Heart of the Hunter

by Lara Adrian

  She had the good sense to lower her gaze in contrition. "We both did."

  He moved away from the closed door and strode up to her. "Don't ever disobey me again, do you understand? If I tell you to do something, know that I have my reasons. I must be able to trust that you will do as I say, not question me or defy me."

  A small, impatient sigh slipped past her parted lips. "I realize the danger we are in, Braedon."

  "Do you?"

  "Yes. I don't fully understand what is happening to us, but I'm not a foolish girl who cannot think for herself. I have been making my own decisions from the time I was young. I've had to." She glanced up then and met his gaze. Braedon smiled, for the contrition he thought he spied in her was something else instead, he realized now. A quiet but firm dignity lit her eyes. "I've had to take care of myself for a long time, and I don't need someone to take care of me now. If I put myself at risk today, then you must know that I did so for my own reasons--not to question you or defy you."

  He could not resist the urge to sweep aside an errant wisp of hair that clung to her brow. His hand lingered against her skin, savoring the silky feel of her cheek beneath his rough fingertips. She drew in a tiny breath and held it, her gaze locked with his. "You are a mystery to me, Ariana of Clairmont. I've never known such courage--in a man or a woman." He lost himself in her wide blue gaze for an indulgent moment, then reluctantly let his hand fall away from her face. "That doesn't change the fact that what you did today was reckless and foolheaded. I won't have it again, Ariana. Tell me you agree."

  "Very well," she said, her tone slightly wry, matching the subtle quirk of her lips. "The next time you are attacked by a hellborn beast who means to shred you to bits, I give you my word, I shall let you have it all to yourself." She gazed up at him and gave a little shake of her head. "Impossible man. Do people always obey your every command and order?"

  "When they don't, demoiselle, people get killed."

  She seemed to take her time absorbing his reply, and he wondered if he had shocked her with the cold truth. She should be shocked. Indeed, she should never have been in his company in the first place. Braedon cursed the twist of fate that tossed them together that day in London. He cursed it for many reasons, but none more than the simple fact that against his will, he was becoming attached to her. Despite everything he'd done to deny it, he enjoyed being with her, and that alone scared him more than the notion that he would soon be facing his old demons again. Demons that he knew still wanted him dead.

  "How long have you been alone, Braedon?"

  The question surprised him. He drew back, brows knitting into a scowl. "Alone?"

  "You left France as a youth, but you were alone even before that. Weren't you?" When he looked at her, his jaw clamped tight, unwilling to invite her probing, she gave him a gentle, understanding smile. "I know what it is like to be alone, too. I know it well enough to see it in another person, and I see it in you."

  He exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh but a dismissing, mocking sound that felt too forced, even to his own ears. "'Tis late, Ariana. I don't intend to waste these next few hours nattering over my poor childhood when I could be sleeping. You should do the same."

  He started to turn away from her, but paused when he felt her fingers catch his arm. "You've reopened your wound. Let me take care of you for a while."

  Ariana's touch remained on his arm, her slender fingers so light against him, yet holding him there, immobile. He should have drawn away. God knew he meant to, but instead he found himself reaching up to her, brushing the pads of his fingers over the velvet softness of her hand. He curved his fingers around hers and gently squeezed them, touched by her compassion.

  "When I saw that shifter round on you after you stabbed him," he quietly told her as he threaded his fingers between hers, "I swear, I wanted to tear him to pieces. When I think what he might have done--" He swore a curse and shook his head.

  "When did you realize it wasn't a simple wolf?"

  "Almost at once. The way it looked at us. The way it was looking to attack. Wolves do not behave so boldly around humans. They know to fear us." Lost in reflection, he exhaled a deep breath. "Do you want to know the irony of this? When I was a boy, the rift that finally drove me away from my father, away from France, started over a wolf."

  Ariana stroked his arm in a tender, coaxing caress. "Tell me what happened."

  Braedon stared at their entwined fingers, remembering with sudden clarity the day he nearly killed his sire. "I used to spend a great deal of time outdoors as a lad. My father and I never got on well, but it became worse after my mother left."

