Her Dark Knight's Redemption (Lovers And Legends Book 8)

by Nicole Locke

  ‘It must be done. Ian will keep with his plans until more countries are weakened, until he has more power.’

  Ian didn’t concern Reynold. Not as he once had because he had more important matters to attend to. Like lying in with his new wife, holding his daughter in his arms as he read to her. Teaching Gabriel numbers and swordsmanship.

  ‘You won’t need me, but I know he deserves to die,’ Balthus said.

  ‘So be it.’

  A curve to Balthus’s lips and a quick shake of his head. ‘God, how wrong Ian is to think you’re weak! Though I didn’t intend it, I think aligning myself with you was the better decision.’

  ‘Though I didn’t intend it, I think placing my trust, sharing my food and coin with you has made me poorer.’

  ‘In time, my Brother, I’ll prove my worth to you.’ Laughing, Balthus took a step forward as if he was going to clasp Reynold.

  Reynold held still. Not encouraging, but certainly not stepping away. After a moment and more than a bit of surprise, Balthus completed his movement. Clamping his outstretched hand on Reynold’s shoulder, squeezing it briefly before releasing.

  It wasn’t a familial embrace, or a handshake between alliances. But it was so much more than he had before.

  Balthus looked over his shoulder. ‘It appears another needs to talk to you, so I’ll take my leave. But know this: we drink again tonight!’

  Reynold kept his eye on Balthus, for there was only one person who could sneak up on him. ‘What do you need, Louve?’

  ‘Why can’t you ever hear me?’

  Reynold had asked himself that question many times. ‘Maybe I don’t want to—remember, I reluctantly took you into my employ.’

  Louve walked to his side and they watched Balthus enter the courtyard to announce to his men that they were leaving.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you this morning,’ Louve said.

  ‘You think me tamed.’

  ‘I think you have found love and I can’t wait to attend the wedding.’

  ‘It will be this morning, for tomorrow you will travel with Balthus,’ Reynold said.

  ‘So I’m to be passed from one bastard to another,’ Louve grunted.

  ‘You volunteered to be my hired sword,’ Reynold said. ‘Moreover, you won’t want to stay in Troyes.’

  ‘Stay?’ Louve quirked a brow. ‘You never stay at one residence.’

  ‘I can hardly be mobile now.’

  ‘Ah, yes, your burdens.’ Louve looked to the right, his mind far in his thoughts. Reynold gave him this, though everything in him urged to negotiate, to threaten. But this had to be Louve’s decision. It was his life after all.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Louve said. ‘Last night Balthus and I had an enlightening discussion about your family history. I thought you were immoral.’

  ‘I am. They trained me well.’

  ‘So though you don’t trust him, you expect Balthus to take down your family.’

  ‘Ian first.’

  Louve glowered. ‘You can’t ask one brother to kill another.’

  ‘I’m not asking him.’

  Louve smirked. ‘You are a bastard. All those late-night chats, the extra training, and you were setting me up. Should have known your friendship came at price.’

  ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘I never liked you. From what I heard, Ian’s worse, so should be easy.’

  Reynold pointed to a corner. ‘That chest is yours.’

  ‘Looks heavy. I’m not taking coin to ensure your vengeance is complete.’

  ‘I know you don’t work for my coin, but it’s Guy’s wealth. I’ll keep his land, but since Nicholas—’

  Louve held up his hand. ‘Since he earned it by helping kill Guy, I’ll be happy to cheat him and gloat about it when I see him next.’

  ‘There might be a bit of bastard in you as well,’ Reynold said.

  ‘You’re only now realising this?’

  Friendship. It was here all along. He simply needed Aliette to show him. Now that he had it, though...

  ‘Only take out Ian if it’s necessary. Only if it comes to it and you have the opportunity.’

  Louve lifted a brow. ‘It sounds as though you care what happens to me.’

  ‘Of course I care. I promised Balthus you’d get him to Mei Solis. He’s my brother, I wouldn’t want him lost.’

  Louve laughed low. ‘You’ve learned about promises and loyalty.’

  ‘Perhaps I have.’ Reynold went to one side of the chest. ‘Take the other handle and I’ll help you out with it.’

  ‘We could leave it here.’

  ‘You’ll need to put it in a hiding spot. In fact, split it up and find many hiding places.’

  ‘You could tell me yours.’

  Reynold stayed silent.

  Louve shook his head. ‘So we all get our own safeholds and we’re taking down your family...who has the backing of the King of England.’

  ‘France as well, although there’s difficulty in Gascony.’

  ‘All for this Jewel of Kings.’

  ‘And the dagger. They must be together.’

  ‘And a Colquhoun Highlander has them.’

  ‘He has the Jewel. I fear the dagger may be lost.’

  ‘You want me to help this Scot?’

  ‘I want you and my brother to get it first. Then we’ll keep them together and put them in hiding. We’ll protect it from getting in the hands of countries and those with ill intent. It’s too valuable and with its legend too dangerous.’

  ‘So we form...a society of mercenaries and spies to protect a treasure and a legend.’

