Bridging the Storm Read online

  Can a twenty year-old woman make life worth living for a man nearly a thousand years old?

  Kate Cherington is certainly trying her best. The handsome and amusing Sir Arthur Dagonet does exactly what Kate has always dreamed of doing—travel the world, exploring new lands. He also may be her only path away from an aunt determined to keep Kate from having a life of her own. Kate knows that her only hope for the adventure she craves is to escape with Sir Arthur.

  Sir Arthur has already lived through several lifetimes, thanks to the gift of immortality from the great Merlin. After centuries of adventure, he’s eager to rid himself of this gift, and to finally die. But meeting the brave and beautiful Kate brings back memories of his happy exploits with the Children of Avalon, the first of the magical Vallen. Though he decides he really doesn’t want to get distracted from his goal, he is bound by a promise to help, Tatiana Vallentyn, the current high priestess of the Vallen.

  From the mists of legend to the estates of the Regency, Kate and Sir Arthur tussle with a force unanticipated by either, and stronger than any desire for life or death—love.

  What Others have said about the other books in the Storm Series

  Storm on the Horizon

  Usually with novellas I find myself anticipating the end almost as soon as I begin to read but I became so lost in this one I was disappointed when the end happened.—Fiftysgirl2012

  This is one sweet, enjoyable, romantic read.—Tamara

  Magic in the Storm

  This book is a fantastic mix of the paranormal and a regency romance! It has action, excitement, magic, love, hate, social climbing, power grabbing and even a part in the story for Lord Byron the poet. The mix of magic and regency blend into a beautiful story—Carin, 4myreadingobsession blog

  Magic In The Storm was an edge of the seat read.—Martha A. Cheves

  Bridging the Storm

  Meredith Bond

  Table of Contents

  Book Description

  What Others have said about the other books in the Storm Series

  Bridging the Storm

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty–One

  Chapter Twenty–Two

  Chapter Twenty–Three

  Chapter Twenty–Four

  Chapter Twenty–Five

  Chapter Twenty–Six

  Dearest Reader,

  The next book in the Storm Series

  Or Read A Contemporary Vallen Story:

  About the Author

  Books By Meredith Bond

  Newsletter Signup

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright, March, 2015, Meredith Bond. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical —without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. If you have obtained a copy of this from someone else, you are strongly encouraged to purchase a copy for yourself.

  Cover design by Michael Canales at mjcimageworks.com

  Editing by The Editing Hall

  Formatting by Anessa Books

  Chapter One

  December 21, 1793

  ARTHUR DAGONET SPURRED his horse faster. He would freeze solid at this pace, and honestly, he couldn’t get this whole business done with fast enough.

  Oh, but his old bones ached. His whole body trembled with the cold as he galloped across a bare countryside soaked in the pale gray shadows of moonlight.

  Why hadn’t he taken a carriage? He could have been warm and snug inside with a hot brick at his feet and a blanket thrown over his shivering old legs. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing his imagination to take him there. He could almost feel the warmth... but no, he’d opted for speed instead. At his age, every bump on the horse’s back rattled his frail, frozen frame.

  Thank goodness it wouldn’t be much longer. He hated being old almost as much as he hated this infernal cycle of life in which he was trapped.

  The standing stones appeared in the distance, beckoning to him. As always, they stood waiting to welcome him home.

  It was a bittersweet homecoming. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to do this. Until he found a way out, however, he would be forced to return again and again. Perhaps on his next trip he would find the way out. Perhaps.

  His horse, as cold and tired as he, slipped back into a reluctant trot. The sooner they got there, the sooner they could return to the inn they’d passed on their way. Then, and only then, would both of them be able to rest and get warm.

  Pain shot through his hip and up his back as he eased himself off the animal just outside the outer circle of stones. They had stood here longer than anyone knew; so long that no one even remembered why they had been erected, only that it was a deeply magical place. One could feel the magic circulating through the old stones—especially on this night of the solstice.

  His aches sharply reminded him of just how long it had been since he’d ridden a horse. Four months aboard ship sailing from New South Wales, and months before that sailing around the southern coastline of the continent, down around Tasmania, before returning to the mainland.

  Exploring, mapping, discovering new lands and new people—it was exciting work, but it felt good to be back in England. Good to be back on solid ground. Cold, but good. Crossing the equator, he’d lost the summer. The warmth of spring had just crept into Botany Bay when he’d left, and now deepest winter was well settled into the English countryside.

  Blood slowed in old veins keeping an old man cold, but it wouldn’t be for long. No, it wouldn’t be for long.

  Dagonet approached the stones, feeling their warm embrace as he entered the familiar inner circle. He paused for a moment, leaning against a toppled stone and trying not to shiver. For just a moment, he closed his tired eyes and relaxed. The freezing air bit into his nostrils, but he was grateful for the freshness of it. The salty tang of the sea air had been cloying after a while. It made a man stronger to breathe in the clean air of the English countryside.

