A Knight's Temptation (Knight's Series Book 3) Read online

  She tried to swallow. Her mouth felt as puffy and dry as old leaves. Every bit of her body throbbed with pain.

  As her senses sharpened, she realized the coldness surrounded her.

  Water.

  Without opening her eyes, she realized she lay with most of her body submerged. The sloshing noise was water rushing in and out of her ears.

  “Ward?” she whispered past her aching throat.

  “’Twill be all right,” the voice said again, followed by another frigid rush of liquid over her body. She shivered, her burning skin protesting the iciness. The cold settled so deep, she could hardly breathe.

  With immense effort, she forced her eyelids open. She squinted against sunlight that hurt her eyes.

  Someone leaned over her, a shadow against the sun’s glare.

  Aldwin.

  Her fingers stiffened on a flare of anger. “W-Ward—”

  “He has gone to get help.” She heard no trace of mockery in Aldwin’s tone. He held her gaze the barest moment, then looked away.

  He wasn’t wearing his tunic. In places, red lumps—bee stings—marked his bare chest and arms.

  Her gaze crept lower, to find him kneeling in the river water. His soaked hose were coated with mud.

  A grimy, green swath lapped against his knees: the skirts of her gown.

  Black objects—like catkins fallen from a tree—floated in the sopping folds. Bees. Oh, God. She shuddered, her innards clenching so tightly, she almost vomited.

  Aldwin squeezed her arm. “Most of the bees are dead.”

  Most? Some were still wriggling.

  Leona scrambled to prop herself up on her elbows. The river blurred before her eyes. The blackness taunted, trying to smother her again.

  “Lie down.” Aldwin pressed upon her shoulders, urging her back.

  Anguish and pain wrenched from her in a gasp. “Do not . . . touch me!”

  His expression hardened. Lifting his hands from her, he said, “You should rest.”

  Rest? Was he mad? “B-bees—”

  “They will not hurt you anymore.”

  Tears streamed from her eyes and seared a path down her swollen face. She must not cry. Not in front of him. But she felt so wretched. So . . . weak.

  Her right arm trembled, then collapsed beneath her. With a plop, she fell back onto a soft, wet pillow. His boots, she realized, wrapped with his tunic, which had kept her head up out of the water.

  Darkness swirled into her mind. Odd, how it sounded like the lulling lap of water. Coaxing . . . Peaceful . . .

  Aldwin nudged her shoulder. “Leona. Stay awake.”

  She groaned. A pathetic sound. Barely a whisper.

  Fight, Leona!

  Even as the thought trailed through her mind, water splashed over her again.

  “Listen to my voice. I promise, ’twill be all right.”

  All right . . .

  She sighed. The darkness beckoned, more tantalizing than before.

  “Do not die,” he said hoarsely. “You must not die.”

  Die?

  “Nay,” Leona said, but her lips refused to move. The word echoed inside her head, a hollow, empty sound. Panic screamed in her dulling mind.

  Help. Me.

  Thick as swarming bees, the darkness took her.

  ***

  “Leona!” Aldwin cried.

  Her head lolled. Against the muddy pillow of his tunic, her blotchy face looked too pale. His pulse kicked into a painful thunder.

  “Leona.” Shoving his hand under her neck, he lifted her head up out of the water. He dipped his chin, bringing his ear close to her cold lips. The barest breath warmed his hair.

  Sliding his arm under her shoulders, he pulled her limp body against him and cradled her head against his chest. She’d told him not to touch her, but, unconscious now, she’d never know; he’d keep her warm and do his best to save her life.

  “’Twill be all right,” he whispered against her cheek. His voice caught. She had to be all right, for he’d brought this upon her. He’d ignored her wishes and insisted upon the game, and now . . .

  Her body trembled, racked by pain, although her eyelids didn’t open. He held her tighter. Water dripped from her hair, a sound akin to light rain.

  Helplessness ripped through him. What more should he do? How did he save her? Never, in all his life, had he felt so powerless.

  In the distance, he heard hoofbeats. A group of riders approached. Thank God.

  How he prayed they weren’t too late.

  He held her close, waiting until the pounding hoofbeats drew very near. Horses whinnied, stomped, and bridles chimed as the animals came to an abrupt halt.

