Heart of the Hunter Read online

  Braedon, however, seemed to take it fairly in stride. Nor had he seemed the least confused by what he had found in Kenrick's satchel. Astonished, perhaps, but she had not missed the look of stark recognition on his face when he tore open the bag to see what it contained. For all her fruitless searching through it at Clairmont, she had never been able to make much sense of her brother's recordings. All she saw were countless strange chronicles of miraculous healings and reportings of queer occurrences mapped at various places in England and in France.

  She'd wondered if there had been something hidden in his mad scribblings and calculations, or in the repeated drawings he made of a peculiar, carved cup, which glowed with light that emanated from four stones embedded in its bowl. Ariana had thought the collection of journals and papers odd, certainly, but she could not imagine what it could mean to the men who held Kenrick. She had no idea why it could be of such worth to someone.

  But Braedon knew what the information pertained to--he knew it the instant he saw it. In the cave earlier that evening, he had even given it a name...

  The Dragon Chalice.

  With a pensive frown, she reached for some of the papers and brought them onto her lap beside the fire. The ink on a few of them had smeared a bit from where the inclement weather had permeated the satchel, but all of it was still legible. Not finding what she searched for, she set aside the papers and retrieved one of the leather-bound journals.

  Braedon regarded her with a measured, if speculative, gaze. "What are you doing?"

  "Looking for answers."

  She flipped the book open, scanning the pages for illumination, clues to she knew not precisely what. Kenrick's journal entries were organized by occurrence, then logged and dated, the first item beginning shortly after he entered the Templar brotherhood. There were chronicles of blind persons given back their sight; the infirm regaining their health; the lame suddenly able to walk again. The lists went on and on, concentrated in a handful of locations, some underscored or circled for emphasis, others crossed out.

  Ariana recognized a few of the places with the most recurring incidents: Saint Michael's Mount in Cornwall, and Glastonbury Abbey having the oldest entries. There were other sites in the notes as well, places she hadn't heard of before. One stood out among the rest, not for the frequency of its mention, but for the special attention Kenrick seemed to have given it. Nearly all of his notes in the three months leading up to his abduction centered on one entry. A queer name that sparked no familiarity with Ariana.

  "Have you ever heard of Avosaar?"

  For a moment, Braedon only stared at her. "Avosaar?" he echoed, his tone bland even as something flickered, considering, in his steely gaze. He blinked it away and gave her a disinterested shrug. "Nay. It means nothing to me. Why, what is it?"

  "I don't know. A place, I think. Kenrick seemed very interested in it during the time preceding his abduction in Rouen. He made all these entries about miracles and unexplained occurrences, with quite a number of them referencing this word--Avosaar." She held out the journal to him, but he hardly spared it a glance. "Do you think it might be the location of this cup you mentioned--the Dragon Chalice?"

  "No," he said, staring back into the fire.

  "Why not? How can you be sure?" She pressed on, ignoring his dismissive tone. "I think it must be important. Kenrick must have discovered something significant, perhaps something dangerous, at these places. Look, here he mentions several places in Cornwall. Another in France, at the abbey of Mont St. Michel. And this one--Avosaar."

  "Let it go, Ariana. You could drive yourself mad searching for answers that likely aren't there."

  "The answers are here, or why would his captors want this satchel so badly? You said it yourself. The information in this satchel is important enough to get us killed."

  "All the more reason for you to leave it alone."

  "I can't. Especially if what you say is true." When he shrugged off her intrigue, she only became more determined to prove her point. "What about these?"

  She reached over to grab a handful of papers that contained Kenrick's calculations, some of which repeated the name of Avosaar. She held the sheaves of parchment out to Braedon, all but forcing him to take them. He did, only to set them down without looking at them.

