Desire Me

by Robyn DeHart

  Images of Madigan and then Phinneas settled on her. They had not given up, and they had died horrible, painful deaths. That was what waited for Agnes if Sabine did not stop him. With renewed strength, she twisted away from him. She gasped for air. Her lungs burned as she inhaled a large breath.

  Finally close enough, she reached for the spear, but Spencer knocked her out of the way before she could grab it. She stumbled and fell to the ground, but managed to get to her feet before he was upon her again. Her neck ached and her eye was already swelling. She knew blood dripped from her face onto her dress.

  She was going to die. The thought surged through her, nearly crippling her with fear.

  She loved her aunts, and they had been so wonderful to her when she’d lost her mother. She thought of her people, back in the village, their smiling faces and simple ways. Mostly, though, she thought of Max. Out of all those people, her one regret was not being able to tell Max that she loved him.

  Despite his betrayal, she knew that he, above anyone else, needed to hear those words. He needed to know that he mattered to someone. And Agnes needed protection. If Sabine didn’t stop this madman, he would single-handedly destroy everyone Sabine had ever loved.

  Spencer had pinned her in so that she was caught between him and Max’s desk. But she wouldn’t run from her destiny, not anymore. She could see things clearly now. Agnes had said that Max was her destiny. But what that meant was that it was her destiny to save him. To save them all.

  She charged him, tried to grab his pistol, but of course he was stronger. He captured one of her wrists and held tightly while she continued to fight him with her other arm. She lashed out, making contact with whatever body part she could reach, and desperately tried to inflict some measure of pain. But she knew her blows were nothing but whispers to his stronger flesh.

  She threw her body against him, and his balance wavered. Behind Spencer, Sabine could see the spear. Suddenly she knew what she must do. That was her answer. There would be no way for her to escape his clutches to retrieve it herself. But she could force him back into it. It would require all of her weight to pierce his flesh, and she, too, would be impaled. She would die, but she was the dove. This was what she was born to do. To protect Agnes and her other aunts. To protect this country. And to protect Max.

  And as if her heart had beckoned him, Max appeared in the doorway.

  “Get the hell away from her,” Max yelled before he moved in their direction.

  Without another thought, she threw her weight into Spencer with renewed strength, pushing him back onto the spear. His arm snaked around her waist and pulled her with him and she felt the blade bite first into the flesh of her abdomen and then come out her back. Her knees nearly buckled from the intense pain.

  Spencer’s eyed widened with his own pain. “You will die before me,” he snarled as he coughed and struggled for breath.

  Sabine felt the world around her grow dim. She could vaguely hear Max in the background calling her name. But Spencer’s eyes were the last image she saw as her world faded to black.

  “Sabine? Can you hear me?” Max cradled her head in his lap and called to her. Fear gripped his heart in a vise so tight he could scarcely breathe.

  Her breath was uneven and shallow, her chest barely moving, and the raspy sounds coming from her throat were not promising. He’d ripped his shirt off and pressed the linen firmly against Sabine’s wound to try to stanch the bleeding, but his efforts seemed futile.

  “Damnation, woman!” he yelled. “What the hell were you thinking? I didn’t need saving, and even if I did, my life wasn’t worth sacrificing your own.” He talked, not caring who was listening.

  About five minutes before, her aunts had burst into the room. They now stood in huddled silence as he smoothed Sabine’s hair away from her eyes. The lovely brown strands looked just as lustrous even as she lay dying in his lap.

  “She’s gone,” Calliope whispered from behind him.

  “No, she’s not!” he said. He leaned down and pressed kisses to her forehead and her cheeks. Still she did not move. Then he felt it, the small bottle in his pocket. He quickly withdrew it and uncorked the vial.

  He ripped her dress open, then poured the elixir over her gaping wound. The blood dripped down her skin as it mixed with the water.

  Nothing.

  Max parted her lips and dropped some of the elixir into her mouth. Still he heard no breath.

