Heart of the Hunter Page 7

  Despite his air of cool command, the gaze he leveled on her was hot, intensely focused. He looked strangely wild in that moment, and infinitely more dangerous than Ferrand and his henchmen put together. Ariana had seen that unsettling look before. He wore the same a short while ago on the dock, when she made the very hasty mistake of bargaining herself in exchange for his escort to France. When every instinct in her body had warned her that he was going to kiss her--that he might well do far more than that, given half a chance.

  Even now the thought chased a shiver of wariness over her limbs, and to places scandalously more private. She rubbed off the odd quickening of her senses and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

  "There are blankets in the bulkhead below, if you're cold."

  Ariana followed his gesture to a planked upright partition beneath the platform where he stood. She was cold, even within the shelter of the forecastle. The winds were growing ever blustery the farther they headed out to sea, and she was glad for the thought of some extra warmth. Slowly, she crawled out onto the open deck. Pushing herself up, Ariana unfolded her legs and attempted to stand.

  She was not prepared for the sudden swaying of her limbs or the pitch and rock of the ship beneath her feet. She lurched a couple of steps to the side and found herself leaning precariously close to the deck rail. Some terrifying distance below, the sea churned so dark as to be black, icy-looking waves cleaving against the sturdy hull of the cog and rolling away again in foamy white tails. Ariana let out a gasp as she gripped the rail and watched the tumble of the cold, dark ocean below.

  "Steady," Braedon warned. He had leapt from his post and was at her side in a trice, catching her before she could take her next breath. He brought her away from the edge, his strong, muscled arm snaked firmly around her waist. "Have you never been on a ship before?"

  "N-no."

  He grunted as if he might have guessed as much. "Well, have a care. It may take you a while to get your sea legs."

  Ariana nodded. He had released his hold on her, but she realized she was still clinging to him, to the comfort of his solid mass, while she struggled to regain her balance in a world gone infirm and off kilter. With some effort, she uncurled the fingers that had been clutching his mantle like a life line. Now that she was standing, her stomach did not feel so steady, either.

  "How...long?" she asked, finding it difficult even to summon her voice.

  "Some people never adjust." He shrugged, eyeing her with a dubious arch of his brow. "If you're lucky, 'twill pass in a few hours."

  Nausea assailed her, but she would willingly suffer out this and more if it meant saving Kenrick's life. She shook her head--gently, for the added motion made her vision swim. "How long before we reach France?"

  "Calais is the closest port, not quite a day's distance in fair seas. Easily more than twice that if we run into foul winter weather."

  "And Rouen?"

  "By sea, we would needs head for Honfleur. That could take a week."

  Ariana could scarcely stifle her miserable-sounding groan at that woeful bit of news. They faced a possible sennight at sea? Her pitiful stomach lurched at the notion, but she reckoned as long as she was at the rendezvous point--alone, as her ransom instructions stated--by the next full moon, little else mattered.

  Certainly not a little bout of seasickness.

  When she dragged her gaze up from the roughhewn planks of the deck, she found Braedon watching her, a knowing look on his face. "Are you all right? You look a bit green, my lady."

  "Nay, I'm fine," she all but sputtered. "I am...just...fine."

  She did not bother to wonder if he believed her, or even if he cared. With one hand at her mouth and the other clutching her roiling belly, Ariana dashed for the side of the cog. And not a moment too soon.

  Chapter 5

  A cool, deep darkness blanketed the world when Ariana next opened her eyes. She had been sleeping beneath the forecastle, as it was all she could do to combat the nausea that was her constant companion for most of the voyage. Thankfully, she had not been sick since the first time, and she prayed she would last the rest of the trip without further humiliation.

  Not that Braedon had contributed to her discomfiture. In his gruff way, he had been quite understanding. He had helped her back from the ship's rail, given her the supply of coverlets from the bulkhead, a flask of fresh water and some dried mint leaves, which he instructed her to take in small doses until her stomach steadied. Coming fully awake now, Ariana uncorked the decanter and swished a bit of the cool water around in her mouth. She spat it over the side of the cog as discreetly as she could, then took another drink to refresh her parched throat.

