Page 1 of Heart of the Hunter (Band of Bastards #3)

K enric “Hunter” Ward watched the woman who had haunted his dreams for nigh on two years emerge from the bedchamber of a man he had every intention of putting in his grave.

He’d never harmed a woman in his life, but in this moment, his fingers itched to throttle the vixen. Anora had snuck through the shadows of the corridor to the man’s chamber with about as much stealth as a goat.

What was she doing here, sneaking about a castle in the dead of night when she should be home, tucked into bed in her chamber above her father’s goldsmith shop?

He was well enough acquainted with Anora’s father, Frode, to know that as much as he indulged Anora, he would be appalled of what his willful daughter was doing in the castle of a notoriously cruel baron.

The foolish woman was dressed in breeches and a tunic with a cap over her long tresses, but he’d know her anywhere.

The disguise did nothing to hide the feminine movements of her tall, slender body, or the subtle curves that had relentlessly dogged his thoughts for the last two years.

His anger flared at Anora’s complete ignorance of the danger that she was in.

He’d already had to knock out one guard—at least he was relatively certain that the guard was only knocked out.

He may have smashed the man’s head into the stone wall a bit harder than was necessary.

He watched her replace the heavy lock on the chamber door when she emerged from the room—the same lock she’d opened with a key from a ring full of them she’d pulled from a pouch on her belt—then slip down the spiraled stone steps toward the lower chambers.

She hadn’t bothered to look in the short corridor to the privy to see if anyone was lurking before she descended the stairs, and therefore didn’t see Hunter where he stood in the shadows.

Granted, he was known as “Hunter” for good reasons: one being his ability to prowl after unsuspecting prey, and another his ability to stalk his targets without making a sound.

Anora, on the other hand, was an accomplished goldsmith, like her father, and had no business playing at covert missions when the risks and consequences were far more horrifying than she could imagine.

He knew her to be intelligent and witty from the sennight he’d spent living in their home as protector because of a dangerous mess her friend Galiena had unintentionally pulled the family into when she sought refuge at their shop from a dangerous situation.

His friend Red had also been dragged into it, and somewhere along the way, Red convinced her to fall in love with him and now the big Viking was living an easy life as a husband, father, and trainer of warhorses.

He felt an unexpected pang in his conscience, as if he’d just told a lie and he knew it.

He didn’t know what bothered him more, the fact that Red had surrendered and settled into a life that seemed to lack challenge and adventure, or the realization that he might be envious of his friend.

He pushed the thought aside, because even if he wanted a different life, a different life didn’t want him.

What he knew how to do was hunt his prey, fight, and kill.

He did have some morals—he didn’t kill haphazardly or without reason—but having morals didn’t mean there was anything left of his soul other than a charred stump.

And he didn’t know how to do anything but else, which meant he had nothing of value to offer anyone foolish enough to want to share his life.

Tainted as he was, he was not immune to Anora.

Within the first hour in her presence, he had been completely enchanted by her exuberance and wit.

She saw everything as an adventure, laughed easily, and radiated warmth and acceptance of those around her.

Everything she was, he was the opposite.

She was good and bathed in light while he was tainted and cloaked in darkness.

During his stay as protector, and during the meals he’d shared with the family since, he’d memorized every expression on her face, the contour of her cheeks and lips, the way her eyes shone when she was about to say something witty, and the gentle easy curl of her lips when she looked at the people fortunate enough to have her affection.

All of it had been burned into his mind as clearly as an insignia stamped on wax.

But his admiration for her was his secret.

His appreciation of her skills and courage did not extend to her clumsily sneaking through a castle in the dark dressed in men’s clothing.

He couldn’t even begin to fathom why she was here or what she hoped to accomplish.

Did she realize what would happen to her if she was discovered by the guards?

They would not hesitate to humiliate her in every way possible, believing she deserved every degradation they would bestow upon her.

And they would not care one whit that the old baron—dead and gone for more than a year—had been a trusted friend of Anora’s father.

He glided quietly behind her down the winding stairs.

When she reached the baron’s solar at the bottom of the staircase, she pushed the door open with hasty force and the hinges squeaked loudly as it swung wide and hit against the stone wall with a low thud.

She flinched, looked quickly over her shoulder, then slipped inside the chamber and pushed the door closed behind her with more care.

Hunter waited until he saw the flicker of light dance along the gap between the door and the floor before he silently entered the chamber.

Anora was stooped over a chest in the rear of the baron’s solar, her back to the door as she fiddled with the lock, oblivious to his presence.

He crossed his arms over his chest and waited as he watched her work her keys in the lock.

He knew Anora to be headstrong and determined, even obstinate, but to rifle through possessions in locked chests in the private chambers of a stone fortress belonging to a noble was beyond reason.

The fact that she was independent, assertive, and completely unapologetic was a benefit to her in the field of goldsmithing, and, in truth, they were qualities he greatly admired about her.

She was a woman who had learned how to function in a field typically dominated by men; there were very few women goldsmiths in the whole of Britain, and he doubted any were as accomplished as Anora had become at the craft.

Skilled as she was, she was not adequately trained to sneak in the night around the castle of a baron with a history of nefarious dealings, no scruples, and a taste for being cruel.

If she were a man, he would leave her to her own consequences.

He hadn’t failed a mission for years because he worked under his own rules, one of which was to not let anyone jeopardize his cover or his objective.

Damn the devil! He was about to break that rule.

In truth, for Anora, he would break all of his rules if it meant protecting even the wispiest strand of hair on her beautiful head.

In the two years since he had come to know Anora and Frode, he had often found reasons to pay a visit anytime he was within a day’s ride of Oswestry.

He had placed orders for more daggers than one man needed with their close friend Sumayl, who was not only one of the most revered blacksmiths in the region, but practically family to Anora and her father.

He had come to like and admire Frode and Sumayl and enjoyed hearing their stories, but the truth was he frequented the shop mostly to be in the Anora’s presence for an hour or two.

Of late, he had forced himself to limit his visits to the goldsmith shop.

She had started to occupy too much of his mind and his thoughts drifted to her far too often.

When she was out of his sight, he could sometimes keep her from invading his every waking thought and fitful dream.

But as soon as she was near, he lost all sense of who he was, and each time it took longer than the last to put her from his mind and right himself again.

“Success,” she proclaimed in an elated whisper as she removed the lock and opened the lid to the smallest of the wooden chests situated along the wall.

She picked through the contents of the wooden cask, then stood straight as she pressed her fisted hands to her waist in frustration and cursed in a harsh whisper, “Hell and damnation!”

He almost laughed out loud at her uttered curse words—so unladylike but also so unsurprising coming from her lips.

She may be the most enchanting woman ever to grace the earth, but she was also one of the most uninhibited when it came to expressing the thoughts in her fascinating mind.

Still, Hunter was annoyed as he watched her fiddle with the ring of keys in her hand, knowing the longer she lingered, the more likely she would be caught.

She moved to the next chest, worked at the lock until it opened, then lifted the lid to peer inside.

She shuffled through what sounded to him like rolls and bits of parchment, then let out an exasperated huff as she closed the lid and started to replace the lock.

At least she’d done some of his work for him by opening the chests.

He silently crossed the room to stand behind her. “Not so fast,” he whispered in her ear as he slipped an arm around her body, then captured her arms at her side and pressed a hand over her mouth before she could scream.

“Mph,” she said against his hand as she squirmed.

To her credit, her first reaction was to throw her head back in an attempt to smash his nose with her skull as she lifted her knee in preparation of slamming her foot down onto his.

To his credit, he was prepared and deftly avoided her head as he hooked her ankle with his before she could follow through.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?”