http://KarpovKinrade.com
http://HeatherHildenbrand.com
Copyright © 2019 Karpov Kinrade & Heather Hildenbrand
Cover Art Copyright © 2020 Karpov Kinrade
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Published by Daring Books
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First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-939559-05-0
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Book License Notes
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Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10—Epilogue
TEASER: Forever Bound by Karpov Kinrade
TEASER: Midnight Mate by Heather Hildenbrand
About Heather Hildenbrand
About Karpov Kinrade
Also by Heather Hildenbrand
Also by Karpov Kinrade
Chapter 1
The first rule of banditry is this: people see what they want to see, and it's our job to use those prejudices against them.
When men see me, they don't see a champion archer and swordsperson trained by the most elite--if unexpected--tutors in the world. No. They see a young woman of delicate beauty, with long wavy dark hair and eyes the color of sapphires. Which means I have an advantage when I wave a carriage down that’s traveling along the bumpy road. I limp as if in need of help, my dress just disheveled enough to suggest a level of distress that is neither too minimal for my target to bother with, nor too excessive that I seem more costly a pursuit than I'm worth.
The Jolly Jesters, my hodgepodge family cobbled together through time and trials, are in place. It is now my turn to perform. I'm not sure which I enjoy most--the acting or the fighting. Both give me a thrill unparalleled by anything else. I never would have thought I would love being an outlaw when I began this life nearly ten years ago. But, for good or for ill, the fates have a way of dragging us into the lives we were meant for, even if they are not the lives we were born to.
I give one more ruffle to my hair and bite my lips to make them extra red, then stumble into the dirt road as I hear horses clomping just around the bend.
The driver slows as they approach me, and I school my face into the appearance of an innocent and desperate damsel.
I study the carriage to first make sure this is a worthy target. We never shoot too high or too low. The upper middle class is the safest place to be, targeting those who are wealthy enough they can afford to lose some, and are likely also corrupt enough that my conscience--what little remains, Sharon would say--is eased. But not so high up that we paint an even larger bullseye on ourselves. Most of our marks are human, which makes this easier but also keeps the creatures with power from looking too closely at me.
This particular target seems to fit the bill perfectly. The carriage is lacquered to a bright shine and painted in rich emerald and silver--silver, not gold. Which means it belongs to a baron or well-ranking knight or lord, someone who services the false king in his evil reign, but isn't a direct member of the royal family. They're off limits, for now at least.
Quickly determining this is the right target--enough gain with minimal risk--I set the plan in motion. With a grace born of hard training, I fall to the ground, clutching my ankle, and lifting my skirt just enough so that some skin is visible, but not so much that my weapons can be seen.
As expected, the carriage stops, the driver peering down at me with tiny eyes set over a sharp nose. "What has befallen you, Miss?" he asks in a voice several octaves higher than expected by the look of him.
"I was out riding and got thrown when my horse spooked," I say, wincing ever so gently, as if I'm desperately trying to cover my pain. "I fear I've twisted my ankle," I finish, a single tear welling and spilling over my cheek on command.
The driver leans back to confer with his passenger, and a moment later, the door to the carriage opens and the man who steps out momentarily stuns me. I quickly cover my shock, but I do not stop studying him.
He's tall, at least a head taller than myself, with hair the color of ink, pulled back at the nape of his neck in a leather strap and exposing the delicate tips of his pointed ears.
Not human then.
Our risk factor just shot up, and yet, I am too caught in the look of him to let the danger rile me.
His eyes are silver--not light blue, but genuine silver--and seem to glow in the settling dusk of twilight. His skin is cut like the finest marble, smooth and flawless, with a chiseled jawline, a dimpled chin and high cheekbones. He's unlike any baron or knight or lord I've ever seen. Human or not, I've never seen anyone more beautiful. Dammit woman, get your head on straight. This man is a dark fae. He's everything me and my troupe are fundamentally opposed to. I'm at war with his kind. He’s the reason the light fae have been driven from this land, leaving only the cruel rulers and the humans who serve them--at will and for profit, or by force and for scraps. Mentally smacking myself, I school my face until I am once again merely an injured woman on the side of the road.
As he approaches me, his hand out, I offer mine. "Thank you, kind sir. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come along when you did."
His gaze locks with mine, and I suck in a breath as I stumble into the depths of his eyes. Alarmed by my out of character reaction, I pull my hand from his just as our fingertips brush.
"Forgive me," I say, turning my face away, "but I hope I'm not being an imposition." Inwardly I cringe. May the three-faced goddess forgive me for acting such a fool.
Sharon would laugh outright if she saw me now.
"Not at all," the man says, his voice deep and cultured. "I am..." he pauses, cocking his head. "I am Lord Tyler," he says, finally. "Allow me to escort you to your home. Surely you cannot walk in this condition."
