It was still inside and much warmer out of the wind. He dismounted and pushed back his hood, looking around with appreciation.
“This is your legacy?” Rafael demanded, his own expression much less pleased. “You have inherited a ruin, my friend!”
“I will see it rebuilt,” Malcolm said with resolve. He straightened and eyed his companion. “You are welcome to stay, if you so choose. If you go, I will not be offended.”
Rafael’s glance slipped to the loaded horses, and Malcolm remembered that they both knew the packs to be filled with gold and silver.
Perhaps it had not been the best choice to ensure that he was alone with his fortune in the company of a ruthless mercenary.
Perhaps he was too tired to think clearly. He and Rafael had fought back to back a hundred times, and each had gone back to save the other at risk. Malcolm reminded himself that he could trust Rafael.
He took a bucket and tried the well, gladdened to find that the water was still abundant and clear. He fetched water for the steeds, returning to the stables to find that Rafael had removed their trap and started to brush down his own horse. There was still some hay and oats, as well as a few bundles of straw. Rafael’s brows rose as he surveyed the former majesty of stables, but for once, he held his tongue.
The two warriors worked together in silence, tending their horses and ensuring that their needs were met. For Rafael, Malcolm expected that this labor was part of ensuring his arsenal remained in good care: a horse was a weapon and a tool, no more than that. Good care would ensure the steed survived longer and performed better, providing greater value for coin spent.
It had never been that way for Malcolm. The horses were as important to him as people, perhaps more so. He knew their characters and their preferences, and was devastated by the loss of one. That was why he had not taken one of the black destriers bred by his family with him when he had left. Malcolm had known he rode to war, and he did not want to lose such a steed.
The lineage of those who had bred horses at Ravensmuir ran in his veins and the prospect of continuing that legacy pleased him. He kindled a fire on the hearth that had been used by the ostler as the steeds ate, aware that Rafael was pacing the length of the stables.
“Your family did well in their trade,” he said quietly when he returned to watch Malcolm. “It has been a long time since I have seen a stable of such generous proportions and grace.”
“They bred horses.”
“The black destriers of Ravensmuir,” Rafael said softly. Malcolm turned in surprise. “Oh, they were of great renown, even amongst the Saracens. I have heard of them but never seen one. I thought, actually, that they must be a fable.” He stretched out his hands to the growing blaze with obvious pleasure, then turned to look again. Malcolm followed his gaze, eying the carved wood edges of the stalls and the vaulted roof overhead, also adorned with carvings.
“Many a man would be glad to be sheltered so well,” Rafael said, his tone wry. “You keep your promises, my friend.” He watched Malcolm carefully. “You pledged to return here, did you not?”
“And to rebuild. And I will.”
Rafael nodded, his gaze wandering over the building. “And so it is, when a man loses his heart to a dream.” His tone was uncharacteristically thoughtful, but before Malcolm could ask him to explain, music floated through the stables. It was beautiful music, more skillfully played than any Malcolm had heard before. He thought a woman sang along with the players, a woman with a voice as clear as crystal.
He turned to look toward the back of the stable, where the music seemed to emanate, and saw a golden glow of light there. How could this be?
To his relief, Rafael saw it as well. The other man turned silently on his heel, drawing his knife and sparing Malcolm a nod. His posture indicated that he also believed there was an intruder. That made some sense, as the weather was most foul and any unfortunate would seek shelter where it could be found. It made little sense that a trespasser would play music, though. Malcolm could make no sense of it.
At Rafael’s gesture, they slipped into the shadows silently, one on each side of the great corridor, and worked their way steadily toward the sound.
The last stall was empty, a gaping hole knocked out of its back wall.
Malcolm entered the stall and peered down into the hole. He tested the rocks but they seemed to be stable.
“The caverns to the sea,” Rafael murmured, his words almost soundless.
Malcolm nodded.
Rafael considered the light and the music, his eyes narrowing.
Malcolm pointed to himself, then down into the caverns. Rafael’s lips tightened, then he nodded as well. They both tightened their grips on their knives and squared their shoulders.
Then Malcolm Lammergeier, Laird of Ravensmuir, descended into the abandoned caverns beneath the castle he had returned to claim. He had not gone a dozen steps before a gust of cold wind blew from below. The golden light was extinguished and they were plunged into darkness.
Rafael swore, even as he gripped Malcolm’s shoulder.
Malcolm froze in place, willing his eyes to adjust, smelling the salt of the sea. The caverns opened to the ocean far below, and he took this as a sign that they were not blocked the entire way. The music became louder and he could hear that woman’s voice as she sang without accompaniment. Her song was bewitching, sweet, and utterly beguiling. He could not discern the words, but he did not care.
He had to see her.
“Lead on,” Rafael murmured. “I have your back.”
The pair of them descended into the ruins together.
The Frost Maiden’s Kiss
will be part of the True Love Brides series.
