by Tamara Leigh
Contents
Title Page
Tamara Leigh Novels
Copyright Page
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
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Awakening: Book Seven (AOF) Excerpt
Lady Betrayed Excerpt
Tamara Leigh Novels
About The Author
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THE VEXING
Book Six in the Age Of Faith series
TAMARA LEIGH, USA Today Best-Selling Author
Tamara Leigh invites readers to return to the medieval Age of Faith series with a romance three years in the making—Sir Durand’s tale.
A VEXING LADY
Answering her father’s summons to return home, Lady Beata Fauvel must evade capture by noblemen who seek to wed a great heiress. But when she falls into the hands of Queen Eleanor of England, she discovers her sovereign has plans of her own for the lady known France over as The Vestal Widow. Now Beata must not only escape the knight entrusted with ensuring she does not wed without permission, but survive a storm-tossed sea and revelation of a long-buried secret that could destroy her family. And what of a heart that wants what it cannot have? Will it only ever beat for the queen’s man?
A REPENTANT KNIGHT
For years, Sir Durand Marshal has faithfully served his queen as penance for betrayal of the Wulfrith family. When he rescues a woman pursued by vassals of the French king, he is charged with delivering to England the nearly scandalous lady who has only a name in common with the one he once loved. Though he never expects to feel anything beyond annoyance for the outspoken Lady Beata, he finds himself drawn to yet another woman denied him. Can he fulfill his duty to his liege? Or will he forsake his redemption and forever ruin his reputation—more, the lady’s?
TAMARA LEIGH NOVELS
CLEAN READ HISTORICAL ROMANCE
~ THE FEUD: A MEDIEVAL ROMANCE SERIES ~
Baron Of Godsmere: Book One
Baron Of Emberly: Book Two
Baron of Blackwood: Book Three
~ LADY: A MEDIEVAL ROMANCE SERIES ~
Lady At Arms: Book One
Lady Of Eve: Book Two
~ BEYOND TIME: A MEDIEVAL TIME TRAVEL ROMANCE SERIES ~
Dreamspell: Book One
Lady Ever After: Book Two
~ STAND-ALONE MEDIEVAL ROMANCE NOVELS ~
Lady Of Fire
Lady Of Conquest
Lady Undaunted
Lady Betrayed
INSPIRATIONAL HISTORICAL ROMANCE
~ AGE OF FAITH: A MEDIEVAL ROMANCE SERIES ~
The Unveiling: Book One
The Yielding: Book Two
The Redeeming: Book Three
The Kindling: Book Four
The Longing: Book Five
The Vexing: Book Six
The Awakening: Book Seven
INSPIRATIONAL CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE
~ HEAD OVER HEELS: STAND-ALONE ROMANCE NOVELS ~
Stealing Adda
Perfecting Kate
Splitting Harriet
Faking Grace
~ SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT: A CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE SERIES ~
Leaving Carolina: Book One
Nowhere, Carolina: Book Two
Restless in Carolina: Book Three
OUT-OF-PRINT GENERAL MARKET TITLES
Warrior Bride 1994: Bantam Books (Lady At Arms rewrite)
*Virgin Bride 1994: Bantam Books (Lady Of Eve rewrite)
Pagan Bride 1995: Bantam Books (Lady Of Fire rewrite)
Saxon Bride 1995: Bantam Books (Lady Of Conquest rewrite)
Misbegotten 1996: HarperCollins (Lady Undaunted rewrite)
Unforgotten 1997: HarperCollins (Lady Ever After rewrite)
Blackheart 2001: Dorchester Leisure (Lady Betrayed rewrite)
*Virgin Bride is the sequel to Warrior Bride; Pagan Pride and Saxon Bride are stand-alone novels
www.tamaraleigh.com
THE VEXING Copyright © 2017 by Tammy Schmanski, P.O. Box 1298, Goodlettsville, TN 37070, [email protected]
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogues are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
ISBN-13: 978-1-942326-25-0
All rights reserved. This book is a copyrighted work and no part of it may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or any information storage and retrieval system) without permission in writing from the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the author’s permission is illegal and punishable by law. Thank you for supporting authors’ rights by purchasing only authorized editions.
Cover Design: Ravven
CHAPTER ONE
Normandy, France
Early December, 1161
Women were more trouble than they were worth. Or so Sir Durand Marshal told himself each time one dragged him into a mess like this one promised to do.
Black hair and mantle shaking themselves out in the chill air stirred by her flight, the woman rode ahead of three riders who protectively fanned out behind her though they stood little chance of outrunning their pursuers—a dozen armed men who wore the colors of one who risked much in trespassing on King Henry’s lands. And therein lay the mess, one that could see the crisp layer of snow splashed with crimson of sufficient heat to melt it through.
“Lord, protect us,” he rasped and drew his chain mail hood over his head and gave the signal.
The men under his command did not hesitate when the thrust of his arm further delayed the promise of a warm hearth and hot meal denied them these past days of hard riding. They did as bid, following him from the cover of trees that reached wintry fingers toward a sky thick with clouds that resembled the billowing smoke of a great fire.
“King Henry!” he bellowed and drew his sword as he spurred his destrier forward.
His men repeated the battle cry, their voices across the frosted land causing those bringing up the rear of the pursuers to whip their heads around and shout warnings. But the one leading the pursuit, a broadly built knight whose beard jutted on either side of his face, did not surrender his prey. He and his companions stayed the course.
