Heart of the Hunter

by Lara Adrian

  "Not that you would actually know," she said, telling herself it was silly to warm to his idle praise. "From what I have seen of you thus far, I should think you prefer to do everything for yourself. No friends to speak of, no crew...Do you do everything alone?"

  He chuckled as if she'd just made a jest. "Not everything."

  She reached up to offer him the hard leather flask. He crouched down and put out his hand to take it, but instead of grabbing hold of the decanter, his large fingers wrapped around her wrist. "W-what are you doing?"

  "Helping you up."

  Too late to so much as consider refusing him. Braedon's grasp was firm, his arm incredibly strong as he lifted her off the deck. Ariana scrambled to put her feet on the ladder and make the short climb, assisted against her will to the top of the sterncastle platform. The view from topside fair stole her breath.

  Water glistened as far as the eye could see, the rippling black waves dappled silver by the slender moon and glittering stars. There was no horizon hemming them in, no boundaries to this fathomless world. But there was a loneliness here as well. She felt it in the chill wind that buffeted her from all sides, howling in the mast lines and shuddering in the sail. She felt it in the vastness of a world without light, without solid form.

  And, inexplicably, she felt that loneliness in Braedon, too.

  "It must get terribly quiet out here for days by yourself. And dangerous, I would think, to sail a vessel like this on your own."

  He was seated on the bench behind her, his right hand on the rudder while the other held a joint of smoked mutton. He took a bite without answering her, turning his gaze out over the water as he chewed, his eye on a bright star overhead. "I like the quiet."

  "And the danger?"

  "The only danger here is dying, and it isn't much at that, if you don't live in fear of it." The water flask rolled beside him on the bench. He picked it up, pulled the cork, then tipped it to his mouth and drank. "Sit, if you like," he said, indicating the vacant spot on the other side of the rudder. "I'm not going to bite, now that I've got something else to chew on."

  While she did not think it wise to put herself so close to him, Ariana was glad not to be standing any longer. The cold breeze in her face was nice, if blustery, but being so high off the deck was making her feel a bit lightheaded. She plopped down beside him, gracelessly, aided by the sudden rock of the boat as it sliced through a dark wave. He let go of the rudder and reached out to catch her arm, steadying her.

  His touch lingered for a moment, firm and warm. Ariana squirmed beneath the intensity of his gaze, and the warmth of his body so close to hers. She parted her lips to murmur that he could let her go, but he must have read as much in her eyes, for he released her arm and leaned back against the crenellated wall of the sterncastle.

  "What is it about France you don't you like?"

  He gave a mild shrug. "I have nothing against France. Indeed, I was born there."

  "But you never want to return?" To his questioning scowl, she said, "On the docks this morning, you said it was the last place you would go."

  "Actually, I said it was the last place I would take a passenger."

  "Is there a difference?"

  He grunted, clearly becoming annoyed with this line of conversation. Evidently he preferred to be the one asking the questions, not answering them. "Yes," he said. "There's a difference."

  "Does it have something to do with what happened to your friend, Rob?" she pressed, aware that she was prying, but finding herself too curious about him to be completely polite. "Or mayhap it has something to do with what happened to you...your scar?"

  He glared at her and exhaled sharply through his teeth. "You ask a lot of questions, Ariana of Clairmont. I'm beginning to think I preferred your company earlier today."

  "I'm sorry. I was just...talking."

  "I've had enough talking, demoiselle."

  He tilted his head skyward and gently pulled the rudder a fraction to the left. He ignored her for a while, leaving her unsure what to do in the ensuing, uncomfortable silence. Finally, she stood up. "I would be happy to return below now," she said helpfully. "I'm sure you need to concentrate on whatever it is you're doing." She followed the direction of his gaze up toward the stars and frowned. "What are you doing?"

  "Nachtsprung."

  "Knockt--"

  "Night-leaping," he interjected when she made a muddled attempt to say the strange word. "The Norsemen called it nachtsprung when they sailed their ships through the night, using the north star to guide them. They could leap the night and make up time on their voyages."

