Adron frowned. “What’s a boy?”
“The baby she carries. Congratulations, Commander. In seven months, you’ll be a father.”
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EPILOGUE
One year later
Livia paused in the doorway as she watched Adron giving their infant son his three A.M. feeding. Propped against pillows, Adron sat on the bed, wearing nothing except a sheet draped modestly over his lap as he held the bottle and stared adoringly at baby Jayce . . . named for the uncle who’d been key in bringing them together.
Adron laid his cheek against the top of the baby’s bald head and held him close. “I’ve got you, little bit,” he whispered. “Yes, I do.”
Jayce kicked and cooed.
She laughed.
Adron looked as if she’d startled him. “I didn’t know you were back.”
“I can tell.” She moved to sit next to them. Then she leaned against Adron’s raised leg to stare at the beautiful baby that lay on his unscarred chest.
Jayce smiled at her as he wrapped his tiny hand around her finger. Adron brushed a loving hand through Livia’s soft, mussed hair. Thanks to her, he’d come a long way from the bitter alcoholic she’d found tossing down drinks in the back of the Golden Crona. She’d found a broken, bleeding man and made him whole again. Not just in body, but in his heart. She
’d reunited him with his family and with his soul.
Over the last year, he’d watched her grow ripe with his baby and had held her hand as she struggled to bring Jayce into the world.
Life turned on the hairpin of a second. He’d always known that, but on one rainy, cold night in the back room of a filthy dive, his life had taken a sharp turn into heaven. Redemption is never where you expect to find it. And he, a bitter cynic, had found it in the arms of a guileless innocent.
Livia furrowed her brow as she caught the intensity of his stare. “What are you thinking about?”
He traced the outline of her lips with his fingertip. “I’m thinking how glad I am that I traded myself for that woman. How glad I am that my brother couldn’t kill me. But most of all, I’m thinking just how damn grateful I am that you saw something in me worth saving.”
He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. “Thank you for my son, Livia, and for my life. I love you. I always will.”
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KNIGHTLY DREAMS
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ONE
“Well,” Taryn Edwards said into her cell phone as she stood beside the road, watching the steady Dallas traffic pass by her broken-down car, “I would throw myself under the nearest bus, but considering my luck today, I’m sure it would break down less than a millimeter from me and just ruin my clothes. . . . Probably break my watch, too.”
“You wear a Timex.”
She snorted. “Trust me, today not even my Timex could take a licking and keep on ticking. Give me a Tonka truck and I’ll squash it with my ink pen.”
Janine’s laughter echoed through the static. “Taryn, is it really that bad?”
Holding her cell phone in a tight grip, Taryn looked at her stalled-out Firebird, which was the prettiest, most expensive lawn ornament she’d ever purchased.
Of all the rotten luck, especially since all she wanted to do was get home and drown her woes in gallons of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food. “Considering the fact that I’m stuck out in this wretched heat wearing high heels with a black car that currently wouldn’t go downhill with a hurricane pushing it, I’d say yes.”
Janine laughed again. “Do you need me to come pick you up?”
“No. I appreciate the thought, but I have to wait on the tow truck, which seems to be the only thing moving slower than my DOA Firebird.”
“Jeez,” Janine said. “You are in a pissy mood.”
That’s because I just caught my boyfriend in his office with his secretary showing her a position I’m sure would qualify them for the Kama Sutra Hall of Fame. . . . Pain sliced through Taryn’s heart as she remembered the sight of them going at it on his desk. Unable to breathe for a moment, she wanted desperately to tell Janine the whole story, but the last thing she needed was to cry on the side of the road. Her dignity was all she had left, and she had no intention of giving Rob that last piece of her.
“Taryn, why don’t we . . .”
All of a sudden the phone, much like her car, went dead. “Janine?”
Nothing.
Taryn tried to redial the number, but the static was so severe, she couldn’t hear anything.
“Great,” she mumbled, turning the phone off and glancing at the shopping center across the street. It would be a bit of a hike through screaming traffic, but at least it had a grocery store where she could grab something cold to drink and a few shops she could browse in to pass the time until the tow truck could get here.
And with any luck, a car or truck might plow into her and put her out of her misery. Dodging traffic, she made her way over to the shopping center. Damn, she actually arrived without bodily injury. It really wasn’t her day.
Disgusted by that, she headed for the grocery store, but as she drew near the entrance for it, she happened to see the small bookstore next door.
Taryn paused and frowned at the cozy-looking place. When had they opened that? She couldn’t recall ever seeing it here before.
She stared up at the hand-painted sign: DAYDREAMS AND RAINBOWS. How odd.
Well, thank God for small favors. A good book would cure her woes tonight almost as much as Ben
& Jerry.
Heading inside the cheery store lined with bookshelves, she saw an elderly woman straightening the books on the wall to her right. There was something about the old woman that appeared youthful, almost sprite-like as she came off her ladder to greet Taryn. The woman moved with surprising agility. Her platinum gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and she wore a pair of faded blue jeans and a pink summer sweater.
