by Nicole Locke
“Is this acceptable?” Margery asked, further exploring the areas he’d allowed, behind his ear and along the rim of it.
“What?”
“My hand here?” She gently pinched his earlobe before going over his temple, then his brow.
Evrart closed his eyes briefly as her palm skimmed to explore the other side. “It’s...different.”
It was as if his bones were mountains, his skin the earth. She wanted to explore him. “How?” she asked.
“You touch me all the time. On my shoulder, on my arm, on my hand...” he said.
He held so still she wasn’t certain that he breathed or that his heart beat.
She shifted closer.
This man... She wanted him.
Reason told her that she should keep boundaries as large as the fortress. That she should play the game of false smiles and false words and then hide. Not be alone with him...not want to kiss him. But hadn’t she already realized he was different? That despite their differences in size and gender, they shared similarities? They were alike. He needed to defend himself, too.
Keeping her eyes on his, she continued what she’d started, what she seemed unable to stop.
Author Note
Here is a story that wasn’t meant to be written. Not so much because the rest of the Lovers and Legends series didn’t have “Oh, look who’s arrived! I must tell their story now!” moments, but because I had plans! Dreams! I was meant to write the last book in the series. I was supposed to write Malcolm’s book, but...
I had a crush on Evrart, and when Margery defended him against her sister, Biedeluue, I knew I had to write their story.
Yet how to tell their story when they meet at the exact time and place Louve and Biedeluue meet in The Maiden and the Mercenary? Only one way for it: there’s one event and many, many differing opinions on what happened.
No worries if you haven’t read the previous book. This story begins before and ends after The Maiden, so there will still be surprises. But if there are some scenes from The Maiden you need to know more about, Evrart and Margery are there to tell you all about them.
They certainly told me over and over, but I’m so very glad I got the opportunity to listen and write one extra book. I hope you enjoy their tale, too.
NICOLE LOCKE
Her Honorable Mercenary
Nicole Locke discovered her first romance novels in her grandmother’s closet, where they were secretly hidden. Convinced that books that were hidden must be better than those that weren’t, Nicole greedily read them. It was only natural for her to start writing them—but now not so secretly.
Books by Nicole Locke
Harlequin Historical
The Lochmore Legacy
Secrets of a Highland Warrior
Lovers and Legends
The Knight’s Broken Promise
Her Enemy Highlander
The Highland Laird’s Bride
In Debt to the Enemy Lord
The Knight’s Scarred Maiden
Her Christmas Knight
Reclaimed by the Knight
Her Dark Knight’s Redemption
Captured by Her Enemy Knight
The Maiden and the Mercenary
The Knight’s Runaway Maiden
Her Honorable Mercenary
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
To new friends brought about because of 2020: Taylor DeLong, Mary E. Montgomery, Isabelle Peterson, Arell Rivers, DeLisa Smith and Libby Waterford. You all are the reason I and this book (but mostly me) made it through.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Excerpt from A Blues Singer to Redeem Him by Elle Jackson
Chapter One
France, 1297
‘What do you think, my dear?’
Ian of Warstone waved before him. His posture, voice and sweeping gestures all indicating that there was a correct answer, and Margery of Lyon knew for her very life, she’d better know what it was.
Aware there was an audience waiting for her reply, she craned her neck to take in the tilled fields and orchards leading downwards and then up to a sprawling village winding around a dark monstrosity of a structure which blotted out the soft blue sky.
Warstone Fortress was...menacing.
Giving the guards who circled her a smile, Margery adjusted her reins from one hand to the other in the vain hope the horse she rode would somehow understand what she needed.
It didn’t—just as it hadn’t understood all the other hints she’d given it on this journey for the past sennight. For instance, her begging it to gallop away, to dash off in a different direction, to help her escape. No such good fortune for her, however.
The horse wasn’t to blame; it simply followed its master—who wasn’t her. The expansive lands and the forbidding fortress before her weren’t hers either. Nor was the man, Lord Warstone. She wasn’t even Ian’s mistress, but it was a role he meant her to play for however long he wanted.
In truth, if she were to give her true opinion on his home and lands it would be Warstone Fortress was beyond frightening. That she feared the moment she rode under the portcullis she might never see her family again.
That opinion, she knew, wouldn’t be the correct response.
‘It’s impressive,’ she lied.
‘You can’t even see it from there,’ he clucked.
That was because the horse wouldn’t swerve around the guard in front of her, and most likely wouldn’t move until Warstone’s horse did. They were both following Warstone. The horse she rode, however, was blessed with the ignorance of not knowing its fate. She knew hers all too clearly.
‘It’s difficult to miss,’ she added. ‘What with its...vastness.’