I nod shyly, allowing a loose curl of hair to fall over my eyes. He grasps my hand and an electric thrill runs through my arm at the touch. I look up at him and notice his eyes widen. Did he feel it too?
No matter. Whatever this is, it's a distraction I don't need.
As he pulls me to standing, I stumble, falling against his broad, muscular chest. He doesn't notice when my hand slips into his pocket and pulls out the parchment I’d hoped would be there.
"Goodness, I'm so sorry," I say, righting myself. "I am so worried about my horse. Let me try calling for her one more time."
I whistle in the way I know will bring Starlight to my side quickly. When she arrives within moments, the man raises an eyebrow. "It would appear she didn't get far at all," he says.
"It would appear." I pull from his support and fling myself onto my horse with ease, not bothering to ride like a lady at all. "So sorry for the trouble. T
hank you again for your help."
I don't bother waiting for a response. Instead, I turn and take off down the road, giving one short and two longer bird calls to let the Jolly Jesters know the mission is accomplished.
I didn't get to fight this time, more's the pity, but we weren't going for silver, gold or gems like usual. I pat my pocket and smile. No, our prize is much grander.
Sarge and the others aren’t far behind and with their signal letting me know all is well, I press on, too excited to wait for them.
By the time I arrive back at our campsite, everyone else has already settled in for the night. There's a general sense of cheer as I ride in and dismount, rubbing Starlight down and feeding her before I join my people. I take a wooden bowl and serve myself some stew still boiling over the fire pit. I let the heat of it warm my face as Sharon walks over, wiping hands on the apron tied around her generous hips.
"And did ya get what you aimed for, M'Lady?" she asks, looking me up and down, checking for wounds as always.
"Hush you. You know not to call me that."
She rolls her eyes. "Very well, M'Lady Kate," she says with an exaggerated drawl.
"That's no better and you know it. Why must you insist on vexing me so?" I say, quoting her own words thrown at me all my life back at her. Then I pull out the parchment scroll and hand it to her. "Got it. We had to shake down five carriages before I found someone carrying their invitation."
She studies the words inked onto the thick parchment and smiles. "And any trouble to speak of?"
I widen my eyes in the epitome of innocence. "Would I cause you any trouble?" I ask.
“Your act doesn’t work on me, girl.” She scowls at me and swats my arm with the scroll, and I laugh.
"No trouble. Just a few men with stories to tell of the helpless lady they rescued from the clutches of the lawless road."
Sharon snorts. "If you're helpless, I'm the Queen of Zyndale!"
I cock my head. "Close enough," I whisper, all seriousness.
For that, I get another whack. "Nothing of the sort and you shush about all that."
Sharon hands me back the scroll and scoots me off to eat. I take a seat on a log around the fire as a small boy twelve years of age, though he looks no more than nine, claims the seat beside me. "Mistress Kate! You're back!"
I smile and ruffle his dark mop of hair. "Did you keep watch like I taught you, Tunk?" I ask.
He grins and shakes his head, his hazel eyes serious. "Scanned the perimeter, made no noise, practiced the different bird calls," he says, ticking off the list of things on his fingers.
"And?" I prompt.
He bites his lower lip. "And! I left a gift to the wood fairies to bless our bounty."
I nod. "Job well done."
He beams and runs off to grab his own food. I take the moment to myself to study our camp. There are twelve of us total, not counting the animals and Tunk. A baker's dozen Sharon calls us, ever since we took on Tunk six months ago. Poor kid was nearly starved to death, left on the side of the road with flies buzzing around him when we stumbled upon him. We have a pretty strict rule against kids in the Jolly Jesters. We might have a good cover as a traveling theater troupe, but our true work is not for the likes of little ones.
Tunk was the exception to the rule, and one I don't regret. The rest of my band came one at a time, over the years--humans cast aside for one reason or another but who never lost their spirit. A jolly lot of jesters we were, thus our name. Only Sharon, Sarge and I have been together since the beginning.
Or...since the end.
Depending on how you look at it.
I take out the scroll and unroll it, now that I finally have time to read it.
Here ye, here ye
You have been cordially invited to the Royal Ball
where the Prince of Zyndale, heir to his father's throne,
will choose a wife and future queen.
Long Live the King.
Long live him, indeed. I grimace and return the paper to my pocket. The king may think he's planning his future, but this ball will be his undoing. He is a false king, a tyrant who stole the crown from the rightful rulers of Zyndale, and I will make sure he pays for his crimes if it’s the last thing I do.
I'm just finishing up my bowl of stew and cup of mead when our warning bell clangs three times.
