"Enchanting historical romance proves that love may be the strongest magic of them all."
Reviewed by Melissa Kammer
Posted February 25, 2011
Romance Paranormal | Romance Historical
Sir Gunnar the Red, one of a group of esteemed warriors,
leads a desolate life due to a centuries old curse. He
must survive his days in the guise of a bull, but live his
nights as a man. The situation forces him to forever
wander, never allowing him to call any one place a home. He
is always on the search for two things, his amulet and his
true love; the items required to break the curse. When he
saves two girls from a fire, he draws too much attention to
himself, and he is forced to flee the temporary sanctuary.
Several years later he comes into contact with the girls
again, but only one of them holds his unwavering
attention. Has fate brought him the one to break his
curse? Does she hold the power to free him once and for
all? Lady Eleanor de Neville knows she must obey her father's
commands, but that does not stop her from testing the
boundaries. She prays for her champion, the man who saved
her from the fire, to come and take her away from her
responsibilities. When Sir Gunnar suddenly reappears in
her life, she believes he is the answer to all of her
problems. She cannot wait to be carried away in his arms
and far away from her betrothed and the world her father is
creating for her. She never thought that the fates would
conspire against them. Will she ever have the life that
she craves? Or will Sir Gunnar always be that elusive
creature just beyond her grasp? Lisa Hendrix casts a powerfully romantic spell over her
readers. She steeps us in a mystical brew seasoned with an
evil witch and cursed Viking warriors keeping us
ensorcelled for the impending battle for redemption. Sir
Gunnar, bruised by past betrayal, has little faith that he
will ever be freed from the horrible curse, but still he
hopes that one day he will be a man to walk in the daylight
and share it with his family. Lady Eleanor, ruled by
convention, has little freedom in what she does, but she
hopes that one day she will be in full control of her
choices and she will bask in love. I have enjoyed the ups
and downs of the previous two installments of the Immortal
Brotherhood series, and Gunnar and Eleanor live up to my
expectations as they have their hands full this time
around. Ms. Hendrix keeps her readers entertained with
amazing characters, endless action, and innumerable
surprises. IMMORTAL CHAMPION treats us to a spectacular
paranormal romance with the promise of more to come.
SUMMARY
He faces a future of cold uncertainty, until her warm
embrace... Part of a Viking crew of warriors cursed by an evil
sorceress, Gunnar the Red must toil through eternity as
half-man, half-beast, living out his days as a great bull,
while his nights are spent in human form. And though he
keeps mostly to the wilds, his heart yearns for the simple
comforts of man-and the chance to redeem a tragic past... Seeking refuge from a bitter winter in the welcoming hall of
Richmond Castle, Gunnar rescues two maidens when a blaze
erupts-and his destiny is forever altered. For one of the
young women is Lady Eleanor de Neville, who is immediately
entranced by her rescuer. Her kiss of gratitude-the brief
touch of her lips against his cheek-awakens a longing in her
soul. And even when she is betrothed to another, Eleanor
never forgets her courageous knight. When Gunnar rides back into Eleanor’s life, she is consumed
by undeniable passion. And though his body surrenders to her
every touch, Gunnar’s heart remains imprisoned by the
curse-and only the magic of the truest love can save him...
ExcerptFire.Even in his sleep, the word possessed Gunnar, drew at him.
Fire. Heat. He stirred and, still mostly asleep,
cracked
one eye open just enough to see dim glow of the banked
fire. By the gods, he loved the fine, big hearths the
English built. His gaze shifted higher to take in the hour
candle on the mantle. Not yet half gone. Good. That meant more time to wallow in
Richmond Castle’s warmth. He stretched his feet toward the
hearth, drew his cloak more tightly around his shoulders,
closed his eyes, and drifted back down toward sleep. Fire. The door slammed open, the sudden sound jerking
Gunnar bolt upright. He was on his feet, knife in hand,
before he came fully awake. "Fire!" cried the watchman. "Fire in the bower! The duke!
The women!" The women. The sour taste of fear flooded Gunnar’s mouth.
