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

  Her shoulders lowered on a sigh. “Good.”

  Stretching out his hand, Aldwin said, “Give me the jewel. When I am satisfied ’tis genuine, and the pendant I seek, you will have your reward.”

  She muttered words he couldn’t hear. He didn’t mistake her mutinous tone, though, or the angry stiffening of her posture.

  He’d come too far to be denied by this wench.

  Before the biting words to coerce her heated his mouth, her fingers moved to her cloak. She began to draw it aside at the neck. A rustling, then a chime—the clink of metal—sounded before her hand lifted from her garments to reveal a slender chain. Even in the dim light, the gold links of the chain glimmered. The gleaming ruby hung just below her fingertips.

  Fierce satisfaction rushed through him, at the same moment his mind calculated the length of the necklace and where it had nestled beneath her garments: in the slope between her breasts.

  Mayhap even against her skin. Warmed by her flesh . . .

  His jaw clenched tighter. Holding out his hand, he said, “Take off the necklace. Give it to me.”

  She snapped her hand back, as if she expected him to grab the pendant. “I am no fool.”

  Aye, Lady L, you most certainly are.

  “The pendant. Then you will receive your money.”

  “Put the bag of coins on the floor and step back.”

  God’s bones, she was an obstinate wench. In a tone reserved for the most dim-witted fool, he said, “My instructions were quite clear—”

  A low, angry growl rumbled from her. The sound scratched across his nerves.

  Her hands moved to tuck the pendant back inside her garments.

  Impatience surged, as hot as fire in his blood. Before he could caution the rash impulse, he grabbed for her, intending to catch her wrist and stay her. To prove to her she’d do as he commanded.

  “Milady!” the wiry gnome yelled.

  Aldwin’s hand locked around her wrist. Slim. Delicate—

  Milady?

  A solid weight slammed into the back of his head.

  Lights swirled behind his eyelids.

  Blackness.

  ***

  “Did you kill him?” Staring at Aldwin’s slumped body, held upright by Twig and Sir Reginald, Leona pressed her hands to her mouth.

  Never had she intended Aldwin harm. True, in the preceding moments, she’d longed to scratch his arrogant eyes out. She’d wanted so very badly to kick him where it hurt the most, then scream at him with the anger and pain she’d held inside her since she was eight years old. Still, ’twas a far cry from murder.

  Sir Reginald tipped his head toward the wood he’d used to wallop Aldwin. “I thought he was going to hurt you, milady.”

  Leona groaned.

  His mouth opening and shutting like a stranded fish, Sir Reginald added, “I did not hit him hard. Truly, I did not.”

  Always the cheery one, Twig said, “Fear not, milady. He is merely knocked senseless.”

  The faintest waver in his voice fueled her doubts. “Are you certain? What if he is alive now, but succumbs to the blow? What if you cracked his skull?”

  With loud huffs and grunts, the two men carefully lowered Aldwin to the dirt floor. He collapsed on his right side, his long hair tangled into his cloak’s hood.

  Her whole body shaking, Leona hurried to the windowsill, snatched up the candle, and rushed back. The flame dimmed on a draft, threatening to go out, and she curled her hand close to the light to protect it.

  Glancing down at Aldwin’s motionless form, she fought a wave of guilt. His lips were parted, as though the force of the blow had knocked the breath out of him. More of his golden hair spilled across the dirt beneath him.

  Stop knotting yourself into a panic, Leona. Trust Twig.

  Having fought alongside her father’s men-at-arms for many years, he knew far more about subduing opponents than she—and, whether or not a man was dead.

  Taking a steadying breath, she knelt on the grimy floor, trying very hard not to notice the fetid odors wafting up from it, and set the candle down with a gritty thud. The broad hood of her cloak brushed against her cheek; the scratchy wool hindered her vision. She yanked the hood back. Then, with gentle fingers, she brushed aside the hair at the back of Aldwin’s head.

  No blood. But a nasty bump was already forming.

  Easing back on her heels, she glanced at his face, relaxed in oblivion. The candlelight illuminated his stunning profile. Bold, uncompromising cheekbones. A masterful mouth. Long lashes and a dusting of stubble on his jawline. So very handsome.

