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  A Knight’s Seduction

  Knight’s Series Book 5

  By

  Catherine Kean

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all of the readers who contacted me to ask when Tye’s story would be published. I cannot tell you how much your kind emails and messages meant to me. It’s very humbling—and thrilling—to know that other people love my characters as much as I do.

  Many thanks also to my beautiful sister, Amanda Caux, for the insightful comments on an early draft of this novel; to Caroline Phipps and Teresa Elliott Brown, for the fantastic critiques and wonderful friendship; and to Alicia Clarke and Cheryl Duhaime, dear friends who have been with me from the very first draft of my very first Knight’s Series book. In so many ways, you’ve all enriched my life. Thank you.

  Chapter One

  Branton Keep, Moydenshire, England

  Summer, 1214

  Tye raised his head at the creak of the dungeon’s main door. In his dark cell at the far end of the prison, he pushed up from the dirt floor where he’d sat dozing, his legs stretched out in front of him, his back against the moldy stone wall.

  Tye rose with an awkward lurch. Grimacing, he maneuvered his splinted right leg until he stood upright, ignoring the clank of the chains locked around his wrists and bare ankles. How he loathed the fetters that secured him to the wall and kept him trapped and isolated—just as the great lord Geoffrey de Lanceau, ruler of Branton Keep and all of Moydenshire, wanted.

  Standing now, his weight on his good leg, Tye rolled his taut shoulder muscles and flexed his fingers, a ritual before every battle. Anticipation rushed like potent wine through his veins. Was he about to face de Lanceau, his father?

  He smirked. He hoped so.

  He’d waited too damned long to stand face to face again with his sire. Since he’d been taken prisoner in the battle at Waddesford Keep and chained in this cell, he’d lost count of the days. His only measure of them passing had been the healing of his leg; the bone had been cracked but not fully broken, his sire’s men had decided after examining it.

  From the morning Tye had been captured, however, he’d seen his father only once. Tye had refused to cooperate when interrogated. When the only way left to get answers out of him had been physical punishment, his sire had ordered Tye taken back to his cell. De Lanceau had walked away and hadn’t returned.

  He would be back, though. This was his castle, his dungeon, and Tye wasn’t a common thief or petty criminal like the others in the cells. Tye knew his value as a prisoner; he had information de Lanceau needed. His lordship might not believe in torturing captives, but from all Tye knew of him, he also wasn’t a man to neglect his duties—or give up before he got what he wanted.

  Do as you will, Father. I am not afraid of you . A cruel laugh burned in Tye’s throat. You, though, should be afraid of me .

  Alone in his cell, Tye had imagined how the meeting might play out, how he’d answer—or not—his sire’s inevitable questions, how he’d make the encounter wholly unpleasant for the man who’d made Tye’s own life a living hell.

  Tye shook with the force of his rage. Years ago, his mother had told him how she’d been de Lanceau’s lover, and how de Lanceau had cruelly rejected her and her claim that Tye was his bastard. Tye was twenty years old, and still, his father refused to acknowledge him—and likely never would.

  Tye was naught to de Lanceau.

  Tye clenched his jaw, for of all the questions he planned to ask his sire, he wanted one answered in particular: why, in a crucial moment of their last battle, de Lanceau had reached out a hand and tried to save him from falling from Waddesford Keep’s battlements. Why had his lordship bothered, if he didn’t believe Tye was his own flesh and blood?

  The offer of rescue must have been a trick—and Tye meant to get de Lanceau to confess just that. What delicious irony ’twould be, to wrest an admission of deception from the lord who was praised throughout England for upholding truth and honor.

  The man Tye intended to kill.

  Today, if he got the chance.

  An echoing thud marked the closing of the dungeon door.

  Tye stood very still, his head tilted to better catch the sounds reaching his cell. Voices carried: two men speaking.

  Was one of them de Lanceau? Tye’s hands balled into fists. The manacles dug into the sore flesh on his wrists.

  Footsteps sounded on the hard-packed floor. At first, he couldn’t discern what the men were saying, but as they walked into the center of the dungeon, their words became distinct.

  “—you certain he will be well guarded, milord?”

  Tye recognized the speaker: one of the regular guards, a gray-haired man with a cropped beard. There were always three men-at-arms on duty inside the dungeon, although one had been sent home a short while ago because of a bad bellyache; his replacement would arrive soon. That meant only one guard stood by the main door, which would only benefit Tye if he got free of his chains.

  He must find a way.

  He’d kill his father, overpower the guards, and then escape.

  “Believe me, I understand the importance of keeping the prisoner secured, especially with such unrest in King John’s lands. ’Tis why I came at night. I also brought four mercenaries. They will help guard him during the journey.”

  Tye frowned. That voice wasn’t his sire’s; ’twas deeper in pitch. The visitor’s manner of speaking was also more refined, as if he spent his days among wealthy noblemen in the London courts. Tye fought bitter disappointment and wondered who the prisoner was that they were discussing.

  “Aye,” the dungeon guard said, “but—”

  “He will not escape. Certainly not once he is delivered to the King.”