  "She left you...why? And where did she go?"

  "We never did know. My father always said she was deranged, ill in the head. I didn't care why she left, or where she'd gone." He shrugged, recalling the bitter sense of loss he'd felt when he woke up one morning and heard that she had vanished without an explanation or a word of farewell. He shoved it aside now, surprised to realize that he was still angry over her abandonment. "My father made no secret of his resentment for me, so I made every effort to maintain my distance from him. My favorite place to be was deep in the woods below our keep. One summer--my tenth year--I was running through the forest like a wildling and I stumbled on a low vine. When I came up off the ground, I found myself staring eye-to-eye with a she-wolf."

  Ariana drew in a little gasp and caught her lip between her teeth. "You must have been terrified."

  "I was," he admitted, "but I soon understood the wolf meant me no harm. It was an exquisite creature, with a silver-white coat and beautiful gray-green eyes. I'd never seen anything so extraordinary. It wouldn't let me near enough to touch, but it followed me to the edge of the woods that day, and when I went back the following morning, I met the wolf again. It kept itself out of my reach, but whenever I looked for it, there it was, watching over me. Protecting me, as it turned out."

  "What an amazing animal," Ariana mused softly. She pushed up his sleeve and began unwrapping the bandages that covered his wounded arm. "I've never heard of a wolf befriending a person. In fact, in the villages near Clairmont, wolves are feared to the point of hysteria for their violence toward people and livestock. They are hunted relentlessly."

  "Aye. It is the same in France, too. One of the serfs out tending the fields saw me with the wolf about a month after it first appeared in the woods. Fearing for my safety, the man ran to the castle to alert my father. A hunting party was roused and mounted. Within moments, they had cornered the wolf at the crest of a steep ravine."

  "Did you tell them the wolf was your friend--that it meant you no harm?"

  "Oh, yes. I tried to explain. I pleaded to my father, but he wouldn't hear it. Wolves' heads fetch a healthy bounty, and he meant to have this one no matter what I said." Braedon forced out a bitter laugh. "I've often wondered if my affection for the beast only made him more determined to destroy it."

  "Oh, Braedon," Ariana whispered, setting aside the bloodied strips of linen to inspect his gashed forearm. "I'm so sorry."

  "It happened very fast. I tried to knock away my father's bow and he struck me to the ground. I heard the wolf growl and I cried out, for I knew it would rise to my defense. In that moment, one of the guards raised his weapon and let an arrow fly. I turned just in time to see the wolf get hit in the side. The impact knocked it back, and with a pained cry, it fell over the side of the ravine." He watched her swab at the new blood, her touch very tender and caring. "I lunged for my father," he said, relaying the memories as they came to him in vivid recollection. "I dragged him off his mount, determined to give him the same anguish he had just delivered to me. Somehow I wrenched his dagger free. I had cut him below the ear and would have sliced the blade across his neck, if his men had not been able to drag me off of him. My father was enraged, understandably. He charged that I was mad. He'd never called my mother a witch before that day, but he cursed her thus as he stood there bleeding, and he cursed me, too. He said I was her devil's spa
wn, and that I was no son of his. He banished me from his lands and forbade me the use of his name. I left the next day, and I never looked back."

  "That's terrible. Your father couldn't have meant those hateful things, surely." When Braedon chuckled wryly, Ariana clutched his hand in hers and compelled him to meet her gaze. "What he did was wrong. What he said about you is wrong, too."

  "Is it? At times, I'm not so sure. I swear, there are times I think I must be mad. To see what I have seen--"

  "If you are mad, then so am I," she assured him, but he saw the tremor of fear in her eyes. Calais--and now the attack on the road--had blurred the line between what was real and tangible, and what could not be explained. "You do not need to convince me that what we've been witnessing is real."

  His voice growled out of him, low and deep. "Aye, very real. And I fear the stakes are getting worse with each day that passes. I can sense it. What we have seen thus far is only the beginning. Even though I cannot see it or touch it, the danger is drawing closer, even as we sit here. It is trying to elude me, but the threat is there. It is real."

