Table of Contents
A will of her own...
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
EPILOGUE
Excerpt from PASSION’S EXILE
About The Author
A will of her own...
“Unhand me, sirrah!”
“You’re not sleeping in my bed.” He started toward the door.
“But I was there first!”
“’Tis my bed.”
“You weren’t using it.” She actually wedged her limbs in the doorway, trying to prevent his exit.
“Well, I’m going to use it now.”
“’Tisn’t fair!”
He didn’t feel like arguing the absurdity of a tiny lass expropriating his huge bed while he lay cramped on a small pallet by the fire.
“The only way you’re sleeping in that bed,” he whispered wickedly, “is if you’re sharing it with me.”
“From page one, this story will grab you, and keep you fiercely reading to the very last page. You cannot miss this one.”
—Novel Talk
“Compelling medieval action-adventure romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKClub
“Exciting medieval romantic suspense.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“A great book full of romance, mystery, and characters you can’t help but fall in love with.”
—Fallen Angel Reviews
“A thoroughly enjoyable, page-turning medieval romance. DANGER’S KISS is highly recommended!”
—The Romance Reader’s Connection
“Glorious story. Just loved it.”
—Romance Reviews
DANGER’S KISS
Glynnis Campbell
(writing as Sarah McKerrigan)
Other books
by Glynnis Campbell:
My Champion
My Warrior
My Hero
Lady Danger (writing as Sarah McKerrigan)
Captive Heart (writing as Sarah McKerrigan)
Knight’s Prize (writing as Sarah McKerrigan)
Captured by Desire (writing as Kira Morgan)
Seduced by Destiny (writing as Kira Morgan)
Passion’s Exile
This work is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Glynnis Campbell
E-book Copyright © 2012 by Glynnis Campbell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Book design and illustration by Richard Campbell
eBook ISBN-10: 1938114090
eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-938114-09-0
Glynnis Campbell – Publisher
P. O. Box 341144
Arleta, California 91331
Contact:[email protected]
For my dear friend and fellow author
Lauren Royal—
For offering the best advice
and, when all else fails, her shoulder...
For sharing laptop plugs
and tangled plots and Piesporter...
And for always knowing exactly what to say.
Acknowledgments
My warmest appreciation for...
“America,” Gail Adams, Debi Allen, Kathy Baker,
the Campbell clan—Brynna, Dylan, Richard, and Dick,
Carol Carter, Lucele Coutts, Sue Grimshaw for
Letting me borrow her husband’s name,
Lynette Gubler, Angelina Jolie, Karen Kay,
Melanie and Frances for their patience,
Adrian Paul, “Silvermane” for sharing his
Sleight of hand, and Worf (RIP, little guy);
And my elite street team sales force:
Ana Isabel Arconada, Denise C. Asbury, Beth,
Jackie Bishop, Terra Codack, Mariah Kathleen
Crawford, Joelle Deveza, Diane Dunn, Donna Goldberg,
Marguerite Hembree, Carol Kemtes, Tori Longton,
Etta Miller, Lois J. Miller, Heather M. Riley,
Sandra M. Schaeffer, Betty Talken, Earl Talken,
Shirley Talken, Megan Thiele, Leslie Thompson,
Carolyn Todd, and Jodi Villanueva
CHAPTER 1
FEBRUARY 1250
The bells of Canterbury Cathedral tolled unexpectedly in the distance, startling the traveler who trudged irritably toward the town. The dull ringing, muffled by the snow, still managed to breach the icy silence to deliver a message as chill as the wintry wood.
Desirée stopped in her tracks, squinting through the falling snowflakes. She’d wasted the last several hours, waiting in the harsh cold for a man who’d never arrived, and she was in no mood for surprises. Her skirts were soaked. Her feet were numb. And her mood was ugly.
Suddenly, the rhyme Hubert had recited six years ago, when he’d first taught Desirée the fine art of thievery, sprang to mind.
Bells on the Sabbath are an outlaw’s curse,
Bells middle week fill a clever thief’s purse.
It wasn’t the Sabbath. The bells could mean only one thing then...a public execution. And where there was an execution, there was a crowd of distracted onlookers, easy prey for a nimble-fingered thief like Desirée.
Or, she reflected, for a sly old fox like her longtime mentor, Hubert Kabayn.
Desirée frowned. Had Hubert known there would be an execution today? Was that why the greedy sot had sent her away? So he could take all the spoils himself?
“Hubert Kabayn, you backstabbing son of a...” Her oath of fury fogged the frigid air like dragon’s breath.
She picked up her wet skirts and slogged angrily forward, cursing the conniving old cheat with every step. There certainly was no honor among thieves. She would do well to remember that in future.
