Box Set - Knights of Passion (7 Novels)

by Catherine Kean, Anna Markland, Elizabeth Rose, Laurel ODonnell, Barbara Devlin, SueEllen Welfonder, Amy Jarecki

Again Edouard spoke of escape together, as though they were united in their fight against Veronique and Tye. Juliana tried not to dwell upon the conversation in the solar, but the older woman’s warning crept into her thoughts: Beware, Juliana, of thinking kindly about Edouard.

  Sensing his attention upon her again, Juliana looked across the chamber, unable to stop her body from trembling.

  “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

  He insists he cares for you only because he needs your help.

  She shrugged.

  “I am sorry you are caught up in this crisis. Please believe I never intended to bring you into danger.”

  He is a deceitful bastard, just like his father.

  She closed her eyes. Bracing her elbows on her knees, she pressed her palms to her forehead. If only she could calm the chaos in her head, all the reasonings and explanations spinning around that she needed to evaluate.

  What was the truth? What wasn’t?

  “What else did Veronique tell you about me?” Edouard asked.

  Opening her eyes, Juliana tilted her head to look at him. Goosebumps shot down her arms, for his stare bored into her, demanding she divulge the remainder of Veronique’s cryptic words. “She said you will win my trust, and then you will crush it.”

  A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Frustration gnawed at Edouard while he held Juliana’s moist gaze. He sensed her turmoil, her confusion as to what she should believe and what was designed to mislead her. She shivered, no doubt from overwrought nerves. How he wished he could go to her, draw her into his arms, and ease her fears with the acknowledgment she wasn’t—and never would be—alone during this tumultuous time.

  As their gazes held, the ache inside him became keener. After months of her pointedly avoiding him, of living with the turmoil of his unfortunate betrothal, he was finally facing her again. She might not remember him, but by God, he craved her, for she was even more comely than the maiden in his memories.

  What he would give to slide his fingers down her soft cheek, ease her chin up, and smile down at her before he bent his head and kissed her, slowly, thoroughly, skillfully enough to draw from her a pleasured moan. The way he’d longed to kiss her by Sherstowe’s well. He’d imagined that so many times as he lay restless and alone on his pallet at Dominic’s keep.

  He shuddered, fighting a stirring of desire.

  She said you will win my trust, and then you will crush it.

  Still holding her stare, Edouard’s throat tightened. He longed to scorn Veronique’s words. However, they were true. He’d won Juliana’s trust at Sherstowe Keep and shattered it that same day with the bet to win her kiss. He’d destroyed it with his regrettable kiss with Nara.

  You are not that same, reckless man any longer; you are a knight, his heart cried. You cannot woo her, since you are honor-bound to wed Nara, but you can fight to earn her respect.

  Aye, he would.

  “I cannot tell you what to believe,” he said. “I do not blame you for being wary. I wonder, though, what Veronique told you about yourself?”

  Juliana’s head raised a notch, causing long, silky hair to tumble around her shoulders. “She told me I once stayed in the solar. And—” She frowned. “’Twas all.”

  Edouard couldn’t resist a grin. “I can tell you far more.”

  “I would like that. I would especially like to know . . . my full name.”

  “Lady Juliana de Greyne.”

  “Lady.” A slight frown creased her brow. “I did not realize I was of the noble class.”

  He nodded. “You lived here at Waddesford at the invitation of Lady Mayda Ferchante. You were her closest friend and lady-in-waiting.”

  When he’d said “Lady Ferchante,” her expression had sharpened with intense concentration. “Do you remember Mayda?” Mayhap her name had prompted a return of memories?

  “I thought, for a moment . . .” With a heavy sigh, Juliana shook her head. “You may have told me before, but what is your full name?”

  “Edouard, the firstborn son of Geoffrey de Lanceau. My father is lord of all of Moydenshire.”

  Awe swept her features. “I see.” She gnawed her bottom lip, as though she considered his words. “You are a valuable captive, then, to Veronique.”

  “Until I no longer have a use in her schemes. By the way, your father, who is lord of Sherstowe Keep, is one of my sire’s trusted knights. He has served my father for many years.” He brushed dust from his hose. “Do you remember when you first met my sire?”

