A Knight's Persuasion (Knight's Series Book 4) Read online

  “Why will you not tell me? That is most puzzling of all.”

  Another groan bubbled up within him, for he felt his resolve weakening. He couldn’t lie to her; he didn’t want to. In this instance, lying seemed akin to cowardice.

  He closed the distance between them, ignoring Kaine shuffling a short distance behind. “Juliana,” Edouard said, near enough to her that he could lower his voice and keep their words private. “You are right. We did make a bet.”

  Kaine cursed and kicked at the dirt.

  “We—”

  “—bet that my sketchbook would end up in the well?” she said in an anguished tone. Her gaze shifted beyond him to Nara and he remembered the younger woman’s eagerness to shove the book into the depths. Did Juliana believe he and Kaine had conspired against her with Nara? Ugh. What a distressing thought.

  “Nay, Juliana. We meant no harm to you or your drawings. We—”

  “Aye?”

  He cleared his throat. “Made a bet as to whether or not I . . .”—God’s blood—“would win your kiss.”

  Shock, then hurt, darkened Juliana’s eyes. “Kiss?”

  Her hissed reply was just loud enough to draw stares, though he suspected the onlookers were too far away to make out what she said. He raised his hands, palm up, trying to tamp down his rising apprehension and regret. “I admit, at first, I went along with the bet. Stupid, I know, but ’twas a challenge between me and Kaine, and I . . . wanted to win.”

  “Challenge.” She shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes, and her lips parted on a sob.

  “Juliana . . .”

  “’Tis all I was . . . am . . . to you? A challenge? Another lady for you to count among your conquests?”

  “Damnation.” Edouard hauled his fingers through his hair. He hated to see tears streaming down her face. Yet he dared not reach for her. Not when so many gazes were upon them.

  Juliana stepped backward, putting distance between them. The pain in her expression faded to stony remoteness.

  A dull ache squeezed his innards, for he sensed she was lost to him. Naught he said or did now would likely change her opinion of him. Yet he truly did want her to hold him in high regard. “I did not mean to hurt you, Juliana. Neither, I am certain, did Kaine.”

  “Hurt me? Hurt me, milord? Did you once consider my feelings before you tried to trick me into a kiss?”

  “Wait a—”

  “Did you feel any guilt at all while you attempted to seduce me? What about when you knocked over the food for my mother? Was that mishap part of your ploy?”

  Anger began to weave through Edouard. He’d told her the truth about the bet; she’d thanked him by attacking his honor. Did she really believe he’d deliberately knock over a meal intended for an ill woman? Or, in her frayed emotional state, had Juliana just blurted the first words that came to her mind?

  He sensed the accusing gazes of the encroaching spectators, condemning him without even knowing all the circumstances. He wasn’t a beast. Neither was he a witless peasant, to be shrieked at by Juliana as though he and everyone within earshot were deaf. “Tipping the tray was an accident,” he said, struggling for calm. “You must know that. I never intended—”

  “And when you pushed me down into the well?”

  Shocked murmurs rippled through the crowd.

  “Lord de Lanceau rescued her,” someone in the throng said. “Did he not?”

  “Was that a trick?” another person asked.

  Edouard balled his hands into fists. He hadn’t pushed Juliana into the well. Nara had done that, by dislodging his foot and causing him to fall against Juliana.

  But here, in the bailey of the de Greyne castle, he couldn’t point an accusing finger at the wicked little sister. Where was the gallantry in such an act? He’d only come off looking more of a monster, especially when Nara denied his claim, burst into tears, and went running to her father. Not a good idea, to be guilty of offending both of his host’s daughters in one afternoon.

  Juliana’s lips were blue with cold, but she was clearly waiting for some kind of reply from him. An admission of guilt? Never. “I did not mean for aught to happen to you,” he said, doubting his words would make any difference. “I realize you are angry, but you must believe me.”

  She shook her head. Damp tendrils of hair slipped against her cheek and ran into her tears. “I cannot.”

  Those two words bored into him. He shuddered, as though fighting the pain of a knife.

  “All that happened between us today,” she said tonelessly, “was part of your deceit. So you could win the bet.”

