Daughter of Fire (54 page)

But she did not. Instead Vivian leaned back against him, closing her eyes as she rested her head against the curve of his shoulder, letting her senses fill with the warmth and strength of him, as if she could absorb him into her very soul, for it would have to last an eternity.

“I have never learned to fly,” she confessed. “It was never necessary.” She heard the thickness of her own voice, filled with tears, and said no more.

“Perhaps not,” he agreed. “For one who has the power to walk through stone walls, see another’s thoughts, and draw on the power of the flame, I suppose flying is a trivial matter.”

He continued to hold her, refusing to release her when she tried to step away, turning her instead to close her within the folds of his mantle and draw her against him, so that every part of them touched. He tilted her face up, frowning at the tears that streaked her beautiful, pale cheeks.

“ ’Tis a night for celebration and yet you weep. Why is that so? You should be pleased. William has honored you with a fine title,
Lady
Vivian.”

“He is most generous,” she angled her gaze away from his, afraid that if she allowed herself to look into the cool gray of his eyes she would be lost.

“I am most pleased.”

“Aye,” he said in a cynical tone, his head lowering to hers, so that the spicy sweetness of his breath filled her senses, then drawing her mouth to his even against her will.

“You are so pleased that your tears would turn both of us to ice.” He forced her to look at him. “And for one who is incapable of lying, you are a dreadful liar.” He looked keenly into her brilliant blue eyes.

“You will return to Amesbury,” he said gently.

So, all the arrangements had been made. She was to be sent to Amesbury after all, away from the royal court, away from him. Perhaps her child would be born there. And then... summoned at the king’s will, to do his bidding as his counselor...?

“Yes, of course,” she murmured, sadness closing around her heart.

“But you shall have to wait, of course, until a proper keep has been built, for I do not fancy living in a pigsty or a tumbledown abbey, although it is doubtful any invader would want to lay siege to a pigsty or a pile of rocks. Still, I would not have my son born there.”

Her startled gaze met his.  His son?   How was it possible that he knew, when she had only become aware of it the past few weeks?

As if he sensed her thoughts, or perhaps guessed them, he smiled, “Did you think you could keep it from me for very long?”

Was she then to be kept there until she brought forth his son, only to lose the child for she sensed that he would never allow his own son to be so far away as he had been sent away.  It was not in him.

“What do you mean by a proper keep?” she asked, for that she could not understand. Her emotions made a jumble of her thoughts, and the gift that had always served her so well slipped beyond her grasp.

“Aye, for the lord and lady of Amesbury.”

At her confusion he smiled tenderly and shook his head. “For one so gifted, mistress, you are quite blind. William could not grant you Amesbury, because I claimed it for my landhold. William has need of strong fortresses to house his knights and soldiers.”

“But that cannot be!” she protested, disbelieving. “What of Anjou?” She asked. “It is all you wanted all these years since your childhood. I saw it within you.”

“You saw the anger of lost dreams and vengeance, sweet mistress.” Rorke lifted a finger to stroke back a tendril of hair that the wind stirred at her cheek. Her skin was as warm as fire  gently at rest.

“You released me from the anger of the past with your passion.”

She shook her head. “I would not bind you with magic or sorcery, or the burden of a child,” Her throat was suddenly tight with all the emotion that welled inside her.

“Only by what lies in your heart.”

Rorke took her hand in his and placed it against his chest. “Then know my heart, mistress.”

Vivian opened her senses to him and felt the love that beat fierce and strong, a true heart, a true love that had challenged the Darkness, and driven it back.

His hand moved low caressing the faint roundness where his son safely slept within her and he said with a fierce tenderness, “My future lies here, with you.”

~ ~ ~

From remote fortress castle, from fields tending their flocks, from boats with lines cast into gleaming dark waters, and blazing forges, men looked into the winter sky and saw a bright blue star high in the midnight sky like a brilliant jewel suspended between heaven and earth.

A sign, some said, as the star streaked the sky, a fiery beacon that lights a path, a dragon’s eye that sees beyond the mists of time... a promise on the cold night wind.

~ ~
The End
~ ~

I hope you enjoyed
Daughter of Fire
, Book I in the Merlin’s Legacy series. Please read on for an excerpt of Book II,
Daughter of the Mist
.

Daughter of the Mist

“T
here!” the young Scotsman called out, pointing to the fierce battle at the bottom of the hill as the riders reached the crest. He let loose a battle cry and ran down the hill to join his kinsmen.

Stephen’s warhorse reared at the fierce, bloodcurdling cry. He tried to stop the lad in his headlong plunge down the hill, but failed. He whirled the stallion back around, looking to the man who commanded them for their orders.

Tarek al Sharif, now master of the landhold of Inverness by the grace of William of Normandy, king of England, sharply surveyed the surrounding hillside.

Unusual blue eyes set in the dark bronze of handsome features narrowed, searching for deadly traps behind each rock and craggy outcropping—eyes that had gazed across a score of battlefields across the width and breadth of Europe, eyes that spoke of the fierce Norse blood that flowed beneath golden skin and claimed him bastard. It was a trait of brotherhood he shared with Stephen of Valois, bastard son of William of Normandy, the Conqueror.

But here the land was gently rolling, reminiscent of the lush, rolling hills of Normandy except for the mist that claimed it now. It swirled around both men and horses, making them seem like ghostly creatures not of this world, visible one moment, then disappearing only to reappear again as the gray veil shifted once more on shifting currents of air.

