e-book The Legend of Angelhawke

Contents:

Letters from the Gardener. A Boston Metaphysical Society Story. The Earl and the Proud Spinster. A Line in the Ice.

Angelhawke

Faites part de votre avis aux autres lecteurs en notant ce livre et en laissant un commentaire. Vous avez soumis la note et la critique suivantes. Votre panier est vide Votre panier ne contient actuellement aucun article. Chi ama i libri sceglie Kobo e inMondadori. The Legend of Angelhawke par T.

Disponible dans le pays suivant: The Legend, An angel descended from heaven to bless the island of Jamaica and William Hawke with her love and devotion. The Lady, Abigail Gordon is an accomplished historian, museum curator and successful business woman. Note globale Aucune note 0. Non, annuler Oui, la signaler Merci! Ninda Andrea rated it it was amazing Aug 20, Caz rated it it was amazing May 23, Katy Morgan rated it it was ok Nov 20, Vio added it Jan 05, Jonathan added it Jan 17, Kitty is currently reading it Nov 04, Emma added it May 27, Bobbi Parkinson marked it as to-read Nov 19, Sonia marked it as to-read Aug 30, Hatter marked it as to-read Oct 11, MishaShipsDestiel marked it as to-read Dec 03, Maiko-chan added it Jul 03, Mystic added it Aug 11, There are no discussion topics on this book yet.

He had so many plans that he hoped to one day fulfil, but in his heart he knew that almost none of them would come to pass. The Guard would be looking for him by now, probably. As the evening turned cold, he left the road and huddled into his own arms, delving deep into some dry white grass and curling onto the ground, ready to sleep in only a moment.

He fell into a dream that he promptly forgot upon waking the next morning, fresh dew having made a mask on his face during the night. He brushed dew and grass off himself and then began his journey again, heading anywhere but the city, away from events and people and places that could possibly spell death. He had to avoid anyone in the Guard at all costs. His first full day of freedom became a dark one, heavy clouds hanging low over the empty road, and low over his spirits. By late afternoon, an early-season mist had settled around him, clamping his thin clothes to his skin.

He was so cold; his toes were numb, even in his boots. The boots, while tight, fit him adequately: Miserably, this was little comfort.

Angelhawke

Gabriel leaned against the off-white castle wall, cast in morning shadow, picking up a wooden shield from the pile on the other side of the dusty courtyard with a slight gesture of his hand. Congratulations, you just blew my mind. I have enjoyed every single word, you have kept me panting with bated breath, cringing with fear, and rejoicing alongside your fabulous versions of Cas and Dean. For a second, Dean lost the movement of dark hair in the corner of his vision as Castiel fell behind, so he turned around to see where he had gone: Dean thanked her, and nudged Chevy onward.

His arms cradled his body as he put one foot in front of another, no longer able to see the road through the mist. All was still and silent. He could hear the rush of air as he breathed in and out, and made a game of huffing the mist away from his mouth as he exhaled. He had no idea where he was going.

Panier virtuel

As the day ended, he again slept by the side of the road, this time crumpled underneath an oak tree with lumpy roots that kept him awake half the night, digging into his back every time he turned over in his sleep. He would have moved, but nowhere else was sheltered enough when the rain started.

It rained all of the next day, too. The days grew steadily colder, and the further north he went, the icier the road became. He skidded and stumbled for hours at a time, but never stopped. Occasionally a passing traveller would pass by in a horse-cart, or lag behind as he overtook them in stops and starts while they rested. His own resting periods became more frequent the colder he got, and he took much longer to recover. He sat shivering under trees, too tired to move to keep warm.

Seven days of this, and he caved in. He was sick of setting traps for rabbits, sick of the cold, and the hard ground for a bed each night, sick of waking up with ice water making his face red and sore every morning, snow or frozen dew in his hair. Persistence was not really his thing, he realised, not when he was this cold and hungry. On the eighth day, when the sun set, grey and salmon pink, he sighed and kept walking through the night. He could rest there. Hot food, maybe a bath. I could go for turkey, you know? Not since that winter.

