by Lara Adrian
KISS OF CRIMSON
MIDNIGHT AWAKENING
MIDNIGHT RISING
VEIL OF MIDNIGHT
ASHES OF MIDNIGHT
SHADES OF MIDNIGHT
TAKEN BY MIDNIGHT
DEEPER THAN MIDNIGHT
A TASTE OF MIDNIGHT (ebook novella)
DARKER AFTER MIDNIGHT
EDGE OF DAWN (tba 2013)
. . . and more to come!
~*~
THE DRAGON CHALICE SERIES
(Paranormal, historical adventure romance)
HEART OF THE HUNTER (Book 1)
Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award Winner
Romance Writers of America RITA Finalist
“Passion, danger and a bit of mysticism all come together brilliantly in the bewitching Dragon Chalice medieval paranormal series.”
–Booklist
Ariana of Clairmont would risk anything to save her kidnapped brother, a quest she knows is fraught with peril. Her only ally is Braedon le Chasseur, a formidable knight with a mysterious past, whose scarred face and brooding nature mask a soul filled with pain. Ariana fears this dangerous man and the secrets he strives to conceal--but Braedon’s touch is pure seduction, his kiss a potent lure that tempts her into a passion she is powerless to resist.
Once known as The Hunter, now haunted by a dark legacy he struggles to deny, Braedon lives in a world of shadow and isolation--until he is thrust together with an innocent beauty in need of his protection. Embarking on a journey that will lead them to a legendary treasure, Braedon will be forced to confront old enemies and the stunning secret of his true nature--or risk losing Ariana and the only happiness he has ever known. . . .
~*~
EXCERPT
"You didn't tell me you owned a ship."
Braedon unlashed one of the lines on his cog and turned to find Ariana of Clairmont standing behind him on the wharf, regarding him in stormy accusation. He was not surprised to see her there; he had heard the terse clip of boots on the dock as she approached, but his instincts had told him it was her even before her light gait and the angry swish of her skirts and long cloak gave her away.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He threw her a brief, dark scowl. "You didn't ask."
His curt tone should have been enough to dismiss her, but to her credit and his dismay, she remained firmly planted where she stood, hands fisted on her hips, brow pinched in haughty offense. Her departure from Rob and Peg's house must have been hasty. Her unbound, sleep-rumpled blond hair tumbled around her shoulders, devoid of hat and crispinette. The pale delicate strands lifted in the morning breeze that blew in off the river. Her cheeks were flushed pink, but Braedon suspected their color had more to do with her ire than the chill mist of the dawning morn. She had the look of a woman who would stand firm through the most brutal tempest, and for a moment--just a moment--Braedon found himself admiring her tenacity.
"Go back to Rob and Peg's, if you have any sense. The docks will be alive with men soon, and you don't belong down here."
"I'm not leaving until you hear me out."
"Why does that not surprise me," he groused, not quite under his breath. "Move on, demoiselle, before you invite more trouble for yourself."
She moved, but only to take a step toward him. "I want you to take me to France."
He laughed aloud and gave her his back while he continued to work on readying the ship to depart. "Out of the question."
"Why?"
"Because you will no doubt be more bother than you are worth. This isn't a royal pleasure barge, my lady, it's a working vessel. And even if I were inclined to take on a passenger, the last place I would take one is to France."
"Oh? Why, have you left a string of broken-hearted women there?"
He chuckled wryly and tied off the cog's single sail with a harsh tug. "I gather you've been talking to Peg."
"She told me I should keep my distance of you. She said you can't be counted on, that you leave people just when they need you most."
Braedon rounded on her, ready to challenge that charge. He thought better of it, however, and caught himself before he was pricked into defending his old, tattered honor. He came around the thick wooden mast and leveled a hard stare on the girl. "If she said all of that, and you believe her, then why are you here?"
"I told you. I need your help."
"I have helped you," he replied. "If you didn't want what I offered, that's not my concern. My obligation to you--such as it was--is done."