  ‘It won’t be as difficult as you believe.’

  ‘I’ve been with you for years. Getting three men to agree on something this important is impossible.’

  ‘Not this time around,’ Reynold said, ‘because the players who would agree with me to hide the jewel have already been playing the game.’

  ‘You’ll be sending out your messages again.’

  Reynold gave a knowing smile. ‘I already have.’

  Louve shook his head. ‘All this intrigue and marrying Aliette this very morn. How will you get the church to agree?’

  ‘I am still a Warstone. I can do anything I like.’

  ‘And you’re in love,’ Louve added.

  ‘I am at that.’

  Reynold hurried his steps to return to his sleeping thief.

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this story check out

  these other books in Nicole Locke’s

  Lovers and Legends miniseries

  In Debt to the Enemy Lord

  The Knight’s Scarred Maiden

  Her Christmas Knight

  Reclaimed by the Knight

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Reunited at the King’s Court by Helen Dickson.

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  Reunited at the King’s Court

  by Helen Dickson

  Prologue

  Arlette Dryden had been a motherless child when her father and brother took up their swords in support of the Royalist cause, leaving her alone at Mayfield Hall in Oxfordshire in the care of loyal servants. The
news of a fresh battle having been fought between Cromwell’s army and Royalists at Worcester meant that Arlette, now thirteen years old, had made it her mission to hide her father’s horse, his precious Hector. A year before, the fine, huge, spirited horse had carried him in battle and brought him home wounded from the Battle of Dunbar, never to take up his sword again. Hector was conspicuous in the paddock. She would have to put him out of sight should marauding soldiers from Worcester come their way.

  If passing strangers could be believed, having defeated the Royalists, the Roundheads now posed impending danger, so Blanche, the housekeeper, had told Arlette not to leave the house. She had promised she wouldn’t, but, unable to bear the thought of Hector alone and vulnerable in the paddock, with the thought of a Roundhead sitting on his back abhorrent to her, Arlette knew she must defy Blanche.

  Panting and breathless by the time she reached the paddock, which stood away from the house, she had the satisfaction of seeing Hector nibbling the grass. Pleased to see her, the stallion nickered and tossed his black mane, arching his neck. She dared not risk taking him to the stables at the back of the house. They had once housed some fine horseflesh, but the horses had gone long since to serve the Royalist cause. Instead she guided him to a corner of the paddock where a hut was almost invisible behind a clump of overgrown laurel bushes. Urging him inside, where there was hay and water, then petting him and whispering in his ear that he had to be quiet, she went out, closing the door securely, hoping he would be safe.

  Hurrying back to the house, she hoped that Blanche had not noticed her absence. With only a vague memory of her mother, who had died giving birth to her sister when Arlette had been barely two years old, and the newborn not having survived, either, Blanche had always been there for her and she loved her dearly. Arlette knew little about her mother. She had asked about her often and found it strange that no one, not even her father, would speak of her. They always side-stepped her questions and quickly talked of other matters. Perhaps, she thought—for it was the only explanation she could think of—her father had loved her mother so much that it was difficult for him to speak of her.

  Besides, her father had enough worries. In the past, due to her father’s careful management, the estate had prospered, but the enormous fines imposed by Parliament on Royalists during the wars had almost crippled them. Any day now her father expected to be turned out of Mayfield Hall and the estate sequestered, which had happened to Royalist estates all over the country.

  As she glanced towards the orchard, her attention was caught by a figure standing in the shelter of the pear trees watching the house. Cautiously she made her way to where he stood, looking at him with curiosity. He was young—scarcely more than a youth—perhaps seventeen or eighteen years of age. His clothes were stained and torn, his face streaked with sweat and grime and strained with exhaustion. An unmistakable smell of powder clung to his clothes. There was a bleakness to his darkly circled eyes. Dried blood stained the shoulder of his doublet.

  The light from the sun was shining full on his face, and the sight of him caused Arlette a certain amount of unease. Where had he come from? she wondered. Holding her breath, she took in the beauty of him. It did not seem credible that a man could be so beautiful. He was unquestionably the most handsome male she had ever seen, with fine, clear-cut features that might have been described as feminine in their perfection but for the firmness of his mouth and strong chin. His dark brown hair, blackened by gunpowder and soaked in sweat, was clipped to just below his ears. He had strong shoulders under his dark blue doublet. His eyes were a vibrant blue that were normally filled with warmth and charm, but today burned bright with all he had done and seen with the besieged Royalists in Worcester. There was something about him that seemed familiar.

  ‘Who are you? I sense that we have met before.’

  ‘My name is William—William Latham—the son of Lord Robert Latham of Arlington Court in Warwickshire.’ His voice was rich and polished and had the tone of a gentleman. ‘This is the house of Sir Isaac Dryden?’

  Arlette nodded. His name was familiar to her. He was a friend of her brother Thomas. ‘He is my father. Have you been at Worcester? We were told there is a battle raging.’

  He nodded, his expression grave. ‘That is correct. It is over now and the King defeated. I was there. I—have news for your father.’