You know the one I mean. His legs were locked tight with the chill, he could hardly bend them any more. I want something with cherries in it. An ale, some roast potatoes. And oh God, Brother. What I would give for a bed right now. Oh - and there we go, speaking of light! There it is, the village. Wonder why that is His stolen bag of money jangled happily against his thigh. It was one of the best sounds in the world, as far as Sam was concerned. And the rush of warm air as yellow light greeted him - that was the best feeling in the world.

He stepped grandly inside the tavern, closing the door behind him. His hands clamped up as he tossed coins down onto the countertop, blood rushing in his ears as he ordered whatever food the tavern happened to be serving. He was barely paying attention - all that registered was the warmth that returned to his limbs, but slowly the buzz of clarity flooded back into his thoughts as he thawed out by the roaring fire.

The place was nice: Sam took a seat at a wooden table while he waited for his food to arrive. He rested his damp boots on the table leg, and leaned back against the stone wall behind him. It held some residual heat from the room, and after a moment the warmth began to seep into his muscles. There were a few other people still around; it was only just dark, so he figured he would take his leave while everyone was still awake. The idea of a bed had never seemed so appealing. He sighed and closed his eyes, letting the low rumble of chatter in the room overtake him for a moment.

I heard he stole a horse, right? One of the castle ones They were most definitely talking about him. So, the Guard were after him? Sam was surprised, but his mind was too hazy to dwell. Other rumours were exchanged too, but he couldn't catch them all amongst the hubbub of the small room. The space was stuffy with wood smoke, and almost all sound seemed to be absorbed by the thick smog. He chanced cracking an eye open to scour the room for the source of the conversation.

GTAIV UH 60 KINGHAWK Dubstep Montage

Two scruffy men, farmers perhaps, nattering over pints of ale. But he was too tired to worry. He closed his eyes again and focused his mind on the smell of roasting meat wafting in from the nearby kitchen. Hell, if he can get out of there Sam only just caught it through the crackle of the fire. He began wolfing the meal down before the innkeeper girl had even left the table. He smiled gratefully at her, a smile that was easily returned. She had warm brown eyes and blonde hair and curved, soft lips that filled him right back up with warmth. Sam watched her move as he ate; she was fully at home here.

She seemed to radiate the warmth of the entire building, like the fire in the fireplace was also inside her, like the skins on the wall were part of her own skin. He wanted a place that bled into his own skin. He wanted a home. Okay, this is awesome, all right? I want me one of these.

Maybe not a tavern, just And hell, maybe a real brother. For a figment of my imagination, you kind of suck at talking. Sam sighed as he chewed his turkey, wiping a dribble of juice from his chin with the back of his hand. Oh, he needed a shave. That had completely slipped his mind. He probably looked like a complete ruffian. He finished the rest of his meal, setting his unevenly-crafted cutlery down on the table, sitting still while he let his incredibly full stomach settle.

He had rarely felt bliss like this. Heat burned his bones from the inside, contentment filled him from his belly outward. He smirked, and threw an extra handful of coins down on the table. Hey, he had the money, he was a generous guy - why not? With only a nod and gentle smile to the young innkeeper, he was led up to a small bedroom. It was warm, and there were no rocks or grass in his bed. He was so relieved to see this, that it only occurred to him later that that was not something people usually found in beds.

Grass, not so much. He washed with water from the basin provided, then fell under the covers, imagining himself as a vole or a rat burrowing underground for the winter, hibernating underneath blankets until the morning came. It was probably almost midday. He fell out of bed and peered through a small crack in his window panel, and spied something that sent a chill of terror down his spine.

There, in the warm sunlight, below a trellis of creeping vines, was a band of Guardsmen, sparring with their swords. He heard the sharp clash of metal as they fought - no, not fighting. They were after him, he was certain. There was no other reason for them to be this far north. The armour of these Guards belonged to the castle of Zamreer, and no other. There was a woman among them, Sam was interested to note. A petite brunette woman, arms folded as she observed the men fight each other. They were laughing, but she sat stony-faced, like she was uninterested and above such idle playfights.