She let out an affronted little gasp, her footfalls clipping behind him on the planks of the dock as he stalked away from her to check one of his cargo nets. "You stole my passage money and left me at the mercy of strangers whom I know nothing about, and now here you are, preparing to sail off without a care in the world for stranding me with no options whatsoever. You are despicable."
Her barb stung him more than he wanted to give credit, but he cast off the insult with a shake of his head and an exhaled curse. "You were safe enough with Rob. He is an honorable man. He would have made sure you got back to Clairmont in one piece." He felt the corner of his lip curl as he glanced up and met her indignant glare. "And I didn't steal your money, either."
"You most certainly did, no matter what you choose to call it. That purse belonged to me, not Monsieur Ferrand. And not you, sirrah."
He threw the web of rope netting down at his feet. "You are quite quick to judge me, demoiselle."
"If I am," she replied with a haughty toss of her head, "'tis only because you betrayed yourself immediately and continue to prove yourself a scoundrel the longer I see you. You, sir, are as wicked as you look."
Provoked beyond toleration, he stalked toward her then, advancing to where she stood on the wharf, chin held high, fists clenched at her sides. "You judge only what you plainly see. Is that so, Ariana of Clairmont?"
That stubborn chin climbed up a notch. "Yes."
"Then why don't you have a look in that satchel of yours and tell me what you see."
Braedon found a perverse measure of amusement in her sudden look of confusion, in the wary frown that put a crease of apprehension in her smooth white forehead. "What do you know about this?" she demanded, protectively clutching at the large, fat leather pouch and holding it to her as if she feared he might steal that, too. She unhooked the thong and toggle that held it closed, her fingers trembling in her haste to check the contents. "If you took anything from within here, I swear, I will...oh."
She reached in and withdrew the small coin purse from where Braedon had placed it in the moments before he left Rob and Peg's a short few hours ago. A flush of color filled her cheeks.
"Satisfied?" He arched a brow to make his point. "Now, if you'll excuse me. As you can see, I have work to do here."
He pivoted to dismiss her bodily and heard the jingle of coins behind him. "I can pay you."
"I know how much you have in that bag, Ariana. You can't afford me." He threw a knowingly arrogant glance over his shoulder. "Besides, if I needed your money, I'd have kept your purse."
"Fine," she replied. "If that is how you feel."
"It is." He stared, unblinking, waiting for her to absorb his refusal. "Now, run along, demoiselle. The tide is in, and I'd like not to be delayed any longer with pointless conversation."
Giving his back to her for what he hoped was a final time, he continued with the last checks of his vessel. He listened for a muttered curse or a huff of frustration. For the angry, staccato clip of boots retreating up the dock in defeat. He heard no such thing. Only the lengthy pause of contemplation--the persistent, almost audible turning of a stubborn female mind--assailing him from behind. Her gaze needled the back of his head like tiny daggers.
God's blood. He would not turn around and invite further argument. He owed the chit nothing. He would not give her the slightest concession in this--
"Very well," she said. "If my coin is of no value to you, and honor does not compel you to help me, then let us make a different bargain.
There must be something else you might accept in exchange for my passage..."
Try as he may to remain unaffected by the woman, her suggestion halted him where he stood. Cocking his head, he slowly swung back around to face her. She was nervous now, her slender fingers fidgeting with the furred edge of her mantle. A flush of pink filled her cheeks and she quickly glanced down, averting his gaze.
"What do you propose?"
She seemed reluctant to meet his gaze in that moment--an innocent, there could be no doubting that fact, despite the sensual implication in her blurted offer. Without looking at him, she said, "Name your price...and I will pay it."
Tossing down the end of the rope he had been coiling, Braedon crossed the deck of the cog and leapt down onto the wharf. He strode up to Ariana, leaving not a half-pace between them, and grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He tilted her face up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "What exactly is it that you suggest to bargain with, demoiselle?"