  And dangerous.

  Her fingertips tingled. She didn’t want to touch him again. The silky brush of his hair against her fingers had sent curious sensations skittering through her. In the nearly forgotten reaches of her mind, dreamlike thoughts stirred of him holding her body tight against him and whispering against her cheek.

  Her face burned. Why would she think such? The last thing she wanted was to be in his embrace. Even crouched beside him was far too close for her liking. Still, she must be certain he was breathing. Edging her hand forward, she placed it close to his lips. His breath warmed her skin.

  She blew out a grateful sigh.

  “Is he all right, as I told you?” Twig peered down at Aldwin.

  “He is.”

  Twig straightened, his chest puffed out, and he looked immensely proud of himself. “’Tis far easier to deal with him now, if I do say so myself.”

  Leona frowned, for her plans for the meeting, relayed earlier to Twig and Sir Reginald, had not involved bashing de Lanceau’s man about the head.

  “Reach inside his cloak and take the coin, milady. Then, tuck the pendant in his pocket. We can leave him here, to rouse when he wishes, while we ride away.” He smacked his hands together. “Perfect!”

  Leona’s mouth fell open. Twisting on her knees, she gaped at the nodding and grinning men-at-arms. “You mean to leave him here? Unconscious?”

  The two men exchanged glances. “Well—”

  “Did you not see the murderous-looking oafs in the bar?” Leona struggled to keep her voice down. “If those cutthroats found him lying here, they would rob him. Mayhap even beat and kill him.”

  Twig threw out his hands. “Oh, nay, milady. They would not.”

  She scowled at him, and he quickly averted his gaze. He appeared to be blushing. And, most telling of all, his mouth twitched like a rabbit munching on a tough carrot.

  “I will not be responsible for this man’s death.” While she recalled only snatches of what had happened after being stung, Ward had told her how Aldwin tried to save her by drowning the bees in the river. Leaving Aldwin here injured and defenseless was simply . . . wrong.

  “Milady, he is not going to die.”

  “We cannot leave him this way. No matter how urgent ’tis that we return home.”

  Images of what might be transpiring filled Leona’s mind: her sire slumped over the lord’s table in the great hall, surrounded by ale mugs and snoring in a drunken stupor; Veronique ordering the servants about as though she were lady of the keep, while she and the baron gratified their whims—even though they’d already squandered more than the castle could afford to waste; Veronique and the baron stealing Pryerston’s valuables to sell and pocket the money. Her father would not be able to stop them.

  Anger boiled inside Leona and she shook her head, willing herself to focus on the dilemma at hand: Aldwin. She reached inside her cloak and drew out two silver coins. More than she should dare to spend, but she mustn’t dwell on the expense. Holding the money out to Twig, she said, “Go fetch a strong drink.”

  “A drink, milady?”

  “Ask for the tavern keeper’s strongest liquor.”

  Twig took the coins and blinked in obvious disbelief. “You believe I would benefit from such a drink?”

  She bit back an oath. “Twig!”

  “Of course. ’Tis for you, milady. To settle your . . . er . . . ladylike constitution.�
��

  Ladylike constitution?! Her patience came very close to snapping. “The drink is for Aldwin. To revive him.”

  Twig’s eyes bulged. Now he resembled a rabbit choking on his carrot. “You are going to waste liquor on—I mean, you expect him to drink it? How?”

  “We will find a way. Two of us can hold him upright, and the third can coax the liquor down his throat.”

  “Without killing him?”

  “Aye.”

  Twig closed his eyes and pressed a gnarled hand to his forehead.

  “Twig, go. Now.”

  “But—”

  “The longer you delay, the longer we stay in this vile tavern. We both know how important ’tis that we return to the keep.”

  “Aye, milady.” He spun on his heel, his frizzy hair wisping out behind him, and reached for the door’s handle. “I will return shortly.”

  “Be sure you do. You must not be distracted, no matter how enticing the strumpets are.”

  Twig, too, must have recalled the big-breasted, red-haired wench who’d pinched his skinny arse and cooed at him when they’d first arrived at the tavern. The little man’s shoulders shoved back. “I know my duty, milady. Not one distraction will waylay me. I will go straight to the bar and come straight back.”