Sam crouched below the window and took stock of the men, sizing them up. The woman was under the watchful eye of a tall black-skinned man, who was clearly the Captain of the Guard. Bela always won, and perhaps that was the point. This man was known to be unbeatable. Sam took a steadying breath and leaned to peer out of the crack in the window shutter again, craning to see how many men there actually were.

That made ten Guards, all of whom were armed and undoubtedly dangerous. And they were all here for him. He had to leave this place, and fast. A horse was the only option here. He had to head further north, back where the Guard had already searched. What did he have to use to his advantage? He touched the pouch tied to his hip. It jangled, but only half as much as it had last night. Okay, running low on funds. He had what he was already wearing: He was still pleased about that. He spent half a minute searching the room for anything helpful: His best find from this was a mouse skeleton, which frankly, he would have liked to stop and examine.

He set it back down under the bed with a regretful sigh. If anyone was looking, the scruffy young traveller named Sam was still asleep. Sunlight blazed through an unshuttered window that he passed on his way to the stairs. He paused to pick out a line of horses tethered to a horizontal pole. All but two of them carried the Guard insignia on their saddlebags. Never been good with horses, Brother.

This is probably the worst time of all to have that come to a head. He drifted down the staircase, keeping to the edge, where he knew it was less likely to creak. The scent of good food drifted into his nostrils, and his mouth began to water. He rolled his eyes upward with a sigh. He stepped onto the ground floor without incident; the dining room was empty. Cautious, Sam edged toward the kitchen. He kept one eye on the front door, the other on the thin trickle of steam that floated in through the opening to the next room. He tried to keep out the flashbacks of sneaking into kitchens to steal food throughout his childhood, but it was impossible.

The method was always the same: If you wanted something fancy, it took far more skill and patience. He just needed an exit. He slung through the doorway so low he was almost crawling, eyes up to watch the large, brown-jacketed man that hovered by a wide fire, copper pot rattling against his spoon. There, at the back! Bright light carved a rectangle on the stone ground by the doorway, and through the door was a flurry of green. He could see the tethered horses from here. He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, hearing the quiet creak of his boots - now pleasantly dried out since last night.

Can I help you? She peered down at him curiously, evidently surprised to see him sneaking around her kitchen. His legs trembled with the effort of keeping them half-bent, so he straightened up. He stood at least a head above this girl, and could see how the soft wave of her hair turned from blonde to brown at the roots. We do serve those, you know. Well, as far as a tethered horse would get him. Misses his daddy, you know how it is. She was probably his age, Sam figured. Damn his automatic lying, he just blew his chances with her. Fake wife and kid, that oughta do it.

Not that he actually had any chance - wanted fugitive, and all that. He turned around and jumped at the sight of a very tall, scruffy-looking man towering over his daughter. It was a nice feeling. The old man grunted, shrugging with his bottom lip pushed out dismissively. He watched the girl reach for a scrap of cloth and a leg of lamb, before turning back to his cooking pot. Sam fidgeted, fingers itching to grab the bundle of food the girl was preparing for him, and run. Just bolt straight out the back door, untie a horse and valiantly swoop up upon its back, riding it out into the distance, faster and with far more grace than he knew he could ever achieve.

Yet he waited patiently as the girl - no, woman , for she had long passed the point in life where she was a child - collected scraps of food for him, meat and greenery alike. When times were tough, food was his first and foremost guiding light. He reached for his coin purse to pay her, but she waved him off. All Sam could do was nod gratefully, and make a beeline for the door. He took a deep breath before stepping out into the sunshine.

Autres titres intéressants

The Legend of Angelhawke - Kindle edition by T.L. Law. Romance Kindle eBooks @ www.farmersmarketmusic.com The Legend of Angelhawke [T L Law] on www.farmersmarketmusic.com *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Abigail Gordon is newly divorced from her cheating husband.

