Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,63
he fruitlessly hunted high and low.
But no. No, there she was, approaching him on the cliff path with the hood of her fur-trimmed cloak blown back and her hair streaming behind her. Was she an illusion? Was she a dream conjured by the Thorn Maiden or his own half-mad mind?
“Miss Beck!” he called out.
She lifted her gaze, which had been fixed on her own feet, and offered him a wave and a smile. It was so incongruous, so ridiculous, it could only be real. He surely couldn’t dream such a thing.
Biting back curses that were more like prayers of gratitude, he ran toward her up the path. He had not stopped to don his robes before leaving the lighthouse, and the wind flayed through the thin fabric of his shirt. He hardly felt it. A warm flush of relief mingling with fear and anger heated him from his core.
He sped across the stretch of ground between them, and as soon as he was close enough to see her features clearly, barked, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Well, good morning to you, too,” she answered with a tilt of her head and shrugged one shoulder, indicating her satchel. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’ve just been up to the great house, and—Oi! What is this?”
He had grabbed her arm, rougher than he intended in his haste, and dragged her off the path into the shelter of the trees. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” he growled. “Did you not see Noxaur on our horizon? Did you not realize where we’ve come?”
“Yes, I saw,” the girl answered, twisting her arm in a vain attempt to escape his grasp. “I saw it. Of course, I saw it. And I thought you’d probably lock us down indoors for the next few days, and I knew we was running low on tea. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be trapped in that one room with your smelly little wyvern for days on end without a proper brew to be had! So, I thought I’d nip out and—”
“It was foolish. Foolish, Miss Beck!” Soran looked back over his shoulder toward the open cliff top. Who could say whether Kyriakos had spies out on the water even now? Spies who would report back to him about a red-headed mortal girl walking in open view.
“I kept a wary eye out,” she muttered, no longer protesting as he dragged her swiftly through the trees. “I didn’t see sign of harpens or any other beasties.”
Soran growled wordlessly. The lighthouse was not far off now. Once she was behind those doors, the protections ought to be enough to block out any trace of her. He doubled his pace, forcing her to run to keep up with him. She swore and snarled every step of the way, but he scarcely heard her. All that mattered was getting her through that door; all that mattered was keeping her safe.
All that mattered was shielding her for the next two or three days. Then he’d send her home. As he should have done ages ago. He’d send her home, back to her own world and safety. And he’d never think of her again.
A shadow as dark as the looming Noxaur landscape seemed to suffocate his heart. Shaking his head in denial, Soran hurried them both out from the trees and across the last open stretch to the lighthouse door. In a matter of moments, they were safely inside, the girl standing behind him in the middle of the room, panting hard after her run, while he slammed the door and secured the locks.
Then he turned to face the girl and found her glaring furiously up at him.
“I’ll have you know, I don’t appreciate being manhandled,” she snarled. “I ain’t a sack of flour to be hauled about.”
His mouth too dry to speak properly, Soran merely ducked his head. When he tried to push past her, making for the armoire, she grabbed his arm and pulled hard. She might be small, but there was more force in her grip than he’d expected. He whirled and looked down at her, startled by the ferocity in her face.
“I mean it,” she said. “Don’t go all silent and broody and bullspittin’ protective on me. Tell me what’s going on! What’s got this fly up your snout? Tell me, or by all the boggarts and brags, I’m marching out that door again and finding out for myself!”