  Looking up, he saw men leaping down from their mounts. Leading the riders, his face a mask of fury, was his father.

  Aldwin’s belly lurched. Soon, he’d feel the strike of his sire’s hand. He’d live with the bruises for days afterward. He’d accept every one, though—as an honorable knight would—for he deserved such punishment.

  “What has happened here?” his father bellowed, striding down the muddy bank and into the water toward them, kicking up waves.

  Another man—Lord Ransley, Leona’s father—followed, his expression stricken with horror. “Is she alive?” he demanded, water soaking his fine silk hose and tunic.

  “Aye, milord.” Aldwin’s teeth chattered. He hadn’t felt cold until now.

  More riders converged by the bank. Close behind followed a running crowd of men, women, and children, headed by Ward. Among them, he saw Leona’s mother, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

  Swallowing down a stab of guilt, he shielded Leona against the waves rocking her body.

  “Wretched boy.” His sire reached down and yanked Aldwin to standing. Leona slipped from his arms and fell back toward the murky depths.

  “Careful,” Aldwin cried, but Leona’s father caught her. Kneeling and lowering her back to the makeshift pillow, he and three other men began examining the welts on her neck and arms.

  His eyes red-rimmed and accusing, Lord Ransley glared up at Aldwin. “What were you doing? Trying to kill my daughter?”

  “I was drowning the bees, milord. ’Twas the best way—”

  “You ordered her tied to a tree. Ward said she didn’t want to play your game.”

  When Lord Ransley turned Leona’s wrist, exposing the red rope marks, his father swore between his teeth.

  Aldwin shuddered. “I never meant to hurt her. ’Twas supposed to be just a silly game. I—”

  “Is this how you were taught to treat ladies?” his sire roared.

  Pressing his lips together, Aldwin shook his head.

  “We are a family that respects the king’s laws. The great honor of knights. Chivalry.”

  Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd gathered on the bank.

  Aware of water splashing behind him, Aldwin glanced back, to see Lord Ransley carrying Leona toward the shore, her loose hair dragging in the water.

  “Father—” Aldwin said.

  His sire turned away. He reached for an object caught in the nearby reeds—the stick, tied with the scrap of ribbon—and again faced Aldwin.

  “Lord Ransley’s daughter could well die. You shame our family,” his father growled. “You shame me.” His fingers tightened on the branch.

  “Father, ’twas an accident. Please, believe me.”

  “Turn around.”

  A sickening tremor wove through Aldwin, for he’d never seen his sire so angry. The temptation to run, as fast and far as he could, raced through him. But running would show him to be a coward. Knights didn’t run from their fears. They faced them with pride and honor.

  Water lapped against Aldwin’s legs as he turned his back to his father. Now he faced the crowd and the weight of their condemning stares.

  The stick whistled through the air and smacked his bare back. Aldwin winced.

  “Stop!” Ward raced toward the bank. “Milord, he tried to help Leona!”

 
; Grabbing Ward’s arm, Lord Ransley hauled him back to the horses, where Lady Ransley sobbed into her hands. Several men were preparing to get Leona onto a horse.

  “Aldwin!” Ward cried, struggling.

  Thwack! The stick lashed again. Claps of approval broke in the crowd.

  Pain streaked across Aldwin’s lower back and he fought a groan. He must not cry out. A real knight would keep his silence.

  Thwack. “Never again will you stain our family name with dishonor.”

  “Never!” Aldwin choked out.

  “Swear it, before these witnesses.” Thwack. “Wretched boy. Swear it!”

  Chapter One

  Moydenshire

  Summer 1195

  If hell were a place on earth, this might be it.

  His right hand on his sword’s hilt, Aldwin stood in the shadows of an oak tree outside the Raging Bull Tavern. The night breeze whispered, and with his free hand, he yanked his cloak sleeve over his nose to quell the stench wafting from the stable a few yards away. The foul odor, combined with the smoke hissing from the wet logs on the fire outside the tavern . . . Whew.

