by Rae Monet
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Atlantic Bridge/Liquid Silver Books
www.liquidsilverbooks.com
Copyright ©2004 Rae Monet
First Published by Liquid Silver Books, Imprint of Atlantic Bridge, June, 2004
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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Published by Liquid Silver Books, Imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright 2004, Rae Monet. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the authors.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Prologue
December 12, England 1281 AD, The Forest of the Dean
Day of the Raid
Arrruuuuuuu.
The deep, haunting howl of the wolf's mate sent a shiver creeping down Peter Corbet's spine. His head snapped up and his nostrils flared with the smell of death. Peter cursed the fact that wolves mated for life, for he knew he would never forget that pained howl, or the fear it raised inside him.
Peter's bloodstained dagger lay dripping at his side as he surveyed the village for his next prey. The muscles of his arm burned with the ache of use. His fisted hand released the wolf he had just killed, carelessly tossing the body to the ground. It landed in a bloody mass of fur on top of the small, dark-haired boy, who'd joined his protector's fate.
Peter looked down at the pair and shook his head. “The killer of wolves,” that's what King Edward's people called him. Peter watched the panicked scramble of the villagers around him.
Now, he was more than a killer of wolves, Peter thought.
What he had done today was a much greater atrocity.
* * * *
Devastated, Leena swayed gently back and forth, shivering, her knees resting hard against the damp earth. She was beyond caring that the mud stained the edge of her skirt, that it scraped the bottom of her knees. Her skin touched the same dirt that absorbed the blood of her people. The ground remained unyielding to the Wolf Warriors who fell, landing heavily on its soil, gasping their last breath. Those warriors would never rise again, Leena feared, and their deaths had not been peaceful. Bile backed up in her throat, and she held cold hands over her ears—the noise of the surrounding battle was deafening. She was so frightened she could barely catch her breath.
Someone attempted to bring her to her feet. Insistent hands pulled, a voice desperately called to her, yet the unrelenting voice and hands were muted to her. Dimly Leena realized that shock was absorbing all rational thought. She felt defeated. After desperately searching for her son, she had been unsuccessful in finding him, and the loss had taken its toll upon her weary body.
"We must depart, Leena. The time is now. The English soldiers are too many against our few. Gather the boy!” Jarod's strained voice finally penetrated Leena's grief-stricken mind.
"I cannot."
Leena lifted her eyes as the tall, dark-haired warrior fell to his knees before her. Fierce for sure, bare-chested, beautifully crafted, his finely toned muscles flexed in harmony with his movements, his chest heaving from his recent exertion. Red painted lines ran in unison, adorning his face and arms. His striking blue eyes stood out in contrast to the crimson. Cuts covered his strong body, the darker red of his blood mixing in symmetry with that of his war paint. He was her husband, one of their finest Solarian Wolf Warriors, and he was battle weary, for the Solarians had been defeated.
Leena met her husband's gaze. Her hands trembled and reached to soothe his face at the reaction she knew was yet to come.
* * * *
Jarod watched with guarded fear as tears streamed down his wife's face, cleaving a clean line in the soot and dirt covering her skin. He sensed her response and his entire body tensed. Misery and shock shadowed his mate's eyes.
"I cannot sense our son. I cannot find him. I am afraid he has fallen. I have searched for hours. I fear it is hopeless.” Her voice sounded small amongst the roar of nearby battle cries.
The panic Jarod felt matched what he saw on his wife's face, and when his forehead fell forward against hers, he dared to pray. He craved his own death over the likelihood of losing his only son to the slaughter King Edward I had wrought upon them. But lose him they most assuredly had, if she was unable to sense the boy.
Raising his head toward the heavens, Jarod let out one long cry of anguish for his son. He knew his yell would be the only sign of grieving he could afford this day, for he had another child to save. Attempting to regain his calm and not succumb to his terror, Jarod lowered his head, then squared his shoulders with resolve. He gently placed his hand on his wife's stomach, on the growing life within her womb. He knew what had to be done.
"We must depart, or much more will be lost. I will leave Karma to search. I'll return when you are to safety."
Jarod could hear the fighting drawing closer to them. His head swung around to scan, causing his black hair to fall into his eyes. He batted it away in frustration.
"Leena, we must leave!” The finality in Jarod's voice made his wife cry out in anguish. She nodded and attempted to rise, only to sink back down with obvious fatigue.
Seeing her difficulty, he stood, and stooping down, swept his beautiful, exhausted wife into his arms. He had lost one son to the battle this day. He was determined he would not lose his wife and unborn child. Turning his head, he surveyed the massacre of his people and their wolf protectors. Karma, his own wolf, waited faithfully by his side. Jarod, with a quick jerk of his head and a silent command, alerted the huge gray silver-eyed wolf.
Stay, Karma. Search for my boy.
