A Knight's Temptation (Knight's Series Book 3) Page 5

  A sound came from the bed behind her.

  A muffled snort.

  Turning on her heel, she strolled past the moonlit bed, her gaze sliding up the rumpled sheets to the bloated swell of Baron Sedgewick’s belly, barely covered by the bedding. He lay with one arm over his flabby torso, the other flung out by his side. His mouth drooped in sleep. Saliva, running from the corner of his lip, glistened on his chin.

  His skin was almost the same pasty color as the sheets. Only linen didn’t grow wiry hairs that looked ridiculously out of place on his torso. So unlike the beautiful, muscular body of Geoffrey de Lanceau, whose chest hair had rendered him even more masculine and appealing. Long ago, when she’d curled her fingers through his hair, felt his muscles flex beneath her fingertips . . .

  How despicable, that the memory of him—after all he’d done to her—should elicit a shiver of desire. Quickening her strides, she walked to the trestle table pushed against the wall and picked up her polished steel mirror before returning to the moonlight by the window. Her reflection stared back, naked, but not so unattractive.

  Tilting the mirror, she inspected her body, almost as slim as years ago. The herbal tonics, creams, and foul-smelling potions crafted by toothless crones had helped her become slender and supple again. Staying beautiful was worth any price. Certainly worth every bit of silver she’d stolen or coaxed out of her victims.

  Geoffrey de Lanceau, Lord of Moydenshire and one of the most respected men in all of England, had desired her. For two years—before he’d cast her aside for a lady who became his wife—she’d shared his bed.

  Never would he forget it.

  A shrill giggle rose inside Veronique. Holding the mirror up to her face, she smoothed chestnut curls away from her face. Never, until the day he died, would she allow him to forget.

  “Every day, you become more exquisite,” a nasal voice said behind her. Bedding rustled.

  Revulsion clenched her stomach. As she had every day since she and the baron had escaped together from the king’s dungeons, where Geoffrey had sent them to await trial and punishment, she forced a sultry smile and turned to the bed.

  The baron lay with his head propped up on one arm, studying her with his small, bright eyes. The sheet had slipped farther down his belly. Scandalously low. Springy dark hair peeked above the bunched linen at his groin. Why, if the bedding moved a fraction more, she’d see his—

  He growled. “My thoughts exactly.”

  Arching one eyebrow, she said, “And what was I thinking?”

  Lust glinted in his eyes. “You were wondering if I wanted to fornicate, as we did earlier tonight.” His tongue flickered out over his bottom lip. “’Twas a lusty tryst. Satisfying, I vow, for both of us.”

  He’d squealed like a pig with a trapped hoof. Veronique smothered the urge to laugh. God’s blood, but he was revolting.

  He raised a fat hand, beckoning her to join him in the bed, while his gaze gorged upon her nakedness. “Did I tell you how magnificent you were last night?” He smiled, revealing his chipped and stained teeth. “The way you manipulated Ransley . . . He was like a witless ass.”

  Of course he was; she’d made certain of it. “We need him,” she said with a lazy shrug. “At least, until the mercenaries arrive.”

  Sedgewick nodded. “Clif will keep his word. Within the next day, they will be here.”

  Clif. Veronique well remembered the rough-looking poacher with a scar cutting close to his mouth from their meetings weeks ago, when she and Sedgewick began their plot to take control of Pryerston. ’Twould be the first of many keeps they’d seize in Moydenshire. With the help of mercenaries paid with coin raised by selling de Lanceau’s pendant, they’d take castle by castle. While Geoffrey struggled to manage his cloth empire and lead his armies, they’d wrest the entire county from his control.

  Clif knew many folk in Moydenshire. A smile touched her lips, for he was a forceful man, not only in his negotiations, but as a lover, as she’d discovered in their impassioned coupling in the stable while Sedgewick arranged a night’s lodgings.

  “Our plan is going well, then,” she said, holding the baron’s gaze.

  He grinned. “Sometimes, Veronique, you are so devious, you terrify me.”

  She smiled back, but inside, she relished a smug cackle. He should be frightened. But for now, he had no reason to worry.

