The Pandora Curse (Greek Myth Series Book 4) (27 page)

Ruby felt her heart thumping loudly and hoped the man couldn’t hear it too. He was handsome indeed, much taller than her father, and much younger than the gossip make him out to be. Still, he was probably close to ten years her senior. She found herself thinking of the stories Severin had told her about this dangerous man just recently. Lord Sheffield hid a thousand sins behind his cool façade, and Ruby wondered how he could look so calm after all the murders he’d committed.

His cloak was black, lined in satiny purple, and it reached all the way down to his feet. His tunic and hose were a slate gray, and the only piece of jewelry was the shiny gold ring on his finger that bore the crest of the Sheffields - a gryphon. She decided he reminded her of a gryphon as well. His narrowed eyes watched her every move and she felt as if he were a predator and she his prey.

“I’ve heard you’ve killed off two wives,” Ruby answered, chin raised in challenge.

“Lady Ruby!” exclaimed Severin in surprise.

“Ruby!” echoed her father. “Lord Sheffield has had a long journey, and I advise you to watch that loose tongue of yours and pay respect or –”

“Three now, actually.” Lord Sheffield met her challenge with a reply of his own. His silvery eyes interlocked with hers in some kind of defiant battle. She felt his gaze freeze the blood in her veins, yet heat her in desire in the same instant. It wasn’t lust that stirred her passion, but rather the spar of words between them. Like her, this man was not afraid to speak his mind, or worry what circumstances would develop by his actions. This was obvious by the way he wasn’t trying to hide the fact he’d killed off three wives in the past few months.

Ruby liked a challenge. She lived for a challenge. But being a woman, her life was indeed dull. And though she feared the man standing in front of her, a strange part of her welcomed his arrival at their castle after all. He obviously held some strange form of power within him to be able to make her feel this way from just a mere look.

Excerpt from
Lord of the Blade
: 
Watch book trailer video

(Legacy of the Blade Series)

Devonshire, England, 1351

The heavy iron bars that protected St. Basil's groaned with protest. Two Benedictine monks clad in black robes kept their heads covered as they slowly pulled open the gates of the monastery.

Corbett, lord of Steepleton, tugged impatiently at his leather gauntlets and shifted in the saddle atop his black steed. He felt the eyes of St. Basil's cathedral staring down at him. Gleaming shards of colored glass made up two huge windows, a rare and precious gift bestowed upon the church by his late father, Lord Evan Blake.

The monks moved slowly, dragging the heavy rails over the dusty cobblestone entrance-way. Corbett willed the men to move faster so he could be done already and away from this place. His horse threw back his head and whickered, leaving a trail of frosty air in front of him. The sun was just coming up in the distance, peeking through the trees, bringing life and color to the land leading up the cliffs of Steepleton. Blake Castle sat high in the distance, towering over the monastery and little cottages of wattle and daub that dotted the fields of crops and livestock. The dusty road spiraled through his demesne, past the manor house of his bailiff and up to the castle.

"Lord Steepleton," came his squire's voice from directly behind him.

Corbett turned his head slightly to speak with his fair-haired squire of twenty summers who sat mounted on his own horse with the Blake banner in his hand.

"Delwynn, I've asked you time and again not to call me Lord Steepleton."

"Many pardons, Lord Corbett. I think I will never feel at ease with this familiar way you've asked for all of Devonshire to address you."

"I strive to make my people feel more at ease while in my presence. I'm not sure how I've attained my horrid reputation of being so black-hearted, but wish that I could change it."

"Aye, m'lord. Not to mention a good disposition may help you find a woman before  ’tis too late."

"I've got more women than I want, squire. What I need is a lady. Now stop the idle chatter and lift my banner higher. We're amongst commoners and I demand the respect of a lord of my position."

"Aye, m'lord."

Corbett watched the flag atop the long pole fluttering in the cool breeze. There flew his family crest, an argent eagle on an azure field. The bird's wings were spread, talons ready to attack. He almost felt talons of his own under his gauntlets as he thought of the dream that had brought him here. He hated this mission but had to do this, or be haunted the rest of his life.

