A Knight's Seduction Read online

  She adored his self-centered ruthlessness, almost as much as she loved his naked body on top of her, pounding into her…

  Braden approached the solar window and drew open the shutters to look out. Her body tingling with desire, Veronique crossed to the door and shoved it closed.

  Braden glanced at her. He was clearly trying to appear surprised. Yet, she knew him too well to mistake the glint in his eyes for astonishment. That fiery look was pure lust.

  Veronique indulged in a bawdy giggle. Hips swaying, she strolled toward him.

  Braden closed the shutters and met her halfway. “Why were you laughing?” He slid his arm around her waist. The scent of him—a blend of worn leather, fresh air, and pungent sweat—accosted her senses, rousing visions of their nude limbs entwined, thrusting together. Her womb fluttered greedily.

  Smiling up into his face, she said, “I am imagining Geoffrey’s rage when he learns Wode has been captured. He will be especially furious when he hears the name of the new lord.”

  Braden chuckled. “’Tis the only reason?”

  She nibbled his jaw. “Nay.” Braden always tasted so good: salty and spicy, like danger and excitement.

  As her hands prowled under his cloak, he said softly, “Should we not find Tye?”

  “We will. In a moment.”

  Braden’s heated gaze settled on her mouth. “Tye does have the situation under control.”

  “He does.”

  “The fortress is taken.”

  “’Tis.” She found the hem of Braden’s tunic, and then her hands slid underneath, to the bulge of his sex constrained by his snug-fitting woolen hose. Her hands closed over his manhood, and she was rewarded by his sharp inhalation and shudder.

  “Veronique—”

  “We will be quick. No one will miss us.”

  “Mmm,” he growled, a sound of definite interest. He shuddered again as she stroked his swollen flesh.

  “After all, ’tis up to Tye to lead this day,” she coaxed with her words and fingers. “’Tis his moment of glory. We do not want to take any of the victory from him.”

  “True.” Braden clenched his teeth against her continued torment.

  “And, we have a bed. A real bed, not a smelly, lumpy pallet.”

  With his free hand, Braden unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it on the bed, leaving the weapon close enough for him to grab it if needed. His arm around her tightened. As her hands slid up to his chest to unfasten the pin securing his cloak, he drew her lower body more fully against his.

  Veronique’s lips parted on a groan of desire. She’d fornicated in many places, but to couple in this solar where Geoffrey had been born, in this castle that he held so very sacred… How he would loathe such a deed. All the more reason to do it. Heady excitement made her limbs go weak.

  Still in Braden’s grasp, she turned and edged backward, until her legs hit the wooden bed frame. With a low growl, he released his hold on her, just long enough for her to push away his cloak. The instant the garment fell from his shoulders, he caught her to him, pulled her flush against his hips, and slammed his mouth against hers.

  His tongue lashed in a rough, hungry, possessive kiss. She kissed back. A harsh pant broke from her as she bit and kissed and suckled his wet mouth. Her thighs quivered. Her free hand moved, sliding between their bodies, delving through layers of fabric so she could yank up her skirts and take his hardness into her.

  “Wench,” Braden said against her mouth.

  She laughed softly. She’d never liked the word ‘wench.’ It sounded common; unremarkable. But the way Braden’s voice hoarsened, roughened, when he spoke it, made it sound like an endearment.

  “Aye,” she breathed back. “I am your wench.” She ravished his mouth in another heated kiss, while she pulled him down onto the mattress. The ropes squeaked as they landed together on the bed. After shoving aside her hand still between their bodies, he slid his fingers into her clothing. He was still wearing his gloves. She wanted— needed — to feel his bare skin against hers.

  Then the cold leather of his glove slid over her hot, slick flesh, and she gasped, arching her back, blinded by the pleasure. A moan wrenched from her. Oh, but it felt good—

  Braden’s gloved finger flicked over her most sensitive nub. Her head spun with the exquisite sensation. “More,” she panted. She wanted a lot more—

  Voices broke into her groggy, pleasure-hazed mind. Men were outside the chamber. One of the voices was Tye’s.