  “Not all that happened.” He locked gazes with her, about to insist how wrong her words were, but his focus was shattered by the tramp of approaching footfalls. Daring a glance, he saw his father walking alongside Lord de Greyne, their long cloaks swaying with each stride. Neither man looked pleased. In fact, his sire’s mouth flattened into a disapproving line.

  “Juliana?” Her father’s frown deepened. “How in God’s name . . .?”

  She glared at Edouard. The fury in her eyes . . . It snatched the air from his lungs. Reaching to her shoulders, she hauled off his mantle and threw it at him. He caught it a moment before it would have landed in the dirt.

  “Juliana!” Lord de Greyne shouted. “What are you doing?”

  “Milords,” Edouard said, stepping forward and bowing. “If I may explain?”

  “Explain. Good,” she said, each word brittle. Clutching her sketchbook against her bosom, she said, “Tell them all, Edouard. ’Tis indeed a fascinating tale. One that shows just how unsuitable you and I are for a betrothal, now or ever.”

  Close behind Edouard, Kaine whistled.

  Edouard heaved in a furious breath. Better that she’d have slapped his face in front of all these witnesses. But nay. She chose to outright reject him, in a very humiliating spectacle that would be gossiped about for months to come.

  Well, he would not stand for it! “Betrothal?” he growled back. “I have no wish to be betrothed. Especially not to you!”

  A collective gasp rose from the onlookers.

  “Edouard,” his father snapped.

  Juliana’s tear-streaked face whitened. She stumbled backward. For all of two breaths, he regretted his words, until she dropped into curtsey so stiff, he vowed her spine would snap. “Good day to you, Father, Lord de Lanceau,” she said as she rose. “To you, Edouard, I bid goodbye.”

  ***

  Juliana shuddered and snuggled into the solar’s wide bed, next to her mother. Telling all that had happened—the important details, at least—had left Juliana exhausted. “I am sorry, Mama, for not coming to you sooner. Truly, I am.”

  Her last words dissolved on a sniffle. The bed ropes creaked as her mother shifted against a mound of pillows; her frail arm slid around Juliana to draw her in close. Mama smelled as Juliana remembered from childhood—of sun-dried linens, sweet almond oil, and comfort.

  “There, now.” Lady de Greyne kissed Juliana’s brow; soft, gray hair brushed against Juliana’s face. “No more crying.”

  Juliana noisily blew her nose on a linen handkerchief, while strains of a favorite chanson, borne on the afternoon breeze, floated in through the solar’s open window. She rubbed her cheek against Mama’s shoulder and listened, becoming aware of the wheezy quality of her mother’s breathing. There was another sound, too. A steady pulse on the bedding—Mama, lightly tapping her fingers in time to the melody. She began to hum.

  A sense of discordance, of un-rightness, pushed its way into Juliana’s contentment. Beyond the cocoon of this chamber, the revelry went on, regardless of her mother’s infirmity and the incident at the well.

  What more, though, could Juliana expect? Her father couldn’t neglect his invited guests. Not when many of them, including the de Lanceau’s, had traveled a fair distance.

  Why, then, did that ugly knot inside Juliana twist another notch?

  Because of him.

  She scowled and her fingers clench
ed around the handkerchief. Before that bet-making knave had come to Sherstowe, her life had been pleasant. Uncomplicated. Now? She could scarcely think past the turmoil churning inside her.

  Down in the music-filled hall, Edouard de Lanceau was probably dancing with a pretty, young noblewoman. He’d woo that lady to near swooning with his clever words and handsome smile.

  That girl in his arms might be Nara.

  Juliana groaned.

  Her mother’s cool, blue-veined hand touched Juliana’s cheek. “Hush, my sweet child. All will be well.”

  “I think not, Mother.” Juliana dabbed at her eyes.

  “Why do you not go back to the celebration? You look lovely in that honey-colored silk and you worked many days to bring about this day. Go enjoy yourself. Chat with Mayda. Dance . . . with some handsome lads.” Her mother sighed, clearly remembering happier times.

  Juliana fought more tears. In time, Mama would be well enough to join festivities at the keep; she’d dance again with Father, smiling and laughing as before. But for Juliana to return to the hall? To feel she must dance with Edouard? She shook her head. “I cannot leave you now, Mama. Not when you have refused to eat today. The maidservant I sent away a short while ago will be bringing you a tray soon.”

