“I hoped you would make an exception for me.” Ada resisted the urge to look away as he studied her. This was not the man she remembered. Time had ground the softness from him, and perhaps running to him for help wasn’t as good of an idea as she’d first thought. He was a man of science, after all. Like her husband.
“Fine. You and Mr…?” Ward pointed at the Whitemaa’s captain.
“I hired Mr. Marwick to bring me here. He will return when I send for him. You do have a way to contact the—surface?”
“I have a telegraph.” Ward ascended the rest of the way up the ladder inside the column and stepped onto the platform next to Ada. Her heart thumped painfully at his nearness, and she stepped back without thinking about it. He grabbed her elbow to steady her as her heels hit the edge of the platform. “Careful—you almost walked into the sea.”
“Thank you.” Ada put a hand to her throat and took a deep, calming breath as the ocean lapped at her feet. His hand radiated heat through the sleeve of her tweed jacket, and he waited another heartbeat before releasing her. He was taller than she remembered, and smelled faintly of brine and Indian tobacco.
“Perhaps you and I ought to talk aboard Mr. Marwick’s fine salvage vessel. I’m sure it will be much more comfortable for a lady. My observatory is quite cramped—”
Ada shook her head. “I wish to speak with you privately, Mr. Ward. If you fit down that hole, I am quite sure I will as well.”
“I’m not sure I agree. Climbing a ladder in skirts—”
Picking up her carpetbag, Ada thrust it at Ward. “I am perfectly able to climb down a ladder as long as my hands are free. Mr. Marwick, I will have Mr. Ward send for you when I wish to leave. Thank you for your services thus far.”
“Any day, Miss.” Marwick tipped his hat to her even as he rolled his eyes at Ward, who growled something inaudible in return. The masculine exchange clearly said women! and it raised Ada’s hackles, then depressed her. If they only knew the truth of it, she thought dismally, then hiked her tweed skirt over her knees, sat on the edge of the ladder column and swung her legs into the hole. A ladder was welded onto the side of the round column, and the air coming up the shaft smelled of tobacco and salt.
Ada looked at Ward, who sighed and stuck her carpetbag beneath his arm. “We still have time to go to the ship.”
“Good day, Mr. Marwick.” Ada gathered her skirts in one hand and threw the majority of the fabric over her arm, then slowly descended beneath the waves. Her shoes rang against the metal rungs of the ladder as the light filtering through the portholes in the column walls became dimmer and dyed blue-grey the deeper she went.
The hatch closed with a clang that made her wince. Ada gripped the rungs a little tighter. “I’m not at the bottom yet.”
“Then keep climbing.” Ward sounded annoyed, so she took a deep breath of stale air and resumed her descent. There were thirty-four rungs in total before Ada’s groping feet found the floor.
Ward’s undersea observatory was a living room, kitchen and study combined. A leather couch and a black wingback chair bisected the room, and behind the seating was an electric range with a huge black hood. Copper pans and iron skillets hung against the wood-paneled wall above a massive wooden chest—presumably a pantry—and two heavy bookshelves loomed to her right. To her left stood a lamp with a stained-glass shade on a desk overflowing with papers.
Most wondrous of all were the windows.
There were four, two on each side wall, and behind the wavy glass was the sea. Ada gasped and crossed the room to press her face to the window. The water was slightly murky and she couldn’t see more than twenty feet, but beds of green-grey kelp danced in the current. Darting silver fish with bulging eyes swam in the seaweed, and purple starfish splayed across the rocks. Above the observatory was the dark belly of the Whitemaa. The Whitemaa’s hull was pierced with rows of portholes, perhaps because of the salvage operation Ward had mentioned. The ship seemed like a fishing vessel to her, but what did she know?
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Ward spoke from just behind her, and Ada jumped. Her heart fluttered as he reached over her shoulder to tap the glass. “Most people never see past tide pools and the fish that grace their dinner plates, let alone Ascophyllum nodosum in its natural habitat.”
“What?”
“Kelp. The forests of the deep, and largely taken for granted.” He turned on his heel and strode across the room, depositing her carpetbag and umbrella on the couch as he passed. “Why are you here, Miss Powell?”