  The door creaked open, letting in muted light along with cheers and boisterous singing. Leona glanced back at Aldwin. Despite the cacophony, he lay motionless. If he slept through such a racket, he wasn’t likely to wake on his own unless provoked.

  “Stay close to her, Sir Reginald,” Twig said from the doorway, “in case Aldwin should wake.”

  Sir Reginald moved nearer to her, his hand on his sword.

  “Hurry,” Leona said over her shoulder.

  The door closed. Musty darkness settled in around her, and she sighed. Dropping her chin, letting her braid ripple down over her shoulder, she massaged the back of her neck, cramped from looking up at an odd angle at her men.

  In the tense quiet, the anxiety of the past few days weighed heavily upon her, more pressing even than the pendant between her breasts. She tried to force the anguish away. Once she, Twig, and Sir Reginald were safely away from here, journeying back to Pryerston, she could indulge her tattered emotions. Now, she had a knave to revive, a pendant to relinquish, and a reward to claim—far more important than her grief.

  She looked again at Aldwin’s prone body. Pressing her lips together, she forced her gaze down his cloak’s bunched folds to where his muscled leg, bent at the knee, escaped from the heavy wool. His booted lower leg was clearly visible. However, the upper portion remained hidden by his cloak.

  Racked by a peculiar shudder, she studied the fabric gathered over his stomach and thigh. Aldwin had jingled the coins earlier, in a bag at his hip. Right side, or left? She couldn’t remember, but she must be sure. When he started to wake, they’d have precious few moments to snatch the coins, drop the pendant, and run.

  To peek under his cloak was . . . an unnerving prospect.

  Yet she must.

  Snatch the coins. Drop the pendant. Run, she silently repeated.

  For you, Father. Because I love you.

  Drying her sweaty palms on her cloak, Leona leaned forward on her knees. Her braid slithered. With a faint rasp, the ends brushed the dirt.

  “Milady?” Sir Reginald whispered. “Did he stir?”

  “Nay.” Snatch the coins. Drop the pendant. Run.

  She reached for his cloak’s edge.

  And heard the faintest noise.

  Leona froze, her fingers splayed in midair. She held her breath.

  What, exactly, had she heard? Not a rustle. Not a whisper. But—

  Sweat dampened her brow. Her gaze slid to Aldwin’s face.

  His mouth was closed.

  Not parted, as moments before.

  In that same, agonizing moment, she sensed he was fully cognizant. Aware of his surroundings. Of her.

  Gasping, she scooted backward. “Sir Reg—”

  An astonished grunt. Sir Reginald’s feet flew out from under him. Thud. He crashed into the keg behind him.

  She grabbed for her knife.

  Aldwin’s hand clamped around her wrist.

  Chapter Three

  Veronique Desjardin pushed aside the linen sheets of the wide rope bed in Pryerston Keep’s solar. Restlessness plagued her, keeping her from falling asleep, but she didn’t resent the excitement bubbling inside her like a simmering cauldron. In truth, she welcomed it. For soon, the elements of her careful scheme would blend together in wondrous vengeance upon the man who’d spurned her years ago: Moydenshire’s lord, Geoffrey de Lanceau.

  As she left the warm bedding, causing the straw mattress to yield with a faint creak, the cool night air kissed her nakedness. She crossed the plank floor to the solar window and drew open the shutters. Night air swirled in, along with watery moonlight. Standing in its glow, she pushed her long hair back over her shoulders, then smoothed her hands over her chilled skin. In a slow, sensual caress, she ran her palms across her flat stomach, up over her ribs, and then to her breasts and taut nipples.

  A groan rumbled in her throat.

  Lord Ransley was a kind host, indeed, for giving up his bed to sleep with the servants.

  Laughter welled inside her. Ransley, kind? Nay, a drunken fool.

  From the first night she and Baron Sedgewick had arrived at the keep, uninvited guests, they’d slept in the solar, while he drank himself to sleep in the great hall.

  “She was so beautiful, my wife,” he’d blubbered yestereve while seated at the lord’s table, his eyes streaming tears. “A lady of such grace. Why, when she stepped into this hall”—he waved an unsteady hand—“all inside fell to a hush, without her saying one word.”

