Read Online Warrior's Angel (The Lost Angels Book 4) by Heather Killough-Walden - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Heather Killough-Walden
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another gentleman, this one a bit older, with graying hair and a taller build.
A few minutes later, partners were switched once more, Rhiannon was a touch more breathless, and the tempo of the dance increased, spinning women’s ball gowns in ever increasingly large displays.
The lights overhead flashed rhythmically, colors blurred around her, and as partners were switched one final time, Rhiannon spun to find herself sliding into the strong, firm grasp of a tall, broad-shouldered stranger.
The night seemed to skip, and a zap of something electri c went through Rhiannon’s slim frame.
She blinked, her brain suddenly feeling fuzzy. Then she looked up at her new partner, and the cathedral, its decorations, the clocks and tapestries, the food and drinks, and the swirling, twirling revelers all retreated into the shadows, leaving her alone… with the man from her dream.
Just as it had been in that cryptic, troubling dream, she couldn’t see all of him; much of his face was hidden by his mask. But what she could see was enough.
The man’s grip at her waist was sure, and his strong, confident step did all the work for her, moving her through the dance while she gazed up at him. His scent, a scent like the clean, endless night itself, wafted over her to seduce her senses. He was a study in darkness, wrapped elegantly in black from his tall boots to the black mask concealing his features, and that darkness enveloped her like a living shadow, overwhelming her.
I n her dream, his hair had been lighter, as if blasted by sun and sand. But it was the same hair, thick, wavy, and blond, with a sheen that made it look so soft, she found herself inexplicably wanting to run her hands through it.
But the mark of the man, the indelible give-away to her dream stranger’s identity, was that part of him that she was lost in at that very moment. Rhiannon stumbled as she was trapped in the terrible, confusing power of his blue, blue eyes.
He righted her easily when she miss-stepped. But the corners of his sensuous lips turned up in a smile more cruel than Samuel Lambent’s, and those eyes of an impossible hue that had pinned her to the foundations of her dream two nights ago yet granted no quarter.
M uch to Rhiannon’s ultimate surprise, she didn’t want them to.
The stranger slowed with the waning tempo, and Rhi annon felt his hand press at her back, drawing her closer. He leaned in, just enough, and her already rapidly beating heart quickened. “I must tell you, Miss Dante,” he told her softly, “you look ravishing tonight.”
His voice was deep and melodic, each lilt and note perfect, each tone sliding around her body like a fog of warm silk. Somewhere in the back of Rhiannon’s experienced brain, alarm bells began to sound. But they were muffled by that fog.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” she heard herself reply. Her own voice seemed muffled, softened by distance and the pounding of her heart . She was surprised she’d managed such an intelligent response.
“Mm,” he admitted with a slight, wicked smile. He turned, spinning her around him in time with the other dancers. “I suppose I do.” His smile became a grin. There was something about it that sent butterflies – black ones, with blood red wing tips – fluttering deep in her belly. “But if there is one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s never to give up a tactical advantage.”
Spoken like a warrior , she thought.
At once, t he image from her dream flashed before her mind’s eye: The stranger, standing at a cliff’s edge, battle torn and scarred, and utterly, terribly beautiful….
She swallowed, fighting past a tightness in her throat. “If there is anything I have learned,” she returned now, drawing strength from some unknown place where uncertainty resided, “it’s that I don’t do well when cornered.”
There was a rumbling, distant but significant, that rolled over the cathedral and signaled an on-coming storm. It
A few minutes later, partners were switched once more, Rhiannon was a touch more breathless, and the tempo of the dance increased, spinning women’s ball gowns in ever increasingly large displays.
The lights overhead flashed rhythmically, colors blurred around her, and as partners were switched one final time, Rhiannon spun to find herself sliding into the strong, firm grasp of a tall, broad-shouldered stranger.
The night seemed to skip, and a zap of something electri c went through Rhiannon’s slim frame.
She blinked, her brain suddenly feeling fuzzy. Then she looked up at her new partner, and the cathedral, its decorations, the clocks and tapestries, the food and drinks, and the swirling, twirling revelers all retreated into the shadows, leaving her alone… with the man from her dream.
Just as it had been in that cryptic, troubling dream, she couldn’t see all of him; much of his face was hidden by his mask. But what she could see was enough.
The man’s grip at her waist was sure, and his strong, confident step did all the work for her, moving her through the dance while she gazed up at him. His scent, a scent like the clean, endless night itself, wafted over her to seduce her senses. He was a study in darkness, wrapped elegantly in black from his tall boots to the black mask concealing his features, and that darkness enveloped her like a living shadow, overwhelming her.
I n her dream, his hair had been lighter, as if blasted by sun and sand. But it was the same hair, thick, wavy, and blond, with a sheen that made it look so soft, she found herself inexplicably wanting to run her hands through it.
But the mark of the man, the indelible give-away to her dream stranger’s identity, was that part of him that she was lost in at that very moment. Rhiannon stumbled as she was trapped in the terrible, confusing power of his blue, blue eyes.
He righted her easily when she miss-stepped. But the corners of his sensuous lips turned up in a smile more cruel than Samuel Lambent’s, and those eyes of an impossible hue that had pinned her to the foundations of her dream two nights ago yet granted no quarter.
M uch to Rhiannon’s ultimate surprise, she didn’t want them to.
The stranger slowed with the waning tempo, and Rhi annon felt his hand press at her back, drawing her closer. He leaned in, just enough, and her already rapidly beating heart quickened. “I must tell you, Miss Dante,” he told her softly, “you look ravishing tonight.”
His voice was deep and melodic, each lilt and note perfect, each tone sliding around her body like a fog of warm silk. Somewhere in the back of Rhiannon’s experienced brain, alarm bells began to sound. But they were muffled by that fog.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” she heard herself reply. Her own voice seemed muffled, softened by distance and the pounding of her heart . She was surprised she’d managed such an intelligent response.
“Mm,” he admitted with a slight, wicked smile. He turned, spinning her around him in time with the other dancers. “I suppose I do.” His smile became a grin. There was something about it that sent butterflies – black ones, with blood red wing tips – fluttering deep in her belly. “But if there is one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s never to give up a tactical advantage.”
Spoken like a warrior , she thought.
At once, t he image from her dream flashed before her mind’s eye: The stranger, standing at a cliff’s edge, battle torn and scarred, and utterly, terribly beautiful….
She swallowed, fighting past a tightness in her throat. “If there is anything I have learned,” she returned now, drawing strength from some unknown place where uncertainty resided, “it’s that I don’t do well when cornered.”
There was a rumbling, distant but significant, that rolled over the cathedral and signaled an on-coming storm. It
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