Read Doubting Thomas (Tarnished Saints Series) Online
Authors: Elizabeth Rose
“I am special,” he answered with confidence and also pride. “Because you see, Ms. Kane, as of today, I’m Sweet Water’s new mayor.”
“Don’t lie to me,” she told him, “because I’m no longer that sweet and naïve young girl I was last time you saw me. I’ve learned to be able to tell when a man is giving me a line, and I can see right through you, Levi Taylor. I know the mayor of Sweet Water because I talked with her on the phone, and she is a very nice little old lady.”
“Well then, you better get those glasses checked because you obviously can’t see the broad side of a barn. I’m not lying to you, sweetheart, I really am Sweet Water’s mayor.”
“Just drive,” she said, holding her daughter to her chest as the little girl continued to cry. How stupid did the man think she was? Who in their right mind would even consider electing an ex-con to be their mayor?
Excerpt from
Dragon and the Dreamwalker
,
Book One: Fire
(Elemental Series)
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 eyes 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. 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 said 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.
Excerpt from
Lord of the Blade
(Book 1, Legacy of the Blade Series)
Devonshire, England, 1351
The heavy iron bars that protected St. Basil's groaned with protest. Two Benedictine monks clad in black robes kept their heads covered as they slowly pulled open the gates of the monastery.
Corbett, lord of Steepleton, tugged impatiently at his leather gauntlets and shifted in the saddle atop his black steed. He felt the eyes of St. Basil's cathedral staring down at him. Gleaming shards of colored glass made up two huge windows, a rare and precious gift bestowed upon the church by his late father, Lord Evan Blake.
The monks moved slowly, dragging the heavy rails over the dusty cobblestone entranceway. Corbett willed the men to move faster so he could be done already and away from this place. His horse threw back his head and whickered, leaving a trail of frosty air in front of him. The sun was just coming up in the distance, peeking through the trees, bringing life and color to the land leading up the cliffs of Steepleton. Blake Castle sat high in the distance, towering over the monastery and little cottages of wattle and daub that dotted the fields of crops and livestock. The dusty road spiraled through his demesne, past the manor house of his bailiff and up to the castle.
"Lord Steepleton," came his squire's voice from directly behind him.
Corbett turned his head slightly to speak with his fair-haired squire of twenty summers who sat mounted on his own horse with the Blake banner in his hand.
"Delwynn, I've asked you time and again not to call me Lord Steepleton."
"Many pardons, Lord Corbett. I think I will never feel at ease with this familiar way you've asked for all of Devonshire to address you."
"I strive to make my people feel more at ease while in my presence. I'm not sure how I've attained my horrid reputation of being so black-hearted, but wish that I could change it."
"Aye, m'lord. Not to mention a good disposition may help you find a woman before ’tis too late."
"I've got more women than I want, squire. What I need is a lady. Now stop the idle chatter and lift my banner higher. We're amongst commoners and I demand the respect of a lord of my position."
"Aye, m'lord."
Corbett watched the flag atop the long pole fluttering in the cool breeze. There flew his family crest, an argent eagle on an azure field. The bird's wings were spread, talons ready to attack. He almost felt talons of his own under his gauntlets as he thought of the dream that had brought him here. He hated this mission but had to do this, or be haunted the rest of his life.
He turned back toward the gates. A ray of sun hit the stained glass of the cathedral just as he edged his steed forward. He fastened his gaze on the glowing reds and oranges, the winking ambers that only reminded him of the fires of hell. A threatening sight considering he sat there feeling no better than the devil himself.
The tack trailing down the sides of his stallion jingled as he edged his way forward. Shod hooves echoed on the stones behind him and with a quick tug to the reins, his horse obediently stopped short.
"What troubles you, m'lord?" his squire asked, his hand gripping tightly to the bannered pole. A blond curl fell over one sleepy eye, and with a puff of air from his mouth he blew it away.
"Why do you say that, squire? Do I look to you like a man who harbors guilt?"
"I said naught of guilt, m'lord, but spoke of trouble only."
Corbett realized his own accusations had betrayed him. Guilt indeed, along with a bit of premeditated trouble, had been haunting him for some time now. And somehow he felt he was to blame.
Three times King Edward III had chosen Corbett's betrothed, and three times the ladies died before ever making it to the altar. He wondered inwardly if his own thoughts were the true cause of their demise.
His squire leaned forward in the saddle, leather creaking as he did so. He spoke with concern. "I know you must be in mourning, m'lord. But the plague has left England and cannot take with it another of your brides."
"Mourning?" Corbett almost laughed at the mere thought. King Edward's idea of a wife for him consisted of a twice-widowed elderly woman, an abnormally overstuffed flirt and the fourth daughter of a no-land lord. True the latter was comely, but hadn't a dowry worth two shillings. Nay, he would have a virgin to bear his heir, someone who would obey and cling to his every word and with a dowry fit for a king.
Relieved was a better word to describe his feelings about that particular problem. And trouble was the exact word to describe what would happen to him if he didn't find a wife soon.
No wife - you lose your land and title. And then Blake Castle shall be given to the baron's son, Lord Malcomn.
King Edward's warning was branded in his mind. Corbett would do anything to keep Blake Castle now that he was lord, including marrying someone he didn't love. But she must be worthy. She must be a noble. She must be someone who would clear the sullied Blake name and bring respect back to his family.
Corbett had been Lord of Steepleton for three years now, and he would be damned before he gave up his lands to his foster brother Malcomn. But his time was running out. He'd been granted the right to choose his own wife as King Edward refused to send another lady to her death by insisting she marry the cursed black-hearted lord of Steepleton, as he'd been tagged.