He strode confidently toward the horses, keeping an eye out for the red cloaks of the Guard that he wanted to avoid so badly. When he saw nothing, only the bright haze of a pleasantly warm day, he quickened his steps and fell in between a black and a brown horse.

He favoured the one that was brown all over, including a brown saddlebag. Almost everyone had a brown horse; it wouldn't stand out so much. All of the other horses were clearly Guard horses: Gold thread was worth a fortune in the right circles. He tossed the bundle of food onto the leather saddle, feeling the warmth of it, having been left in the sun. He fumbled with the reins, which were tangled around the pole to which the horses had been tethered.

Nimble fingers were not something he was naturally blessed with; even for a thief he was often clumsy. He shot after it, feet stepping forward long after his torso had followed the horse backward. It nickered again, headbutting the horse to its left, which whinnied in protest. It had no intention of shushing. It seemed to trot on the spot, stomping its heavy hooves and pounding the dry earth, neighing like no other horse Sam had ever heard. It was like a scream, a siren.

Sam shook his head, wide-eyed. Teach you how to be evil? This horse also had no intention of coming quietly. It reared a foot off the ground, and Sam was so startled he almost dropped the reins and stumbled away in fright. He and horses were never going to be good pals. Sam looked past the jittery horse to see, with a jolt of terror, a muscular, unshaven man with the red crest of the Guard on his chest, and a half-unsheathed sword in his fist. A second man joined him, nodding, setting eyes on a suddenly shivering Sam.

He narrowly avoided the blow, but also decided that kicking was the point at which he gave up on horses. He snatched the bundle of food from its back as he pelted toward the other side of the building, away from the Guardsmen. He was just nearing the second corner of the tavern when he ran straight into wide open arms and a cruel grin that seemed to split the face of the man before him, cutting it into Angry Chin, and Evil Eyes And Pointy Nose. He gasped and tried to dodge the man. Unsurprisingly, Sam found himself bound by a pair of Very Strong Arms.

No, there was no escaping. As it was, this was the question that bubbled to the surface. There was no joy in it. Maybe pleasure, but it was a dark, bloody pleasure. This man liked to cause pain. Goes by the name of The Captain snarled, white teeth gleaming bright. Sam had struck the man behind him countless times on the kneecap, to no avail. It was like he was made of steel. New boots be damned. Sam stumbled on his own feet, his view of the world skewed as he was pulled sideways, painfully. His feet caught on loose vines twisting across the flagstones as they reached the garden.

There were thigh-thick wooden poles every five feet or so, crossed at the top with a thatch of green vines that criss-crossed, hanging down like loose hairs. He also decided that he had had far more of these last-breath moments than he cared to have. The Captain let him go, shoving him violently toward a pole, and Sam narrowly missed whacking his head on it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jess, hovering in the tavern doorway with her hand clasped over her mouth.

Sam swallowed, and straightened up. He was taller than all of the Guards, save the Captain, who held himself straight and confidently enough that he looked about twice the height he really was. Nobody gets away from our dungeon He was immediately surrounded on all sides by members of the Guard: He ducked their arms, swinging away from advancing swords - he slipped under tables and flew out the other side, disturbing chickens with a startled flurry of feathers.

He gasped for breath as the Angry-Chin-Evil-Eyes-and-Pointy-Nosed man stepped into his view, blocking his path to the freedom of the open road. In the meantime, Sam swung himself up onto the trellis, avoiding a particularly vicious swing of a sword from a black-haired man with scars on both cheeks.

Sam had nowhere to go from here, he realised. He crouched upon the wooden pole, trying his best not to crush the vine under his boots. He crab-stepped between the wooden bars, hopping over jabs from swords below. But after a second of calculation, he leapt onto a table, then to the ground, seizing the sword from Guardswoman's scabbard, and raised it in front of him. The fact that it wobbled in his grip was probably unnoticeable. The lie almost sounded believable, even to himself. His words were met with nothing but laughter. She was clearly not happy about being relieved of her only weapon.