As the hall erupted in chaos, he shoved his knife back into
its sheath and leapt toward the door, plowing aside
confused and sleepy men as he went. Outside, the air boiled
with smoke and shouting and the screams of horses, and the
red flicker of flames rose along the eastern wall of the
two-story bower. He ran toward the building, pushing past
frightened women who streamed out the door. As he entered,
Edward of Norwich, Duke of York, appeared on the landing
above wearing nothing but his braies. He started pulling
women out through the door behind him, shoving them down
the stairs one after another. As they stumbled down, Gunnar
grabbed them at the bottom and pushed them toward the outer
door. "Run!" He lost track at a dozen, but still they came, women and
girls and young boys, noble and servant alike, all fleeing
for their lives. The smoke grew thicker, clotting in
Gunnar’s throat, and his eyes streamed with tears. "Get out of there, man!" came a call from outside. Gunnar squinted up to where the duke stood with smoke and
sparks roiling around him. "Your Grace. Come." Coughing, the duke peered back into the chamber. "I am not
certain . . ." Smoke already wisped up from the wooden treads, and Gunnar
shook his head. "Now, Your Grace, while you can. There is
no more you can do." The duke took a final glance into the smoke-filled chamber,
hesitated barely an instant, and then pounded down the
stairs, swearing as his bare foot landed on an ember.
Gunnar caught him as he stumbled, and together they ducked
and ran as more embers rained down. They had just reached
the door when Gunnar heard a scream behind him. A cold hand
gripped his heart. Kolla . . . He and the duke both turned at once. On the landing, nearly
hidden by smoke, two girls wrestled. One was screaming,
scrabbling back toward the bedchamber. The other clung to
her, dragging her forward. "No. We cannot go back." "Lady Eleanor." The duke started back. Gunnar shook off the old dread and grabbed him. "Go, Your
Grace. I will get them." He shoved the duke outside, where a pair of his relieved
men pulled him away, then Gunnar turned back. In that brief
moment, the stair treads had started to burn in thin
flames. There was no way the girls could come down.
Ignoring the falling sparks, Gunnar hurried to a spot below
the landing and held his arms out. "Jump. I will catch you." His voice was enough to quiet the screaming girl, but she
took one look down and backed away. "I cannot." Coughing, the other girl shoved her toward the edge. "You
can. Go on." The screamer froze. "I cannot." "Move!" Gunnar’s bellowed order shook the air, and both
girls yelped as larger embers showered down from the
burning roof. When the screamer still didn’t move, the
other girl put her shoulder down and shoved. The girl
seemed to float for a heartbeat before she tumbled into
Gunnar’s arms. He started to set her down, but newly fallen embers
spangled the floor and the girl screamed again as her bare
feet hit the ground. She crawled up Gunnar as though he
were a tree. With a growl, he dashed toward the door with
the screaming wench, heaved her outside like a sack of
grain, and turned back. By now, the smoke was so thick that
he couldn’t see the landing at all until he stood right
below it. He coughed and gagged, trying to muster a voice. "Jump,
girl!" No answer. "Jump!" No answer. A rock formed in the center of his chest. He’d
failed her. Again. No. This wasn’t Kolla. He could save this one. Choking on
smoke and memory, he pulled the front of his shirt up over
his nose and started forward. But as the flaming stairs
towered before him, he hesitated. He’d seen the bodies of
men who’d died by fire, fingers and toes and manhood burned
away. What if he burned and the curse kept him alive,
unmanned and crippled? What if he failed again and was unmanned anyway, in spirit
if not in body? He pounded up the stairs, bellowing in pain
as the heat scorched his shins. The girl lay on the landing, crumpled right where she’d
been standing. The foul, heated air strained Gunnar’s
lungs, and he knew that if not for the perverse protection
of the curse, he would likely fall beside her. As it was,
he barely had the breath to bend over her. A tongue of
flame flickered on her sleeve where an ember had landed and
caught. He smothered the fire with his hand and scooped her
up. As more embers showered down, he curled over the girl
to protect her and turned to retreat back down the stairs.