  She couldn't help but be intrigued. "And that's what we're doing now, night-leaping?"

  He nodded, still watching the sky. "Do you see that star there" --he pointed for her, directing her gaze-- "the bright one, just beyond the tip of the mast?"

  Ariana moved in front of him so she could align her gaze with the place he indicated. "Yes! I see it."

  She was so fascinated with this new knowledge that she scarcely noticed how close she stood to Braedon now, less than a hand's width between them, so close she could feel the warmth of his body permeate the woolen layers of blanket and mantle that encased her. So intrigued was she with the stars and the magic he had just shown her, she all but forgot to be afraid of him.

  Her awareness of him settled in slowly. Almost pleasingly.

  "Using the mast and the north star's position near it, we can sail all night on a due course for France," he told her, his voice low and oddly soothing behind her. Still, she startled when he stood up and took her hand in his.

  "What are you--"

  "Here," he said, placing her fingers around the rudder's handle. "You man the helm for a while. Just watch that star and hold it steady."

  "Oh. No--I couldn't possibly!"

  But he had already let go and she was guiding the ship over the water, feeling the power of the sea tug at the rudder in her hand as the cog carved through the waves. It was exhilarating, the headiest feeling she had ever known. Ariana could not stifle her thrilled little laugh, wondering if this was how the birds felt, soaring above the ground with the wind in their face.

  She wanted to close her eyes and savor the feeling of freedom and power, but she didn't dare look away from the guiding star for a moment. She also realized she hadn't nearly the strength that Braedon possessed, and where he made the task look easy with one hand, Ariana was soon grasping the rudder in both of hers and putting every ounce of concentration on the task.

  Behind her, Braedon shifted, coming closer to her. She felt the weight of the rudder's pull lessen, and realized his hand had come to rest next to hers on the beam. For the longest while, he said nothing. Neither did she, struck mute by the glory of the night as it sped by, and the strange charge that seemed to enliven every particle of her being at the awareness of him standing so near her in the dark.

  A strong wave rocked the cog, and suddenly the distance between them was nil. Ariana stumbled back on her heels and the length of her spine collided with the solid mass of Braedon's chest and thighs. Her face heated in spite of the crisp, chill breeze that nipped her cheeks and brow. She gasped and hastily tried to move away, but managed not even a pace before he caught her around the waist.

  He held her there for a long moment in a silence that seemed to scream a desperate warning through Ariana's mind. But heaven help her, she didn't move. Could scarcely command her thoughts, much less her limbs. Her hair was winging loose in the breeze of the ship's swift pace, blowing about her head in a tangle, baring her neck to his touch. And touch, he did. His fingers sifted through the mass of her hair, so gently, so intimately. He grazed the skin beneath her ear with his knuckles, then down, to the sensitive curve at her shoulder.

  Although it was wrong, dangerous to allow him such liberties, Ariana could only stand there in a dazed brand of wonder. She had never been so close to a man before. Nor should she be now, a prudent voice warned in her head. Certainly not this man, this beni
ghted, solitary soul with the haunted gaze and lethal, warrior's hands. Large, strong hands, that were caressing her with incredible tenderness.

  Slowly, he turned her around to face him. He leaned into her, his nostrils flaring as he drew in a deep breath, scenting her as an animal might size up a mate, ravishing her senses with the mere idea of what he might intend for her--there in the middle of the ocean, with no one around to hear her even if she could find her voice to scream. But screaming seemed the last thing she was capable of doing. She had no breath in her lungs. No strength to shove him away and flee his arms, as she ought to do.

  She parted her lips, though on a feeble protest or gasp of confusion, she wasn't at all sure. Nor did he give her a chance to decide. Threading his warm fingers along her jaw and cheek, he let his hand wander farther, to the nape of her neck and down along the arch of her spine. His gaze stark, glittering in the scant starlight, he pulled her to him and slanted his mouth over hers.