  A soft rustle, and the bedding shifted. He followed her gaze to his swollen loins. A flush stained his face, glistening with sweat. “Just the thought of you last night—”

  Another spasm rippled through her. “So I see.” His skills could never come close to the exciting lovemaking she’d enjoyed with Geoffrey, but Sedgewick never left her unsatisfied. Why waste the desire prowling inside her, even if ’twas not for him?

  With loose, enticing strides, she moved toward the bed.

  A child’s wail carried from somewhere outside the solar door. Veronique glanced at the wooden panel, bolted shut. With an irritated sigh, she dragged her gaze away, smiled, and again glided toward the bed.

  “Veronique,” the baron whined, pushing up to sitting. His body quivered, like a naughty boy awaiting a wicked reward.

  The distant crying grew louder. Now, the child was howling.

  The baron’s lips pursed. “Surely not—”

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Veronique threw up her hands.

  With a frustrated grunt, the baron collapsed back against his pillow. Snatching at the sheets, he yanked them over his lower body.

  Another knock. “Lady Desjardin,” a woman said, her voice muffled through the door. The bawling child was gulping breaths.

  Veronique scowled at the panel. She knew that sound well.

  Her bare feet thumping on the planks, she crossed to the door.

  “Should you not cover yourself?” the baron called after her. “There is a blanket—”

  “I will not be long.”

  Veronique flipped the bolt and wrenched the door open, bringing in a fresh draft of cold air.

  A pretty, blond maidservant stood outside in the torch-lit passage, holding a little boy clad in a grubby tunic and hose. Her eyes flew wide, before she lowered her gaze and stumbled back a step. The child immediately silenced, startled by his sudden jostling, then started crying again. Squeezing his hand into a fist, he pounded it against the woman’s neck.

  Blushing, the young woman said, “I . . . am sorry to disturb ye—”

  Veronique set her hand on her hip. “Really.” Her gaze slid to the sobbing boy looking at her with huge, watery eyes. A tiny part of her heart softened.

  “I cannot seem ta make ’im ’appy.” The woman trembled. “’E asked for ye.”

  The child shuddered a breath. “Ma.”

  The loving little sound poked at the tender part of Veronique. The part reminding her that he’d grown inside her for long months, before he’d burst forth from her womb.

  A tentative smile touched the child’s pudgy mouth. “Ma?”

  Veronique sighed, but the sound had far less fury than she’d hoped. “Tye.” She reached out and took him from the woman’s arms. He curled his arms around her neck.

  “I will bring him back to you shortly,” Veronique said.

  “Aye, milady.” The woman curtsied, spun on her heel, and hurried away.

  Shifting Tye to her right hip, Veronique pushed the door closed with one hand.

  “Not happy,” Tye grumbled, his mouth pinched into a scowl.

  Lying on his side in bed, the baron scowled. “Neither am I.”

  “Wanted Ma.”

  “Of course you did,” Veronique cooed, nuzzling her son’s flushed cheek. She inhaled the sweetish scent of her child and struggled against another bloom of maternal instinct.

  She smiled down into her little boy’s face. He grinned back, his golden-brown hair an uncombed mess, his eyes as bright as berries.

  A handsome child, just like his father.

  Veronique’s smile hardened
. Aye, indeed.

  Just like his father.

  ***

  Aldwin chuckled as the tavern wench cried out in dismay. Got you, Lady L.

  “Sir Reginald,” she cried.

  Holding tight to her arm, ignoring her desperate struggling, Aldwin pushed himself up to sitting, wincing at the ache at the back of his head. He blinked to clear dizziness from his vision. How long he’d been awake he couldn’t say. Discomfort had roused him from unconsciousness, along with the mutterings of two men and a husky-voiced woman: the temptress, Lady L.

  He blinked again, while the blur of darkness and faint light around him gradually sharpened. Upon waking moments earlier, he’d wanted to lunge to his feet and pummel the louts who’d hit him. Aldwin had sensed them standing close, looking down at him lying on the floor that reeked of God knows what.

  His wits had sharpened enough for him to realize he was at a disadvantage rising groggily from the ground. He could easily defeat the two old men. But he’d be wiser to wait for a better opportunity to fight them. So he’d pretended to still be unconscious.

  What sweet reward that he’d opted for restraint. He’d only had to subdue one of her guards, who now lay sprawled on his back, motionless, his sword only partway drawn.