  "What are you telling me, that you know things others don't?"

  He gave her a wry smile. "Now that would be insane, wouldn't it?"

  For a long moment--too long--Ariana said nothing at all. She swallowed silently, her lashes sweeping down to shield her gaze. Did she mock him? What would she think if he had revealed more of his true nature? She would never understand. No one would. How could they, when he scarcely understood it himself?

  "Braedon, how did you know that wolf--that creature--was hunting us today? I didn't see him until he was upon us on the path. I didn't hear a thing to betray its presence until it was too late. How did you know?"

  He let her hand go and gave a dismissive shrug. "I don't know."

  "Yes, you do. You knew it was there, and you knew it was no ordinary wolf--the same way you knew the man in the Calais sail maker’s shop could not be trusted. You just...knew." Tenacious as ever, she would not let it go. "You don't see things the way I do, do you? You don't see things the way anyone else does. Tell me how this can be. I want to know."

  He blew out a weary sigh. God, he was tired of running. He'd been doing it for so long, hiding since the time he was a youth. No one had ever offered him true compassion or understanding. Did he dare hope for it now?

  "Braedon, you can tell me. You can trust me."

  He stared into her clear blue eyes, wanting so badly to reach out to her. He realized, if it had eluded him before now, that he wanted her to know him. As he truly was, without hiding behind secrets or masks. If he could hope for anything in that moment, it was to embrace the true soul of another person, and to know that he was embraced as well. He had never been compelled to try before. But then, he had never known anyone like the woman beside him now.

  "Look around this room, Ariana, and tell me what you see. Listen to the space around you. Tell me what you feel."

  Frowning, she slowly pivoted her head to take in the small space. "I don't know...I suppose I see a simple chamber, with wooden slat floors and four daubed timber walls. There's a bed over there, and a small table beside it. I don't feel anything save the warmth of the fire and the noise of conversation coming from the public room outside." She looked at him then, uncertainty creasing her brow. "Why, do you see more than that?"

  His senses took a quick account of the place, probably before Ariana even realized what he had done. He mentally sifted through them one by one now, looking for a place to start. "This room was last let a night ago. The people who were here--two of them, a man and a woman--shared a meal of roast pork and smoked cheese. They had wine. Some of it spilled on the floor over there, near the table, where the dark stain marks the seam of those two boards. Their clothes carried the scent of brine and sea air; no doubt they had traveled in from the coast. They didn't stay all night, probably only a few hours." He chuckled, leaving off there.

  "What else?" she asked, watching him in rapt attention. "There is more, I can tell you are withholding something."

  Braedon cocked a brow, knowing she would not give it up until he told her. "They coupled in here, more than once...but they didn't make use of the bed."

  Her cheeks flamed a deep shade of crimson, but she did not look away. "That, sir, is a scandalous talent."

  "Scandalous and unexplainable. I would give it up if I could, but it never leaves me." Silence followed, broken by his sardonic chuckle. "Ah, there, you see? Mayhap my father was right. Mayhap I am as mad as my mother."

  "No. You're not mad." Her eyes locked on his, Ariana reached up and smoothed her fingers along the side of his face, along the ugly ridge of his scar. "I don't think you're mad at all, Braedon. And you're not alone anymore, either. We're in this together now."

  He didn't know how long he held his breath, savoring the gentle touch of her hand on him. When he exhaled at last, it was a ragged sound, torn from him like a part of his very soul. Despite the reasoning that warned him to turn away from her at once, to reject this precious gift of compassion she offered him, Braedon tilted his face into her open palm and reveled in the smoothness of her skin against his grizzled jaw. He caught her tender hand in his and brought her fingers to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the sweet, velvety pads, then to the warm heart of her palm. She made a small noise in the back of her throat as his lips tasted her skin--a wordless whisper that seemed more longing sigh than breathless protest.

