Chapter 4
His back to the wall, Taggart pretended to sip the coffee that had gone cold long ago.
The spotless, linoleum-topped table in the corner proved to be a better vantage point than his former seat at the counter.
For the sake of the nervous waitress, he had moved.
Poor lass. While he sat at the counter and attempted polite conversation, she spilled nearly every order she pulled from the window.
He had her so befuddled she even toppled his coffee twice.
Besides, he had discovered from this seat in the corner, not only could he watch every person in the diner but also had a clear view of traffic coming in off the street.
The high-strung blonde server fidgeted behind the counter, fretting with the spring-loaded napkin holders she had already checked twice before.
He studied her closer as she glanced his way for at least the tenth time in the past half hour, then looked at the clock on the wall.
He knew she wasn’t worried about refilling his coffee.
She had avoided his table as though he suffered from the plague.
For whatever reason, his presence here had her stumbling around the diner as if she had two left feet.
He had eavesdropped on her conversation with Hannah MacPherson.
Why would today be a rough day for the very important individual he had traveled so far to see?
With a suppressed smile, he swirled the dredges of the coffee in the stained white cup.
Every thought from every person in the room opened to him like a flower in bloom.
Jasper Mills gave off the aura of a close-knit community.
They shielded Ms. MacPherson, treasuring her as though she were a beloved daughter.
Good. The Guardian of Taroc Na Mor deserved no less.
If her people loved her, that boded well indeed.
The strands he had discovered in her bloodline and genetics was true.
The bell on the wire above the door jangled.
Taggart knew it was her before lifting his gaze, sensing her by the way the skin tingled at the base of his skull.
Her divine energy sent a delicious shiver up his spine.
Her sacred aura warmed the room, and he was her Protector.
He would know when she entered his presence even if struck blind.
He hid his grin behind the ceramic mug lifted to his lips.
The jaws of the Guild of Barac’Nairn would have hit the floor had they sat at his side.
This blessed Guardian was not what they would expect.
A deep chuckle escaped him. As far as he was concerned, this fiery lass was the definition of pure delight itself.
The petite young woman ordained to be Guardian of the sacred Draecna sported a ratty St. Louis Cardinals’s baseball cap pulled low over her narrowed green eyes that missed nothing.
The curls of her dark blonde ponytail exploded through the tattered hole in the back, the mass tangled as though a windstorm had blown her into the diner.
Grass and mud stained the ragged knees of her jeans.
Her worn cotton shirt clung to her curves like tissue wrapping a treasured gift.
He lowered his cup to the table and relaxed back in his chair, unable to resist another amused laugh. He had never seen a woman wear such boots. Steel-toed work boots laced tight at her ankles. She clumped across the room like a big-bellied construction worker.
Her irritated stride to the counter impressed him.
He could tell by her stomping she was ready to unleash Hades’ hounds if anyone crossed her.
Such a fierce small package she was. Reminding him of the territorial wood nymphs of Glenoc Mur.
The top of her head might barely reach the middle of his chest, but she vibrated with enough explosive energy to level an entire village.
The longer he studied her, the more his amusement lessened.
She was ready for a fight. As he shifted in his seat, he realized he was her prey.
Then he peered closer. This woman suffered; her aura revealed a great deal of emotional pain and the wound ran deep.
Ms. Hannah MacPherson might be small, but her heart suffered with the greatest of sorrows.
Taggart sucked in a slow, deep breath, struggling against an uncomfortable stirring in the center of his chest. This most precious of Guardians was deeply hurt; she fluttered like a wounded bird.
Her head turned when Millie whispered and pointed in his direction.
He unfolded his frame and politely rose from his seat as she turned and barreled his way.
“Mr. de Gaelson? I believe you wanted to see me? I am Hannah MacPherson.” She stuck out her hand as though daring him to take it.
He closed his hand around hers and held it, meeting her green-eyed glare without flinching. “Please, call me Taggart.”
“What can I do for you, Taggart?” She clipped the words and pulled her hand back, rubbing her fingers as though his touch disturbed her. After a hard look at Millie, she allowed her focus to sidle back to him. Poor Millie. Hannah blamed her for his presence.
