by North, Evie
KNIGHT OF SECRETS
KNIGHTS OF PASSION (SERIES 2)
EVIE NORTH
Copyright © 2013, Evie North
KINDLE EDITION
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KNIGHT OF SECRETS
KNIGHTS OF PASSION (SERIES 2)
1200AD
Edwina could hear the sounds of fighting from the copse. It was afternoon and growing dark already; the days were short now. She’d been out gathering berries and digging in the snow for green leaves, anything fresh, that could be used in this bleak part of the Northern English winter when the household seemed to exist on salted or cured meats and last seasons’ withered apples.
Her heart beat harder as she stood up, her basket tucked over her arm, her gloved hands wet and dripping snow. The hem of her skirts was damp too and her face was stinging with cold beneath the furred hood of her cloak. It had snowed overnight and now the air was frigid, icicles hanging from the bare branches of the trees. Not a sign of life.
Apart from Edwina.
And the men she could hear fighting down in the valley that lay beyond the manor house.
A tingle of terror raised the hairs on the back of her neck. They were Scots. The Scots raided regularly over the border these days, and since King John had come north in his attempt to swallow up the power of the northern barons, the raids by his friends the Scots had become more frequent. But they had rarely come so far south; certainly not in the time she had lived here. Not until now.
Her gaze slid to the little patch of snow where she had stood early this morning, before dawn. She could see the ashes. She’d carried a candle and burned the parchment on which the spell was written. Please save me . . . Was this the spell at work? But she’d never meant to be saved in such a final way—by the Scots’ raiders!
Her head lifted.
She could hear a horse, riding fast, in her direction.
With a cry Edwina turned and began to run.
The manor house stood beyond the copse and past a snow covered field. Her brother had fortified it in preparation for such a day as this, when they were attacked by raiders. The door was ironclad and the walls so thick that no one could get inside unless they were invited. With two lower rooms and animal pens and two upper rooms and a tower above, it was big enough to contain the whole family, if at times rather cramped.
Which was probably one of the reasons why Edwina had not gone with the family to Carlisle. She longed for time on her own and this had been her chance. Her brother had taken everyone with him, leaving only a few servants. She’d insisted she would remain behind. Edwina did not always find herself in accord with her brother and his wife, and they had not tried very hard to dissuade her. Besides, what could possibly happen to her in the bleak heart of the winter?
But now the Scots were here and she was running for her life.
The hoof beats were getting closer. She risked a glance over her shoulder, her fur lined boots sliding on an icy patch of snow. The horse was coming up behind her, breath white, eyes rolling, and the man upon its back crouched low. A short distance behind him were other riders, their wild shouts and shaggy mounts and waving weapons terrifying enough to give Edwina an added spurt of speed.
With a whimper she ran on, her throat aching from the cold, her lungs burning with effort. The manor was before her, dark against the fading light of the winter sky. Would she reach it in time? Would she find safety before the death blow of the Scot’s blade came down upon her head?
It seemed not. The heavy thud of hooves were at her back and then his arm came around her waist, lifting her effortlessly, spilling the bounty from her basket onto the snow, the berries like droplets of blood against the white. She tried to cry out but his grip about her was stopping her breathing. She twisted, desperate to escape her fate.
This was death. This was the end. And it would not be a quick and easy one, either. Why, oh why, had she invoked the spell?
He had drawn the horse to a sliding halt with snow splattering up against the door of the manor house. She fell to the ground. He jumped down beside her and she struggled up onto her hands and knees, meaning to fight to the last. But instead of throwing himself like a beast upon her, as she expected, he stepped over her to the iron clad door and thrust it open.
Was he going to rob her first? Edwina wondered in a daze.
He turned to face her and she saw he was young, as young as she, with dark hair and eyes and a deep cut upon his temple. Blood ran freely down the side of his face.
“Come, lady,” he said in a voice hoarse from his hard ride. “They will be upon us in a moment. We must get inside.”
Edwina blinked. She had made him her enemy and it took a moment for her mind to refocus on the fact that he may be her friend. But it was a moment they didn’t have. The Scots were almost upon them. He reached for her, dragging her upright, pushing her ahead of him into the building. She heard the clatter of the horse following, and then he closed the door and began the process of locking and barring it from those outside.
Voices shouting, thuds upon the heavy wood. Anger and hate and frustration seemed to come through in waves. Edwina backed away until she reached the wall and stayed, eyes fixed on the man who stood with his back to her, hands clenched at his sides, staring at the door that was keeping them safe.
“They won’t get in,” she said at last, and her voice was husky, her throat still aching from the cold. “My brother made that door to withstand any force. And the manor house is stout.”
He didn’t react; perhaps he hadn’t heard her.
