Read Online Avador Book 2, Night Shadows by Shirley Martin - Free Book Online
Authors: Shirley Martin
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tightened her throat, and she chided herself for the foolish attraction she felt for the man she'd first met inside the cave, a man of whom she knew so little.
A blonde man approached from the dark shadows, one she recognized as a frequent patron of the Snow Leopard. She had just finished for the night and was looking forward to sitting on a nearby bench. Alone.
He inclined his head. "Permit me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Stilo, and no doubt you've seen me in the tavern." He paused. "May I walk with you? Did you have a particular destination in mind?" He spoke with a deep, gravelly voice. Slightly taller than she, he had a brawny build, his linen tunic stretched across his broad chest.
Desperate thoughts raced through her head. By now, she knew she could trust Gaderian, but she knew nothing of this man, one she recognized only by his appearance at the tavern.
"Sir–"
"Stilo is my name, madam. And I know yours as Angharad Cullain, from hearing the other patrons sing your praises. You're quite a skilled fortune teller, I understand."
"Scryer," she corrected. "And just because you told me your name doesn't mean I know you." She tried not to wrinkle her nose at his heavy musk fragrance. And let him think her name was really Angharad, for she must never reveal her real name to this stranger.
Stilo smiled. "If you could spend a little time with me, we could become better acquainted." He held up a hand. "I promise you I mean you no harm. A man gets lonely at times. It's pleasant to have someone to talk to, a pretty woman like you."
Your compliments will get you nowhere, she wanted to say. A strong warning vibrated in her head, quickening her heartbeat. How did she know she could trust him? Yet he'd given her no reason not to. She sought a compromise: she certainly would not allow him to walk with her to the river, a distance of several blocks. Only vagrants wandered the streets at this hour of the night, hardly dependable rescuers should this man pose a threat. She was a fast runner; she could escape the tramps, should any of them come after her. But she might not be able to evade this stranger's proximity.
Fianna nodded toward a bench several yards away that rested under the canopy of a stately oak. "Let's sit there for a while, not long, mind you, for I should go to bed soon."
"Of course."
They headed for the wooden bench, Fianna's new leather shoes squeaking with each step. Her new shoes would take some getting used to, she thought on a note of uncomfortable endurance. A warm breeze ruffled the oak leaves and carried the sweet-spicy scent of night-blooming jasmine. Stilo walked with a swagger, shoulders thrown back, a brisk step in his high boots.
After she sank onto the bench, he followed, a look of mild curiosity on his face. "You are new to Moytura, are you not? Your accent sounds a bit different. From one of the southern provinces?"
"Yes." Aware she trod on risky ground, she refused to divulge any more information.
"You're living with your parents?" He flicked a lock of hair from his forehead, and she noticed his blunt hands, his stubby fingers.
Resentment stirred inside her. "Sir, if you've seen me at the tavern–which you have–you know I live alone."
He shrugged. "Only desiring to become better acquainted with you, an endeavor that surely requires no explanation."
"But I don't know a thing about you except your name, and only your first name, at that."
"Easily corrected. My last name is Mongan." He slid a bit closer, a movement that sent her easing away from him.
"So, Stilo Mongan, where are you from?"
"Lived in Moytura all my life." He grinned. "And I must say I'm happy to be here now, to have met you. Ah, I see by the expression on your face that you doubt my good intentions. If I may, let me tell you a little about myself. I'm an architect, live in an apartment by myself. My parents are dead, and an older brother lives on the outskirts of the city." He gave her a quick smile.
As
A blonde man approached from the dark shadows, one she recognized as a frequent patron of the Snow Leopard. She had just finished for the night and was looking forward to sitting on a nearby bench. Alone.
He inclined his head. "Permit me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Stilo, and no doubt you've seen me in the tavern." He paused. "May I walk with you? Did you have a particular destination in mind?" He spoke with a deep, gravelly voice. Slightly taller than she, he had a brawny build, his linen tunic stretched across his broad chest.
Desperate thoughts raced through her head. By now, she knew she could trust Gaderian, but she knew nothing of this man, one she recognized only by his appearance at the tavern.
"Sir–"
"Stilo is my name, madam. And I know yours as Angharad Cullain, from hearing the other patrons sing your praises. You're quite a skilled fortune teller, I understand."
"Scryer," she corrected. "And just because you told me your name doesn't mean I know you." She tried not to wrinkle her nose at his heavy musk fragrance. And let him think her name was really Angharad, for she must never reveal her real name to this stranger.
Stilo smiled. "If you could spend a little time with me, we could become better acquainted." He held up a hand. "I promise you I mean you no harm. A man gets lonely at times. It's pleasant to have someone to talk to, a pretty woman like you."
Your compliments will get you nowhere, she wanted to say. A strong warning vibrated in her head, quickening her heartbeat. How did she know she could trust him? Yet he'd given her no reason not to. She sought a compromise: she certainly would not allow him to walk with her to the river, a distance of several blocks. Only vagrants wandered the streets at this hour of the night, hardly dependable rescuers should this man pose a threat. She was a fast runner; she could escape the tramps, should any of them come after her. But she might not be able to evade this stranger's proximity.
Fianna nodded toward a bench several yards away that rested under the canopy of a stately oak. "Let's sit there for a while, not long, mind you, for I should go to bed soon."
"Of course."
They headed for the wooden bench, Fianna's new leather shoes squeaking with each step. Her new shoes would take some getting used to, she thought on a note of uncomfortable endurance. A warm breeze ruffled the oak leaves and carried the sweet-spicy scent of night-blooming jasmine. Stilo walked with a swagger, shoulders thrown back, a brisk step in his high boots.
After she sank onto the bench, he followed, a look of mild curiosity on his face. "You are new to Moytura, are you not? Your accent sounds a bit different. From one of the southern provinces?"
"Yes." Aware she trod on risky ground, she refused to divulge any more information.
"You're living with your parents?" He flicked a lock of hair from his forehead, and she noticed his blunt hands, his stubby fingers.
Resentment stirred inside her. "Sir, if you've seen me at the tavern–which you have–you know I live alone."
He shrugged. "Only desiring to become better acquainted with you, an endeavor that surely requires no explanation."
"But I don't know a thing about you except your name, and only your first name, at that."
"Easily corrected. My last name is Mongan." He slid a bit closer, a movement that sent her easing away from him.
"So, Stilo Mongan, where are you from?"
"Lived in Moytura all my life." He grinned. "And I must say I'm happy to be here now, to have met you. Ah, I see by the expression on your face that you doubt my good intentions. If I may, let me tell you a little about myself. I'm an architect, live in an apartment by myself. My parents are dead, and an older brother lives on the outskirts of the city." He gave her a quick smile.
As
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