Authors: Sherrilyn Kenyon
In Other Worlds (15 page)
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.
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.
A shiver of revulsion went down his spine. He had to find some way to escape his fate, and if the town 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?”
“Aye. I know I am not to meddle, but every so oftenâit's rare mind youâbut 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.”
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?
She must be. Only that would account for his presence here in this very strange place.
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.
“Who the hell are you!” she demanded, realizing too late she had jumped to the wrong side of the bed.
He was between her and the door.
Dear God, help her!
But he didn't make a move toward her. He merely watched her from the bed with a look that could only be called patience. His silver chain-mail suit shimmered in the light, and he wore a white surcoat that held a red crescent moon and a stag.
He looked just like . . .
Her head swam at the implication. It couldn't be.
It just could not be.
It just could not be.
“I am the Earl of Ravensmoor. And you are?”
“Totally freaking out,” she said.
“'Tis a most peculiar name, milady. Are you by chance Welsh?”
Taryn struggled to catch her breath as she stared at the gorgeous man on her bed who talked with a deep, evocative English accent. A man who looked entirely too much like the hero on the cover of her book.
He even wore the same gold torc around his neck. . . . What the hell was going on here?
In that moment she half expected to hear the theme from
The Twilight Zone
start playing and for Rod Serling to begin his spiel about dimensions.
The Twilight Zone
start playing and for Rod Serling to begin his spiel about dimensions.
“How did you get into my house?” she asked.
It was only then he moved from the bed. Like some languid, graceful predator coming out of a crouch, he approached her. His muscles literally rippled with movement as his mail suit rasped slightly with his steps. A wickedly warm smile toyed at the edges of his handsome lips as he tilted her chin to where he could stare down into her eyes.
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