  “Oh, Juliana.” Resignation darkened Mama’s voice.

  Juliana fought a tug of dread and clung to the promise she’d made to help Mama get better. “You must try to eat, even a small amount.” Juliana managed a shrug. “Besides, I do not feel like reveling.”

  “Because of . . . your sketchbook?” Her mother expelled a short breath, one that seemed tinged with pain.

  Sitting up, Juliana looked at her mother. Mama’s face relaxed from a grimace, but her chalky skin was more ashen than usual. “Mama, are you all right?” Juliana pressed her palm to her mother’s brow to check for fever. “How selfish of me, to be thinking of myself, when—”

  With a feeble touch, Mama batted Juliana’s hand away. “Do not worry about me. Your sketchbook might be fine, once dried. If not”—she drew another sharp breath—“you should ask your father for another.”

  “I shall.” Juliana sniffled. “He does not appreciate my drawings as you do, though. He does not say such, but I sense he wishes I would work harder to be a lady.”

  Her mother chuckled, a sound like brittle leaves. “You are a lady. And one, I am certain, who could win the heart of any young lord in our hall.”

  Juliana blushed. “Mama!”

  A tender, sad smile tilted her mother’s lips. “Do you know why your father was so pleased to have Edouard de Lanceau here? I know your sire can be difficult at times, but he wants a good marriage for you.”

  Juliana frowned. “Edouard pushed me into the well.”

  “That must have been an accident. He did rescue you, aye?”

  Juliana barely stifled a gasp. Was Mama taking Edouard’s side over her own daughter’s? “But . . .”

  “He was probably trying to impress you, and—”

  “He made a bet with his friend, Mama, that he would win my kiss.”

  “I see.” Her mother winced and slid farther back into the pillows. “Did Edouard win? Did he . . . kiss you?”

  “Nay! Neither will he have another chance. I do not wish to see him ever again.”

  Juliana waited for her mother’s nod of approval. Instead, the sorrow in her gaze was shadowed with regret. “Are you certain, Juliana, you feel that way?”

  Juliana plucked at a loose thread on the bedding, while the tangled emotions of the afternoon burgeoned up inside her again. “I do not know what I feel, Mama. When Edouard told me I was beautiful, when he looked at me as though I were the only maiden in this land, I felt such gladness. It seemed as if part of my heart . . . glowed.”

  “Mmm,” Mama murmured, sounding as though she understood.

  “My body felt strange, too, soaring and yet weighty at the same time. I could scarcely breathe. Oh, Mama, I have never felt such odd sensations.”

  “Imagine how you would have felt if he had kissed you.” Mama was smiling in a most curious, knowing way.

  “I do not care to imagine,” Juliana said firmly. “I am glad I discovered what a deceitful rogue he is before that happened.”

  As Mama’s smile faded, the sense of un-rightness weighed deeper, and Juliana looked over at her sketchbook, propped open against the window’s iron grille. A precarious position, but she wanted the tome to dry quickly.

  The parchment pages had buckled. The leather was ruined. But she’d try anything—anything!—to preserve the drawings she’d rendered with such care. Some, like the sketch she’d done of her stillborn baby brother a few weeks ago, before she’d washed and wrapped his body for burial, she could never replace.

  She rose, crossed to the window, and reached out to straighten a wet page that had folded over on itself. Did she dare look at what was left of her brother’s drawing?

  “Tell me more about Edouard.”

  Juliana glanced over her shoulder. Mama lay with her eyes shut, her upturned hands lying like lilies against the bedding.

  “Describe this young man to me,” Mama said softly, “who sought your kiss.”

  Returning her attention to her sketchbook, Juliana sighed. She didn’t want to discuss Edouard. However, if Mama wished it . . . “He is, without question, the most arrogant, sly of tongued—”

  Mama chuckled, before her laughter faded to a tight wheeze. “’Tis what I thought of your father, when I first met him.” A faint pause. “Is Edouard . . . handsome?”

  Oh, aye. Did Juliana want to admit, however, that her fickle heart had been wooed by his beauty?

