Always Mine

  His for the Taking

  Thinking to find answers, Damron stared into her eyes. Beautiful. Those eyes so dark a brown and fringed with lush, thick lashes that would surely feather his cheeks when they kissed.

  Ah. Kissed.

  Gazing at her mouth, he swallowed. Full and luscious. Ripe. She must have sensed his growing desire to taste her there, for the tip of her tongue peeked out to dampen her lips. At that moment, she looked delicate and sweet, the perfect maiden…

  always Mine

  Sophia Johnson

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  For my loving husband, Gil,

  who every evening continues to pry me away

  from the keyboard when dinner is ready.

  To my daughter, Lorrie, and her husband, Carlo,

  who gave me my first computer and challenged me

  to stop reading and start writing!

  To my daughter, Valeri, and her husband, Tony,

  whose support and encouragement means so much.

  And with many thanks to Delle Jacobs,

  my wonderful critique partner,

  for her everlasting patience.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Prologue

  North Wales, 1072

  Curious gazes and speculative whispers followed the man’s lithesome progress. His cloak billowed like wings, so swift was he in ascending the steep path. All would later swear his feet never touched stone.

  No one dared intrude on his solitude, though should anyone need him, he was always there.

  ’Twas the fact he had aided their grandfathers, e’en their great-grandfathers, that stopped them.

  He ne’er aged.

  The mystic stood atop the highest point of the cliffs overlooking the turbulent sea and waited for Cloud Dancer to descend. His gaze followed the great eagle’s flight. Tilting his head, he listened to the shrill calls from the sky telling him what he had waited centuries to hear.

  Brianna is coming.

  He gloried in the approaching storm and laughed as the howling wind whipped the hair back from his face and lifted the brilliant-hued feathers on his cape. The mantle cracked and rose about his body. His arms reached heavenward, and he felt as though he were about to glide with the wind to the eagle above.

  His eyes lit and his lips lifted in a smile of joy and anticipation. With but a whisper of sound, Cloud Dancer landed on his wrist. It was a testament to the man’s strength that his arm did not drop from the eagle’s weight. They needed no words, each understanding the other, as they looked to the northeast toward Scotland. The storm would reach there shortly.

  He had much to do before he could start his journey. Raising his arm, he sent the great eagle back to soar and dip amidst the roiling clouds.

  “Damron’s beloved will return at last,” he whispered to the wind. “Ah, mo fear beog, my little one. Your soul is much wiser now, and his love will not frighten you. I won’t be there to greet you, but he will. ’Tis time you meet again and accept your fates.” His hands rose to enfold the talisman that hung low on his chest. He lifted his face to the heavens and closed his eyes. One word left his lips. Caught by the wind, it roared as loudly as the crashing thunder.

  “Come!”

  Chapter 1

  Present Day, Kyle of Tongue, Scotland

  Lydia Hunter was drawn to the man in the ink drawing the first time she saw him. She had cried out to him then, calling him her “Lord Demon,” and sobbing like her heart would break.

  She was five years old.

  Every summer she left New York to return to the Highlands and Blackthorn Castle. She had to come. His soul called to hers. Each passing year, the pull toward him strengthened. And now, after a mind-wrenching divorce, the need to be close to him had turned to heart-pounding urgency.

  She stood in front of the faded likeness of Damron Alasdair Morgan, an eleventh-century laird of Clan Morgan, which hung on the freshly painted wall of Blackthorn’s museum.

  Needing to imprint his features firmly in her heart after the year’s absence, she blinked to clear her contacts and drew closer to study the drawing. Damron’s dark, wind-blown hair reached just above his shoulders. A wisp of a lock had strayed over his forehead, and in her heart’s memory, she could see him reach an impatient hand to shove it away. Strong brows arched over cynical eyes. An arrogant nose rose above firm, sensual lips and a chiseled jaw.

  Nothing softened his unyielding expression.