  "In fact," she said, undaunted, "there's a map of some sort in here as well. I saw it when I first looked through the satchel at Clairmont..." She grabbed one of the leather-bound journals and began to fan through the pages, searching. When she didn't find what she sought in the first volume, she reached for another. "I'll show you, Braedon. I'm certain that the points indicated on these parchments will relate back to some of the places listed in Kenrick's--"

  "Christ, Ariana." Before she could open the second journal, Braedon seized her wrist in an iron-hard grasp. With his free hand, he snatched the journal back from her and threw it down beside him, out of her reach. "Enough! I said, let it go."

  She flinched at his sharp tone, and at the forcible grip on her arm. He released her, but offered no apology. Ariana stared at him, confused, apprehensive. "Now who's the one keeping secrets? You haven't told me everything, either, Braedon. Not about yourself, or these men who are after us--certainly not about this so-called Dragon Chalice."

  "Funny," he drawled, throwing her an insolent look. "I didn't realize I was required to tell you anything, demoiselle."

  That stung, his harsh tone and flatly arrogant glare. How easily he could shut her out. They may be on the run together now, but he was making it abundantly clear that he did not see her as an ally. Not an ally, and certainly nothing better than a dangerous inconvenience, despite that he would steal kisses from her and make her yearn for more. Peg's words came back to her now, the warning about Braedon's darkness and the advice to maintain her distance. Ariana knew she should heed the sage caution, but it seemed she had little choice. And a tenacious part of her refused to be pushed away.

  "You said yourself we are as good as shackled to each other now. Don't you think I have a right to know what's going on? All of it? You've been acting strangely ever since Calais."

  "Have I?" he asked mildly, although it was said with a sardonic twist of his lips.

  "Yes, you have. Ever since you opened this satchel, there has been a change in you--"

  He exhaled a laugh that held not a trace of humor. "If I've been acting out of sorts, dear lady, perhaps it's because I nearly had my head smashed in over the cursed thing. Because I'm getting dragged back into something I want nothing to do with."

  "Dragged back?" She stared at him, latching onto his slip. "What do you mean, dragged back into it--into what?"

  He cursed, low and roundly. "Forget it. Let's pack up our things and move on. Neither of us is going to get any sleep tonight, and we'd do better to make use of the time. We can put another ten or fifteen miles behind us before daybreak."

  "Braedon," she said, gently now, refusing to acquiesce to his attempt at dismissal. "You said you are getting dragged back into something you want nothing to do with. What did you mean by that? Tell me. I think I have the right to know."

  With a growl, he shoved himself to his feet and paced away from her. She expected him to bark an order at her, or to dodge her question with broody, stubborn silence. Instead, he raked a hand through his dark hair and dropped his head back on his shoulders. Facing the granite wall of the cavern, he let out his breath in a heavy, burdensome sigh. "A year and a half ago I heard of the Dragon Chalice for the first time. I was approached by a man about locating a certain priceless object that had been stolen from him. He was offering a great deal of money for its return. I rose easily to the bait."

  "You were hired to recover the Dragon Chalice?"

  "Part of it. The Chalice treasure is, supposedly, comprised of four separate pieces. Four golden cups, bearing four priceless stones. If you believe the legend, the Dragon Chalice was rent apart by magic after being stolen from a mystical kingdom. I know, it sounds preposterous. I thought so too
, when I first heard the tale. Whether or not the legend is true, there are men who will stop at nothing to have the treasure for themselves."

  "This man who hired you--he is one of them?"

  "Silas de Mortaine," Braedon said, his gaze grim. "He is a very dangerous man, with a great deal of power and a great deal of wealth. And he is very determined. He wanted his trinket found, but he promised to double my reward if I also brought him the person who stole it from him."

  "Did you succeed?"

  "On both counts."

  "And you collected your reward?"

  "Oh, aye." He let out a wry bark of humor. "I gave him his cup and his thief, and he gave me this." With the tip of his finger, he traced the silvery scar on his face. "Rob was with me that day, and so were six of my other men. Five of them were ordered to be killed on the spot, as was I. De Mortaine's guards nearly succeeded. Only Rob and I managed to escape."

  "What about the other, the sixth man?"

