by Lara Adrian
And yet...
If the Dragon Chalice and its four enchanted stones truly did hold the power of the ages, if it could truly give life as the legends said, then it might also give him a chance to save Ariana.
Dear God, it might be his only chance.
"For her," he said, flexing his fingers as he drew closer to the cup.
The woman he loved--the woman who meant everything in the world to him--was dying in the crypt abovestairs. If he died now for daring to defy his destiny, then so be it. His life meant nothing without Ariana.
Girding himself for what may come, Braedon spread his hand over Calasaar's golden bowl. Heat radiated from the cup, meeting his palm with the strength of a thousand fires.
"For her," he said, resolved beyond any degree of apprehension. "Anything for her."
He slowly closed his fingers around the dragon base of the cup.
A charge not unlike a bolt of lightning surged up his arm. His palm and fingers burned, searing under the force of the treasure's power. Pain lanced through him, spreading from his arm, which shook and trembled as he fought to hold the cup.
But the hellish flames did not come.
No incinerating ball of fire rose up to take him, despite the unceasing lash of heat that swelled to fill his body, and, it seemed, his very soul. Excruciating and thorough, the pain of it nearly robbed him of his breath. But he was alive, by God, and he had the Calasaar cup.
"Hang on, Ariana," he prayed as he dashed back up the narrow passageway. "Don't let me be too late."
Awash in the black opacity of the moonless night, the room took on the glow of the Calasaar cup as he came up the stairwell. Soft shades of gold illuminated Ariana's delicate form, lying so forlornly in the center of the crypt. Braedon ran to her side and knelt next to her. "Ariana," he said, bending down to kiss her pale lips. "My love, can you hear me? Are you still with me, angel?"
She didn't answer. Her eyes were closed, her limbs lax and unmoving. She had gone utterly still.
Braedon's heart lurched in his chest. "Ariana!"
He bent over her, pressing his ear to her breast. Thank the Saints, she was still breathing. Her heart was still beating, but faintly. And not for long, he was certain. He had to give her a drink from the cup, and pray for a miracle. For some bit of magic, for that was all he had left.
He scanned the dim chamber for a water flask or wineskin. There was neither. But there was a ewer on the table in the adjacent room. He raced to it and grabbed the earthenware pitcher. It could weigh no more than a soldier's helmet, but it took all of his strength to lift the vessel and pour some of the water into the Calasaar cup.
His hands were shaking as he brought it back to Ariana. He fed her from the enchanted bowl, lifting her head into the crook of his arm and pressing the rim of the cup to her parched lips.
"Drink, love. Please, you must drink."
The water trickled over the seam of her mouth and down her chin. He tried again, coaxing her to take a swallow, even a small one. Ariana parted her lips and drank a bit. She choked, but then she took another drink.
"That's it," he whispered. "Take some more if you can."
She swallowed again, then turned her head away without opening her eyes. Her skin was fading to a paleness that terrified him. Braedon waited, watching for any sign that she might be all right. Her breaths were growing shallower. He held her hand, kissing her fragile fingers, and feeling his heart break further as her grasp steadily weakened.
He closed his eyes, unable to hold back his grief. It clawed at him, stronger than the searing waves that yet assailed him from the touch of Calasaar's power. The fabled cup slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor beside him. It no longer matter to him. None of it did, if he could not share his life with Ariana. Heart heavy, eyes burning with the stinging swell of his sorrow, he laid his head down on Ariana's breast and swore a bitter oath.
He didn't know how long he held himself there, mourning all he had lost. He held Ariana against him, wishing he could trade his life for hers. He clutched her tightly, wanting to warm her coldness away, fearing the thought of letting her go.
"Braedon," came a feathery whisper beside his ear, so soft he thought he'd imagined it. "Braedon...you are crushing me."
He drew back with a disbelieving gasp. "Ariana!"
Her beautiful eyes were open now, becoming clear and alert in the soft glow of Calasaar's light. "Are you crying?" she asked, life coloring her face once more. She reached out to brush away the moistness on his cheek. "Whatever is wrong?"
