Chapter Two
Dorian raced through the open gatehouse, slowing as he approached the stables. His horse, now knowing the nightly ritual, entered his stall after his master slipped off its back.
Frustration filled Dorian. Three fruitless nights had gone by. With no attacks to stop, he had no sources of information. Who Ionas was looking for and why the woman was important remained a mystery. Dorian could feel the tiny interest he once held about his nephew’s plans begin to ebb.
He rounded the stable door and was about to yank it close when he spied a brown mare eating hay in one of the stalls. Cursing, he took a deep breath and confirmed the young female who witnessed the attack that happened earlier that week was nearby. He shut the door softly and let his gaze sweep the courtyard until he saw a dark figure leaning against the inner wall of the gatehouse. Discarding men’s clothes for those fitting a noble, the woman was wearing a dark bliaut and a black hooded mantle to shield her from the icy air. No longer was she hiding in the shadows, but standing outside in plain sight, waiting for him, unafraid of being inside Kilnhurst Castle—infamous for the disappearance of all who dared to venture near its walls.
Ionas had built the stronghold decades prior when he pushed Edward I of England to erect stone forts to better withstand attacks. Kilnhurst was large, nothing like the estates Dorian had inhabited when he lived in Crete a millennium prior, but he had taken great satisfaction at capturing the castle from his nephew. And though Kilnhurst was far from lavish, it was ideally located in the heart of the Highlands and built to survive Scotland’s brutal northern weather over many years. It also conveyed an uncomfortable sensation that made humans want to avoid it. Something the young woman clearly was oblivious to or too dim-witted to realize.
Not in the mood to tangle with an obstinate and senseless human female, Dorian was about to turn and enter the castle through a back door. But before he looked away, she reached up and pulled down her hood, revealing rich brown hair, neither dark nor light, intricately braided and piled into an elaborate knot. Rebellious strands that had won the fight to come loose curled into ringlets, highlighting the pale skin of her unusually long nape.
The woman shifted and looked in his direction, causing the moonlight to catch her face. Only slightly narrow, the oval shape accentuated her cheekbones and emphasized the fullness of her lips. But it was not her angelic features that had caused him to hesitate. It was her eyes. The dark green orbs did not shine with innocence and youth as her scent indicated but belonged to an adult woman—who was still every bit as angry as she had been three nights ago.
Moirae fought restlessness, wondering when her nemesis would return. She had mentally rehearsed a hundred times how she was going to handle his arrival. She would patiently wait as he bellowed about her presence, and then she would make it clear that he was unneeded and, more importantly, unwanted, as the Guardian. But the longer she was forced to wait, the more unlikely she was going to remain the calm herald she had planned to be.
Moirae closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
The scents around Kilnhurst were unlike anywhere else. There was an absence of fear, sorrow, anger, and despair—all the negative emotions that accompanied the hard lives of those who lived in a castle. In its place was something dark and vacant and strangely welcoming. She suspected the castle’s designer had hoped to evoke another feeling, but to her, the effect was enticing, not repellent.
Until three nights ago, she had never ventured close to Kilnhurst. Rumors had circulated for years about those who dared to breach its walls supposedly disappearing, never to be heard from again. And yet, she had watched this squatter come and go without concern.
Built to be a fortress, six equal, three-story towers formed the shape of a hexagon and were connected by a double curtain wall. Within, there were none of the usual internal structures. No great hall, kitchens, buttery, silversmith, or other buildings one expected to see. Only a well, the stables, and the gatehouse were recognizable. Besides the formidable walls, the castle’s main defense was a moat. A sizeable one that fully surrounded Kilnhurst, preventing any entry unless the gatehouse bridge was let down—as it was tonight.
For two nights, Moirae had sat in the forest, waiting for an event and the chance to confront the dark avenger who thought to steal her role as Guardian. But no attacks came. Frustrated, she had decided to ride to Kilnhurst and hope for a chance to intercept the want-to-be hero and persuade him to leave the area. Seeing the drawbridge down, she had darted inside, uncaring of the rumors, and waited for the competition.
Patience, however, had left her hours ago. Dawn would soon arrive and Moirae was debating if she should leave when a small branch snapped to her right. She immediately froze. No one ever snuck up on her. It was impossible. She inhaled. Nothing. And yet every one of her other senses screamed that someone was beside her.
She spun around to see a large figure not quite ten feet away. Though silhouetted by the moonlight, she could still discern enough features to confirm he was the same man she had witnessed fighting the other night. He was tall enough to be a Highlander and radiated a primitive masculine vitality like those men born in the north, but he did not belong to these majestic mountains any more than she did.
He lacked the overall brawn Highlanders possessed, and yet, Moirae suspected he could take care of himself and any enemy that happened along. His face was formed by severe angles and planes, creating high cheekbones and a rock-hard jaw. His nose was unusually straight, and his mouth was broad and firm. With the exception of his dark hair, which looked seductively ruffled, there was no softness about him anywhere. No wonder she hadn’t sensed him. She doubted this man surrendered to any kind of strong emotion.
He walked toward her with a poised, almost erotic grace that assaulted her senses. If he were anyone else . . . and if she were free of her past, she might have been interested enough in him to make a play for his attentions. But her life had another purpose, and a man—especially this one—was not to play a part in it.
“I wasn’t aware you had returned,” she stated simply.
