Knight of Seduction

by Cheryl Holt

  He had absolutely no intention of liking his wife, and he was alarmed by the prospect that he might come to relish her company.

  “When you catalogue all my scars,” he said, “you make me feel so old.”

  “How old are you.”

  “Thirty years.”

  “Why, you’re a veritable doddering grandfather.”

  “It often seems as if I am.”

  She scrutinized his many prior wounds. “I think you’ve had a hard life.”

  “Some of it has been hard, but for the most part, it’s been satisfactory.”

  “You’ve lived as a fighter.” She appeared surprised by the discovery, as if she’d never realized that he had.

  “Yes.”

  “How will you adjust to being here—where nothing exciting ever happens?”

  He’d wondered the same all the way to Morven. The months of travel had given him plenty of time to ponder, and he’d convinced himself that he was ready.

  After the massacre in the Holy Land, after witnessing those Turkish heads being lopped off by Richard’s men—hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of them—he’d lost the fire he needed to continue on with Richard’s divine mission.

  He’d told her that he’d never lost, but he had. He’d lost faith in his king and his cause, in the Lord and His church. He’d lost the rage necessary for battle, and he didn’t believe in anything anymore.

  Richard had very kindly let him slip away—with his reputation for ferocity still in place. Hugh had never made it to Jerusalem, had never walked inside the walls. He’d grown too disheartened, had returned to Normandy, then to England.

  He welcomed the chance for peace and quiet, where the only skirmishing would be an occasional chase to track down cattle thieves sneaking across the border. He would build a home for himself, would forget all the wars and fighting. He would marry and have sons. It was a wiser, saner path.

  “You never took off your veil,” he said. “My bath is ended, and I didn’t get to see your hair.”

  “You’re not going to see it, either.”

  “You won’t have pity on an old, bruised warrior?”

  “No.”

  “You’re too, too cruel, mademoiselle.”

  He’d managed to coax a smile out of her.

  “Don’t use your fancy French words on me,” she chided. “They won’t do you any good.”

  “It can’t hurt to try.”

  They were out of conversation, and the room was very quiet. He gazed into her pretty green eyes, and it was the strangest thing, but he was overcome by the impression that he’d known her forever. Suddenly, he felt as if he’d come to Morven specifically to be with her, that she’d been here all along, waiting for him to arrive.

  It was a peculiar sensation, so strong that it seemed like a bewitchment and, needing to compose himself, he yanked away.

  “Fetch me a towel,” he requested.

  She went to the shelf in the corner and brought it to him. She held it out, then spun away, refusing to watch as he climbed to the floor. He wrapped it at his waist so that his lower torso was covered, but his shoulders and chest were still bare, his hair still dripping.

  “You can turn around,” he said. “I’m decent.”

  “Ha! There’s nothing decent about you, at all. Don’t pretend that there is.”

  “You know me well, my betrothed.”

  “I’m not your betrothed,” she insisted. “I’ve washed you, as you commanded. May I go now?”

  He didn’t reply, but observed her, memorizing every detail of her shape and size. Finally, unable to bear the protracted silence, she peered over at him.

  “May I go or not?”

  “I suppose you may—for the price of a kiss.”

  “Don’t be absurd. We’re hardly acquainted, and I’m not about to kiss you.”

  “Do you want to leave or not?”

  “Yes.”

  He raised an imperious brow. “I’ve told you my price. What’s it to be? Shall I have my kiss or not?”

  Her curiosity inflamed, she studied his mouth, and he could practically read her thoughts. She’d likely never been kissed and was severely interested in learning what it would be like.

  A nun, indeed, he mused.

  “I’m going,” she ultimately said, “and you won’t prevent me.”

  “Won’t I?”

  “No. I’ve figured you out. You’re all bark, but no bite.”

  “Perhaps”—he grinned—“but you oughtn’t to stake your life on it.”

  He clasped her wrist, drawing her to him.

  “Close your eyes,” he murmured.

  “No,” she said, but her lashes fluttered down.

  He bent to her and touched his lips to hers, then pulled away.