He’d barely taken a step when there was a loud crack and a
section of roof crashed down just in front of him. The
landing shook, then teetered wildly as the burning stairs
came away from the wall. Nearly smoke-blind, he peered down, trying to recall how
far it was to the floor. Too far and he’d break his legs
and they’d both lie there as the building burned around
them. The window . . . but a glance over his shoulder
showed him a chamber now fully aflame. There was no way
past the blazing bedding and roiling vapors. "Loki, you dog piss of a god, help her if not me." He jumped, landing bent-kneed to take some of the force,
then twisting to put himself beneath the girl as they fell.
Pain sizzled through his back as the coals beneath him
seared through his clothes. He forged to his feet with a
roar and charged blindly toward the door and out into the
blessedly cold night. Men swarmed around him, yelling as they covered him with
damp blankets. Hands dragged him farther from the burning
building; more hands reached for the unconscious girl.
Gunnar heard her gasp of breath as they pulled her from his
arms, and he nearly sobbed with relief. His legs gave way
and he collapsed to his knees, dragging at the clean air,
then hacking and spitting as his lungs tried to clear
themselves of soot. "You are sore hurt," said the duke after a moment. "No. I am fine." Gunnar blinked and scrubbed at his
stinging eyes. "The girl?" "She may live, thanks to you." He hauled Gunnar to his
feet. "Go. Have your wounds tended." "My wounds can wait, Your Grace. You need men on the fire." The duke’s jaw worked as he gave Gunnar a nod. "Then take
up a bucket." His Grace turned back to his duty, shouting instructions to
the men to clear the horses from the stables. Gunnar took
another moment to catch his breath and clear his sight,
then ripped a soaked hide away from a lad too slight to
wield it well, sent him to help in the bucket line, and
stepped toward the fire. The bower was lost from the first; they all knew that. The
fight was to keep the flames from spreading to the rest of
the compound, and in that they succeeded, though just
barely. The keep proper and the main hall were in little
danger because of distance and their stone walls and lead
roofs, but the kitchen and stables were threatened more
than once by flying embers, and flames licked parlous close
to the armory before the duke’s men beat them back.
Fortunately, it was a quick blaze, the bower being well
over a hundred years old-Gunnar had visited Richmond the
year it was built-and so dry that it burned like a straw
man. The building soon collapsed, and once they’d beaten
back the cloud of sparks thrown up by that, it was largely
a matter of keeping up the stream of buckets until all that
was left was a mass of steaming coals. Gunnar was still flailing at the edges of the fire with his
hide when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find
a grimy-faced man, black as a collier. "Rest now, monsire. You have done more than enough
tonight." Only the man’s hoarse but recognizable voice told
Gunnar it was the duke, now wearing a cote and boots,
though they were every bit as black as Gunnar’s own. "My
own men can handle the rest of it. Go have those hands
tended, lest they fester." Gunnar glanced down toward his hands, the backs of which
glistened with open burns. And his back stung like the very
devil. He fingered a sore spot on his shoulder and found a
hole where an ember had burned clear through. He flinched
as he touched the open wound below. "That will pain you tomorrow." The duke tugged the hide out
of Gunnar’s hands and handed it to a passing man, then
tipped his head toward the keep. "Go and have it seen to.
Go. I command it." Gunnar glanced toward the east to judge how long he had
until dawn. He was surprised to see it was snowing again;
the weather had been the farthest thing from his mind while
he’d been fighting the fire. Assured by the blackness that
he had enough time, he nodded. "Yes, Your Grace." He turned toward the stone keep, quietly cursing the fire.