  The footfalls stopped. “I still think you should wait for Lord de Lanceau. I can send a messenger to the castle at Wode. Lord Brackendale, the father of his lordship’s wife, Lady Elizabeth, has taken gravely ill, and they have gone to visit. These arrangements for the prisoner are not normal—”

  “True, they are not, because of the man in question. The information he holds is of great interest to the crown. King John did not want anyone to know the prisoner was being moved. He feared word might leak to his friends and they would try to free him before I got here.”

  A troubled sigh echoed. “I understand, but de Lanceau’s orders—”

  “Surely de Lanceau would not refuse a request from the King?” Impatience tinged the stranger’s voice. “As you saw, the writ is signed and sealed by one of King John’s closest advisors.”

  “I… Of course, you are right.”

  The footfalls resumed.

  Torchlight brightened the area in front of Tye’s cell, vanquishing the shadows. The visitor had been sent for him . Eyes watering, he squinted in the sudden light that washed into his prison.

  Fingering aside his grimy hair, he studied the two men: the older guard, holding the torch and wearing a chain mail hauberk over his shirt and hose; and the tall, broad-shouldered man garbed in a brown fur cloak. The sumptuous garment swept to the top of his brown leather boots. As he grabbed hold of one of the floor-to-ceiling bars and looked in, a large ring on his hand glinted. The gold had been crafted into a skull with green gems for eyes. Tye had seen that kind of ring before, designed to hold poison.

  Tye met the stranger’s stare. Drawing on the hatred pulsing in his blood, Tye narrowed his eyes to a glare.

  The man di
dn’t look away. His lips tilted in a thin smile. “This is the man rumored to be de Lanceau’s bastard?”

  “Aye,” the guard said.

  “You are certain?”

  “I am.” Reaching to the key ring at his belt, the guard added, “Mayhap you should summon your mercenaries to help restrain him.”

  The stranger chortled. “I can handle this one.”

  Really ? Tye wanted to laugh. This stranger was a fat-headed fool. All the better for a chance at escape.

  “How will you keep him under control? You have manacles?”

  “I do.” The stranger reached inside his cloak, as though to draw the cuffs out.

  The guard nodded, and the handful of keys clinked in his hand. “Henry is also standing guard at the doorway. If by chance Tye should get past us, Henry knows what to do.”

  “Let us get on with it, then.”

  The guard unlocked the cell door.

  Mentally blocking out the pain of his mending leg, Tye dropped to an awkward fighting stance. He might be chained, but he sure as hell wasn’t helpless. The tournaments he’d entered while growing up in France—some fair, many not—had taught him how to defend himself in close combat. His scars proved how often he’d fought for his life, and how often the spectators had cheered his name as champion.

  The door swung open, and the guard shoved the key ring back onto his belt. At the same moment, the stranger drew his hand from his cloak and eased his fingers into his sleeve. As he withdrew his hand, torchlight flickered on metal—a thin knife that settled in his grip as if it belonged there.

  A chill skittered through Tye. He recognized the look on the man’s face; he’d faced it many times in battle. The stranger intended to kill.

  Seeing the dagger, the guard’s eyes widened. “What—?” He dropped the torch and grabbed for the sword at his left hip.

  Lunging, the stranger slammed the dagger into the older man’s neck, unprotected by his hauberk.

  Tye recoiled in shock.

  “Inside,” the stranger said, shoving the guard into the cell. The wounded man choked and clutched at his injury. Blood oozed between his fingers.

  “Henry!” the guard gurgled.

  “Who are you?” Tye growled at the stranger. Was he an assassin? The man had said he’d been sent by King John, but de Lanceau could have paid this lout to murder Tye. The dungeon guard had to die, too, so it looked like Tye had tried to escape but failed.

  “Ha—” the guard cried.

  The dagger slashed again. The guard stumbled, hit the wall near Tye, and fell, groaning. The stranger delivered a swift kick, slamming the older man’s head into the wall. He collapsed, dead.

  The stranger snatched the torch from the ground, shoved it into an iron bracket on the wall inside the cell, and faced Tye.

  “Who are you?” Tye demanded.

  “Braden,” the man said in a low voice. “Your mother sent me.”

  “My mother ?” Wariness became a shrill, warning hum in Tye’s head. “She is imprisoned—”

  “Veronique Desjardin is your mother, is she not?”

  That fact wasn’t a secret; many folk in Moydenshire knew it. “She is.”

  “We must hurry. Later, all will be explained. Now, do as I tell you.” Braden grabbed the keys from the dead guard and stepped toward Tye.

  Tye didn’t relax his fighting stance. “Why should I believe you?”

  Braden’s brows rose. “Why would you not? I am here to help you escape.”

  Tye braced his back against the wall, readying to strike out. “How do I know you will not unchain me and then try to cut my throat?”

  A grin curved Braden’s mouth; he obviously hadn’t missed Tye’s emphasis on the word try. “Veronique said you would doubt me. She said to tell you this: she promised at the end of the battle at Waddesford Keep that your fight with de Lanceau was not over. With my help, you will get your chance to slay your sire. ’Tis what you want, aye?”

  “Oy!” called a voice from a short distance away: the guard named Henry. “What is going on back there?”

