The Gift (5 page)

"Sara, dear," Nora called out. "Would you like me to accompany you inside?"

Sara didn't take her gaze off Clifford when she gave her aunt answer. "No, Nora. You aren't dressed for the occasion. I won't be long."

"Hurry, then," Nora called out. "You'll catch a chill, dear."

Nora continued to lean out the window, but her gaze was directed at Nathan. He returned her wide-eyed stare with a brisk nod before turning his attention back to his bride.

Nora was quick to notice how the big man was keeping the hounds at bay. His mere size was intimidating. It didn't take her any time at all to realize he was actually providing safety for Sara. Nora thought about calling a warning to her niece, then discounted the notion. Sara had enough to worry about. Nora would wait to mention the savior when she was finished with her important errand.

Nathan kept his attention on Sara. His bride was certainly full of surprises. He was having difficulty coming to terms with that fact. He'd seen what cowards the Winchesters were. The men in the family always did their dirty work under cover of darkness, or when a man's back was turned. Sara, however, wasn't acting at all like a Winchester. She was courageous in her defense of the old woman. And Lord, was she in a fury. He didn't think he would have been surprised if she'd pulled out a pistol and shot her victim between his eyes. She was definitely angry enough.

Sara skirted the servant, paused to give him a good glare, and then hurried on inside the tavern.

Nathan immediately walked over to Clifford. He grabbed him by his neck, lifted him high into the air, and then flung him against the stone wall.

His audience scattered like mice to avoid being hit. Clifford struck the wall with a loud splat, then crumpled to the ground in a dead faint.

"My good man?" Nora called out. "I do believe you'd better go inside now. My Sara's bound to need your assistance yet again."

Nathan turned to scowl at the woman who dared to issue him an order. Just then the whistles and hoots of laughter coming from inside the tavern gained his full attention. With a growl of frustration over what he considered a damned inconvenience he slowly uncoiled his whip and walked toward the door.

Sara located her uncle who was hunched over his ale at a round table in the center of the establishment. She made her way through the throng of customers to get to him. She thought she would use shame and reason to get Aunt Nora's ring back. Yet when she actually saw the silver band on his finger her mind emptied of all reasonable ploys. There was a full pitcher of dark ale on the table. Before Sara could contain herself she lifted the pitcher and emptied the contents over her uncle's balding head.

He was too far gone from drink to react swiftly. He let out a loud bellow, interrupted himself with a rank belch, and then staggered to his feet. Sara had worked the wedding band off his finger before his mind had cleared sufficiently to ward her off.

It took him a long while to focus on her properly. Sara slipped the ring on her own finger while she waited.

"My God… Sara? What are you doing here? Is something amiss?" Uncle Henry stammered out his questions in a bluster. The effort cost him what little strength he had left. He slumped back down in his chair and squinted up at her with bloodshot eyes. Henry noticed the empty pitcher. "Where's my ale?" he shouted to the barkeep.

Sara was thoroughly disgusted with her uncle. Even though she doubted he'd remember a single word of her lecture, she was determined to let him know what she thought about his sinful conduct.

"Is something amiss?" She repeated his question in a derisive tone. "You are despicable, Uncle Henry. If my father knew what you and his other brothers were doing to Nora, I'm certain he'd call the authorities and have you all carted off to the gallows."

"What say you?" Henry asked. He rubbed his forehead while he tried to concentrate on the conversation. "Nora? You're ranting at me because of that worthless woman?"

Before Sara could chastise him for making that shameful remark he blurted out, "Your father was in on the plan from the very beginning. Nora's too old to take care of herself. We know what's best for her. Don't try throwing a tantrum with me, girl, for I'm not going to tell you where she is."

"You do not know what's best for her," Sara shouted. "You wanted her inheritance, and that's the real reason. Everyone in London knows about your gaming debts, Uncle. You found an easy way to pay them off, didn't you? You were set to lock Nora away in an asylum, weren't you?"

Henry's gaze darted back and forth between the empty pitcher and his niece's outraged expression. It finally dawned on him that she had poured his ale over his head. He touched his collar just to be sure, and when he felt the sticky wetness there he became livid. His own anger made his head start pounding. He was in desperate need of another drink. "We are going to put the bitch away, and you can't do anything about it. Now get on home before I put my hand to your backside."

A snicker sounded behind her. Sara turned around to glare at the customer. "Drink your refreshment, sir, and stay out of this." She whirled back to her uncle only after the stranger turned his gaze to his goblet. "You're lying about my father," she stated. "He would never be a party to such cruelty. As for striking me, do so and suffer my husband's wrath. I'll tell him," she threatened with a nod.

Sara had hoped that since her empty threat about her husband's retaliatory methods had been so successful with the hired servant Clifford, the same bluff might work on her sotted relative.

It was a vain hope. Henry didn't look at all intimidated. He let out a loud snort. "You're as crazed as Nora if you believe a St. James would ever come to your defense. Why, I could beat you good, Sara, and no one would give a notice, least of all your husband."

Sara stood her ground. She was determined to gain her uncle's promise to leave Nora alone before she left the foul-smelling tavern. Her fear was that he or one of his brothers would send someone after her aunt and drag her back to England. Nora's inheritance from her father's estate was sizable enough to make the journey worth the nuisance.

She was so incensed with her uncle, she didn't notice that some of the customers were slowly edging their way toward her. Nathan noticed. One man he judged to be the leader of the pack actually licked his lips in apparent anticipation of the morsel he thought he would soon get to devour.

Sara suddenly realized the futility of her plan. "Do you know, Uncle Henry, I've been trying to find a way to get you to promise to leave Nora alone, but I now realize my own foolishness. Only a man of honor would keep his promise. You're too much of a swine to keep your word. I'm wasting my time here."

