Richard stumbled, but quickly righted himself in time to dodge Slane’s attack.
The flames closed in behind them, drawing closer and closer. Slane felt the approaching inferno at his back, driving him forward. He looked for Taylor, hoping she was staying close to him, relieved to see that she was. Richard took advantage of his momentary distraction and struck, bringing his blade down toward Slane’s chest and then slicing quickly upward. Slane fell, his sword flinging high into the air, the flames dancing in its shining reflection as it spun over the walkway and disappeared into the fire below.
Richard stepped forward and towered over Slane.
“No!” Taylor cried.
Richard’s gaze rose to Taylor before he raised his weapon for the finishing blow. “Oh, yes,” he answered.
Slane pivoted on the ball of his foot, lashing out with his opposite leg. His shin smacked into Richard’s legs, catching him off balance. Richard’s knees buckled and he tumbled toward the inner edge of the walkway. Slane saw his brother hit the rim of the stone wall and teeter on its edge. Slane lunged forward to catch him, but his fingers grabbed air.
Richard fell from the walkway, plunging into the raging fire burning in the courtyard below, his tortured scream quickly drowned by the incessant roar of the flames.
Slane stared over the side at the bright flames for a long moment. The heat smothered his face in stifling waves.
His brother was gone. Dead. He didn’t feel the grief he knew he should feel. Or should he? In the end, Richard had turned out to be an enemy, not the brother Slane had always thought him to be.
Slane lifted his gaze to Taylor.
Taylor launched herself into his arms and Slane caught her, holding her tightly. The wind whipped around them, fueling the inferno that was growing ever stronger. The fire’s angry howl rang loudly in his ears. But he didn’t want to move, didn’t want to let Taylor go. She was his now. He had fought and sacrificed everything for the woman he loved.
Finally, Slane stood, pulling her with him. He held her against his body, refusing to let her go, relishing the feel of her arms around him.
It was Taylor who pulled back. “We have to get out of here,” she said.
Slane nodded in acquiescence. He took her hand and began to walk toward the south tower, their only avenue of escape. But then a gust of wind spiraled the flames from below up and over the walkway, trapping them between its hungry arms!
Slane pulled back from the fire. He glanced at Taylor to see the glow of the flames highlighting the fear on her face. No, he thought. This can’t be. I can’t have rescued her just to be killed by this cursed fire!
Flames stretched their greedy fingers toward the walkway they stood on, forcing them back to the outer wall. Slane looked up, but no magical rope appeared, no flying carpet to spirit them away. He looked from side to side, but the hungry fire waited to engulf them everywhere he turned. He followed Taylor’s gaze to the water of Lake Donovan glistening in the morning light like a beacon.
“Can you swim?” Taylor wondered, then pulled herself up the wall. She balanced precariously and reached down to help Slane up. He had no sooner stepped onto the wall than the flame bit at the walkway, eating away at the wooden platform they had been standing on mere seconds before.
She clutched at him as the wind swirled around them, threatening to push them back into the flames. Slane clutched her hand tightly in his, partly for balance, partly in uncertainty.
Slane gazed into those bright green gems for a long moment, hoping they would both make it through this.
Then something crossed Taylor’s features, an understanding, a longing, a fear. Were those tears that made those green gems sparkle? She took one last glance at the flames, at the fire that had forced her into a life of hardship and misery. Slane could see the fear seeping from her face, replaced by a determination and a force of will he had always known to be the strength of Taylor Sullivan.
She turned back to face him, a soft grin on her lips. “Last one to shore buys the ale,” she said and launched herself off the castle wall.
Slane’s heart lurched into his throat as he saw her soaring through the air, dropping hard and fast toward the water below.