"God's love, Ariana." He released a shout of immense joy. "Are you all right?"
She smiled at him as if he had lost his mind. "Of course I am." When she reached for his hand, the one that had held Calasaar, she frowned. "Oh, mercy. What happened to you?"
"I found the Stone of Light, angel. There was another chamber within this one--a passageway leading down to a hidden crypt . . . "
He pointed behind him, to the pile of rubble that had fallen to reveal the secret door. But the rubble was no longer there. The wall was restored to its previous solid form, as if the portal behind it never existed--as if the light behind the bricks had never been there. All evidence was gone...save the golden cup with the dragon and its glowing stone.
Braedon drew back to assure himself that Ariana was well and truly healed. He tore open the punctured bodice of her gown, impatiently moving aside the bloodied fabric that was covering her wound. Hardly a trace of the savage laceration remained. It had healed as though a year had passed and it had only been a scratch. All that was left to mark it was a silvery wedge of scarring.
"It's gone," he breathed, filled with relief. "Your wound--Ariana, my love, it's gone."
She glanced down, touching the new skin that glowed a healthy pink beneath her fingertips. Staring at him in obvious wonder, she let out a gasp of shock. "Oh, Braedon!"
He caught her in his arms and kissed her, and he immediately forgot all about secret passageways and doors that appeared behind walls of solid granite, and the searing, humming force that still echoed in his veins. All he knew--all that mattered--was this woman. Ariana was alive.
They were still embracing, still kissing madly, when the sound of urgent footfalls approached in the corridor outside.
"Braedon," Kenrick called as he entered the chamber. "We must be off at..." He drew up short and stared at them, agape. "What is this? How did you--how did she...?"
Braedon could not help but beam. Keeping one arm locked tight around Ariana, he gestured to the cup that lay beside them. "Calasaar," he said. "The Stone of Light was here all along. The magic truly exists."
Kenrick strode into the crypt, shaking his head in evident disbelief. He took the cup from the floor and held it up before him. "Incredible. And you?" he said, looking to Ariana. "Your wound--"
"It's healed, thanks to the power of the Dragon Chalice. And thanks to Braedon."
With a gentle stroke of his hand at her nape, Braedon brought her to him for a slow, passionate kiss. "I love you," he murmured, staring deeply into her eyes.
"You made me some promises tonight, my lord."
"Yes, I did." He kissed her again, with all the joy and affection that swelled in his heart. "I've just satisfied one of my daily vows. I cannot wait to start on the others." Her blue gaze shimmered, full of life and welcoming sensuality. "A dozen, did you say?"
Her laughter warmed him like a balm. "Aye, my lord, a dozen...to start."
"Kenrick," he said, never taking his eyes off the lady who held his heart in her tender hands. "What about that boat?"
"There is one tied up on the north point, the seaward side of the mount. Unless I miss my guess, it's the very boat that le Nantres commandeered to get here from Avranches. If we hurry, we can put in while he's still chasing his tail here in the abbey, looking for this cup. The channel isles are only a couple hours out, so long as the weather continues to hold."
"By all means, let's hurry and get that boat to England,"
Braedon said, grinning as he rested his forehead against Ariana's. "I have given a lady my vow, and I mean to keep it. As soon as possible."
Together the three of them made their way out of the abbey, their escape aided by the prolonged distraction of the queer night sky. The moon, which had been full and shining earlier that night, was still absent, but in its place glowed an orb of deepest red incandescence. All the pilgrims who had gathered at the abbey and most of the resident Benedictines now stood gaping out of windows and crowded shoulder-to-shoulder in the doorways to observe the strange phenomena.
Amid their state of awe, no one noticed the humble trio who slipped out of the crowd on silent, stealthy feet. Nor could they guess at the true miracle that had just occurred within the walls of the mountain chapel. That miracle, Braedon thought, was not so much the magic of the Calasaar cup as it was the extraordinary woman who held the treasure tight beneath her mantle.
