The Royal Hunter

  SURPRISE TOUCH

  His jaw clenched. “I’m not a mercenary. And I’m not a snake.”

  Talia tried not to laugh. “That offends you? Tough guy like yourself? I imagine you’ve been called much worse.”

  “Oh, I’ve been called many things, sweetheart. But snake?” Archer shook his head. “I really must be losing my touch.”

  Now she cocked a hand on her hip. “You have a touch?”

  Adrenaline pumped through her, along with something else. She wasn’t actually enjoying this little heated interchange. Was she?

  “Did you really think you’d just pop into my life, drop this amazing little fairy tale in my lap, and expect me to go dancing off behind you, all because you twinkled those eyes and showed off that little cleft in your chin?”

  Oops. Bad strategy. She’d been doing fine up to that last part. What had been the vaguest suspicion of a smile quirking his lips now became one in full.

  “You noticed the cleft, huh?”

  Gone completely was the impatient, frustrated mercenary. In his place was … well, she didn’t even want to think about what was going on behind those heated eyes.

  Then he stepped closer …

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE ROYAL HUNTER

  A Bantam Book

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Bantam paperback edition / October 2001

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2001 by Donna Jean

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-49032-2

  Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random house, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  She must be found and brought to me.”

  Queen Catriona was dying. No one would have guessed from her imperious tone. Even propped up in bed, her skin as pale as the white satin robe buttoned tightly at her neck, she radiated royalty.

  Archer wasn’t concerned with royal heirs or vacated thrones. He was a businessman. “It has been more than a quarter century since the healer’s disappearance. Many have tried to find her. All have failed.” In fact, they’d stopped looking long before the king’s brutal murder three years earlier, when the queen was only twenty-two. Long before she lay dying with the successor to the Welsh throne of Llanfair slumbering peacefully in her belly.

  “Finding her is my only hope. You have your orders.”

  He wasn’t much for commands, nor did he hold out much hope of success in this case. But if she was willing to pay him to try and save her life, who was he to say no? Devin Archer, savior. He supposed if he really thought about it, he had saved a number of people. But not for anything as ephemeral and unrewarding as honor. Honor didn’t pay the bills or put fuel in the tank. He’d been called many things; renegade, rogue, pirate, spy. All accurate, if lacking imagination. Professional savior. He rather liked that one. He’d have to make sure that one got around. Might be good for business.

  “I realize you could give a good goddamn whether I live or die,” the queen said abruptly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You beg nothing of me. Which is precisely why I selected you. I understand why you have no dedication or allegiance to a country that has never given you anything without asking your sacrifice first.”

  Archer frowned. He’d never denied his Australian heritage, but every other detail of his life, including his nomadic childhood as a slave and other less than savory details, had been deeply buried. Notoriety only went so far in business and he preferred to keep his past private. Anyone looking for information about one Devin Archer would only discover details from the time he’d arrived in the troubled kingdom of Llanfair. The queen’s knowledge did not amuse him. But he respected anyone with better contacts than his own.

  “And yet you wish to hire me nonetheless?”

  “I believe you understand the machinations at hand better than most. You’ve likely worked for any number of those involved.”

  Archer’s estimation of the young queen rose several notches. “We’re not mates or anything, if that’s what you’re suggesting. As for my clientele …” He shrugged. “I’m not a political sort. Tends to limit a man’s business opportunities.”

  “Exactly my point. A mercenary is loyal only to the one who pays him.”

  “I prefer merchant,” he said quietly, returning her direct gaze. “I just follow the law of supply and demand. They demand, I supply.” Thank God for free enterprise. “As for my allegiance, I have found that relying only on myself means I am less often disappointed.”

  The queen nodded, as if she understood the sentiment. And given her circumstances, it was likely that she did. “Succeed and you will be rewarded beyond your wildest imagination.”

  Archer smiled. “I have a fairly avid imagination.”

  She smiled as well. “I have a fairly deep purse.”

  “You’ll need it if I succeed.”

  The smile vanished and the implacable face of a ruler once again emerged. “There is no if, Mr. Archer. Only when. You will use whatever means necessary to find Eleri Trahaern and return her to my protection. The child I carry must be brought safely into this world before I depart it. The Dalwyn line must continue.”

  If she sounded nothing like a dewy-eyed mother-to-be and more like a monarch engaged in a strategic campaign, Archer understood. Besides, what did he know about maternal instincts? His mother certainly hadn’t had any. She’d sold him at the age of five. He’d long ago decided to view that as a good business decision on her part. She’d gotten the money she so desperately needed and he’d discovered the world of commerce. Twenty-five years later, he was a master of it. When he thought about it, and he rarely did anymore, he probably owed it all to her.