The wolf backed up, acknowledging his master's order with a single bark before he turned and raced off through the still-raging battle. Jarod realized Karma would search for what he might never find and in doing so perhaps lose his life in the course. His heart ached with the possibility that he was might be sending his devoted protector to his death.
This needless battle had raged beyond the skills of the Solarian Wolf Warriors, there were over a hundred healthy English soldiers to each warrior—warriors that were strong, yet small in number. John de Reincolt, their clan leader, had called a retreat to save the families, specifically the children. The last of the mightiest Warriors were holding the line, albeit, not for long.
Jarod moved easily forward, the weight of his wife slight. He took the first steps out of the chaos, but toward what? Toward a new life with future peace? He prayed for it to be so.
As he and his wife escaped, he vowed to return. He would never stop searching for his son.
Chapter One
30 years later Scotland 1311 AD
Roan stared at the blood oozing from the wound where an English sword had cut his arm. As he and his friend, Ian, backed toward the bottom of the rocky cliffs, Roan knew they were trapped like a couple of wolves caught in a snare. In front of them stood an array of furious English soldiers.
Well fed, well rested, well armed—they advanced.
Both Roan and Ian were ill-equipped and barely had time to draw their weapons b
efore they were attacked. Roan chastised himself for leaving his armor at the castle, not wanting to be weighed down with the heavy gear during this mission. That problem seemed small—compared to what they were now facing.
As the sweat from his brow dripped into his eyes, Roan swiped at his forehead in aggravation. He growled at the situation he and Ian had gotten themselves into. Both he and Ian were seasoned warriors. They had fought this battle savagely. But now they were outnumbered, and in this situation even the most skilled fighter would be cut down.
"Throw down your weapons, you Scottish dogs, or we will kill you where you stand."
The troop backed them against the solid wall of rock. Roan did a quick assessment of their situation. Both he and Ian were panting, their chests rising and falling rapidly in their visible fatigue. Blood trickled from various cuts on both their bodies as a result of the battle that had already ended the lives of five of the English soldiers. Unfortunately, an additional ten healthy soldiers remained. This was bad.
"Ahh, Roan, I have a hard time believin’ that we'd be cut down like this after all the fightin’ we've done and survived.” Ian's Irish brogue was filled with irritation.
"I agree.” Roan knew his English accent was in complete contrast to his Irish friend's.
"I'm thinkin’ they won't be believin’ ya if ya tell them yer the Wolf-or show them yer mark."
"I fear you are correct.” Roan raised his blood stained sword in front of him, anticipating an attack.
"Fools! We are not Scottish!” Roan yelled out to the leader. “We are English. We were traveling to town for wares and a night of friendly companionship when you attacked us. We carry no large weapons. Do I sound Scottish?"
But Roan knew even the truth might not save them. The English had blood lust in their eyes. Despite his legendary battlefield victories, he had been weakened by the deep bleeding gash in his arm and side. Roan had never felt so close to dying.
He was known as the Wolf.
Fierce.
Unrelenting.
Always victorious.
They said he was marked by God as a true warrior, but right now he was not a legend, he was just a man—a man who was about to die. In his mind he yelled for help. His head began to pound at the possibility that he and Ian could be inhaling their last breath. This was the closest he had ever been to panicking.
"Scottish lies! Prepare to die! Scottish bastards! The more we kill now the fewer we fight later."
The reply did not please Roan, and if their situation had not been so dismal, he might have laughed. A strange emotion to experience this close to death, he thought.
The soldiers fanned out and pressed forward.
The unexpected pounding of hoofs stopped them as a small rider and an unusual horse galloped into the clearing.
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Serena rode Greystar in swiftly. She'd heard the cry for help in her mind. Had felt it grow stronger and louder. This call came only when warriors felt close to death. She had no choice but to respond, even if it resulted in her own death. It was an instinct as old as time and she was compelled to obey.
She spotted the two armed, bare-chested warriors backed against the rocky cliff, and she saw the ten uniformed men taunting them. One of the warriors must have called to her. With a quick assessment of the situation, she felt confident that she could even the score.
Serena's gaze moved over the two men. Both were handsome, however it was the well-muscled, black-haired man that held her attention. Serena's look devoured the man. His mouth was taut with determination. His large frame supported a muscled, thick chest. Long midnight hair floated carelessly around his clean-shaven, chiseled face. His ice blue eyes, combined with his other attributes, led her to the conclusion that he was by far the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes upon, and at the same time, oddly familiar. She felt an awareness, one she had never experienced before, and the feeling disturbed her.
The man was spectacular and obviously an experienced warrior. He held his bloodstained sword with confidence and expertise, his legs spread, knees bent, he was ready to fight. It was a simple matter for her to sense his leadership qualities. Her Solarian mind sense had always been true, and this man radiated his uniqueness.
Serena saw the blood running down his arm from a deep gash and a burning rage she had never known before poured through her. Averting her eyes, she directed her attention to the ten soldiers. Evil determination radiated from each one of them. They were ready to kill, for no other reason than the thrill, and she knew at that moment she had to kill them or be killed herself.