Ariana was the greatest magic he had ever known. Her love was more powerful to him than any legend or sorcerer's spell. She was his destiny, and his future. She was his very soul.
And as they climbed into the small, abandoned boat at the base of the Mont and pointed it toward the open sea, he knew that a lifetime of miracles awaited him...beginning with making Ariana his bride.
Epilogue
Clairmont Castle, England
May, 1275
Spring breezed in on an angel's breath, warm and pleasant, lofting down from a cloudless sky of palest blue to embrace the countryside in verdant promise. Lady Ariana of Clairmont closed her eyes and savored the bliss of the morning as she and her beloved new husband reclined atop a blanket in a secluded pond-side meadow in the heart of the expansive demesne. Her body was still singing from his attentions, her bare skin still heated and flushed from the shattering release that had left her weeping and sated but a moment before. She nestled deeper into the strong curve of Braedon's arm, sighing with the lazy, sensual peace of a woman well-pleasured.
"Have I told you yet today that I love you, wife?"
"Mm, yes you have, husband," she murmured against his warm, strong chest.
"And I've kissed you?"
"Thoroughly." She smiled with wanton delight, recalling the many ways--the many wicked places--his lips had pleased her with their touch. "You have been most vigilant in keeping your promises."
"Good," he growled with masculine pride. "I wouldn't want to disappoint."
"Nay," she sighed. "Oh, nay, never that, my lord."
He stroked her bare shoulder in a languorous caress that stirred her even as it soothed. "There is still the matter of those dozen babes, however. It has been nearly three months that we've been wed. I'd hate for you to think I am any less than committed to fulfilling all of your demands, my lady."
"Oh, trust me, my lord, when I say that your commitment has been duly noted...and appreciated."
With a brazen slide of her hand, she reached down the length of his lean, muscled body. His sex was hard even before she touched it; with her fingers wrapped around the heavy shaft, it surged fuller, thrusting in her palm. She rose up on her elbow, watching pleasure play over his expression as she drew her hand up the stiff length of his arousal, and down to the thick root of him. "I would say, my dear husband, that the length...and breadth...of your commitment is--"
"Yes?" he prompted.
She leaned down to kiss the curving corner of his sensual mouth. "Well, it is most impressive."
He groaned as she turned into him and slid her leg over his hips, coming up on her knees to straddle him. Teasing him shamelessly, she seated herself just below his pelvis, cradling his jutting shaft at the moist juncture of her thighs. "As for the depth of your commitment, sir, I'm afraid I couldn't be sure just yet."
He grinned, flexing his hips beneath her and creating a delicious friction of their bodies. "Perhaps my lady requires another demonstration?"
"Oh, yes," she purred. "I think another demonstration is definitely in order."
He pulled her down atop him and claimed her in a passionate joining of mouths and limbs and wrenching, unparalleled rapture. She was still panting and breathless when she took his hand to her lips and kissed the center of his scarred palm. The silvery marks bore the curving lines of a dragon, etched into his skin when he had taken the Calasaar cup from its hiding place at Mont St. Michel in order to give her a life-saving drink from the treasure. He had borne unspeakable pain for her.
"It was worth it," he said, knowing her so well he was able to divine her thoughts merely by looking at her. "Our life together--all of what we share--was worth everything that happened."
Ariana held him closer, knowing just how much he had lost in saving her. He had paid a terrible price--just as his mother had warned--in daring to touch that missing piece of the Dragon Chalice. For more than his burns, which were severe, his act of sacrifice in the abbey had also cost him his hunter's instincts. He swore he was glad to be rid of them, but Ariana knew he would say that only to keep her from feeling guilt for any part of his suffering.
"Any news from your brother?" he asked, no doubt attempting to guide her away from troubling thoughts.
"No. Not a word since he left for Cornwall."
Kenrick's health had improved since his rescue and return to Clairmont, but along with his healing came a dogged determination to find another of the Dragon Chalice stones. He had a strong will, much like his sister, Braedon had often reminded her, and there was little anyone could do to sway him from his course. Ariana had tried, but he only waited long enough to see her wed before he was gone once more. She missed him, and she worried, but she also understood. And now she said a silent prayer for him, hoping wherever he was, that he was safe.
