Lady and the Wolf (11 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Rose
Excerpt from
The Baron’s Bounty
(Book 2, Barons of the Cinque Ports Series)
Isobel couldn’t find the horse, and figured she had no choice but to make her way toward the lighthouse on foot. She was already very late, and had been warned more than once by Catherine that the baron insisted on punctuality and would not keep his ship on Scottish soil longer than he had to.
She picked up her heavy, wet skirts and trudged up the road toward the lighthouse. She braved the downpour of rain and the wicked weather. She was almost to her destination when she heard the neighing of a horse through the trees. She made her way toward the noise, thinking it was her own steed, until she saw the horse’s trappings with the king’s crest displayed prominently. She pushed her long, wet hair out of her eyes and walked forward to investigate.
The horse’s reins were tangled in the brambles at the edge of the cliff. She reached out to untangle it, and heard some low voices but couldn’t decipher what the people were saying. Startled, she jumped backward when she heard the loud sound of a thud and breaking branches. Something – or someone fell from the top of the cliff hitting on the rocks and roots along the way down.
She ran to the edge of the cliff and peered over just as the moon broke through the clouds once again. She gasped when she saw King Alexander lying on the beach with his neck twisted at an odd angle, obviously broken from the fall. More twigs snapped underfoot, and she heard the sound of someone hurrying through the underbrush - headed in her direction.
Her heart beat furiously, and her body shook in fear. The murderer of the king was not going to be in a hurry to be caught. She couldn’t let him see her, or he’d kill her as well. Without her escorts she was unprotected and very vulnerable. She had only a dagger at her side – no match for the broadsword of a knight, or even the strong hands of a crazed serf. She had no choice but to hide in order to save her own life.
She hurried behind a tree and hunkered down behind a bush, not able to believe what she’d just witnessed. She heard the person free the king’s horse and slap it on its rear to send it off. Hoofbeats sounded loudly as the horse ran through the foliage. Leaves crunched underfoot and she heard the killer coming toward her.
Step, Drag, Swish. Step, Drag, Swish, echoed in her brain as she focused on the sound of their footsteps. She couldn’t keep her body from shaking as the murderer walked past her, so close she could have reached out and touched him.
She moved her hand slightly, and a twig snapped beneath her palm. The killer stopped right in front of the bush that concealed her presence. She didn’t dare move or even breathe, for fear the man would hear her and she’d end up at the bottom of the cliff alongside their ruler.
Her eyes fastened onto the man’s feet, and his boots immediately took her interest. She’d never seen any like these before. They were side-laced riding boots that looked to be made of two-toned Cordoba leather. They were of the finest quality, and obviously very expensive since Cordoba leather came all the way from Spain. They were made from the hides of Musoli goats, tawed in alum in a secret method only known to the Moors. That’s what the cordwainer in town had told her. They were good friends since she spent so much time in his shop, and she’d learned everything she could about making shoes. He’d also said this type of leather was brought back by the Crusaders and very expensive. So expensive that cordwainers only made these shoes on special order from nobles who paid dearly for them.
The killer, obviously satisfied no one was there, started forward again. As he passed by her, his very long cape dragged on the ground, brushing against her hand in the process. It felt soft, as if it were made from fine-spun wool. It wasn’t the coarse material used to fashion cloaks for traders or servants. This cloak surely must have cost a high price. The killer had money. Or was perhaps a thief!
When she glanced up from the corners of her eyes, she was sure she’d seen a flash of bright blue, red, and yellow that reminded her of the crest of the Cinque Ports. She closed her eyes tightly and clamped a hand over her mouth in order not to cry out. The intruder’s gait continued to echo in her brain. Step, Drag, Swish. Step, Drag, Swish. It was unlike anything she’d ever heard before, and odd. Very odd indeed, but she couldn’t decipher why.
Excerpt from
Lady of the Mist
:
Book 4
(Legacy of the Blade Series)
Garrett made his way to the forecastle and climbed the raised platform as they approached the other ship. Sure enough, black sails. This was the pirate ship he’d been searching for. What a discovery to finally find it.
The wind picked up from the approaching storm, filling the single square sail of the cog. The clinker-built hull had high sides, which served as good protection from marauders of the sea. However, this was a merchant ship and the flat bottom was designed for loading and unloading cargo in shallow ports, it wasn’t designed for rough seas. It could very well capsize in a strong wind. The ship held one hundred tuns in the hold, but now they were traveling light, at only half its capacity. This made him nervous. Garrett eyed the dark, roiling sky overhead. He knew what he had to do, but still the crew’s safety concerned him.
“Archers, prepare,” he cried. “Silas, take her in close. I am going to board off the forecastle. Get the grappling hooks and ropes ready,” he called over his shoulder as they came up alongside the ship.
“Aye, captain,” said Silas.
Garrett saw the crew of his target rushing around, looking very disorganized. He would be able to use this to his advantage. But the man in the lookout could have a weapon to throw, or something to drop. He looked up and aimed his crossbow. He couldn’t allow himself to be a sitting target from the man up above. He pulled back the windlass, and lined up his bolt for the shot.