Ian’s pale grey eyes swept over her. She could have sworn his lips curved before the wind brushed his black hair across his cheek, hiding any sign of amusement.
Had she amused him? She wasn’t sure she wanted to. But at least now he’d turned to a guard and they were conversing. So his attention was—
A burst of laughter from the two men and she jumped. Judging from the sneer of the guard nearest her, her fright had been noticed. And frightened she most definitely was.
Ian of Warstone was dangerous.
She hadn’t needed him to abduct her to know that. All it had taken was his reputation, rumours and the fact over a week ago she’d caught him in a darkened corridor with a dagger at a whore’s throat.
She’d run before she’d known what had happened to that poor woman, but she hadn’t run fast enough not to be caught.
Pretending to stretch, Margery tried to slow her breath. This was only nerves. She must just think of this situa
tion like all the others she’d found herself in in her life. There was no doubting Lord Warstone was a bit more challenging than her past adversaries, but it was nothing she couldn’t resolve. She was still alive—which meant she’d lasted longer than she’d expected at least.
‘Is everything well?’ Ian said. ‘That palfrey isn’t any trouble, is she?’
Not for the reasons he suggested.
Margery patted its neck. ‘She’s lovely. I’m looking forward to seeing your home, that’s all.’
He gave her an indulgent smile. ‘Of course you are.’
What did he truly want with her? She hadn’t wanted to hear him talking to that woman about a missive to be delivered any more than he had wanted her to overhear it. She certainly hadn’t wanted to see terror in the woman’s eyes. In truth, she’d never wanted to live the life she was living, but there was no one to blame for that except herself and poverty.
Her brothers tilled the fields, her eldest sister had left their village to find coin in other employment, and she...?
She had agreed to Josse of Tavel’s offer to become his mistress. Then Josse’s gambling losses had resulted in her being sold to Roul. And living in Roul’s debauched residence had led to her stumbling across Ian of Warstone in a corridor late at night.
For months she’d avoided everyone in Roul’s residence by never entertaining, by only eating in the privacy of her chambers or, when that wasn’t feasible, by sneaking into the kitchens late at night. She’d gone to find food when Ian had caught her. No one should have been up. She should have been safe.
Yet if he was as evil as was reported, why hadn’t Ian slit her throat? Instead, after he had corralled her in a corner with a lone sconce, an arrested gleam flickered across his sharp features and settled in his unnatural gaze. A gleam she feared indicated something worse than a quick death. That gaze had contained something she’d been plagued with all her life: interest.
Even as a child she had noticed people’s stares. Her sister Biedeluue had recounted when she was an infant, she had often been taken by the villagers just so they could hold and gaze at her.
She knew it had had nothing to do with her soul or her demeanour, which at that tender age had consisted of eating, sleeping and relieving herself in linens, but everything to do with the lavender colour of her eyes, the flaxen colour of her hair, and perhaps the berry colour of her lips—or whatever fanciful colours she’d been described as having upon her birth.
It had nothing to do with what she had done, only what had been given to her, and it was something within the very marrow of her bones she didn’t want. It had caused her nothing but grievances for her and her family.
‘Shall we continue?’ Ian urged his horse forward.
The guards and her palfrey lunged forward as well.
The sudden movement lurched her sideways. The horse didn’t acknowledge her imbalance, or her tight grip, but merely lumbered on, step after step, because the others did. She’d seen horses that were docile before, but this one practically slept whilst it was awake. She wished she could ease her thoughts so easily.
On they went, past the orchards and into narrow streets which seemed to be closing in on her the farther they rode.
What did Ian want?
She feared she’d keep asking herself that question and would never come to an answer. When she’d asked him, he’d just smiled and ordered her away. Along the journey, whenever it had been time for bed, she’d undressed for him, but he had frowned and ignored her. She’d wandered around the camp, looking for opportunities to run, but always she’d been blocked by Ian’s mercenaries. He didn’t seem to want her like Josse and Roul, didn’t hold a dagger to her throat either, but still wouldn’t let her go. He threatened, but never harmed.
To think she’d been frightened of indulgent Josse and cruel Roul. At least they’d wanted her in the way men always did. Ian never looked at her as a man would a woman. He played his own game and she didn’t know the rules!
‘Such a frown upon your face,’ Ian said. ‘Is there something wrong with the streets of this village?’
This man observed too well. Living with Roul, a passively spiteful man, it had been essential not to give her emotions away, and it had worked. Roul hadn’t noticed anything of her moods. Of course he’d drunk and bedded much. Still, she knew she had some skill to distract men.
She widened her eyes and gave him a beaming smile. ‘This village is charming.’
Ian’s eyes narrowed. ‘Different from Pérouges?’