  “No, damn you. Not now. You can’t leave me now. Sabine, damn you. Wake up. Don’t you know that I love you?” Max leaned over her body, laying his face on her chest. He heard nothing—no pulse, no heartbeat, no breath. His own heart seemed to stop, his breath caught, everything stilled. “I love you,” he said again.

  He lay there for several minutes, ignoring the cries of her aunts behind him.

  Something ruffled his hair.

  “I love you, too,” a soft whisper said.

  He leaned up. “Sabine?”

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she coughed several times. Then she winced. “Oh, that hurts,” she said.

  Max laughed, not caring that he had tears on his cheeks. He looked down at her wound and already the bleeding had stopped. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “It was the only way.”

  “But you heard me?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She gave him a weak smile. “A woman always hears when a man tells her he loves her. I would have heard that no matter where I was,” she said.

  “And where were you?” Max asked.

  “I was still here. Barely, but still here. You gave me life again.”

  “No,” he said.

  “The elixir.” She nodded. “I know you took it from me.”

  “I was a bastard to betray you like that,” he said.

  “Yes, you were.”

  “Once I figured that out, I hurried back here.” He squeezed her hand.

  “So you didn’t give it to anyone?”

  “I gave it to you.” He showed her the empty vial.

  “You sacrificed your dream to save me,” she said.

  “You’re my dream.” He shook his head. “I was too stupid to realize it, though.”

  “But what of your lifelong goal? The ultimate proof of Atlantis?”

  “You’re lying here bleeding all over my expensive rug, and you’re going to argue with me?” he said.

  She gave him a weak smile. “I just want to make sure you know what you want.”

  Her steady breathing and strong heartbeat brought new vitality to him. For the first time in years, he felt truly alive. He kissed his way across her face. Blood still oozed from the wound on her cheek, but it was beginning to clot. “There is nothing I want more than for you to be my wife.”

  “I don’t know. You’re quite a lot of trouble,” she said.

  “Says the woman whose destiny involved a world-ending prophecy.”

  She smiled. “Yes. I would love to be your wife.”

  “I love you, Sabine.”

  “You don’t know how I’ve longed to hear you say that,” she said. She tried to sit up, but winced from the pain. “I think I might need a few stitches.”

  Her aunts, who had been standing behind Max crying, began to laugh.

  “I’ll get the kit,” Calliope said.

  “I thought you left,” Sabine said.

  “You were in danger,” Agnes said. “I could feel it. So we rushed back.”

  “What happened to the Chosen One?” Sabine asked. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes, you killed him.” Max shook his head. “I broke the spear off and pulled it out of both of you.”

  Calliope came back in with the basket, but Agnes stopped her from moving forward. “Give them a moment,” she said.

  “It’s finally over,” he said.

  “I love you, Maxwell Barrett.” Sabine reached up and cupped his cheek. “I hated the thought of dying without telling you.”

  “Well, then you’ll simply have to make certain I kn
ow that every day for the rest of my life,” he said.

  “I promise.”

  More steamy romance from

  Robyn DeHart!

  Don’t miss the third book in The Legend Hunters series.

  Please turn this page for a preview of

  Treasure Me

  Available in mass market in April 2011.

  Prologue

  Loch Ness, Scotland, 1881

  Thunder crashed, and fat, heavy raindrops pelted Graeme Langford as he plunged the oars into the cold, murky depths of Loch Ness. The muscles in his arms burned from rowing. The storm made the loch choppy and his work more difficult. Still he rowed.

  He could see the rocky beach ahead in the distance, and the hills that rose behind the shore. Somewhere in those hills, he’d find the abbey. A foolish, wealthy American had recently purchased the crumbling estate and intended to restore it to its former glory. They were supposed to start construction next week, so Graeme had little time to find what he sought before it was too late.