  Blinking against the smoky breeze, he focused on the laughter and voices carrying out into the night from the run-down tavern. Orange-yellow light poked out from the cracked wattle-and-daub walls; it streaked into the blackness like wisps of hair, giving the place the air of a strumpet desperately past her prime who struggled to still appear comely.

  A roar erupted from the drunkards by the fire, who had not yet noticed him. Smoke snaked up around the group of mostly farmers and peasants while the firelight cast their faces in grotesque orange masks. None of the folk looked likely to possess the priceless ruby pendant he sought for his lord, Geoffrey de Lanceau. Still . . .

  “Oy! I asked ye ta move aside,” one of the drunkards groused.

  The teetering man beside him sneered. The two exchanged punches.

  “Bets! Bets,” another sot yelled over the fighters’ pained grunts.

  The others cheered.

  “God’s blood,” Aldwin muttered. All he needed was to face a bloody brawl.

  “Get the pendant and leave as quickly as possible,” de Lanceau had instructed at Branton Keep days ago, his steel-gray gaze grim. “The fewer who know of the missing jewel, the better.” Glancing away, his eyes shadowed with remorse. “I cannot disappoint my lady wife, Aldwin. Not when she endured such a difficult birthing to give me a beautiful daughter. Not when for weeks I promised my love a wondrous gift.”

  “I understand, milord,” Aldwin said.

  De Lanceau’s expression didn’t change. While Aldwin wondered if his lordship had heard him speak, de Lanceau’s face contorted with loathing. “As you know, the man who was to deliver the jewel to me from London is missing. I have heard whispers that Baron Sedgewick of Avenley and that conniving bitch, Veronique, are in this part of England. I do no doubt they will try to undermine my rule. They will destroy me for thwarting their murderous plans to seize control of Moydenshire years ago. They will do all they can to hurt my family. If they were to come into possession of the pendant . . .”

  The way his lord’s words trailed off to silence made cold sweat bead on Aldwin’s brow. All too well he knew of the baron’s evil, manipulative nature; because of the baron’s lies, Aldwin had fired a crossbow bolt into de Lanceau’s chest three years ago, after the battle at Wode. He’d almost killed his lordship, a mistake Aldwin sorely regretted. He struggled to tamp down intense mortification.

  If he completed this mission for his lord, might he at last be awarded knighthood? How Aldwin longed to become one of de Lanceau’s knights. To finally rise above the dishonor blemishing his past.

  “Veronique and the baron will not get the jewel, milord,” Aldwin vowed. “I will do what I must to bring it safely to you, as you ordered.”

  De Lanceau’s harsh gaze locked with his. Nodding, he said, “Take as many men-at-arms as you wish. Horses, weapons—”

  “I go alone.”

  “Alone?” De Lanceau frowned. “We do not know who sent word of the pendant to me here at Branton Keep.”

  “By going alone, I rouse fewer suspicions,” Aldwin said.

  “I will not have you fall prey to a trap.”

  The concern in de Lanceau’s voice twisted Aldwin’s gut. To think he had almost killed this honorable man who’d brought peace and prosperity to Moydenshire . . . “I am well capable of defending myself, milord. Moreover, if this missive is a ruse, the sender—or senders—will be expecting a convoy of armed riders. Not a lone man who will slip into their midst, seize the pendant, and vanish.”

  A faint smile touched de Lanceau’s mouth. “Very well. If you are not back within four days, I will send my army to find you.”

  “I will not fail you, milord.”

  De Lanceau’s hand tightened into a fist. “You must not. Many lives may depend on your success. Including my own.”

  A cry snapped Aldwin’s attention back to the blazing fire. Four men were fighting now. Glancing at the two-story building, he mentally catalogued the entrances and exits, and then strode from the tree’s concealing shadows.

  Skirting the fighters, he headed toward the tavern door. Smoke gusted around him, stinging his eyes. His garments would reek of smoke for the rest of the evening. He reached for the crooked door handle, no more than three weathered bits of wood hammered together.

  Before his fingers connected with the handle, the door flew open with the creak of rusty hinges. Light and bawdy cheers flared out into the night, and a pock-faced drunkard staggered out. Aldwin slipped past him into the dimly lit interior.