Pérouges. The answer she gave as to where she was from. Of course it wasn’t where she’d grown up. But it was close enough to her home that if asked for details she could give them, and far enough from her family to keep them safe. She needed to keep them safe.
Did Ian have a family? Were they in the courtyard even now? Maybe he didn’t have a family that cared...
Hers did—very much—and she missed them terribly. The irony was her family had tried to protect her from just this kind of situation. Abduction. Men. And here she was. Although, in truth, she didn’t know how long they have could protected her.
Her family were poor, and against their wishes she had accepted coin from men like Josse, like Roul. She had never regretted her decision to go with Josse, but she had been hurt by his recklessly throwing her away to Roul. Yet none of that compared to this journey with Ian of Warstone.
‘Your village is very much different from mine,’ she said. ‘Pérouges has all those stifling walls. This is very...winding.’
His eyes scraped across her—searching, no doubt, for truth—before dismissing her for the landscape instead.
Releasing her held breath, she tore her gaze from her abductor to three scampering dogs and the boys running amongst them. Trailing far behind them, a much smaller child attempted to catch up. Ian, and even the sneering guard next to her, slowed to give the child room.
It was one of the best-kept villages she’d ever seen. Not many houses—she expected that most people lived inside the castle—but there were well-tended land and fields.
The Warstones were wealthy, but in her experience wealth did not equate with well-tended anything. Josse’s estate provided him with a heavy purse, but his tenants wore threadbare clothes. Roul hadn’t seemed inclined to survey his property, but his servants kept to the corners and did their duties so as not to be seen.
Here, there was no fear in the people’s eyes, and the children had shoes. Finding sympathy from any of them to hide or protect herself from a despicable lord seemed unlikely, since the villagers who came out were reserved, but respectful.
Which begged the question: what maliciousness was Ian of Warstone hiding? Was his evil reserved for darkened corridors and mysterious missives? Did these people only know him in daylight?
‘I am pleased you are pleased with my...’ Ian trailed off, his eyes going distant, almost melancholy, before he shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want my mistress to believe I don’t care for my tenants.’
He did this. Spoke in half-sentences, on inconsistent topics, and then looked off into the distance. When he’d first forced her upon this journey, she’d tried to hide from his notice. When harm hadn’t immediately come to her, she’d realised she might live. Then she had wondered if there would be a chance for escape on those occasions when he muttered to himself and strode away, as if he meant to do something but had forgotten what it was. He always came to himself before she found the courage to flee. But flee she must.
She didn’t know whom she feared more. This man who seemed to hold no reason, or the cold, malevolent predator who had held a dagger to a woman’s throat.
They’d somehow reached the open gates, but her horse had stopped. Was it only now listening to her hints?
It was too late for that—and it was too late for her to take back what she had done before they’d left Roul’s residence.
/> Trapped and guarded by Ian, that morning he had left her side only once. She had assumed he’d done so to bargain with the man who’d won her in a game. At the time she hadn’t known of either Ian’s cunning or his distraction. She had been acquainted only with his arrogance and the knowledge he could kill her.
So she’d stolen a piece of torn parchment, ripped it again, and hastily written two messages. One to her brothers, to tell them she was in danger, the other to her sister, to tell her that she was well and having a grand time with a charming man.
Would her sister receive the letter that should keep her away? Would her brothers receive theirs, telling them to rescue her?
She moved in her seat to urge the palfrey forward. It still didn’t budge. Sweat prickled under her arms. It was too late for the horse to back away now!
Too late not to have sent those messages.
The guards were going through, hails were being shouted, and she watched as Ian realised she wasn’t directly behind him. She saw the deep frown, the cold eyes before he turned his horse around to stand beside hers.
‘What is the matter? Am I not benevolent?’ Ian said. ‘I could have simply killed you.’
She felt again the terror of being cloaked in his benevolence. ‘It’s my horse...’ she choked out through a throat that was closing.
‘I should have killed you,’ he went on, as if he didn’t hear her. ‘I even let you out of my sight whilst I took care of...’ He trailed off. ‘Unfortunate circumstances...foolish ones.’
Had it been foolish to beg her brothers to come to her aid? She was beginning to believe so. Maybe her brothers wouldn’t receive her message. Maybe Biedeluue wouldn’t be protective and check up on her at Roul’s.
She knew these were maybes. The most she could hope for was that the messages would never be received. Her siblings always came to her rescue, and Biedeluue was the worst—or the best.
Always, if Margery so much as snagged the end of her gown on a twig, Biedeluue was there to sweep her up and carry her away from any harm. She loved her sister for it, and understood why she did it. As a child, one moment Margery had been safe in her basket, the next Biedeluue hadn’t known where she’d gone. But her sister was stifling.