  The small boat rocked against the angry waves, and Graeme fought against the current. His progress was slow and he was damp to his bones. Clearly life in London was making him soft. Eventually he made his way to the beach. He jumped out and pulled the boat onto the shore.

  The last ribbons of light hid behind the storm’s clouds, limiting visibility, but he’d climbed these hills often enough to do so in limited light. He secured his bag across his body and started up into the hills. The Highlands weren’t mountains; he’d seen true mountains in Spain. Still, the rocky hillsides were treacherous, so he minded his steps carefully. The rain slowed and the thunder softened as the storm faded into the distance.

  The crisp autumn air filled Graeme’s lungs as he climbed up the hill. As raw and untamed as parts of Scotland remained, he loved this land. Loved the history and the rough terrain, loved the people and their lore. Half of him rightfully belonged here, his mother’s blood, but it was his father’s English blood that ruled his life. Four years earlier, when his father had fallen ill and died, Graeme had taken his place as the Duke of Rothmore. And he did his duty as an English lord, though he longed for time to spend in his beloved Scotland.

  It was what drove his quest, his burning desire to find and restore what rightfully belonged to Scotland—the Stone of Destiny, a biblical relic that held mysterious powers. It had belonged to the Scottish monarchy for hundreds of years before it had been stolen by the English, though Graeme had recently come to believe that the stone the English took was a counterfeit. He intended to be the one to locate the original stone. According to his latest research, there was a book he needed to complete his quest. And it lay somewhere within the dilapidated walls of this old, abandoned abbey.

  As if his mind had conjured the image, a massive stone structure lay before him, nestled into the next hill. No wonder the monks had left this desolate and secluded location. But Graeme was not alone. The workers were already here, or at least their equipment was, as it littered the hillside. They were early, which meant he just might be too late.

  With night falling, it seemed unlikely the men would still be working, so Graeme crept closer. His listened intently for the sound of voices, but heard nothing. Finally he reached the inner sanctum of the abbey. He pulled at the huge arched wooden door and it opened with an echoing creak. Darkness surrounded him. From his bag, he withdrew a simple beeswax candle and lit it. He unfolded a map and glanced at the rendition. The candlelight flickered as he studied the drawing, an illustration of this very structure—or, more precisely, of what lay beneath it.

  He stood in what had once been the chapel. Time and thieves had stolen the stained glass from the windows and now they stood as skeletal remains of the once-glorious room. Tools and construction supplies lay up against the wall. He crossed into the next room and there found scaffolding between two pillars.

  He moved past the large columns, through the arched doorway, deeper into the ruins. When he’d heard someone had purchased the old building, Graeme had wondered if it was for residential purposes or if someone else sought the treasures that were hidden beneath. So far all the construction efforts looked to be here on the main level.

  It had been nearly a hundred years since there had been monks in this abbey, perhaps longer. But legend had it those men of the cloth had once been guardians to many of the church’s ancient treasures—lost canons, the Spear of Christ, and the item that Graeme now sought: the Magi’s Book of Wisdom, an ancient text rumored to contain the most accurate description of the Stone of Destiny.

  Hot wax dripped onto Graeme’s hand, burning and then congealing on his skin. The hall narrowed, then stopped at a staircase. Graeme wound his way down the spiral stone stairs. He ended up in another hallway that led to several doors. The hidden chamber was another level beneath the abbey, dug deep into the bowels of the hill.

  Graeme walked through the sleeping quarters, one room leading to another, twisting and turning through hallways until he came to a dead end. Damnation, he must have made a wrong turn somewhere along the way. He knew he needed to go down, below this level of the abbey, but he hadn’t come across any stairs. He pulled out the illustration again and studied the image. His destination was a large room filled with books and treasure, where monks had once guarded the entryway. He’d found this bloody picture in the journal of an old man, a village priest who had a penchant for folklore.

