Vow of Seduction

by Angela Johnson

  GIVING HER NO TIME TO REACT, HE TOOK HER HAND IN HIS AND TUGGED HER TO HIM

  Appearing dazed and bewildered, Kat did not resist. He pulled her inexorably closer, until their breaths mingled. She inhaled deeply and her breasts rose, brushing his chest with tantalizing effect. Air whooshed from his lungs as though he were drowning.

  He released her hand, but before she could escape, Alex cradled her head in his hands and slowly dipped his head. She stood still as a stunned doe surprised by an unwelcome intruder. But the intruder was unrepentant and took blatant advantage of her lapse.

  Alex inhaled Kat’s jasmine-and-spice scent as he swooped down, his eyes intent on the absolution her lips bespoke. Finally, his mouth made contact, barely brushing the corner of her bottom lip, a teasing caress that made him groan with the need of a deeper communion.

  He repeated the reverent gesture on the other side of her mouth. “This is to seal our bargain, of course,” he said in a deep husky timbre, then covered her mouth with his.

  Vow of Seduction

  ANGELA JOHNSON

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  I dedicate this book to Joe Cowdin—

  my hero, my love, my inspiration

  For believing in me before I believed in myself

  Acknowledgments

  I owe a debt of gratitude to many people for making this book possible. Thank you to Kansas Writers Inc. for their unwavering support and encouragement; to my wonderful and talented critique partners—Tammy Ard, Anne Barringer, Morgan Chilson, Tish Glasson, Lori Martin, and Shayne Sawyer—for molding me into a better writer; to Morgan for her much appreciated work on the final edit of Vow of Seduction.

  Many thanks to Chris Hubbell, my tech guru who rescued me on many occasions; and to Leann and Shayne for lending a hand, or two, when needed.

  I’d also like to thank Marj Murray and the Interlibrary Loan Department at Washburn University for their assistance in my researching endeavors.

  Lastly, I thank Hilary Sares for giving me this amazing opportunity, and Megan Records, for making the transition between editors a seamless process.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Prologue

  In the year of our Lord 1267

  Montclair Estate, Kent, England

  Lady Katherine of Montclair squeezed her thighs tightly around Hunter’s sleek body and rode him hard. Sunlight speared the oak forest canopy, dappling them with heat. Leaning over Hunter, she whispered loving words into his ear and stroked her hand down the taut length of his neck and powerful shoulders. In response, his flanks flexed beneath her, thrusting harder, faster. Her heart pounded sharply and excitement pulsed in her blood.

  For her, there was naught more exhilarating than the raw sensation of her steed’s muscled loins pumping between her thighs as she rode at full gallop.

  Her nose pressed to Hunter’s neck, Lady Katherine, or Kat as she stubbornly insisted, inhaled deeply of the sharp tang of heated horseflesh. A bead of perspiration trickled down between her small breasts. And her short black hair, captured at her nape by a leather band, came free and stuck to her moist skin.

  Wearing green hose and a knee-length tunic, with her cropped hair and a quiver of arrows across her back, she looked like a lad instead of a girl age ten and four.

  Without warning, Hunter slowed his pace, his ears pricked forward. A sharp tickle rose on the back of Kat’s neck, chilling the dampness there. She tugged on the reins and pulled the black to an abrupt stop.

  The shady woods were eerily quiet. “Aye, I sense it, too, Hunter. But what?”

  Her head cocked, she peered through the leafy screen shielding the glen up ahead and listened for possible signs of danger. The wind sighed. Smells of rich loamy earth and sun-warmed leaves permeated the air.

  The sudden clang of steel upon steel rang out. Her heart jolted. Hunter whinnied. “Quiet, boy,” she crooned, patting his silky black neck while the sounds of battle echoed through the trees.

  Kat removed her longbow from the saddle, slung a long, slender leg over her horse’s rump, and slid softly to the moss-covered ground.

  She crept towards the clearing as quiet as a snail. Her blood pumped hard and fast. Her hand caressed her well-oiled yew bow, a ritual that never failed to calm her galloping nerves. Caution ruled until she ascertained the identity of the intruders on Montclair lands. Danger abounded from thieves and rogues intent on mischief.

  Stopping next to a stunted oak, Kat peered into the glade and gasped. Upon seeing the carnage in the once peaceful glen, she nearly dropped her bow from nerveless fingers. Near the large pond in the center of the clearing, two men lay dead, one with blood gushing from his neck, his head severed from his body. Two more men fought with swords in a violent dance of death.

  Her heart about to burst in terror, Kat could not move. For the shorter of the combatants was Alex de Beaumont, her intended husband. But long training side by side her father’s men-at-arms had taught her to fight through her fear. She took a deep breath, and then exhaled. A sudden calm descended upon her. A silent, fervent prayer upon her lips, she withdrew an arrow from her quiver and nocked the feathered end, then waited for a clear shot.

  Alex was at a disadvantage, wearing only his sherte, blood oozing from a shallow slash across his thigh. His shoulder-length black hair was wet and slicked back off his forehead. He must have just emerged from the pond when these brigands attacked him. The man he fought was dressed all in black and wore a gambeson, a padded knee-length leather tunic. A great hulking brute, he had a crooked nose and deep-lined forehead.

