by Linda Howard
Praise for the Novels of
New York Times Bestselling Author
Linda Howard
“An incredibly talented writer… Linda Howard knows what romance readers want, and dares to be different.”
—Affaire de Coeur
SHADES OF TWILIGHT
“Linda Howard’s newest sizzler…. Ms. Howard is an extraordinary talent…. [Her] unforgettable novels [are] richly flavored with scintillating sensuality and high-voltage suspense.”
—Jill M. Smith, Romantic Times
“Wow! This powerful saga about a wealthy dynasty that is torn apart by a vicious murder will chill, thrill, and excite you… [a] tale of lust, greed, and revenge…. that will leave you staggered and extremely satisfied. Linda Howard never fails to create a story that will shock, amaze, and warm you with its gifted touch. This is a passion-filled masterpiece.”
—Rendezvous
“Family, loyalty, love, sex and revenge steam up the pages…. Howard… maintain[s] tension through a twist-filled plot.”
—Publishers Weekly
AFTER THE NIGHT
“A real southern scorcher, this book continues in the author’s tradition of steamy suspense…. The mystery in the story is well-drawn, and it has interesting twists and turns…. Author Howard is a master of sexual tension. The rich setting and the characters’ fully explored histories contribute to build a powerful force of attraction that her characters are helpless to withstand…. Readers should be prepared to spend the entire afternoon under a ceiling fan with a pitcher of cool drinks nearby when they pick up this hot number.”
—Nina Bruhns, Gothic Journal
“Powerful characters, a powerful setting, and an intriguing mystery… After the Night has it all! Linda Howard weaves a spell as dark as a moonless night in the bayous…. Intense romance and mounting tension will keep you up late to finish this one!”
—Annette Carney, The Literary Times
“Small towns are the perfect background for mysterious secrets, and Ms. Howard pens a tale loaded with them. Her sensuous style of writing makes the reader aware of the all-consuming desire between the hero and heroine. Add to this the dramatic climax, and you get extraordinary pleasure from this novel.”
—Rendezvous
“Linda Howard is one of the top authors writing romantic intrigue, and After the Night will only enhance her reputation.”
—Harriet Klausner, Affaire de Coeur
The acclaimed New York Times bestseller!
DREAM MAN
“A contemporary thriller/romance…. sexy, very hard to put down.”
—The Newport Daily News (RI)
“The incomparable Linda Howard brings high-voltage power and hard-edged sensuality to this emotional roller coaster of a novel, which is sure to keep readers riveted until the final nail-biting conclusion. They don’t get much better than this.”
—Jill M. Smith, Romantic Times
“Ms. Howard has wonderful pacing, a good ear for dialogue, and knows how to turn on the steam. Dream Man’s mix of drama, violence, paranormal ability and sex makes it a perfect candidate for a USA Original Picture.”
—Suzanne Kennemer Dent, Birmingham Post-Herald (AL)
“… steamy romance… Hollister makes the perfect romantic hero…. Howard’s writing is compelling, especially the murder scenes.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Linda Howard always writes wonderful contemporary romances…. Keep the romantic tension high by picking up Linda Howard’s stunning romantic suspense novel Dream Man.”
—Heart to Heart (B. Dalton Booksellers)
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To Susan Bailey, my friendly banker who answered all my questions about ATMs, and didn’t accuse me of planning a robbery—thanks.
“How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!”
—Isaiah, 14:12
Contents
* * *
Part One: Grace
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part Two: Niall
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part One
Grace
Prologue
December 1307
France
THE STONE WALLS OF THE SECRET UNDERGROUND CHAMBER were cold and dank, the chill penetrating wool and linen and leather, going straight to the bone. Two smoking torches provided the only illumination, and too little heat to make any difference. The pair of men revealed by the flickering light paid no attention to the cold, however, for such discomfort was of small matter.
The first man was standing, the other kneeling before him in a posture that should have been submissive, had it not been obvious that such an attitude was alien to that proud head, those broad shoulders. The man who was standing looked frail in contrast with the vitality of the other, and in fact the kneeling man’s head was level with the chest of the first. Valcour was, indeed, frail in comparison to the warrior he had once been, and to the man who knelt before him, but age and despair had taken their toll. He was fifty-one, long past the age of vigor. His hair and beard were more gray than brown, his thin face lined from the burdens he had endured. It was time to pass along the responsibility, the duty, that had been his for all these long years. They would be safe with this fierce young lion, he thought. There was no better warrior in the Order, which was the same as saying there was no better warrior in Christendom, for they were—had been—a brotherhood of warriors, the best of the best, the cream skimmed from Europe’s battlefields and tourneys.
No more.