  “What of the child if you die?” Archer asked baldly. “Who will care for it?”

  “Not that it is any of your concern, but I have made the proper arrangements with those loyal to the House of Dalwyn. Chamberlain will not dare try to usurp the throne as long as the Dalwyn lineage remains intact.” She eyed him. “But remain intact it will, or there will be chaos in this lan
d.” She folded her arms over her swollen belly. “Of course, you no doubt see that as a potential upswing in employment opportunity.”

  He managed not to appear surprised by the summation. Maternal she may not be, but she was a survivor. He respected that above all else. “I operate on one principal,” Archer said, his accent amplified by irritation. “You don’t question how I do my job and I won’t question why you need it done.” He took a step closer to the bedside. “But when you hire me, if it can be done, it will get done.”

  “That is the only reason you are standing before me. Bring her to me, Archer, and you will never want for anything, ever again.”

  And that was, after all, his entire goal in life. He nodded once—as close to a bow as he would ever make to anyone—then turned on his heel.

  Catriona stopped him at the door. “There is one other thing.”

  Archer turned but said nothing.

  “She must come willingly, or she will be no more able to heal me of this cursed affliction than any of the parade of incompetents that have come before her.”

  Archer frowned. “You wait until now to tell me this?”

  Now it was the queen’s turn to smile. For the first time, Archer was treated to the full force of the magnetism that had captivated the people of his adopted country.

  “It should make little difference to you. I am certain that your broad range of skills, which I understand extend rather heavily into areas dealing with members of the opposite sex, will hold you in good stead in this matter.” She let her head sink more deeply into the pillows. “I will not question how you convince her to return to my side. Just see that she does so. Willingly.”

  Archer’s responding nod was curt to the point of rudeness, but he was not summoned back again.

  Chapter 1

  Bloody hell and damn.” Archer switched off his datatran and threw it across the room. The resulting crash wasn’t satisfying, but then nothing else had satisfied him today, so why should that be any different? He’d spent hours making contacts, and contacts of contacts, even going so far as to talk to people he’d had no use for in years. He knew how to dig up information. This time had been different. He was no closer to finding a link to Eleri Trahaern than when he left the castle this morning.

  He pressed a button on the com arm and a transmitter dropped down from the ceiling to hover in front of him. “Data on,” he said wearily. He’d already read over the old reports from every other person who’d attempted to find Eleri Trahaern. “Page three,” he ordered, skimming once again the first report, filed days after her disappearance. There was one bit of information that nagged at him. “The Old One,” he murmured. The reclusive mystic was the only person connected to the royal healer who had never been found or interrogated. “Probably dead by now.”

  A sleek black cat undulated around the corner of the living area and leaped into his lap. “A cat, huh? Well, I suppose we are on the prowl.”

  Ringer studiously washed his paws, ignoring his master entirely, but making himself quite at home in his lap.

  “Beastie,” he muttered, but scratched him behind the ears as he reread the report. “Find visual of the Old One,” he ordered. “Search logs dated thirty years or before.”

  “No visual available,” purred the audiotrak.

  “Yeah, yeah. Locate contacts of the Old One. Any contact.” It wasn’t a promising lead, but it was better than nothing.

  “No available information.”

  Just then a loud burst of static sputtered from across the room where the datatran lay in several pieces. “Jesus, Joseph, and Elvis.” Covering his ears, Archer pushed Ringer off his thighs and crossed the room, intent on stomping the damn thing to death.

  The air flickered in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. The squeal died as the air shifted and transformed into the image of an old man in a white robe.

  “I believe you are looking for me.”

  Even though it was obviously a hologram, Archer palmed the gaz he always wore and looked from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, wondering where in the hell it was transmitting from. He had no such expensive apparatus here. Had the queen sent someone in to have him watched? He didn’t think anyone could breach his security rig, but then she’d found out about his past. Maybe he’d underestimated her far too much.

  “Your field is secure,” the old man said quietly. “I suggest you ask the questions you wish and do it quickly if you intend to succeed in your mission. Trust that I am not making contact because I enjoy the company.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “I am Baleweg. I believe you know me as the Old One. Meet me in one hour. Your datatran contains the address.” Then the image blinked away, the air still and clear.

  “Why not answer my questions right n—” He was gone. Archer dragged over a chair and spent a few minutes scanning the metal-beamed ceiling, but knew it was no use. Whatever had made that transmission wouldn’t be obvious. A real inspection would take time. Time the Old One was correct in stating he didn’t have.