Now he was truly in the duke’s notice. Snow or no, he and
Jafri would have to head back out into the wilds and pray
the gods would help them find some shelter. Horses, still frantic with fear, milled around the upper
bailey along with pigs and cattle that had been moved from
the barn. Gunnar spotted his horses among the others and
pointed them out to one of the boys who stood watch. "Catch
those two and have someone find the gear I left with the
stable master. I want them loaded and ready to leave within
the hour." The boy’s eyes widened in the flickering torchlight. "In
this weather, monsire?" "Aye." Gunnar glanced back toward the fallen bower to make
sure the freshening breeze wasn’t making things flare
up. "A man does what he must. Even in this weather." Gunnar watched until the stableboy caught his packhorse and
started after the rouncey, then turned and climbed the
slight mound toward the tower keep, where the women had set
up a station to care for the injured on the first level. As
he entered, someone recognized him and spread word of who
he was and what he’d done. In moments, his smoky, singed
clothes had been stripped away and his hands were soaking
in cold buttermilk while a stout old woman sponged yet more
soothing buttermilk over his back and several maids stood
by fawning. He gave himself over to it, enjoying the fuss.
It had been a long while since he’d been hailed as a hero-
it had been a long while since he deserved it-and it felt
good, even if it meant he was correct about the need to be
away. The old woman had just tied a cooling poultice in place
over the burn on his shoulder when a page came up and bowed
slightly. "Her Grace would see you upstairs, monsire." "You cannot go to her undressed, monsire," said the old
woman as he rose. She held out his shirt, grinning. "Much
as she might enjoy it. Aye, you’re a fair sight of a man,
even with that back." Gunnar grabbed for the shirt and quickly dragged it over
his head, suddenly uneasy even though neither the old woman
nor the others had given any sign the scars disturbed them.
He had never seen his back, but he knew from the comments
of various wenches that it was bad. He bore all the scars
of a warrior who’d lived far too long, plus the terrible,
raking marks of lion and bear and wolf and dog. Before they had resigned themselves to mostly solitary
lives, all of the crew had suffered with attacks from the
others as they swung back and forth between beast and man.
Gunnar had been hunted as both human and bull in those
first terrible years, and in the centuries since, he had
more than once defended innocents from Jafri or Steinarr or
Brand or one of the others. They were honorable scars, but
to people who knew no better, they looked as though he’d
been lashed as an outlaw. Or worse, as a slave. "You will want to clean off some of that soot, too,
monsire, if I can say it," continued the old woman, paying
no heed to his discomfort. More heat rising beneath the grime, Gunnar reached for the
damp cloth the woman wrung out for him and quickly scrubbed
his face, then pulled on his singed gown, buckled on his
belt, and slipped his sword into its scabbard as the boy
waited. "Your name, monsire?" "Sir Gunnar of Lesbury." He gave the name of the estate
near Alnwick that passed from man to man among the crew,
and then followed the lad out and around to the stair that
led up the outside of the keep to the main hall. From
there, they climbed up the inner stair to the solar, where
the duke’s lady sat in her tall-backed chair, surrounded as
always by the score or so of young noblewomen who fostered
with her. Now, however, she guarded a flock of dirty
pigeons, the girls’ linen kirtles gray with smoke and their
smudged faces streaked by tears. As the page announced his
name, Gunnar glanced around, unsure which one was the
screaming Lady Eleanor. Suddenly he realized the women had all come to their feet.
He frowned as the duchess stepped forward and dipped in
courtesy. "Ah, no, Your Grace," he protested. "I am only a poor
knight." "You saved us, Sir Gunnar," she said, her voice cracking
with emotion. "We owe you all honor, as well as eternal
gratitude. God must surely have brought you here tonight."
She dropped still lower, then rose and stepped back as the
younger women similarly knelt and murmured their thanks. God had sent him? Perhaps. But surely a different god than
the one who had let a fire start at night in a chamber full
of sleeping women and children. Gunnar shook his head. "Any
of your own men would have done the same. I was simply the
first out the door." "And the last out of the bower," said Her Grace. "You are
too modest. Our castellan told me what you did for Lady
Eleanor when his men bore her in." "I could hardly leave her to die. Or the other one either.