  She hissed an oath. He had better not interrupt. Not now.

  As her body tensed for another delicious throb of pleasure, Braden swore and shoved up to sitting. He pulled his hand from her just as the solar door crashed inward.

  Tye raced in, two mercenaries at his heels, their weapons drawn.

  Pushing up on her elbows, Veronique glowered at her son. Tye abruptly halted, eyes narrowing. With a sniff of disdain, Veronique sat up, tugged her garments back into place, and rose along with her lover.

  “Mother. Braden.”

  Braden adjusted his clothes and stooped to pick up his cloak. “I will go to the hall,” he said, snatching his sword belt from the bed. “I will check all is in order.” After a curt nod to Tye, he left the chamber.

  “Tye,” Veronique said, enough bite in her tone to let him know she hadn’t appreciated the interruption. He must have seen that the door was shut. He could have at least knocked. She glared at the leering mercenaries on either side of him, and their smiles vanished. Their gazes dropped to the floorboards.

  Frowning, Tye lowered his sword. “Now I know why the doors were closed. I had deliberately left them open.”

  Veronique indulged in a brittle laugh. “You thought servants might have escaped from the hall and taken to hiding in here?”

  He sheathed his blade. “’Twas a possibility.”

  She scowled at him. Damned, wretched nuisance of a son. “Was it?”

  Tye laughed as if she’d jested. “Of course. This castle is under siege.”

  “ Was ,” she corrected. “You won the battle. The keep is under your control. There is no doubt.”

  “I am glad you have faith in me, Mother.” His words were pleasant enough, but there was an edge to his voice. She didn’t deserve such disrespect, not after all she’d sacrificed in her life to bring him to this long-awaited victory.

  A thin smile settled on her lips. Mayhap he needed a reminder of just how much he owed her, how far he’d come in his twenty years because of all she ’d done to make him the warrior he was today. Within the next day or two, she’d find a suitable, unforgettable way to make that reminder very clear. Her blood heated anew at the thought of such a challenge.

  For now, though, she’d let him savor his victory. He needed the glorious taste of triumph to realize how much he liked it; once he’d tasted the all-encompassing power of a noble lord, he wouldn’t want to relinquish it, and that would keep him firmly at her side until the day he slew his sire.

  Walking past her, Tye went to the table and drew a leather-bound book from his cloak. He didn’t throw it onto the table top, but set it down with great care—unusual, for him. His attention shifted to the items scattered across the floor. “I see you inspected the solar.”

  “I did.” She smoothed her cloak sleeve. “If we are to help you keep your control here, we must be familiar with all of the rooms.”

  Tye snorted and drew a stack of letters, bound with ribbon, out of his cloak. He set the bundle atop the book.

  Curiosity drew her to the table. “What have you there?”

  “Naught that concerns you.”

  Her fingers itched to untie the shimmering ribbon and gla
nce through the missives. “Did you take these items from one of the castle folk?”

  “From a young lady. She is in the chamber down the hall.”

  Veronique leaned her hip against the edge of the table. “A pretty young lady?”

  “Very pretty.”

  She smirked. “Who knows what scandalous secrets you might have discovered about her?”

  He grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Well, then…” Veronique reached for the letters.

  His hand closed on hers in a firm grip. His bronzed fingers looked so strong and capable holding her gnarled, bent ones.

  Anger flared that he’d dared to stop her. Veronique inhaled a slow, calming breath and told herself she must let him win this day; later, she would bring him to heel.

  “This evening, we can enjoy what we have taken. Now, there is still work to be done.” Tye gestured to the mercenaries near the doorway. “Mother, take these men and go and find Braden. Search the rest of the upper level. Make sure no one is hiding in the far stairwells or on the rear battlements.”

  “Surely you have men checking the battlements already?” Veronique groused. The thought of going back outside into the cold made her bones ache.