  When the ruffian lunged at Alex, Kat tensed. But Alex, using his smaller, more agile body to his advantage, sidestepped to the right and shoved the larger man as he stumbled past.

  The brute roared, turned with surprising speed, and charged again. Alex swung his sword up at the last moment to meet the other’s violent downward stroke. Their swords crashed to the hilts, sparks flew. Struggling against one another, their eyes glittered with malice.

  Sweat trailed down Kat’s temples. She waited, her arms tense with restraint.

  Then in rapid succession, the dark outlaw shoved Alex hard, Alex staggered back, and as he did, his sword came up and slashed the bastard’s cheek open. Blood spurted and the man howled in pain and surprise.

  Unfortunately, Alex tripped over the foot of one of the dead men sprawled in the grass and fell down. His head slammed into the ground, his sword hand smashed against a boulder, and he lost his grip. The hilt clattered against the rock and out of his reach.

  The dark fiend, his face contorted in rage, loomed over Alex and raised his sword high for a killing thrust. Alex cursed; in one smooth motion, Kat drew her bowstring, sighted her target, and released her missile.

  Hissing through the air, the arrow thumped into flesh, finding its mark. The outlaw, shock palpable on his face, blood dripping from his cheek wound, looked down a
t the arrow protruding from his shoulder.

  Another arrow nocked and ready to be drawn, Kat ordered in a gruff voice, “Drop your sword and back away from him, or my next arrow will sever your gullet.”

  The stranger, his black gaze cold and merciless, spouted inanely, “You’re naught but a lad.”

  Kat grunted. “A lad I may be,” she said. Bitterness twisted her lips. Though not a lad, neither was she a lady, meek and mild. Never had she felt comfortable in the role to which the Church and society dictated she conform. She followed her own path the way she thought best for her. Kat continued, “But this lad has the upper hand. Now do as I say.” She dared not look at Alex.

  The villain scowled, the wicked slash on his cheek like a big gaping smile. He seemed to gauge his chances, unwilling to accept defeat, before he finally dropped his sword to the ground and stepped back several paces.

  In a flash of white, Alex jumped to his feet with his sword in hand, but he stumbled in his haste. His attacker seized the moment of confusion and fled, charging for the trees.

  Nay, the knave shall not escape my net so easily, she thought.

  Kat turned and sighted her target. But at the last moment, with a wicked smile, she lowered her aim and released her missile. Just before he reached the woods, the man howled in pain and clutched his right buttock. Limping, he ran into the trees, an arrow embedded in his shoulder and another in the vulnerable flesh of his nether cheek.

  “Mayhap you shall think twice next time before attacking me and mine!” Kat hollered after him. Her hands shook in belated reaction.

  Not wanting to reveal how afeared she had been, Kat turned to greet Alex, a huge grin on her face.

  He, on the other hand, glared at her, his hands clenched at his sides. “You little fool, you could’ve been killed.” His gaze skimmed over her, his full lips twisted in contempt. “Any other young lady of breeding would have had the good sense to run for her life and leave the battle to men. How could I have forgotten you don’t have the sense God gave a ewe?”

  Kat fumed at the injustice of his diatribe. If she were a man—which she was not, unfortunately—Alex would be thanking her for saving his life, instead of scolding her like an errant child.

  She raised her hand up in a swift motion. “Enough. If I were any other lady, you would be dead right now. How is that for sense?” she asked, not hiding her disgust.

  Alex’s face reddened in fury, or embarrassment perhaps. In several quick strides he towered over her like some ancient monolith, grabbed her arms in a vise-like grip, and yanked her up against his chest, eye to eye. Defiant, she glared into his startlingly blue gaze, unnerved by the strange sensation of her small breasts cushioned against his hard chest.

  His eyes bore into her and an angry tic flared in his cheek. “How arrogant you are, Lady Katherine. I have escaped worse predicaments before and would have done so again. I had no need of your interference. And I certainly don’t need to be rescued by a skinny waif of a girl!”

  “Oh,” she cried out, “you ungrateful wretch.” She squirmed against him in an attempt to escape his painful grip, but he held firm. “And I’m not a little girl anymore, Alex, but a woman full-grown.”

  The irritating man quirked his black eyebrow in disbelief, sorely pricking her vaunted pride. I shall show him, Kat thought. She arched her back and rubbed her breasts against his hard body. “See you, I have breasts.”

  Shock glazed his deep blue eyes and he staggered back, releasing her.

  Kat cupped her small breasts and lifted them, just in case he needed solid proof. “Here. Look at them.”

  Alex looked down at her chest with a penetrating stare. Tingling heat suffused her and an odd sensation fluttered in the pit of her stomach. Her anger soon gave way to confusion and she dropped her hands. She glared up at him in challenge, not that he noticed.

  His sun-bronzed hand covered her breast and then squeezed. Heat speared through the fabric and into the soft flesh cupped in his palm. Kat inhaled, stunned.

  “So, Kit-Kat, underneath all that armor you hide behind, you have breasts,” Alex said, his expression bemused. “Though hardly full-grown, as you say.”

