The Rising Read online Kristen Ashley (The Rising #4)

Categories Genre: Dragons, Erotic, Fantasy/Sci-fi, Magic, Paranormal, Romance Tags Authors: Series: The Rising Series by Kristen Ashley
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Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 162269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 541(@300wpm)
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Did Marian and Daemon (mostly Marian) listen?

No, they did not.

She said press forward, complaining she didn’t like the looks of that inn and, truth be told, she was correct. It appeared rank.

But would they be dashing down a road in the moonlight chased by highwaymen if they’d stopped?

No, they would not.

Did they ever listen to Jellan?

No, they did not.

But hopefully this would end well for Jellan.

Even if he suspected it would definitely not end well for the highwaymen.

Which was a shame.

They rode up alongside them, and Jellan surmised it was a band of five.

This he surmised for he could hear hooves pounding at their backs, they had a man either side of them, and one was taking the front.

In a well-established maneuver, they cut both horses off, making Jellan’s rear, and he was forced to lean well forward to keep his seat.

He needed his steed to appear panicked.

But he couldn’t have the animal throw him.

For, in the end, he’d just need his steed.

As a warning, one of the highwaymen cracked a whip.

And as Daemon and Marian’s mount circled in place and whinnied, Jellan shushed his and patted its neck to soothe its dancing even as he squeezed it with his thighs, giving it mixed messages that he hoped would be confusing to the steed.

He then looked about the men.

All in dark clothing. All wearing large-brimmed, handsome hats adorned with wafting feathers with their hair flowing long from under them. All with dark scarves with holes at the eyes covering the top half of their faces.

He had never been set upon by highwaymen, though he’d heard the tales since he was a boy, and he’d never tired of listening to the telling of them.

In the now, seeing them, their sturdy bodies with their thick thighs on their glorious steeds washed in moonlight, he lamented his choice to become a Go’Doan priest and not a highwayman.

All those men in one city, it had been an enticement Jellan could not forego.

But a life beholden to no one and nothing…you had your merry band, preyed on the weak, enjoyed your takings, wore a handsome hat, and then you did it all again.

Oh, what a life that would have been.

Jellan had a decent seat on a horse. If he spent more time on one, he was sure it would get better.

And he’d be keen to learn his way about a whip.

“Stand and deliver!” one of the men shouted.

Ah, the romance.

“What do these words mean?” Daemon asked Marian, regarding the men with some interest, and surprisingly, or perhaps guilelessly, no ire.

“Let me handle this,” Marian said by way of answer. Then, to the highwayman who spoke, she called, “It would be good you leave us be.”

“It would be good you toss that purse, madam,” the man replied. “And then we would be pleased to bid you goodnight and take our leave.”

Of course, they had a purse. Or Daemon did, hanging at his belt.

This was because Marian proved deft at lifting them from unsuspecting citizens strolling the pavements.

She was a clever cunt, that Marian. Crafty. Skilled.

Jellan detested her.

“Truly, it’s in your best interests to move along,” Marian advised.

“I think not,” the man said.

“I think so,” Marian retorted.

Another crack of a whip, this from a different highwayman, and Jellan saw his chance.

He kicked his heels into his mount’s sides, jerked the reins back, and with nowhere to go, as they were surrounded, his mount rose up, pawing the air with his front hooves.

When the highwaymen’s steeds automatically drew back at the rearing horse, and Jellan’s mount came down, he cut the reins again, cried out in false surprise, and dug his heels violently into his horse, who bunched his back haunches and burst forth, nearly bowling into one of the gentlemen robbers.

“Give chase!” he heard yelled, not by Marian or Daemon.

By a highwayman.

This was unexpected. He had no purse.

He had nothing.

And it was his understanding they took only coin, jewels worn by women, timepieces from men, thanked the travelers for their generosity (to the point a lady’s hand was often kissed, to her swooning with desire), bid them good eve, then went about their way.

At least that was what the tales told.

Why would they give chase to him?

He bent over his steed’s neck, slapping its reins, and cutting toward the trees, desperation driving him, for in truth, he knew he had no hope of outrunning a highwayman. They were legendary riders.

But if he could get into the shadows of the barren trees, and find the right turn to take, he could stop and be right there, but disappear, and his pursuer would ride right past him.

He heard shouting, his name bellowed by Daemon, and a commotion, but he kept speeding toward the trees.

He made them and raced into them, the lower branches whipping his face. He had to duck and sway this way and that to avoid stouter ones, but his lovely horse, to his delight, did most of the work.


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