  “Sir Reginald,” Lady L said hoarsely. “Can you hear me?”

  Sitting upright now, Aldwin settled his gaze upon her. While his vision hadn’t completely cleared, he realized she was on her knees before him and furious at being captured.

  She twisted. Squirmed. Arched her body back, as far away from him as she could go—like a cat with its paw trapped.

  Surprising, how strong she was, for a woman. He tightened his grip, aware of her wrist bones jumping against his palm. A memory stirred in his mind, of a creature Ward had described to him one night, shortly before he’d died. Ward had called the large, catlike beast, caged by its captors and on display in an Eastern bazaar, a lion.

  Aldwin focused upon the blur of Lady L’s face. Her features became more distinct, and anticipation coiled up inside him. At last, he’d look her straight in the eyes.

  “Oh, God,” she gasped, tugging hard on her wrist and seizing advantage of his moment of gloating. He pitched forward, almost careening headfirst into her chest. Slamming his free hand against the filthy floor, he caught his balance. Scowling, he yanked her back.

  With a startled squawk and a thump, she bumped against him. Her wool-clad shoulder hit his before she wrenched away.

  A soft breath escaped him, knocked from him by their colliding bodies, but also by the stunning impact of their touch: her warm breath against his face; her sweet, honeysuckle scent; and her hair brushing his cheek. For a moment, the assault upon his senses rendered him immobile.

  He shook his head, forcing the sensations away. However enticing the contact, this wench was no lady innocent. She wore de Lanceau’s stolen pendant. Moreover, she might know the whereabouts of the baron and Veronique. If Aldwin brought about their capture, he’d be knighted for certain.

  Aldwin pulled Lady L firmly back toward him.

  Her breath rushed between her teeth. Her head wrenched sideways and she glanced once more at her unconscious comrade, while digging her fingernails—rather grubby ones, Aldwin noticed—into his hand. He ignored the pain. He wouldn’t let go even if she drew blood.

  Slowly, he pulled her forward, until her face, still turned to him in profile and wisped with streaks of hair, was a mere breath away.

  She swallowed, as though finally accepting she was caught.

  Then she looked at him.

  The weak candlelight provided less than satisfying light. What he saw, though, snatched the air from his lungs.

  Lady L was exquisite. More so than he’d ever imagined.

  Her honey-brown hair, once plaited into a braid, snarled out around her to frame her face like a mane. Her wide, almond-shaped eyes, as golden as a feline’s, sharpened in a glare that promised him all kinds of torments once she escaped. When she blinked, sparing him her outrage for the barest moment, her dark golden eyelashes swept against skin dotted with freckles.

  That defiant stare . . . His memories shot back to a distant summer and the girl he’d ordered tied to a tree. She’d looked at him with such spirit. Yet this woman couldn’t possibly be Leona Ransley; she’d died from bee stings years ago.

  Refusing to heed the wench’s threatening stare, Aldwin skimmed his gaze down the delicate line of her nose, also dusted with freckles, further proof she wasn’t of the noble class; almost all ladies of his acquaintance—with the exception of Lady Elizabeth—avoided the sun to keep their pale, unblemished complexions.

  Despite her freckles, this wench had a fetching nose, surprisingly slender and aristocratic. Was there noble blood in her, after all? She might be the illegitimate daughter of a lord who’d pleasured himself with one of the local strumpets and refused to acknowledge the resultant child as his. Aldwin had heard of such before. The likely explanation played into her amusing title, Lady L.

  Resisting a smile, he glanced lower. His gaze settled on her mouth’s rosy fullness. Her teeth were still clenched, and her breaths rasped between her slightly parted lips. A shiver of desire ran through him, for she had the fullest, most intriguing mouth he’d ever seen on a woman. Her bottom lip was plumper than the top one. It gave her a sensual pout that promised all manner of pleasurable sins.

  His groin warmed. Being a courtesan, she’d know how to deliver those sins well.

  Tossing her head back, she pulled hard on her arm.

  “Stop,” he said, surprised by the huskiness in his voice. “You will hurt yourself.”

  She stilled, but her gaze spat pure fury. “I will not be hurt if you let me go.”