She’s known nothing but pain, but love waits in the arms of one man.
Hedda’s Sword
© 2009 Renee Wildes
Guardians of the Light, Book 2
Maleta is a true survivor. Attacked and left for dead at a young age, she has traded her heart and emotions to become the ultimate weapon of vengeance for the Grey Goddess, Hedda. She swears to depose Queen Sunniva and restore her ancestral home to her brother, no matter the cost.
Cianan is drawn to the mysterious land of Shamar on the power of a vision—the death of a beautiful swordswoman to an army of skeletons. When he meets Maleta, he recognizes two things. She is his true Life-Mate. And she is the woman fated to die this horrible death.
He vows to change her fate.
Cianan must unite the diverse people of a fragmented land to overthrow a vicious despot and convince their true queen to take the throne. Falling in love with a mortal woman who’s buried her heart and shies from his every touch—that’s the real challenge.
Maleta knows she can trust Cianan to save her country. Can she trust him to help her save herself?
Enjoy the following excerpt for Hedda’s Sword:
Cianan sponged the blood and sweat off with the tepid water, amused to see but the top of her head as she blindly handed him a drying towel. Not once did Hedda look at him. He could not bear the thought of putting that filthy tunic back on. She was going to have to deal with him shirtless. He strode over to the quilt and dropped to the floor afore the hearth. Tossing his hair back over his shoulder, out of the way, he stuck the cheese onto the toasting fork and held it out to the flames while Maleta changed the water and freshened the cloth on Jovan’s forehead.
She joined Cianan on the quilt to pour them each a cup of mead. She took a big swallow and reached for a peeled egg.
He felt her gaze on him, but left her with her thoughts as he placed the softened cheese on its plate and spread some on a piece of bread. He held it out to her and she traded it for a cup of the mead. The wood popped in the hearth. Maleta jumped, spilling a bit of mead over their wrists. He smiled and took the cup from her hand. “Are you all right?”
“I’m nothing but nerves,” she confessed. “I’ve felt like a bowstring forever, ready to snap.” She tucked her knees under her chin and stared through him, into the flames.
Were she any other woman, Cianan had a solution for releasing that tension. If not for the presence of her brother, the scene could have been the perfect setting for seduction. The mere thought made him burn. He snorted to himself at the irony of being with the one woman oblivious to her surroundings. He realized the twisted compliment that she didn’t view him in that way, as she still viewed sex as a threat, but it was small comfort when he wanted her so. The few chaste kisses she’d dared return made him yearn for more.
He had to think on something else. “There is hope for your brother,” he told her.
“The healers have already been here, on Tzigana’s order.” She turned bleak eyes to his. “They said there’s nothing they can do, that he’s beyond all aid.”
Cianan stared at Jovan’s still form on the bed. Jovan breathed. His heart beat. But his mind and spirit were gone, withdrawn away from the world, hiding deep within his body. Cianan had seen such collapses afore, from overwhelming trauma and stress. “Not all.” He turned to Maleta. “Eat. Drink. Get some rest. Jovan is not dead. He is not going to die. Come morning, we shall start looking for a solution. But not now, not when w
e are both exhausted.”
She finished the food in her hand in silence. “Do you think Dara can help him?”
“I think Benilo, our Minister of Healers,” Cianan mused. “He is the most powerful spirit healer we have.” He felt the king’s presence. “Loren?”
“Are you both all right?” Loren asked.
Cianan sent his memory of Sunniva’s trial and Jovan’s collapse. “I hoped Benilo might have a suggestion.”
“Let me get back to you on that,” Loren said. “I shall let you know what he says by morning. You both should rest.”
“Cianan?” Maleta’s voice masked Loren’s withdrawal.
“What?”
“Where did you go?” she asked. “You seemed so far away.”
“Finding the person to ask the right questions,” he replied. “Loren is going to ask Benilo and get us an answer by morning.”
“Dara’s husband? You communicate with him?”
“Always. He worries when his people wander far afield.” Cianan smiled. “Now he knows how his father felt all those years while he ran all over the land.”
“And you remind him of that every day.”
