Never, in all his long life, had he seen anything to equal the beauty of Channa Leigh as she glided gracefully toward him. He gazed into her eyes, eyes filled with a love so deep, so pure and true, that it filled his heart with a sweet agony. The light shining in her eyes forever burned away the darkness that had ever been a part of him, banishing it from the depths of his heart and soul as if it had never existed.
It took but a few solemn words spoken by the village priest to make her his wife, to bind her to him for so long as she lived. And, thanks to the magic in his blood, she would live a long life, indeed.
“I love ye, my lady of light,” he murmured as he drew her into his arms.
“And I love ye, my lord,” she replied, and standing on her tiptoes, she claimed her first kiss as his wife.
The first, dear reader, but not the last.
~ The End ~
BORN OF THE NIGHT
For all those who adore
dark and dangerous men
and are intrigued
by things that go bump
in the night.
Chapter One
Death carried a silver sword and rode a tall black stallion. Shanara stared up at the man on the horse, unable to stop the tremors that wracked her from head to foot. The rider’s clothing matched the midnight 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 cried defiantly. “Strike me down and be done withit!”
“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 inky 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 pits 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 and fight than 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 terror 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 outraged defiance when his arm snaked around her waist. His momentum carried them both to the ground, his body turning in mid-air 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 flashed in his dark eyes and was gone. 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 and 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.