  A short burst of wind swirled around him. His candle died. Darkness enclosed him. He dug into his bag to retrieve another, then struck a match on the stone wall beside him. The match flickered to life with a spark. The new candle illuminated the space in front of him, then the flame died, as if someone had blown it out. There was air coming from somewhere.

  He leaned against the wall, moving his hands against the cold stone, but found nothing. This entire search could prove futile. He moved his feet against the wall; down by his boot, he noticed something protruding from the wall. He knelt and ran his hand over the protrusion. It was a lever. He pushed it, shoving it against the stone. Something below him shifted. The floor separated and then he was moving. Downward. It was a lift. Evidently the monks had been rather advanced in their technology. He just hoped this ancient thing worked this well going back up.

  The stone chute surrounded him, scraping against his shoulders as he continued to descend, but in the darkness he still could see nothing. Chains creaked and groaned beneath him. Then the platform jerked to a stop. Graeme waited until all the noises ceased before he stepped forward. He relit his candle, and to his right, he found a wall sconce with a tallow-dipped torch. Once lit, it illuminated the area around him. He stood on a dirt floor, and directly in front of him lay a deep chasm, an underground gorge nestled between the hills.

  It was far too dark to see what lay beyond the gorge, but if the illustration was correct, across the expanse he would find a chamber. He stepped to the edge of the cliff and stared out into the darkened abyss. How was he to get across? He moved slowly to his left, searching for any sign of a bridge. When his boot scuffed over something, he kicked the dirt out of the way and found a rope stretching out from his feet across the canyon. There was another rope above his head attached firmly to a metal loop anchored to the stone wall. He pulled on it and it slackened, lowering the rope until it was about chest high.

  He inhaled slowly. This was not the sort of bridge he’d been hoping for. He hated heights. Having nothing but an aged rope between him and the nothingness below did not evoke confidence. But he was running out of time. If he didn’t find that book now, it would likely be lost forever.

  It would be impossible to cross the rope bridge while holding the candle, so he pinched the wick between his fingers and dropped the candle into his bag. The torch lit the area behind him, but once he stepped out on the rope, he’d be shrouded in darkness. He checked his bag to make certain it was secure, then put one boot onto the rope. It gave beneath his weight, but held firm to the anchor on the other side.


  Without another thought, he took a step with his other foot and grabbed hold of the balance rope. Slowly he began to make his way across, sliding one foot to the left and then following with the other. The rope swayed and moved, jostling him around as he crossed the canyon. What the hell had these monks been thinking? They must have guarded some valuable pieces to go to such lengths to protect them.

  His eyes tried to grow accustomed to the blackness around him, but with no light to be found, he still could see nothing. He kept moving. Finally his foot hit against the floor on the other side. He’d made it.

  He stepped onto a ledge. Quickly he relit his candle and found a series of torches along the wall. They illuminated a hallway. He crouched as he moved through the space, his height a hindrance in the small area. He lit more torches along the way.

  A room opened before him, and he stepped down into it. A large, not-quite-circular space, it was filled with trunks and chests and stone tables covered with a variety of items, from goblets to jewels. Alcoves carved into the stone wall held other, smaller trunks. He began his search, opening the lid of every trunk and rummaging through the contents, going over every surface and examining each item. If the rest of these priceless treasures remained, then certainly that book was here somewhere.

  One of the smaller trunks contained every gemstone he could imagine, and another overflowed with gold pieces. If that American did know about these treasures, his wealth would more than double overnight. He pulled a trunk out of one of the wall niches and bats flew at him. He ducked. Dammed vile creatures.

  Inside the trunk, he found a map, which he tossed into his bag in case it proved useful. He searched one trunk after another until he finally came to one that was filled with books. He squatted and picked up each book, carefully checking the title as well as glancing at the inside text. He came across two that might be of use to some of his friends at Solomon’s and shoved them both into his bag. Then he saw it, a small leather-bound volume encrusted with jewels. Inside he found Hebrew text. The Magi’s Book of Wisdom.