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pot of coffee percolated.
“Welcome,” the woman said, her brown eyes bright with friendship. “I’ll bet you’re looking for something to read.”
For the first time that afternoon, Taryn smiled. “You must be psychic.”
The woman laughed as she closed the distance between them. “Not really. You are in a bookstore, after all.” She winked as she came to rest in front of Taryn. “So, what’s your pleasure? Thrillers, science fiction . . .” The older woman tapped her chin as she studied Taryn. “No. Romance. You look like you need a good romance to read.”
Taryn wrinkled her nose at the very thought. She’d given up reading romance novels a long time ago. She had buried that naive Cinderella-wanting-Prince-Charming part of herself in the closet along with her Barbie dolls and other childish fantasies and beliefs. “To be honest, I don’t read those.”
The woman looked offended. “Why not?”
“One man, one woman. Happily-ever-after. Forever and ever . . . bologna.”
The woman shook her head at her. “My name’s Esther,” she said, extending her hand.
“Taryn,” she said as she shook a hand that felt like warm velvet in her palm. Esther gave her a probing stare. “Now, tell me about this man who stole that dream from you.”
Taryn had never been the kind of person to confide in anyone much, least of all a perfect stranger, and yet before she knew it, her entire history with Rob Carpenter came pouring out of her right down to the grittiest of details.
“It was horrible!” she said, taking a tissue from Esther to dab at her eyes as she continued to
tell her the whole miserable event. “I believed in that snake and he lied to me.”
Esther led her to a small table in the café area and made her a cup of coffee.
“So you see,” Taryn said before she blew her nose, “he told me that I was the only woman for him. That he would love no one else. And then the next thing I knew, he was calling me by the wrong name when he answered the phone. Good giveaway, you know?” She sighed. “I should have known then, but I stupidly believed his lies and now . . .”
Again, she saw Rob and his secretary on the desk, their clothes scattered on the floor around them. Taryn fisted her hand in her hair as pain, embarrassment, and grief assailed her anew. “How could I have been so stupid? How could he be so damned clichéd?”
Esther patted her hand. “It’s all right, love, and I am so sorry, but you shouldn’t base your opinion of all men on the actions of one thoughtless ass.”
Taryn smiled at that, even though her heart was broken. “He was an ass.”
“Of course he was. You’re a beautiful young woman with your entire life before you. The last thing you need is to be so jaded. What you need is a good old-fashioned hero.”
Taryn sighed dreamily at the thought as that buried part of her reared its ugly head. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, there was that tiny, infinitesimal part of her that still believed in fairy tales. At least, it wanted to. “Some knight in shining armor, come to sweep me off my feet. It does sound nice, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does.”
She watched while Esther got up and went to the shelves on her left. After a minute Esther came back with a book in her hand. “You need a champion, my dear, and I know just the man. Sparhawk the Brave, the fourth Earl of Ravensmoor.”
Taryn studied the purple paperback where a handsome, bare-chested man with a sword grinned roguishly at her. The wind swept at his ebony hair, and his honest eyes were a deep, vibrant green. A wicked green that was tinged with a look of esoteric knowledge and intelligence, and they bore the glint of a man who knew his way around a woman’s body. A man who would take his time and make sure he did the job right.
Oh, yeah, he was a major hottie.
His smile was devilish and there was something captivating about him. His arms bulged with strength and power, and he wore a gold, wolf-tipped torc that deepened the perfect tan of his skin. He was striking and gorgeous, and the woman in her responded automatically to such overt Page 52
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masculinity. It might only be a drawing, but it was a damn good drawing. The kind that made a woman wish for one minute that she could find such perfection in the flesh. At least for a night or two.
The title, Knightly Dreams, swept across the cover in gold foil, but the name of the author appeared to have been worn off.
Oddly enough there was no blurb on the back and she didn’t recognize the publisher. “Ma Souhait?”
“They’re an old publisher,” Esther said. “Been around since before I was born.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. You’ll like it, trust me.” Esther looked out the windows to where Taryn’s Firebird was waiting. “Your tow truck is here. You’d better run.”
Taryn pulled her wallet out.
Esther waved her hand at her. “Oh, pooh, dear, after the day you’ve had, consider it a gift.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” Esther walked her to the door. “Good luck to you and Sparhawk. And remember, sometimes our dreams appear where and when we least expect it. Sometimes, just sometimes, you can even find them waiting in your own bed when you open your eyes.”
Taryn arched a brow at the odd comment, but then Esther was quite a wonderfully eccentric character. “Thank you, Esther.”
With Sparhawk in her hand, Taryn headed across the parking lot, then crossed the street and told the driver where to take her car.
