The Knight's Runaway Maiden

by Nicole Locke

  “Balthus,” she said.

  The man stepped forward and shadows scattered.

  It was indeed the youngest Warstone, though he had greatly changed since Séverine had last properly seen him the day of the engagement announcement. That one tentative moment when she had turned her head and caught him staring at her. That odd singular time when she had returned his stare. That moment before an icy hand manacled her wrist and wrenched her away from a life she thought she would be living to something else entirely.

  She thought she’d exaggerated that moment, but he was here, and she felt the hitch in her chest again.

  He was beautiful, like all the Warstone brothers. Dark hair, gray eyes, chiseled cheekbones and a cut jawline; features softened by ridiculously long lashes and lips that were upturned just at the corners as if he was internally amused. He had the assurance of wealth and power, and the knowledge that with either precise kindness or cruel malice, he could have anything he wanted.

  This boy-turned-man was indeed of that loathsome family, but there had always been something different with him, and she was again slammed with that realization. She greatly resented it.

  Author Note

  When I started writing this series, Balthus of Warstone, one of four brothers, wasn’t supposed to live. Only one, Reynold, who broke away from the family, was noble enough not to be corrupted by his massacre-loving parents. (Why can’t I write happy stories!) However, at the end of Her Dark Knight’s Redemption, Reynold couldn’t kill his brother Balthus. I laughed and wondered if it was because Reynold had reached his HEA, so he was in a much better mood.

  Thus, not appreciating what was going on with these Warstones, I let Balthus into another story, The Maiden and the Mercenary, and then it was revealed why he couldn’t die. He’s a reluctant hero...my very favorite kind.

  However, under no circumstances could an innocent-in-the-ways-of-the-world woman take on Balthus and his broken views on life. Enter Séverine, a woman who lived with his vile parents and who will do anything to protect her two children from danger...which most definitely includes Balthus, her brother-in-law. And while she thinks Ian, the husband she ran away from, is alive, Balthus knows his older brother is dead. Yep, when he finally reveals that truth, it won’t go well for him.

  Which begs the question, can a single moment, one small smile shared between them when they were much younger, be enough for them to find their happily-ever-after?

  NICOLE LOCKE

  The Knight’s Runaway Maiden

  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

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  To my family, extended and close. To my aunts and uncles, cousins, nephews and nieces, who kept me company during the many days of writing. Who fed, watered, sheltered and took me out on walks. Thank you for sharing yourselves, your homes, and just, well, being there like family. Love you all very much.

  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

  Excerpt from A Viscount to Save Her Reputation by Helen Dickson

  Chapter One

  France, 1297

  ‘I must confess, Séverine, your living here like this was...unexpected.’

  Séverine of Warstone, once Séverine de Marteldois, the name she secretly still called herself, slowly stood from her hunched position stacking kindling and hoped the shadows in the woodcutter’s hut hid her reaction. It wasn’t the use of her true name that alerted her to a threat. Nor the fact that she had been identified despite her poor gown, the ash brushed through her tightly bound hair, and the vigilantly patted sheep dung around her ankles.

  No, her imminent endangerment came through the carefully cultivated construction of that sentence. Just a few words purposefully measured in a cadence to exploit fear.

  Ian of Warstone only used that tone of voice when he was about to strike. The tenor was different, but the control of it was the same, as was her reaction. That cold Warstone voice had always crystallised dread like hoarfrost along her spine.

  Only now it was terror that stopped her. Because of what she had done to him and his family. Because of the punishment that would be enacted, the torture, the public rebukes. The certain lifetime confinement.

  Because she had fled and disappeared from Ian of Warstone, her husband, and he would leave her with no merciful choices. Not that she expected any. After all, she’d stolen coin, priceless artefacts...his two only sons.

  Running and hiding, actions she had effectively done for almost six weary years, were futile with him this close. Ian of Warstone, the eldest child of one of the few families feared by monarchs, kingdoms and emperors, had found her. He’d seize her before she took one step away.

  Her life was forfeit, now she had to protect her sons. His sons. As long as no harm came to them, she would do whatever was necessary. In truth, she’d hidden from him far longer than she’d expected to. Long enough to avoid her sons from becoming the monster their father was. If fortune favoured her at all, it would always be so. For now, she would face the consequences. If only...

  But the slight uneven scrape of his boot against the ill-swept floor indicated that the figure behind her was not a figment of her nightmares. However, his presence was curious.

  Warstones weren’t known for being quite so impulsive. Ian would have secured her by now. Never would he have announced himself first when there were two doors to the outside and one was near her.