Her, um, serving woman?" The duchess shook her head. "More maid-in-waiting than
servant. A bastard cousin to Lady Eleanor from her father’s
brother, come to serve her during her fostering." "A brave creature." A furrow creased the duchess’s high brow. "Lucy? Truly? I
would not have thought it." She crossed the room, and a
servant hurried to pull aside a tapestry and open the door
behind it. "Come. Lady Eleanor wishes to thank you herself." He had little interest in the lady’s thanks, but he could
hardly tell a duchess no. Mostly, though, he wanted to see
how the brave maid fared. He followed the duchess up a
curved stairway and down a short hall to a tiny chamber. A
bed occupied one entire end of the room, and from behind
the draperies issued great, wracking coughs, as though
someone had the lung sickness. As he and the duchess approached the bed, a maid hurried
out of the room while another, standing near the headboard,
pushed the draperies aside and stepped back. As she
murmured her thanks and dipped in courtesy, Gunnar
recognized the girl from the hall. Then he caught sight of the occupant of the bed and stopped
dead. Another one? He glanced back and forth, confused.
They were so similar, they looked like twins, with their
midnight hair, ivory skin, and gray eyes. But the one in
bed had her arm propped up on a cushion, a poultice
covering a burn just where he’d put out the flames on a
sleeve. So . . . the brave one was the noblewoman and the
screamer was the bastard cousin. But which one had been
pestering him earlier? And why had he not noticed there
were two of them? The lines of pain around Lady Eleanor’s eyes faded as she
looked up and saw him. "Here is my rescuer." "Lady Eleanor de Neville, I give you Sir Gunnar of Lesbury.
Do not linger too long, monsire. She needs to sleep, but
would not, until she saw you were well." Gunnar bowed to Lady Eleanor, and then to the duchess. "By
your command, Your Grace." The duchess backed away, and motioned for Screaming Lucy to
join her by the door. "I owe you my life, sir," said Lady Eleanor. "I am told you
charged up the burning stair then leapt with me to safety.
And here I worried that you sat too near the fire." Aha. It had been her. He thought back to how he’d spoken to
her earlier and flushed. "’Twas more of a fall than a leap,
my lady." "Perhaps that is why I ache so." Her voice was husky from
the smoke but still managed to carry a ring of good
humor. "Well, no matter. Leap or tumble, I will take it
over burning. I wish to kiss your hand in thanks." She held out her hand and looked at him expectantly. It was
disconcerting, being under such close examination by eyes
both so wise and so very young. Hardly more than a child-
and yet her tone and manner were those of one used to
having her requests honored by lessers. Aye, he should have
heard that earlier, would have heard it, if he had not been
so intent on chasing her off. She was noble for certs. And
that she was called "Lady" meant she was married. Frowning
at the thought of a girl so young being married off
already, he glanced toward her hand. But her fingers were
bare of rings, and the duchess did seem to be treating her
like one of the fosterlings. Unmarried, and yet
called "Lady"? And a Neville. How did he know that name? Puzzling over it, he took too long and made her frown back
at him. "Your hand, Sir Gunnar. I cannot reach it." He abandoned trying to sort out who she was and offered his
hand. She started to take it, but hesitated at the sight of the
blistered skin across his knuckles. She glanced at her arm,
and gently turned his hand over to examine the matching
burn on his palm. "I thought I remembered . . . No wonder
you did not want me to kiss your hand, monsire. You should
have spoken." "’Tis nothing, my lady." "Still, I would not hurt you further for the world. And yet
I would kiss you." She squinted at him in the
candlelight. "Your right cheek is unmarked, I think. Let me
kiss you there." "Your thanks are enough, my lady." "You saved my life, Sir Gunnar. I owe you a kiss, at the
least." She pushed herself upright with a slight wince and
crooked her finger at him. "Bend close." Shifting uncomfortably, he glanced toward the duchess, who
nodded and smiled. "Let her kiss you, sir. I know her well.
