Destiny by Helen Kirkman released on Feb 28, 2006 is available now for purchase. "Amazingly good . . . this will be an author to watch!" -- Historical Romance Writers Destiny By Helen Kirkman HQN Books Copyright © 2006 Helen Kirkman All right reserved. ISBN: 0373770545 Kent, England — The Andredesweald, AD 875 ELENE HAD TWO ADVANTAGES — desperation and a spear. She also had a dress fit for a whore. She kicked back her trailing skirts. The man had a sword. Light glittered off his chain mail, off the deep gold fall of his hair. It sparked from him as he moved. The warrior's sword, gold-hilted, rune-carved, was as yet undrawn, as though he thought he did not need it. She balanced the seven-foot shaft of grey ash wood in her hand. The leafed blade at the tip was strong enough to pierce the hand-linked steel across his chest. He was shouting; Elene did not heed it. She would deal death rather than be under any man's power, his. He ran, closing the gap between them, lithe as a grey wolf, fast. He was huge, a shape of strength, threat. His shadow was black. Behind him was the open space in the half-built wall of the fortress. Behind that was the forest. She tightened her grip on the smooth wood. The distance between her and the warrior closed at a speed that defied reason. Suddenly he was within striking range. He did not unsheathe the sword. Why? No weapon. She would have to spear a man unarmed. The world receded around the glittering moving shape, the death-black shadow. She was close enough to sense realness, fast breath, heat, living muscle, the courage to face killing steel. For a critical instant she held back. Her breath choked. She would have to strike him or she was gone. Back into hell. A captive. She could not bear that again. He swerved. Left... She tried to follow with the spear point. He yelled, his voice harsh, so strong like him. He lunged. The madness made her strike, the point of the spear aimed true, straight at where his heart would be, locked to his movement — it was a feint. She realised too late. The twist of his body, supple despite his size, was too swift to follow. He took her feet from under her. The spear scraped metal, ripped out of her hand. The point pitched into the dust. He caught her before she could follow. His arms imprisoned her, a solid leg pinned hers. The feel of his body was pure heat, hard metal, heavy muscle, size. Such size. Weight. It was the way Kraka used to hold her. She struggled, insane. "Keep still, woman!" The words came through, Danish mangled by West Saxon. She hit, her fist jarring against metal, on flesh hot with sun and exertion, fine skin. "Hell-rune..." Hell-fiend, sorceress. It came out in English, equally mangled. She realised what his accent was and went still. She swore. The language she used was the same, only the dialect was different, the pure Mercian that belonged farther north, in the broad midlands. "You are English, then." The deep, richly accented voice held a thread of amusement, exasperation, the fierce intensity of the shared struggle. He was breathing hard. "Will you stop now?" he enquired. She swallowed with a dry throat. The spellbinding shape of his voice had no significance. East Anglians were dead meat anyway, their rich open landscape lost forever to the Viking army, to raiders like the ones she had lived with. "Well?" demanded the dead East Anglian. She did not know why he was interested in her answer. He could kill her one-handed. He knew it. Her chance was gone. For now. "Aye." He loosened his grip. The fingers of her left hand were tangled in the bright mass of his hair beneath his war helm. She had pulled bits of it out. She unclenched her fingers. Threads of pure gold stuck to her flesh. When he breathed, the solid wall of his chest pressed into her, metal and padding, and beneath it strong life. His hands, huge, heavy, eminently capable, burned her skin through the bedizened inadequate gown. He shifted a dense, thickly muscled thigh. His hands moved briefly across her back, the curve of her ribs, under her arms. Shivers coursed over her skin. Her half-clothed body slid down the metal-clad length of his, hardness and heated flesh. Her skirt caught between their tightly pressed legs, lifting. She yanked it down, vicious with fright. He moved. The material came free, dropped, covering the revealing flash of skin, the bright red shoes. But he had seen the strumpet's dyed shoes of cheap leather, the curving shape of hidden flesh bared to the knee. He had touched her. She read the flare of heat in his grey eyes, beyond anger or vengefulness, as deep as instinct. Male. Her breath hitched. He caught her arm, his hand warm, alive, the touch direct, shockingly intimate, more so because of the brief, naked moments when they had fought between life and death. Close. Deep inside her, sharp feeling uncoiled like a snake waiting to strike. It was anger, the bitter melding of rage and fear like a killing frost. He ke