  “He is attractive enough.” Her finger, somehow, settled near the middle pages of her sketchbook where she’d drawn him. “His hair is dark, his face finely formed. I vow most women would be thrilled to have his kiss.”

  How strained her mother’s breathing sounded. Glancing back at her, Juliana hoped the maidservant would arrive with the ordered meal. Did Mama also need more healing herbs?

  Mama’s damp eyes opened. “Juliana,” she whispered, pleading. About to tell Juliana, no doubt, that she should rethink her opinion of the great lord Geoffrey de Lanceau’s son and heir.

  Juliana stared out the window, barely able to choke down a frustrated cry. “I know what you are about to say, Mama. You believe I should not judge Edouard by what happened at the well, and that I should be happy he wished to kiss me. But he is not like Father. Edouard and I would not suit.”

  Mama moaned.

  “Mayhap one day, I will meet a lord’s son and become betrothed. Right now, I do not care to marry any man.”

  A rattled sigh came from the bed. A sigh of disappointment? Juliana swallowed hard, for she didn’t ever want to disappoint her mother. However, marriage was not a matter to take lightly. “If I wed, I would have to leave Sherstowe. How could I leave behind all I know?” Her finger slid along her sketchbook. “How could I leave you, Mama?”

  Silence.

  “Mama?” Juliana turned. Her mother lay with her eyes shut, her lips slightly parted. The odd slackness of her jaw, the sudden feeling of being alone, sent Juliana rushing to the bedside.

  Shaking, she caught her mother’s hand. Limp.

  Lifeless.

  “M-mama?” Juliana gently shook her mother’s shoulder. Mama’s eyes didn’t open. Neither was she breathing.

  “Mama!”

  Her mother’s head lolled against the pillow.

  “Oh, God,” Juliana sobbed.

  Rowdy laughter rose from the bailey below. Life continued with its relentless momentum, while her mother . . .

  “Mama, please. Come back.” Juliana sniffled and touched her mother’s cheek. Was it selfish to want her mother to keep living? Now, at least, she’d be free of pain.

  A soft knock on the door. “Milady.”

  Juliana slowly rose, uncaring of the tears dripping onto her bodice. She opened the panel.

  The maidservant, holding a
laden tray, said, “The fare—”

  “Please find my father,” Juliana said quietly. “Tell him my mother is dead.”

  Chapter Four

  Englestowe Keep, Moydenshire

  Summer, 1213

  Edouard, you are a wretched coward.

  Boisterous music, clapping, and cheering—celebration of the marriage between Landon Ferchante and his bride, Mayda—drifted from Englestowe Keep’s great hall as Edouard staggered through the forebuilding’s open door and out into the night. Sidestepping several sots sprawled unconscious on the ground, he heaved in breaths of cool summer air.

  His head reeled. “Damnation,” he said, then grimaced. He shouldn’t have downed so much wine. Yet in honor of Mayda’s marriage, her proud father, lord of Englestowe, had provided an excellent red imported from France.

  Moreover, in past months, discontent amongst Edouard’s sire’s allies over the king’s injustices had strengthened. In secret, many lords vowed rebellion was inevitable. Among them, Edouard’s father.

  For one night, ’twas good just to drown in the pleasure of now.

  And God help him, she was here.

  Juliana.

  Edouard stumbled away from the weak light coming out of the forebuilding and headed toward the keep’s wall. Earlier that day, he and Kaine—along with Dominic de Terre, Edouard’s father’s closest friend—had arrived at Englestowe to attend the wedding. When still boys, Kaine and Edouard had gone to live at Dominic’s keep to serve as pages and to be trained as squires. In due time, they’d earn their spurs and become knights.

  After Edouard had greeted his parents and Lord de Greyne, he’d turned to counter a remark from Kaine—and had spied Juliana. His words had shattered on his tongue.

  Edouard hadn’t seen her since that day at Sherstowe. He’d heard from friends that soon after her mother’s death, Juliana had gone to live with Mayda, her best friend, and that she planned to move to Waddesford Keep after the wedding to be Mayda’s lady-in-waiting. He’d written a letter to Juliana expressing his condolences for her mother’s death a few months ago, but hadn’t received a reply. Mayhap she’d never received the letter. More likely, she hadn’t cared to respond.