Just two months past, on Friday, the thirteenth of October in this year of Our Lord 1307, a day that would surely be remembered through the ages as a day of darkness, Philip IV of France and his puppet, Pope Clement V, had given in to their greed and in one fell swoop effected the destruction of the greatest military order ever to exist: the Knights of the Temple. Some of the brethren had escaped, but others had already died horrible deaths, and more deaths would follow as those captured refused to recant their beliefs.
The Grand Master had received mere moments of warning, and had chosen to use those moments to secure the safety of the Treasure rather than of himself. Perhaps Jacques de Molay had sensed the approach of catastrophe, for he had already spoken with Valcour several times about keeping their enormous fleet of ships out of Philip’s hands, but above all his concern, and that of the great warrior Geoffroy de Charnay, had been the safekeeping of the Treasure. After long hours of consideration the Guardian had been chosen: the true and fierce warrior, Niall of Scotland. He had been chosen very carefully, not just for his prowess with a sword, which was unrivaled, but for the protection that came with his very name. The Treasure would be safe in Scotland.
The Grand Master hadn’t been certain his c
hoice was the correct one, even given Niall’s connections. There was something untamed and ruthless about the Scot, despite his unswerving loyalty to God and the Brotherhood, and the oaths he had sworn to both. Some of those oaths had been given unwillingly, the Grand Master was certain, especially the oath of chastity. Niall had been forced into the Brotherhood, for of course a monk could never be king; a king must have at least the possibility of children, for kingdoms were built on continuity. His illegitimacy should have been an unsurmountable barrier, but even at a young age Niall had been tall and proud, intelligent, cunning, ruthless, a born leader; in short, he had all the characteristics of a great king. The choices had been simple: kill him, or make it impossible for him to be king. Niall was loved by his father and half-brother, so there had really been no choice. The young man would be a servant of God.
It was a master stroke. Should Niall renounce his vows to the Temple, that too would render him unacceptable for the crown, for he would be dishonored. No, putting young Niall into the protection of the Temple had at once saved his life and now and forever removed him from consideration for the Scots throne—such as it was.
But if Niall had been unsuited for the life of a monk, he had been perfectly suited for that of a warrior. He had taken his lust for female flesh and turned it into fierceness on the battlefield, and if his eyes sometimes lingered overlong on that which was forbidden to him, still, to the Grand Master’s sure knowledge he had never broken his vows. He was a man of his word.
That, and his fighting ability, was what had finally convinced de Charnay to choose Niall as the next Guardian, and though the Grand Master was the head of the Order, de Charnay was undoubtedly the most powerful Knight. Moreover, de Charnay had borne the responsibility for the safety of the Treasure for many years, and his was the final say. His choice was Niall of Scotland, and Valcour agreed wholeheartedly. The Scot would safeguard the Treasure with his life.
“Take them,” Valcour whispered now to that bent black head, feeling the younger man’s bitter rage and knowing no way to ease it. “No matter what happens, the Treasure must never fall into the hands of others. The Brotherhood has devoted itself to the protection of our God and His followers, and we must not falter in our duty.”
The cold stone floor was hard beneath Niall’s knees, but he scarcely noticed it. His thick black hair, cut short as was required, gleamed with sweat despite the chill of the underground chamber. Steam drifted from his body. Slowly he lifted his head, his eyes stark, and as black as night with bitterness. “Even now?” he asked, the bite of betrayal in the deep, softly burred tones of his voice.
Valcour smiled thinly. “Especially now. We serve God, not Rome. Methinks the Holy Father has forgotten there is a difference.”
“The concept should come easily to him,” Niall all but snarled. “He does not serve God, but rather licks Philip’s arse every time the king presents it.” His night-dark gaze wandered over the collection of artifacts that had been spirited out of the Temple in Jerusalem more than a century before. He studied them, and felt his bitterness growing. Good men had died horrible deaths protecting these… things. The King of France and the Holy Father were so intent on stripping the Order of its more earthly treasures, of gold and silver, but the Brotherhood’s secretiveness centered around these things rather than mere gold. Oh, there was gold aplenty—Niall had it. But its only purpose was to provide for the safekeeping of the real Treasure, this disturbing and powerful group of-
Things. A cup, plain and scarred. A shroud, with its secrets embedded in the very fabric. A throne, unsettling and pagan—or was it? A banner, rich and compelling despite its age, reputed to hold strange powers in its frayed threads. And an ancient text, written in a mixture of Hebrew and Greek, which told of a secret, and of a power beyond belief.
“I could go back,” Niall said, thinking of the text. He lifted his merciless warrior’s gaze to Valcour. “Both Philip and Clement could fall under my sword, and this could be undone as if it never was, and our brothers would live.”
“Nay,” said Valcour. His face had the drawn, exalted look of someone who has gone beyond horror, beyond fatigue. “We must not risk discovery for our own sakes. Only for the sake of God may the secret be used.”
“Is there a God?” Niall asked bitterly. “Or are we but fools?”
