The Caretaker of Showman's Hill (Vampire Romance) (24 page)

Madoc ap Powell looked at the beautiful woman before him, demanding his name as if he would really tell her.

“Who are
you
?” he asked in return.

“I am Lady Abigail of Blackmore,” she retorted. “And I demand you release me.”

“You, my lady, are the one who alerted the guards to my actions and almost got me killed.” She was a feisty wench, he’d give her that. And twice as observant as any of the guards.

“They
will
kill you,” she said. “Just as soon as they follow - which will be at any moment now.”

“Nay, my lady. That is where you are wrong. For at this moment they are fighting off a band of marauders who are headed in the opposite direction. I sincerely doubt they’ve even noticed you are missing.”

“So you set up an attack and now you come for me?”

“I had naught to do with the attack. I work on my own. I just happened upon the opportunity before they did, that’s all.”

“Work?” she mimicked the word he’d used. “Hah. I sincerely doubt you have ever worked an honest day in your life. And I do not like to be referred to as an opportunity.”

Once again she was very observant, although he
had
worked at an honest job for a few years of his life. But he’d seen where honest work had gotten him when he’d ended up in the dungeon. Nay, what he did now was the better of the choices, and also what his mother had taught him to do from childhood.

He took a sheep bladder filled with water from his side, and splashed it upon his face to rid himself of his disguise. The white powder in his beard and mustache washed out, leaving it as dark as the hair on his head. The powder in his eyebrows followed. He gave a sharp intake of breath at the coldness on his skin, then took a swig of the water and offered her some.

“Nay,” she said, turning her head, and when she tried to walk away, he realized her gown had caught on a branch.

“Well, Lady Abigail, I see your escape is foiled. You are caught not only by me but also by the guardians of nature.”

“I wasn’t trying to escape!” she exclaimed.

When she looked back up to him, he couldn’t help but notice her beauty. A few years younger than he, she seemed to be mayhap one and twenty summers. Her hair was golden silk, spun from the faeries of the forest themselves. Her eyes blue – deep blue – and clear like that of a midsummer’s night sky. And her skin was alabaster and looked soft and supple.

“Well I am glad to hear you were not trying to escape,” he told her. “Because then you’ll be willing to come with me when I return you for a reward.”

Excerpt from
The Dragon and the Dreamwalker
, Book 1: Fire:

(Elemental Series)
Watch book trailer
.

Brynn spied the nighttime candle next to the bed and brought it to her. She held her hands over the fire to help regain her strength.

She took a moment to focus her vision in the semi-darkened room. Though she feared the man in the shadows, she still had the odd sensation of being comfortable with her surroundings.

She looked up to the velvet draperies that hung from iron rods around the bed. Her heart beat faster and she sat upright, barely breathing at all as she recognized the carved spindles at each corner. Her father had carved these spindles - engraving his love for his wife in the vines and faeries that wrapped around and around, climbing to the top and ending in a moon or star. She knew now why she felt at home. She
was
home. Resting in her parents’ bed.

“No!” she exclaimed, not wanting to believe it was true. She placed the candle on the bedside table. Her gaze shot to the wall looking frantically for her father’s banner - his crest of sword and shield, a mighty arm holding one, a feminine arm the other. But it was no surprise when she found it missing. Instead, a banner with a fierce fire-breathing red and black dragon consumed the spot.

“You act as if you’ve seen a ghost. As if my castle’s dwellings could speak to you.” He still stayed hidden in the shadows.

“Every stone in the walls, every rush on the floor - they cry with anguish for the lives that have been lost here recently. And if you are so bold as to call this your castle, then it can only be you who is responsible for the blood that’s been shed on these grounds.”

“I claim many a triumph of the men I’ve conquered or the fiefs I hold, but I cannot put my mark on the lives lost here,” he told her. “I claim the castle only.”

“’Twas you who killed my parents! ’Twas you who stole my family’s wealth.”

“You’re parents?” he asked, sounding bewildered. As if he didn’t know who she was when he saved her from the dragon only to claim her as his prize.