  He frowned. The embrace had been chaste and swift, but it had rattled him in a manner he hadn’t intended. He wanted to kiss her again; he wanted to kiss her all night. That unsettling sense of bewitchment was back. Why was he so overwhelmed by her?

  Her eyes opened, and she wrinkled her nose. “It wasn’t as bad as I imagined it would be.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  Another silence grew, and they stared and stared.

  “Maybe I don’t hate you,” she muttered.

  “We’re making progress.”

  “But please, don’t force me to wed you. I’m bound for the convent. It’s the best path for me.”

  “You might enjoy being a bride.”

  “I might, but I’m sure I would be an awful wife.”

  She begged so prettily that it was difficult to refuse her, but deep down, he was incensed. With his new status as baron, in addition to his friendship with the king, he could have most any woman in England as his wife. And he was incredibly vain; he couldn’t deny it. The more she protested, the more determined he became to have his own way.

  “Don’t marry me,” she beseeched him. “Pick someone who can make you happy.”

  “As you wish, cherie,” he lied. “There will be no wedding in the morning.”

  “Thank you my gallant knight.”

  She left, and he let her go, listening as her strides faded down the hall.

  He smiled, thinking about the morrow and wondering how thoroughly she would entertain him. When he demanded her presence in the chapel, how angry would she be?

  He couldn’t wait to find out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “He’s not an ogre. Not really.”

  “He seemed quite vicious to me.”

  “Well, he’s not marrying you off to a drunken knight, is he?”

  Anne glared at Rosamunde. They were in the solar, making plans for the day, arranging a welcoming home meal for Blodwin.

  “He might have,” Rosamunde complained.

  “But he didn’t. He was jesting. He acts like a beast—I suspect he enjoys it—but he can actually be pleasant when he stops snarling and barking.”

  “Pleasant! You’re joking. He is so large and so…so…manly.” Rosamunde shuddered. “What if he’d been serious? What if he’d forced me to marry? I can’t imagine having to lie down with him. If he touched my private parts, I’d die of embarrassment.”

  At Rosamunde’s dramatic comment, Anne chuckled.

  They were both very old to still be maidens. Husbands had never been found for them. Anne hadn’t wanted one, and while Rosamunde would have liked to wed, Geoffrey was the only fellow who’d ever caught her fancy, and he was unsuitable.

  Their father had been more interested in courtly intrigues and had refused to bother with such paltry issues as finding a spouse for his daughter.

  Blodwin probably could have proceeded without his permission, but Blodwin was so tight-fisted. She cringed at the notion of paying out a dowry. So Anne and Rosamunde hadn’t had to face the consequences of matrimony, which had left them both relieved.

  On one embarrassing occasion, Blodwin had discussed marriage and marital duty, but she’d talked in riddles. She’d mentioned words such as
wifely obligation and submission, but had provided very little by way of clarity.

  Anne and Rosamunde had come away from the conversation with few clear details. They comprehended that a husband would visit his wife’s bed at night, and she had to allow him unspeakable liberties.

  Beyond those obscure hints, it was a muddle as to what was required, and the mystery only added to Anne’s desire to take vows. Let some other woman succumb to her husband’s lecherous passions. Anne had no wish to sacrifice herself.

  Or at least, that’s what she’d assumed.

  After her intimate escapade with Lord Hugh the previous evening, she was extremely disconcerted. She kept thinking about him, how he’d appeared without his clothes, how he’d coaxed her into doing things she hadn’t meant to do.

  He had a manner of looking at her, as if he knew her innermost thoughts, as if he grasped what she truly craved. His perceptive inclinations scared her.

  Though she’d never admitted it to anyone, she had wild tendencies that were carefully concealed. Perhaps it was her red hair as Father Eustace always claimed, or perhaps it was her mother’s wicked blood flowing in her veins. There were times when Anne was desperate to shuck off the constraints that bound her. She yearned to run barefoot in the moonlight, to sing out loud at the supper table, to shed her attire and dive into the lake on a summer day.

