Destined for a King is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2016 by Ashlyn Macnamara
Excerpt from Claimed by the Commander by Ashlyn Macnamara copyright © 2016 by Ashlyn Macnamara
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Claimed by the Commander by Ashlyn Macnamara. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
ebook ISBN 9781101967874
Cover design: Jae Song
Cover photographs: Captblack76/Shutterstock (woman), Robsonphoto/Shutterstock (background)
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Ashlyn Macnamara
About the Author
Excerpt from Claimed by the Commander
Chapter 1
BLACKBRIAR KEEP, THE THIRD MONTH OF THE TWENTY-FIFTH YEAR OF MAGNUS VANDAL’S REIGN
Calista Thorne reached into the quiver at her back and grasped air. The Faceless One take it. With the enemy at the gate, she couldn’t be out of bolts so soon. Her mother’s words to her drifted through her mind. Should the battle go ill, save the last bolt for yourself.
The crack of solid oak splintering, accompanied by a metallic groan, split the air. Sweat trickled along her temple beneath her helm. If the Bastard Brotherhood had just broken the gates, the battle was going ill, indeed.
Footsteps thundered along the parapet. Men were repositioning themselves the better to strike at the enemy. Rand, one of her father’s guards, pulled up short when he spotted her. “My lady, you should not be here.”
She wouldn’t be on Blackbriar Keep’s walls, except the sizeable force her father had sent to the king’s aid left too small a garrison at home. Every hand was needed, even her inexperienced ones, but at least she could crank a crossbow.
“Better here than in the keep.”
None were now safe anywhere. Women least of all. With any luck, the attackers wouldn’t see beneath the bronze-studded leather that hid her body as well as her identity. Not until it was too late.
Rand edged in front of her, crowding her out. He raised his crossbow and released a quarrel—into the bailey, on what was supposed to be the safe side.
A glance between the crenellations showed the Brothers pouring in, one mail-clad rider leading them on a white charger. Flames glinted along the steel edge of the sword he raised in the air. A shiver traced down her spine in spite of the day’s heat and the protective padding beneath her gear.
She did not need to see the black bird on his banners for confirmation. The sword was enough. Torch.
If she had a bolt, she wouldn’t bother using it on herself. She’d use it to bring him down.
Her gaze alit on a fallen guard. A black-fletched arrow protruded between his shoulder blades. He wore the same boiled leather as she. Small protection, that. Thankfully, he lay prone; if his face were turned toward the sky, she’d surely have known him. At least he’d fallen before he spent all his quarrels.
She loaded one in her crossbow and turned the crank. Like startled birds taking flight, shouts soared from the yard. Hoofbeats. Panic. The clash of steel. The cries of the wounded.
Beside her, Rand released bolt after bolt, but each shot flew wide of its mark. Cursing, he groped among the bodies for more ammunition.
Keeping her body low, Calista peered over the wall. Torch’s riders had engaged what few men her father had left. Blades danced a lethal reel, but Blackbriar’s guardsmen were falling back. Her father rushed down the steps to the keep, fully armored, a naked sword in hand, ready to defend himself to the last.
And that last was nearly upon him. Torch spurred his charger into the melee.
Calista raised her bow. Aimed. One shot to the heart was all she needed. She sent a quick prayer to the All-Father and yanked back the tickler. Her quarrel catapulted from its slot with a heavy thrum.
It embedded itself in Torch’s thigh. At the impact, he barely flinched, but his mount reared and pivoted on hind legs, hooves pawing the air. Torch scanned the walls, the glint of his eyes visible beneath his helmet, even from several fathoms. As Calista shrunk back, he pinned her to the spot with a glare that would freeze his own sword.
And then amid the din of battle, he smiled, his teeth a flash of white in the midst of a grit-streaked face. “Stand forth,” he cried up to her.
Rand tugged at her hand. “No, my lady. He means to make an example of you.”
But something about that voice commanded immediate obedience. She straightened and stared over the wall. His gear was a mishmash of chain mail and plate, gleaned no doubt from his many prior battles. An upstart bastard had to scavenge his arms where he could if he was to survive for long.
And Torch had. Unfortunately for Blackbriar Keep.
His smile broadened, and he reached down with a gauntleted hand to grasp her quarrel. He yanked it from his thigh muscle and tossed it aside as if it were no more than a bit of kindling. A mere annoyance and nothing deadly. Then he wheeled his mount toward the keep.
His men had surrounded her father. Her heart gave a terrifying leap as she watched him sink to his knees, head bowed in surrender.
—
The main floor of Blackbriar Keep smelled of dankness, mildew, and too many men packed into a small space. The fire guttering in a stone hearth at one end did no more to burn off the humidity than it did to warm the room. Its smoke rose to the low ceiling to hang over the company like a dismal winter pall. Great hall, indeed.