She grabbed the coverlet from the bed and wrapped it tightly around her, easing herself to the floor and hoping her father’s ivory-handled dagger still lay hidden under the loose floorboard. She would never be the spoils of war. She’d kill him before she lived at the side of the man who murdered her parents.

“I’ve heard it said that the former lord and lady of Thorndale Castle had a daughter. A daughter who befriends fire and has magical powers at her command,” he answered from the darkness.

“And I’ve heard it said that the man who leads the Klarens into battle, killing and ransacking everything in sight is a black-hearted man who gains his power at the hands of others’ misfortunes. His reputation is known throughout the hills of Lornoon. He’s the one mothers warn their daughters about. He’s the one they mention to threaten their children when they’re bad. Yet his name is never spoken aloud, for fear the darkness that possesses this man’s soul may follow his name, striking down dead the one who spoke it.”

It was then he stepped slowly out of the shadows and into the soft light of the fire that flickered from the bedside candle. The glow encompassed him as his dark eyes bore into her. One fist gripped a tankard of ale in front of him. He was tall, handsome, foreboding, and carried his body frame straight and proud as he strolled toward her. His chest was bare - wide and sturdy. Every muscled ripple showed in his physique. His arms were huge in a strong sort of way, empowering the rest of his warrior body. And like a warrior, he still carried a weapon though he was half-clothed.

His gaze penetrating, she felt a slight hesitation in his action as he stopped in front of her with his free hand hovering above the sword strapped at his side. Almost as if she’d called him a traitor or insulted him by saying the legends of his name aloud. He was the most dangerous man alive. And she was alone with him in the dark, with only a coverlet between them.

“’Tis true. It is you,” she said barely above a whisper. “I’ve heard of your crest described by the bards. You are Drake of Dunsbard, are you not?”

“You so daringly let my name slip past your noble lips. Aren’t you afraid you’ll drop dead at my feet for such carelessness?”

“I’d welcome death to the alternative of what you’ll do to me.”

“So sure are you that I’m that dangerous?”

“You are a Pendragon!” she cried. “You’re the one they call the
Dragon’s Son
. You are the devil and you’ve come to claim my soul.”

He put the tankard on the bedside table and stared down at her. All the way to her soul. She knew she should look away, but stubbornness made her match his glare. It was said that the son of the dragon could turn one to mere ashes just by fixing his gaze on a person. But it mattered not to her. She had an ally in fire, and his dangerous stare could not harm her. She’d be protected from the fires of hell.

He chuckled softly, his lips turning up into a lopsided grin that only made the indention in the cleft of his chin more pronounced. His ebony eyes sported a glimmer as he seemed to find amusement in her words. Then the glimmer was gone and the danger was back. He took a step closer, so close that she could feel his breath on her face when he spoke, though he did not touch her.

“You’re only partially correct with your legends.”

She didn’t trust him so close to her and knew she needed protection. She needed her father’s dagger, but it was hidden under the floor on the far side of the bed. She scooted away from him, never turning her back to him, and shifted around the foot of the bed.

“I am a Pendragon,” he admitted, “’tis true. And I am the one they call the
Dragon’s Son
. But I am not the devil and I want nothing to do with your soul.”

He made his way toward her, and she darted around the back side of the bed, holding her coverlet tightly in the process.

“I don’t believe you.” From the corner of her eye she looked to the floor, trying to remember which board the dagger was under. Then her toe caught on a loose end and she knew she’d found it.

He took another step toward her, this time with more definition. It was all she needed to see. The look in his eyes said he knew she was about to deceive him. She had to move fast. She dove to the floor, dropping the coverlet that concealed her nudity and tore at the floorboard, groping inside for the weapon.

His boot heels clicked on the floor and stopped in front of her face. She grabbed for the dagger in one final attempt to protect herself from him, but to her horror, she found the hiding place empty. She stiffened when she felt his hand on her arm. Her breathing labored as he pulled her to her feet, her body trembling from his mere presence. He pulled her closer, her hips grazing the flat end of the sword at his waist.

“Looking for this?” Still holding her arm, he raised his other hand and displayed her father’s ivory-handled dagger in the air.