  The first brushing of his lips against hers sent a shock of sensation through her every limb and fiber. Warm, firm, so expertly sensual, his kiss awakened a sudden burning in her very core. It alarmed her, this new experience. How heated and compelling his mouth was on hers. How immensely dangerous to allow it to continue, even for a moment. She felt herself melting into him as his other hand came around to press against the small of her back, drawing her nearer to the flame. At the urging of his tongue, teasing the seam of her lips, she opened to him.

  Heaven help her, but where her thoughts were uncertain, her body seemed to welcome him with an instinctual understanding. She brought her hands up between them, pressing her palms to the solid mass of his chest. Her intention was to push him away, but it was a feeble attempt when her fingers seemed to have a will of their own, clinging to the thick wool of his mantle where she meant to deny him and save some shred of her honor. She heard herself moan, but a roll of distant thunder swallowed it up. A flash of lightning ripped across the sky an instant later, followed by another crash in the heavens above.

  It was all that saved her from a path toward certain ruin.

  With a growl low in his throat, Braedon released her at last. She brought her fingers to her wet, burning mouth, a hundred oaths of outrage swimming in her head, although regretfully, none made it to her dumbstruck tongue. Instead, mute and in shock for what she'd just done, she backed away.

  She didn't get far. Braedon caught her by the wrist, steadying her as the sea rocked beneath them. "The water's getting rough--too dangerous by far for you to remain up here, demoiselle." He was breathing hard, his keen gaze steady and potent as he stared at her. The wind tossed his sable-dark hair around his head like a tempest, as wild as the man himself. His scarred, angular face was cast in sharp relief as another jag of lightning streaked overhead, illuminating his eyes and the stark, tortured line of his mouth. "Go below, Ariana. Now."

  He need not tell her twice. As soon as his grip on her arm loosened, Ariana turned on her heel and fled down the ladder to the relative safety of the deck below.

  Chapter 6

  Braedon was uncertain what bothered him more, having to fight the coming squall--which would be fierce, by the looks of it--or the swell of lust he weathered some time after Ariana's narrow escape from the sterncastle. He wanted the girl, and that surprised him. It angered him, for any fool could see that she was a maiden, pure and untouched, a fact alone that should have quashed her appeal in his eyes.

  Should have, but did not. God's bones, but he had been closer to taking her in that moment than he cared to admit. A stolen kiss, a licentious touch...a brazen embrace that could have easily led to a complete and total seduction.

  She had promised him that much, after all. Herself, in exchange for her passage to Rouen. That bargain had been close to his thoughts all day, even though he knew he could not hold her to it. His soul was dark, but he was reluctant to think he had sunk so low that he would look to sate his hunger on an innocent. She had spoken her bargain in haste, and despite the predatory way he once made his living, he'd never had an inclination toward rape.

  He did not flatter himself that he was the sort of man who inspired breathless swoons among the fair sex--not anymore, not in a very long time--but he had yet to meet a woman who would deny his powers of persuasion once he'd set his mind to pursue her into his bed. And to Braedon's chagrin, he found he was fast becoming intent on pursuing Ariana of Clairmont.

  Saved by the storm, he thought with a rueful chuckle as he gazed up at the sooty, roiling clouds.

  Smoke-gray and shot with lightning, the clouds that had been threatening earlier, now moved in quickly, bunching together to blot out the quarter moon and snuff the stars. A roll of thunder cracked overhead, and the waves began to heave beneath the hull of the cog. Wet snow spattered his face, stinging and icy-sharp. A gust of wet wind gnashed at the sail, sucking the air from it, then filling it like a sheep's bladder balloon.

  Braedon swore a curse for the lunatic's mission that might yet spell his doom. And for what? he wondered, considering the young woman who huddled below on the deck, trusting him to see her to safety. He didn't believe for a moment that she was telling him the truth--about anything thus far.

  Visit her brother, his arse. He hadn't missed the fear in her eyes, even through the distance that separated them on the deck. Nor had he missed her virulent denial that she carried anything but worthless personal effects in the satchel she so vigilantly guarded. She was lying to him, and Braedon didn't appreciate it. Particularly not when his livelihood was suddenly tangled up with hers.

  Ariana of Clairmont was harboring a secret. A dangerous secret, and he had every intention of rooting it out as soon as they embarked in France.

