though, were even more terse. “Who holds Ceinn-beithe in these days?”

“Duncan MacLaren, my step-father. And my mother, Eglantine. Who are you?”

The knight shook his head, ignoring her question as he stood once again. “I do not know that name. You lie.”

“I do not!”

“Then how did this Duncan come to wrest Ceinn-beithe from Cormac MacQuarrie's grip?”

“Duncan is Cormac's chosen heir. He is the chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie.”

“Nay, in this you clearly lie.” His lips tightened to a harsh line again. “Cormac is the chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie and Iain his blood son. He would never surrender Ceinn-beithe to another.”

“Cormac has not been chieftain since he died, some ten years past. Duncan was his foster son and is his heir.”

The knight regarded her in silence for so long that his tongue might have been stolen. “And what of Cormac's daughter Mhairi?” He eyed her distrustfully.

Understanding swept through Jacqueline. “Oh, you seek that Mhairi! She is long dead, for she killed herself upon her father's insistence that she wed a man she did not love. 'Twas her loss that killed Cormac, to hear Duncan tell it.”

“That I can well imagine,” he said. He glanced back at his companion. To Jacqueline's relief, the men who had accompanied her were not fatally injured, for they were being marshaled toward her. Their hands had been trussed behind their backs and the other attacker urged them forward at the point of his sword.

“Well?” the knight's comrade called.

“She claims she is not Mhairi, that Mhairi is dead.” The knight pushed to his feet. “She claims to be the step-daughter of the new chieftain of Clan MacQuarrie.”

He then smiled down at Jacqueline. 'Twas not an encouraging smile and Jacqueline suddenly doubted his intent to free her. He bent and picked her up in his arms, cradling her weight against his chest.

“Either way,” he said silkily, “she will do very well.”

* * * * * *

The Beauty

is available in a new edition.

Claire also writes paranormal romance, paranormal young adult and contemporary romance as Deborah Cooke.

Read on for a taste of
Kiss of Fire
,

the first book in her paranormal romance series, Dragonfire.

One kiss can change the course of destiny...

For millennia, the shape-shifting dragon warriors known as the
Pyr
have lived peacefully as commanders of the four elements and guardians of the earth's treasures. But now the final reckoning between the
Pyr,
who count humans among the earth's treasures, and the
Slayers,
who would eradicate both humans and the
Pyr
who protect them, is about to begin
...

When ace accountant Sara Keegan decides to settle down and run her quirky aunt's New Age bookstore, she's not looking for adventure. She doesn't believe in fate or the magic of the tarot—but when she's saved from a vicious attack by a man who has the ability to turn into a fire-breathing dragon, she questions whether she's losing her mind—or about to lose her heart...

Quinn Tyrrell has long been distrustful of his fellow
Pyr
and a self-reliant loner. When he feels the firestorm that signals his destined mate, he's determined to protect and possess Sara, regardless of the cost to himself. Then Sara's true destiny is revealed—and Quinn realizes he must risk everything—even Sara's love—to fulfill their entwined destinies...

Chapter One

S
ara was tired and hungry and hot by the time she left the New Age bookstore that had been her Aunt Magda's pride and joy. It was late and it wasn't the first time she'd thought that taking over the business might not have been such a good idea.

That wasn't just because the stock was weird.

She'd made a lot of changes in six months and it was only natural that she'd remember the good bits of her past life when her present life challenged her. She yawned as she locked the door of the shop, tucking her reading choice for the night under her arm. She felt the emptiness of Nickels Arcade behind her and reminded herself that she'd left the big city behind.

Sara glanced down the silent pedestrian passageway and wished that she had her aunt's psychic gene.

Some things didn't change: she still walked as briskly as a city girl. She was still organized and efficient, still an ace accountant, still had a plan of attack for every obstacle in her path.

Including Magda's records, which seemed to have been kept in Sanskrit.

Sara would conquer them, one line item at a time.

She only got halfway to the State Street exit before something fell to the sidewalk behind her. It rattled, then rolled, the sound of metal on stone echoing in the arcade.

Sara had a bad feeling, but she looked over her shoulder anyway.

Whatever had fallen glittered, right on the threshold of her shop. It hadn't been there a minute before. It was small and round, and it winked, like it was calling her back to pick it up.

As if.

Sara spun to continue and stopped cold.

A man stood in the exit. He was right in the middle of the center arch, the streetlights behind turning him into a menacing silhouette. He hadn't been there before and Sara guessed the coin had been thrown to distract her.

“I do love predictable women,” he said and laughed. It wasn't a friendly laugh. He pulled a balaclava over his face before stepping out of the shadows.

Sara quickly considered her options. There was an exit at the other end of the arcade. It was darker on Maynard Street and less busy, but given the alternative, Sara could live with that.

She pivoted and ran.

She heard the man coming after her. His steps were longer than her own, she heard him gain on her with every step, and her heart thundered in fear. She remembered every track meet she'd ever competed in and pushed herself to go faster.

This was a race that she had to win.

Sara ran as if her life depended on it. Quite possibly, it did. With every step, she was more certain she was going to make Maynard. She was half a dozen steps from the doors, she was reaching for the handle, she brushed it with her fingertips...

He seized her shoulder, hauling her to a stop.