“Well, mayhaps every other or so,” he admitted.
Her own smile wobbled a bit. “He’s your best friend?”
Cianan nodded. “We grew up together. It never mattered he is a royal prince and I am a nobody. We went through warrior academy, ranger school and were chosen together. Our war mares are sisters. We are brothers by all but blood.”
“You’ve never spoken of your real family,” she said.
“I have none,” he replied. “I was an only child, and my parents died when I was but a youngling. Lord Elio raised me, Loren’s former weaponsmaster and now Minister of Defense.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “How did they die?”
“My father Daneal was plain infantry, a regular soldier killed in battle,” he replied. “My mother died in an accident a year later.” To his shock, she scooted forward to wrap her arms around him. “What is this for?”
“No one should be alone in life,” she declared, her voice rough with unshed tears.
“It was a long time ago, elingrena, and I have a new family. Family is not blood ties.” He stared down at her. “I am not alone. Lord Elio, Loren and Dara are my family. You and Jovan are also my family. You are not alone anymore, either. We now have each other.” He captured her hand to place a kiss in the palm.
She glanced up to search his eyes. Hers shimmered in the firelight. “You came here for me?”
“Aye. You know of the dreams. I was not about to let you die.”
“I don’t understand. You didn’t know me.”
“I knew your courage, your spirit.” He brushed his lips against her inner wrist. Her skin was so soft. “You were meant to live free.”
She gasped at the contact, but did not pull away. Her fingers curled around his other arm, slid up to his shoulder. Her touch was feather-light, hesitant, barely there—it burned to his soul. The warrior gave way to the woman within. For him. Words failed him. He released her hand, searched her eyes. Shock and confusion flared in her eyes, but no fear. Only her fear would have stopped him. He leaned forward to capture her mouth with his, in a slow, gentle kiss. He touched her with his lips alone, giving her every chance to pull back, move away. He prayed for her to stay.
Maleta stiffened for a moment. He felt her tremble with indecision. Then the hand on his shoulder slid up to cradle the back of his neck, and she relaxed into him. Her mouth opened under his, and her fingers tangled in his hair. Her kiss soaked into him like rain after a long drought, heated his blood quicker than a brushfire. Many times in the past had he unwound with a woman after a battle. Now his body burned for release. With his true life-mate’s kiss, the vow screamed anew for him to start the binding ritual, not to let her get away. Hedda and Tzigana be damned.
He fought for control, not to let passion slip its tether. Her trust was too new, too fragile. Seducing a virgin was easier—she knew nothing. Maleta was much more difficult—all she knew of sex was horror and abuse. All she knew of soul-binding was Hedda’s possession. But in this moment she trusted him to show her a gentler way. They kissed for long moments, until he caught the first hitch in her breath and she moved closer, both her hands anchored in his hair. He stroked her lower lip with his tongue. She started, whimpered into his mouth, then—miracle of miracles—she touched her own tongue to his.
It was like being struck by lightning. Cianan went rigid with the holding back. Slow, dark, sensuous, drugging kisses, over and over, again and again, that had Maleta shaking and clinging to him. He dared not touch her, dared not fall back onto the quilt afore the fire, although he could barely hold himself upright. All he wanted was to lose himself in her touch, in the taste of her, the feel of her, the scent and sound of newly awakened passion. The blood pounded in his ears and in parts of him a great deal lower. He was lost and pulled back from the precipice to prevent himself from taking that final leap. It almost killed him, but he gentled the kiss, stilled her hands, and was the first to pull back and open his eyes.
Her skin was flushed, her lips glistened. She dragged her eyelids open, and the sultry, smoky look in her eyes stole his breath. He saw the exact moment clarity returned—her cheeks flamed scarlet. He turned away to pour them each a cup of mead, to give her a moment to compose herself. She took the cup from his hand with a shy smile, and took a sip.
“Are you all right?” Cianan asked.
Maleta nodded. “I feel…almost normal, I guess. Hopeful. If I can come back, there has to be a way for Jovan to come back too. Sunniva didn’t win.”
Blood of the Volcano: Sequel to Heart of the Volcano Page 25