  Edouard waited, holding his breath, watching the emotions flicker in her eyes. He saw uncertainty, frustration, but not, as he dreaded, remembrance, for if she recalled that day at Sherstowe, they wouldn’t be speaking pleasantly any longer. She’d be banging her fists on the door to be as far away from him as possible.

  Juliana fingered hair behind her ear; he tried not to watch the sheer linen tighten across her generous bosom. Shaking her head, she said, “I do not recall your sire. Our families know each other well, then?”

  Well enough to have wanted to unite their families through marriage. But he didn’t wish to bring up that matter yet. “Reasonably well.”

  A grin curved her mouth. “More than reasonably, I vow.”

  The smile softened her features and cast a warm glow in her eyes. He inhaled on a renewed tingle of desire. “Why do you say such?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound witless.

  To her astonishment, a blush pinkened her face. She dropped her gaze and looked across the floorboards. “Well . . .”

  “Aye?” God’s teeth, but he was intrigued.

  “Each time . . . I look at you,” she said with a slight shrug, “I get this . . . feeling in my breast—”

  His gaze fell upon her bosom, then snapped away.

  “—a sensation so strong, I cannot ignore it.”

  “Tell me more.” He barely recognized his own voice.

  Her gaze slowly lifted to hold his. “’Tis the most powerful sensation I have ever felt. I do not mean to speak boldly, but I believe we know each other well. Very well.” Her blush deepened. “’Tis the only explanation.”

  How beautiful she looked, her expression shy but yearning, her luscious mouth partly opened on an eager breath. Even as he held her urgent gaze, though, his desire plummeted. She felt strongly about him because of the past between them. The sensation wasn’t attraction, but hatred.

  How did he explain it, when she’d no recollection of why she despised him?

  He searched for a suitable answer. “Juliana . . .”

  Her pallet rustled as she scooted toward him on her knees, her chemise brushing the planks. “I know why you must be cautious, Edouard,” she said in a low voice. “If you identify me as your . . . lover, that would put me in greater danger. You are trying to protect me.”

  “Protect you,” Edouard murmured, as she came even closer. God’s holy bones, but he couldn’t look away. Sunlight spilled over her, casting her hair and slender body in washes of gold. Her faint, lavender scent wafted to him, and he suddenly remembered she’d smelled of lavender years ago, when he’d almost kissed her by the well, when he’d realized he wanted her kiss.

  He drew in a breath, hungry for her essence. She smelled of promise, of possibilities, of freedom, not of the musty straw and old stone of imprisonment.

  “’Tis safest for us both if we do not admit our relationship.” She was beside him now, her gaze imploring, face flushed and eager. “’Tis why you have kept our relationship a secret. Tell me I am right.”

  As he took in her excitement, anguish kindled inside him. How wretched that he must disappoint her. He owed her the truth, though. He must admit they were naught to each other.

  But she was temptingly close. His wicked hands yearned to reach out and slide into her hair, to feel its shiny softness. All his concern for her over the past day suddenly welled up inside him, mingling into sinful yearning. What he would give to hold her close and kiss her on t
hose rose-red lips—at last, have that kiss he’d desired years ago.

  Take it, a voice inside him urged. Kiss her! Nara will never know.

  He’d know. The dishonor of that act would eat at his conscience. Moreover, ’twould not be fair to let Juliana imagine more between them than there was.

  While waiting for his answer, Juliana had clasped her hands and settled back on her heels. Her chemise flowed in a gossamer swath around her. Never had he seen a more alluring woman.

  “Edouard?”

  Silence, as hideous as a gargoyle, pressed into the quietness between them. He struggled against his inner torment. As his sire always insisted, honorable men told the truth, no matter how difficult that might be.

  “I will be honest, Juliana.” Edouard said with care. “You and I were—”

  Mumbled voices came from outside the door.

  Her smile vanished. Her body tensed, while her gaze flew to her bed. She cringed, the movement clearly too fast with her wound, and she cradled her head in one hand.

  “Hurry,” he whispered. “Return to your pallet.”

  Dismay shadowed her features. When the key scraped in the lock, though, she nodded and hurried to sit back against the wall, then brushed the dust from the hem of her chemise with a few flicks of one hand.

