Death carried a sword and rode a tall black stallion. Shanara stared up at the figure on the horse, unable to stop the tremors that wracked her from head to foot. The rider's clothing matched the color of his mount—black boots, black trousers, black shirt, a black hooded cloak that hid most of his face. She glanced at the sword in his hand, the wicked-looking blade stained crimson with the blood of her kinfolk, and felt the bile rise in her throat. Would he now add her blood to that of her slain family?
With a choked cry, she scrambled to her feet and shook off her fear. She would not die in the dirt like some sniveling coward. She was Lady Shanara of the House of Montiori and she would die in a manner befitting her station.
"Do it!" she said defiantly. "Strike me down and be done with it. "
"Eager to die, are you?" His voice was low and deep, tinged with a hint of wry humor.
She stared at him. How, in the name of Astur and Caleron, could he find amusement at a time like this? She glanced at the field of battle, the greening grass of spring made dark and ugly with the blood that had been spilled only moments before. There were bodies everywhere, limp, lifeless, like broken dolls cast aside by a careless hand. And somewhere, lying among the dead, were the bodies of her uncle and two of her cousins. For all she knew, the hooded man had killed them. If only she had stayed home where she belonged instead of coming here! But she'd had to get away from her father and her future, if only for a little while.
Death threw back his hood and ran a hand through his hair, hair as black as ten feet down. He studied her through eyes that were the cool deep blue of a midnight sea. His brows were straight and black, his jaw roughened by thick black bristles. A thin white scar ran from the outer edge of his right eye to the curve of his jaw. With the sun setting behind him, he reminded her of a demon rising from the smoldering pit of Hel.
In a lithe motion, he swung out of the saddle and walked toward her, arrogance in every step.
With no thought save to escape, she turned and ran.
It was a foolish thing to do. Far better to stand her ground than to give him a reason to chase her, something no true predator could resist. Fear gave wings to her feet and she flew over the ground, her heart pounding in her chest, her breathing labored.
She gasped when she heard a noise behind her. It might have been a harsh laugh. It might have been a howl. Whatever it was, it fueled her fear and added impetus to her flight.
But like a hare trying to outrun a winter-starved wolf, there was no way to escape.
She screamed in fear and defiance when his arm snaked around her waist. His momentum carried them both to the ground, his body turning in midair and sliding under hers so that he took the brunt of the fall against his back. She landed on top of him, the air whooshing out of his lungs and hers.
His arms circled her body, as unyielding and confining as prison bars. Well and truly caught, she glared down at him.
"Unhand me this instant!" she demanded, her voice filled with a bravado she was far from feeling. "I am Lady Shanara of the House of Montiori. "
An emotion she could not fathom showed in his eyes. A muscle clenched in his jaw. The arms imprisoning her grew tighter until she feared he might break her in two.
Breathless, she gazed down at him, all bravado gone as she prayed that her death would be swift, painless.
"Why were you at Castle Dunhaven?" Death demanded, his voice harsh.
"Why did you attack us?" She thought of her uncle's keep now lying in ruins, spoiled by this man and his barbarians. She wondered if her aunt Eugenia had survived the attack.
"Why did your father kill mine?"
She stared at him, her fear growing as his cold blue eyes raked over her. "He… he didn't," she replied tremulously, though, for all she knew, it could be true. Her father was an austere, cruel man, one who loved and lived for the heat of battle, the clash of swords, the bloody smell of victory.
"Did he not?" Death asked, his expression as cold as winter in the high country. He shook her until her head snapped back. "Did he not?" he asked again, a tremor in his voice. "He wears my father's pelt to warm him. "
She looked at her captor in horror, realizing, too late, who it was who had seized her. Dread uncoiled deep within her. Now that she knew who he was, death in any form would have been a blessing. She knew her father would avenge her, not because of any great love for his youngest daughter, but because it would give him just cause for another war.
Reyes drew in a deep breath, his rage dwindling as he grew increasingly aware of the slim female form pressing against his. Lifting his head, he sniffed her skin, his senses filling with the flowery scent of her perfume, the acrid stink of her fear. Her hair was not red and not brown, but something in between, reminding him of the rich earthy color of autumn leaves. Her eyes were the green of new grass, her skin a soft golden brown. She squirmed beneath his regard, making him acutely aware of her full breasts, of the fact that her body was cradled between his thighs.