Sam swung the sword in a sharp, nervous arc, forcing her to back up a step. Sam stood his ground. We had no intention of letting you live. The burliest of the lot took a hard step forward, out of the crowd of Guardsmen that had assembled around the Captain. He suddenly felt a lot smaller than he was. Sam's body flooded with an intense will to run, all the fight gone out of him. He backed up into a wooden pole, and felt vine leaves tickling his fingertips. The stolen sword swung limply at his side and his skull pressed up against the wood, his eyes on the blade that was being raised to his throat.

He closed his eyes. He felt the slim edge of metal pressed cold to his neck, felt it scrape across his windpipe with a sharp line that dragged his skin, bristling against his stubble. The hot breath of the burly man danced on his shoulder, he felt it on his cheek. His breath smelt like wine. Sam swallowed, and braced himself for the end, as the Guard swung his arm back. He heard a whirr of moving air, and a yell. Sam tightened his grip on the sword in his hand. Every instinct told him to run, this was his chance - but his feet held firm. He turned his eyes into the sunlight, and there stood the source of his saving grace: It hit a wooden pole harmlessly.

In the same moment, a return arrow was fired. The Guardsman fell like a stone. Sam watched this exchange with shallow and uneven breath, clutching the pole behind him.

The man was shorter than him, and far better built for battle. This was met with nothing but stunned faces. Dean shifted his weight distractingly. Dean raised his own in defence. Not smart at all. I was never really known for being smart, now, was I?

Dean Winchester smiled at the sight of a friendly face. He and Dean stood apart only the length of their outstretched swords, Gordon lowering his slowly. This was a mistake. The Captain leaned forward and kicked Gordon from behind. Dean followed the dead weight down, crouching to the ground and withdrawing his sword desperately.

Dean looked up at the Captain with seething anger. The Captain flew back and collapsed into the arms of a Guardsman. And with that, the fight was ignited in the eyes of the other men, all swords raised with a swish of metal. Dean clutched his own bloody sword and swept from the trellised garden. A beautiful blonde woman stood in the doorway, shaking her head. She signalled him to the left of the tavern, a subtle finger pointed from under her shawl. Dean sprinted over the grass, turning the corner with a swift salute to the woman. He could hear the clunk of heavy boots behind him.

By the side of the tavern lay a pile of horse shoes, tied together by string. Dean seized it as he ran and twisted easily in mid-air, sending the whole handful cascading into the face of the man behind him. Dean watched, satisfied, as the man tumbled into the grass like a felled horse. A second man was stopped with as little effort: Dean's sword slid between the ribs of another two men, straight through their leather armour.

Even the extra skin could not stop Dean's blade, cut like a steak. Dean straightened and took a breath, the second man sliding off his sword and rolling onto the grass. There were more men coming. Sam turned his head and watched the black-armoured man speed past him, sheathing his sword and snatching his crossbow from the dust, where Sam had dropped it to grab a horse.

It squealed, and stampeded into the remaining two guards who were chasing them. Sam turned to watch their fate as he ran, almost stumbling as he straightened to run off of the grass and onto the dirt road, a few strides behind the other man. He had no idea how to carry a sword while running, especially one with no scabbard.

He made do with holding it out to the side, blade pointed away from him. His other hand juggled the parcel of food, fingers twisting in the cloth. It chewed a mouthful of leaves, trotting round to stand on the road. Dean swung onto its back, settling the crossbow on his lap. Captain Raphael was on their trail, bearing down on them from atop a sturdy stallion. He heard the screech of a bird of prey, and a shout and a thump, the unmistakable sound of a man falling from his mount.