  There was also something about his step that was odd. Every one of his family was uncommonly graceful. Her husband’s lone faltering step was almost alarming...but heartening. Was running possible? Perhaps he was injured and too slow to catch her. But...her children. She knew where they should be, but there was no certainty, and there was no risking them. Not ever, no matter what would happen to her.

  Thus, Séverine, with a bundle of sticks cradled in her arms, turned to face a fate that was never meant to be hers. Only to be mired in more obscurity than her thoughts.

  She was correct that the shadows hid expressions—it c
ertainly hid her husband’s. The light from the opened door behind him outlined the man he’d become in the years since she’d seen him.

  He had always been broad, but there was something more substantial about his shoulders; something entirely different in the way he held himself. More raw than elegant.

  ‘Ian,’ she said.

  He inhaled sharply, as if she’d said something surprising or painful. He took another step inside the building. The light behind him receded, allowing her to discern almost familiar cheekbones and long lashes framing eyes below a lowered brow. The light didn’t allow for his distinct colouring, other than to see his hair’s natural waves edging along his nape, and that it was still as dark as midnight.

  Warstones were always dark.

  She remembered the first time she had seen that family at her eldest sister’s lavish betrothal announcement. Séverine had never cared for spectacle, but she did like to observe and listen. And many a jest had been made that day that there were four Warstone brothers for four Marteldois sisters. When she’d first overheard it, Séverine had had to cover up her snort with a quick cough. Though her sisters were expected to make advantageous marriages, as any royal member would, Séverine had had no such desire for herself.

  Her father, ever indulgent, had agreed. After all, she was far younger than her sisters, and not the prettiest. She was also...different. Her penchant for snorting, scoffing and giving any sort of reaction at all was one of them.

  Further, she had eschewed any knowledge of household management and fripperies. Instead, she’d enjoyed hiding in private chambers with her needlepoint, or meandering in abbeys to steal glimpses at books. While her sisters had conducted their lessons as if they were insignificant social gatherings, Séverine had badgered her tutors until they had begged her to stop her questions.

  She was fortunate. Her family were great patrons of the arts and music, and her enthusiasm had been encouraged. No, a husband was not for her. The life in the abbey was the one she wanted.

  And one she was denied by her husband, Ian, who had originally been meant for her sister, Beatrice, but who had demanded her hand instead. A man who was not the one in front of her.

  She clutched the kindling in her arm. ‘Who...?’

  ‘Not Guy,’ he said with malicious amusement.

  No, not Guy. She heard he’d met a violent death a few years before by some men he had crossed. Such a demise had always been a plausible end to the second eldest Warstone brother.

  Not Ian, or Guy. He certainly wasn’t the father or Reynold, the third brother, who had always been singular. He was far too strategic a warrior to limit his sword range by entering a small woodshed. That left the youngest Warstone brother...

  ‘Balthus,’ she said.

  The man stepped forward, and shadows scattered.

  It was indeed the youngest Warstone, though he had greatly changed since she’d last properly seen him the day of the betrothal announcement. That one tentative moment when she had turned her head and caught him staring at her. That odd singular time when she had, because she’d been either perplexed or bemused...or perhaps embarrassed or equally arrested, returned his stare. That moment before an icy hand had manacled her wrist and wrenched her away from a life she’d thought she would be living to something else entirely.

  Balthus was truly here in front of her. Over the years she had imagined that moment that had stretched before them until something had warmed her chest, and she had felt herself leaning towards him. Until his mouth had curved at the corner, and her heart had hammered, waiting for his smile. Snatched away too soon, she’d waited forever.

  She’d thought she’d exaggerated that moment, but he was here, and she felt the hitch in her chest all over again.

  He was beautiful, like all the Warstone brothers were beautiful. Dark hair, grey eyes, chiselled cheekbones and a cut jawline, features softened by ridiculously long lashes and lips that were upturned just at the corners as if he was internally amused. He had the assurance of wealth, power and the intimate knowledge that with either precise kindness or cruel malice he could have anything he wanted.

  This boy turned man was indeed of that loathsome family, but there had always been something different about him, and she was again slammed with that realisation. She greatly resented it.

  * * *

  Almost six years since she’d disappeared from his brother’s life, many more years since she’d disappeared from his...if it was possible to say she had ever been part of his. Yet two memories of Séverine struck Balthus.

  Her smile was his earliest memory of her. All encompassing, lighting up the darkest spaces in a young man’s soul. He’d never seen a woman smile with joy like she did, and for an entire day at his brother’s betrothal celebration, while people had knowingly alluded that the youngest sister was for him, he couldn’t stop staring at her, and when she’d turned...when she’d looked back at him...he’d imagined his life illuminated by such bright happiness.

