Daughter of Fire Read Online Free PDF

from battlefield to throne is long and often filled with danger, milord.  England will never bow before a Norman overlord.”
    “Aye, the road ’tis long and dangerous,” he acknowledged gravely. “But I assure you, William of Normandy will be king of England.”
    Something glittered at the dirt floor and caught Rorke’s eye. He bent down with that same economy of movement, retrieved the gleaming object. Vivian’s breath caught in her throat as his fingers closed over her knife.
    He stood then, slowly turning the blade over between long fingers that had wielded a broadsword and drawn Vachel’s blood with such powerful ease, and then gently calmed a terrified young girl. Again, Vivian wondered at the contradictions of this Norman knight.
    He drew the flat of the blade down between thumb and forefinger. Vivian frowned as he touched his tongue to the tip of his finger then looked at her.
    “Oil of rosemary.”
    He watched for her reaction. When there was none, he commented, “I have been told it is most effective against gout.” His gray gaze glanced at Poladouras with his gout-swollen legs. “Often found among a healer’s medicines.”
    Vivian’s stunned gaze met his. She had not expected a ruthless barbarian to have knowledge of healing ways and her breath quickened apace with her heart as the vision of the phoenix once more shimmered before her—a dangerous creature born in fire and blood.
    Rorke brought his hand up and immediately saw the wariness that shifted behind those brilliant blue eyes, the sudden tensing of every muscle in the slender body as if she braced for a blow. Instead, he reached out and brushed back the flame-colored hair that sculpted her face, and draped her shoulders like a mantle of molten fire.
    Her skin was like warm silk as fire danced in her eyes. Her startled breath against his hand was like a warm caress that made him instinctively feel the need to pull away lest he be burned, at the same time his hand opened to feel more of her. Then his gaze lowered to the gaping fabric at her breast stained with blood.
    The contact was brief, his callused fingers grazing over Vivian’s cheek, somehow touching her in some hidden place, like a vision in the heart of a blue crystal. Her hands trembled with hated as she pulled the remnants of her torn bodice together.
    “I am the healer you seek.”
    Those gray eyes fastened on her, measuring her with an intensity that she found impossible to sense anything about, as if his thoughts and emotions were closed to her when it had always been so easy for her to know another’s thoughts.
    He turned the blade around and handed it to her, those eyes never leaving hers and she was filled with a new uneasiness, unable to fathom his intentions in returning the knife to her.
    “Do not think to use it against me,” he warned. “You have no cause to fear me. I need you alive. Far too much time has already been wasted.  I pray we are not too late.”
    His gaze angled past her to Vachel, who had not dared to move with FitzWarren’s men surrounding him.
    “Make ready to leave at once,” FitzWarren told her. “Gather your healing herbs and powders, for time is of the essence if the Duke of Normandy is to live.”
    Vivian was stunned. Never had she considered their journey was of such import. Then anger replaced her first surprise.
    “If you think I will use my skills to heal the Norman butcher who has caused so much Saxon pain and suffering, you are a fool!”
    Rorke FitzWarren slowly turned around, the sputtering light from the brazier playing across hard angled features, catching at the threads of the fierce creature woven at the front of his tunic, and for a moment it seemed that man and creature were one just as she had seen in the heart of the crystal. His expression was fierce, his eyes as cold as winter’s death. By stark contrast, his words were low and carefully measured.
    “You will use all your skills, demoiselle,” he assured her, and then