Three seconds later, Sam was hefted by the back of his collar, still kicking as his legs tried to run - but he was in mid-air, choking on his own clothes - and then he was hoisted over the back of the hugest horse he ever knew existed, muscles solid as a rock moving under him as it sped to a gallop. Sam clutched the saddle at his side for dear life, his stomach clenched tight to keep himself from slipping. His legs were still in mid-air, his head over the other side of the horse, sword still wrapped in his hand as he tried not to stab the horse with it. He spent a surreal moment just watching the ground bouncing up and down as he bounced up and down with it.

Then the dirt track turned to green as they turned off the path, heading into the bushes. The rider held steady as branches lashed at them from all sides, and after Sam was sure a number of cuts had appeared on his face, they emerged into open woodland.

The Valley of Baca;
Inscrivez-vous sur Kobo et commencez la lecture numérique dès aujourd'hui;
.
SUPERSNEAKER - Eine Zeichentheoretische Analyse zur Inszenierung von Markenschuhen in Film und Fernsehen im Rahmen des Product Placement (German Edition);

It took several more minutes of directionless twisting, galloping through trees while aiming to lose the Guard, before they finally slowed. The gigantic black horse trotted to a halt on a flat expanse of dead leaves and dry peat, stopping and taking a single step backwards as it balanced itself. Sam dropped his sword and bag of food, and fell off the horse, tumbling to his knees like his whole body was boneless. He let out an exhausted sigh, feeling his stomach muscles trembling with relief. Pale blue showed through the canopy of light green, tiny specks of dust floating in the sunbeams.

He had short, light brown hair, and was a day away from clean-shaven. From what Sam had seen, he looked sturdy and driven, his movements very much like how Sam had observed the members of the Guard moving; like a soldier, precise and with power behind his actions. He held a pale hand down toward Sam, who took it and shook, back still flat against the leaves. Dean shook his head, pursing his lips. Sam only saw a shadow, but sat up with a bolt, scrambling to his feet, alert.

It was only a bird: Sam raised his eyebrows, leaning a hand on the horse as it stood there silently. Then it took off, and Sam jaw dropped as it launched itself up with a single flap, circling the woodland clearing with a long drawn-out screech from its yellow beak, then flew high up into the trees and out to the open sky. Did you train it? Sam looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

After a moment of consideration, Sam decided he could probably trust this Dean guy with his newly acquired sword. He had just saved his life, after all. Nice and slow now Dean snorted, and waited patiently as Sam fumbled about trying to climb up. Sam glared at him, as he offered no help at all.

Two fully grown men fit easily on this horse, she was so absolutely massive. Having only ridden the animal while sprawled over its back, sitting up and rocking with every step was a new sensation. It took a few minutes of getting used to, trotting under the trees, in and out of afternoon sunbeams. Oddly, riding Chevy felt natural, somehow. Sam had never ridden this smoothly. Perhaps it was because Dean was doing the actual riding; Sam was just a passenger. After a while, Sam almost began to feel that it was It was as sturdy as the horse herself.

Maybe with less dead cow in the mix. He pretended not to hear the waver in his own voice. Other than escape, I mean. Which they then confiscated. They kept on trotting, seemingly in no direction in particular. Dean turned Chevy every five minutes or so, going whichever way had fewer overhanging branches.

Mostly they covered semi-open spaces with a few trees here and there, leaves falling around them. It was serene, Sam thought. Gold and green passed by with no sound but the clopping of hooves on soft earth, and the rush of a breeze in the late autumn fall. How come they hate you?

He turned it and patted his horse, easing her on through a creek. Sam felt the cool splash of fresh water on his trousers, and tapped Dean on the shoulder. He asked if they could stop, and they did. Dean refilled his pigskin sacks, holding them under the surface of the water and watching them inflate. When Sam wandered off to relieve himself, Dean yelled at him not to wander off. Sam yelled right back. It was natural and When Sam returned, Dean was petting the hawk that perched on his arm. It truly was a magnificent creature; curved yellow beak and sharp blue eyes that felt like they cut right through Sam when the bird twisted its head to look at him.

He scooped a drink of the stream with cupped hands, watching the hawk intently.