  Until his brother had strode across the great hall and announced it wasn’t Beatrice he desired, but the youngest sister, Séverine. So with swift change of mind, and change of fate, the young maid who’d carried joy had become his brother’s unintended wife.

  Many years had passed since then, but now he had two memories that would torture his dreams...when he dared have them. That smile, and his last memory of her, the way she, at this very moment, said his name.

  ‘Do you need help with the kindling?’ he asked, indicating with his chin.

  Jumping back from him, some of the sticks in her arms fell to the floor. A step or two more, and he bent to pick them up, but her quick step back warned him, and he straightened immediately.

  ‘Clever,’ he said, feeling familiar yet unwanted suspicion slither down his chest as he registered her attempt to trick him. ‘Let the man pick up the kindling while you take the other exit and escape.’

  ‘I wasn’t—’

  ‘I don’t remember you being a liar.’

  He didn’t care that she flinched at the word he’d used, and it didn’t matter if she lied or not. He certainly wasn’t here for any truth from her. He was here for a piece of parchment that she’d stolen from his brother. Given her history of running from his brother and taking Ian’s sons, him being lost in forfeited memories had no place here.

  ‘I don’t want to remember you at... What’s wrong with your arm?’ she said.

  ‘It is—’ He released his grip on his wrist and tucked both limbs under his cloak.

  She’d noticed, even in the dim light of the wood hut, which he’d thought would hide his disfigurement from her. This day was both fortuitous and not. One, he’d finally found her, but now she knew his weakness. He hated it that he’d almost told her the truth, that his arm was agonising...it was agony. The pain made everything he did clumsy and ineffectual. At times, like now, simply walking jarred his entire body and caused him to stumble. The pain was meaningless compared to the veritable truth that his left hand had been severed a few months earlier.

  Since then anything he did in any sense was ugly. He couldn’t tie the laces of his own boots. He didn’t have an impairment, he was impaired. And this woman, who had haunted the last remnants of his young adulthood, whom he compared to all other woman simply from the way she smiled, knew.

  If he could rage away that pain of shame, he would. All his achievements had been reduced to this woman, and how he’d glimpsed what happiness looked like. His brother, his impairment, ensured she could never be his.

  He didn’t want to be here. His hand...or lack thereof...ached. It always made him lose his bearings. It was the reason Henry, a servant, was on the other side of the door behind Séverine to guard it in case she escaped. There was no mistaking Henry for any mercenary or trained guard, but he was built like a boulder. If she ran, Henry would catch her.

  A pinched look marred her forehea
d as she eyed his movements. ‘Where are my children?’

  ‘Wherever you left them.’

  Eyes flashing to his, hands clenching the sticks, she demanded, ‘Tell me!’

  All too simple finding her, all too easy if he simply blurted the truth. He’d come to Séverine’s family’s estate expecting to find clues to her whereabouts, not the maiden herself. Did she think her disguise sufficient? Though she stank and did well to smear some sort of dirt through her red tresses, no matter what, nothing could hide the green of her eyes or the bump on the bridge of her nose.

  ‘Does your family know you are here? Are they poor of coin and need you to be a servant?’

  She clenched her lips. ‘You have no right to know my family.’

  ‘Given that you wed my brother, I’d say I was family,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not my family. I want nothing to do with any of you, and I made that clear by my leaving.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m here now, and—’

  ‘Tell me what you want and be done with whatever else you need.’

  ‘What are you expecting, Séverine? Of course we’d want to find you. You have the Warstone grandchildren, after all.’

  ‘Don’t pretend you care. As if your family has any concept of children, and what it means to be a parent. You and yours only want abominations without conscience. Killers without morals, controllers without care. Why are you here?’

  ‘I suppose the logical answer would be I’m here to capture you and the boys, and—’ Her stricken eyes! He couldn’t finish that sentence. ‘I should be hurt by such an expression. Currently, your boys are as safe as you have made them without the protection of my brother.’

  ‘Typical cryptic response. Can your family ever speak plainly?’ she scoffed. ‘I assume that you already have them secured and you’re baiting me. Stop your games, Warstone, and tell me what is expected. What is it you want?’

  That was a question he would answer only when he obtained the parchment she’d taken when she’d fled from her husband. As far as he could see, this hut contained nothing but piles of wood, spiders and debris. Dressed as she was, there was also the possibility she’d sold the decorated parchment for coin in the years since she’d fled.