  Braedon dragged his gaze to hers, all the yearning in his body pouring out to her through his eyes. He needed her. God knew how long he had needed to feel the warmth of another's touch, the sweetness of a kiss...the haven of a woman's yielding body. He wanted Ariana in that moment as he had never wanted another woman before her. It was a savage thing that burned deep inside him, fierce and consuming.

  "I don't want you to be afraid of me," he murmured, his voice thick with need. "Tell me you don't fear me now, Ariana."

  "I don't," she whispered, her parted lips glistening in the firelight. "I trust you, Braedon..."

  Her words were lost in that next moment. Damning the conscience that urged him to keep his distance, he slipped his hand around her warm nape and pulled her into his arms. Their lips met, tentatively at first, only the merest brush of mouth on mouth, a hesitant, testing kiss that ached all the more for its sweetness. He brought his other hand up and framed her face, holding her gently as his tongue teased and tested the seam of her lips. She let him in with a tremulous gasp, opening her mouth as her arms went around him and caressed his back. She was clinging to him the same way he clung to her, both of them adrift and searching for safe harbor.

  His pulse was roaring in his temples, his heart racing, feeding the urgency that quickened his body and left him rigid with desire. He dragged Ariana farther into his embrace, letting his hands roam down the curve of her back and over the pleasant arc of her hips. She squirmed against him as he deepened his kiss, sucking at her bashful little tongue and nibbling the plump swell of her lower lip. She was melting and pliant in his arms. He was on fire, fully aroused and trembling with need of her. He broke their kiss and looked into her dusky eyes, pleading silently for release.

  "Ah, God," he moaned against her, trying to hold himself in check. "This will go too far, angel. Much too far..."

  She stared up at him, forehead to forehead, and smiled a virginal smile. He had never seen anything so innocent. She was so tender and yielding. So damned soft in his arms.

  "Touch me," she told him, a breathless demand. "Kiss me, Braedon...please."

  God's truth, but he could not refuse her. He could not have denied her, even if he had found the strength to summon his voice. Powerless to refuse her, Braedon bent his head and claimed her mouth anew, kissing her with all the passion that coursed so swift and heated through his veins. She welcomed his ardor, holding him close and opening herself to his sensual teachings. Their kiss became a dance, a heady game of conquest and surrender.

  Ariana's fearless acceptan
ce intoxicated him. It drowned out everything else in the room, everything they had been through, everything they had yet to face outside the four walls of the inn. In her arms, there was nothing else, not even his hunter's gift and the dark foreboding it carried to his door. Braedon knew only the bliss of Ariana's hands tangling in his hair, her sweet mouth pressed so deliciously against his, her body arching into him, writhing with a virgin's hunger he longed to sate.

  It was wrong to want her like he did, selfish to consider the seduction he was planning while she kissed him with such innocent abandon. But he did want her. Fiercely. He had wanted her from the moment he first saw her in the London tavern, and again when he'd carried her to bed at Rob and Peg's, thinking he could leave her there and simply forget about her. He had wanted her in Calais as well, and on his ship, when they'd watched the stars together from the prow.

  "Ariana," he rasped against her throat. "My lady, this is the truest madness. I need you now. I need to feel your skin on mine."

  He didn't wait for her permission. In truth, he wasn't sure he was asking for it, but she obliged him without hesitation, only trembling slightly, panting against his ear as he reached between them and cupped his hand over the soft mound of her breast. He lowered his head and nuzzled her, suckling her through the velvet of her gown. She clung to him, her head dropped back on her shoulders, her honey blond mane of hair tumbling loose in a cascade that tickled his hand where it rested against the small of her back. The lacings of her kirtle crisscrossed along the same path, ending with a series of ties at the supple curve of her derriere.

  Braedon stooped before her and toyed with the little knots, freeing them with a dexterity that was surprising given his current mindless state. He loosened the lacings halfway up her back and let the fitted gown go slack. The bodice sagged in a crush of fabric, revealing the sensuous valley of her breasts. He bent and kissed her there, reveling in the taste of her, the feel of her flesh pressing so warm and sweet against his face.