It had been bitter cold all morning, the dampness seeping through layers of garments and beneath battle armor to chill the soul. But the mist here was warm, gently caressing, almost like a lover’s whisper if he closed his eyes.

The vision returned then, part dream, part memory, of a beautiful golden creature who had come to him once before through the mist and warned him of great danger.

“Milord?” Stephen inquired as young Duncan disappeared into the melee below, the sounds of battle and dying reaching them at the top of the hill. “They will be slaughtered if we do not join the battle.”

“Patience, my young friend,” Tarek cautioned, forcing his thoughts back to the battle at hand.

Stephen of Valois had been given into his care by King William himself. He would not jeopardize the young man, though Tarek well understood he and his other men longed to join the battle in this cold, damp land they now claimed.

He nodded to Gavin de Marte, who had come to this cold northern clime to avenge the death of his brother.

With a sharply angled glance to each flank, Tarek gave the orders. Half would follow, the other half of his men, led by Gavin, were to split and close in from two sides.

Gavin nodded and sent twenty heavily armed men to each flank. At a signal, Tarek then led the rest of his men in a sweeping charge down the hill toward the battle. Their horses plunged into the thickest part of the melee, scattering warriors who were afoot.

The Scots warriors fought with crudely made swords, shields made of animal skins, and short narrow blades called dirks. They were dressed in homespun linen shirts and woolen trews, their distinctive plaid mantles belted at their waists and hanging to their knees in pleated folds. Fierce war masks of vivid blue colored their faces.

They had been attacked by a horde of Norse raiders, their dome-shaped helms worn over wild manes of tawny hair, gleaming war axes and metal battle shields covered with blood as they hacked and slashed their way through the Scots warriors.

Tarek’s men speared through the heart of the battle at the same time his other men closed in from both sides, surrounding, and then attacking.

They fought back to back, wielding their battle swords, slashing first to one side and then the other. Over and over, one name filled Tarek al Sharif’s thoughts... Mardigan!

It was rumored these Norse raiders were his men, and he wanted at least one captive to question when the battle was over.

Stephen called a warning and Tarek blunted a blow that would have severed his leg and cut his horse from beneath him. The Norseman who swung the blow was covered in blood, but it wasn’t his own. He had cut his way through several Scots. He swung again, and once again Tarek blocked the blow.

He vaulted to the ground and took up the attack there against the Norseman. A fierce cry went up in the midst of battle and the raiders began to retreat toward the forest. Tarek became separated from the rest of his men as he battled into the rocks.

He sensed the danger. It raised the hair at the back of his neck like the hackles of a great hunting hound when it catches the scent. He fought to the top of the rocks, and realized too late the Norseman had maneuvered him so that he was momentarily blinded by the sun at the man’s back.

He went down on one knee as he struck toward that glint of steel with a slicing arc, felt the sudden shudder of the blade, the dragging weight as it sliced through flesh and sinew, then the dull scrape against bone, and finally the hiss of air from his attacker’s dying lungs.

He drove back to his feet and kicked away the body of the Norse warrior, and then whirled around to face the man he’d chased into the rocks. A bloodcurdling scream rent the air.

Through the gently swirling mist that spread over the ground and swirled the rocks, he saw the other Norseman sprawled on the ground. His tunic was bloodied, his sword arm lying slack and equally bloodied. His face had been slashed, blood matted at the wild mane of hair that fell to his shoulders. Beside him crouched a large, tawny cat.

It was a magnificent animal, its golden fur tipped with silver that seemed to hold and spin the mist into a silvery mantle that gathered about it. But the perfect tawny coat was marred with blood that streaked its left shoulder. The Norse warrior had wounded the animal before he died.

Tarek had seen such creatures in the middle empires. They were wild, dangerous animals, some with sleek black fur, others with spotted markings or stripes. They were elegant, fierce creatures that feared nothing, displayed for man’s pleasure in palaces, with such regal bearing that no man could ever own them. But he knew of none in this cold, forbidding place.

The creature caught his scent, that sleek, golden head turning toward him. Its gaze was curious, measuring, not the least afraid. Then the mist shifted and swirled again like a curtain drawn back between him and the creature, and before the animal fled he saw something that startled him. The cat’s eyes glowed cool and green, like a highland glade. Then it suddenly turned and leapt into the swirling mist.

Run
, the Voice whispered.
Leave this place. You are in danger.

Again Tarek experienced that sensual awareness at the back of his neck, and down his spine. Not fear, but a memory of another time in another place when the mist had closed around him.

He followed the footpath through the rocks where the cat had disappeared, then continued down the other side as the path descended the hill. The way was difficult but not impassable, and someone had come this way recently.

The cursed mist blinded him, disoriented him, muffled the sound around him so that it was impossible to tell from which direction he had come, or which he should follow. Then, in that strange way that he’d experienced before, it began to lift. Rocks to his left reappeared as the sun pierced the gray shroud that lay over the land. The path once more lay clear before him.

He followed it, darting through pockets of lingering mist that washed warmly against his face, rather than the icy coldness of misty glens. Then, through the haze that gradually retreated, he saw something on the path just ahead.

Behind him the sounds of battle ceased. In the distance, he heard horses and knew his men followed. It was risky to venture further afoot. But a huddled shape on the path ahead drew him closer, curved blade held before him as he slowly made his way closer.

In the trailing mist the huddled shape was tawny-colored. As it had before, a warning moved across his skin, every muscle tensed, lest the creature suddenly turn on him. But as he approached, it made no move to either attack or flee. Nor did it stir even at the sound of approaching warriors, the horses nearing on the path behind him.