Torch’s men surrounded him as he forced his way toward the dais where Belwin Thorne stood ready to officially hand over his castle.
This conquest had been almost too easy. A diversion was all he’d needed. One large enough to cause Magnus Rathbone to demand a tribute of Blackbriar’s best troops. Torch’s brother, Griffin, had given him that diversion in the Strongholds to the west, and he’d won himself some lands. Just like that.
Barely a scratch, beyond the bolt through his thigh that hampered a proper stride to befit a conqueror. As if to remind him of its existence, the wound throbbed. He gritted his teeth, and forced himself to march through the discomfort. A small price in exchange for lands and a keep. He hadn’t even sacrificed one of his men, and not many of Thorne’s. He’d need them all before Magnus turned his attentions to Thorne’s estate, and that wo
uld be soon enough. Just as soon as the Usurper figured out the Bastard Brotherhood had played him for a fool.
Again.
Torch scanned the assembled men, looking for the boy who’d shot him. The lad had bollocks to spare for exposing himself to enemy fire, even on order. All that wanted was work on his aim, but he’d learn that soon enough. Hours of practice with a longbow—until his fingers were bloody—would be fitting payment for attempting to kill his rightful lord.
Ah, there he stood—on the dais, no less. But Thorne had no heir, only a daughter, enough of an enticement to target this particular keep. Perhaps Thorne meant to hand him the lad as a token of goodwill, so he could punish the boy as he saw fit and go easier on the rest of them.
And wasn’t that a troubling thought? His reputation was black enough without making any of the claims against his name true. They called him Torch for reasons that went beyond the red in his hair and the flaming sword he bore. Those reasons might be useful at times for stirring fear in his foes, but every last one was a lie.
He met the boy’s gaze, and the boy stared boldly back, just as he had on the walls. Something about those eyes, so gray and clear. He’d seen them before. He fingered the stone at his throat, hidden beneath his mail and padded gambeson. Yes, he’d seen, but the Stone had revealed them belonging to a different person.
A female, for one. But then Wolf of the Avestari, the tribal horse-masters whose herds thundered across the plains to the east of the Strongholds, had always warned that the visions in the Stone might be deceptive. Unless the lad had a sister.
He tore his gaze away from the boy to focus on Thorne. A grizzled old bear with more gray in his hair than brown but still solid, still firm of arm, even if his belly had begun to run to fat. With the full force of his men behind him, he might have held his keep. He eyed Torch, mistrust glimmering in his dark gaze, his mouth set in the harsh lines of one who dislikes defeat. Torch was well acquainted with that sentiment.
After a telling moment, the older man bowed his head, but only the requisite amount. The loss of his keep had surely left him with a taste in his mouth sourer than the dawn after a night’s carousing. If he handed his castle over so grudgingly, how much more would he begrudge Torch’s next demand?
A sideways glance at his second in command, and Kestrel nodded. That single jerk of his head comprised an entire conversation. Thorne would bear watching. Without a word, Torch’s cavaliers fanned out across the hall, effectively surrounding Thorne’s remaining guards.
As he stepped onto the dais, a bolt of pain radiated from his wound. He stifled a grunt. If he ignored it, it would go away. His squire had bound up the hole with a length of white cloth tied about his leg beneath his hauberk. He could cast the discomfort from his mind, but not the beading of sweat that broke out on his forehead. Thankfully, his coif hid that much. Now was no time to appear weak.
“My lord of Blackbriar.” Though he addressed Thorne, he raised his voice so that all in the hall might hear, both his men and the keep’s remaining defenders. “I have bested you, and would take possession of your stronghold. In return, I grant your lives to you, your family, and all your retainers, provided they swear oaths of allegiance and take me as their lord. Do you yield me your keep and all its holdings?”
“No.” The word was a mere whisper, but Torch heard it all the same. Except it hadn’t emanated from the old lord’s lips. No, the boy had said it.
Torch fixed his stare on Thorne. His people lived and died on his word. “Your answer?” he prompted.
“I yield, sir,” Thorne said thickly, resentment tingeing every syllable.
A collective sigh seemed to rise from the assembly, but the tension in the air did not lighten. Just as well. Torch’s men were too well trained to let down their guard so easily.
Torch nodded. “A wise decision. I claim Blackbriar Keep in the name of landless brigands everywhere.”
“And what of my men who are abroad?” Thorne asked, his terse question heavy with insinuation. He knew quite well that Torch had chosen his moment with care. “Will you guarantee their safety upon their return?”
The flames in the sconces lining the walls wavered, but Torch forced himself to focus. “That will depend on the manner of their return. Should they choose to swear me allegiance, they may reside here on the same terms I am willing to offer you.”
“And what are those terms?” A just question. Thorne might well expect him to send his family into exile to beg lodgings from the nearest stronghold that would have him. If he were fortunate. In the same position, Magnus Ironfist might well lop off everyone’s heads to display at his gates for the sport of crows.