  Her sight blurred. She blinked again. Compelling eyes stared back at her. Accusing her.

  She couldn’t look away. It was as if he demanded something from her. She yearned to touch and caress the face in the drawing. Her chest hurt with the urge to wail the way she had as a child.

  “Why couldn’t you love me?”

  Puzzling flashes came more frequently today. Surely they couldn’t be memories. The images were of the man who could be a demon when he was angry. She felt anguish, too, that he kept hidden just out of reach. Now, more than ever, she knew he begged something from her. What could it be?

  “Mommy, why is the lady crying?”

  The child’s voice broke the hold Lord Damron’s likeness held on Lydia. She sniffed and ducked her head to swipe the tears away. Would he forever have this strange power over her? Even when she became ninety years old?

  Her ragged sigh answered her. She forced herself to leave him and go into the museum to browse through the timeworn antique shop. She stood aside while chattering schoolchildren lined up at the exit with their teachers and headed out to their waiting bus.

  The shop manager’s gaze lit with recognition when she spied Lydia against the wall. She hurried over, and without a word, handed her an antique brooch. Lydia stared at it. Sharp pains of distress jolted through her. They took her breath away.

  Her gaze darted to the woman’s face. “Where did you find this?” Her voice sounded hoarse, distressed.

  “Behind an old safe we were replacin’ last eve.” Nodding at the brooch, the woman’s forehead creased. “No one remembers seein’ it before. It’s like it hid until the perfect moment to be discovered.” Her brows near met. “I ken it waited for you.” The brooch tingled in Lydia’s hand. She turned it around and around. It was familiar. She studied the circle of Celtic knots with the head of a falcon on either side. Though little remained of the Latin words etched around it, she knew what it read.

  “With a Strong Hand,” she whispered. She rubbed her thumb over the area. “The Morgans’

  motto.” She clutched it to her heart and nodded.

  The woman ducked her head, agreeing. “Seein’ how much you love Blackthorn, I wanted to offer it to you first.”

  “Thank you.” Lydia’s voice quavered. She felt a sharp prick, and looked down. The pin that secured the brooch was shaped like a fist holding a dagger. A thin stream of hot blood streaked her palm. She ignored it.

  Lydia wanted the brooch. She didn’t care how much it cost. She had to have it. Reaching inside her tapestry vest, she shoved her passport aside, grasped her credit card and handed it to the woman.


  The manager smiled and wove her way through the customers to the nearest register.

  Lydia fought her trembling fingers as she tried to pin the brooch to her pullover sweater.

  She rubbed her eyes, then sucked in her breath and stood transfixed when a thick haze drifted through the portrait room doorway and surrounded her.

  The deep gray mist shifted. A man’s strong fingers reached to cover hers and fastened the brooch over her heart. His skin was warm. He opened her hand, groaned on seeing the blood there, and lowered his mouth. His tongue lapped the blood away, then soft lips kissed the spot. He lifted his head and studied her face. His breath feathered against her cheek. All the while, his intense green gaze held her prisoner. Her heart lurched as she inhaled the scents of sandalwood and spices. And man.

  He moved closer. His presence brushed against her. She gasped, feeling his hard body, his muscles, his heat. God help her. Had she lost her mind? Did she imagine it? But then, did she also imagine the sounds? His voice, like a summer breeze, spread heat over her.

  “I would have yer vow, Brianna. Promise me! Promise me ye will ne’er…” The urgent words spiraled around her, fading.

  Tears streaked down her cheeks. Her heart ached at the anguished plea. Without hesitating, she whispered the reply she knew he sought. “I promise. I’ll never leave you. Not even through eternity.”

  No sooner had she spoken than Lord Damron’s image sighed and faded away. The mist followed.

  Seeing the manager heading toward her, Lydia fought for composure.

  “Thank you so much for holding the brooch for me,” she stammered. Forcing a smile, she signed the receipt. After giving the woman’s shoulders a quick hug, she hurried outside.