  Arlette stared at him, her instinct telling her all was not well with Thomas. ‘Is it Thomas?’ she ventured to ask, fearful of what he might say. ‘My name is Arlette. Thomas is my brother. He is with the King’s army.’

  ‘I know. We fought together.’

  ‘I remember Thomas speaking of you.’

  He nodded. ‘We were at school together. I am here at his request. I must tell you that there is a need for haste. Will you take me to your father?’

  She nodded. ‘He is anxious for news of Thomas. You look exhausted—and you’re wounded.’ She noticed how he held his shoulder.

  He breathed deeply. ‘It’s not easy to run for your life with a sword wound.’

  ‘Don’t you have a horse?’

  ‘I did. Due to the wounds inflicted on him at Worcester, I had to abandon him some miles back.’

  Tilting her head to one side she looked at him gravely. ‘Is there someone to look after him?’

  He nodded. ‘I met a kindly farmer who promised me he would take care of him. Now, I don’t wish to bring trouble to your house so we must hurry. The countryside will very soon be crawling with Roundheads searching for fugitives from the battle. Anyone found harbouring them will be granted no quarter.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll take you to my father right away—but I must tell you that he is very weak. It is thought that he will not last much longer,’ she told him in a small voice.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘He was wounded at Dunbar last September. He managed to make it back, but he has not left his bed since. Come, I will take you to him. He will be eager to hear what you have to say.’

  * * *

  Eighteen-year-old William tried to keep up with her as, light of foot, she sped ahead of him. An image of his stricken horse and the bullet with which he had put it out of its misery had been what he considered to be a humane kindness. The horse had served him well and it had been a hard thing for him to do. It was not something he could share with this innocent child. He had not lied when he had told her about the farmer. The man, a Royalist sympathiser and knowing William was trying to make good his escape from the Roundheads, had agreed to dispose of the horse.

  Mayfield Hall was a fine old house. The red brick glowed warmly beneath the sun, the diamond-paned windows winking in the light. They entered through the heavy oak doors and William’s boots echoed on the floorboards as he walked through the large baronial hall. Looking around him, he saw that, like many Royalist houses throughout the land, the war had left its scars. Fine furniture showed signs of misuse. Panelling and wainscoting had been ripped from the walls. Windows had been broken and left unrepaired. He made no comment as he followed in Arlette’s wake.

  After climbing the wide oak staircase to the upper floor he followed her along a landing where she came to a stop before a door. William looked down at her, aware of her concern. She was a child, very young—he was to learn later that she was thirteen years old. In her blue dress she looked disarmingly like some little woodland nymph. There was a strange intensity in her enormous eyes with their liquid depths, which were a cross between green and blue, and her curly mop of hair had the brilliance of sunlight.

  ‘Please wait here a moment. I’ll go and tell him he has a visitor.’

  William did as she asked, hearing muted voices from behind the closed door. After a moment she returned.

  ‘When my father left for Scotland he was a fine upstanding man. Please do not be alarmed by his appearance. His suffering has taken its toll on him.’

  Willia
m entered the room where Sir Isaac Dryden lay abed. It had the smell of a sick room and vials of medicines and pots of salve littered the surface of a dresser. Despite the girl’s warning he found it hard to hide his shock at the appearance of Sir Isaac Dryden. He was painfully thin. Against the pillows his flesh was waxen and clung to the bones of his face. But the eyes that studied him were sharp and shrewd and bright with intelligence. William moved close to the bed and gave a formal bow. There was no mistaking the gravity of the moment.

  ‘My daughter informs me that you are William Latham—your family home is Arlington Court in Warwickshire, which I recall Thomas telling me about.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Welcome to Mayfield Hall. You are the son of Lord Robert Latham, I believe.’

  William nodded. ‘He was killed during the siege at Colchester in forty-eight.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I knew him well. He was a fine man.’

  ‘Yes—yes, he was.’

  ‘It cannot have been easy for you coming here. News has reached us of the battle at Worcester and that it ended in a bloody defeat for the Royalists.’

  ‘The battle was doomed before it began.’

  ‘My son—Thomas...?’

  ‘Was taken prisoner.’

  A great relief swept over Sir Isaac. ‘Thank the Lord. You, too, have survived the battle and I imagine you are impatient to put as much distance between you and the victors as you can.’

  A fit of coughing rendered him speechless and left him exhausted against the pillows. Arlette moved closer to the bed, her young face filled with concern.

  ‘Father, you will tire yourself. You must rest.’

  The trace of a thin smile touched the old man’s lips. ‘I’ll have plenty of rest soon, Arlette.’ He gave another hollow cough and when it was over he looked at his visitor. ‘I am dying, sir—I’ve been dying ever since I was wounded at Dunbar. I have prayed the good Lord in his wisdom would keep me alive until my son came home. I see now that is not to be.’ He shook his head despondently. ‘Thomas was a scholar. He had no enthusiasm for soldiering.’ His eyes met those of the young visitor with perfect understanding. ‘Tell me what happened to him?’