Claire also writes urban fantasy romance.
The Prometheus Project is a series of linked urban fantasy romances featuring fallen angel heroes in a gritty future society. The first three books of this series—Fallen, Guardian and Rebel—will be republished in new editions in fall 2013, along with a new fourth title, Abyss. This is Tupperman’s story.
Please read on for an excerpt from
Abyss
by Claire Delacroix
Copyright 2013 by Deborah A. Cooke
“Angels are the root of all evil.”
Tupperman glanced up when a woman claimed the empty seat beside him on the train, as startled by her pronouncement as her presence. She swept into the seat with a vigor that was remarkable for a woman dressed to the full specification of the Sumptuary & Decency laws. She carried a large and dusty black carpetbag and dropped it before herself so that it landed with a thump.
Then she smiled at him, as if they were old friends.
The hour was late and the train had only reached New D.C. His hope that the seat beside him would remain unassigned for most of the trip was dashed.
Worse, she was talking about angels. She couldn’t know who he was, could she? He’d dressed with care, intending to blend in with humans even more than he did usually. He’d booked the ticket in his own name, though, not wanting to give any hint that he suspected he was being set up. Someone could have followed him.
But this woman?
Tupperman was sufficiently intrigued to survey his fellow traveler. She was tall, maybe even as tall as he was, and dressed all in black. The skirt of her dress was cut full and had a deep ruffle on the hem. It rustled as she took her seat and had the sheen of taffeta. He caught a glimpse of her boots and was surprised again. They were not the high-heeled laced boots that most women wore, the ones that ensured they took small and careful steps. These were boots much like his own, sturdy low-heeled boots for walking quickly or even running.
A violation of the S&D code, but one few people would notice.
Who was she?
Tupperman continued to look. Her jacket was black and fitted to show her curves to advantage. He was particularly struck by how narrow her waist was in comparison to the ripe curve of her bust and assumed she wore a tight corset.
The id
ea agitated him, as such ideas seldom did.
But then, he was unsettled.
Her gloves were long and black, made of faux leather perfectly fitted to show the elegance of her hands. He had to assume that the black meant she was in mourning and wondered whose death she lamented. Not that of an angel, he was sure. Or did she disparage the angels to encourage some confession from him?
She wore a simple hat that seemed to exist solely to support the yards of dark netting that wound across her face. The only part of her that was uncovered was around her eyes.
They were so dark that they didn’t seem to have pupils. Fathomless black, with long dark lashes. A man could fall into those eyes and never return. The whimsical thought was uncharacteristic of Tupperman and he tried to dismiss it, without success.
She stared directly at him, as if willing him to look at her. Tupperman was sure he had never seen eyes so feminine and lovely. That she held his regard steadily showed a forthrightness that was unusual.
As unusual as her first words to him.
“It’s what my mother used to say,” she added, giving him a moment’s relief. “I always thought she was kidding, but now I think she was probably right.”
She gestured and Tupperman glanced up at the vid over the door to the train. The story about the ambush of the Watchful Host was playing again, part of the newscast about the memorial service.
He understood her reference, a bit late but with relief.
“I wouldn’t know anything about it,” he said, hoping to divert her attention.
“Everyone is talking about them,” she said easily. Before Tupperman’s astonished gaze, she peeled off her gloves with impatience and chucked them into the top of her bag. He blinked, unable to believe that she had revealed her hands to his view.
Fortunately for her, the people on the other side of the aisle hadn’t noticed. Tupperman looked surreptitiously, well aware that the S&D laws existed so that a mortal man would never glimpse the bare skin of women.
Lest he be tempted.
Tupperman had always scoffed at the very idea, but as he looked at this woman’s graceful hands, he was tempted. Her skin was golden brown and her fingers were elegant. Her nails were cut short and unpolished, but they gleamed with a health unusual in the Republic.
The remarkable thing was that she wore silver rings. There had to be one on every finger, some broad enough to fill a whole knuckle. They were simple bands for the most part, unadorned with gems, and they shone in the shadows.
Tupperman also noticed that she had never had a palm embedded in her left hand. The skin there was perfectly smooth.
His suspicions were roused again. Who was she? Every citizen of the Republic had routinely had a computer installed in his or her left hand, colloquially called a palm. The wafer-thin flexible communications devices had worked both ways, allowing citizens to communicate with each other and allowing the so-called Eyes of the Republic to monitor all such conversations. Palms had shorted out and been disabled when the angels had descended four years before and Tupperman, like all other citizens, now had a blank implant in his hand to replace the destroyed device and missing flesh.
This woman didn’t have one. Had she been a shade? Few shades had had palms—and all shades had been liberated by the angels.
Tupperman risked a glance at her face, only to find her avidly watching him, as if she was waiting for him to finish his survey. He felt the back of his neck heat in self-awareness, but she smiled, apparently untroubled by his boldness. Her eyes shone with intelligence and a humor that made him self-conscious.