Echo quickly replaced her cap, tucking her hair underneath. She would never be able to fight with her hair in her eyes, now that the wind had picked up tremendously. Skye and the male osprey flew in circles just above the ship, and she knew they wanted to land in the nest to get out of the storm.
She looked down to the deck to see her father and the crew running around aimlessly, trying to prepare for the battle about to take place. She knew if they hadn’t been soused, they would have already been boarding and attacking the Cinque Ports ship.
“Hard to starboard,” shouted her father, giving the sternsman the order to turn the ship. The Seahawk bounced and tilted in the high waves that the storm now brought upon them. A gale of wind hit Echo head on, nearly knocking her from the basket. “Go to half sail,” shouted her father, but Echo knew that was going to be impossible now that they had to concentrate on the attack. The cold, sharp rain sliced down upon her like arrows from an archer’s bow.
That’s when she spied the man aboard the Cinque Ports ship upon the forecastle and aiming his crossbow right at her! She barely had time to dodge out of the way of his bolt, and caught herself as the ship jerked and she had to grab on to the pole mast in the basket in order not to be thrown out.
The sickening shriek of a bird brought her attention upward, to see the man’s bolt lodged into one of the hawks, taking it down into the sea.
“Nay!” she cried, not knowing if it was Skye or the male hawk that just went to its death at the hands of her attackers. The ship leaned once again and the two eggs rolled out of the nest and through the slats in the basket and over the side. She watched in horror as they plummeted down to the deck far below. “Damnation and hellfire,” she shouted, first looking to the path the eggs had taken and then back to the passenger from the Cinque Ports who was jumping from his fighting post by aid of the bowsprit and boarding their ship even before his crew tossed the grappling lines.
“Attack!” shouted her father from below her. The crew of the Seahawk picked up long wooden poles with spikes and axes and rushed toward the side of the ship. The Cinque Ports crew was just throwing their grappling hooks aboard, but nature took its course and one more huge gust of wind changed the outcome for everyone.
Garrett watched in disbelief as the wind hit their single square sail head on and sent his ship backwards away from the vessel he now stood upon. His archers opened fire from the castle decks, but the strong winds sent their arrows off course. While several landed on deck, not a one hit its mark. He feared for his men in the storm and now he feared for his own life as well. He stood alone amiss a band of cutthroats that would most likely kill him before they’d had their breakfast.
“Damn!” The ships separated so quickly in the storm that he knew there would be no retribution for these pirates now. He could only hope Silas headed the ship for Great Yarmouth as he’d instructed, and not be capsized in the storm.
He turned and raised his crossbow as two of the crew rushed him. He managed to loose one bolt and it grazed the shoulder of a man who cried out. The weapon was too bulky and the windlass too slow to load quickly. He threw it down and pulled his sword from his side instead. But before he even had a chance to use it, someone from up in the rigging dropped atop him, knocking him to the ground.
“Ye killed m’ bird!” came a high voice in his ear.
His sword was knocked out of his hand from the impact, and he reached for the dagger at his waist instead. The attacker’s small hand reached out in a strong grip, digging his nails into Garrett’s wrist, trying to make him release it. The edge of the man’s sword rested against his throat as the rest of the rowdy crew came forward and urged the man on.
“Aye, let’s see ye spear ’im,” called out one man.
“Kill ’im,” shouted another.
Garrett managed to unarm the man, and in the tossing of the ship from the waves, their bodies rolled together over the deck only to be stopped by the planking of the ship’s wall.
He didn’t understand why none of the rest of the men stepped in to seize him. Instead, they almost found it amusing to watch him and this young man struggle. He managed to pin his attacker to the ground, and hold his dagger to the man’s throat. The pirates behind him laughed and shouted in the pouring rain. Water dripped down off his long hair and hit the pinned man in the eyes.
“Devil take ye, ye landlubber king’s bitch!”
The men laughed behind him, and Garrett now thought he understood why. This man’s voice was high and his body small, but if his instincts served him correctly, he’d been fooled. He yanked the man’s cap from his head and ebony tresses spilled around his captive’s head. As he looked closer at the man’s face through the dirt and grime, he realized this was not a man at all, but a woman!
Excerpt from
Dragon and the Dreamwalker
,
Book One: Fire
(Elemental Series)
Brynn spied the nighttime candle next to the bed and brought it to her. She held her hands over the fire to help regain her strength.
She took a moment to focus her vision in the semi-darkened room. Though she feared the man in the shadows, she still had the odd sensation of being comfortable with her surroundings.
She looked up to the velvet draperies that hung from iron rods around the bed. Her heart beat faster and she sat upright, barely breathing at all as she recognized the carved spindles at each corner. Her father had carved these spindles - engraving his love for his wife in the vines and faeries that wrapped around and around, climbing to the top and ending in a moon or star. She knew now why she felt at home. She
was
home. Resting in her parents’ bed.
