THE ROYAL HUNTER.

By Donna Kauffman.

Acknowledgements.

I need to thank several people who were instrumental in helping me with this book. First, Kara Gesare, my editor, whose support for my doing things "a bit different" is unflagging and invaluable. Also to my mom, Jean Hobday, for the same unflagging support and for reading under a tight deadline. To Karen Solem for coming in at a difficult time and jumping right in with her help. Thanks to Jill Shalvis for being there for me every day and reading... and reading. Thanks again to the reliable creative mind of Michael Gretu for providing the sound track that I work by.

To Mitch.e.l.l, Spencer, and Brandon, thank you for respecting summer work hours so well and for being proud of what your mom does. Lastly and always to my husband Mark, who defines the meaning of love and support. The quest continues...

Prologue.

She must be found and brought to me."

Queen Catriona was dying. No one would have guessed from her imperious

tone. Even propped up in bed, her skin as pale as the white satin robe b.u.t.toned tightly at her neck, she radiated royalty.

Archer wasn't concerned with royal heirs or vacated thrones. He was a

businessman. "It has been more than a quarter century since the healer's disappearance. Many have tried to find her. All have failed." In fact, they'd stopped looking long before the king's brutal murder three years earlier, when the queen was only twenty-two. Long before she lay dying with the successor to the Welsh throne of Llanfair slumbering peacefully in her belly.

"Finding her is my only hope. You have your orders."

He wasn't much for commands, nor did he hold out much hope of success in this case. But if she was willing to pay him to try and save her life, who was he to say no? Devin Archer, savior. He supposed if he really thought about it, he had saved a number of people. But not for anything as ephemeral and unrewarding as honor. Honor didn't pay the bills or put fuel in the tank. He'd been called many things; renegade, rogue, pirate, spy. All accurate, if lacking

imagination. Professional savior. He rather liked that one. He'd have to make sure that one got around. Might be good for business.

"I realize you could give a good G.o.dd.a.m.n whether I live or die," the queen

said abruptly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You beg nothing of me. Which is precisely why I selected you. I understand

why you have no dedication or allegiance to a country that has never given

you anything without asking your sacrifice first."

Archer frowned. He'd never denied his Australian heritage, but every other detail of his life, including his nomadic childhood as a slave and other less than savory details, had been deeply buried. Notoriety only went so far in business and he preferred to keep his past private. Anyone looking for information about one Devin Archer would only discover details from the time he'd arrived in the troubled kingdom of Llanfair. The queen's knowledge did not amuse him. But he respected anyone with better contacts than his own.

"And yet you wish to hire me nonetheless?"

"I believe you understand the machinations at hand better than most. You've likely worked for any number of those involved."

Archer's estimation of the young queen rose several notches. "We're not mates

or anything, if that's what you're suggesting. As for my clientele..." He shrugged. "I'm not a political sort. Tends to limit a man's business opportunities."

"Exactly my point. A mercenary is loyal only to the one who pays him.""I prefer merchant," he said quietly, returning her direct gaze. "I just follow the law of supply and demand. They demand, I supply." Thank G.o.d for free enterprise. "As for my allegiance, I have found that relying only on myself means I am less often disappointed."

The queen nodded, as if she understood the sentiment. And given her

circ.u.mstances, it was likely that she did. "Succeed and you will be rewarded

beyond your wildest imagination."

Archer smiled. "I have a fairly avid imagination."

She smiled as well. "I have a fairly deep purse."

"You'll need it if I succeed."

The smile vanished and the implacable face of a ruler once again emerged.

"There is no if, Mr. Archer. Only when. You will use whatever means necessary to find Eleri Trahaern and return her to my protection. The child I carry must be brought safely into this world before I depart it. The Dalwyn line must continue."

If she sounded nothing like a dewy-eyed mother-to-be and more like a monarch engaged in a strategic campaign, Archer understood. Besides, what did he know about maternal instincts? His mother certainly hadn't had any.

She'd sold him at the age of five. He'd long ago decided to view that as a good business decision on her part. She'd gotten the money she so desperately needed and he'd discovered the world of commerce. Twenty-five years later, he was a master of it. When he thought about it, and he rarely did anymore, he probably owed it all to her.

"What of the child if you die?" Archer asked baldly. "Who will care for it?"

"Not that it is any of your concern, but I have made the proper arrangements with those loyal to the House of Dalwyn. Chamberlain will not dare try to usurp the throne as long as the Dalwyn lineage remains intact." She eyed him.

"But remain intact it will, or there will be chaos in this land." She folded her

arms over her swollen belly. "Of course, you no doubt see that as a potential upswing in employment opportunity."

He managed not to appear surprised by the summation. Maternal she may not

be, but she was a survivor. He respected that above all else. "I operate on one

princ.i.p.al," Archer said, his accent amplified by irritation. "You don't question how I do my job and I won't question why you need it done." He took a step closer to the bedside. "But when you hire me, if it can be done, it will get done."

"That is the only reason you are standing before me. Bring her to me, Archer,

and you will never want for anything, ever again."And that was, after all, his entire goal in life. He nodded once-as close to a bow as he would ever make to anyone-then turned on his heel.

Catriona stopped him at the door. "There is one other thing."

Archer turned but said nothing.

"She must come willingly, or she will be no more able to heal me of this

cursed affliction than any of the parade of incompetents that have come before her."

Archer frowned. "You wait until now to tell me this?"

Now it was the queen's turn to smile. For the first time, Archer was treated to the full force of the magnetism that had captivated the people of his adopted country.

"It should make little difference to you. I am certain that your broad range of skills, which I understand extend rather heavily into areas dealing with members of the opposite s.e.x, will hold you in good stead in this matter." She let her head sink more deeply into the pillows. "I will not question how you convince her to return to my side. Just see that she does so. Willingly."

Archer's responding nod was curt to the point of rudeness, but he was not summoned back again.

Chapter 1.

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l and d.a.m.n." Archer switched off his datatran and threw it across the room. The resulting crash wasn't satisfying, but then nothing else had satisfied him today, so why should that be any different? He'd spent hours making contacts, and contacts of contacts, even going so far as to talk to people he'd had no use for in years. He knew how to dig up information. This time had been different. He was no closer to finding a link to Eleri Trahaern than when he left the castle this morning.

He pressed a b.u.t.ton on the com arm and a transmitter dropped down from the ceiling to hover in front of him. "Data on," he said wearily. He'd already read over the old reports from every other person who'd attempted to find Eleri Trahaern. "Page three," he ordered, skimming once again the first report, filed days after her disappearance. There was one bit of information that nagged at him. "The Old One," he murmured. The reclusive mystic was the only person connected to the royal healer who had never been found or interrogated. "Probably dead by now."

A sleek black cat undulated around the corner of the living area and leaped into his lap. "A cat, huh? Well, I suppose we are on the prowl." Ringer studiously washed his paws, ignoring his master entirely, but making himself quite at home in his lap.

"Beastie," he muttered, but scratched him behind the ears as he reread the report. "Find visual of the Old One," he ordered. "Search logs dated thirty years or before."

"No visual available," purred the audiotrack.

"Yeah, yeah. Locate contacts of the Old One. Any contact." It wasn't a promising lead, but it was better than nothing.

"No available information."

Just then a loud burst of static sputtered from across the room where the datatran lay in several pieces. "Jesus, Joseph, and Elvis." Covering his ears,

Archer pushed Ringer off his thighs and crossed the room, intent on stomping the d.a.m.n thing to death.

The air flickered in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. The squeal died as

the air shifted and transformed into the image of an old man in a white robe.