He held back a smile. This would not be easy.
Defensive wariness shouted from her. Good.
She should be ill at ease. It would lengthen her lifespan and make protecting that much easier.
Of course, that would also make getting close and winning her trust more of a challenge.
He tipped his head toward the table while waving down the wide-eyed waitress.
“Would ye like some coffee while we talk?”
“No, thank you.” A shake of her head sent poor Millie scuttling back behind the counter. “I don’t mean to sound rude, Mr. de Gaelson—”
“Taggart, Ms. MacPherson. Please. Call me Taggart, aye?” He cleared his throat.
Merlin’s teeth and hell’s bane; she was a stubborn one.
Lucky for her, they were on this side of the threshold.
If they had been in Erastaed, he would have sifted them to a quiet place and spelled her lips shut and so she would have no choice but to listen.
She needed to understand her need for protection. And her destiny. ’Twas time to face it.
She pulled off her hat and ran a hand through her tangled curls, grimacing as the snarls caught on her fingers. “Forgive me for seeming rude, but I have a lot going on today. Can we get on with it?”
He swallowed the rumbling growl simmering behind his clenched teeth.
Protector or not, he had endured almost all he could stand.
Scotland was not a short distance from here, especially when traveling by uncomfortable, archaic means.
He was in no mood to put up with a surly, hardheaded woman who did not value her worth.
His weary gaze wandered from her stormy eyes to her disheveled curls; and gads, if his fingers didn’t itch to touch the silk of those golden tangles.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. What the bloody hell was wrong with him?
It must be the weariness making him daft.
Mortals always muttered about planes causing inescapable tiredness.
Perhaps they caused foolhardiness as well.
He eased in a deep breath, reminding himself he had not come this far to fail. “Did ye receive several certified packets from Scotland? All bore the legal seal of de Gaelson, Branwen, and Septamus.”
Her brow puckered, then her eyes went wide. “I paid for the obelisk. Everything came through customs without a hitch. Do I still owe some sort of duty or extra taxes to Scotland? Is that what this is about?”
Millie came over and refilled Taggart’s cup, then sidled closer to Hannah. “Are you okay?”
Hannah shrugged and turned aside, hiding her whispers behind her hand.
“Not sure,” she whispered loud enough to be easily overheard.
“Must be a problem with Jake’s headstone.
I thought I filed all the paperwork proper.
You remember those packets I’ve been ignoring?
” She cringed. “Apparently, I shouldn’t have. ”
She straightened in her chair and offered him a smile. “Is that what those packets are about?” With an apologetic dip of her head, she offered a hesitant smile. “To be honest, I never opened them. Just tossed them in a box to sort through later. I’ve been really busy.”
“Who is this Jake person?” he asked. Her aura immediately darkened with grief, making regret jab him. So the man was the source of her pain. The very mention of his name plunged her into darkness.
“My husband. Killed in a war. Are you here about the headstone or not?” She nervously wet her lips and inhaled a slow, shaking breath while twisting her ball cap.
“No, lass. Not the headstone.” He scrubbed his face with both hands.
The oracle should have provided him with this information.
No wonder she ignored all the missives. It would not be easy to convince her to leave this place.
“If ye had taken the time to read the letters, ye would discover ye have inherited a fine estate in the Highlands of Scotland. It should please ye to know ye not only own one small stone, but actually an entire castle and quite an expanse of land. The name of yer estate is Taroc Na Mor, and it waits for ye to lay claim to it.”
She stared at him as though he had just sprouted a set of golden horns. Her ragged ball cap fell to the floor.
He eyed her, ready to jump and catch her. If the lass didn’t take a breath soon, she would faint and fall from her chair.
After the span of several mortal heartbeats, her jaw hardened as she leaned forward. “Impossible. You have the wrong person. I’m sorry.”
He nodded at the door. “Get the papers from yer wee box if ye dinna believe me. They will prove it.”
“I have no relatives in Scotland. Never been there, in fact. Why would anyone leave me a castle?” She retrieved her hat and placed it on the table.