Malcolm'S Honor (Historical, 519)

by Jillian Hart

  “You!” Elinore pointed her blade at Malcolm.

  “Help me with his armor, since you are the only man without work to do.”

  “You despise my idleness?” He chuckled, deep and as intriguing as midnight.

  “That and more. Now quickly. I must see the wound. Use my blade.” She jabbed the knife toward him, hilt first.

  His big, blunt-shaped fingers curled over the steel weapon, engulfing it. The thick blade appeared like a toy against his size and dark, lethal power. She read the cynical darkness in his eyes, hated the strength in his rock-hewn body. The latent power to kill rested in the thickness of his arms and shoulders, chest and thighs.

  Malcolm both took her breath away and made her blood run cold. He was a beautiful masculine form. He was a destroyer of life. The irony beat at her.

  Truly this was the epitome of man…!

  Dear Reader,

  The perfect complement to a hot summer day is a cool drink, some time off your feet and a good romance novel. And we have four terrific stories this month for you to choose from!

  Jillian Hart made her writing debut in our 1998 March Madness Promotion with her outstanding Western, Last Chance Bride. The same emotional and gently passionate style she’s developed in her Westerns is ever present in Malcolm’s Honor, Jillian’s first medieval romance. Set in England, it’s the story of Malcolm the Fierce, a loyal knight who captures a noblewoman suspected of treason. When Malcolm brings her to the king, the king awards Malcolm with the woman’s land…then forces him to marry her! Malcolm soon finds himself falling in love with his beautiful wife, but is still unsure he can trust her….

  In Lady of Lyonsbridge by Ana Seymour, another wonderful Medieval, an heiress falls in love with a knight who comes to her estate on his way to pay a kidnapped king’s ransom. Judith Stacy returns with a darling new Western, The Blushing Bride, about a young lady who travels to a male-dominated logging camp to play matchmaker for a bevy of potential brides—only to find herself unexpectedly drawn to a certain mountain man of her own!

  Rounding out the month is Jake’s Angel by newcomer Nicole Foster. In this book, an embittered—and wounded—Texas Ranger on the trail of a notorious outlaw winds up in a small New Mexican town and is healed, emotionally and physically, by a beautiful widow.

  Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

  Sincerely,

  Tracy Farrell

  Senior Editor

  JILLIAN HART

  MALCOLM’S HONOR

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and JILLIAN HART

  Last Chance Bride #404

  Cooper’s Wife #485

  Malcolm’s Honor #519

  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 One

  On the road to Dover, 1280

  “By the rood, we have company.”

  Lady Elinore of Evenbough turned at the sound of her protector’s voice. The tall knight, harsh as the night was long, did not seem alarmed at the cluster of men drawing closer along the forest road, only amused.

  “’Tis thieves. Look how slow they ride,” her father said with a laugh. “Luck is with us. We have been journeying for a good part of a sennight and still no sign of Edward’s knights.”

  “Do not speak of luck, my lord.” The knight took hold of his sword. “Nor believe the king will forget your transgressions.”

  “Yours, as well.”

  Elin considered her father’s words. He had told her little the night he’d interrupted her dreams, rousing her with only a shake of her shoulder and a stern order to dress to ride. Was the castle under attack? Mayhap an illness? Her questions had gone unanswered. She had packed a sack of clothing and two small crocks of herbs, and joined her father in the bailey.

  There had been only a handful fleeing that night, if indeed they were fleeing. Three of Father’s most trusted knights, and her elderly chaperon, Alma, who had cared for Elin since birth. Father had bidden them to remain silent as he’d led the way down the shadowed road. It had been thus for four nights, traveling beneath the cloak of a new moon, keeping out of the sight of travelers brave enough to risk the dangerous roads after midnight.

  Now it seemed their luck had turned. Elin bit back questions she dared not ask her father, a harsh and severe man—questions about why one loyal and close to the king would need to hide in the darkness.

  “Thieves can be easily dealt with,” Alma whispered in her ear. “But methinks those are knights. Look how black they are, for there is no moon to gleam off their mail. Were they thieves, they would wear even a small amount of colored cloth.”

  “Quiet, old woman,” her father’s knight ordered.

  Had they not been in such danger, Elin would have spoken. No matter his worth as a warrior, Brock could improve his manners, especially toward the elderly.

  “By the blood, they are knights.” Father’s voice resonated with a hollow sound—fear, mayhap. Or something worse.

  “Many knights,” Alma whispered again.

  Elin’s grip tightened on the reins. Without doubt, there would be a battle and much danger. She had learned long ago to think of her own safety, for her father had little concern for her or Alma’s welfare. In truth, why he’d brought her with him remained a mystery. Since her brother’s death in the Crusades while fighting at Edward’s side, the mere sight of Elin angered her sire.

  “Come.” She spoke low and touched Alma’s cloak. “We must hide.”

  A battle was no place for unarmed women. Had Father allowed her, she would not hesitate to carry a sword for protection. Her hand crept to the knife she kept at her girdle. She was not helpless. And any man foolish enough to believe so would discover how fine a warrior she could be.