“No!” she exclaimed, not wanting to believe it was true. She placed the candle on the bedside table. Her eyes shot to the wall looking frantically for her father’s banner - his crest of sword and shield, a mighty arm holding one, a feminine arm the other. But it was no surprise when she found it missing. Instead, a banner with a fierce fire-breathing red and black dragon consumed the spot.
“You act as if you’ve seen a ghost. As if my castle’s dwellings could speak to you.” He still stayed hidden in the shadows as he spoke.
“Every stone in the walls, every rush on the floor - they cry with anguish for the lives that have been lost here recently. And if you are so bold as to call this your castle, then it can only be you who is responsible for the blood that’s been shed on these grounds.”
“I claim many a triumph of the men I’ve conquered or the fiefs I hold, but I cannot put my mark on the lives lost here. I claim the castle only.”
“’Twas you who killed my parents! ’Twas you who stole my family’s wealth.”
“You’re parents?” he asked, sounding bewildered. As if he didn’t know who she was when he saved her from the dragon only to claim her as his prize.
She grabbed the coverlet from the bed and wrapped it tightly around her, easing herself to the floor, and hoping her father’s ivory-handled dagger still lay hidden under the loose floorboard. She would never be the spoils of war. She’d kill him before she lived at the side of the man who murdered her parents.
“I’ve heard it said that the former lord and lady of Thorndale Castle had a daughter. A daughter who befriends fire and has magical powers at her command,” he said from the darkness.
“And I’ve heard it said that the man who leads the Klarens into battle, killing and ransacking everything in sight, is a black-hearted man who gains his power at the hands of others’ misfortunes. His reputation is known throughout the hills of Lornoon. He’s the one mothers warn their daughters about. He’s the one they mention to threaten their children when they’re bad. Yet his name is never spoken aloud, for fear the darkness that possesses this man’s soul may follow his name, striking down dead the one who spoke it.”
It was then he stepped slowly out of the shadows and into the soft light of the fire that flickered from the bedside candle. The glow encompassed him as his dark eyes bore into her. One fist gripped a tankard of ale in front of him. He was tall, handsome, foreboding, and carried his body frame straight and proud as he strolled toward her. His chest was bare - wide and sturdy. Every muscled ripple showed in his physique. His arms were huge in a strong sort of way, empowering the rest of his warrior body. And like a warrior, he still carried a weapon though he was half-clothed.
His gaze penetrating, she felt a slight hesitation in his action as he stopped in front of her with his free hand hovering above the sword strapped at his side. Almost as if she’d called him a traitor or insulted him by saying the legends of his name aloud. He was the most dangerous man alive. And she was alone with him in the dark, with only a coverlet between them.
“’Tis true. It is you,” she said barely above a whisper. “I’ve heard of your crest described by the bards. You are Drake of Dunsbard, are you not?”
“You so daringly let my name slip past your noble lips. Aren’t you afraid you’ll drop dead at my feet for such carelessness?”
“I’d welcome death to the alternative of what you’ll do to me.”
“So sure are you that I’m that dangerous?”
“You are a Pendragon!” she cried. “You’re the one they call the
Dragon’s Son
. You are the devil and you’ve come to claim my soul.”
He put the tankard on the bedside table and stared down at her. All the way to her soul. She knew she should look away, but stubbornness made her match his glare. It was said that the son of the dragon could turn one to mere ashes just by fixing his gaze on a person. But it mattered not to her. She had an ally in fire, and his dangerous stare could not harm her. She’d be protected from the fires of hell.
He chuckled softly, his lips turning up into a lopsided grin that only made the indention in the cleft of his chin more pronounced. His ebony eyes sported a glimmer as he seemed to find amusement in her words. Then the glimmer was gone and the danger was back. He took a step closer, so close that she could feel his breath on her face when he spoke, though he did not touch her.
“You’re only partially correct with your legends.”
She didn’t trust him so close to her and knew she needed protection. She needed her father’s dagger, but it was hidden under the floor on the far side of the bed. She scooted away from him, never turning her back to him, and shifted around the foot of the bed.
“I am a Pendragon,” he admitted, “’tis true. And I am the one they call the
Dragon’s Son
. But I am not the devil and I want nothing to do with your soul.”
He made his way toward her, and she darted around the back side of the bed, holding her coverlet tightly in the process.
“I don’t believe you.” From the corner of her eye she looked to the floor, trying to remember which board the dagger was under. Then her toe caught on a loose end and she knew she’d found it.
He took another step toward her, this time with more definition. It was all she needed to see. The look in his eyes said he knew she was about to deceive him. She had to move fast. She dove to the floor, dropping the coverlet that concealed her nudity and tore at the floorboard, groping inside for the weapon.
His boot heels clicked on the floor and stopped in front of her face. She grabbed for the dagger in one final attempt to protect herself from him, but to her horror, she found the hiding place empty. She stiffened when she felt his hand on her arm. Her breathing labored as he pulled her to her feet, her body trembling from his mere presence. He pulled her closer, her hips grazing the flat end of the sword at his waist.
“Looking for this?” Still holding her arm, he raised his other hand and displayed her father’s ivory-handled dagger in the air.