Read Sorcerer: A Loveswept Contemporary Classic Romance for Free Online Page B

thought with a grim smile, at least his virtual reality simulator was a success. These aches and pains felt
damn
real. He looked up, expecting to see the orc lumbering down the hill after him.
    But the orc wasn’t following him. Someone was distracting it by throwing rocks at its hairy hide. Someone with no virtual armor to protect her, who’d suffer more than aches and pains if the monster got his paws on her.
    Ian leapt to his feet, ignoring his strained muscles as he pounded up the slope. “Jillie, for God’s sake,
stop!
”
    The stone she was about to throw dropped unheeded to the ground at her feet. “You’re alive,” she cried, a radiant smile lighting her face. “Ian, you’re alive!”
    He felt the warmth of that smile blaze within him, and die a moment later when the orc, after a second’s confused hesitation, continued to lumber toward Jillian. Anchored in place by the brambles,she was a sitting duck for the approaching monster. In the real world her body was safe, protected from physical danger in the cybernaut’s egg. But her mind was tied to this virtual environment by the simulator, and Ian knew that if she was wounded in this world, her consciousness would mirror the injury in the real one. Even a fatal injury.
    He ran up the slope, fear adding speed to his steps. He paused only once to retrieve his fallen sword, but never took his gaze off the creature. Despite its ponderous bulk, it had managed to make its way almost within striking distance of Jillian. She’d balled her hands into fists and raised them like a boxer in a ring.
She’s insane
, whispered a voice in Ian’s mind.
She’s extraordinary
, whispered another.
    Blood sang in his veins. Ancient instincts rose within him, passed down from ancestors who had fought barbarians, kings, and dictators to protect those who could not defend themselves.
Agincourt. Waterloo. Dunkirk.
Names of legendary battles sprang to mind, legacies of a heritage swaddled too long in musty traditions and recycled glories. It was time to reclaim his birthright.
    Ian raised his sword and yelled a war cry bred into him before he took his first breath. The unexpected sound distracted the orc, who swung its hoary head away from Jillian toward the charging knight. It stared at Ian, its lips twisting into a parody of a smile. Slowly, the orc drew back its massive arm to deliver a final death blow.
    But Ian struck first. Ignoring the danger, he ranfull tilt into the deadly circle of the giant’s arms and, with both hands, plunged his sword into its heart. The creature’s scream shook the world. Arms flailing, it caught Ian square in the chest, and sent him flying several yards through the air. Then the beast collapsed to the ground, its noxious green blood spilling out around its body.
    Ian sat up gingerly, wincing at the discomfort even this simple movement caused. Every muscle in his body burned like hellfire, but it didn’t matter. He’d won. He’d stopped the bastard before it could touch her. She was safe.
    The ore remained in a crumpled pile, Ian’s sword still planted in its heart. He wiped his hand over his face, feeling strangely light-headed. Thoughts began to fade in and out of his mind like a badly focused movie. He remembered vaguely that there was a very important reason he’d challenged the monster. He just couldn’t recall precisely what it was.
    “Dr. Sinclair, please say something!”
    Like a man in a dream, he turned to the woman kneeling beside him. Ms. Polanski, his mind supplied. The beautiful Ms. Polanski. And at that particular moment the rather scantily clad Ms. Polanski. Her elegant gown was shredded almost beyond recognition, the remaining velvet forming the first and probably last medieval microskirt.
    “I left most of the dress behind in the thorn bush,” she said, following the direction of his gaze. Self-consciously, she raised her hand to push back astrand of her tangled, bramble-snagged hair. “I guess I look pretty