He could have taken her there and then. It was his right. No one would dare dispute it. He had wrought the victory. It was his right to claim whatever or whoever he wished. But he did not want her writhing beneath him in fright, only in ecstasy. To his surprise, he discovered that he didn't want to take her by force or fear, not here, on the fringes of a bloody battlefield. Nay, far better to seduce her slowly and gently on a bed of soft furs by candlelight.
It amazed him that he wanted her at all, knowing that it had been her father who had butchered his. Rage burned anew when Reyes recalled how Luis Montiori had taken his father's rich black pelt and then had the gall not only to line a cloak with it, but to boast to any and all who would listen of what he had done. The memory of Montiori's treachery cooled his desire as effectively as if he had plunged into an icy lake, leaving only the simmering coals of hatred and the ashes of revenge.
Putting the woman away from him, he took a deep breath. Rising, he grabbed her by the arm and lifted her onto his horse's back. Heedless of the fear in the woman's eyes, ignoring the tears trickling down her cheeks, he vaulted up behind her, took up the reins, and turned his horse toward the misty mountains of home. His men, drunk with the wine of victory, gathered up the last of the spoils and fell in behind him, eager to return home to bed their wives and boast of their victory.
Chapter 2
Shanara had never been so afraid in her whole life. The arm around her waist was thick with muscle, unmoving, unyielding. Her back bumped against his chest from time to time. It, too, was hard and unyielding.
What was he going to do with her?
It was a question that plagued her on the long ride to his keep until, weary with fear and exhaustion, sleep claimed her.
Reyes felt the woman slump in his grasp. His arm tightened around her and he drew her closer, cradling her head against his chest, all too aware of her hips and thighs cradled between his. She was warm and soft in sleep. Once, she whimpered softly. He refused to be moved by it. Hardening his heart against her, he reminded himself that she was his prisoner and nothing more, a pawn in a dangerous game. He had sworn a blood oath to avenge his father's cruel death. It was a vow he would honor no matter what the cost. If her father refused to take her place in the dungeon, then Reyes would kill the girl and send her body back to Montiori a piece at a time.
The girl was still asleep when he drew rein for the night.
Holding her in his arms, he swung his right leg over his mount's withers and slid to the ground. Cradling her against him with one hand, he untied his bedroll from behind his saddle and spread the blankets on the ground for the girl. She murmured in her sleep when he put her down, but didn't awaken. He stared at her for a moment, then drew the covers up to her chin.
In a short time, fires were laid and food was being prepared. His men sat in small groups, sharing tales of old battles, or refighting the battle they had just won.
Reyes moved through the camp, taking time to speak to each of his men, commending them for their bravery, consoling the wounded, stopping to spend time with two of the men who he knew would not survive the night.
A short time later, the women arrived—a dozen whores and camp followers who made their living the best way they knew how. They followed him and his men whenever they rode out of the keep, setting up their gypsylike wagons on the outskirts of the camp.
Reyes allowed it because his men were, after all, red-blooded fighting men. Warriors all, after facing a day of battle where death might find them at any time, they had a need for a woman. It was more than the pleasures of the flesh that they sought. It was a reaffirmation of life. Sometimes he envied his men. Though tempted, he had never bedded any of the camp followers. He knew his men wondered why he never visited any of the wagons. Some thought he must be a eunuch, but he shrugged off such speculation as idle talk. He was not a man to indulge in meaningless copulation with a woman who was available to any man for the right price. If he mated, it would be for life. Cursed as he was, he dared not spill his seed wantonly.
He sought his bed when the fires burned low. The girl was sleeping soundly, one small hand tucked beneath her cheek, her lips slightly parted. He could see the shapely outline of her form beneath the thin blanket. He took a deep breath, drawing in the sweet scent of her skin and hair.
She is here. She is mine for the taking…
His body responded to the words moving through his mind.
Muttering an oath, he stalked into the darkness.
Shanara woke to the sound of rough male laughter and the smell of food cooking. Disoriented, she sat up, her gaze darting right and left. Where was she? And then it all came rushing back to her—the battle, the stink of blood and death borne on the early morning air, being captured by Reyes, who was known among her people as the Lord of Black Dragon Keep.
Where was he?
She saw no sign of him. Many of his men were gathered around a large campfire. She saw others moving back and forth between the wagons that surrounded the camp. No one seemed to be paying her any attention.
Taking a deep, calming breath, she threw back the covers, then gained her feet.
No one noticed.
Born of the Night Page 1