  Braden tossed the keys to Tye then grabbed the chain attached to Tye’s right arm and shook it, causing a clanking sound.

  Squinting at the keys in the shifting torchlight, Tye cursed. Every key looked the same. He shoved one into the lock of the manacles on his left wrist. The chain clanked again, pulling on his arm. “Hellfire! Stop pulling—”

  “Hurry,” Braden muttered. “Quit fighting, Tye,” he shouted over his shoulder, his voice booming. “’Twill make matters worse for you.”

  “He is resisting?” Henry sounded young and nervous.

  Tye shoved a second key into the lock. A third. Then Braden’s palm hit the side of his face—a smack that would be heard throughout the prison.

  “Bastard!” Tye shook his head to clear his vision.

  “Find the damned key,” Braden bit out.

  “I will get reinforcements,” Henry shouted.

  “Nay!” Braden commanded. “Come to the cell—”

  “I have my orders,” Henry said, followed by the sound of brisk footsteps. He was heading for the short flight of stairs to the main dungeon door.

  Braden hissed through his teeth. “If he shouts the alarm… I will try to stop him.” He raced out of the cell. “Henry!”

  Grabbing another key, Tye pushed it into the lock. He would not lose this chance to escape. He would not —

  With a faint rasp, the key slid all the way in. He turned it, and the lock clicked. The manacle sprang open.

  As he freed his right wrist, he heard the dungeon door crash open, felt a draft sweep over his ankles. Bending at the waist, cursing the awkwardness enforced by the splint, he focused on unlocking the rest of his chains.

  Still holding the ring of keys, he hobbled out of his cell. He forced his stiff limbs to move faster, savored the feel of lethargic muscles fully flexing and stretching. He craved air that was free of the dank taint of the dungeon—the smell of freedom .

  “Oy! Give me the keys,” a toothless man said from his nearby cell.

  “Give them to me,” another begged, thrusting his grubby hands through the bars.

  Slowing, Tye shoved the keys into the nearest man’s hands. Tye grinned, imagining his sire’s fury when he learned that not only had Tye escaped, but so had all of the other criminals. De Lanceau would waste days trying to recapture the prisoners.

  Ignoring the excited cries from the cells behind him, Tye limped on. Two burly men in leather armor had entered through the doorway, dragging Henry backward between them. The guard’s blond head drooped to his chest. His arms dangled, as though he was barely conscious, and blood oozed from a gash at his temple. A third person, slender and wearing a hooded black cloak, held a knife at his throat.

  “Good boy,” a woman murmured. “Keep quiet, now, if you want to live.”

  Tye’s heart kicked. Hard. He knew that voice.

  The woman glanced his way. He caught a glimpse of pale skin, the curve of a crimson red mouth, before his attention was claimed by Braden, walking through the doorway with a cloak draped over his arm. After a quick study of the darkness outside, Braden shut the wooden panel behind him.

  Her left arm held close to her body, the woman reached up her right hand and drew back her hood, revealing long red hair tied at her nape. Despite her weeks in prison and de Lanceau’s hatred of her, she’d still found a way to get the henna she used to dye her tresses. Remarkable. A wry smile tugged at Tye’s mouth. Then again, he should hardly be surprised; she’d always been resourceful, especially when it came to outwitting de Lanceau.

  “Mother.” Tye hobbled toward her.
/>   “Tye.”

  “How is your arm? ’Twas broken when I last saw you.”

  “’Tis healing well. At least ’twas my left one and not my right.” Her features seemed haggard, and not just because of her injury or age. While imprisoned, she’d undoubtedly been deprived of the expensive herbal creams she liked to slather upon her skin to keep herself looking young. But in her amber eyes, he saw the same need that burned as hot as fire in his own soul: a desire to destroy de Lanceau.

  “Veronique, we must hurry,” Braden urged.

  “I know, Love.” She gestured to the mercenaries, who shoved Henry back against the stone wall. Sweat and blood ran down his face. He appeared dazed and about eighteen years old—if that. His blue eyes fixed on Tye. As Henry’s stare sharpened, anger contorted his features.

  “Did he shout the alarm?” Tye asked Braden.

  “Nay. The mercenaries stopped him before he could cry out.”

  “Good.”

  “Still, we need to get away from here, as soon as we can.”

  “Agreed.” Tye hobbled to his mother. She met him partway, her strides still ripe with the sensuality that drew men to her like flies to sticky jam. Those lovers clearly included Braden; the man’s gaze drifted over her with undisguised lust.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, embracing Tye with her good arm. She smelled of night air and musty wool.

  “I am. You?” he said against her hair.

  “Better now that I have found you.”

  Tye’s arms tightened around her. He’d missed her, too. Shame gnawed at him as well. He shouldn’t have heeded the voice in his mind that, in his days alone in his cell, had whispered she’d abandoned him, left him to rot, because he’d failed her: He hadn’t managed to kill his sire in the battle at Waddesford Keep.

  Had de Lanceau realized that such cruel thoughts would haunt Tye? Had he known that in isolation, Tye’s conscience would turn against him and fester until it drove him near mad?