Valcour’s thin, bloodless hand lifted, gently touched Niall’s head in both a benediction and a restraint. He felt the steamy heat emanating from the warrior’s muscled body, for Niall had just discarded his helm and still wore heavy armor. Would that he had a fraction of Niall’s great strength, Valcour thought tiredly. The Scot was like iron, neither breaking nor wearing down no matter the hardships he faced. His sword arm was tireless, his will unswerving. There was no greater warrior in the Lord’s service than this formidable Scot with royal blood running through his bastard veins. Not just noble, but royal. ’Twas that blood that had won him entrance into the Order, for legitimacy was a requirement. Wisely, the Grand Master had decided that, in this case, blood ties were more important than rules.
And because of that blood, Niall would be protected. Clement would not be able to lay his bloody, greedy hands on the Scot, for he would be safe in his homeland, among the craggy mountains of the Highlands.
“We believe,” Valcour finally said, in simple response to Niall’s question. “And, believing, we’ve sworn our lives to protect. You are released from all your other vows, but on the blood of your brothers, you must swear to devote your life to the guardianship of these holy relics.”
“I swear,” Niall said fiercely. “But for them. Never again for Him.”
Valcour’s eyes were troubled. Loss of faith was a terrible thing—and a common one, in these days of horror. More men would lose their faith, or their lives. Not all Brothers had remained true; some of them had turned their backs on the Order, and the God, they had served so faithfully but who had allowed this ungodly thing to happen to them. Friends, brothers, had been tortured, dismembered, burned at the stake, the Order shattered—all for the love of gold. It was difficult to believe in anything except betrayal, and vengeance.
And yet Valcour tried to keep a small, central pan of himself pure, to keep his belief enshrined there, for without belief there was nothing. If he didn’t believe, then he had to accept that so many good men had died in vain, and that he could not do, could not live with. So, because the alternative was so unbearable, he believed. He wished Niall could have that comfort, but the Scot was too uncompromising, his warrior’s heart seeing only black and white. He had been on too many battlefields where the choices were simple: kill, or be killed. Valcour had fought for the Lord, but he had never been the soldier Niall was. The heat of battle did tend to make one’s vision very clear, to distill life down to the simplest of choices.
The Order needed Niall, to fulfill its greatest, most secret vow. The Brotherhood was at an end, at least in this incarnation, but its sacred duty would continue, and Niall was the chosen protector.
“For whatever reason, then,” Valcour murmured. “Guard them well, for they are the true treasures of our Lord. Should they fall into the hands of evil, then the blood of our brothers will have been shed in vain. So shall it be, then: if not for Him, for them.”
“With my life,” said Niall of Scotland.
December 1309
Creag Dhu, Scotland
“Three more Knights have found their way here since last you visited,” Niall murmured to his brother as the two men sat before a crackling fire in Niall’s private chamber. A tall, thick tallow candle sat on the table where they had recently filled their bellies, its flame adding to the golden glow of the hearth fire. Except for that, the chamber was in shadows, and delightfully warm. No drafts crept through the stone walls to stir the air with icy breaths; the cracks and crevices had been carefully daubed with clay, and the tapestries were thick and heavy. The door to Niall’s chamber was stout, and securely barred. For all that, the two men kept their voices low, an
d spoke in French, so that if they were somehow overheard they wouldn’t be understood. None of the Scots servants spoke the language; most of the nobility did, but here in this impregnable fortress, in a remote corner of the Highlands, they had only the servants and men-at-arms with whom they had to concern themselves.
Both held heavy goblets filled with fine French wine, and now Robert sipped his in contemplation. He had seated himself in a huge, carved wooden chair, while Niall had drawn up a heavy bench and placed it at an angle to the fire, so that he faced his visitor rather than the flames. Robert watched the dancing flames as he drank his wine; when he glanced back at Niall, it took a moment for his vision to adjust, and suddenly he realized that was why Niall had placed the bench as he had. Even here, in his own castle, secure in his own chamber with his brother, Niall’s instincts were those of a warrior and he had protected his vision. Should an enemy somehow take him unawares, he would not be hampered by limited sight.
The realization made Robert’s mouth curl wryly. After years of battle with the English, he too had learned to protect his night vision, but here in this safe place he had allowed himself to relax. Not so Niall. He never relaxed; he was eternally vigilant.
“Have any of the Knights sought other refuge?”
“Nay. They remain here, for there is no other certain refuge. Yet they know they must go, soon, or by their very number they could bring to Creag Dhu the attention they wish to avoid.” Niall’s black gaze was piercing as he stared at his brother. “I have not asked for myself, for I have no wish to add to your troubles, but for them I must know: do you intend to enforce Clement’s edict against us?”
Stung, Robert drew back. “Ye ask that!” he growled, angered enough to speak in Gaelic, but Niall’s gaze didn’t waver and after a moment he reined in his temper.