Then he jumped right after her and felt himself falling through the air. As he plummeted toward the glistening water, he saw Taylor strike the surface and plunge beneath the waters. It seemed like an eternity that he waited for her to emerge. But she didn’t surface. He hit the water feet first with a sharp jolt to his legs, then plunged beneath the surface. When his downward momentum stopped, he used strong strokes to bring himself back to the surface. He broke through to the air, taking a deep inhale. He quickly glanced around the lake, searching for Taylor. The surface remained quiet except for his splashing.
“Taylor!” he hollered.
Fearful images built in his mind. What if she hadn’t made it? What if...? Frantically, he dove, searching the water for her body. But it was too deep. He couldn’t reach the bottom. When he broke through the surface again, he was breathing hard. “Taylor!”
He heard a distant splashing. He turned and saw her swimming toward the shore. Relief coursed through him and joy bubbled in his heart. He started after her, but knew she would make it well before him.
Each stroke brought him closer to the shore until finally he pulled himself out of the water and collapsed on the grassy bank. He turned over, gasping hard. The rising sun struggled to emerge from the clouds. Finally, it peeked out, momentarily blinding him. But then its radiance was obscured by a shadow. He opened his eyes to find an angel standing above him. Or was it a devil? A smile stretched across his face. “You’ll do just about anything for an ale, won’t you?”
Taylor shrugged. “When I’m thirsty, I will.”
It was good to hear the levity in her voice. It was even better to see happiness shine in her eyes as she gazed down at him. She sat beside him, pulling her legs up to her chest. “Was what you told Richard the truth?”
Slane boosted himself up on his elbow, trying to look into her eyes. But she was looking down at her toes, which peeked out of the hem of the execution dress she wore. “You know it was. Every word of it. I don’t lie.”
Taylor lifted her gaze to him and there was confusion in her eyes. “Why would you want to marry me?”
Slane smiled. “Who else would leap off a castle wall with me?”
But Taylor wasn’t smiling. She was looking down at her toes, wiggling them nervously. “I don’t know how to be a wife. I’m a mercenary. That’s all I know.”
“I would have you no other way,” Slane said sincerely. God’s blood! Didn’t she realize how exciting she was? How beautiful and intelligent?
She planted her feet firmly on the ground. “I have nothing to offer you.”
Slane took her hand in his, drawing the gaze of her emerald eyes. “You have everything. You are all I want. You are perfect the way you are.” She cocked her head doubtfully and Slane grinned. “I love you.”
“You must have hit the water pretty hard,” she said.
“Why else would I have come back to save you?”
“It’s in your blood,” she offered. “Knight of honor and all that.”
“I know what I want, Taylor. I think the problem is you’re having trouble accepting it. You thought no man could want you.”
“Well, that’s not entirely true. I knew there were men who could want me. I just never knew one of them could be you.”
“I didn’t come back just to rescue a damsel in distress. I came back because I want you to be my wife.”
Taylor’s sharp gaze probed him; then she puckered her lips in thought, raising her eyes to the sky. “Lady Taylor Donovan.” She giggled and the sound warmed Slane’s heart.
“But there is one condition,” Slane said seriously.
Taylor shifted her gaze to his.
“I desire complete and utter devotion. I would have it no other way.”
“That’s an awful lot to ask,
” she mused.
For a moment, Slane’s heart sank. Then he saw the mischievous look in her eyes, the slight curl of her lips.
“Where would you take a mercenary to live?” she wondered.
Slane stood and offered her his hand. “You can’t go back to Castle Donovan. You’re still an outlaw there.”
Taylor grasped his hand and he pulled her up. “I’m an outlaw in many towns,” she observed. She cast a glance into the distance. A stray beam of sun broke through the clouds, shining down on a green hill. “I think it’s time to head home,” Taylor said. “To Sullivan Castle.”
Surprise rocked Slane, and then pride. He gently ran a finger along her cheek. “You’ve conquered all your ghosts,” he said with admiration, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her tight against him. “It will take a lot of work. A lot of dedication.”
