The Prophecy
To save a noble warrior king and a mystical kingdom, a modern-day girl will wager more than the lives of the men she must lead — she'll wager her very heart.
Successful and independent, antiquities specialist, Kate Madison, has come a long way from the neglected child of her past. Then she learns her estranged father is dying and her past comes rushing to the forefront. When the acquisition of an enchanted scroll catapults her into the mystical land of Zenith, it's a race against death to return as she strives to prove she's the prophesied Savior of Argun. But how does a modern-day girl save a warrior-dominated kingdom from certain doom if she can't save herself from falling in love with a man not of her time or place?
Warwyck Lyonn, newly crowned King of Argun, has vengeance on his mind and an ancient curse to end — or a great evil will be unleashed. The last thing he needs is a strange woman from another time and place. But if the prophecy is to be believed, then saving his kingdom means enlisting Kate's help. He soon discovers protecting the headstrong woman means losing his heart as well. When confronted with the choice between saving his kingdom or losing Kate, will he sacrifice the fate of the kingdom for love, or risk his heart to fulfill The Prophecy of Argun?
Read below for an excerpt from The Prophecy.
Warwyck Lyonn, newly crowned King of Argun, stared down at the unconscious wench sprawled at his feet. What cruel jest were the Fates playing on him this time? He didn’t have time for another one of their twisted games. In the past few months, he’d borne more than any man should bear from the meddlesome sisters. He was tempted to leave the wench and have her arrival go unnoticed. A quick glance at his knights and he inwardly cursed.
Every man leered lustfully at the wench, eyeing the exposed, slender legs like it was a succulent meal and they’d gone months without food. Creamy, silky thighs peeked from the dark scrap of cloth covering her rump. And a nice rump it was, from his angle. Firm and evocatively rounded. He frowned at where his thoughts were heading. Damn the wench. Only a wench would don such revealing undergarments and not have the decency to cover herself.
“I say we draw swords to decide who goes first,” one of his knights declared.
“Nay,” another bellowed. “You’ve a wife at home. I’ve been itching for a pair of sweet thighs to sink myself into and them there look like pure bliss. I want first go.”
The other knights vocalized their objections.
Warwyck cursed. A fistfight would ensue if he didn’t do anything to prevent it. Damn it, he didn’t need this.
He scowled at what was left of his father’s once formidable army. A wet piece of hair fell into his face. He slicked the tendril back, matting it with the rest of his still damp hair. He didn’t relish his bath being interrupted. This was the first time he’d bathed in months. He would’ve liked longer to wash the dirt and grime off him, wishing to scrub away the horrors of the last couple of months from his mind. And the pain of his father’s death.
Throat tight, he commanded, “Halt.”
His men ignored him. One of the knights had another by the neck. Rulfred, his chief-of-arms, stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword, intent on intervening.
A tic worked Warwyck’s jaw. “I said halt!”
Every knight froze at the deadly tone of his voice.
“No one is to touch the wench. The Fates are a bloodthirsty, vengeful lot. Are you so ready to toss your life away at a whim, driven by lust, after months of fighting to survive? You’ve just witnessed the wench fall from the heavens.” Materialized from thin air was more like it. “ ’Tis a test the Fates give us. Touch her, and rest assured it’ll be the last thing you do.”
Still, his men looked dubious, months of forced abstinence clouding the better of their judgments. Warwyck gritted his teeth. “If any of you decide to test your luck, I’ll kill you before the Fates can get their hands on you.”
He needed to be harsh, to make his point understood. His men had been too long in battle. Looking death in the face everyday had a way with the mind, stripped a man of his ethics. He couldn’t blame them for wanting to tumble the wench. He needed to take temptation away from them. “Sebasteus, fetch me my cloak.”
“Come now, Warwyck. If we cannot sate our baser needs, what’s the harm in allowing the men the simple pleasure of looking?”
“Now.”
Sebasteus stomped off, muttering a string of curses.
Warwyck turned back to his men and lifted a thick brow in challenge, silently reminding them they had duties to attend to.
The men grumbled.
Rulfred came to stand beside him. “What of the woman?”
Warwyck pondered that, not really certain what to do with her. Had she been just any wench passing through, he’d send her own her way. But nay, she’d fallen from the heavens. The Fates had gifted her to him, deeming he needed the added burden. He could feel the frustration well in him as he glanced down at the wrench, and knew he was clutching onto his control by a tattered string.
He bit his tongue. “She is to be our guest for now and will be treated as such.” Until she proved a threat to Argun, at which time, he’d dispose of her himself.
His men did not receive that as well as he had hoped. The grumbling became shouts as they protested freely. “Save your baser needs, as Sebasteus has put it, until we reach Rosebyrrh. Remember, you are honorable knights.” His voice left no room for argument, and his men quieted.
Sebasteus returned with his cloak. Warwyck kneeled and draped the heavy garment over the woman. The oversized cloak concealed her completely, for which he was grateful. It would do no good to have so tempting a morsel in the midst of a group of battle-weary men.
She stirred, coming awake. Her lids fluttering.
Despite himself, he stared, mesmerized by her face. She didn’t have the features that inspired ballads of romantic love and chivalry. Nay, hers were simple, symmetrical features set in a clean, oval face with a low hairline and a stubborn jaw. Rounded cheeks and arched, winged brows softened her face, complementing full, rosy-colored lips.
Interest roused in him. Much to his disgruntlement, he found the simple grace of her face strangely appealing. A tendril of dark brown hair fell across her cheek and he reached out a hand to brush it aside.
“Warwyck, there’s something you should see.”
He paused, thick brows pulling into a frown at Sebasteus’s tone, the grave urgency unlike the younger man’s usual lightheartedness. Concerned, he left the wench be and stood.
Suddenly, something tripped him, sending him tumbling forward. Cursing, he twisted and managed to spare his elbows, landing on his hands. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flurry of legs and charcoal, and then those indecently long legs raced away.
Around him, a handful of his men chuckled and snickered. Pushing to his feet, Warwyck met each man with cold steely eyes. The guilty knights swallowed.
Jaw working a tick, he sprinted after the wench.