  "How are you feeling?"

  Sounding more annoyed than concerned, Braedon's low voice rumbled in the quiet night that surrounded them. She could tell from the direction it drifted that he was yet at the helm, vigilantly guiding them toward France regardless of the certain late hour. And it was cold, bitter cold. The February evening had grown frosty without the scant warmth of the sun, but Ariana found the bracing chill somehow inviting. She was cramped from sitting in her rumpled nest beneath the forecastle and welcomed the thought of stretching her limbs. Her lungs were starved for some fresh sea air.

  "I'm better now, I think," she answered. Gathering one of the woolen blankets around her shoulders, she crawled out onto the open deck. "Have we much longer to go before we reach France?"

  "We should spot Calais's shore a couple of hours before dawn."

  Braedon was beyond her line of vision, standing at the rudder on the stern and all but hidden by the wide, ghostly swell of the sail. Gingerly, anticipating a sudden swoon of her stomach, Ariana cleared the structure of the forecastle and got to her feet. She put her hand out, splaying it against the smooth weather-beaten planks for added support as her legs adjusted to the movement of the ship. She was unsteady at first, but her head did not swim as it had before. Her stomach, blessedly, did not revolt.

  "Better?" he asked again, giving her a moment, as if to ascertain that she was standing fully upright and not immediately clutching her belly and running for the side of the ship.

  Ariana nodded, a moot effort, for if the sail did not entirely conceal her, she doubted very much that he would see the brief bob of her head amid the inky blackness of the night. Only the slimmest remnant of a last quarter moon hung above them, the sky's vast spangle of stars crowded by thin shreds of clouds so dark a gray as to be near to black themselves.

  Night was deep and endless this far away from shore, so different than the evenings she'd known back home. So tranquil, naught but the rhythmic lap of the sea, the soft jangle of the ship's lines, the ripple and sough of the large white sail. The canvas glowed against the night-black sky, billowed full above her head as if God's own breath blew down from the heavens to propel them forth.

  She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer for easy passage, and for Kenrick's continued safety. She had little time to reach him, less than three weeks before the next full moon, when his captors would be waiting to receive his ransom in Rouen.

  His ransom, Ariana thought with a frown. For what had not been the first time, she wondered at the satchel she carried and its mysterious bulk. What did Kenrick's captors want with a pack full of scribblings and cryptic diagrams? She knew they had meant something powerful to her scholarly brother, but he had never shared any part of it with her.

  Not with anyone, so far as she knew.

  Whatever secrets the satchel contained, it had been an obsession for Kenrick--one he had apparently developed while serving as a Knight of the Temple of Solomon. His duties for the brotherhood had kept him away from Clairmont for years. Finally, the summer past, he'd returned home unexpectedly, announcing that he had left the Templars. Ariana had been thrilled to see him, but her excitement dimmed upon his arrival. He had changed in the time he'd been away. He took no visitors, keeping long hours in his chamber, alone, the great oak door locked from within while he worked.
On what, precisely, he would not say.

  Once, she and Kenrick had been dear friends, but the serious knight who came home in his place was a haunted man, aloof and distant, exceedingly private. He trusted no one.

  Not even her, a fact that broke her heart.

  When she woke one morn last fall to learn that he had left for France on undisclosed business and without a word of good-bye, she did what any concerned younger sister would do. She sneaked into his private quarters to find whatever had stolen her brother away from her. It took her several days to find the satchel, and when she did, its contents provided little illumination.

  Scribed in parts with an odd, undecipherable brand of Latin, interspersed with crudely rendered pictures and sprawling calculations, Kenrick's notes made little sense. What small amount she could puzzle out seemed to speak of miracles and strange occurrences, queer happenings in various places in England and France. He had chronicled pages and pages of such events, with complicated formulations linking some and crossing out others. It was nonsense from what she could see. Indeed, for a long while, days longer than the endless time she spent poring over the satchel's contents in frustrated wonder, Ariana considered the possibility that her beloved brother might well be out of his mind.

