Wild Angel
Praise for the Novels
of Sasha Lord
In My Wild Dream
“Lord scores another win with the fifth in her Wild series…. Lord’s vivid prose, vibrant central characters, and fast-paced plot should satisfy fans of historical romance who don’t mind a side order of magic.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Sweeping readers into a magical and romantic world is what Lord does best. Her memorable characters and fine writing style lure you into her powerfully imaginative stories and keep you spellbound to the end.”
—Romantic Times
Beyond the Wild Wind
“Intriguing…. The story line never slows down…a delightful romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Beyond the Wild Wind is another bold adventure in Ms. Lord’s Wild series…action-packed [and] emotionally charged.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Intense emotions and searing sensuality flow from Lord’s powerful prose. The author has the ability to create characters whose passions ignite the imagination, and her talent for vivid storytelling increases with each new tantalizing tale.”
—Romantic Times (41⁄2 stars, top pick)
Across a Wild Sea
“Lord is a grand mistress at blending the reality of a medieval romance with magic and myth to create a story with the essence of a fairy tale and the drama of a grand epic. Those who love Mary Stewart will savor Lord’s latest.”
—Romantic Times
“Ms. Lord’s richly woven historical draws readers into a vivid world of court politics, hatred, jealousy, greed, and erotic passion. With multidimensional characters and a stunning love story, you can’t help but be thoroughly captivated by this reading pleasure.”
—Rendezvous
“A superb historical romantic fantasy that combines medieval elements with a fine adult-fairy-tale-like atmosphere…. The exciting story line blends the fantasy elements inside a well-written historical tale that showcases Sasha Lord’s ability to provide a wild read for her fans.”
—The Best Reviews
In a Wild Wood
“Dark and filled with potent sensuality and rough sex (a
` la early Johanna Lindsey), Lord’s latest pushes the boundaries with an emotionally intense, sexually charged tale.”
—Romantic Times (41⁄2 stars, top pick)
“This exciting medieval romance is an intriguing historical relationship drama…cleverly developed support cast.”
—Midwest Book Review
Under a Wild Sky
“Sasha Lord weaves a most imaginative tale.”
—Bertrice Small
“Stunningly imaginative and compelling.”
—Virginia Henley
“Lord’s debut is a powerful, highly romantic adventure with marvelous mystical overtones. Like a lush fairy tale, the story unfolds against a backdrop brimming with fascinating characters, a legend of grand proportions, and magical animals.”
—Romantic Times (41⁄2 stars, top pick)
“Ms. Lord’s debut novel was a surefire hit with this reader, and I eagerly look forward to the next book of hers featuring characters from Under a Wild Sky.”
—Rendezvous
Also in the Wild series
by Sasha Lord
Under a Wild Sky
In a Wild Wood
Across a Wild Sea
Beyond the Wild Wind
In My Wild Dream
WILD ANGEL
SASHA LORD
A SIGNET ECLIPSE BOOK
SIGNET ECLIPSE
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Rebecca Saria, 2008
All rights reserved
ISBN: 1-4295-7947-1
SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
To God, and all who serve You faithfully.
Thank You for helping me find my path
and for leading me toward the
fulfillment of my mission. May all who
know love, know Your blessing; and
may all who are searching for love find
Your guidance.
God, love and milk
make you strong.
—Julian, four years old, 2002
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to my wonderful friends, who contribute their own particular brand of research to my books. Lynn, may you live under the rainbow. Maureen, may the thunderstorms of life excite and thrill you. And Joan, may the mountainside calm you.
Prologue
France, Early Eleventh Century
Mangan O’Bannon’s brave Scottish heart thundered and his muscles pulsed with power as he swung his broadsword and buried its deadly edge into the trunk of a tree, then sank to
his knees and dropped his head into his hands.
A soldier lay dying at Mangan’s feet. The man moaned, his face contorting in agony. As the pain spread he screamed, a long, inhuman howl, until his lips drained of all color, his head lolled to the side and his lifeless eyes stared out over the battlefield.