She realised she was still holding the basket, its handle hooked over her arm. There were a few leaves and berries left in the bottom of it from her foraging and she set it down carefully. Beyond, further inside the lower area of the manor, she could hear the animals in their briars. This was not a land where anything could survive outside in the winter and they all lived together. The horse heard them too, stamping its hooves, blowing through its nose. She made a soothing nose, coming forward to capture its bridle before it decided to run amok.
The voices were still outside but they were not as loud as before.
“What do they want with you?” she asked, watching him warily. “Why are they pursuing you?”
He stood there a moment more and then his shoulders seemed to sag a little, his body to relax, and his clenched fists unfurl. He bent his head and she wondered whether he was saying a prayer, and then he turned to her.
She was surprised again by how young and handsome he was. The cut upon his head was still bleeding, although it had slowed now. He was clean-shaven, and his clothing beneath the fur-lined cloak was well-made and of fine cloth. Not the usual homespun that the working men here wore, or even the plain trousers and tunics her brother preferred when he was at home. But even his best clothes, the ones he had taken with him to Carlyle, were not as fine as this man’s.
“I was caught on the road,” he said at last, and his voice was low timbered, his words spoken in fine French. A gentleman then. A nobleman perhaps.
She pushed the hood back from her face and was aware of his dark eyes suddenly fixed on her brown hair, her elfin face, her blue eye
s, as if he found her beautiful. Men usually did find her beautiful. When she was younger she had enjoyed teasing them, amused by the way they stammered or seemed struck to silence when they were around her. These days there was little that amused her about men.
When her father and three of her brothers had died in a skirmish on the border, Edwina had come here, to her only remaining brother. He treated her as little more than a servant. She was her father’s heiress and he hated her for that, he thought he should have been the recipient of their father’s fortune rather than this small estate he’d received instead. And now her brother had arranged for her marriage to Sir Jerome, a large and important landowner who would assist her brother in his own rise. More importantly, Sir Jerome would increase the might of the northern barons against King John.
Edwina supposed that marriage to such a consequential man was a piece of luck for her, but the truth was she dreaded it. So far she had managed to stave off her fate but the day was coming. Sir Jerome was old, so old, and had already worked his way through three wealthy wives.
Edwina was not keen on being his fourth.
“The road to Carlyle?” she said now, as he still seemed tongue tied.
He nodded, ran a hand over his face, winced as he felt the slice in his flesh. “I had business there. They came upon me and pursued me. I thought I could lose them across country—my horse is a fine one—but they were swifter than I imagined.”
What business had he in Carlyle? Edwina wondered. But she said, “Come upstairs and let me tend to your wound.”
She turned, leading the horse, which was calmer now. It was warmer inside the manor and she reminded herself that they were safe. The bridle was suddenly taken from her hand and he gave her a smile as she turned in surprise.
“Through here,” she directed him deeper into the shadows of the manor house. “You can leave him. There is hay and water, and a cloth if you want to rub him down.”
He nodded, and she left him to it, making her own way up the stairs to the rooms above, where the family lived out their cramped lives. A few of the servants had been here until a day or so ago, but they had left to go to a wedding in the village and the weather had prevented their return. She’d been enjoying herself, although in truth she had grown a little bored over the past days. Still, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be in the company of this handsome stranger.
Edwina hurried to remove her cloak and stoked the fire into life. The warmth made her shiver and she held out her hands after she’d taken off her gloves. She kicked away the fur lined boots and slipped her feet into some house shoes, the toes curled upwards. Her clothing was fine enough; her father had spoilt her as the only daughter. She had not realised how comfortable her life had been until she’d lost it; she wished she had shown more gratitude.
Her brother’s wife had purloined the best of her clothes but Edwina had managed to hang on to a few favoured items. So far. Perhaps Sir Jerome would buy her new clothes with her own fortune, once he got his hands on it? Or would he prefer her naked and on her back?
She shuddered.
“Lady?” The stranger had come up behind her.
She turned and gave him a cool look. He swung off his cloak, laying it carefully upon a chest so it would dry, and began to strip off his gloves. She saw that he wore a ring with a green jewel set into it.
“Sit down.” She gestured at a chair and he did as she bid him. She lit a candle—outside the night was almost upon them and inside it was gloomy. Hastily she found what she required and set the items on a table beside him, before peering at the wound. “It is deep,” she said, before she touched him. “You may need me to stitch the edges together.”
He shrugged his shoulder. Outside there was muffled laughter. He stiffened and lifted his head. He’d brought his sword and dagger with him, the latter strapped to his belt, the former in its sheath and lying at the floor at his feet and ready if necessary.
“They cannot get in,” she reminded him. “If you like we can go up into the tower and look down. See what they are up to. We can raise the flag to summon help from our neighbours, but I do not think they will come. The snow is so deep in places that few will venture out.”
Certainly not Sir Jerome, not even to save his intended bride from rape and murder.