Wide blue eyes flicked up uncertainly, then down again, shuttered by a sweep of her long lashes. She squirmed, turning her head away from him. Her voice stammered when she finally found it, wobbling just above a whisper. "I...I think you take my meaning. Do not make me say it."
Braedon grunted low in his throat, a predatory sound of pure male interest that should have scared her off like a frightened hare. "If you cannot say it, Lady Ariana, then how do you intend to do it?"
She swallowed hard, but that guileless gaze lifted once more and met his steady stare. "I told you. Name your price. Just...say you'll do this for me. Take me to France. Please."
As he contemplated the sensual allure of her mouth, those lush pink lips that seemed so ripe for kissing, he wondered if he ought to test her, right then and there. Her scent--a mix of trepidation and stubborn resolve--drew him closer, heightening his body's awareness of her. All that was male in him, all that was untamed and animal, went taut with anticipation.
"You are that intent on reaching the Continent," he challenged, his voice a soft growl, his breath steaming in the scant space between them. "Are you that determined to see your brother?"
She stared up at him in mute silence, her foolish tongue no doubt paralyzed by the weight of the bargain she was on the verge of striking. But there was no need for her to answer his question. Braedon could see the truth of it in her eyes. The determination, the desperation.
The stark, quivering fear.
Testing her, he reached up and touched her cheek, letting his fingers sift through the silky tendrils of her hair. She scarcely flinched at the contact. Only the slightest tremor of her indrawn breath, and the sudden skitter of her pulse beneath his fingertips as they curled around her nape, betrayed her anxiety at his touch. She held herself very still, her eyes on his as he gradually pulled her to him.
His desire thrummed as their bodies came together. At the feel of her pressed so deliciously against his thighs and abdomen, his sex stirred, his arousal swift and complete. She had to feel his interest, no doubt she saw it in his hungry gaze, in the flaring of his nostrils as he greedily breathed her in. Innocent or nay, she was old enough to know what he was about in that moment. She was far too clever not to understand what she encouraged with her rash offer. Yet she did not shriek in virginal terror or make the slightest effort to pull away.
He didn't know whether to be elated or dismayed.
Irritated, he decided, realizing just now that she truly was that desperate to reach France. Desperate enough to consider giving herself to a virtual stranger--a ruthless, dangerous man, Braedon acknowledged wryly, who would be all too willing to collect on the debt when the time came.
He might have been tempted to sample some of his boon right there on the dock, if not for the rise of voices coming from farther down the wharf. Lifting his head, he turned his gaze over his shoulder and peered through a swirl of thin morning mist, to where a group of sailors had gathered. The knot of rough-looking men were watching him and the girl.
Ferrand's men.
One of them pointed and gave a shout. The group started running on the man's command, heading straight for Braedon's dock.
"Damn," he cursed, shoving aside his enticing thoughts of a delectable tangle with the lady to thwart this current mayhem. "We have to go, my lady. Now."
He grabbed her by the wrist and turned to haul her onto his ship. To his surprise, she dug her heels in and resisted. "Wait! My horses," she said, shaking her head. "James's mount and mine are stabled back there, near the tavern. I can't leave them. I will need a mount once I reach France."
"Too late for that, demoiselle."
The sailors' shouts grew louder. Footsteps thundered on the wharf. Something whizzed over their heads and lodged in the cog's mast with a dull thwunk!
A crossbow bolt. One of Ferrand's men paused to load another missile, then raised the weapon and let the second bolt fly. Another took up a similar position, leaning against a barrel to prepare a further attack.
"Down!" Braedon shouted to Ariana, bringing her under his arm. Hunched over with her, he ran a couple paces on the dock, pulling them out of the arrow's deadly path. It missed its mark by a hairbreadth and splashed into the icy river. He crouched low and ran to untie the last line, releasing the cog from its slip. "If you're coming with me, demoiselle, come now."