He turned back toward the gates. A ray of sun hit the stained glass of the cathedral just as he edged his steed forward. He couldn't help but fasten his gaze on the glowing reds and oranges, the winking ambers that only reminded him of the fires of hell. A threatening sight, considering he sat there feeling no better than the devil himself.

The tack trailing down the sides of his stallion jingled as he edged his way forward. Shod hooves echoed on the stones behind him, and with a quick tug to the reins, his horse obediently stopped short.

"What troubles you, m'lord?" his squire asked, his hand gripping tightly to the bannered pole. A blond curl fell over one sleepy eye, and with a puff of air from his mouth he blew it away.

"Why do you say that, squire? Do I look to you like a man who harbors guilt?"

"I said naught of guilt, m'lord, but spoke of trouble only."

Corbett realized his own accusations had betrayed him. Guilt indeed, along with a bit of premeditated trouble had been haunting him for some time now. And he couldn't help but feel somehow he was to blame.

Three times King Edward III had chosen Corbett's betrothed, and three times the ladies died before ever making it to the altar. He wondered inwardly if his own thoughts were the true cause of their demise.

His squire leaned forward in the saddle, leather creaking as he did so. He spoke with concern. "I know you must be in mourning, m'lord. But the plague has left England and cannot take with it another of your brides."

"Mourning?" Corbett almost laughed at the mere thought. King Edward's idea of a wife for him consisted of a twice-widowed elderly woman, an abnormally overstuffed flirt, and the fourth daughter of a no-land lord. True the latter was comely, but hadn't a dowry worth two shillings. Nay, he would have a virgin to bear his heir, someone who would obey and cling to his every word, and with a dowry fit for a king.

Relieved was a better word to describe his feelings about that particular problem. And trouble was the exact word to describe what would happen to him if he didn't find a wife soon.
No wife - you lose your land and title. And then Blake Castle shall be given to the baron's son, Lord Malcomn.

King Edward's warning was branded in his mind. Corbett would do anything to keep Blake Castle now that he was lord, including marrying someone he didn't love. But she must be worthy. She must be a noble. She must be someone who would clear the sullied Blake name and bring respect back to his family.

Corbett had been Lord of Steepleton for three years now, and he would be damned before he gave up his lands to his foster brother, Malcomn. But his time was running out. He'd been granted the right to choose his own wife, as King Edward refused to send another lady to her death by insisting she marry the cursed black-hearted lord of Steepleton, as he'd been tagged.

The bells of St. Basil's brought Lord Corbett's attention back to the matter at hand. 

"Wait outside the gates for me," he instructed his squire. "I'll speak with the old mid-wife and we'll be on our way."

"Aye, m'lord." Delwynn backed his horse away, and Corbett ventured inside.

As the gates squeaked closed between them, the cry of his raven cut the moist morning air. The raven's cry was known to all but him as the call of death. He held out his left arm clad in black leather, and continued to ride, not wanting to look upward. He'd never quite forgiven God for letting his father die just after being stripped of his title. Nor could he forgive God for the death of his mother at almost the same time. She’d died in childbirth, leaving her newborn twins with the nursemaid who'd stolen them and boarded a ship abroad. The ship sank, and with it the occupants. His siblings never had a chance.

But as cruel as God was to him, he’d thought at least he’d still had his sister, Wren. But that soon proved false as well. When Wren disappeared in the woods as a young child, never again to be seen, Corbett knew God was still punishing him. The only thing he could do now to try to better his life, was to right the wrongs of his father.

He knew he didn't belong anywhere near the place of God, nor did he want to be. He felt uncomfortable and resentful inside the monastery's walls. He should have sent a messenger in his place.

But the dream told him he had to come there himself. It had been so vivid. The girl with the long mahogany hair and emerald green eyes had appeared to him again, begging him to find her. One too many times he'd seen her suffer. One too many times she'd reached out and called for his help before she slowly faded, and he awoke in a sweat. Last night was different. Last night her surroundings weren't so foggy. This time he recognized Saint Basil's cathedral behind her, staring down at him as if to tell him she was hiding within.