  "Le Nantres? Alive and well. No doubt serving as de Mortaine's right arm, God rot the bastard. You see, it was he who introduced me to de Mortaine. He knew all along it was a trap. For all I know, he helped de Mortaine bait and set it."

  "Why, if he was one of your own men?"

  Braedon shrugged. "Who knows. Greed, mayhap. Lust for the Chalice's power. Men have fallen to lesser wants than that. I should have seen the betrayal coming, but I was too caught up in the chase. It blinded me." He turned a sober look on her. "The same way you are blinded to yours now, Ariana."

  "You think I'm a fool to want to help my brother?"

  "No. I think you are courageous and bold. But you are naïve if you think this is a simple thing, to involve yourself with Silas de Mortaine and whatever sorcery surrounds the Dragon Chalice. You saw what happened to your guard from Clairmont. You saw what happened in Calais."

  "Yes, I did. And I've never seen anything so frightening." She looked at him then, noting his contemplative expression, the thoughtful way he stared into the fire. "I may have never witnessed such a thing before...but you have. Haven't you?"

  She could see that he wasn't going to answer her. He stared at her for a long moment, silent as he searched her gaze, his own shuttered and unreadable. He was keeping something from her, though whether he did so to shelter her or himself, she could not be sure. Solitary, secretive, his aloofness infuriated her as much as it wounded her.

  "What are you hiding from, Braedon?" The question slipped off her tongue the same instant it flitted through her mind. "Why do you strive so hard to keep everyone at arm's length?"

  His chuckle held a tinge of mockery. "Why do you try to save everyone, demoiselle?" He held her gaze for an unsettling length of time, his gray eyes glowing in the flickering dance of the fire. "This thing is beyond you, Ariana. Beyond both of us. But you may still have a chance to get away. I advise you to take it."

  "I cannot," she said, shaking her head. "If everything you've said is true, and this monster, de Mortaine, is the man who holds Kenrick, then I don't see how I can possibly give up now."

  He exhaled sharply and tossed back the contents of his cup.

  "Could you?" she challenged. "You could not turn your back if it were your kin being ransomed. No feeling person could be so cold."

  He stared at her, unspeaking. Mother Mary, but the grimness of his features--his unblinking gaze, the harsh, unforgiving line of his jaw, the emotionless curve of his mouth--seemed to suggest that he could, in fact, walk away. Evident or nay, she didn't credit his cold silence as a true denial. And even if it were, she'd hardly let it sway her from her own course.

  "I'm not giving up on Kenrick. No matter the risks. As for you, come along or let me go on alone. It makes no difference to me what you decide to do."

  With his piercing gray gaze trained on her, Ariana gathered up a handful of papers from Kenrick's satchel and committed herself to reading every last word. If the bag contained anything that might help her save him, she would not rest until she found it.

  * * *

  Braedon watched her tirelessly pore over her brother's notes and journals for more than an hour. He knew they should ride while the weather was eased and night would conceal them on the road. Before their pursuers were able to gain any more distance on them. But he felt she needed this time, too. She needed to search for answers, even if he knew it would prove fruitless in the end. As it was, she had astonished him with her deductions about the journal entries and their correlation to the treasure's whereabouts.

  But none so much as her query about the reference to Avosaar.

  The name given to the cup he'd been hired to retrieve for Silas de Mortaine. Avosaar. That was what the fey thief had called it, when she pleaded with Braedon to help her keep the cup from falling back into de Mortaine's hands.

  Avosaar, so named for the green cabochon gem in its center, the Stone of Prosperity. One of four such stones once contained in the fabled Dragon Chalice.

  He hadn't believed the girl, not until it was too late.

  Soon, unless he took steps to protect her, it would be too late for Ariana, as well.

  "My lady," he said, growing anxious as dawn crept closer and still she refused to give up her study of the satchel's contents. "There is yet a long road ahead. We should be away now, before it's light."

  She glanced up, a faint glow of hope brightening her sleep-weary eyes. "Will you take me to Rouen, then?"