Taylor stroked his cheek, gazing into his eyes with affection and tenderness. She kissed his lips lightly, brushing hers along his with a feather-light stroke. “We will rebuild. It’s time to start a new life, to stop looking over my shoulder.”
Slane nodded. “I agree,” he said, running a hand through her wet hair.
“Then I will give you what you desire.” Taylor stared adoringly into his eyes, all the mischief gone, replaced by genuine sincerity. “I love you, Slane Donovan.”
The words spoken from her lips ignited a powerful response in Slane. Elated, he pressed his lips to hers, encircling her with his powerful arms. Then he pulled back to gaze into her wondrous eyes. “I knew it,” he said.
“Pretty arrogant, aren’t you?”
“And why shouldn’t I be?” Slane asked. “I learned from the best.”
Taylor played with a lock of his wet hair, curling it around her finger. “For all these years I believed that there was no such thing as true love. What a fool I’ve been. There is such a thing. And it saved me, Slane. You saved me. Not only from the stake, but from my past as well.”
“Isn’t that what a knight of honor does?”
“That, and he marries poor, helpless mercenary girls.”
A large crash from the castle made both of them turn and look. The fire was dying, its flames withering, its deadly heat fading. The crackling flames spit one last venomous hiss before becoming nothing more than a mute whisper.
Taylor stepped away from Slane, facing the dying beast. She stared at the fading fire for a long moment, feeling a sense of triumph.
Slane stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.
And Taylor knew peace for the first time in eight years.
The End
Thank You
Dear Reader –
I’m so happy that you picked Taylor and Slane’s story to read. Taylor has turned out to be one of my favorite heroines. She’s feisty and strong-willed, and she wields a sword as well as any man. A mercenary who lives on the streets, she has come to think very little of honor. She does what she has to do to survive. Slane, on the other hand, truly is a knight of honor. He is gallant and chivalrous. He’s the type of hero ladies think of when they think of medieval knights. Thank you for choosing A Knight of Honor. I hope it transported you into the wonderful world of adventure, medieval pageantry, and love.
Please keep an eye out for my other books:
THE LADY AND THE FALCONER
THE ANGEL AND THE PRINCE (available now on the Kindle)
MIDNIGHT SHADOW
CHAMPION OF THE HEART
And my novella:
THE BRIDE AND THE BRUTE
I hope to entertain you with new exciting tales in the near future.
Laurel O’Donnell
www.laurel-odonnell.com
About the Author
Laurel O’Donnell has won numerous awards for her works, including the Holt Medallion for A Knight of Honor, the Happily Ever After contest for The Angel’s Assassin, and the Indiana’s Golden Opportunity contest for Immortal Death. The Angel and the Prince was nominated by the Romance Writers of America for their prestigious Golden Heart award. O’Donnell lives in Illinois with her four cherished children, her beloved husband and her five cats. She finds precious time every day to escape into the medieval world and bring her characters to life in her writing.
Website: www.laurel-odonnell.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Laurel-ODonnell/150078331715261
The Angel and the Prince Bonus Preview
The Angel and the Prince
In this exciting medieval romance, the French lady knight known as the Angel of Death wages a battle of wills and desires against her dreaded enemy -- the English warrior known as the Prince of Darkness.
Ryen De Bouriez is a French warrior, dedicated to protecting her country against the hated English. In place of glittering ball gowns, she wears shining armor. Instead of practicing the gentler arts, she wields a sword. Those who whisper her name in fear and awe call her the Angel of Death.
Bryce Princeton is the Prince of Darkness, an English knight sent by his king to find and destroy their most hated adversary -- the Angel of Death. Little does he know that his enemy is no man at all, but a beautiful woman who will challenge his heart and honor at every turn.
Forced to choose between love and honor, the Angel and the Prince wage a battle of wills that challenges everything they have ever believed in.