  “I do. Yet, until we have counted prisoners and the dead, I cannot consider my takeover complete. And, Mother,” he smiled that wide, captivating smile that always warmed her heart just a little, “I know you are as eager to celebrate our victory as I am.”

  Chapter Eight

  Tye loped down the enclosed stairs of the forebuilding and out into the bailey. The snow was falling less heavily now. Flakes swirled in the breeze swooping in over the battlements and down into the bailey where the white ground was darkened by churned up dirt, bloodstains, and fallen weapons that needed to be collected and counted.

  Mercenaries guarded the gatehouse. The portcullis was in place and the drawbridge up, as Tye had ordered. More of his armed men walked the battlements, while others tended to prisoners herded together by the dungeon, some with their hands bound. No corpses lay on the ground as a stark reminder of the takeover; they had been removed. The bailey held a sense of controlled calm.

  Tye halted halfway across the open space and drew in a satisfied breath. Intense pride rushed through him. All had gone remarkably well. Wode, and all within its walls, belonged to him now. He thought of the willful lady he’d encountered earlier and indulged in a wolfish grin. She’d been an unexpected surprise, but one he intended to enjoy.

  Boots crunching on snow caught his attention. He turned to face a mercenary with greasy brown hair and an unkempt beard, walking over from the dungeon. “Three dead, milord,” the man said, “including one of our own.”

  Tye nodded. Losing any man was regrettable, but the mercenaries had known before the siege that grave injury or death were possible. “All is in order with the prisoners?”

  The mercenary scowled. “Most of them are refusing to cooperate. They will retaliate at the first opportunity, I am certain. If you would allow us to beat them or use our knives on them—”

  “As I told you before, ’tis not how I want things done.” Holding the man’s challenging stare, Tye added, “I want a list of the prisoners’ names. If neither you nor your men can make the list, get a captive to do it. At least one of them will be able to read and write.”

  “How are we to persuade a prisoner to write the list?”

  Tye smiled coldly. “You will find a way. After all, I have paid you very well to handle such matters.”

  Sounds of a struggle drew Tye’s focus to the men by the dungeon. One of Wode’s warriors, bloodied and wounded, resisted his two captors. “Start with him,” Tye said.

  The mercenary snorted. “That one will not help us.”

  Oh, but he will . Drawing his sword, Tye strode to the prisoners. Shoving several aside, he pointed the weapon at the chest of the man who still fought the mercenaries pinning his arms, despite the sheen of sweat on his ashen face and the blood oozing from his broken chain mail.

  “You,” Tye said.

  “Go to hell,” the man seethed.

  “Been there and back. Now, you will—”

  “I will ? Or what? You will kill me?” Hostility blazed in the warrior’s eyes.

  “Keep struggling and you will kill yourself.” Tye pushed his blade into the center of the man’s chain-mail-covered torso. “What is your name?”

  The man pressed his lips together, refusing to answer.

  Tye’s gaze slid over the mutinous faces of the captives until he reached a blond lad, cradling his right arm, who stood near the dungeon entrance. He looked no more than fourteen years old and was likely the son of one of the castle’s men-at-arms.

  When Tye’s attention returned to the warrior, concern shone in the man’s eyes. Ah. He suspected that Tye would use his sword on the injured lad. Tye had no intention of doing so, but the warrior need not know that.

  “If you will not help me,” Tye warned quietly, “I will find another who will.”

  “No one here will help you,” the man ground out.

  A shout echoed from across the bailey: a woman’s cry. Shocked murmurs rippled through the prisoners, and the mercenaries crowded in, jostling the captives, weapons aimed to keep the prisoners secured.

  Tye stole a glance. His mother strode toward him, Braden at her side. Stumbling along in front of them was a brown-haired boy of no more than eight or nine years, his hands bound in front of him. Blood glistened on his brow, and his cloak and the legs of his hose were wet and bloodstained.

  The warrior swore under his breath.

  “Do you know that boy?” Tye asked.