“Don’t you have an opinion?” she asked.
“About angels?” At her nod, Tupperman felt a flicker of annoyance. “Sounds as if you have enough opinions for both of us.”
She laughed then, a hearty laugh that was so genuine that other passengers turned to look. “My mother used to say that, too,” she admitted, her eyes sparkling.
She looked so vital and attractive that Tupperman felt a surge of desire for her. He was taken aback by his own reaction.
He had never been particularly tempted by mortal women. Lust was a detail, a demand of his physical body that Tupperman usually managed with ease. He had sex at regular intervals to keep his desires in check, but one woman was as interesting in that moment of need as another. He had never felt the need to have a relationship. Women seemed so transparent and predictable. He could anticipate their thoughts and guess their expectations. They held no mystery for him and certainly didn’t capture his attention beyond a basic attraction that could be easily satisfied.
But this woman was different. She was an enigma, at least thus far, and he doubted that his attraction to her would be easily satisfied.
If it ever was.
If it was even appropriate for him to be thinking of her in such terms, on such a brief acquaintance.
He wished he could think of something clever to say.
The lady showed no such limitation. Against all expectation, she offered her bare hand to him, such a breach of propriety that he thought his eyes deceived him. He stared at her hand, her skin so soft and golden, at her glinting rings and long fingers, and his desire simmered. “Since we’re condemned to each other’s company for the foreseeable future, I see no reason to be shy. I’m Kara.”
Watch for Abyss
By Claire Delacroix
Coming Fall 2013
About the Author
Deborah Cooke sold her first book in 1992, a medieval called The Romance of the Rose, which was published under the pseudonym Claire Delacroix. Since then, she has published over fifty romance novels in a wide variety of sub-genres, including medieval romance, contemporary romance, time travel romance, paranormal romance, paranormal young adult and fantasy with romantic elements. She has written as Claire Delacroix, Claire Cross and as herself, Deborah Cooke. Her medieval romance, The Beauty, was her first book to land on the New York Times’ List of Bestselling Books, and her books are nationally bestselling under every name.
Currently, Deborah is writing the “Dragonfire” series of paranormal romances, which feature dragon shape shifter heroes and the women who love them. The current title in that series is The Dragon Legion Collection, which includes three Dragonfire time travel novellas. Her next release in that series will be Thorolf’s book, Serpent’s Kiss. As Claire, Deborah is writing “The True Love Brides” series of medieval romances, which continues the story of the siblings introduced in her “Jewels of Kinfairlie” series. The Highlander’s Curse is the current release in this series. Her next book in this series will be Malcolm’s book, The Frost Maiden’s Kiss.
Deborah lives in Canada with her husband, a lot of incomplete knitting projects and many many books.
Connect Online!
Claire’s website
Deborah’s website
Deborah’s newsletter
Deborah’s blog
Claire on Facebook
Deborah on Facebook
Books by Claire Delacroix
Historical Romances
The Romance of the Rose Honeyed Lies
Unicorn Bride
The Sorceress
Roarke’s Folly
Pearl Beyond Price
The Magician’s Quest
Unicorn Vengeance
My Lady’s Champion
Enchanted
My Lady’s Desire
- The Bride Quest I & II -
The Princess
The Damsel
The Heiress
The Countess
The Beauty
The Temptress
- The Rogues of Ravensmuir -
The Rogue
The Scoundrel
The Warrior
- The Jewels of Kinfairlie -
The Beauty Bride
The Rose Red Bride
The Snow White Bride
The Ballad of Rosamunde
- The True Love Brides -
The Renegade’s Heart
Th
e Highlander’s Curse
Novellas and Short Stories
“An Elegy for Melusine”
in TO WEAVE A WEB OF MAGIC
“Kiss of the Snow Queen”
in THE QUEEN IN WINTER
“Amor Vincit Omnia”
in SEVEN DEADLY SINS
Time Travel Romances
Once Upon a Kiss
The Last Highlander
Love Potion #9
The Moonstone
Urban Fantasy Romance
- The Prometheus Project -
Fallen
Guardian
Rebel
Abyss (coming in 2013)
Books by Deborah Cooke
Paranormal Romances
- The Dragonfire Series -
Kiss of Fire
Kiss of Fury
Kiss of Fate
Winter Kiss
Whisper Kiss
Harmonia’s Kiss
Darkfire Kiss
Flashfire
Ember’s Kiss
Kiss of Danger
The Dragon Legion Collection (including “Kiss of Danger”, “Kiss of Darkness” and “Kiss of Destiny”)
Paranormal Young Adult
- The Dragon Diaries -
Flying Blind
Winging It
Blazing the Trail
Contemporary Romance
- The Coxwells -
Third Time Lucky
Double Trouble
One More Time
All or Nothing
Short Stories
True Love Brides 02 - The Highlander’s Curse Page 30