Hubert had deliberately ordered her away this morn, sending her on what she now realized was a fool’s errand. He’d told her he needed her for an important task. Since he was locked up in the town gaol at the moment, the old thief wanted her to conduct a piece of business for him.
She was to meet a man at the ruined bridge south of town, a man who owed Hubert three shillings. With her accomplice in crime out of commission for the last week, coin had grown scarce, and Desirée had been only too eager to comply.
She kicked at the new-fallen snow. How could she have been so gullible?
She’d waited at that cursed bridge for hours. No one had come. And now she realized there’d never been a man at the bridge.
She should have known better. For weeks now, Hubert had been trying to get rid of her, pushing her away like an unwanted pup. He’d growled at her that she was losing her light-fingered touch, that at nineteen, she was too old to be of use to him anymore. He’d snarled at h
er to quit pestering him, to leave the thieving trade, to seek work as a lady’s maid or perhaps trick a wealthy merchant into marrying her.
But this...this was the ultimate betrayal. Hubert had no doubt managed to slip the gaoler’s bonds and was circulating among the crowd even now in one of his guises, cutting purses that he had no intention of sharing with her. Indeed, it was likely his plan to give Desirée the slip ere she returned.
She ground her teeth. Hubert might have taught her all the tricks of his trade, but her tenacity was her own. The crafty old bastard wouldn’t get rid of her that easily.
By the time she found her way to the town square, a sizeable audience had already gathered, huddled against the bitter cold. But for once she wasn’t tempted by the dangling purses and gaping pockets. Instead, she scanned the onlookers for signs of a figure making his stealthy way through the crowd. He might resemble a ragged beggar or a distinguished noble or even a withered old crone. But Desirée would recognize the artful trickster anywhere.
Indeed, so engaged was she in seeking out the traitor, she paid no heed to the poor soul being led to the gallows.
By the time she spared him a glance, it was too late.
Across the crowded square, a damsel’s scream pierced through the falling snow. “Nay!”
Nicholas flinched. Bloody hell. As the shire-reeve of Kent, it was his duty to preside over executions, but it had been so long since the last one, he’d forgotten that sound—the sound of desperate feminine grief. And now he was certain that even the several pints of ale he intended to quaff afterward wouldn’t erase it from his memory.
He steadied the shivering old man he was walking to the gallows, who’d faltered at the unearthly wail.
Why did women have to scream at executions? God’s bones, all men had to die, whether it was by battle or sickness or the hangman’s hand. At least this way a condemned man’s wife or mother or daughter could pay her respects and pray for his soul. And the lucky bastard wouldn’t die alone.
Still, no matter how Nicholas tried to justify the man’s execution in his mind, administering death never sat well with him, even when it was deserved. And in this instance, he wasn’t sure it was deserved. Still, the man had refused to fight the charges, not that it would have done much good. When it was a common thief’s word against that of the wealthiest noblewoman in Canterbury...
“You son of a whore!” the maid cried over the murmuring crowd. “You’ll rot in hell if you hang him!”
Nicholas ignored the threat, grumbling low to the victim, “She’s only frightened. But you have no cause to be. Remember what I told you.”
Hubert Kabayn, condemned murderer, nodded, taking strength from the reminder that Nicholas had assured him of a swift and painless end.
Death was never the difficult part for his victims. Nicholas saw to that. He used only the most efficient executioners, refusing to let men suffer on the gallows, no matter what the bloodthirsty crowd wished.
But this, the final walk through the village, was the real torture. And it was caused by more than just the inevitable wench screaming in despair.
Something about the spectacle of an execution turned men ugly. Townsfolk who smiled and nodded and exchanged kind words with a fellow one day suddenly became sneering, jeering, heartless wolves the next when that fellow was bound for the gallows.
Nicholas glanced down at Kabayn’s feet. They were bare, red from trudging through the bracing snow, but he knew the old man didn’t feel the cold. His thin white nightshirt clung almost transparently to his spare frame, and his gray hair grew sodden with the falling snow, but the condemned man was past feeling.
“Let him go, you bastard!” the woman shrieked, her voice shrill above the self-righteous reprimands of law-abiding villagers and the vulgar shouts of craven lads who’d piss their braies were they in the old man’s place.
Nicholas clenched his jaw. Did women not realize how cruel their pleas were on a condemned man’s ears? How they inspired false hope? Why could they not instead call out softly like welcoming seraphim? Why could they not ease the unfortunate’s way from this world?
That was what Nicholas always tried to do. He believed in justice, aye, but swift justice. Witness to too many slow stranglings from cruel hangmen, he’d devoted himself to learning the quickest, cleanest, least painful methods of delivering death, and he intervened when it was necessary. He saw himself as an angel of mercy, doling out one final gesture of kindness to otherwise God-cursed men.
He’d sat up with Kabayn all night, as was his custom with the men he was about to send to their death. He’d spoken a little, listened a lot, and helped the man come to terms with his inevitable fate.