He watched a shadow as it moved along the stone walls of the church, and closer to his own heavy heart. The restless voices in his head were almost a comfort to the vow of silence that was strictly enforced inside these holy walls from dawn until dusk.

He wondered how his uncle, Brother Ruford, could endure the life of a monk. Ruford was the last living male Blake besides Corbett. A waste as far as he could see. But the man wasn't cut out to be a warrior, and Corbett knew inside the monastery's walls was the only place for such a gentle man. Now it was on Corbett's shoulders to carry on the Blake name.

The gliding shadow descended upon him. With a flap of wings, a large raven landed with practiced stealth and made its perch upon his arm. Several monks with scrolls in hand walked the cloistered pathways, scattering out of sight and blessing themselves at the sight of his scavenger bird.

The bells continued to chime as he made his way to the little shack that lay concealed inside the monastery behind walls of its own. She had to be hiding in there. It was the only place he hadn't gone since he ruled as Lord of Steepleton. And the old midwife had to be a part of it all somehow. He could just feel it was true.

Corbett turned his head slightly toward the bird on his arm. "Let's go get her, shall we?"

* * *

The bells of St. Basil's were ringing when morning mass was already finished and mid-day prayers didn't start for hours. Devon knew this could only mean one thing. Someone of importance had entered the monastery's walls.

She dropped her basket of herbs and gathered up her cotehardie, running to the old garden wall. Climbing the trellis effortlessly, she poked her head over the top, and scanned the cloistered walkways of the monastery with eager eyes.

Clinging to the twisted vines, she tried to see past the columns of stone to the front gates, but couldn't. Inwardly, she cursed the way she'd had to live for the last eight and ten years. Safe inside the walls of the monastery, yet imprisoned from the rest of the world.

The clip clop of hooves on the cobblestone walkways sounding closer, Devon's heart skipped a beat as she thought of life outside those walls. She thought about the marvelous sight of Blake Castle in the distance, and wished she could live like the titled ladies and eat food fit for the king himself. Even the beggars who waited at the castle's gates for the discarded trenchers, old stale crusts of bread, had seen more of the world than she had, and even seen what lay inside the castle's walls.

She saw his slight shadow on the ground in the late winter sun before he even rounded the corner. It looked to be a man atop a horse, a bird perched atop his outstretched arm. At first she guessed the visitor to be a falconer or perhaps a traveler, as the monastery provided shelter for those who asked.

The rider emerged and made his way to her own little hut of wattle and daub. Her heart raced as she saw the man’s bird was not a falcon at all, but a raven. This was the lord of Blake Castle, and he rode directly toward her hut as if it were his intent.

She’d heard descriptions of him from the old mid-wife Heartha, and some of the monks, but their words did no justice to his image. The wind blew strands of his long black hair up into the air, and around his chiseled face. His jaw was set, and his lips firm but sensual. His back straight, he rode with his head held high. Just as she’d expected a lord to ride.

As he moved closer, she noticed his brilliant blue eyes shining in the sun. Though they had a faraway look about them, she could see mystery beckoning to her as well. His lashes, black as the night, matched the dark bushy brows dipping slightly as if he were concentrating, or perhaps thinking of his destination.

She stifled a gasp as he passed by, so close she could have reached out from the vines that hid her, and touched him. Her pulse raced at the excitement of being so close to him.

The muscles of his arm rippled beneath his perched raven, and she could only wonder about the muscles hidden beneath his dark tunic. She drank in his physique and also the way he filled out his tight hose, as she let her eyes run the length of his long, sturdy legs. A long black cloak trailed down his back and over his mount majestically, the hilt of a shining sword at his waist clearly visible beneath.

Her head filled with a fantasy, one of her many that kept her sane throughout her sheltered life. She imagined herself sitting atop the battlements - nay, in the tower of a castle - her knight in shining armor approaching to ask for her hand in marriage.

The raucous laughter of the raven brought her back to her senses. Though the lord of Blake Castle was handsome and wealthy, he was said to be heartless and cruel.  His bird turned its dark eyes toward her, its silken black feathers taking on a purplish glow. Then with a flap of its wings, it left its master's arm and headed right for her.