  That is, until the day an anonymous missive arrived at Clairmont announcing his capture and demanding his findings as ransom. Whatever he had been working on was evidently of great interest to the villains who held him hostage. But who...and why?

  "Now that you're awake, demoiselle, perhaps we should talk."

  Braedon's deep voice jolted her from her thoughts. "Talk, my lord?"

  "Yes. Come around where I can see you."

  The thought of moving any distance on the swaying bulk of the ship chased a shiver of dread up her spine. But she took a few steps forward, inching toward the sound of Braedon's voice. She dared not look around, fearful that she would lose her footing, precarious as it was. She took another gingerly step, watching her feet move carefully on the moonlit planks of the deck. Once she had cleared the sail, she thrust her hand out to grab one of the lines that held the mast, wrapping her fingers around the taut rope to keep her balance. She was shaky, still uneasy and hesitant to move about, testing every step like a fawn on new legs.

  When she finally mustered the courage to look up, she found Braedon idly regarding her from his post on the sterncastle. A bench had been built into the wooden structure, presumably to provide the helmsman a place to rest as he manned the rudder. Braedon lounged on the seat with arrogant command, his long legs stretched out before him, black boots crossed at the ankle and gleaming in the thin starlight. His left arm was flung over the back of the crenellated platform, his right hand rested on the handle that controlled the thick vertical paddle of the cog's rudder.

  Although the night was dark, the large outline of Braedon's cloaked body was darker still. He was shadow on shadow, the severe angles of his face cast in harsh relief by the pale wash of moonglow that filtered down through the scuttle of drifting clouds overhead. Ariana could feel his assessing gaze focus on her across the distance of the deck.

  She forced a casual brightness to her voice, but from her position center deck, her left hand curled a little tighter around the mast line. "What is it you wish to talk about?"

  "Oh, many things, I assure you." The smile he offered her--that brief baring of his teeth--hardly set her at ease. "Foremost, demoiselle, I am wondering why it is that Ferrand de Paris might wish to see you dead."

  "Me?" Ariana choked, astonished to think she might be the target of such unwarranted violence as murder. "I saw no evidence of fellowship between you and Monsieur Ferrand. How can you be certain his men weren't shooting at you?"

  He released her from the heat of his gaze and tipped his head back, as though casually surveying the night sky. "Ferrand and I share a mutual mistrust, that's true. However, if he had cause to want me dead, I warrant he would have tried to do something about it long before now. Which leaves you, Ariana of Clairmont. What would a flesh peddler like Ferrand de Paris want with you?" He adjusted the rudder slightly as he spoke, and then those keen eyes leveled on her once more. "Aside from the obvious, that is."

  Ariana opened her mouth to protest, but stopped herself just short of blurting out her naïveté. She grasped his meaning at once and felt her ears heat like an iron cast into a roaring brazier. He would steer her into treacherous waters, if she was not careful. "I don't know what Monsieur Ferrand could have against me, save that he failed in his attempt to extort my coin."

  "Ferrand is not above cutting purses, but he usually prefers bigger game. There's got to be something else he wants from you."

  "Something...else?" With her free hand, Ariana felt beneath her cloak for the satchel containing Kenrick's ransom. "I don't know what it could be."

  A prickle of suspicion wormed its way up her spine before the words were out of her mouth. Could Ferrand possibly have something to do with her brother's capture? Perhaps he knew who held him. Did he want the satchel as well--enough to murder James? Enough to want her dead, too?

  Heaven help her, but perhaps Kenrick's papers were of more value--and greater danger--than she realized.

  "Tell me again about your business in Rouen," he said, studying her as if he scented her apprehension and meant to divine its source. "I want to know more about this urgent visit of yours with your kin, Ariana. Is your brother in some brand of trouble?" His gray eyes narrowed on her. "Or mayhap the trouble is yours."