  She needed fresh air. Surely it would clear her mind and settle her racing pulse.

  Her shoes echoed on the stone stairway leading to the top of the tower. The most intact portion of the castle was here. The ruins of the lord’s rooms always soothed her, and as she wandered through them, she cupped a hand over her brooch.

  Deep in her soul she knew this place. She patted the stone walls that seemed to welcome her. In these old chambers, comfort enveloped her like strong arms, no matter the season. It was very tangible today. Her imagination continued to run more rampant than usual, for she felt an irresistible need to leave the rooms and stroll along the curtain wall leading to the barbican.

  Others might hide from the weather’s passion, but Lydia delighted in the wind that whipped vigorously enough to nearly pull the clothes off her body and mist so thick she could taste the wetness.

  She looked out over the cliff side at the pounding surf. A sigh of appreciation for the dark, strange beauty of the day passed her lips. Her sadness disappeared. Happiness bubbled through her like newly poured champagne, and she grinned with pleasure.

  A large bird, flying high above, circled and drifted lower and lower. The sharp voice of a raptor called to her.

  The wind blew harder, tugging her coat open to crack in the air behind her. Laughter rolled from deep within her, bursting past her lips. Her scarf flew off, freeing her hair. Smiling, she threw her head back and thrust her arms to the sky as if entreating the heavens to carry her to the eagle calling from above.

  The wind strengthened into a gale, carrying a voice as deep as thunder that commanded:

  “’Tis time you meet again and accept your fates. Come!” The mist became a downpour. Thunder roared. Lightning flashed in the sky. Another gust of wind, stronger than before, lifted her in invisible arms. Could she fly as she had in her dreams?

  She felt no fear. She heard the call of the raptor, the sound of his wings. So close now.

  Suddenly, the wind released her.

  Her arms flew out, searching for balance. The back of her hand scraped against cold, rough stone. Her feet scrabbled to find firm ground but landed in a puddle, only to slip from beneath her again.

  Falling backward, she screamed and grasped the brooch over her heart. Her head hit cold, unforgiving stone.

  Chapter 2

  Northumbria, England, 1072

  “Why are King William’s men bringing a Scotsman to Saint Anne’s Abbey, and why cannot I go to Ridley?” Brianna Sinclair’s chin began to quiver and her eyes filled with frightened tears. She rubbed a palm over the tip of her nose, disliking the acrid smoke of the tallow candles placed about the dim room.

  The abbess shrugged. “’Tis not the king’s way to tell a woman what he plans. We will learn of them shortly.” She gripped the cross hanging from the thick black cord around her neck, and her lips moved in silent prayer.

  “Why has not Uncle Ridley come for me? Everyone knows I am soon to wed Sir Galan at Ridley. Now King William forbids me to leave the abbey until this Scotsman comes! Why, Alana?” She twisted her hands together and looked at her sister for comfort. “Something terrible is going to happen. I feel it! You do also.”

  “Shh, calm yourself, little one.” The abbess’ voice was a soothing blanket of love falling around her sister’s shoulders. “I know not why. You are the king’s ward. The messenger says only that you must tarry until Lord Morgan arrives. Mayhap you will not have to wait long.”

  “What if the king has changed his mind and does not want me to wed Galan?” Brianna gasped and pulled back from Alana. “This Damron of Blackthorn is a Scot. They lay waste to all we hold dear here on the borders. I will not wed a barbarian. A Scotsman killed Father! If not for them, I would long since have married Galan and had little ones.” Her arms wrapped around her lower waist as if protecting those not-yet-conceived babes.

  “Aye, a Scotsman killed our father. But do not Saxons also raid into Scotland and kill fathers of families there? ’Tis the manner of fighting men on both sides of the border,” Alana said.

  “I am told they fight even as they dine. ’Tis common knowledge they rape their brides and beat them each sennight for sport. And baths? They never bathe! I could not abide the stench.” Brianna frowned and tilted her nose as if she sniffed the air.