  The stench—bodies gone unwashed for months, rotting food scraps mashed into the dirt floor, and an ill-vented fire—made his stomach roil. Narrowing his watery eyes, he dragged a hand over his face to ward off a sneeze and sauntered forward.

  Somewhere in this wretched place was the person who’d hand over the pendant.

  Or, as de Lanceau warned, a trap.

  Aldwin scanned the room, lit by the hearth in the opposite wall and candles crammed into holders. Heading toward the crowded bar, he indulged in a smile. Any man who thought to attack him would be in for hard fighting.

  As he neared, several men leaned away from the wooden bar and cast bleary gazes over him. The barman, scrubbing the top with a grubby rag, glanced up. His gaze settled on Aldwin’s sword and his fat mouth quivered, as though he wondered why Aldwin had set foot inside his premises.

  “A drink, milord?” the bar owner said. Sweat dotted his forehead, a sign of a guilty conscience. Did he believe Aldwin had come to demand an unpaid debt? Or, mayhap the lout was in on a trap.

  “In a moment.” Aldwin stood at the best vantage point to assess the room and the tavern door.

  “Just let me know.” The man managed a nervous smile before mopping his face with his rag. “I will have yer drink right up.”

  Aldwin nodded his thanks. Chairs scraped across the room. Two men broke into raucous laughter, while a strumpet, squeezed into a linen gown, sidled toward a group of men motioning her over to them. She had a lovely figure; however, from the looks of her, she was old enough to be his mother.

  “Hardly a wench for you, I would say,” said a male close by.

  Aldwin discerned amusement in the low, faintly gravelly voice. His gaze slid to the wiry man standing beside the bar, who barely reached Aldwin’s shoulder. With uncombed, shoulder-length gray hair, a pointed nose, and bright blue eyes, the man resembled a creature yanked from books of lore.

  A silent groan rumbled in Aldwin’s throat. The last thing he wanted was to be drawn into senseless conversation. Foolish chatter could prove a deadly distraction. A knife through his back, before he even sensed an assailant.

  Distracting him could be the man’s purpose.

  “Excuse me.” Aldwin pushed away from the bar.

  The old man’s hand shot out. His gnarled fingers—surprisingly strong—clenched Aldwin’s cloak sleeve. “The woman you desire—�
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  Aldwin glared at the old man.

  “—has lips as red as rubies.”

  Aldwin tensed, then forced aside his astonishment. This old man might not know about the pendant. His words might simply be a coincidence.

  “Rubies,” Aldwin repeated with a faint smile. “She sounds most tempting.”

  An answering grin tipped up the man’s mouth, revealing the gap between his front teeth. He looked like a cheeky gnome. “Aye, milord, but she is.” He winked. “Exquisite.”

  Anticipation tingled at the base of Aldwin’s skull. Either the man was trying to sell him the services of a whore—for an extortionate price he’d soon reveal—or he was indicating he had information on de Lanceau’s pendant. In either case, Aldwin had better not appear overly excited.

  Pointedly glancing down at the wizened hand clenched into his cloak, Aldwin said, “I am intrigued, old man. I would like to see this . . . prize.”

  The little man beamed. Dipping his wild gray head, he said, “I hoped you would.” He withdrew his hand, and then twirled it in a courteous gesture of encouragement. “Follow me.”

  ***

  Leona stood in the tavern’s shadowed back room, sipping a mug of ale. Bitter, watered-down rot, but at least it dulled her nerves.

  Tipping her head back, she downed another mouthful, cringed, and then set the chipped earthenware mug on the window ledge, next to the lit candle. She pulled her waist-length braid over her shoulder and fiddled with the leather thong. She should be doing something—anything—other than pacing this grimy room that smelled of damp kegs and moldy flour sacks.

  Yet she would wait.

  When the knocks came upon the door, she must be ready.

  Sir Theodore Wrenleigh—Twig, she’d affectionately called him since childhood because he reminded her of a spindly tree—had slipped out some time ago, promising to report back as soon as he had any news. His fellow man-at-arms, Sir Reginald Themdale, would stand watch in the corridor outside.

  “Milady, wait here. Listen for the signal.” Twig had thrust up his hand to stop her objections before she’d uttered one word. “’Tis a rough crowd in the main room. Not at all the place for you.”