The Royal Hunter

S
he must be found and brought to me.”

Queen Catriona was dying. No one would have guessed from her imperious tone. Even propped up in bed, her skin as pale as the white satin robe buttoned tightly at her neck, she radiated royalty.

Archer wasn’t concerned with royal heirs or vacated thrones. He was a businessman. “It has been more than a quarter century since the healer’s disappearance. Many have tried to find her. All have failed.” In fact, they’d stopped looking long before the king’s brutal murder three years earlier, when the queen was only twenty-two. Long before she lay dying with the successor to the Welsh throne of Llanfair slumbering peacefully in her belly.

“Finding her is my only hope. You have your orders.”

He wasn’t much for commands, nor did he hold out much hope of success in this case. But if she was willing to pay him to try and save her life, who was he to say no? Devin Archer, savior. He supposed if he really thought about it, he had saved a number of people. But not for anything as ephemeral and unrewarding as honor. Honor didn’t pay the bills or put fuel in the tank. He’d been called many things; renegade, rogue, pirate, spy. All accurate, if lacking
imagination. Professional savior. He rather liked that one. He’d have to make sure that one got around. Might be good for business.

“I realize you could give a good goddamn whether I live or die,” the queen said abruptly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You beg nothing of me. Which is precisely why I selected you. I understand why you have no dedication or allegiance to a country that has never given you anything without asking your sacrifice first.”

Archer frowned. He’d never denied his Australian heritage, but every other detail of his life, including his nomadic childhood as a slave and other less than savory details, had been deeply buried. Notoriety only went so far in business and he preferred to keep his past private. Anyone looking for information about one Devin Archer would only discover details from the time he’d arrived in the troubled kingdom of Llanfair. The queen’s knowledge did not amuse him. But he respected anyone with better contacts than his own.

“And yet you wish to hire me nonetheless?”

“I believe you understand the machinations at hand better than most. You’ve likely worked for any number of those involved.”

Archer’s estimation of the young queen rose several notches. “We’re not mates or anything, if that’s what you’re suggesting. As for my clientele …” He shrugged. “I’m not a political sort. Tends to limit a man’s business opportunities.”

“Exactly my point. A mercenary is loyal only to the one who pays him.”

“I prefer
merchant
,” he said quietly, returning her direct gaze. “I just follow the law of supply and demand. They demand, I supply.” Thank God for free
enterprise. “As for my allegiance, I have found that relying only on myself means I am less often disappointed.”

The queen nodded, as if she understood the sentiment. And given her circumstances, it was likely that she did. “Succeed and you will be rewarded beyond your wildest imagination.”

Archer smiled. “I have a fairly avid imagination.”

She smiled as well. “I have a fairly deep purse.”

“You’ll need it if I succeed.”

The smile vanished and the implacable face of a ruler once again emerged. “There is no
if
, Mr. Archer. Only
when
. You will use whatever means necessary to find Eleri Trahaern and return her to my protection. The child I carry must be brought safely into this world before I depart it. The Dalwyn line must continue.”

If she sounded nothing like a dewy-eyed mother-to-be and more like a monarch engaged in a strategic campaign, Archer understood. Besides, what did he know about maternal instincts? His mother certainly hadn’t had any. She’d sold him at the age of five. He’d long ago decided to view that as a good business decision on her part. She’d gotten the money she so desperately needed and he’d discovered the world of commerce. Twenty-five years later, he was a master of it. When he thought about it, and he rarely did anymore, he probably owed it all to her.

“What of the child if you die?” Archer asked baldly. “Who will care for it?”

“Not that it is any of your concern, but I have made the proper arrangements with those loyal to the House of Dalwyn. Chamberlain will not dare try to usurp the throne as long as the Dalwyn lineage remains intact.” She eyed him. “But remain intact it
will, or there will be chaos in this land.” She folded her arms over her swollen belly. “Of course, you no doubt see that as a potential upswing in employment opportunity.”

He managed not to appear surprised by the summation. Maternal she may not be, but she was a survivor. He respected that above all else. “I operate on one principal,” Archer said, his accent amplified by irritation. “You don’t question how I do my job and I won’t question why you need it done.” He took a step closer to the bedside. “But when you hire me, if it can
be
done, it will
get
done.”

“That is the only reason you are standing before me. Bring her to me, Archer, and you will never want for anything, ever again.”

And that was, after all, his entire goal in life. He nodded once—as close to a bow as he would ever make to anyone—then turned on his heel.

Catriona stopped him at the door. “There is one other thing.”

Archer turned but said nothing.

“She must come willingly, or she will be no more able to heal me of this cursed affliction than any of the parade of incompetents that have come before her.”

Archer frowned. “You wait until now to tell me this?”

Now it was the queen’s turn to smile. For the first time, Archer was treated to the full force of the magnetism that had captivated the people of his adopted country.

“It should make little difference to you. I am certain that your broad range of skills, which I understand extend rather heavily into areas dealing with members of the opposite sex, will hold you in good stead in this matter.” She let her head sink more
deeply into the pillows. “I will not question how you convince her to return to my side. Just see that she does so. Willingly.”

Archer’s responding nod was curt to the point of rudeness, but he was not summoned back again.

B
loody hell and damn.” Archer switched off his datatran and threw it across the room. The resulting crash wasn’t satisfying, but then nothing else had satisfied him today, so why should that be any different? He’d spent hours making contacts, and contacts of contacts, even going so far as to talk to people he’d had no use for in years. He knew how to dig up information. This time had been different. He was no closer to finding a link to Eleri Trahaern than when he left the castle this morning.

He pressed a button on the com arm and a transmitter dropped down from the ceiling to hover in front of him. “Data on,” he said wearily. He’d already read over the old reports from every other person who’d attempted to find Eleri Trahaern. “Page three,” he ordered, skimming once again the first report, filed days after her disappearance. There was one bit of information that nagged at him. “The Old One,” he murmured. The reclusive mystic was the only person connected to the royal healer who had never been found or interrogated. “Probably dead by now.”

A sleek black cat undulated around the corner of the living area and leaped into his lap. “A cat, huh? Well, I suppose we are on the prowl.”

Ringer studiously washed his paws, ignoring his master entirely, but making himself quite at home in his lap.

“Beastie,” he muttered, but scratched him behind the ears as he reread the report. “Find visual of the Old One,” he ordered. “Search logs dated thirty years or before.”