  “Dismount,” Elin instructed when the forest proved too dense for the great horses. It mattered little if they were on foot. She had all she needed—a weapon in hand and the cloak of darkness. “Father will chase off those arrogant knights. Look how they challenge him.”

  “Do not be so certain,” Alma warned. “See that big knight, the one atop the black stallion? He is Malcolm le Farouche. Malcolm the Fierce.”

  “The king’s protector? You must be mistaken, Alma. What could Father have done to bring the king’s men after him?”

  “Treason.”

  “Nay, it cannot be. Father is loyal to the king.”

  “Your father is loyal to gold coin.”

  Elin could not argue that truth. She had long witnessed that flaw in her father’s character. His love of money had nearly been the ruin of the barony. His conscience did not so much as twinge at the thought of others going hungry in order to feed his greed. But treason?

  “Put down your sword, Baron Philip of Evenbough, by command of the king,” the black knight ordered.

  “I trust you not, Farouche. You have long been known for your dubious misdeeds.” Father’s sword slid from its scabbard, a sound of metal upon leather in the still night. “I command you, le Farouche, to put down your arms and let us go as peaceable men.”

  “Since when are a murderer’s deeds peaceable?”

  Elin could see the knight’s great gleaming darkne
ss as, clothed in shadows, he lifted his sword. Malcolm the Fierce. His voice came as sharp as his sword, hard as his name. She could see broad shoulders, wider than she’d noticed on any man, and the power of his arm. Painted in shades of night, he led the charge.

  “No!” She could not hold back the cry that tore from her throat. Her hiding place revealed, she slapped her hand to her mouth. But she remained unnoticed as the clash of sword upon sword and the blood cry of battling men filled the forest. She could smell the sweat of horses, the fresh musk of upturned earth beneath their hooves and the sharp scent of blood.

  “Down, girl.” Alma’s hand curled in the fabric of her sleeve. Not until that moment was Elin aware she’d risen to her feet.

  She knelt back in the shadows, her fingers growing clammy around the hilt of her dagger. Violence frightened her, but something terrified her even more.

  It came as a whisper in her mind, a shimmer of foreboding as intangible as the night. Her father would lose this battle. Had King Edward’s knights tracked them from Evenbough to kill or capture them? Or was Father right? Was le Farouche working against the king for his own vile agenda? Either was possible. There had been rumors, aye; there were always rumors. But as flawed as her father was, Elin found it hard to believe him capable of murder. And yet—

  “We must escape whilst we can,” Alma whispered, her voice raspy from age and fear. “Come. That is Brock who has fallen. There, on the ground by the lee side of that boulder. Do you see him?”

  “Aye.” Cold hard fear clenched Elin’s belly. Brock had failed to stop the dark knight, Malcolm the Fierce.

  “They may not know we are here,” Elin said. “If we attempt to move, they may spot us.”

  “Not in the heat of battle.” Alma tugged hard on Elin’s cloak and, stooping so as not to disturb tree boughs, took a small step. “Those knights are no fools. They are the best in the realm, chosen by Edward himself. They will count the bodies—”

  “Then count the horses, and come looking for us,” Elin finished. “We have no choice. We must run. Quietly, now.”

  A twig snapped. The fingers gripping her cloak let go. Was she alone? The dark shadows beneath the trees made it impossible to see. “Alma?”

  Cold metal touched her throat, and then a hard male hand gripped her shoulder with crushing force. Sinew and bone bruised beneath those mighty fingers, and Elin cried out. “Where is Alma? She’s an old woman. If you hurt her, you devil’s spawn, I shall make you pay.”

  Male laughter rang above the sounds of the forest. “God’s teeth, a warrior woman. I truly quake in fear.”

  She jabbed her elbow backward and struck chain mail and immovable man. Let him jest. She had not yet begun to fight. She lifted her right hand and slashed at the hard male fist holding a knife to her throat. She hit a steel gauntlet and did no harm. “Fie!”

  More laughter. “Easy, little dove. I do not hurt women.”

  Before Elin could stop him, he’d stripped the knife from her grip and lifted her into the air. She fell hard against the jagged surface of his mail. It bit into her flesh and she cried out again. When she kicked, trying to flee, he held her more tightly to his chest. Such a broad, unyielding chest.

  “Set me down.” She would not allow this man or any man to ravish her. Not without a fight. If only she had her knife. “Set me down, cowardly knave.”

  “As you wish.”

  Her feet touched ground, and she saw her father. She twisted away from the dark knight’s steely grip, running toward the old man who knelt on the bloodstained road, head bowed. “Father. You’re hurt.”

  “Wrongly accused is more like it,” he growled, anger fueling his voice.

  Elin knelt beside him. “You’ve a cut to your head.” She reached to better inspect the wound, but steel wrapped around her wrist.

  The great black knight stared down at her, and they glared at one another, eye-to-eye. Even in the shadows she could measure the power of the man, the strength and cunning that all should fear.

  But she would not. “Are you proud of your deeds? You’ve injured an old man and kidnapped an old woman. What a brave warrior.”

  She saw darkness in those hard eyes, a glint of warning. “Do not fool with me, maiden. I strike with the authority of the king. If you have more to say, then tell it to Edward.”