  For an instant, one fleeting, worrisome instant, Ariana considered telling Braedon her true purpose in going to Rouen. With James dead, she had no allies in this quest, no one to share her worry or assure her that everything would be all right in the end. For the first time since leaving Clairmont, she felt truly afraid.

  Truly alone.

  But she couldn't tell Braedon what she was involved in, not even if she believed she might be able to trust him. Kenrick's captors demanded that she bring no one with her--even James had understood that Ariana would have to attend the rendezvous alone or risk jeopardizing Kenrick's life by not adhering to the ransom demands. She was alone in this, and she had no choice but to keep it that way.

  "'Tis as I told you," she said at last, squirming under his scrutiny. To mask the nervous tremor of her hands, she clutched at the blanket around her shoulders and worked to hold it closed. "My brother is in Rouen. He's been there for several months. Recently he sent word that he wanted to see me, and so I am going--"

  "Do you think me a lackwit, demoiselle?"

  Ariana swallowed past a knot of dismay. "N-no. Not at all."

  "Good. Because I am no fool, nor do I expect you are. So let us dispense with this game of verbal cat-and-mouse. What are you carrying in that satchel of yours, and what might Ferrand de Paris want with it?"

  She drew back, mouth agape, unable to utter a word for the shock and dread that lanced through her in that moment.

  "Oh, come now, demoiselle. Did you think I haven't noticed how you guard that bag like one of your own appendages?"

  Ariana's heart sank. How could she have been so careless? "It--it just contains some personal belongings from Clairmont. My private things, nothing of interest to anyone but me."

  "Truly," he drawled, more challenge than question.

  "Truly," she lied. Then, worse and worse, "I swear it on my life."

  He was silent for a long moment, considering her through the chill gloom of the night. His eyes narrowed, his moonlit expression dubious and dangerously schooled. "You'd stand here now and wager your life on a bag that contains nothing of worth?" He mocked her with a low, rumbling chuckle. "Mayhap you are a fool, Ariana of Clairmont."

  Although his sarcasm stung her pride, she breathed a mental sigh of relief. Better he think her the veriest idiot than let him wonder any longer about the satchel's contents, or her clandestine purpose in going to Rouen.

  "Are you hungry, demoiselle?"

  Her nerves still jangling, Ar
iana merely blinked at him, no doubt confirming his assessment that she was, indeed, lacking sense. "What?"

  "Your stomach is empty and you haven't eaten all day," he remarked as though he spoke to a dull child. "Are you hungry?"

  "N-no." Ariana shook her head. She could not possibly think of eating when her mind, and her stomach, were churning like a millwheel.

  "Suit yourself," Braedon replied. He dug into a pack on the floor beneath the sterncastle bench and pulled out a couple of items of food. "If you mean to stand there, you may as well make yourself useful. Fetch the water flask and bring it over here. I reckon it's time you start earning your keep."

  Mother Mary.

  Her relief in escaping his suspicious questioning was blotted out by the dread of this new request. Not only did she have to make her way back to the forecastle shelter to get the water, but then he would have her travel the entire length of the ship and join him at the stern...to start earning her keep. Heaven only knew what he meant by that. Ariana was quite sure she didn't want to know.

  She considered throwing herself on his mercy then and there, but she was not at all sure he would afford her any. Perhaps the precarious walk across the deck and back would bring on her nausea again. She could only be so fortunate.

  Or perhaps she would lose her footing and wash overboard, a clean end to the woeful mess she was in with this unsettling man.

  Ariana refused to allow that last possibility, for her death now would be the ultimate failure. She carefully made her way back to the forecastle and retrieved the flask, then crossed the full length of the deck--some threescore paces in all, and not a trace of wooziness to show for it. Braedon was waiting for her when she reached the sterncastle. He stood at the top of the wooden ladder that led up to the elevated platform, his hands fisted on his hips as he looked down at her, a vague smile teasing his lips.

  "You might make a decent shipmate, after all."