  Alana hugged her young sister close to her chest. “Come now, think on it. Fortunately, we have old Roman baths on our lands. If we had not, we might not have become accustomed to bathing. Our men fight often. They sometimes beat their wives. As for rape—’tis part of a warrior’s reward. They fight the harder for it.”

  “I will not have him. I want Galan. We will marry afore this beast arrives.” Brianna dutifully attended the noon prayers for sext. She purposefully arrived late so she would be at the rear of the chapel. Kneeling on the cold marble floor with her head bowed, she peeked up to study the women. About ten paces in front of her, twelve pious ladies knelt in six rows. Deeply engrossed, they recited their prayers.

  She winced, for she had never been able to attain the inner peace that seemed to radiate from the praying women. Was God impatient with her for her rebellious spirit? The priest had told her for she must bow to God and the king’s will in all things.

  She eased off her shoes and slipped them under the braided rope at her waist. Breathing a silent prayer for God to forgive her for disobeying the king, she added a much more fervent one that Alana would understand and not be angry with her.

  As she backed out of the chapel, her gaze darted around. No one was about. She would ride to Ridley and wed Galan. Slipping quietly along the walls, she made her way to the stables where Sweetpea greeted her with a happy whinny.

  “Shh, love, lest they hear us. You do not want to live with Scotsmen. Why, they might even find you a rare delicacy.” Her whispered words quieted the fawn-colored mare. She took in a deep breath, savoring the familiar smell of hay, and listened to the soft huffs of the horses.

  The shudder coursing through her body found a twin in her mare. Sweetpea shook herself and tossed her head as if dislodging a horrid thought. Sitting on a small mound of hay, Brianna put on her shoes. The special saddle her Nathaniel had made her to celebrate the day of her birth hung close by on the wall.

  Nathaniel had always been
there for her whenever she was in trouble. He was a man full grown before she was even born, though he never seemed to grow older. If he were here now, he would tell her what to do, she thought mournfully.

  Soon, she had the mare ready to ride. Walking on tiptoe, she led the horse to the stable entrance. Above all, she did not want the men her Uncle Ridley had assigned to protect her to hear her leave. Just as she mounted and settled her foot in the stirrup, her groom came running toward her. She urged Sweetpea forward.

  “Milady, halt! Brigands be in the woods. Ye must await yer guards,” the groom shouted, waving his arms.

  Brianna didn’t heed him. She spied a farmer, stooped with age, pulling a creaky cart laden with vegetables through the entrance. Delighted to find the heavy wooden gate open, she streaked across the small courtyard.

  She rode hard for several leagues, before she burst out of the dense forest into an open field. She laughed with triumph, for Ridley Castle was but a short distance ahead. Galan would know how to keep her safe.

  That noise? Thunder? Nay, ’twas the sound of many hooves beating the earth, the creaking of saddles, and the heaving snorts of horses being ridden hard. Her laughter died in her throat.

  On the opposite side of the clearing, a troop of warriors thundered toward her. None had the long blond hair or beards of Saxons. They wore the strange helmets and shields of the king’s Norman soldiers.

  They came so rapidly! Did they mean to ride her to ground like a wild animal? She was too late leaving the abbey. Happiness turned to terror. She jerked the reins to turn her mount and flee back to the safety of the woods.

  “Please God, please God. Help me!”

  No sooner had she breathed the prayer than her faithful Sweetpea stumbled. Tossed over the mare’s head, she felt a scream catch in her throat. The ground rushed up to meet her.

  “Do ye ken King William’s thinkin’, Connor? Have I no’ told him I dinna want to wed again, to take this whey-faced Saxon as bride? Over and again?” Damron shouted above the drumming of the horses’ hooves. It was no strain for him, as he forever bellowed when riled. His Scottish brogue thickened.

  Connor’s deep laugh lightened Damron’s scowl and cooled his temper. His cousin and first-in-command was always able to soften his mood.