Sapphire - Book 2 (25 page)

But as cruel as God was to him, he at least
still had his sister and best friend, Wren. Or so he had thought.
When Wren disappeared in the woods years ago, never again to be
found, Corbett knew God was still punishing him. The only thing he
could do was to right the wrongs of his father.

But he didn't belong anywhere near the place
of God nor did he want to be. He felt uncomfortable and resentful
inside the monastery's walls. He should have sent a messenger in
his place.

But the dream told him he had to come there
himself. It had been so vivid. The girl with the long mahogany hair
and emerald green eyes had appeared to him again, begging him to
find her. One too many times he'd seen her suffer. One too many
times she'd reach out and call for his help before she slowly faded
and he awoke in a sweat. Last night was different. Last night her
surroundings weren't so foggy. This time he recognized Saint
Basil's cathedral behind her, staring down at him as if to tell him
she was hiding within.

He watched a shadow as it moved along the
stone walls of the church and closer to his own heavy heart. The
restless voices in his head were almost a comfort to the vow of
silence that was strictly enforced inside these holy walls from
dawn until dusk. He wondered how his uncle, Brother Ruford, could
endure the life of a monk. Ruford was the last living male Blake
besides Corbett. A waste as far as he could see. But the man wasn't
cut out to be a warrior and Corbett knew inside the monastery's
walls was the only place for such a gentle man. Now it was on
Corbett's shoulders to carry on the Blake name.

The gliding shadow descended upon him. With
a flap of wings, a large raven landed with practiced stealth and
made its perch upon his arm. Several monks with scrolls in hand
walked the cloistered pathways, scattering out of sight and
blessing themselves at the sight of his scavenger bird.

The bells continued to chime as he made his
way to the little shack that lay concealed inside the monastery
behind walls of its own. She had to be hiding in there. It was the
only place he hadn't gone since he ruled as Lord of Steepleton. And
the old midwife had to be a part of it all somehow. He could just
feel it was true.

Corbett turned his head slightly toward the
bird on his arm. "Let's go get her, shall we?"

The bells of St. Basil's were ringing when
morning mass was already finished and mid-day prayers didn't start
for hours. Devon knew this could only mean one thing. Someone of
importance had entered the monastery's walls.

She dropped her basket of herbs and gathered
up her cotehardie, running to the old garden wall. Climbing the
trellis effortlessly, she poked her head over the top and scanned
the cloistered walkways of the monastery with eager eyes.

Clinging to the twisted vines, she tried to see past
the columns of stone to the front gates, but couldn't. Inwardly,
she cursed the way she'd had to live for the last eight and ten
years. Safe inside the walls of the monastery, yet imprisoned from
the rest of the world.

The clip clop of hooves on the cobblestone
walkways sounding closer, Devon's heart skipped a beat as she
thought of life outside those walls. She thought about the
marvelous sight of Blake Castle in the distance, and wished she
could live like the titled ladies and eat food fit for the king
himself. Even the beggars who waited at the castle's gates for the
discarded trenchers, old stale crusts of bread, had seen more of
the world than she had and even seen what lay inside the castle's
walls.

She saw his slight shadow on the ground in
the late winter sun before he even rounded the corner. It looked to
be a man atop a horse, a bird perched atop his outstretched arm. At
first she guessed the visitor to be a falconer or perhaps a
traveler, as the monastery provided shelter for those who
asked.

The rider emerged and made his way to her
own little hut of wattle and daub. Her heart raced as she saw the
man’s bird was not a falcon at all, but a raven. This was the lord
of Blake Castle, and he rode directly toward her hut as if it were
his intent.

She’d heard descriptions of him from the old
mid-wife Heartha, and some of the monks, but their words did no
justice to his image. The wind blew strands of his long black hair
up into the air, and around his chiseled face. His jaw was set and
his lips firm and sensual. His back straight, he rode with his head
held high. Just as she’d expected a lord to ride.

As he moved closer, she couldn’t help but
notice his brilliant blue eyes shining in the sun. Though they had
a faraway look about them, she couldn’t help but see mystery
beckoning to her as well. His lashes, black as the night, matched
the dark bushy brows dipping slightly as if he were concentrating,
or perhaps thinking of his destination.

She stifled a gasp as he passed by, so close
she could have reached out from the vines that hid her, and touched
him. Her pulse raced at the excitement of being so close to him.
The muscles of his arm rippled beneath his perched raven, and she
could only wonder about the muscles hidden beneath his dark tunic.
She couldn’t help but drink in his physique and the way he filled
out his tight hose as she let her eyes run the length of his long,
sturdy legs. A long black cloak trailed down his back and over his
mount majestically, the hilt of a shining sword at his waist
clearly visible beneath.

Excerpt from
The Dragon and the
Dreamwalker
: Book 1- Fire:

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
were 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.

“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 answered 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.

Excerpt from
Thief of
Olympus
:

(Greek Myth Fantasy Series)

(Lsyandra is an Amazon princess, about to
mate with a chosen man at her coming-of-age ceremony. Zarek is the
King of Thrace, and also an infamous thief.)

One of the women ran a tortoise shell comb
through Lysandra’s long, red hair and gently turned her away from
the fire to meet her chosen mate. The queen stepped forward
clutching the long, oaken hair of a man tightly in her grip. He
struggled against her, but his hands were shackled behind him and
his feet were in chains. A heavy iron collar was clasped around his
neck and several of the Amazons held on to the chains connected to
it.