Page 70 of Captivated
If, he reminded himself, he lived.
The car sputtered and bucked and jolted his bones. He wondered how many of his internal organs had been shifted. Gritting his teeth, Nash cursed and cajoled and threatened the stuttering car up a rise. When his mouthfell open, he slammed on the brakes. The act managed to slow his descent. As he slid down the hill, he didn’t notice the smell of rubber burning, or see the smoke beginning to pour out of the hood.
His eyes were all for the castle.
He hadn’t really expected a castle, despite the name. But this was the real McCoy, perched high on the cliffs, facing the arrogant sea. Gray stone glittered in the sun, with flashing chips of quartz and mica. Towers lanced into the pearly sky. From the topmost, a white flag flew. Nash saw with awe and amazement that it was a pentagram.
He blinked his eyes, but the structure remained, as fanciful as something from one of his movies. If a mounted knight had burst across the drawbridge—by God, therewasa drawbridge—Nash wouldn’t have turned a hair.
He started to laugh, as delighted as he had been stunned. Recklessly, he punched the gas, and when the steering locked, drove straight into a ditch.
Calling up every oath he knew, Nash climbed out of what was left of the car. Then he kicked it and watched the rusted fender clatter off.
He squinted against the sun and judged that he was about to add a good three-mile hike to his travel arrangements. Resigned, he snagged his duffel bag out of the rear seat and started to walk.
When he saw the white horse gallop across the bridge, he set himself to the task of deciding whether he was hallucinating or whether it was real. Though the horseman wasn’t wearing armor, he was striking—lean and masculine with a waving silver mane. And Nash was not surprised to note the hawk clamped to the leather glove of his left arm.
Matthew took one look at the man staggering up the road and shook his head. “Pitiful. Aye, Ulysses, pitiful. Wouldn’t even make you a decent meal.” The hawk merely blinked in agreement.
At first glimpse, Matthew saw a disheveled, unshaven, blearyeyed man with a knot forming on his forehead and a line of blood trickling down his temple.
Since he’d seen the fool drive into the ditch, he felt honor-bound to set him right again. He pulled up hismount and stared haughtily down at Nash.
“Lost, are you, lad?”
“No. I know just where I’m going. There.” He lifted a hand and gestured.
Matthew lifted a brow. “Castle Donovan? Don’t you know the place is lousy with witches?”
“Yeah. That’s just why I’m going.”
Matthew shifted in the saddle to reassess the man. He might be disheveled, but he wasn’t a vagrant. His eyes might be bleary with fatigue, but there was a steely glint of determination behind them.
“If you’ll pardon my saying so,” Matthew continued, “you don’t look to be in any shape to battle witches at the moment.”
“Just one,” Nash said between his teeth. “Just one particular witch.”
“Hmm. Did you know you’re bleeding?”
“Where?” Nash lifted a hand gingerly, looked at his smeared fingers in disgust. “Figures. She probably cursed the car.”
“And who might you be speaking of?”
“Morgana. Morgana Donovan.” Nash wiped his fingers on his grimy jeans. “I’ve come a long way to get my hands on her.”
“Mind your step,” Matthew said mildly. “It’s my daughter you’re speaking of.”
Tired, aching, and at the end of his tether, Nash stared back into the slate-gray eyes. Maybe he’d find himself turned into a squashed beetle, but he was taking his stand.
“My name’s Kirkland, Mr. Donovan. I’ve come for your daughter. And that’s that.”
“Is it?” Amused, Matthew tilted his head. “Well, then, climb up and we’ll go see about that.” He sent the hawk soaring, then offered his gloved hand. “It’s pleased I am to meet you, Kirkland.”
“Yeah.” Nash winced as he hauled himself onto the horse. “Likewise.”
The journey took less time on horseback than it would have on foot—particularly since Matthew shot off at a gallop. The moment they were across the drawbridge and into the courtyard, a tall, dark-haired woman rushedout of a doorway.
Grinding his teeth, Nash jumped down and started toward her. “You’ve got a lot to answer for, babe. You cut your hair. What the hell do you—” He skidded to a halt as the woman stood her ground, watching him with bemused eyes. “I thought you were... I’m sorry.”
