The spy who sought refuge...
When injured spy Sir Roger Danby comes asking for shelter at her inn, Lucy Carew is wary. He may be strikingly handsome, but the disgraced single mother has learned the hard way with men like him. Against her better judgement, she gives him refuge.
Sir Roger has never been at the mercy of a woman before, and he’s never met one as mysterious and bewitching as Lucy. He hasn’t come looking for redemption, but Lucy is a woman who could reach in and touch his closely guarded heart...
His eyes were soft and his lips slightly parted.
He stroked her cheek with his thumb as his fingers slipped behind her head, drawing her toward him. He was going to kiss her. And she intended to let him.
Roger’s mouth sought hers. Lucy tilted her head until it was within reach. His kiss was eager, his lips hungry for hers. The scent of him flooded her limbs, the taste of him made her grow weak. She gave herself over to the pleasure, allowing him to guide her in pace and pressure until her head spun.
Roger broke away first. He held her gaze in a moment of stillness, the world containing only them.
“After I won, I started thinking about my future, and yours. You don’t have to live the way you do. There is another way.”
He pushed a lock of hair behind Lucy’s ear in a gesture that was at once intimate yet proprietary. He smiled.
“I want you to become my mistress.”
Author Note
We first met Roger in The Blacksmith’s Wife, which ended with the disreputable knight heading to York for one last tournament then planning to go abroad, determined to make his fortune after realizing too late the value of the woman he had spurned. His story was going to end there but readers kept telling me that they wanted to know what happened to him. I, too, became curious to see how the knight who had jousting groupies (to use a slightly anachronistic term) dropping at his feet coped when he didn’t have his flashy armor, fine horse and noble connections to tempt them.
Brewing was a female task, with many women making a living as alewives selling from their houses. When I wrote my undergraduate dissertation on “The Changing Role of Inns and Ale Houses in English Rural Society,” I never suspected I would get to use the information for writing a book.
Lucy brews so frequently because beer and ale (there is a difference) did not last. An anonymous source from Saxon times wrote “after two days only the bravest or silliest men of the village would drink the ale, but usually it was only fit for pigs.” I planned to brew some myself but decided against it, partly because I suspected I’d end up very drunk or very ill and partly because an acquaintance told me I’d need a much bigger bucket!
As always the story has a theme song. Roger chose “I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)” by Meat Loaf.
ELISABETH HOBBES
Redeeming the
Rogue Knight
Elisabeth Hobbes grew up in York, England, where she spent most of her teenage years wandering around the city looking for a handsome Roman or Viking to sweep her off her feet. Elisabeth’s hobbies include skiing, Arabic dance and fencing—none of which has made it into a story yet. When she isn’t writing, she spends her time reading and is a pro at cooking while holding a book! Elisabeth lives in Cheshire, England, with her husband, two children and three cats with ridiculous names.
Books by Elisabeth Hobbes
Harlequin Historical
Falling for Her Captor
A Wager for the Widow
The Saxon Outlaw’s Revenge
Linked by Character
The Blacksmith’s Wife
Redeeming the Rogue Knight
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To Mark, housebreaker and hacksaw wielder for damsels in distress! I owe you a pint!
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
Epilogue
Excerpt from Secret Lessons with the Rake by Julia Justiss
Chapter One
‘Wake up, my lord! We have to leave!’
Urgent shouts infiltrated Roger Danby’s dreams, whirling him from the home of his childhood on the heather-covered moors to the battlefields of France. The carnage there came almost as a relief.
He’d been dreaming of Yorkshire again, as he had done nightly since returning to England: the endless, purple moors and deep valleys that he had not seen for almost four years. The people from his past were present, too, which invariably caused Roger’s dreams to darken. Even though he was somehow aware he was dreaming, his stomach twisted with loss. He wondered if they thought of him as often as he had thought of them and if his name was ever mentioned within the pink stone walls of his father’s house.
Someone was still calling his name and a dying archer was tugging at the neck of his cloak. He waved his arms to fend off the man, but the tugging continued. The shouts were not part of the dream and when he opened his eyes it was his squire, Thomas, looming over him, hands on Roger’s bare shoulder.
The young man’s eyes were wide and his hair was unkempt. Thomas had fought beside Roger in France so his presence on the battlefield in Roger’s dream was unsurprising, but it took a moment for Roger to shake his dream completely and return to the comfy bed in the manor house of a Derbyshire nobleman, so strange after months of straw pallets or bare ground.
‘My lord, please. We need to leave,’ Thomas repeated.
Dreaming of home always left Roger’s nerves as tightly strung as a bow. He glared up at Thomas in confusion and irritation from the feather mattress. Soft light peered around the edge of the tapestries covering the window. His breath made a cloud in the cold room.
‘Did I oversleep?’
‘No, it’s early.’