I stand, setting aside what remains of my dinner. "Report!" I holler, as everyone around me scrambles for weapons.
"An intruder, Mistress," Tunk says, breathlessly. The boy always seems to be in the thick of things, no matter what I do to shield him.
Someone hands me my bow and arrow, another hands me my sword and belt. I shrug off the gown I was wearing to reveal leggings and a loose blouse that exposes the leather bracer on my left arm. I clasp the sword belt around my waist, then nock an arrow in my bow, prepared for what may come.
Tunk, who disappeared after delivering his message, reappears a moment later. "The twins have caught him," he says, eyes wide with excitement. "They're bringing him now."
I nod and raise my bow to point in the direction I know they will come from.
Lyra, a tall blonde woman, lithe and strong, and her twin brother, Lent, drag a man through the woods, his head covered in a dark bag.
"By the three-faced Goddess, what do we have here?" I ask, not dropping my stance.
The man is thrust to his knees without ceremony. "Caught him in the northern stretch of the woods snooping," Lyra says gruffly.
Lent nods. "He wasn't no hunter, neither. Look at how dandy he is."
I've already noticed the man's fine outfit, his silk and velvet and polished shoes. But that's not what worries me. What worries me is how familiar his jacket is.
I grimace, knowing the face I'm going to see when the hood is removed, but it must be done.
I nod to the twins, and they yank off the hood.
The man blinks, then stares at me with silver eyes that seem to glow in the moonlight. I expect him to be angry. Furious even.
Instead, he smirks at me, like this had been his plan all along. "Hello, there," he says, like we're meeting on a picnic and he isn't my prisoner with an arrow aimed at his heart. "I was hoping to see you again."
"What are you doing here, Lord Tyler?"
Chapter 2
I can sense the surprise from my troupe, but none question how I know the stranger. They know better than to say too much in front of an outsider.
“Your injury gave me cause for concern so I followed you to be sure you arrived home safely.” He looks down at my ankle, a smirk curving his attractive mouth. “I can see you’ve experienced a miraculous recovery.”
Despite being restrained and surrounded, weapons aimed at his heart, he looks surprisingly unconcerned with his own safety.
“Yes, I’m feeling much better now,” I say, trying to think of a valid explanation for what he can clearly see is not a lady in distress.
“And so well prepared for intruders.”
There’s more laughter in his voice now, and my temper burns hot at his teasing. Even so, I have to calm my racing pulse at the way his silver eyes dance up at me from where he kneels on the hard ground. To have him kneeling before me, alone, skin bared…
I shake the thoughts away, concentrating again on the moment--and the threat he represents to my people.
“Your concern is touching but, as you can see, I’m well cared for.” I nod at the men and women at my back who are ready to kill for me if I give the order.
Let him make of that what he will.
His lips twitch. “Yes, it would seem you are.”
Our eyes lock and, just like earlier, I am lost in the silvery depths of his. Everything about him screams “enemy” but, try as I might, I cannot get my heart to accept the danger he represents. Instead, my pulse races and my hands twitch with the urge to reach over and smooth back the lock of hair that’s come loose from the leather binding.
The silence between us stretches until someone
clears their throat.
Sharon.
Goddess, I’ve made a fool of myself with him. Again.
Blinking, I tear my attention from the dark fae at my feet and glance at the others. Their expressions range from amusement to reproach, and I can’t blame them for it. There’s no mistaking the pointed ears and silver eyes. But it’s the dark mark on the inside of his wrist that marks him as our enemy.
“Mistress, what shall we do with him?” Lent asks, eyeing the prisoner with a look of disdain.
I sigh, knowing full well what Lent wants me to say. But killing isn’t something I’ve ever condoned. Not even when it comes to the dark fae. If we did that, we’d be no better than the king.
“Tie him to a tree and break camp,” I say finally, bringing on a rumble of murmurs from the troupe.
“Mistress,” Lent begins, but I cut him off, weary of the stranger and what his appearance has cost us.
“Do it,” I snap. And then to Lyra, “When we’ve gotten clear, send a message to the village so they know where to find him.”
Lyra nods and, together with Lent, they yank Lord Tyler to his feet and drag him to the large tree along the edge of our camp. I watch as they begin binding him until the need to make my own preparations pulls me away.
Moving camp is an exhausting process and not one I wanted to do before the ball, but there’s no choice now. Lord Tyler has cost us valuable time. I remind myself of that while I work--and try hard not to glance his way. But I feel his gaze on me as I move through the gathering to check on the readiness of my troupe.
“Mistress.” Lyra pulls me aside, out of sight of the prisoner. Concern lines her brow and she lowers her voice to ask, “Is it wise to . . . leave him alive?”
The Spring Witch (Season of the Witch Book 2) Page 1