  “Imagine.” Veronique had patted his arm, taking care not to reveal her disgust over his filthy tunic. How simple it had been, while seated on an oak chair beside him, to lean sideways on the table. To cause their arms to brush. To bestow upon him a perfect view of her cleavage, straining against her scarlet-colored bodice.

  His gaze had riveted to her bosom—as she’d intended.

  His bushy eyebrows had snapped up before confusion and longing widened his gaze.

  Trailing her fingers down his sleeve in a lazy caress, she’d said, “Please. Go on.”

  “I . . . Um . . .” He’d shaken his mass of unruly gray hair and looked down at his wine goblet. “Ah . . .”

  Raising her hand from his sleeve, she’d picked up the wine jug, filled his goblet, and said in the gentlest tone, “I would like to hear more. ’Tis clear you miss your wife very much.”

  His hand shook when he lifted the drink to his lips and swallowed with noisy gulps. Setting the vessel down with an awkward clunk, he nodded. “I still cannot believe she is dead. Taken from me in a terrible accident I had never expected. I am lost without her.” He drew in a ragged breath. “I do not wish to bore you. A lovely woman like you”—his gaze fell again to her breasts—“must desire much more interesting pursuits.”

  Veronique laughed and poured yet more wine. “Not at all.” She squeezed his arm, lingering in the caress. “I am honored, milord, that you share your memories with me.”

  Ransley blinked, his lashes spiked with tears. Then anger glinted in his gaze before he shoved his goblet away, sloshing wine onto the stained tablecloth. “You mock me. You think I am a stupid old fool.”

  Caution had shrieked inside her. She’d sensed the distrustful stares of the servants nearby. If she wasn’t careful, her patiently woven snare would disintegrate in her hands. As much as she loathed Ransley’s pathetic display of grief, she needed his cooperation. For a while longer, at least.

  She held Ransley’s bloodshot stare. “I do not think you are foolish.”

  “Nay?” he grumbled, rubbing at the wine spreading across the tablecloth. “My daughter does.”

  “Daughter?” Veronique recalled the young woman who’d drawn Ransley aside and spoken with him in hushed tones the
day she and Sedgewick had arrived at the castle gates. The woman hadn’t worn a lady’s garments; she appeared to have been toiling in the dirt. But at the time, Veronique had noted a strong physical resemblance between the woman and Ransley.

  “Leona,” Ransley said.

  Leona. Veronique had committed the name to memory and resolved to keep watch on Ransley’s daughter. And, while Veronique had his lordship’s attention, she’d very make certain he confided in her when needed. No one else.

  Squeezing forward a little more—her breasts on the verge of popping from her gown—Veronique retrieved his goblet and slid it back before him. Trailing one slender finger down the vessel’s stem, she’d smiled at him. “If I may be so bold, milord,” she’d murmured, “your daughter is the foolish one. How can she be so insensitive to your torment? She should be more thoughtful toward her own father.”

  His brow had wrinkled with a frown. “In her heart, I know she means well. ’Twas a shock for her, when she lost her mother so suddenly.”

  Veronique had slid her hand toward him, then gently linked her fingers through his. A brazen move. To touch a lord of his status without invitation was a tremendous risk—but she’d invited the attentions of other lonely noblemen in the past, with success.

  In the years that she and the baron had evaded de Lanceau’s influence, they’d done whatever was necessary to keep themselves in a manner enjoyed by the noble elite. She’d become good at quiet murders, theft, and betrayal, among other talents.

  Too much lay at risk now for Ransley to elude her manipulations.

  He looked down at their joined hands. His mouth flattened.

  Veronique braced herself for his bellowed command to withdraw her hand, while she tried to think of a clever way to keep him in her emotional trap.

  But he didn’t push her away.

  Good.

  “Tell me about your wife,” she’d whispered, forcing tenderness into her voice.

  He had. Until, eyes rolling back into his head, he’d collapsed face first onto the table.

  For all she knew—and cared—he still lay there.

  Thinking of the way he’d rambled on and on caused the muscles between Veronique’s shoulder blades to tighten. Reaching back, she rubbed at the tension and expelled a breath through her teeth.