The Angel and the Prince - Prologue
France, 1410
The choir of voices ascended to the far corners of the cathedral, where sculptured angels listened with somber faces to the Latin words. Shining white marble pillars spiraled down to the steps of the great altar. At the top stair stood King Charles VI. Behind him stood eight small boys dressed in immaculate white robes, each holding a red velvet pillow with golden tassels at each corner. Upon every silky velvet pillow there rested a resplendent sword. Above and behind the boys, golden statues of saints stretched out their cold arms in welcome and forgiveness with unseeing eyes.
The king shifted his regal stance, his gaze locked on the tall wooden doors at the back of the church. He knew eight young men waited anxiously outside, their breath tight in their chests, their palms slick with nervous sweat. Each one would enter as a squire filled with a boy’s apprehension, and each one would leave as a knight of the realm filled with a warrior’s pride.
One of the banners caught his eye. It was for Ryen De Bouriez, the third son of Baron Jean Claude De Bouriez. King Charles scanned the mass of people before him until they came to rest on two men – the elder De Bouriez brothers. They were tall, even by knightly standards. Lucien was fair; his honeyed hair, blue eyes, and boyish looks were rumored to have cost more than one maiden her virtue. Andre was dark, with chestnut eyes and a heart of gold. Both were skilled warriors, and this pleased the king, for he knew Ryen would make an excellent addition to his troops. He studied the brothers closely. They shifted from foot to foot nervously; even Andre, who was usually so calm, seemed unsettled. The king frowned. Perhaps the two giants were uncomfortable with the civil surroundings and were eager to be out of the church. King Charles sympathized. The De Bouriezes were, after all, known for their prowess in battle, not their sociability.
The king glanced over row upon row of nobles in their elegant satins and velvets. The Countess of Burgundy was there. Not far from her, the flamboyant golden caul headdress of the Duchess of Orleans caught his eye. Slowly, his brow creased into a frown as he finished surveying the attending nobility. Where was Ryen’s father?
The choir of voices that had filled the chamber suddenly ended, their last echoes resonating throughout the cathedral until they slipped away into nothingness.
Glancing toward the trumpeters awaiting his signal in the balcony, King Charles nodded. When they put the long golden horns to their lips, the triumphant music began. All eyes turned to the heavy oak doors at the back of the church as they slowly creaked open.
Eight squires advanced down the long carpeted aisle, one behind the other.
Sunlight stream
ed in from the stained glass windows, reflecting brilliantly off the shining silver-and-gold plate mail of the approaching men. King Charles squinted as a ray of light shone in his eyes. He tried to be a fair man, judging all men equally, but he found himself anxious to see Ryen De Bouriez, around whom so much controversy swirled. The first time his name had reached the king’s ears, it was with the capture of Castle Picardy, the feat that had earned him his knighthood. King Charles had heard the same story three times, and with each telling Ryen’s achievements had seemed to grow until they were of Herculean proportions. Sine then, the name Ryen De Bouriez had arisen time and time again in casual conversation. The man’s strategic maneuvers were ingenious.
The initiates climbed the stairs to the great altar and bowed before the king, then stepped aside to form a row before their lord. As the squire preceding De Bouriez bowed, King Charles tried not to seem obvious as he peered over the top of the man’s head to get a glimpse of Ryen. Finally, like a curtain being drawn, the squire stepped aside and Ryen De Bouriez was revealed to King Charles. The initiate still wore his helmet. All traces of astonishment disappeared as anger descended over the king. It was disrespectful for anyone to wear a helmet in the house of God. The young man’s headgear covered most of his face except for his eyes. King Charles could see the striking blueness of them; they shimmered in the shadows of his helmet like a great cloudless sky. His gaze raked the young man again. He is very small indeed, the king thought. I cannot believe the great Baron De Bouriez squired this runt. Perhaps De Bouriez is absent because he is embarrassed by his son’s size.
Under his scrutiny, the king saw Ryen’s deep blue eyes fill with pride, and something else. Before he could discern what that strange spark was, Ryen fell to one knee, bowing his head in reverence.
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