  His expression one of dismay, the man nodded.

  “Move,” Veronique snapped, walloping the boy across the back of the head. He yelped and staggered, almost pitching forward into the dirty snow.

  The warrior struggled anew, ignoring the press of Tye’s sword, but failed to throw off the mercenaries.

  “Tell me what I want to know,” Tye said, “and the boy will be safe.”

  Wariness shadowed the older warrior’s eyes.

  As Veronique neared, she grabbed the youth by the back of his cloak and hauled him against her. Her dagger glinted, a bright flash against the side of his neck; she forced his head back against her body. The boy’s terrified gaze fixed on the warrior, and the boy moaned.

  “Kneel,” Veronique sneered.

  The lad obeyed, his movements awkward. Once he was kneeling, she grabbed a gloved handful of his hair and pulled hard.

  “Another captive, I see.” Tye turned so he could address both her and the warrior.

  “I found him hiding behind some cart wheels propped against a wall.” Veronique glowered down into the boy’s face. “He was using a slingshot to fire stones at the mercenaries guarding the postern. He was trying to injure them and then escape out the door.”

  “Well done, Mother.”

  Her red-lipped smile broadened, turned cruel. “He will serve as an example for any others planning to try and escape.” Shoving the tip of the knife against the lad’s skin, she yanked his neck back further, baring the stretched column of his throat.

  Tye suppressed the urge to flinch. During rough questioning by de Lanceau’s men, he’d had his head wrenched back at a similar angle, and ’twas not pleasant. However, judging by the warrior’s rising tension, the boy meant a lot to him; the lad’s predicament was the extra persuasion Tye needed.

  “Be still now. There’s a good boy,” Veronique cooed to her captive. “When I cut you—”

  “Nay,” the lad gurgled.

  “Please,” the warrior rasped.

  “Hold, Mother.”

  Frowning, Veronique stilled. The boy drew in panicked breaths, his chest lifting and falling in a merciless rhythm.

  “Why must I wait?” V
eronique snapped.

  “Please,” the warrior said hoarsely. “He is my grandson. Witt is but nine years old.”

  Holding the older man’s fraught gaze, Tye remained silent, waiting. The other captives glanced at one another, clearly uneasy.

  The rebellion drained from the older man’s posture. His shoulders slumped, and he suddenly seemed weary. “My name is Sutton.”

  “You will do what I command, Sutton?” Tye asked.

  The warrior nodded once. “If you spare Witt, I will.”

  Tye lowered his sword and stepped away. “A wise decision.” He signaled to the mercenaries to relinquish their hold on the warrior. To his parent, he said, “Release the boy.”

  A furious growl broke from Veronique. “Tye—”

  “Do as I say.”

  She muttered words he didn’t hear, but lifted her knife away from the lad’s flesh. The boy dashed to his grandfather and wrapped his arms around his waist. Tears glistened on the lad’s face.

  Wincing with the pain of his injuries, Sutton curved his broad arm around the boy. “What have you done with Lady Brackendale? Is she safe? What of the other ladies?”

  “They are all well.”

  Through gritted teeth, the warrior said, “What do you want of me?”

  “To start, I expect a list of all of the prisoners’ names.”

  “Why do you want such a list?”

  Tye didn’t have to explain himself to this captive, but the reply was quick to land on his tongue. “Wode is my keep now. Every man on that list will owe loyalty to me.”

  “Not by my reckoning,” the warrior muttered. “When de Lanceau finds out about this siege—”

  De Lanceau . At the mention of his sire’s name, Tye tightened his hold on his sword’s leather-wrapped grip. “I care not about de Lanceau. I want the list. You will start it now.”

  ***

  “Someone is coming!” Mary whispered.

  Crouched by the hearth in her chamber, Claire frantically glanced at the drying ink on the open pages of the journal. She and Mary had just finished writing two detailed pages on their perceptions of Tye. Mary had been especially helpful at finding the right words to describe how menacing and thoroughly despicable he’d been.