Roger threw himself back with a groan. They had stayed three nights with Lord Harpur at Bukestone and had planned to leave in the morning, but Roger had not intended to start so early. The maidservant who had been his companion the previous night rolled on to her side, still fast asleep. Her bare buttocks rubbed against Roger’s hip as she shifted her position and sent small throbs of pleasure through him. He reached for the wine flagon by his side, but found it empty.
‘It’s barely daybreak,’ he growled. ‘What’s the hurry?’
Thomas was already lurching around the small chamber, gathering possessions and stuffing them into his saddlebag. He threw Roger’s boots and cloak at the foot of the bed.
‘Lady Harpur decided to pay her daughter a visit early this morning,’ Thomas muttered. His face took on a pinched expression, his cheeks turning pale beneath his wispy beard. ‘She discovered Katherine was not alone in her room and hadn’t been all night.’
Roger swore. Katherine Harpur was a maid of sixteen with her mother’s fine, pale ski
n and her father’s dark curly hair. She was a fruit ripe for picking, but Roger had put the flirtation he’d seen pass between her and Thomas as nothing to concern himself about. Apparently he was wrong. He pushed himself from beneath the covers. The cold blast of air served to wake him fully, but even if the room had been comfortably warm his soldier’s instincts made him alert to the sudden danger they were both in.
‘You bloody young fool! Lord Harpur has every right to cut you down where you stand and I’ve half a mind to let him get on with it.’
Thomas’s round face twisted in panic and Roger was reminded of how young his companion was. Despite having survived the battlefields of Europe, the thought of death clearly terrified him. Thomas had not yet reached his nineteenth year and if he continued to act so recklessly would be unlikely to do so, Roger thought with the disdain that ten years’ seniority granted him. If Thomas was old enough to stick his staff into a willing woman, he was old enough to bear the consequences of unwise decisions.
‘How long ago were you discovered?’
‘I ran straight back here,’ Thomas said miserably. ‘Katherine was entreating her mother not to go straight to Lord Harpur, but I do not know how successful she will be.’
That bought them some time. If luck were on their side they would be gone from the house before the incensed father came searching for them.
‘I hid behind the door and slipped out before my face was seen. Lady Harpur might not know it was me.’
Thomas sounded hopeful. Roger turned away so Thomas did not see the irritation on his face. How many dark-haired visitors were staying in Lord Harpur’s house?
Two, he reminded himself, scratching at the beard that covered his own face. With luck, Katherine Harpur would confirm with which of the two men she had been indiscreet and Roger would not be put forward as a culprit. The urge to knock some sense into Thomas filled him, but recriminations and reprimands could wait for later. A quick departure was paramount. Their mission could not be jeopardised by something so trivial, not when it was Roger’s chance to make the fortune he craved.
He pulled on his linen braies, woollen breeches and tunic, casting a regretful glance at his own bed companion. He’d hoped for another tumble with her before they parted. Thomas deserved a clout around the head for that, if nothing else. Ah well, there would be another bed before long, and no doubt someone else to warm it. This way had the advantage of no tearful farewells from a girl who had hoped he would stay longer than he intended. Roger tossed a farthing on to the pillow where the girl would see it on waking. He tied his scrip with his last farthing and penny to his belt.
Thomas had gathered the leather bags containing all their possessions, including the fuller bag of money Roger had hidden rolled in his spare linens. Roger finished dressing rapidly in his thickly padded jerkin and travelling cloak and reached for his sword. He cast a final look around the room in case they had forgotten anything before leading the way to the kitchens where he knew there was a door that would be unguarded. Making friends with the maidservant was proving to have a benefit he had not anticipated and they were able to creep out without being spotted and make their way to the stables.
In silence, they wrapped sacking around their horses’ hooves and shouldered their saddles. The animals snickered in protest at the early start and Roger paused to run his hand across the rough winter coat of the chestnut courser. They led their mounts around the edge of the courtyard. Fortune was on their side as they passed through the gateway without notice.
They saddled the horses, stowed their bags and mounted. Their breath hung in the frosty morning air, but gathering clouds promised the day would be warmer and wet. The horses were not warmed through and to push them beyond a canter would do no good.
When they came to the fork in the road, Roger turned right.
‘This is the wrong direction, my lord. We came this way when we arrived.’
Suppressing his annoyance, Roger nodded. ‘Lord Harpur knows we are heading into Cheshire. If he decides to pursue us that’s where he will go, so we are going in the other direction. Now ride!’
They stopped when Roger’s stomach began to growl, dismounted and led their horses into the shelter of the trees. The rain had begun in earnest and the two men pulled their oiled wool cloaks around themselves for warmth.
As soon as they were settled Roger cuffed Thomas around the ear. The younger man yelped.
