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Demon Angel

Demon Angel

Titel: Demon Angel
Autoren: Meljean Brook
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her serenity. A low murmur from one of her attendants was followed by a burst of giggles from inside the wagon; Lady Isabel's mouth curved into a small, sad smile.
    Contemplation of her expression suddenly felt like treason. Urging his horse forward, Hugh took lead again.
    Despite the countess's promise of reward, he doubted d'Aulnoy would greet him with riches or lands. Hugh had been raised in the baron's castle and had acted as his squire for years; but the Earl of Essex could ill afford to bestow valuables upon a poor, unconnected knight, regardless of his affection for Hugh. The baron would have to strengthen his political alliances and repair whatever damage Lackland had wrought on his properties during his siege and afterwards.
    And Hugh's service surely paled in comparison to those knights who'd been at d'Aulnoy's side during those desperate hours against the king. Protecting a child bride, however commendable, would not shine as brightly nor as immediately in d'Aulnoy's mind.
    The shadow of the ruins appeared on the left, and he gratefully turned his attention to them. Though pleased their journey had been without incident, Hugh wished it hadn't provided him so much time to reflect on his uncertain future upon his return to Fordham Castle. And, despite his assurances of safety, it would be foolish not to be wary as they passed; in two years and under chaotic rule, a lovers' hideaway could easily turn into a site of ambush.
    Centuries of pilfering for materials had left the walls partially intact. At least three buildings had stood beside the road; Hugh had examined them on previous trips and knew the layout well. The two closest to the roadway had been stripped almost down to the foundations, leaving a knee-high wall of masonry. The one behind retained its height, though the ceiling had long since fallen in. Columns lay broken into heavy cylinders at the entrance; it was generally accepted that it had been a temple, though to whom—or what—Hugh had never learned.
    His gaze skimmed over the low walls, and he looked past them toward the temple, but could not discern the barest outline.
    "Oh!" One of the women cried out, and he turned. The ladies' faces crowded the wagon's window. "I do hope the thief who steals the jewels from my kirtle is a handsome one!"
    Their laughter trilled from the wagon, and Hugh allowed himself a smile before facing forward again. Spurring his horse on, he cast one last glance toward the ruins.
    A figure in crimson rose from the ground behind the nearest wall and darted into the mist surrounding the temple.
    Hugh blinked, certain he'd imagined it and mistook shadow for human. Nothing could move with such speed, not hind nor hound, but the ladies' shrill screams confirmed he had not been the only one to have seen it. He drew his sword and peered blindly into the fog. Was the person alone, or did the ruins conceal a party lying in wait?
    Despite his attempt to calm himself, Hugh's pulse quickened until his heart pounded into a galloping beat. From behind him came a flurry of activity as servants and soldiers formed a defensive ring around the countess's litter. A few murmurs from Lady Isabel quieted the other women, and silence fell over the group, save for the jingle of mail and thud of hooves as Georges de Rouen rode to Hugh's side.
    "You saw?" Hugh asked in a low voice.
    "A female, richly dressed." The knight shouldered the cross-bow that usually lay slung across his back and slid a bolt into the shelf. The Church frowned upon the weapon, but Hugh had not argued its presence for this journey. "You know this area best; what are your thoughts?"
    A woman? Hugh had not been able to determine shape from his brief glimpse, but he trusted Georges's assessment. The older man's eye was unparalleled, whereas to Hugh, objects appeared blurred until he came within fifteen or twenty feet of them.
    "Though the ladies would make this place a site of villainous infamy, the only sin I have encountered here is that of fornication." He met Georges's laughing gaze with his own before he sobered and added, "But women, even those fearing discovery of an assignation, cannot run so fast as she. An arrow from a bow couldn't have caught her."
    Georges nodded thoughtfully and looked into the mist. "Should we suspect a trick? A cloak tied to a string? Or did the fog distort our vision and give her the illusion of quickness?"
    "I know not." With a frustrated sigh, he glanced back at the litter. But for Lady
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