  Edouard sucked in a calming breath, pressed his back to the stonework, and refused to heed the unease churning in his gut. What unpleasantness did Veronique plan for him now? Realizing the pebble lay in plain sight, he snatched it and shoved it under the pallet’s edge.

  The door began to open, and he stole a sidelong glance at Juliana. Gone was the smiling, desirous maiden. Wariness defined her features. Did she worry that she’d made a fool of herself with him? Or was she as unnerved about what might happen next as he was?

  Tye strode in first, followed by Veronique. A blond-haired woman followed a few steps behind them, carrying a wooden tray. It bore bread, a jug of drink, several cloths, and an earthenware pot.

  “Tye,” Veronique said. “Shut the door. Keep watch.”

  “Aye, Mother.” He shoved the panel closed, then leaned one arm against it, while his hand rested on his sword hilt.

  Veronique’s sharp gaze slid to Juliana, then Edouard.

  A lusty chuckle broke from her. “Edouard, you must be growing hungry by now.”

  Coming from her lips, those innocent words sounded like an invitation to fornicate right there on the dirty, musty pallet. Trying not to recall her hands on him earlier that day, he scowled. “I have no appetite for what you might offer me.”

  Her smile turned sly. “You will not be stubborn and refuse the fare I have generously brought. Will you?”

  He fought to hold back a snide retort. Knowing her, she’d tainted the food. He wouldn’t eat one bite.

  With the rustle of silk, Veronique approached Juliana. “How are you feeling?”

  “All right, th-thank you.” Juliana smiled, but Veronique must have sensed hesitancy in her expression, for her brows quirked.

  “I trust Azarel’s potion was helpful?”

  Behind Veronique, the young woman stiffened. She appeared to brace herself for a wallop, and Edouard fought a stab of pity. Veronique had a firm hold over Azarel. Her chains were invisible, but they were no less real than his iron fetters. Who or what did Veronique use to keep this poor woman under her will?

  “The drink helped me a great deal, I am certain,” Juliana was saying. Her words sounded rushed; she clearly tried to spare the healer from punishment. An admirable kindness.

  Veronique smiled. “We all want you to recover and once again have your memories. Is that not right, Edouard?”

  Eyes narrowing, she glanced at him. He tried not to acknowledge the disquiet clawing at his innards. What was she about? Was she trying to talk him into some kind of verbal trap? To distort this conversation to suit a purpose he didn’t yet know?

  “Of course I want Juliana to recover,” he said.

  “Then in this matter we are not enemies, aye? We agree she must eat and drink and regain her strength. That, in turn, will help her memories come back.”

  Her words made sense. He had to wonder, though, why she was so interested in Juliana regaining her memories.

  Veronique signaled Azarel to step forward. The healer crossed to Juliana, dropped down on her knees, and set the tray beside the pallet. Azarel’s attention remained fixed upon her hands, folded in her lap; she made no attempt to look at Juliana, or steal a glance at Edouard. Had Veronique warned her not to make any contact with them? What cruel threat had she made, to make this woman seem so remote?

  “Ah, look, Edouard. The food is beyond your reach,” Veronique murmured, sounding smug. “If you want to eat, you will have to ask Juliana for some fare.”

  His mouth flattened. He was forced to be dependent on Juliana for a most basic need: sustenance. No doubt Veronique wanted to reinforce his helplessness. Disillusion him, humiliate him, by forcing him, a lord’s son, to ask for what should be granted him without restrictions.

  “I will gladly share,” Juliana said.

  Refusing to yield to the annoyance Veronique had roused within him, Edouard shrugged. “I am not hungry.”

  “Tsk, tsk, Edouard. If you refuse to eat, you discourage Juliana from doing the same. However, if you partake of the fare, she will follow your example.” Veronique smirked. “You must eat. We are, after all, allies in our wish to see her recover.”

  Allies. Edouard almost laughed. How cleverly she had planned this twisted game of hers. He stared her down, funneling all of his hatred for her into his gaze.

  She didn’t look away.

  “Do as I ask”—Veronique’s eyes sparked with malice—“and you might be alive to see your sire ride through the gates of the keep.”