  She wanted to yank off her veil, to unbraid her beautiful hair—and it was beautiful, despite what a finicky old priest said about it—and twirl and twirl in circles so that it floated out behind her.

  Her propensity for rash behavior was the main reason she was anxious to go to the convent, where life was so meticulously conscribed. It was difficult to constantly ignore her immoral appetites, to be submissive and obedient and meek. She felt as if she’d been crammed into a body that was too small for her, and she longed for the restraint the convent would supply.

  When Lord Hugh smiled at her, it seemed as if he’d uncovered her secret, that he knew how she’d act if no one was watching.

  She’d tossed and turned till dawn, pondering their kiss, pondering him. She was prickly all over, hot and cold and unable to relax, and she couldn’t be alone with him again. She was afraid of what she might allow. She was afraid of what he might coerce from her.

  A knock banged on the door, and before Anne could inquire as to who was there, a maid burst in without gaining their permission to enter.

  “Lady Rosamunde!” she huffed, out of breath from her race up the stairs.

  “What is it?” Rosamunde asked. “What’s happened?”

  “I overheard Master Henry, the new lord’s cousin?”

  “Yes, what of him?”

  “He says Lord Hugh is on his way to the chapel—to his wedding.”

  Rosamunde scowled. “His wedding to whom? Who is he marrying?”

  “You!”

  Anne gasped. The morning bells had just chimed.

  “I thought you talked him out of it,” Rosamunde charged.

  “I did!” Anne insisted.

  “It doesn’t sound like it. It sounds as if he’s about to marry someone, and it isn’t going to be me.”

  “He lied,” Anne muttered. “He lied to my face!”

  She couldn’t believe it. They’d established a rapport. He’d understood her position, had agreed to select a different bride.

  What a fraud! What a fiend!

  Rosamunde’s brother, Cadel, hurried in. He was sixteen, blond and blue-eyed like Rosamunde. Spoiled and fussy like her, too.

  He was Ranulf’s only son, and he’d grown up expecting that Morven would be his when Ranulf passed on. At Ranulf being branded a traitor and hanged, with Lord Hugh receiving his title and estate from the king, no one had suffered a bigger loss than Cadel.

  For months, they’d known Hugh was coming to Morven, that he would seize control and deal with the occupants as he saw fit, but it was impossible to guess what he would do to Cadel. The sins of the father were often visited on the son. Hugh could slay Cadel or beggar him or sell him into slavery, and they couldn’t stop him.

  With Blodwin out of the castle, they’d enjoyed a measure of liberty they never had when she and Father Eustace were lording themselves over everyone. Cadel had exhausted his freedom in a neighboring town, where he was infatuated with a tavern girl. The girl’s mother was pleased to have such a grand boy sniffing around. She encouraged Cadel, certain the relationship would bring wealth to her family, but the woman was a fool. Even if her daughter ended up with child, Cadel would never provide for her. Blodwin wouldn’t let him.

  When Hugh had arrived the previous day, Cadel had been gone, and Anne had been so distracted by Hugh’s appearance that she hadn’t considered sending for Cadel. What could he have done anyway?

  None of them could shout or threaten or demand that Hugh leave, and in Anne’s opinion, the longer Cadel stayed hidden from Hugh, the better.

  “What is it I just heard?” Cadel inquired. “What is this nonsense about a wedding?”

  Rosamunde shooed the maid out the door, then turned to Cadel.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “He thinks he’s marrying me, but—“

  “I’ll kill him first,” Cadel absurdly raged.

  Obviously, he hadn’t yet seen Lord Hugh. Cadel had a slight built and wasn’t much larger than Anne, and he’d never been trained to fight as he should have been. In a brawl with Hugh, he’d do no more damage than a gnat on a horse’s rump.

  “No, no, listen,” Rosamunde said. “Anne and I played a trick on him. We switched places when we introduced ourselves. He believes she is me. He believes she is Lady Rosamunde.”

  Cadel smiled a sly smile. “So we let the wedding proceed. He’ll assume he’s marrying Ranulf’s daughter, and once it’s over, he’ll look like an idiot.”