From dawn till dusk Mangan had fought on this field. Again and again he had swung his sword, maiming, mutilating…killing. The sun had risen, climbed over the noon apex and slid down toward the horizon, yet still he and his men had fought the French until now, leaving the meadow covered with dead and dying bodies.
“Why?” Mangan whispered. “Why have we fought this war? Why have these brave men died? French or Scot…those who have fallen and those who remain…why are we here?” He looked up and saw the mangled body of one of his men. That man would never go home. He would never see his two sons grow to manhood or hear the sweet words of his wife welcoming him back.
Mangan rose and yanked his blade free, his thumb absently caressing the inlaid hilt. Several lengths away stood his horse, Sir Scott. The animal’s head hung low in exhaustion and the reins trailed onto the ground. The horse was draped with a rich caparison and an equally expensive saddle. Jewels winked in the setting sun, and golden threads shimmered as the horse took several labored breaths. Two flags were mounted on the back of the saddle, one for Scotland and one of his family’s crest. Both still fluttered in the breeze, mutely proclaiming both Mangan’s status and his loyalty to his king. If he had fallen, a Frenchman would have cut down the flags, but since he still stood, the flags symbolized his victory.
Mangan walked over to his fellow soldier and touched his arm, but the man’s flesh was cold. Fury surged through Mangan’s soul, and he strode abruptly toward Sir Scott and vaulted aboard, then kicked the stallion’s sides. Sir Scott’s head rose and he surged forward.
They made their way across the field, stepping over dead bodies and weaving in and around wounded men. Mangan stood tall in the stirrups, and his eyes blazed as he took in friend and foe, the land a twilight graveyard littered with thousands of bodies, French and Scot often indistinguishable.
A few men stood or rode their horses as he did, taking in the vast waste, listening to the torturous moans of the wounded and seeing the vacant faces of the dead. They were fellow Scots, but even so they steered clear of one another, knowing that battle lust often made soldiers into murderers. Until morning, when they could gather in their tents and see one another in the light of day, it was best to avoid fellow soldiers after a battle such as this.
Mangan knew because he had survived many such battles.
He slowed his stallion and peered down at the corpse of a young man, not even five and ten. He jumped down, recognizing one of his pages. He would tell the boy’s father that his son had died a courageous death and his family should be proud. But French and Scots blood melded in sticky pools…black, blond and red hair lay matted against too many faces. No nation could claim victory on this field. No leader could cry out triumphantly and brandish Scotland’s flag over the field in glory.
Mangan staggered back under the weight of his guilt. As streaks of yellow and gold laced the far horizon and the setting sun reflected a glorious display across the sky, Mangan cast a haunted gaze through the lengthening shadows, seeing only pain and destruction.
He was the son of the great Earl of Kirkcaldy, heir to one of the richest and most powerful fiefdoms in all of Scotland. Mangan O’Bannon, a warrior whose prowess with the sword was known throughout the country and beyond. A leader of armies, a man who remained boldly victorious in battle despite all odds. Nine and twenty years old and brashly handsome, he was as politically astute as his father. He was a king’s man who had carried Scotland’s banner with courage and pride.
Until today.
Mangan sheathed his sword and stared around him in horror. No victory. No surrender. Just death.
Army followers began creeping across the field like shadowy specters from the underworld, stealing a ring here…a jeweled dagger there. One took a rock and smashed a dead man’s teeth to knock loose a gold filling. Although Mangan had seen them pillage many times before, he had never felt such heart-wrenching despair at their avarice.
A sudden fight erupted between two female marauders as the women grappled over a silver chain one had ripped from the neck of a fallen warrior. They screamed and scratched, then tumbled to the ground and rolled over each other as their legs kicked and their hands struck. Then one woman plunged a knife into the other’s side and sprang to her feet, cackling with glee.
Such were the spoils of war, the results of political greed.
This field was located in French territory, but the Scottish king wanted it for himself. He had instructed Mangan to lead an army of a thousand men into battle to claim the land for Scotland. And now the landscape was blanketed with thousands of dead souls whose lives would have no everlasting meaning.