Sara screamed.

The man flung her against the display window of the last shop with terrifying force. She fell against the glass and wished it had broken. The alarm might have summoned help. She came up fighting, swinging her book at her assailant's head while she had the chance.

She missed, but only because he ducked.

He snarled and caught her wrist in his hand. He twisted it quickly behind her back and the book fell from her grasp. He slammed Sara's chest against the window so hard that it vibrated. It
still
didn't break. Sara clenched her teeth in pain. She blinked back tears, realizing that he didn't care whether he hurt her.

Bad news there.

Sara wasn't going to whimper, even if she was terrified. She opened her eyes to find dozens of empty ring boxes displayed in the jeweler's window in front of her. The reflection of her attacker's silhouette loomed over her, dark and menacing.

She wished he wasn't wearing the balaclava. She wanted to give the police a good description.

Assuming she got out of this alive. She didn't need Magda's tarot cards to have a very bad feeling about her own future.

“I don't have much cash,” Sara said, surprised to hear herself sounding so calm and collected. “But you can have what there is.” She held out her purse with her free hand.

He seized it without releasing her. Sara had a heartbeat to hope before he flung her purse across the arcade. Its contents scattered noisily.

“Money isn't what I want,” he whispered. Sara saw the flash of his teeth as his hands closed around her throat from behind. “I hope you've said your prayers, Sara.”

He knew her name
. Sara had time to be stunned before he squeezed.

Then she couldn't take a breath. She panicked as his fingers tightened relentlessly around her neck.

He was going to kill her, right there.

Sara struggled. She scratched and bit and tore at his hands, but his grip didn't waver.

She let herself shiver and go limp, hoping he'd think she was weakening. He chuckled just a little, but it was enough to show that he had let down his guard.

With her last bit of energy, Sara drove her heel up hard, aiming for his crotch. At the very least, she might cramp his style.

She missed.

She saw his fist coming in time to duck. He still caught her shoulder, the force sending her tumbling to the pavement. He was stronger—or more angry—than she'd realized. The skin tore on Sara's knees and her dress rose up to her thighs as she tumbled. She tried to roll to her feet, but he landed heavily on her back. He pinned her down with his weight, his knee on the back of her waist, and locked his hands around her throat again.

“Feisty,” he whispered in her ear. Sara shuddered. “I like my women with some fire in them.” He seemed to find this funny. He tightened his grip and Sara immediately felt faint.

She couldn't move because of his weight on her back. She struggled and tried to scream, but only managed a gurgling noise. She fought for her own survival, even knowing the odds were long. Her vision began to get dark around the edges and she fought harder.

She was losing.

Then Sara heard a hiss and saw a flash of light. Maybe this was what dying was like. The bookstore was loaded with books that talked about going toward the light.

Funny but she'd thought it was supposed to be a white light. This one was orange, like firelight.

Then the weight on her back was gone and Sara was lying alone on the pavement, gulping at air. She felt weak and dizzy. She scrambled away from her attacker, instinctively putting distance between them, then flinched at the crackle of flames.

She looked for the fire and knew that she was hallucinating.

There wasn't a fire in the arcade.

There was a dragon.

Sara blinked and looked again, but it couldn't have been anything else. It was a dragon, just as they were drawn in children's books, but alive. Here. Sara couldn't make sense of what was illogical and impossible. She stared as the fabled beast reared up on his hinds, his leathery wings spanning the width of the arcade. He was silver and blue, gleaming in the night like a jeweled broach.

But much, much bigger.

He was furious. Sara could tell by the way his tail swung, by the way his eyes glittered, by the smoke coming out of his nostrils.

Sara backed away. Her attacker was lying on the other side of the arcade, as if he'd been snatched up and flung aside. There was a trickle of blood beneath him.

He moved when the dragon exhaled fire and the flames licked his boots. The man leapt to his feet. He took one look at the dragon—as if he couldn't believe his eyes either—then ran. The dragon leapt in pursuit, sending a furious bellow of fire after him. The floor of the arcade shook with each bound the dragon took and Sara thought that the glass in the shop windows really would break.

Her attacker just ran.

There was smoke in the arcade after his footsteps faded from earshot. Sara swallowed when the dragon turned his attention on her. He moved slowly, deliberately, and she couldn't swallow the lump of terror in her throat. She backed away but found the glass of a shop window behind her.

She wasn't sure her situation had improved.

Sara heard a low growl in the dragon's throat, almost like a purr, and wondered what he had planned for her. She looked left and right, but knew she had no chance of outrunning this creature. She glanced up, thought she saw the silhouettes of other dragons through the glass roof of the arcade, and decided she was losing her mind.

That was the only rational explanation for seeing dragons.

The dragon eased closer, his movements surprisingly graceful for his size. This time he made no noise as he moved, and she could faintly hear traffic in the distance. His scales seemed to be made of metal and gleamed with each step he took. She could see the strength of him. His eyes were bright and when she looked into their fathomless blue, Sara's heart fluttered. He leaned closer and seemed to smile at what he saw.

Her.

Lunch.

Sara closed her eyes, said a prayer, and feared the worst.

It didn't come.

* * * * * *

Kiss of Fire

by Deborah Cooke

is available in both a digital and print edition.