The Stolen Luck by Shawna Reppert

Author:Shawna Reppert
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2013-08-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

James found little distraction from the deep-as-the-heart chill. Loren would respond politely to any query, but made no effort to maintain the conversation. The wind blew from the North steadily throughout the day, a blessing and a curse. Though the North wind seldom brought rain or snow, it carried the merciless cold of the far Northlands. Fortunately, the trees blocked the worst of it—tall, moss-draped cedars that rose up on either side of the road.

By nightfall the wind stilled and a heavy fog settled in, leaving the deadwood so damp that even Loren had trouble coaxing a poor fire. They huddled by the meager flames. James shivered convulsively as he spread an oilcloth on the damp ground. He was doing the right thing for Loren and for the vineyards. Nothing else mattered.

Dawn came gray and dismal. The wind had picked up, coming now from the west. They packed the camp and rode on, the horses as dispirited as their riders.

Loren broke his silence. “There will be snow by nightfall.”

He didn’t doubt it; even with his mortal senses he could taste it in the air.

“I fear for you if we do not find better shelter than we did last night.”

The elf had nerve, after weeks of cold silence, to speak as though they were friends. “Do you? Let me set your mind at ease, then. If I die on the journey, and not by your hand, you can consider yourself free. Rifle my body for the key to that collar, even, and run away home.”

Loren’s changeable green eyes went hard and cold, freezing James’s blood more than the weather could. Without a word, Loren urged Devil a little faster, so that James saw nothing but his back as they rode.

He swallowed an apology. He’d apologized to the elf so many times as to render the words meaningless.

The snowfall that Loren had predicted began, swirling a chilling, blinding dance, obscuring his sight of Loren until only the wake of Devil’s passing on the snowy trail and the dim shadow-shape ahead assured him that Loren had not deserted him.

The snow fell faster. It clung to his eyelashes and stung his face. He closed his eyes against it, trusting his mare to follow Devil. Jocko’s warning echoed in his memory. The North Road in winter has killed even seasoned Folk who were foolish enough to risk it. He shivered convulsively under his damp cloak and let his mare plod on.

* * *

“James.”

He started at the voice beside him. At some point Loren had dropped back to ride alongside him. How much time had passed since he had been aware of his surroundings?

“James, please. I am tired of fighting, and I am frightened for you.” Loren’s voice sounded weary and worried. “This argument between us is not worth your life, and you cannot bring the Luck home if you are dead.”

“Too far to turn back.” They’d never catch up with Jocko now, and Dupree Manor was far away.

“The lord that the Travelers

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