He’d brought a full bottle of good Spanish wine laced with opium for the prisoner. In his experience, women and death were prettier companions when seen from the bottom of a bottle.
Kabayn had refused the wine. He wanted to face the hangman with a clear head, he’d said. He wondered if the old man regretted that now.
At the bottom of the gallows, Kabayn turned to him. His eyes were rheumy, evidence of the wasting sickness that had kept him coughing all night and would have killed him by spring, anyway. His voice was but a whistle, as faint as the wind through a cracked shutter. “You’ll keep your promise?”
Nicholas nodded. He might have been despised by some as the cursed arm of the law, and feared by others as the right hand of the devil, but he was a man of his word.
The chaplain began murmuring the sacrament while the hooded hangman flexed his gloved hands in preparation, and Nicholas took a deep breath, turning to the crowd with a dramatic swirl of his black cloak, preparing for the spectacle. Angel of mercy he might be, but he dared not let the people of Canterbury know that. After all, he had an unyielding, iron-fisted reputation to uphold.
Desirée kicked and struggled and spat curses at the burly man-at-arms who restrained her at the back of the crowd.
This couldn’t be happening. They couldn’t be hanging Hubert Kabayn. He was far too clever for that.
Aye, he was as black with sin as Lucifer, and he could be a mean son of a whore to her at times. But he’d always been able to wriggle his way out of the shackles of lawmen, even when he had to resort to sacrificing some of his hard-won silver to do so.
What was the old fool doing? Why wasn’t he using that shrewd tongue of his to talk his way out of this? Why was he climbing the gallows ladder so complacently while the ruthless brute of a shire-reeve ordered his death?
It was absurd. No one bested Hubert Kabayn. She had to stop this farce at once.
“Leave him be!” she yelled at the shire-reeve. “You black-hearted spawn of the devil!”
The lawman gave no response.
“God-cursed demon!”
Her words fell on deaf ears.
“Murderer!” she cried. “You’ll burn in—“
“Silence!” he roared.
The oath stuck in her throat as the lawman whipped his head about, even at this distance picking her out of the crowd with a glare of condemnation. Suddenly she felt as if she’d inhaled a lungful of snow.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His thoughts were in the dark menace of his gaze.
Or you’ll be next.
Desirée didn’t frighten easily. But she wasn’t stupid. The shire-reeve was a man of power. And the way he was staring at her from the shadows of his hooded cloak, he seemed more demon than human, as if he might swoop over the crowd and snatch her up in his claws.
She swallowed back a lump of misgiving. It would serve nothing for her to be strung up beside her partner in crime.
Her eyes blurred with the cold, and she sniffed back the moisture collecting in her nose as the helplessness of her position became frustratingly clear.
Damn that brutish shire-reeve!
Hubert might be a varlet and a cheat, but he didn’t deserve to die like this. He was a decent man. Maybe not a good man. But at least no worse than most men.
To be completely forthright, there was no love lost between herself and the conniving bastard who’d bought her six years ago from her desperate, impoverished parents. Theirs had been a business alliance, no more. Young Desirée had served as a pretty distraction for his thievery, and in exchange, Hubert had seen she didn’t go hungry.
He hadn’t beaten her, not often anyway. He’d never forced her to lie with strange men for coin, as some would have. And though he seemed determined to cast her aside of late, for six years, he’d seen she was provided for. It wasn’t his fault if those provisions came from the only talents he possessed—sleight of hand and theft.
Aye, knave and outlaw he might be, but surely he didn’t deserve hanging.
“Hubert Kabayn,” the shire-reeve intoned for the benefit of the crowd, “you are charged with the crime of murder.”
Desirée’s jaw dropped.
Murder? Hubert wasn’t a murderer. He’d gone to rob the lord’s house, not take a life. The old cheat was about as capable of murder as he was of playing a fair game of dice. There must be some mistake.
Curse his blighted hide! Why wasn’t he fighting the charges? It wasn’t as if he didn’t know how to lie. God’s eyes! The two of them had spent years doing just that, separating fools from their coin with false promises of health, prosperity, and a place in heaven. The slippery outlaw had wormed his way out of a hundred gaols.
But he wasn’t worming his way out of this. This wasn’t a game of Fast and Loose. There was no way to slip a hangman’s knot.
The stupid old fool! He stood at the top of the ladder now, his spindly legs pale against the blackened wood. The shire-reeve read the sentence while the executioner bound Hubert’s wrists behind him and looped the rope about his neck.
As he took up the slack in the noose, Desirée felt her own throat close around a final thin scream of disbelief. “Nay!”
As if he meant it for her ears alone, the shire-reeve turned to the crowd and proclaimed in somber tones, “No one comes between Nicholas Grimshaw and the law!”
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