  “Nay, I—”

  “Silence,” he hissed through clenched teeth. His voice was low and dangerous.

  No good would come from pushing one so fierce. But Elin was not through with him. Not by far.

  “The old woman you speak of is safe with the horses.” The dark knight raised his sword. “Prepare for travel. We have a long ride this night.”

  Elin met his gaze, already hating this man of war and violence who had used brute force to carry her from the woods and who now raised a sword against her father.

  What knight was he who made the weak and the old cower before him? Well, Elin would not cower. She was not weak or frightened.

  But as she allowed another knight to help her onto her palfrey, she knew she ought to be afraid of the man of darkness, of Malcolm le Farouche.

  Malcolm looked down at the baron, wounded and dishonored. Had Philip of Evenbough committed another crime, Edward may have found some way… Nay, regardless of rank, a grave punishment awaited the man. Philip would pay with his life for killing Edward’s cousin.

  Now, what was to become of the girl? She ought to be safe in a husband’s bed, not journeying along dangerous roads with a traitor. A thorough search revealed only enough food to see the party to the coast, but no gold. Passage to Normandy had its price. Either the girl had been brought along to be sold, or Evenbough had a supply of hidden coin.

  Was she innocent or criminal? Had she known of her father’s actions? She was young, between fifteen and twenty summers, he wagered, and weighed little more than a child. Yet she was not helpless, as she appeared. The traitor’s daughter was no peaceful dove.

  “Bind him,” Malcolm instructed his men, pointing his sword at the dishonored Evenbough. “We take him alive to the king, as ordered.”

  “And the women?”

  He remembered the knife, now in his possession, and recalled how the maiden had wielded it with skill. “Bind them, but do not strike them. And take care not to tie the old one too tightly. Tell her that if she escapes, I will take her charge’s life. She will believe me.”

  Malcolm the Fierce had killed many and often. Even now three more bodies littered the road. But none were his men, of that he made sure. He worked them hard so in battle they would not be defeated, would not lose their lives carrying out the orders of a fickle king. What was justice in a world ruled by men? They were easily led astray by gold, power and women. Malcolm sighed. He’d seen too much in the Crusades, fighting for a cause he no longer believed in. He no longer believed in any cause.

  “Unhand me, you knave.” The girl’s voice rang with a bold fury.

  “Ow,” Hugh cried.

  Malcolm gave more orders to his men and, certain he would be obeyed, strode to the horses, arriving in time to see the traitor’s daughter land a mighty kick on the young knight’s shoulder.

  “Cease, maiden. Or I shall be forced to treat you in a like manner.” Malcolm wrapped his hand around her slim ankle, preventing further abuse to his knight.

  “You bade me not to strike her,” Hugh explained as he rubbed his shoulder. “Though I am sorely tempted.”

  “I admire your restraint.” Malcolm laughed as the female tried to kick her way free from his steely grip. “Behave, maiden, else I will let Hugh have his way with you.”

  “Ha! As if I would want one such as this,” the knight replied. “Give me a soft woman who knows naught of fighting, but much of loving.”

  Malcolm bade the young knight to tend the old woman, while the girl, mounted on the gray palfrey, seethed with silent fury. Decisions must be made. The journey ahead was long and brought with it danger, even for the best knights in the realm.


  “If I release hold of your foot, will you cease this unruly behavior?”

  “Mayhap.” Shadows shaped her face and cloaked it, too. He could not read her intent, but he heard the lie in her voice.

  Ah, so she was not as skilled a criminal as her father. Perhaps she was innocent. ’Twas not his place to judge. “Your ankle is finely shaped and delicate, but I am not fooled by your small size. Tell me, warrior maiden, do you carry another knife?”

  “Nay. You took my only one.”

  “And there is not another hidden beneath your mantle?”

  “Why do you doubt me, Sir Cowardly Knight? I speak the truth.”

  He caught sight of her chin, a chiseled curve of both silk and defiance.

  “Then you will not protest if I search for more of your weaponry. A king’s knight must take precautions.”

  “A king’s knight should not attack innocent travelers and force them to his will. I think you are not so brave, sirrah.”

  “’Tis not your regard I seek,” he retorted with a laugh. The maiden had the fire of a young mare, not yet tamed or ridden by man. “My loyalty is to the king. Only his opinion matters. And he wishes Evenbough and all who accompany him delivered to his court. You chose the company of a traitor. Do not blame me.”

  “I am no more a traitor than you. Mayhap less of one.”

  “Watch yourself, maiden, else I may be forced to treat you more harshly. But I am not yet cruel. Here is your choice. Either I search for the knives you keep hidden beneath your mantle, or I bind you like a prisoner.”

  Her mouth clamped shut. He could see the generous cut of her lips, bow shaped and tempting. ’Twould be a sad day when Malcolm le Farouche was tempted by any woman.

  “I would rather be bound by chains than have a cowardly knight disrobe me.”

  “We agree.” For even the sight of a woman’s bare, silken curves could never entice more than lust from him, and even then, a fleeting lust.

  He was, as they said, the fiercest of knights, void of conscience, void of passion. A man without heart or soul.