  Her commanding voice made him want to shiver again. “That I cannot do,” he said, tamping down his inconvenient desire.

  “You could if you wanted.”

  He indulged in a lopsided grin. No way in hellfire was he obliging.

  A frustrated growl rumbled in her throat, barely visible above the neckline of her cloak, which looked dusty and worn. “Release me,” she said, biting out each word, “and I will hand over the pendant.”

  “A tempting offer.”

  She arched a slender eyebrow. “A wise one. I will not abide you groping around in my garments.”

  Groping around in her garments? A tantalizing mental image. He dragged his gaze down the front of her cloak and stared long enough at the swell of her breasts that she couldn’t possibly misinterpret his meaning. “Pity. A strumpet like you must enjoy a good grope.”

  He caught the whisper-rustle of her garments, sensed her fist flying toward his face, and ducked. Not fast enough. Her knuckles slammed into his jaw. The deft wallop cracked his teeth together. Certainly not a punch he expected from a woman.

  Where had she learned to hit like a man? Were there moments, in her service for less than favorable clients, when she had to defend herself with her fists? Had she needed to fight for her life when her two ancient bodyguards weren’t around to protect her?

  With a pained grimace, Aldwin rubbed his face. At the same moment, she twisted her restrained arm and broke free, almost tripping over Sir Reginald, still unconscious.

  Aldwin grabbed for her, but she scrambled backward, stumbling on her cloak’s hem. Sparing Sir Reginald a worried glance, she straightened and pushed to standing. When she rose, she reached into her boot, and he spied the glint of a knife in her right hand. Her hair snaked down her back like a silken rope as she spun and hurried toward the door.

  Aldwin stood, taking the candle with him. The bitter taste of defeat tainted his mouth. Pushing the candleholder onto a nearby shelf, he fought the near blinding urge to chase her. If he pursued, she’d bolt out into the tavern crowd. For all he knew, she had many loyal friends in this tavern who’d beat him senseless before they let him capture her.

  If she escaped him, he forfeited his promise to de Lanceau, as well as his chance for knighthood. Not only woul
d Aldwin return to Branton Keep a disappointment to his lord and himself, but such failure promised dire consequences—especially if Veronique and the baron got hold of the pendant. If they sold it and used the funds to hire themselves an army of thugs, de Lanceau—indeed, all of Moydenshire—would be in terrible danger.

  Stop her, his conscience screamed.

  “Wait!” he called.

  She held the knife in her left hand now. Her right hand on the door handle, she looked back at him. Her face tautened with defiance.

  He forced himself to stand very still. If he made even the slightest threatening gesture, she’d be out the door. “We have not yet made our exchange,” he said.

  Her slender fingers tightened on the handle. With a faint click, she drew the door open a fraction, letting in light and noise. She hesitated, long enough that he sensed he might still be able to barter with her. To coax her back into his arena of control. That is, if he treated her with the respectful care one gave an untamed lioness.

  “I traveled a long way for that pendant.” Aldwin reached inside his cloak and withdrew the bag of coins. He shook it, causing the silver to clink. “I cannot leave without the jewel.”

  “Pity. A knave like you must hate to fail.”

  Insolent wench! He bit his tongue and tried to ignore the sting of her words. “Indeed,” he agreed, “I would.”

  Her hand flexed again on the handle, as though to draw the door farther open. Such elegant fingers, for a woman of harsh circumstances. For one bizarre moment, he wondered how those fingers would feel running over his bare skin.

  “You still want the pendant, then?” Lady L murmured.

  “I do.”

  She waved the knife, indicating the floor between them. “Drop the bag of coins.”

  He frowned.

  “Drop it,” she repeated, “where I can reach it.”

  Anger hummed inside him. If she thought to grab the reward and run, she was in for a nasty surprise. “Agreed,” he said softly. “Then you will hand me the pendant.”

  “Fine.”

  For all her determination to flee, she sounded as eager to be rid of the jewel as he was to get it. How intriguing. If she’d wanted to forfeit the responsibility of such a treasure, she could have sold it during the days it had taken him to reach the tavern. She could have found a less-than-reputable merchant who would have bought it at a fraction of its real value. Less risk for her, and she still would have walked away with a payment.