Her uncle reached up to slap her. Sara easily dodged him. She stopped backing away when she bumped into something quite solid, turned around, and found herself surrounded by several disreputable-looking men. All of them, she immediately noticed, were in desperate need of a bath.

Everyone was so mesmerized by the beautiful lady they never noticed Nathan. He thought they might be too consumed with lust to think about caution. In time they would realize that error, of course. Nathan leaned back against the closed door in the corner and waited for the first provocation.

It came with lightning speed. When the first infidel grabbed hold of Sara's arm Nathan let out a roar of outrage. The sound was deep, guttural, deafening. Effective, too. Everyone in the tavern froze—everyone but Sara. She jumped a good foot, then whirled around toward the sound.

She would have screamed if her throat hadn't closed up on her. In truth, she was having difficulty catching her breath. Her knees buckled when she spotted the big man standing in front of the door. Sara grabbed hold of the table to keep herself from falling down. Her heart was slamming inside her chest, and she was certain she was about to die of sheer fright.

What in God's name was he? No, not what, she corrected herself, but who. She was nearly frantic. He was a man—yes, a man—but the biggest, the most dangerous-looking, the most… oh, God, he was staring at her.

He motioned to her with the crook of his finger.

She shook her head.

He nodded.

The room began to spin. She simply had to get hold of her wits again. She desperately tried to find something about the giant that wasn't so horribly terrifying. She realized then that someone was clutching her arm. Without taking her gaze away from the big man trying to stare her into a faint she slapped the hand away.

The giant looked as if he bathed. There was that much. His hair appeared to be clean, too. It was a dark bronze in color, as bronzed as his face and arms. Dear Lord, she thought, his upper arms and shoulders were so… muscular. So were his thighs. She could see the sleek bulge of steel indecently outlined by his snug britches. But they were clean britches, she told herself. Villains usually wore only crumpled, smelly garments, didn't they? Therefore, she reasoned illogically, he couldn't be a villain. That conclusion made her feel better. She was actually able to take a breath. All right, she thought to herself, he isn't a villain; he's just a warlord, she decided when she'd finished her thorough inspection, perhaps even a Viking warrior from the length of his hair. Yes, he was simply a barbarian who had somehow transported himself across time.

Her mind had snapped, she concluded then. The green-eyed warlord motioned to her to come to him again. She looked behind her to make certain he wasn't motioning to someone else. There wasn't anyone there.

He meant her, all right. Her stomach lurched. She blinked. He didn't disappear. She shook her head in a bid to clear her mind of the vision from hell.

He crooked his finger at her again. "Come to me."

His voice was deep, commanding, arrogant. God help her, she started walking toward him.

And then all hell broke loose. The sound of the whip cracking in the air, the scream of pain from the fool who tried to touch her as she moved past him echoed in Sara's ears. She never looked toward the commotion. Her gaze was locked on the man who was methodically destroying the tavern.

He made it look so easy. A simple flip of his wrist that didn't seem to cost him the least amount of effort made such a lasting impression on his audience.

She also noticed that the closer she got to him, the deeper his scowl became.

The warlord obviously wasn't in a good mood. She decided to humor him until she could regain her composure. Then she was going to run outside, jump into the hack with Nora, and race to the waterfront.

It was a fine plan, she told herself. The problem, of course, was getting the Viking away from the door first.

She realized she'd stopped to stare at him again when he motioned for her to move. She felt a restraining hand on her shoulder, glanced down at it, then heard the crack of the whip.

Sara was suddenly in full flight. She ran to him, determined to get there before her heart completely failed her.

She came to a swaying stop directly in front of him, tilted her head back, and stared up at those piercing green eyes until he finally looked down at her. On impulse she reached out and pinched his arm just to make certain he really wasn't a figment of her imagination.

He was real, all right. His skin felt like steel, but warm steel. The look in those beautiful eyes saved her from insanity, though. The color was hypnotizing, intense.

Odd, but the longer she stared at him, the safer she felt. She smiled with acute relief. He raised an eyebrow in reaction. "I knew you weren't a villain, Viking."

Sara was suddenly weightless. She felt as though she were floating through a dark tunnel and on her way toward the bronzed Viking standing in the sun.

Nathan caught her before she hit the floor. His bride was in a full faint when he tossed her over his shoulder. He scanned the tavern for any leftovers he might have missed. There were bodies all over the wooden floor. That wasn't good enough, he thought. He had an almost overwhelming urge to mark the bastard uncle who was cowering under the table. He could hear the choked sobs coming from the man.

Nathan kicked the table across the room in order to see his prey. "Do you know who I am, Winchester?"

Henry was locked in fetal position. When he shook his head his jowls rubbed back and forth against the floorboards.

"Look at me, bastard."

His voice sounded like thunder. Henry looked up. "I'm the marquess of St. James. If you ever come near my wife or that old woman, I'll kill you. Do we understand each other?"

"You're… him?"

The bile had risen in Henry's throat, making speech nearly impossible. He started gagging. Nathan gave him a sound shove with the tip of his boot, then turned and walked out of the tavern.

The barkeep peeked out from his hiding place behind the grill and looked at the devastation around him. There wouldn't be any more ale purchased that dark night, for nary a one of his customers was in any condition to drink. They covered his floor like discarded peanut shells. It was a sight he wouldn't soon forget. He wanted to remember every single detail so he could relate the happening to his friends.

He already knew how he was going to tell the ending, too. The Winchester dandy crying like an infant would provide a good, hearty laugh for his future customers. The sound of gagging pulled the barkeep from his musings. The high and mighty Winchester was puking all over his floor.