  “Enough,” Edouard growled, still holding her stare. He wouldn’t tolerate goading that involved his father.

  “Alive to know he tried to rescue you.”

  “Veronique—”

  She cackled, the sound shrill with gloating. “Alive to watch him die.”

  A roar of pure, hot fury boiled up inside Edouard. His hands shook, for he wanted to lunge to his feet and bellow in her pitiless, painted face. With immense effort, he forced the roar into submission. Yelling at Veronique would accomplish naught, especially when Tye seemed eager to use his sword. Far wiser for Edouard to hold his tongue and use his fury to help him escape.

  But in one matter, he would not yield. He wouldn’t be the first to look away.

  Veronique grinned, as though deciding she’d won that battle. Then, with a lazy dip of her lashes, she looked at Azarel, still kneeling by Juliana’s pallet with her gaze downcast. “Begin, Azarel,” she said. “Do as I told you. Tye and I will be watching.”

  ***

  When Azarel reached for the pot on the tray, Juliana tried to meet her gaze, but the healer averted her eyes. Disquiet gnawed at Juliana. If only she could find some way to communicate with Azarel; find a way, mayhap, for the healer to send a message to Edouard’s father for help.

  “Turn your back to me and look down, milady,” Azarel said in a strong yet compassionate voice. “’Twill be easiest for me to care for your wound.” Lifting the lid off the pot, she released the brisk, herbal scent of the ointment inside.

  Azarel was doing no more than tending Juliana as Veronique commanded. However, a curious tension—a stifled sense of anticipation—emanated from the young woman. Taking care not to give away the fact that she was aware of Azarel’s tension, Juliana did as bade. Anchoring her left hand into her hair, she drew it aside to more fully expose the wound.

  While she stared down at the pallet’s grubby covering, Juliana heard Tye murmur to Veronique. Words not meant for others to hear. She sensed Veronique’s assessing stare sweep over Azarel and herself, but kept her gaze locked on the pallet.

  The healer’s sleeve batted Juliana’s hair as she rose up on her knees and gently probed the lump at Juliana’s nape. Pain and nausea tore t
hrough Juliana. Pressing her arm across her stomach, she drew a ragged breath.

  “Lady de Greyne,” the healer said, so quietly, Juliana almost didn’t think she’d spoken.

  Squinting through the agony, Juliana turned her head a fraction.

  “Do not look at me,” the healer whispered. “Focus on your pain. Otherwise, they will be suspicious.”

  Juliana rubbed at her aching brow and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Do you remember me?” Azarel asked.

  Juliana slowly turned her head to one side, then the other.

  The piquant scent of herbs wafted before a feeling of dampness. As Azarel applied the ointment, a fresh flood of agony seared through Juliana’s skull, and she stifled a groan.

  “We used to know each other well. I cannot say much more,” the healer said, her voice barely audible, “but I wanted you to know, for when your memories come back—”

  Veronique’s voice crested on a muffled laugh.

  “The babe is safe, in the village.”

  Juliana’s partly inhaled breath froze in her chest. Babe? Whose babe?

  Had she given birth to a child? An infant she couldn’t recall? Was that why she sensed such an undeniable connection to Edouard, because he was the father of her son or daughter? If, as she suspected, he was trying to protect her from danger, he wouldn’t have wanted to remind her of the babe; ’twas his way of keeping it safe.

  If they’d conceived a child together, though, shouldn’t they be married? More questions filled her pain-fogged mind. If only she could think properly. If only she dared to ask Azarel to share more details.

  Shifting the hand holding up her hair, she stole a sidelong glance at the healer. But Azarel was pushing the lid back onto the pot and wiping her fingers on a cloth. Naught in her countenance indicated that she’d spoken to Juliana. Neither did she acknowledge Juliana’s glance.

  Frustration urged Juliana to softly whisper, “What babe? Please—”

  “How is the wound?” Veronique asked, her voice drowning out Juliana’s.

  “’Tis healing well, milady,” Azarel answered.

  “Good.”

  Juliana swallowed. Had Veronique seen or heard her speak to the healer? Not likely. Still, Juliana must beware. She mustn’t jeopardize Azarel’s safety.