‘What did you think you were playing at?’ Roger demanded. ‘I know we’ve been out of civilised company for months—and perhaps in your case you have never been in it—but the general rule is if you’re going to bed one of the household, don’t pick the finest jewel of the lord’s treasure chest.’
‘We didn’t...make love.’ Thomas flushed scarlet. ‘We did nothing wrong. We only lay beside each other and talked through the night.’
Roger laughed. ‘You wasted your time and caused trouble for nothing! What’s a woman for besides swiving? If you’re going to risk getting your throat slit or your bollocks hacked off by an angry father, at least make sure you get your end away first.’
Thomas stuck his lower lip out sullenly. ‘Katherine and I are in love.’
Roger guffawed.
‘After three days in her company! Don’t fool yourself, lad. You may tell yourself—or better still the wench—that it’s love, but don’t confuse the twitch in your braies for the thump of your heart.’
Thomas flushed red. Roger leaned back against a tree and chewed his thumbnail, his anger subsiding now they were clear of Lord Harpur’s lands. He knew well the hot fire that riddled a man’s limbs and refused to be ignored, so his next words were spoken more gently.
‘Balance the pleasure gained with the trouble caused. I don’t blame you for responding to your pole, but you can’t let it rule you.’
Hypocrite, a small voice in his mind shouted. His own had led him into trouble often enough.
‘Not at the moment, when we’ve got work to do,’ he clarified. ‘Once we’ve delivered our message you can sard as many women as you like. You’ll be rich enough to pay for the best.’
‘And what if I don’t want to pay?’ Thomas mumbled. ‘What if I want to marry?’
Roger felt his jaw tighten. ‘Then hope the girl’s father thinks you’ve got enough in your pockets to warrant handing over his treasure and don’t leave it too long to decide she’s the one you want.’
‘Is that what you plan to do?’ Thomas asked.
Roger thought of Jane de Monsort, the woman he had briefly been betrothed to before her father decided Roger’s pockets were not full enough. Thanks to a stint in the newly formed Northern Company fighting as a mercenary, they were fuller now.
‘I have to marry eventually. I’ll find a dutiful, dull girl with good connections and a little wealth who can give me an heir to appease my father.’ He scratched his belly. ‘I can’t say it appeals.’
Thomas was silent, perhaps thinking of Katherine Harpur. Another face filled Roger’s memory, one that caused deeper pangs of regret even years after he had last seen her. He had been fond of Joanna, his brother’s wife, but had not realised quite how deeply until it had been too late. He concentrated on the pattern of raindrops falling into the puddles that were forming rather than let his mind drift back to the mistakes he had buried in his past.
‘Much better to stick to tavern wenches who will give you what you want in return for a ribbon or a kind word,’ he commented, to no one in particular.
‘Do you think Lord Harpur will send men to fight in France?’ Thomas asked.
Roger stretched out his legs, glad of something fresh to think of. He uncorked a wine flask and drank deeply.
‘We don’t get our bounty otherwise, but I don’t see why not. Leaving aside you seducing his daughter, he was interested in the thought of increasing his fortune. The peace won’t la
st forever, and a man prepared to fight is a man who will become rich.’
A man such as himself.
Roger drew his cloak tighter around him.
‘We’re going to stay here until the sun has passed overhead. Then we’ll head back the way we came.’
‘Past Lord Harpur’s house instead of the higher road to Mattonfield?’
The roads that bordered Lord Harpur’s estate gave it the shape of a triangle with sides of uneven length. To take the route Thomas suggested would mean they travelled on the longest side and over the steepest edge of the hill.
‘Yes. It would add more than a day to the journey if we took the other side of the hill.’
‘We’d be close to my home!’ Thomas said wistfully. ‘It’s a fine inn, the grandest on the road to Mattonfield, and my father would welcome us gladly.’
Roger considered the possible routes. There was hope in the lad’s voice, but Roger was damned if he was going to detour to allow Thomas to pay a call, however tempting a night at an inn sounded.
‘No. I want to be done here as quickly as possible.’ He stared moodily at the ground, Thomas’s mention of home raising an unwelcome thought. ‘I should visit my father before I return to France.’
Thomas looked startled by the dark tone his voice had taken on.
‘Don’t you want to see your family?’
Roger took another drink to delay answering the question that had troubled him since he stepped back on to English soil. Finally he spoke.
‘It’s been a long time. I parted angrily with my brother and I vowed not to return until I was rich and had proved myself. At least that is within my reach now. Let’s get some rest.’
He closed his eyes and settled back. The day had started far too rudely.
* * *
The weather had worsened into driving rain by afternoon. Iron clouds rolled across a steel sky as they climbed the hills into Cheshire. Early spring in England was truly appalling and Thomas looked more miserable with every twist of the road, glancing behind him and pulling his cloak forward to envelop him.
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