Présentation de l'éditeur
The Last Arrow
The Prince of Darkness
She caught him trespassing on her family's lands, the sensuous and mysterious knight who had come to Normandy to challenge her brother, Robin, in the tournament at Chateau Gaillard. Brenna Wardieu's well-honed instincts warned her that Griffyn Renaud was no ordinary mercenary. When she discovered he was the invincible Prince of Darkness, undefeated champion in three lands, she feared he has been hired to do more than just defeat Robin in the lists.
The Fires of Passion
She was Lady Brenna Wardieu, daughter of the legendary Black Wolf, and from the moment Griffyn found himself at the mercy of the magnificent lady archer, he suspected he had met his match. And when she offered him her body in exchange for her brother's life, it proved to be the instrument of his own defeat, for the passion he discovered in her arms threatened to shatter not only the armor surrounding his heart, but the peace of two kingdoms.
Extrait
Brenna split off and ran in the direction of the river. She guessed, by the quivering oval patches of pewter gray that broke through the uppermost layer of tree branches, there was perhaps an hour or two of daylight left in the outer world. The inner world of the forest would have far less, but she was not worried. Having seen the gully, she knew where she was, knew the location of the river, knew where to intersect the hidden tract the villagers of Amboise used when they wanted to take their wares to Blois without paying a toll. She also knew of a place on the river where great fat salmon swam into the shallow pools to feed in the quiet water. If she could skewer a plump, succulent salmon, she knew it would win a resounding round of praise from her father. He particularly loved the fish poached in wine, smothered in onions and thyme, washed down with a flagon of his prized
pierrefitte.
There was no need to exercise more caution than she normally would in the greenwood. No need to play the fool either, and for that she kept her ears tuned to the sound of the wind in the upper boughs, the angry squabbling of squirrels and hare in the knee-deep ferns, the chatter of birds overhead who, like old women on a fence, stopped their gossiping long enough to mark Brenna's passage, then resumed their bickering as if nothing had interrupted. Gil had taught her the forest was full of alarms if one took the time to become familiar with them. The crunch of a leaf, the snap of a twig, the sound of furry feet scrambling away were all indications of an unexpected presence.
She ran with an easy, loping gait, her bow slung over her shoulders and the long cable of her braid thumping between her shoulders on each step. Her breath was starting to take on a ghostly quality in the cooling air and the fine hairs that had sprung free around her neck and temples were curling against the thin sheen of moisture that slicked her skin.
She had no desire to work up another chilling sweat, and while she loped along, she unfastened the laces of her leather jerkin, letting the sides hang open so the air passed freely through the looser weave of her shirt. Force of habit made her glide to a halt every few hundred yards to listen to the forest. Once she thought she heard the echo of a church bell, a tiny, tinny sound far off in the distance. There was a monastery farther up the river, and the monks were meticulous if not downright fanatical about gathering their flock to prayer. It was likely the vespers bell, which would be bringing the mendicants off the herds and out of the gardens after a hard day's work.
Another familiar sound brought her head tilting to one side. She was within bowshot of the river, two hundred yards more or less, and could not only hear the chatter of the water passing over the rocky shoreline, she could smell the deeper, damper musk in the air.
Moving slower now, stealthier through the tangle of saplings and gorse, Brenna listened for