  He gave her a vague nod, unable to offer more when he knew it for a lie. The coast--and a safe transport to England--was only a few days' ride at most. "Get dressed, and gather up the blankets," he told her. "I'll get the rest."

  Without argument, no doubt because she was utterly spent, she donned her kirtle over the top of his tunic, then collected their scant supplies and packed them onto the horses. With a twinge of remorse, Braedon looked down at her brother's satchel. He retrieved all of its contents from where they lay on the cavern floor and tucked them all back into the pack. Then he slung the leather bulk of it over his shoulder.

  "Have we got everything?" Ariana asked from near the cavern's moonlit entrance.

  He gave her a mild nod and stepped toward the guttering fire. With the toe of his boot, he kicked a mist of sandy earth over the embers, snuffing out the last of the light and heat...and burying the cinders of a parchment map beneath the smoke and dust and darkness.

  The very map he had taken from Kenrick's satchel and burned while Ariana slept so fitfully nearby several hours ago.

  "Yes," he said, meeting her as he strode through the lightless distance of the cave. "That's everything, my lady."

  Chapter 11

  They rode for two days with only the briefest pauses for food, water, and rest. Braedon kept them under forest cover as much as possible, knowing that the danger of discovery was greater on the open, snow-covered roads and fields. It meant a slower, more arduous trip, but Ariana had accepted his advice with stalwart understanding. It wasn't until near dusk on the third day of travel that she finally began to show signs of her exhaustion. She lolled in her saddle with each rut on the forest track, her slender shoulders slumped, gloved hands barely holding onto her mount's braided leather reins. With the coming of sunset, the wind rose up, buffeting them as it whistled through the trees. Ariana gave a shiver as Braedon looked over his shoulder to gauge her progress behind him. She pulled her face deep within her hooded mantle to shield her fair skin from the harsh, wintry air.

  The day was ending bitter cold and blustery, ice crystals from the previous night's storm glittering on the naked branches of spindly trees as they passed beneath. The ground underfoot of their horses' hooves was a perilous blanket of iced-over snow and unexpected drops and gullies hidden by drifts of pristine, treacherous white. Braedon rode a few paces ahead of Ariana, following the curve of a high ridge of land that rose shoulder high above the left side of the path, carved out of the earth and edged with frozen gorse and bracken. Carefully he guided his mount through the frozen terrain while watching behind hi
m to make sure Ariana's tired palfrey did not misstep.

  "We'll stop soon," he assured her, hoping to ride another hour or so and seek their shelter at nightfall. He did not like the feel of this particular stretch of woods, and it had more to do with the prickling of his battle senses than the fact that they now trod through familiar terrain.

  This very stretch of land, the thick copse that surrounded them and the Amiens meadowlands that spread out some hundred acres in each direction, held a great deal of history for him. Not far from where he now rode, was the holding of his once venerable, but since deceased, sire.

  As a lad, Braedon had played in these forests, dashing about the woodlands like a wildling, acting out boyhood melees and skirmishes with his friends from neighboring demesnes. It was here that he had hunted with his father from time to time, and it was here, one brisk autumn day when Braedon was not quite ten summers, that he had drawn his weapon on the man who sired him, coming within a hairbreadth of doing cold-blooded murder.

  Nay, not cold-blooded, he reflected with a measure of ironic amusement, but blazing, half-crazed fury. His father might have deserved just such a bloody end, if not for his cruelty that day in the forest, then certainly for what he'd done to Braedon. And to his mother.

  You're mad, boy! As mad as the hellborn witch who bore you--may she rot!

  A bitter twist curled Braedon's mouth as he thrust away the remembered shouts and curses he heard nearly every day of his life while he lived in France. The whispers of queer afflictions and accusations of inherited madness that haunted him, even to this day. He cast all of that aside now and focused on his surroundings. On the slight raising of his hackles that warned of hidden, watchful eyes as he and Ariana traversed farther into the woods. He had felt this niggling awareness for some time, but he did not wish to worry Ariana with his suspicions. But he was certain now.