  The old endearment that rolled off his tongue warmed Kat briefly—he had not called her thus in eons—but his insult rankled.

  Kat lashed out. “I’m not a kitten, so you may stop stroking me like one!”

  Alex cursed and dropped his hand as if burned. His face turning red, he blustered, “Get your horse while I dress. ’Tis growing late, we should leave anon. Why your father allows you to roam the woods alone is beyond baffling. Were I him, I would have tanned your arse long ago.” So said, Alex turned his back on her, clearly expecting compliance.

  At his condescending words, all the anxiety and fear for her ailing father she had managed to suppress over the past weeks threatened to overwhelm her. It was too much. White-hot fury erupted inside her, consuming her, and she launched herself at Alex.

  Pounding her fists against his back, she screamed, “You arrogant sod, how dare you criticize my father. He is the kindest, most honorable man I know and you have no right to judge him. He is worth a hundred of you!”

  Alex turned around, grabbed her flailing arms, and pulled her to his chest. “Easy now, Kit-Kat. I meant no offense. Your father is the best man I know. Forgive me.”

  His compassionate understanding opened a rift in the solid façade she had built to hide her fear from Montclair’s people, and she began to sob in his arms. He stiffened, and then clutched her tighter. Never once had she let him see her cry, for she only showed the world the side of her that was strong, brave, and confident.

  Now, she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him, her face buried against the comforting warmth of his chest and steady beating heart.

  Alex rubbed his hands up and down her back, murmuring words of comfort. “Easy, love, don’t cry. Everything is going to be fine. You’ll see. Your father is strong. Easy, now,” he continued in this vein until her sobs quieted to hiccoughing sighs.

  When she calmed at last, she breathed in the pleasurable scent of his sandalwood soap and masculine sweat. His chest rose and fell beneath her ear, the beat of his heart a stirring melody. With each deep inhalation of his breath, his muscled strength brushed her young breasts. That odd feeling in her gut stirred again.

  She drew away, awkward and embarrassed, blaming her unusual emotional display for the disturbing sensations. Kat quickly turned her back to him, wiping away her tears with her fists.

  A warm touch on her shoulder startled her.

  “Come, your father no doubt is wondering where you have disappeared to,” Alex said gently. “I’ll send someone back later to get the two remaining brigands and make arrangements for their burial. But I need to dress first.” He pointed to the rock where his clothes were folded and started towards it.

  Strands of her hair hung in her eyes, and with an impatient swipe of her arm, she shoved them off her face and started after him. “Alex. Wait. When did you return home? And what brings you to Montclair? I thought you with Lord Edward,” she said, her voice riddled with anxiety.

  Alex turned to her, his expression wary. “Aye, I was. But your father sent word that he wanted to see me.”

  Kat shivered with premonition, knowing he was not being completely forthcoming. “And? Papa must have given you a reason for requesting your presence. I would hear it now.”

  “Come, I’ll explain on the way.”

  “Nay.” Kat drew up before Alex’s six-foot frame. Tall for a woman, the top of her head reached his chin. “I would hear all of it before another moment passes.”

  When he looked as though he would refuse, she clutched his arm to her. Her gray eyes beseeched him. “Prithee, Alex. You must tell me. I cannot bear another moment not knowing.”

  Alex tensed, his biceps straining beneath her touch. “Very well,” he said, his lips turning down in a grimace. Then he looked away, pausing, before he continued in a rush, “Lord Montc
lair asked me to return with all due haste, on account of his ailing health. He wishes to formalize our betrothal.” He turned, his eyes dark as midnight, his jaw clenched tight. “It shall be done this day, with our marriage to take place three years hence.”

  His chill voice did not bode well for their future. Stricken, though she proudly did not reveal a quiver of distress, Kat went to retrieve Hunter.

  Chapter 1

  Westminster Palace, nine years later

  In the year of our Lord 1276

  Fourth year in the reign of King Edward I

  Today was her wedding day. Kat stumbled on the flagstone floor. She clutched her cousin Sir Rand Montague’s arm tighter, quickly recovering her step. Afraid she would lose her composure should she look upon the capricious faces of the courtiers gathered in the chapel, her gaze sought her groom. Sir Luc de Joinville stood near the priest before the gilded rood screen. His smile eager and blond hair burnished bronze beneath the candlelit coronas hanging from the vaulted ceiling, Luc was handsome beyond belief.

  He wore a dark green surcoate or over-tunic embroidered with gold leaves around the neck and calf-length hem. It was cinched in at the waist with a jeweled belt that emphasized his narrow hips and broad shoulders.

  Hot and intimate, his gaze slid down her body and back up, meeting her eyes once more. Awe, pride, and masculine appreciation glowed in his golden eyes, the green flecks brilliant in the light. Then he flashed a smile at her, his teeth straight and white.

  She raised her chin a notch higher and continued walking down the nave of the smaller, more intimate palace chapel of St. John. Breaking protocol, Luc strode forward, taking the few remaining steps between them, and commandeered her gloved hand. Without causing a tug of war, Rand could do naught but release her. Sir Luc led her back before the scowling priest, his strong clasp warm through her calfskin glove.