  He pocketed his gun and scooped up the abused datatran. The cover had broken off and the ear wire was bent, but … He pressed his thumb to the identapad on the back, and after another patch of static and a brief ear-piercing squeal, it hummed to life. “Screen on.” The screen glowed blue … and an address typed itself out. “How in the hell did he do that?”

  The Old One was the clue, the one man who’d claimed to have seen Eleri before she disappeared. Then he’d vanished as well. Until now. Archer wondered why and intended to have that answered along with everything else.

  Ringer trotted after him as he headed for the door. “I don’t suppose you’ll stay here?” The cat merely stared at him. “Fine, fine, but no wise-guy stuff today. Got it?”

  Ringer blinked up at him.

  “Why do I even bother?” he muttered.

  They arrived at the small row house over an hour later. Traffic through the capital city had been a bitch. Getting to the east side this late in the day was roughly the equivalent of a suicide mission. Archer shoved the violation disc he’d gotten for reckless endangerment under the seat with all the others and sealed the vehicle.

  Ringer rubbed against his legs as he stood in front of the door. “Third floor,” he said to the monitor. He looked down. “And don’t think all this sudden affection will earn you any bonus points.” He ignored the deep purr vibrating against his calf. “You had to go and embarrass me like that with those City Transport Agents, right? Oh, they thought you were hilarious. A real joker.” Shifters enjoyed the ability to select an image that made a statement about their particular feelings at the moment. Archer was rarely amused. “How did you learn what a platypus looked like anyway?”

  He turned his attention back to the building, but the doors to the air lift refused to slide open. “Come on. And keep up with me or I might leave you down here.” He shoved open the door to the stairs and took them two at a time, Ringer right on his heels.

  He palmed the gaz out of his waistband, but his instincts weren’t screaming trap. Still, no point in taking chances. He rounded the landing and started up the next flight, grumbling under his breath. They could build entire colonies in space, he thought, but they couldn’t make an air lift that didn’t break down every other day. One of the many reasons he lived in a one-floor warehouse.

  It was warm and humid on the third floor, meaning air control was also out of whack. Archer wouldn’t have been surprised to find mold growing on the baseboards, but the place was surprisingly clean. The pale green carpet was worn, but not dirty. Sheer yellow curtains covered the tall window at the far end of the hall, keeping the light to a dim shadow and contributing to the overall greenhouse feel of the place. There were three doors. One they’d just come out of, the other two were painted white, one on each side of the hall. Neither had numbers on them.

  Archer banged his fist on the nearest one. “Baleweg?”

  Ringer grumbled and sat, staring out the window, tai
l twitching.

  “You want to chase pigeons? Taking this cat deal a bit far, aren’t you, mate?” Ringer meowed, his tail twitching faster. Archer followed his gaze outside then looked back at him. He swore the beastie was smiling, and smugly at that. “Think you’re hot shit, do you now?” He shoved the window until it moved grudgingly upward. Ringer leaped out onto the rooftop in a flash of black with Archer right behind him. They both reached the prostrate form of the old man at the same time.

  How in the hell had someone gotten to him? The old man had stayed safely hidden for almost three decades. “Shit.”

  Ringer gave the old man’s feathery cheek a long swipe with his tongue. The man emitted a snore, then smiled. “Nadja, you minx,” he mumbled.

  “Jesus.” Archer nudged him with his toe. “Baleweg, you got company.”

  The man shifted to his side, frowned and rubbed at his nose, then slowly blinked his eyes open. He focused first on Ringer and smiled, then frowned as he looked at Archer. “Ah. The royal hunter. Sorry. I doze when I can. You took your time.”

  “Have you tried to cross town lately?”

  “I don’t avail myself of public transportation when I can avoid it.”

  “Speaking of which, how did you transmit your image—”

  “We must not waste any more time.” He gathered his robes and moved surprisingly gracefully into a cross-legged position. He motioned Archer to sit.

  Archer looked around instead. The rooftop had been transformed into a lavish tropical paradise. But the leafy fronds and dense foliage made it difficult to see beyond and therefore not secure. “Can we speak inside?”

  “I assure you this location is perfectly adequate. My private sanctuary. Lovely spot, don’t you think?”

  “I’d rather speak inside, if you don’t mind.”

  Baleweg seemed unaffected by Archer’s most uncompromising stare, but he sighed and stood. “Young people. Always so melodramatic.”

  “These are melodramatic times,” Archer said.

  Baleweg merely sighed. “Might I offer you some refreshment?”

  “You said yourself we’re short on time. I just need some information.”