The store smelled like musty old books, and there was a small cafe in a corner on the far left where a Page 51
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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 cafe 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 cliched?"
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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"Aye. I know I am not to meddle, but every so often--it's rare mind you--but every once in a while there are special cases that call for special measures. And you, good Sparhawk, are just such a case. Have no fear, I won't see you suffer through this anymore."
Sparhawk offered her a smile. The villagers were wrong about this woman. She wasn't a witch. She was an angel.
"Have you a name that I may know so that I can say a prayer of thanks for you?"
She smiled kindly at him. "Aye. They call me Esther."
"Then I owe you much more than I can every repay, good Esther."
"But," she said, a note of warning in her voice, "what I give you is only a chance. My powers, such as they are, are limited. I can give you no more than seven days to work your miracle. If you cannot find love within that time, then you must return here and marry Alinor."
His stomach turned with the thought of it. Still, the woman before him offered him a chance, and the good Lord knew he had been given far worse odds than that and returned victorious.
"Then I shall work this miracle," he breathed. "No matter what it takes."
"Then drink, milord," she said, lifting his hand that held the cup. "And remember, sometimes our dreams appear where and when we least expect it. Sometimes, just sometimes, you can even find them waiting in your bed when you open your eyes."
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TWO
Sparhawk came awake with a start. His head pounded from a severe ache as if he'd drunk far too much mead the night before. By the light of the early morning sun, he would judge the day to be just starting. The faint butter rays spilled from the unshuttered window across the wooden floor and onto the bed wherein he lay.
'Twas a bed he knew not at all.
Immensely large, with a light yellow blanket, the bed easily accommodated his full six-foot-four height. As well as that of the woman lying beside him.
Arching his brow, he studied her beautiful brown hair that barely swept past her shoulders. It was thick with strands of russet and honey laced liberally through the darkness. She was not Alinor, but a new heroine for him to pursue.
His lips curling into a smile, he felt a stab of desire lance through his middle. What treasure was this to be found in this bed?
And truly she was a treasure, all warm and soft as she slumbered. Her long lashes resting gently on her cheeks, her rosy lips parted.
He reached out to touch the silken curls of her hair. The soft strands wrapped about his fingers, firing his blood instantly.
Who was she? And how had he happened into her bed?
He frowned as he struggled to recall what had happened. The last thing he could remember was leaving the witch's hut and coming face-to-face with a most angry Alinor. Alinor.
He flinched at her name. He was supposed to marry her in a handful of days, and yet the very sound of her voice grated on his ears. Even though she was without a doubt the most beautiful woman on earth, the image of her face and form turned his stomach.
Cease! She is to be your lady-wife and you will honor her. Aye, he would. Even if it be the death of him.
And quite frankly, he might one day cast himself off the nearest mountainside to be rid of her. It was quite an intriguing possibility.
But not nearly as intriguing as this stranger at his side.
This stranger with the small pixie face and dark brows that arched above eyes closed in sweet slumber. He slid his thumb over her rosy cheek that was softer than the king's down and touched the gentle petals of her lips.
She lacked the great beauty of Alinor, and yet something about her drew his notice anyway, letting him know that even as he lay here, his story was changing. He thanked the Lord for that. Finally he'd found something new.
And she was a fetching morsel. Her looks were earthy and sweet, not perfect and sharp like Alinor's. Before he could stop himself, he pulled back the blanket to better study her. And as his gaze roamed her partially clothed body, heat surged through him, straight to his groin, which ached with want of her. By her clothes he would guess her to be a tavern maid of some sort, though the color and style of her garment was unlike anything he had ever seen before.
The short gown barely trailed past her hips and betrayed a pair of stunningly smooth and shapely legs. Legs he
desperately wanted to sample with his lips. Legs he ached to feel wrapped around his hips as he made love to her slowly and completely until they were both well spent and fully sated. Sucking in his breath in appreciation, he ran his palm down her outer thigh. His body grew even harder in response as the woman sighed in her sleep and shifted dreamily. His heart stopped as the gown rose higher, betraying a tiny, thin covering that concealed the moist, female part of her.
Just who was this temptress?
Was she the one the old witch had told him of?
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And as he watched her respond to his touch, he knew he wanted nothing more of Alinor and her mewling ways. He wanted this woman by his side with a ferocity that was as stunning as it was demanding.
Her and her lush, full curves so unlike Alinor's thin, frail frame. This woman's body was made to comfort a man on a cold winter's night. Aye, her high breasts would spill freely over his palms, and her thighs were made for cradling a man's hips as he sank himself deep inside her body. Hungry and aching, he slid his hand back up the curve of her thigh to the hem of the short, dark blue gown. . . .
Taryn sighed from her hot dream of a hero larger than life. Of a man who controlled the world around him and made no apologies.
All night long she'd been dreaming of the handsome, dark stranger who had flashing green eyes and strong arms to hold her. He had whispered to her in a deep, evocative voice. Tormented her with images of his life and with a need to make his life better.
Sparhawk the Brave.
What a stupid name and yet . . .
Somehow it suited the hero of the story.
Even now in her dreams she could see his handsome face from the book's cover, feel his warm hand sliding down her outer thigh, then up the front of her leg. Her body rolling into his caress, urging him on as a fire and fever consumed her.
She held her breath as that hand moved to her waist, then higher. Over the curve of her stomach and up to her . . .
Her eyes flew open as someone touched her breast.
Screaming, Taryn jumped out of bed to see a tall man dressed in medieval clothing staring at her with one arched, arrogant brow.
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