“I know,” he said ruefully. “I came through it.” He hesitated. “What is your name, lady?”
Edwina had begun to gently bathe away the blood, bending closer to him. “Edwina.”
His skin was unblemished apart from the injury but she thought he was a man who spent much time outdoors. There were traces of summer sun upon him, as if the last vestiges of it were slow to leave. She glanced at his hands and saw the calluses upon his palms and fingers from wielding a sword and riding a horse. A soldier? But no, he was too fine for that. A younger son sent to serve a grand and wealthy household? But still it did not seem to fit. She thought he was more.
Edwina supposed she could ask him but she thought he would not tell her. Not yet. They did not trust one other. They were strangers. And yet . . .
The breadth of his shoulders, the gleam of his dark eyes, the curl of his hair about his nape. All those things stirred something in her, a need, a desire. A thought crept stealthily into her head. If she was indeed to wed Sir Jerome in the spring then why not find a handsome young lover first? Someone whose memory would sustain her in the barren years ahead?
She’d kept herself chaste all this time because she had not realised she would be forced to marry against her will. She had thought she had all the time in the world and instead she had mere months.
Did she dare?
Her gaze shifted from her work and found that he was gazing at the shape of her breasts through her amber coloured gown. His gaze slipped to the nip of her waist and the flare of her hips. She tried not to smile. While she had been admiring him, he had been admiring her.
“It is not as deep as I thought,” she murmured. “I will not have to stitch after all.”
His gaze rose to hers and for a moment they did nothing but stare at each other. She felt her heart begin to beat in a long, slow rhythm. She felt her skin grow warm and sensitized. Edwina knew then that she wanted the stranger to hold her, to kiss her mouth and show her the pleasure two young and healthy bodies could create between them.
Perhaps he read her wishes in her eyes.
“You are beautiful, Edwina,” he said softly. He stroked a finger down her cheek, to the corner of her mouth. Then down to her jaw and further, to her throat. He brushed the backs of his fingers across her skin, finally resting them in the hollow there, where her pulse beat faster.
“I have never seen a woman as beautiful as you,” he said, his voice deep and dreamy. “You should not be here in the wilderness. You should be where people can see and admire you.” His dark eyes examined the shape of her breasts hidden within her gown, and she thought for a moment he was going to cup them in his hands. She ached for him to do so.
“I have no choice but to be here,” she said, and her voice sounded breathless. “My brother took me in and now keeps me close. He wishes to win favour with Sir Jerome, our neighbour, and now I am to wed him to help my brother’s ambitions.”
He looked at her with horror. “Have you no say in the matter?”
Edwina shook her head and bitterness curled her lips.
“You need a champion,” he added, and now the stare he gave her was assessing. “Someone to take your part and protect you.”
Edwina wondered what he was thinking. Did he plan to make her his mistress? Would she like that, or would she find that situation as controlling as her present one?
“I’d prefer my freedom and independence,” she said tartly. “I want the money that my father left to me in my own hands and not my brother’s or my husband’s.”
Surprised, he laughed. Of course he would. Women were chattels, things to be used and discarded, and no one expected them to take their fate in their own hands.
She turne
d away from him and picked up her pot of healing balm and when she turned back to him again she had become practical. She smoothed some of the balm upon the cut, finding pleasure in her work.
“You will heal quickly and well and there will barely be a scar to show where you were injured this day.”
“Perhaps I would like a scar. Then I will look like a proper warrior.”
She shook her head. “You are a handsome man and such things matter.”
He smiled. “Thank you,” he said. Then added, “Edwina,” his voice dropping in a manner that brought gooseflesh to her skin. He reached out and took her hand, brushing the back of it with his lips. She tried not to shiver but pleasure arced through her at his touch.
The sly little voice was back in her head. She would be spending a lifetime wedded to Sir Jerome. Why shouldn’t she enjoy herself this once? He was a stranger in a dangerous situation, who would leave as abruptly as he had come and no one would know or care, but she would have the memories forever. Was this what the spell had brought her? Not to be saved in the way she’d expected but to step out of her troubles for a short while?
He’d turned her hand over now and pressed his mouth to her palm, his breath warm against her flesh. She looked down at his bent head, at his dark hair and the broad shoulders beneath the fine cloth of his tunic. If she had to choose a man to lie with her then this man was perfect.
“You are very bold, sir,” she said.
He looked up at her through his lashes and his dark eyes gleamed. “Your beauty makes me bold, lady.”
Doubt sprang to her mind. Perhaps he wasn’t noble after all but just an adventurer. But then again what did that matter? It would be a brief encounter while the Scots dallied outside.
She needed to think. She needed to plan. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
“We should go up to the tower now,” she said briskly, gathering up the candle.
He tried not to look disappointed, bowing his head in acquiescence. Edwina hid her smile.