Where was God? Where were compassion and kindness? Where were truth and justice in this senseless struggle of king against king? Why were they fighting over a tract of desolate land? Why were they dying for something as nameless—as faceless—as power?
The agony in Mangan’s heart made him weak. He had contributed to this carnage. He had led a thousand trusting men into battle and allowed them to be massacred. The names of his soldiers echoed through his mind, and at each name the pain in his heart twisted deeper. The men should not have trusted him. He had failed everyone—his father, his mother, his country…
Mostly he had failed God.
The dying sun blazed, drenching the field in red just before it sank beneath the horizon.
Mangan remounted his horse and flung Scotland’s flags to the ground. As his soul keened in mourning, his heart heavy with agonizing guilt, Mangan reined his horse around. Then he left the battlefield, intending never to return, and began a long journey in search of solace.
Chapter 1
Scotland, Thirteen Months Later…
Brother Mangan of St. Ignacio Abbey gripped his long-handled spade and attacked the earth, churning a hard patch of ground into a moist and inviting bit of earth in which to plant seeds. Sweat dripped down his face, and his arms shook with fatigue, but he did not slow his pace. Instead he drove his spade deeper and more furiously, as if his physical efforts alone could erase the pain in his soul.
Brother Bartholomew, abbot of St. Ignacio, watched him from the shade of a willow tree. Mangan had come to him over a year ago and begged for admittance into the cloistered monastery in order to cleanse his heart and absolve his sins.
At first the abbot had welcomed him. Mangan’s turmoil had been plain to read, and his desire for redemption real. Mangan had immersed himself in the monks’ daily devotions and embraced their customs. His communion with God had been sincere and the goodness struggling to break forth clearly apparent.
But something was still missing.
Despite having spent the required year within the monastery before pledging his life to the church, Mangan still seemed unsettled. It was not that he did not pray, for his worn robes bore proof of the hours he’d spent on his knees. It was not that Mangan did not understand God’s word or know God’s book, for he did. In fact, Mangan had a special sense of God that awed the abbot. Mangan could look into a person’s eyes and understand that person’s soul in a way that Brother Bartholomew wished for himself. Perhaps Mangan’s gift arose from the horrors he had witnessed, or perhaps from something deep within his soul that had always been a part of him.
Mangan paused in his labors and looked up at the church spire, mouthing words that the abbot assumed to be prayers. It was high noon, and the monks always gave thanks at this time.
Brother Bartholomew walked forward with Mangan’s sword in his hand.
Mangan’s shoulders tensed as he heard a soft footfall and he spun quickly, his hands clenched around the handle of the spade. As soon as he saw the abbot, he averted his gaze and relaxed his grip while taking a deep br
eath. He did not want to look at the sword. It reminded him of that last battle…of all those dead people.
“My approach startled you,” the abbot said as he stood at the edge of the tilled ground and smiled at Mangan.
“I am always pleased to see you,” Mangan replied, although still he did not look up.
The abbot smiled more broadly, aware that Mangan’s answer had been a clever evasion. “You still react with the instincts of a warrior.”
Mangan glanced across the fields to where the other monks had returned to work now that their prayers were done. The sight calmed him and he smiled ruefully. “You are here to talk with me about my vows,” he suspected.
The abbot’s smile faded and he nodded. “You are not ready.” He dug the sword’s tip into the earth and stepped back as the hilt wavered back and forth between them.
Mangan could not help it. He stared at the blade, his hand trembling as he remembered the feel of the hard steel against his palm. “I never want to use that again,” he said harshly. “Why do you bring it to me?”
“You must make peace with yourself before you can make peace with God.”
“That is why I am here,” Mangan answered, his voice rising with anger.
The abbot shook his head. “No, that is why you must go. Your journey does not end here. You have learned much with us, and we have learned much from you, but the restlessness in your soul persists. You have contained the fire, but it smolders within.”
“No,” Mangan denied. “I am ready. I want to be ordained.”