With a shriek, she ran the handful of steps to his ship and gave him her hand to help her up onto the deck. Braedon shoved off from the pier and shifted the cog's wide sail to catch a gust of chilly morning air.
"Stay down," he instructed her, directing her to the forecastle at the head of the cog's deck. The elevated square structure rose up on squat, sturdy beams, one of two small watchtowers at either end of the vessel, which also served as the sole means of protection from the elements. "Stay beneath here," he ordered her. "Don't move until I tell you."
She scrambled into place with a quick nod while Braedon ran for the rudder at the stern. Ferrand's men launched a few more bolts, but the cog caught wind and was already gliding out of range, sailing off into the wide swell of the Thames.
Braedon steered the ship upriver as efficiently as he could, wondering whose head Ferrand wanted more: his, or Lady Mayhem's. He glanced to where she huddled on the foredeck, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them. Her eyes were wild, fixed on him as if waiting for reassurance. Her lush lower lip trembled, caught between the neat white line of her teeth. She was shivering and scared beneath the forecastle, but she was safe.
God help her if she trusted him to keep her that way.
Braedon swore under his breath as he left London in his wake and headed for the estuary that would set him on a course toward the Channel.
Toward France, the place of his birth...very nearly the scene of his demise.
Jesu. What had he gotten himself into?
HEART OF THE HUNTER is available now, wherever ebooks are sold.
~*~
HEART OF THE FLAME (Book 2)
Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award Nominee
“A richly imagined, paranormal-tinged historical . . .
dark, exquisitely sensual and beautifully written.”
–Booklist
Six months in an enemy's dungeon might have broken a weaker man, but former Templar knight Kenrick of Clairmont has emerged from imprisonment with an unyielding determination, and consumed by a single daunting quest: to find the Dragon Chalice, a mystical treasure said to grant its bearer unlimited power. It is a dangerous chase, one that pits Kenrick against foes skilled in dark, deadly arts. But no obstacle will prove more treacherous--nor more seductively lethal--than the fiery beauty called Haven.
Caught up in the battle for the Chalice, Haven survives a night of terror that leaves her wounded and near death. Her memory scorched by fever, Haven awakens to find herself in the care of the forbidding, handsome Kenrick, who offers his protection in return for her alliance. A tenuous trust is formed between them, which soon ignites into a fierce passion
neither can deny. But Haven's memory of her past is slowly beginning to surface, and it will threaten the fragile bond she and Kenrick share--and embroil them in a fight for their very lives. . . .
~*~
EXCERPT
Cornwall, England
May, 1275
He entered the place slowly, his footsteps hesitant now that he had breached the threshold. After so long an absence from his Father's house, he was not at all sure he would be welcome. He doubted he would be heard. But embraced or nay, his heart was heavy, and he knew of nowhere else to lay his burdens. The blame here, however, was wholly his own; he reckoned he would carry that for the rest of his days.
Fine silver spurs rode at the heels of his boots, ticking softly on the smooth stone floor as he advanced, their tinny music the only disturbance of sound in the vacant chamber. Unwarmed, unlit save for the hazy overcast glare that washed in through a high arched window, the vaulted space held the cool stillness of a tomb. Fitting, he thought, his eyes yet burning from the sight that had greeted him upon his arrival.
For a moment, as he reached the end of his path, the knight could only stand there, his limbs leaden from his days of travel, his throat scorched and dry like the bitter chalk of ash.
Golden head bowed, he closed his eyes and sank to his knees on the floor.
"Pater noster, qui es in caelis..."
The prayer fell from his lips by rote, familiar as his own name. Kenrick of Clairmont had said this prayer a thousand times, nay, countless repetitions--a hundred times a day for seven days straight, as was required every time one of his Templar brethren had fallen. Although he was no longer of the Order, he wanted to believe that where his vow was broken, some scrap of his faith might still remain. The prayer he recited now was for a friend and that man's family, for Randwulf of Greycliff and the wife and young son who once lived in this place.