"You are quiet, love." Braedon smoothed his hand along her face and paused when his fingertip trailed through a track of moisture on her cheek. "I thought we agreed, no more of these."
"I know," she said, sniffling. "Sometimes I just can't help it."
More and more lately, she thought with a sense of frustration. Her emotions were as unpredictable as her appetite the past couple of weeks.
Braedon pressed a kiss to her brow. "Shall we see if there are any fruit tarts in the kitchens today?"
"Nay, not for me." The very picture made her stomach clench queerly. "But I do wonder if Cook might warm some of that blood pudding for me, left over from last eve's sup."
"Blood pudding," he drawled, clearly reviled, which was no mean feat with a man of Braedon's fondness for a good meal. "You have yet to break your fast today and you are craving blood pudding?"
"Mm-hmm. It sounds delicious."
"Well," he said, chuckling, "who am I to refuse a lady and her stomach?"
"Indeed, my lord. You have vowed to oblige my every whim--or do you forget your promise?"
"I will never forget my promises to you, love. You need only whisper your heart's desires and I will do my utmost to fulfill them...no matter how peculiar. Or wicked."
Ariana smiled as he pressed down with a searing kiss. "Oh, I do like the sound of that, my lord. I like that very much."
About the Author
LARA ADRIAN is the New York Times and #1 internationally best-selling author of the Midnight Breed vampire romance series, with more than 2 million books in print in the United States and translations licensed to more than 17 countries. Her books regularly appear in the top spots of all the major bestseller lists including the New York Times, USA Today, Publishers Weekly, Indiebound, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, etc. Her debut title, Kiss of Midnight, was named Borders Books bestselling debut romance of 2007. Later that year, her third title, Midnight Awakening, was named one of Amazon.com’s Top Ten Romances of the Year. Reviewers have called Lara’s books “addictively readable” (Chicago Tribune), “extraordinary” (Fresh Fiction), and “one of the best vampire series on the market” (Romantic Times).
Writing as TINA ST. JOHN, her historical romances have won numerous awards including the National Readers Choice; Romantic
Times Magazine Reviewer’s Choice; Booksellers Best; and many others. She was twice named a Finalist in Romance Writers of America’s RITA Awards, for Best Historical Romance (White Lion’s Lady) and Best Paranormal Romance (Heart of the Hunter). More recently, the 2011 German translation of Heart of the Hunter debuted on Der Spiegel bestseller list.
With an ancestry stretching back to the Mayflower and the court of King Henry VIII, the author lives with her husband in New England, surrounded by centuries-old graveyards, hip urban comforts, and the endless inspiration of the broody Atlantic Ocean.
Connect online at:
www.LaraAdrian.com
www.MidnightBreedSeries.com
www.facebook.com/LaraAdrianBooks
www.twitter.com/lara_adrian
www.goodreads.com/lara_adrian
www.pinterest.com/LaraAdrian
A note from the author
Dear Reader,
While you may know me best as the author of the Midnight Breed series--dark, sexy contemporary vampire novels with a gritty, urban fantasy edge--I actually got my start as a published author writing medieval romances. Years before Lucan, Dante, Tegan and the rest of the Order’s warriors first stormed into my imagination with fangs bared and guns blazing, there was Gunnar and Cabal, Griffin, Braedon and a few more dark knights in not-so-shiny armor who’d leapt from my keyboard and into my heart.
As a midlist author in the late 1990s and early 2000s, my print runs were very small, which meant my books were extremely hard to find in stores, even during their first weeks on sale. And when readers can’t find your books to buy them, small print runs eventually dry up and those books disappear forever. At least, that used to be the case. Now, thanks to the Internet and independent publishing, I’m delighted to have the opportunity to resurrect my original releases and offer them to my readers with beautiful new cover treatments and great indie ebook prices, too!
