USA Today Best-selling author Rosemary Laurey is an ex-pat Brit, retired special education teacher and grandmother who now lives in Ohio and has a wonderful time writing and letting her imagination run riot.
Her hobbies are vacuuming, dusting and cleaning toilets but regrettably the demands of her writing career leave little time to engage in these pursuits.
Night Walker
from the anthology Loves Me, Loves Me NotA fabulous collection of original stories to mark the 50 year anniversary of The Romantic Novelists’ Association. With over 40 stories to choose from, this stunning collection has something for everyone. Celebrating women’s fiction in all its guises, take a look at the latest stories from the bestselling authors of today and discover the bestselling authors of tomorrow.
Excerpt The newcomer produced a pouch of stones and all three set to gambling with occasional grunts, laughs and guttural words.
They ignored her completely and nothing could please her more.
Mary settled back on the ground and watched them from under her lids. The newcomer was dressed, like the other two, in skin leggings, a tunic and moccasins. His hair was dark and braided like theirs, but there was an air of difference about him, a separateness. Was he a lone traveler from another tribe, just joined with them? Did it matter? But he’d brought the rabbits. Without them they’d have had nothing to eat.
Even sitting by the others, he seemed different, stronger, taller, perhaps. Not taller, but he moved with an assurance and little of the care and caution she’d observed in her captors.
They were having a fine time of it, playing their game of chance.
She was a prisoner, might never see her home again, bereft of her little brothers and facing horror, when they tired of gambling.
She tried to sleep, thinking of the inevitable forced march in the morning, but somehow the sound of the trio across the fire kept her awake.
There was an indignant shout, someone had lost it seemed, and laughter. A knife and a beaded pouch changed hands. After discussion and a couple of glances in her direction, the betting continued. At last, the warmth and exhaustion took over and Mary dozed.
Until she sensed a tall figure standing over her.
“Sit up,” a voice said.
Too stunned to realize she’d understood, she sat, blinking at the firelight and the fringe on his leggings. His hand closed on her wrist in a firm, but not cruel, grasp. She looked up at the newcomer. There was purpose and determination in the dark face and it took all she had to tamp down her fear.
She gasped as a knife blade gleamed in the firelight and the cords binding her wrists fell to the ground. He was freeing her. Why? Another, equally precise and swift, slash and he severed the cords binding her ankles. Tucking the knife in his belt, he took hold of her upper arms and lifted her to her feet, holding her steady as her legs wobbled with the returning circulation.
She looked up into his dark eyes. There was no cruelty there or harshness as she expected. Not even pity. Just an expression of quiet, careful assessment, such her father wore as he tested her and her brothers on their bible verses on Saturday nights.
“I am Nightwalker,” he said. “And you are mine.”
That thought set off a frisson of fear that faded as he smiled. Would he smile at her if he planned her ill? How was she to know? Determined not to show fear, she held his gaze, “And I, sir, am Mary Chartley.” What sort of name was ‘Nightwalker’? “How do you speak English, sir?”
“I speak many tongues, Mary Chartley. Did you understand me? I won you. A fair exchange for the loss of a knife and a pouch of tobacco, I think.”
Won her for what? “Why?”
“Why?” he repeated, still holding her arms. She was now aware of his cool hands against her skin and the strength and size of him and the glint of something: amusement, curiosity in his eyes.
“I mean, why did you bet and lose your possessions for me?” As she asked she knew. Or feared she did.
“I thought you deserved more than a life as a slave.”
Which had been her prospect until a few minutes ago. But was her future now any better? “And you offer me what, sir?”
“Nightwalker,” he said, “I am Nightwalker.”
Whatever that might be. “What do you offer me, sir?” Her legs felt better now, stronger, as he looked him in the face, squaring her shoulders and praying for courage.
He met her gaze with somber eyes. “I offer you a choice Mary Chartley.” How many choices could she had as a captive? “As of this night of fear, would you live or die?”
That was her choice? Yes, she read it in his eyes. If she wished to be spared the future, he would kill her and, she sensed, mercifully. Her throat went dry. She swallowed but was too parched for it to help. He would spare her shame and humiliation and a life of slavery but in doing, end all hope.
“The night wears on. What do you choose, Mary Chartley?”
Whatever lay ahead, there was only one choice. “To live.”
His teeth shone in the firelight. “As I had hoped. You’re worthy. Come.” He took hold of her hand and led her across the clearing, past the pair sleeping, or seeming to sleep, by the fire, and into the darkness of the trees.
Visit Rosemary’s web site (www.rosemarylaurey.com) for information about her yahoo list and contests.