She has it in her mind, and she will not rest until she
does, stubborn creature that she is." "I suspect you are correct, Your Grace. I saw her amid the
flames." He turned back toward the girl and scolded
gently, "Brave to the point of foolishness." "Not nearly so brave as you, monsire. You had a choice,
where I did not, being already in the fire." Lady Eleanor’s
smile faded away at the thought. "And I am grateful for the
choice you made. You might have left me, but you did not,
and for that I am ever in your debt. Your cheek, if you
please." "Of course, my lady." He started to lean over, but realized
he wouldn’t be close enough, so he crawled half onto the
bed and bent to her. She reeked of the acrid smoke, but as
her lips touched his cheek, soft as a butterfly, he smiled
at the sweetness in her kiss. A girl’s kiss. Outside, a
single bell tolled mournfully, calling the monks to prepare
for Matins. ’Twas time to be gone. "You are forever my champion," Lady Eleanor whispered as he
straightened, and his chest squeezed a little at the idea
of being champion to any maid, even one so very young. "I
would have you sit beside me at dinner on the morrow." "I would be honored, my lady, but I cannot. I must ride on." "In this weather?" asked the duchess from across the room. "Aye, Your Grace, and soon." "But I would give you your proper due." Lady Eleanor
frowned and then brightened as a thought struck her. "I
know-the spring tourney at York. You will attend and carry
my favor." "I . . ." I cannot, he began, but she had that tone again,
the one that expected obedience, plus the pain was starting
to creep back into her eyes. He wanted her to rest, and so
instead of the truth, he offered a lie. "I will try, my
lady." "You will come," she said firmly, easing herself back
against the pillows. The motion, combined with the effort
of speaking, brought on another fit of coughing. The
screamer hurried over as her lady hacked, and Gunnar
quietly backed away. The duchess motioned for him to follow her out. As the door
closed behind them, she shook her head. "She breathed far
too much smoke. I fear it may have damaged her lungs." Gunnar glanced back at the door, where the sound of
coughing still echoed. "She seems strong enough," he said, willing it to be so.
She couldn’t die, not after all that. "She is, usually, but she already suffered a bout of fever
this winter. And now this . . ." The duchess stopped midway
down the stairs and faced Gunnar. "I would have a stronger
promise that you will come to York, monsire. She needs
something to cling to for strength. And I do not wish to
lie to her." Not that she would mind if he lied, her tone said. But
there were lies, and there were lies. "I understand, Your
Grace. Tell Lady Eleanor . . . tell her that she will see
me again after she is well." The duchess considered him through narrowed eyes, then a
mischievous smile spread across her face. "Well done,
monsire. I can use that without compunction." She truly was fair when she smiled like that; the duke was
a fortunate man. As they reentered the gallery, Gunnar
repeated, "I truly must be away now, Your Grace." "But I intended you to have new clothes to replace those.
Let me call the steward." "A kind thought, Your Grace, but I have no time." He tugged
at the singed hem of his sleeve. "These will keep me warm
enough. My cloak was not burned." "But we . . ." She cast about as though looking for
something. In the end, she twisted a large ruby ring off
her thumb. "Here. Take this as thanks for your aid." "But I-" She pressed it into hand. "No. I would give you both new
clothes and gold a-plenty, but my keys were in the bower
and I can unlock neither treasury nor even my personal
casket just now. Take the ring, though it be poor reward
for one who did so much." "I did my duty as a man, Your Grace. That is all." "You helped us all, and you saved Lady Eleanor. A ring is
little enough. Take it, I say, and sell it to buy yourself
warm new clothes before the day is out. You cannot refuse
me, not after I accepted that promise." That smile again. Gunnar flushed as he slipped the ring on his little
finger. "I would not dare refuse a lady so kind, Your
Grace. And I am most grateful. By your leave." She nodded, and he bowed and backed off a few steps before
he turned and trotted down the stairs. Moments later, he’d
retrieved his sword and was checking the girth straps on
his horses, and by the time the clouds began to pale, he
was in the glade where he and Jafri had been trading places
each dawn and dusk. A dark, lean form slunk through the
snowdrifts not far away, and Gunnar tied the still-nervous
horses more tightly than usual, so they couldn’t run from
the wolf. He stripped off his clothes, and as he stowed
them away for the day, a snowflake hit his cheek, conjuring
a memory of Lady Eleanor’s sweet kiss. In the next instant, a gust of wind scoured it away and set
his shoulder and hands afire anew with a blast of stinging
ice crystals, and all he could do was stand there naked,
freezing, until the pain of transformation overwhelmed the
pain of his burns and beat him to the ground.
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