  And yet, he couldn’t wait to get back off this confining island, to continue on his quest. There were so many more places to explore, people to meet, leads to follow. He'd been to so many places in his life, but so far none of them had held the answer he was searching for. It had to be out there; he just had to locate it. He would take a few months to relax, find a new expedition and then set out in what seemed like his Sisyphean task.

  He brought his mind back to the here and now, laughing at himself and his fancies. He pushed off from the stone and walked with waning strength to the center of the circle. Reaching into the worn leather bag on his shoulder, he pulled out his old water skin. This old thing had seen better days, but somehow—whether the result of its contents or the special care with which Dagonet had kept it—it had survived for hundreds of years. Nearly as long as he had, himself.

  He raised it in silent salute to his old, dear friend. “To Merlin!” He took the tiniest of sips—for he had learned over the years that he only needed enough to just wet his lips—and then carefully stoppered the skin and put it away.

  The chang
e only took a moment. Truly miraculous, it would never cease to amaze him. Slowly from the top of his head, the prickle began. He could feel his head begin to sweat with the onslaught of the intense heat. Shivers followed the burning cold as it flowed down his body, removing the old and replacing it with the young.

  The shivering eased, and his muscles relaxed. Dagonet rolled his head around his neck reveling in the easy flow of his now young self. All the aches and pains and cold—especially the cold—slipped away as the burning made its way down his body. Already he felt better. Warmer. More energetic. Ready to conquer the world—again!

  He started to laugh, but the quietest of gasps, audible with his now young ears, had Dagonet spinning around. He reached for his sword—which hadn't sat at his hip for hundreds of years, and yet old habits never seemed to die—almost before the change was complete.

  A woman stood half–hidden in the shadows, just inside the outer circle of stones. She had not been there before; Dagonet was certain of it. And yet, there she was, watching him. Her mouth hung open, and her eyes widened in surprise.

  “What is that potion that you just took?” she whispered just barely loud enough for him to hear.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, wot?” His denial was immediate, said without thought.

  “I saw you. You were old. Your hair was white, and you were nearly stooped with age,” she said, approaching him. “And now…” she said, continuing toward him.

  “It must have been a trick of the moonlight, madam. As you see, I am not old.”

  “No. You’re not. You don’t look to be above 25.” She couldn't have been much more than ten years older than that herself. She was thin and lithe despite her thick, woolen coat. Slight curls of dark, perhaps black, hair peeked out from under her hat.

  “So you see, it was your imagination. A trick of the moonlight," he offered.

  “Do not toy with me. I know what I saw, and I want to know how you did it. Who are you, and who are you working with? How did you get so much power?”

  There was no surer way to tease a knight's temper than to accuse him of lying. Dagonet held his peace and his patience, however, and instead reached out with his magic.

  It told him that this woman felt she had every right to question him in this way. She was as unnerved by his display of magic as she was curious. She wasn’t afraid, though. No, she understood magic. He didn’t know how, but he knew that she did—which only spiked his own curiosity as to her identity. So he did the only thing he could to satisfy them both.

  He made her his best courtly bow. “Sir Arthur Dagonet, at your service. And you are?”

  Her eyes shifted away into the distance. “Sir Dagonet.”

  He raised his eyebrows and allowed a broad smile to cover his face. “What a coincidence! Two of us with the same name. But wouldn’t you be Dame Dagonet? It wouldn’t be Lady Dagonet.”

  “What?” Her attention shifted back to him, his words finally registering with her. “Oh!” Her shoulders came down a notch, and she smiled, even giving a little chuckle. “I am Lady Vallentyn. Tatiana Vallentyn.”

  For a moment the name meant nothing, but a niggling started in the back of his mind. He’d heard her name before. Where? He took a step back as he searched his memory. Vallentyn. Well, she had to be Vallen.

  And then it hit him like a smack to the side of his head.

  “You’re the high priestess!”

  She nodded regally.

  “Been away for a few years, don't believe you'd been in the position long before I left, wot?”

  “What?” She cocked her head.

  “Said I’ve been away a few years…” he began to repeat himself but then stopped. Laughing a little, he said, “Thought I’d rid myself of that nasty little habit. Still hanging around, though. Sorry about that. Used to always add a ‘wot, wot’ to the end of everything I said. Finally got tired of repeating myself and tried to get rid of it. It slips out every now and again, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh!” She laughed.

  “Well, then, you should know who I am,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t have to spell it out for her.

  It was true that he’d given her his new Christian name, not the one given to him at birth. That one he’d shifted to the place of a family name when people began using them more commonly. Then, he’d taken on the name of his good friend and king and retitled himself Sir Arthur Dagonet — though, he wasn’t entirely certain whether his knighthood was still in good standing. It had never been taken away, per se, but after nine hundred years, he just didn’t know if he was still entitled to it. But he wouldn’t give it up after all this time, unless he was explicitly told to do so.