Later that night, after she’d had a good cry over Rob, a pint of Phish Food, and a long geld-the-useless-bastard conversation with Janine, Taryn pulled out her book and decided to give Sparhawk a try.
And reading this book will help you how?
It was stupid, she knew that, and yet she couldn’t seem to help herself from wanting to read the book and get Rob-the-Prickless-Bastard off her mind before she fell asleep. She skimmed the first paragraph.
The Earl of Ravensmoor was a hero like no other. Tall, powerful, and magnetic, he had windswept jet hair and a ruggedly handsome face that was neither pretty nor feminine. He was all male.
Rumor said he’d killed over a thousand men in battle, and as he walked through the crowded hall of bejeweled nobles with one masterful hand on his gilded sword hilt, his arrogant swagger bespoke a man whose very presence had devastated over a thousand women. . . . Taryn smiled at the image. Oh, yeah, he definitely sounded like someone who could get Rob Dickhead off her mind.
She sighed as she read more about the wandering rogue champion and his quest to claim his fair, if somewhat insipid, maiden. It was a pity they didn’t make guys like this in modern-day America.
“Sparhawk,” she whispered, smiling slightly, “I wish for two seconds that you were real.”
Closing the book, Taryn laid it on her nightstand, turned out the light, and settled down to sleep. But as she lay there, all she could see was the last image she’d read of the hero. A knight in armor on the back of his huge white stallion, riding into the forest to seek out the village enchantress . . .
Sparhawk dismounted halfway through the forest, his heart pounding in expectation. The brush was so thick, he knew from this point on he’d have to travel afoot.
Not that he minded. He would traverse the very fires of hell to escape that which he was sworn to. Life with Alinor.
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gossips were to be believed, the old witch in the woods should have some miracle that could save him. He picked his way through the dense underbrush. No one ever ventured this deeply into the forest. No one except the Hag. This was her home, and it kept her safe from any who would see her harmed. As he walked, he felt an eerie presence. Almost as if the trees themselves were watching him. But he feared not at all. Not this man who had stared down the heathens in Outremer. This man who had built his wealth on the strength of his sword arm and the sweat of his brow. There was no ghoul or demon inhabiting these woods that was more dangerous than he.
Indeed, it was said that the devil himself was terrified of Sparhawk. He walked forward until at last he found the earthen hut draped with twisted vines. The only sign of life from within was the flicker of a large tallow candle.
More determined than before, Sparhawk knocked upon the vine-encrusted door. “Witch?” he called.
“I mean you no harm. I come seeking your guidance and help.”
After a brief pause the door slowly creaked open to reveal an old woman with long, silvery-gray hair. Her old brown eyes glowed with the vigor of a much younger soul, and her long gray hair fell loose about her frail shoulders.
“Milord,” she greeted, opening the door to allow him entrance. “Come and be seated and tell me of this matter that has you venturing into my realm.”
Sparhawk did as she bade him. He followed her into the small, cramped hut and took the seat she indicated by the window. He sat there for a few minutes to collect his thoughts. ’Twas the first time he’d told anyone of his problems with Alinor, and once he started to speak, all the sordid details came pouring out.
“So, you see,” he said gently as the old woman handed him a strange black and bitter concoction she’
d brewed by the fire. “’Tis not my duty I find offensive so much as milady’s presence. I would give aught I own to have a lady who . . .” Sparhawk didn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t. What he
wished for was something more fable than reality. No one married for love in this day and age.
No one.
Not that he knew anything of love anyway. He who had never known a kind touch. Never known what it felt like to be welcomed. He’d spent the whole of his life alone and aching. His parents had died when he was scarce more than a babe, and he had been cast off first to his uncle, who despised his very presence, then squired to a man who thought nothing of him at all. While other boys looked forward to trips home to their families, he had been left to muck out the stables and fetch for his lordly knight. He’d spent his holidays in a corner of the hall watching the families around him celebrating their gifts while he had nothing at all to call his own. As a man, he’d carved out his destiny with the point of his sword and found plenty of women eager for his titles, wealth, and body, but none of them were ever eager for his heart. He’d found them all selfish and vain.
All he’d ever wanted was to see one face, either fair or foul, light up when he entered a room. To find a pair of open arms to greet him when he returned and a pair of eyes to weep for him when he was gone. But it was a foolish wish and well he knew it.
“I want out of this story,” he said at last. “I cannot marry Alinor and live here with her another moment. I have seen my ending and it is a pale one indeed. Please, I beg you, tell me how to change this.”
The old woman touched him lightly on the arm. “I can help you, milord.”
“Can you?” he asked, noting the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. He doubted if even the saints above could aid him through this plight. But he hoped. He always had hope. She nodded. “I shall send you to a world of many miracles. A world where anything is possible . . . A place where your ending isn’t yet set.”
Sparhawk held his breath. Dare he even hope for such? “At what cost?”
She smiled gently. “There is no cost, milord. What I do, I do for love.”
“For love?”
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