  Anne ignored his rude contention that she wasn’t Ranulf’s child, and she snapped, “Absolutely not! We’re not forging ahead.”

  “Why?” Cadel scowled. “It’s a brilliant scheme!”

  “Because I’d be married to him.”

  “We’d get it annulled for you,” Cadel said.

  “Annulled! Are you mad? The king told him he can choose whoever he wants for his bride. There’d be no grounds for an annulment.”

  “He’d have to consummate the union for it to be valid.”

  “He won’t have any trouble consummating. He’s twice my size. He could force me into any conduct.”

  “Oh, what should we do?” Rosamunde wailed. “We can’t tell him that we deceived him. He’d be so angry with us.” She started wringing her hands with dismay. “You haven’t met him, Cadel. You don’t know what he’s like. If he learns of our charade, there’s no predicting how he’ll respond. And if he finds out that I am Rosamunde…”

  Her voice trailed off, her panic clear. If Lord Hugh discovered her true identify, he might drag her to the altar instead of Anne.

  “He can’t marry either one of you,” Cadel asserted. “He murdered Father. It’s unseemly for him to even contemplate it. The man is insane.”

  Hard footsteps were suddenly pounding up the stairs. A group of determined men were marching in their direction. Anne’s heart actually skipped several beats.

  “For goodness sake,” she moaned, “they’re coming for me.”

  “Stall them,” Cadel urged.

  “How?”

  “You’ll think of something.” He dashed to the rear servant’s stairs.

  “Where are you going?” Rosamunde asked. “You can’t leave us here to face them alone.”

  “I heard in the village that Mother and Father Eustace have been spotted a few miles out. I’ll ride to fetch them and hurry them along. They’ll put a stop to this entire farce. Stall!” he said again, and then, he vanished.

  Anne could barely breathe. She felt as if she was standing on the gallows and about to have a noose slipped ‘round her neck. A fist thumped on the door, and she gulped with terror.

  “What should I say?” she h
issed.

  “I have no idea,” Rosamunde hissed in reply.

  “You have to tell them who you are. You have to tell them your real name.”

  “No! If I confess it, they’ll take me away with them.”

  “So we have to let them take me? Is that your plan?”

  “No! Just delay, as Cadel advised. He’ll be back with Mother as fast as he can. She’d deal with Hugh. No one in this household is marrying that monster. Not you and most especially not me!”

  The fist thumped again, and she recognized Henry’s voice as he called, “Lady Rosamunde?”

  With a final frown at her half-sister, Anne went over to the door and opened it a crack.

  “Yes?”

  “Lord Hugh is already in the chapel.”

  Anne was all wide-eyed innocence. “Whatever for?”

  “Your wedding. It’s time.”

  “There must have been some mistake. Lord Hugh and I discussed the issue last night, and we both agreed that I wouldn’t be a suitable bride for him.”

  “There’s been no mistake, my lady. Hugh is a notorious liar. If he told you he’d choose someone else, he didn’t mean it. Come. He doesn’t like to wait.”

  “But…but…”

  Henry pushed on the door, and though Anne leaned against it, he muscled his way in. She couldn’t keep him out.

  He’d brought six of Lord Hugh’s knights with him. They surrounded her and started out, Henry and another man holding her arms. She dragged her feet, refusing to meekly surrender, but they simply lifted her and continued on.

  As they moved into the hall, she managed a quick glance over her shoulder. Rosamunde was watching, paralyzed with fear and indecision.

  “Help me,” she implored. “Do something!”

  Rosamunde merely shrugged, and then, Anne was whisked away.

  * * * *

  “Lord Hugh! Listen to me!”

  Hugh smiled at Anne and took her hand.

  “Lord Hugh,” she tried again, struggling to wrestle out of his grasp. “What’s happening? You promised there would be no wedding.”

  “Yes, well, it appears there will be one, after all.”

  “Stop this at once!”

  She gave a vicious yank and broke free, but there was nowhere for her to go. Henry and several other knights were blocking the aisle. She dodged to the side to scoot down the pews, but Henry grabbed her and conveyed her back to Hugh.