Serena's father had warned her that women were not well received outside the Realm as warriors, and so even her gender made her path dangerous. In a flash of quick thinking, she knew exactly how to distract these soldiers. She was not entirely innocent to the workings of the male mind.
Concealing her cross-bow the best she could, Serena slowly slid off her horse, lifting her cloak to show them a view of her ass. She turned and faced the men, dropping her cloak back down. She moved one hand over her hood and pushed it back, shaking out her hair, which fell in long waves around her face and down her back. Her hair was usually an annoyance, but now all eyes were turned in her direction, and with that element of surprise, she could prevail. The men moved toward her, their prey forgotten. The two men who were backed against the rock also looked enthralled.
* * * *
Roan was captivated by the mystery woman's long, raven hair. It framed her angelic, beautifully formed features. Set in a porcelain complexion, pink lips pouted then rose in a seductive smile as she surveyed the group of men before her. Even from where he stood her eyes flashed with green fire.
"Gentlemen."
Roan noticed the soldiers’ eyes widen at her seductive, slightly-accented English. Her voice seemed to mesmerize them all.
"I wonder if you might pause from your current activity to assist me?"
Roan stood transfixed as the woman pushed her cloak away from her shoulders. She wore a tight fitting leather vest and a halter that outlined her tits. She undid a hook at the top of her vest, showcasing the swell of her creamy white breasts, while she fanned herself with her hand, making the action somehow look innocent. Taking a step forward, she showed them just a peek of her leather-encased leg under her all-encompassing cloak.
He groaned aloud. This woman was so much more than just sensual.
Breathtaking.
Mesmerizing.
Seductive.
Her expression left nothing to the imagination. It told them all she was ready for a bedding. Roan felt his cock rise against his own leggings, and he heard Ian whisper next to him, “Mother of God!” He chastised himself—this was no time to get aroused by a woman.
What is wrong with me? he wondered.
"I seem to have lost my way.” The woman's voice was a velvety, alluring whisper that made him throb.
She waved her petite hand as if at a total loss in which direction to travel. Her lips formed a luscious sulk. Trancelike, the men around them moved away toward the mysterious woman.
As the soldiers stepped back from them, Roan watched the woman. Her green gaze touched his, and suddenly he heard a message in his mind.
Move away from the rocks.
Pain flashed through his head. She hadn't spoken the words, but he knew the order had come from her. He reached out and pulled Ian away from the rock-walled prison they were pinned against.
At the same time the seductive goddess struck. Her gaze swung back to the English men, and her expression changed from alluring to fierce. It occurred as rapidly as a heartbeat and left Ian and Roan stumbling to a stop. When she threw off her cloak, he was stunned. She was dressed in leather armor; gold bands encircled her bare arms, a wide leather band was secured on her wrist, and she held a cross-bow. This woman was clearly no demure maiden. Roan immediately raised his weapon to assist her, but again he heard her voice in his mind.
Do not move.
The comma
nd stayed his advance. He didn't know why but he felt compelled to obey her, notwithstanding his need to dive into the battle. She raised the cross-bow, and with practiced efficiency, despite the size of the weapon, she disposed of the English men one by one.
Two shots from the bow, and the closest soldiers went down. She dropped the bow. A dagger appeared in each hand. With a graceful, fluid movement, she threw them before Roan could blink. Deadly heart shots, daggers buried to the hilt and two more men went down. The six left standing hadn't had time to raise their swords! Pulling smaller swords from behind her back she executed a swift, measured dance. Swirling around with a heated shout, she administered blows to the hearts of two more stunned men.
Roan was taken aback that the woman fought with multiple swords, an amazingly difficult task, even for a man. Four enraged men remained, fumbling to raise their weapons. Without hesitation, she leapt forward, sweeping her sword overhead, striking one of the remaining four.
Then she gave an almost cursory glance over her shoulder at the soldier readying to strike her down. She was in danger of being cleaved in half, but with a quickness that left him on edge, she pushed her sword back, plunging it into the man's throat. The remaining soldiers must have realized they had underestimated this woman's skill, but raised their swords anyway—a foolhardy move as far as he was concerned. As the woman circled the men, Roan watched each step she took.
With Ian by his side, Roan was prepared to move forward to assist her, but one word stopped him.
Remain.
He wasn't sure if she actually voiced the word or if he heard it in his mind again, but he followed its order without hesitation and raised his arm to hold Ian back.
Ian, never questioning his judgment, froze.
"What is it, lad?"
"She doesn't want us to interfere. Stay as you are."
She methodically danced around the two men, confusing them. They shifted to stand back to back.
Abruptly she stopped, and five feet away from them, she lowered herself to one knee and crossed both swords in front of her. Ian strained against his arm. Roan recognized Ian's need to help her was as strong as his, but he continued to hold Ian back. He heard another command.