“Despite the means of my arrival, I did not come with the intention of decimating your lands. That would be of no profit to either of us. I do wish to settle in peace and prosperity.” Eventually. Once he got his own back. But he couldn’t let on as much in front of a roomful of men who were more likely to ally themselves with the king than him. “I require only one thing.”
“One other thing, you mean. There’s only the small matter of my keep and holdings.” For a man newly defeated, Thorne certainly kept a sharp tongue in his mouth.
“A man in possession of lands requires an heir eventually, and for the getting of an heir, he requires a bride.”
Thorne’s ruddy face went a shade redder. “And you expect me to assist you in such an endeavor?”
“Indeed, I expect you to provide the bride.” Once more, he glanced about the dais. No sign of any female, not even Thorne’s lady wife. Doubtless the women were holed up in some high chamber under guard until circumstances guaranteed their safety. “You do have a daughter as I understand.”
A movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention. The lad who’d shot at him had flinched at that comment. Thorne, on the other hand, barely reacted. “Thus you would legitimize your claim on my lands. Alas…” He hardly sounded sorry. “My daughter is already promised.”
“To Magnus Rathbone, I know.” The name tasted sour on his tongue, but he could hardly bandy such terms as usurper in front of so many.
“To King Magnus Vandal.” Thorne put unnecessary emphasis on the correction. “Who will not appreciate another laying hands on his intended.”
The throbbing in his thigh increased. Damn it to the Void. If this got any worse, he’d have to resort to an infusion of poppy, but the last thing he needed was a display of weakness before a newly conquered enemy. “Then poor Magnus will have to learn to deal with one of life’s little disappointments.”
“You’re aware of his usual method of dealing with life’s little disappointments, as you term them. And with the gates newly broken.” Thorne shook his head. “Such a pity the king will easily overrun you. And you so new to the lordship and all.”
“I shall set men to their repair immediately, and I will look forward to Magnus Ironfist’s congratulations on my marriage.” Congratulations that would no doubt involve siege engines and battering rams sooner than cases of strong southland wine, but if Torch were ever to claim his birthright, this was all part of the plan. One more step to be conquered.
“Father, no!” The boy again. And since when was Thorne one to sire bastards? By all accounts he enjoyed a rarity among noble marriages. He loved his wife and remained faithful to her.
Torch forced his eyes to focus so he could study the features more closely—high cheekbones, a delicate jaw, not even the barest shade of a beard. What if the yeoman who had shot him wasn’t truly a lad?
He bit back a smile. “Do you have some objection to my choice of bride? Enough that you would have the insolence to voice your opinions before your lord and a roomful of your betters?” If this truly was Thorne’s daughter, let her choke on that, but he was only giving her the treatment she was due based on her dress.
“My lord?” she spluttered. “I have no lord.”
“Not even your father?” The flames along the walls danced in front of his eyes, tiny pinpoints that swirled
like snow before swinging back into sharper focus. Damn it. He could not afford to pass out now. “And what of your betrothed?”
She reached up and pulled the black leather skullcap from her head. A cascade of thick, dark curls fell to her waist, incongruous against her gear. “My betrothed is not present here.”
“Pity.” He took a step forward, and regretted the action when pain shot down his leg. He forced his voice to remain light and steady as he went on. “I’m sure he’d find your current garments amusing. Is this the latest in ladies’ fashion in this part of the Eastern Strongholds?”
A wash of pink stained her cheeks. “He would commend me for shooting at you.”
“No doubt, no doubt, although he might chastise you about your aim.” Not to mention placing herself in such danger. “If you meant to kill me, you missed.” Although the way his thigh plagued him, she still stood a chance of accomplishing the deed.
Her gaze trailed down his leg, and he could nearly feel it like a flame burning through mail and padding. “What makes you think I was aiming for your heart?”
A buzz of laughter filled the hall. Even the austere-faced Kestrel’s lips quirked. Torch placed a hand on his chest and bowed to her, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“Well answered.” How he would love to trade barbs with her—of the verbal sort now that the fighting was over—but not until someone saw to his leg. A trickle of warmth coursed along his thigh—blood, beginning to seep through the binding. “But given my intent to wed you, perhaps you ought to aim for my heart next time. Only in place of a crossbow bolt, use your tongue.”
She gasped, and her cheeks went purple.
“Oh, dear, and now I’ve shocked you.” He would have answered with his most roguish smile, one that he’d used to charm women of all stations, from chatelaine to serving wench, but his vision clouded once more. An odd shiver crept along his spine, and his legs turned to water. He’d seen men go white and bloodless, but he never thought to actually feel the color draining from his face. He was sure it was happening though—just as sure as the blackness around the edges of his vision encroached, until he could see nothing more.
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