  But he doubted they would be getting there anytime soon.

  The bitter wind was fast becoming a gale. It whipped his mantle around his legs and flung his damp hair into his face. Braedon leaped down from the sterncastle and ran to lower the sail. It was flapping violently; a rip had started near the top of the wide square of canvas. The winds were growing too fierce to risk leaving it up where the storm could destroy the sail, or worse, seize it in a deadly fist and capsize them. There was nothing to do but ride out the worst of the squall, and pray it didn't blow them too far off course.

  * * *

  Ariana thought the raging seas would never calm. The storm had been swiftly brutal and bitter cold, tossing them around like a twig in a tempest. It was still blowing at dawn, though less violently, the sleet having changed to a dizzying flurry of snowfall. She was astonished they came out of it in one piece, and could not have been more relieved when Braedon shouted that he spied land. She came out of hiding, blankets wrapped around her, and looked to where he stood at the rudder.

  "France, demoiselle, off the starboard bow."

  Looming in the distance over the right side of the ship were the rugged outlines of land. Shadowy dark, save for a few snow-dusted plateaus, the shore jutted out into the sea like a massive fortress wall, guarding the land. France, Ariana thought with an inward sigh as she hurried to the deck railing.

  By God, she had done it.

  She was nearly there now. Pray, let Kenrick be safe until she found him, she intoned silently, clasping her hands together in a solemn plea.

  "Please, dear Lord," she whispered, "let him be alive."

  "Let who be alive?"

  She snapped her head to the side, only to find Braedon standing beside her. Amid the low howl of the wind and the concentration of her thoughts, she hadn't even heard him approach. He watched her now, a look of expectation--nay, a look of doubt--on his face. She blinked up at him, caught off guard by his nearness and a sudden humiliating recollection of the kiss he'd forced on her the night before. Staring through her, as though he had laid her bare, the weight of his wicked gaze left her incapable of even so much as a stammered retort.

  "You and I are going to have a talk, demoiselle. Just as soon as we dock and find shelter in Calais."

  "Cala
is?" She jolted out of her discomfiture, alarmed by the news that they were cutting short their journey. "I thought we were to sail for Honfleur. Is that not a closer port to Rouen?"

  "It is, but we won't be sailing anywhere in this weather. We'll dock in Calais to wait out the storm. That will give you ample time to tell me precisely what it is you're involved in--"

  "But I have told you."

  "--and then," he added, interrupting her, "if your answers satisfy me, I will consider taking you on to Honfleur and Rouen."

  "You have no right to order me--"

  A dark brow winged up in challenge. "Aye, demoiselle. I have every right, until I am compensated for my services. That is, unless you wish to pay me what you duly owe." He gave her a meaningful look that made her cheeks flame. "In which case, we can settle up now and go our separate ways as soon as we reach port."

  Ariana swallowed back the knot of dread that rose to lodge itself in her throat, nearly choking on it. He could not be serious.

  "Nay?" he asked, a wickedly amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched her squirm. "Alas, more's the pity. I have been very much looking forward to collecting on that debt since last night."

  She could not help but gape at him in mute appall. "How dare you suggest..."

  "I would hasten to remind you that it was not my suggestion, demoiselle, but yours. Name your price and I will pay it. Was that not what you said--what we agreed upon before we left London?"

  "Agreed?" she gasped. "Nay, sir. We never settled on anything! You can't possibly think--surely, you are not knave enough to expect that I would..."

  Oh, but he likely was enough of a knave to expect it, she thought grimly, hearing her voice trail off on the snowy breeze.

  "Prepare yourself, my lady. We dock within the hour. Meanwhile I will consider a fitting price for your passage here."

  Like the veriest scoundrel, he left her standing at the deck rail without another word. She watched in a state of torturous anxiety as he went about preparing the cog to dock. As though he had not a care in the world, he tested lines and then began to unfurl the cog's sail. The wet canvas caught the brisk winter wind as soon as it was hoisted and within a short while later, they were maneuvering their way along the marsh-lined tidal inlet that led to Calais's walled citadel.