Dorian was impressed. She exuded calm composure in both stance and voice. He would almost think she was bored if not for the jutting out of her chin. “That’s because I didn’t want you to know.”
Her eyes instantly flashed with anger and he inhaled. Only true, full-blood nosferatu could sense animals, even inflict their emotional will on them. And yet what stood in front of him was an enigma. It wasn’t that he couldn’t smell her. He could. She was definitely a human, and despite her underdeveloped bosom, he knew without a doubt that she was a mature woman in her mid-twenties. And yet, only his eyes could discern the obvious frustration that exuded from her every pore. Perhaps he was hungrier than he had thought.
“Find no one to save tonight?”
Her caustic question surprised Dorian. Usually women, especially young human ones, were uneasy in his presence. A few pretended to be enamored, but he could not recall in his entire life one that was sincerely defiant. And though he could not be certain without being able to smell her scent, one thing was unmistakable . . . no fear reflected in her green depths. His curiosity took hold. “And just who might you be?”
“Someone you should listen to.”
The man grinned, and the unexpected response shook Moirae’s core. He had not looked like the kind of man who would even know how to smile. It relaxed his eyes, and their smoky color went from cool and distancing to hypnotic, causing her to shiver with apprehension. Then it suddenly occurred to her that was exactly what he wanted.
Swallowing, Moirae regained her composure and reminded herself that she was there for a reason and just because the thief had turned out to be attractive changed nothing. Moirae forced her eyes to look into his. He was still just smiling, but she could see that he was more than slightly amused. He was laughing at her. He thought her a silly, little girl and was toying with her for amusement. That was a mistake.
Smile while you can, for you won’t be very soon, she silently promised. She flicked an imaginary speck of dirt from her gown and then stared at him directly in the eye. “You are an interloper, stranger. You are unwanted, and most of all you are a fool.”
Moirae added the insult at the last moment. The man may think he was fighting regular thugs like those of the other night, but there were far scarier things in the area. Things only a fool would intentionally seek out.
The realization that she was just such a person hit her at the same time she perceived the change in his expression. The menacing scowl he suddenly wore should have caused her to quiver with fear, but all Moirae could feel was elation. She suspected it was a rare occasion that someone could cause emotion to rise from this man of stone. Good, maybe if she made him mad enough, he would want to leave and never return.
Dorian stilled as he assimilated the intentional slight. Then a cold anger flared to life. The time for playing with humans was over. He pivoted and stepped into the stables, returning less than a minute later, handing the woman the reins to her horse. Ignoring him, she refused to take them, and instead, she arched a single brow most aggravatingly as she reached up to unhook her cloak and remove it. The cheeky woman was actually refusing to leave!
With her mantle off, he could see that while her slender frame made her appear petite, she was far from small. Rather than frail as he first perceived, her unusual height reminded him of what it felt like to be a man and not a giant among men. A flicker of sexual desire coursed through him, immediately followed by a flash of self-directed anger.
He had learned long ago how to control his physical urges and let them surface only when he was guaranteed of no entanglements. It wasn’t that he refused to mate with humans. Just the opposite. He preferred to be with them, as their passions were uncontrolled and less manufactured. But he had learned the hard way that humans and his kind were incompatible, for immortals and mortals could not coexist for any length of time. Human lives were too short and it affected everything about them—their thoughts, ambitions, desires, accomplishments—but most especially their interactions with others.
Dorian was just about to pick the audacious woman up, physically place her on her horse, and force her to leave, when she threw her coat over the saddle’s pommel and took the reins from his still extended hand. Then, in one smooth movement, she leapt onto her horse and looked down. For the first time, she smiled, and he knew it was because of his openly shocked expression. Very few men had ever possessed the strength and agility she had just demonstrated. In his experience, only nosferatu or their spawns had such abilities, both of which she was decidedly not.
“Heed my counsel,” she warned. “Leave Badenoch and this castle. Both harbor great danger.”
“For you maybe, but I know Kilnhurst’s owner. And I am fairly certain that you do not.”
Moirae swallowed as frustration began to take over. “Badenoch holds danger for those who ride at night. Halt your acts of heroism. Your help is neither welcomed nor wanted by those who live here. Another protects these lands. Stop or incur the risk of being in the path of their arrows.”
Dorian glanced at the bow and arrow hanging on the hindquarters of her horse. Was she actually referring to herself?
Moirae swung her horse around, but before she could leave, Dorian stepped in front of the gate’s opening, preventing her exit. Her beautiful eyes widened in surprise. “Just who are you to think you can order me about?” he demanded.
A wintry smile overtook her expression. “My name is Moirae. Moirae Deincourt. I, and I alone, am the Guardian of Badenoch.” Then, with a swift kick, she skillfully guided her horse around his frame and disappeared into the night.
Dorian stood transfixed in a state of shock. Moirae. The name was not Scottish, Gaelic, or even English. It was old. Very old. And he had not heard it in a long time. Turning, he went to the gatehouse and raised the drawbridge, ensuring the woman could not again appear when least expected.
Moirae. “Why did she have to be a Moirae?” he asked himself aloud before turning to the obscure door that led inside. Moirae was the name of the fabled Goddess of Destiny, and while, he knew there was no entity that controlled the thread of every person’s life from birth to death, the few times he had ever encountered a Moirae, his life had changed in ways he never could predict.
Maybe she was right. Maybe he should leave. Now. Tonight. . . and yet, even as Dorian thought the words, he knew he was going nowhere.
At least, not yet.