  Lady Vallentyn frowned in thought. Dagonet waited patiently while she figured things out, chuckling silently to himself as recognition slowly crossed over her face. “I’ve heard of that name… Sir Dagonet?” she said.

  “Should have.” He nodded, waiting for her to put things together in her mind.

  “There was an old story about the knight who travelled with the Children of Avalon back in medieval times,” she began, not hearing what he’d just said as she clearly tried to pull the memory forward.

  “That’s right,” Dagonet said, nodding again.

  Her gaze flew to his. “But he… no wait! The story tells of a potion given to Sir Dagonet that made him young again. The great Merlin gave it to him as thanks for seeing to the Children and helping them defeat the Lady Nimuë.”

  “Turned out to be more of a curse than a gift, but yes, that’s the gist of it. So glad to hear the old tales aren’t yet lost.”

  “But…” she looked from him to his satchel where he had stowed away his water skin. “It couldn’t be true, could it? Are you truly that Sir Dagonet?”

  Dagonet bowed. “The very one.”

  The lady gasped. “But that would mean you are…”

  “Rather old, yes, yes. In years, if not in looks, er, at the moment.” He forced out a laugh, afraid she might otherwise sense the lump in his throat, the heaviness in his chest, the exhaustion of having lived for much too long. “Over nine hundred years, closer to a thousand, actually,” he admitted. He didn’t ever think about his age. It disturbed him. “Don’t know the exact year I was born, but I’d been close on two hundred when I met the Children, Bridget, Scai and Dylan.”

  “And you’re still alive.” she breathed in amazement. “And, and young! Just as the stories say you would be.”

  “Quite a potion Merlin gave me, don’t you know?” He winked.

  “You still have it? You’re still taking it? And it still works?” she asked, dumbfounded.

  “As you see,” he said, his arms held out as if to show her his young self. It was much better than his old self. He did hate being old. On the other hand, if he actually died of old age, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to live with. It’s just that he didn’t. Ever.

  And he’d had to deal with being old for nearly 200 years while waiting for the Children to arrive. It was better—easier—to be young. “I usually take the potion before getting to be quite so old, but as I said, I’ve been away.”

  “And you must be here, at Stonehenge, to take the potion?”

  “Yes. Here, on the night of the winter solstice. Only works the one night a year.”

  “It’s amazing that it still works after all this time,” she said, shaking her head in wonder.

  “Yes, indeed. And now, if you don’t mind my asking, what is the high priestess of the Vallen doing out at midnight? Not here on any “official” business, are you?”

  “No. I am on my way home from attending to some, however. This was on my way so I thought I’d stop…”

  He waited a moment for her to finish her sentence. When she didn’t seem inclined to, he asked, “You travel through the night to get home?”

  “Yes. I have a family there who need me. It is difficult enough to travel across the country at a moment’s notice, so I try to return as quickly as possible.”


  Her eyes shifted away. She was hiding something. She didn’t just stop here on a whim.

  Dagonet reached out again with his magic, but he couldn’t discern the reason. “And…” he prompted gently.

  Her eyes turned back to him. She raised her eyebrows. “And?”

  “And the other reason you stopped here this evening?” he asked with an encouraging smile.

  She lifted her chin a notch, but swallowed audibly. “I wished to soak in the magic,” she admitted. “I carry the Seventh, and I wish for her to be as powerful as possible. It’s silly, really. I know you can’t absorb magic like it was sunlight, but still…”

  Dagonet gave a little chuckle. “Wouldn’t it be nice if you could.”

  “Well, but then we wouldn’t need a Seventh, would we?” she asked, giving him a weak smile.

  “No. I don’t suppose we would. Well, then, I shall leave you to your, er, soaking. My own task here is done.” He gave her a small bow and turned to leave. The cold no longer bothered him as much—young blood flowed so much more swiftly—but he didn’t wish to keep his horse standing in the cold for any longer than necessary.

  “Where do you stay?” she blurted out, stopping him.

  He turned part way around. “At my estate, why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no. Nothing. I just wondered, that’s all. You have an estate, naturally.” She seemed a little nervous.

  “Yes. Near Trecastle, in Wales.”

  “Oh! Is it your ancestral home?” she asked, taking a step toward him.

  He gave her a smile. “No. That has long since disappeared. Actually, it’s very close to where I met Scai for the first time.”

  “Oh,” she sighed. Before she could ask him anything further, he gave her another quick, little bow and strode off to his horse.

  He had no desire to go tripping down memory lane with Lady Vallentyn, or anyone for that matter. It was odd, but even after nearly 800 years he still missed those children.

  Chapter Two