So be it. Durand had given King Louis’s vassals a chance to withdraw peaceably from the French lands held by the King of England. If blood was th
e price paid for their trespass, it was on their heads. Unfortunately for their wives and children, the woman who evaded capture could not be worth their deaths.
No sooner did he think it than the one protecting her left flank was overtaken by the bearded pursuer. The latter swung his sword and landed a blow to the knight’s chest, knocking him out of the saddle.
The other pursuers veered away from the unhorsed knight. Providing his chain mail deflected the blade’s edge, he stood a good chance of survival.
It had, Durand saw as he passed near, the snow defiled not by the spray of blood but dirt flung by hooves and the knight’s tumble across it.
Urging his destrier between two pursuers, Durand left them to his men the sooner to overtake the one who sought to unseat another of the woman’s protectors. In the seconds required for the bearded knight to achieve that end, Durand was granted the time needed to draw level with him.
The woman’s mare no match for their warhorses, they came alongside her, Durand on the right, the bearded knight opposite.
Gripping the saddle with his thighs, Durand released his left-handed grip on the reins and reached for the woman. It was his arm that hooked her, his opponent having failed to sooner transfer his sword to the opposite hand.
She screamed when Durand dragged her from the saddle, and hardly did he register she sounded more enraged than fearful than her pursuer caught her skirts and yanked her toward him.
The force of the pull causing Durand’s mount to slam into the mare, he ground his teeth as ache shot up his leg.
Despite the woman’s precarious state—suspended above her mare between two destriers—she flailed, clawed, kicked, and bucked so wildly Durand feared his mount would stumble and take them both to ground.
“Cease, woman!” he shouted and tossed aside his sword to take up the reins needed to better control his destrier. “I but give aid—”
One of her booted kicks caught the other knight in the face, and from his nose flowed crimson that ran into his teeth and beard. Spewing blood-colored curses, he once more wrenched at her skirt.
The sound of tearing fabric was met by her shriek. Still, the miscreant retained his hold—until she landed another kick that thrust him sideways. Then Durand had all of her.
Turning his destrier aside, he thrust the woman onto the fore of his saddle. Though no longer a bone tugged between two dogs, her disposition did not improve. As she continued to struggle, her long black hair whipping across his face, he hauled her back against his chest and glanced over his shoulder.
His men were routing the French king’s vassals, including their bearded leader.
Still the woman fought, raking at the hand gripping her waist, jabbing her elbows into his mail-clothed ribs, reaching behind to scrape nails across his jaw and down his throat.
Feeling the great animal quiver and jerk beneath them, Durand shouted, “Behave, Lady! I am King Henry’s man!”
That settled her. Whoever she was and whatever King Louis’s men wanted with her, she would likely fare better with the English king across whose lands she fled.
Durand’s breath of relief swirled white across the chill air. He had her in hand. Not a great feat compared to other services performed for King Henry and his queen, but—
She lurched forward against the arm he had begun to relax, kicked her heels into his horse’s side, and slammed her elbow into her savior’s left eye.
Durand was not one to ill-treat women, but as he reeled from the blow that threatened to unseat him, he had enough presence of mind to know his enraged destrier would not much longer suffer the lady. And that could prove deadly. Thus, he gave the vixen what she sought, flinging her away so she would not be trampled beneath frantic hooves.
The lady who landed face down in snow too thin to cushion her fall, cried out. The impact jarred her, causing pain to shoot head to toe and blood to coat her bitten tongue, but that did not keep her from rising. There was too much at stake to pity a body that would be heavily bruised within the hour regardless of how this day ended.
She made it onto her hands and knees, then her feet, and nearly toppled when her boot caught the lower edge of her bliaut that was more familiar with the ground than it ought to be. The count’s man, Sir Renley, had done that, dragging at her skirt with such force the seams at her shoulders had torn through—not all the way, else her gown would be down around her feet.
Regaining her balance, she grimaced at the sound of metal on metal that evidenced some of the coins sewn into the hem of her mantle had worked free of their wrappings.
Blinking to clear her vision, she peered past the hair that had escaped its braid and saw the one who had tossed her to the ground was distant, evidence he was having difficulty calming his beast. But as she glared at horse and rider, they reined around and started back.
“Dear Lord!” She spun opposite. “I must—”
Must, but could not. Though the count’s men, who had hounded her league after league, were pursued by a half dozen of those who had emerged from the wood, only one of the escort tasked with delivering her to safety remained astride. And he was in the midst of an abundance of knights who, like the one who had tossed her from his horse, were King Henry’s men.
“So close,” she whispered, then assured herself all was not lost. Plans had been made for such an occurrence. Now if she of many words could keep her mouth shut…
Holding her back to the knight who deserved whatever injuries she had inflicted, she smoothed her damp skirt, adjusted her skewed mantle, and draped the hood over her head in the hope that had she previously encountered any of Henry’s men, they would not recognize her amid the shadows.
Lord, have mercy, she sent heavenward. Save me from greedy men. See me safely to my father.
Ignoring the pound of hooves behind, her next prayers were those of praise when her unhorsed escort were assisted to their feet. They stood no chance of taking a stand against so many, but she would not see them suffer for her. Hopefully, words would achieve what weapons could not.
Help me not speak where I ought to hold my tongue, Lord, she added. Then to aid Him in sealing her lips, she clenched her teeth so hard they hurt nearly as much as the rest of her.
The knight at her back slowed, but she kept her gaze on the others of his party. When the one who had tossed her from his horse reined in to her right, she did not look around. Her anger still boiled, and nothing good would come of unleashing more of that emotion. Better she seek to gain the man’s favor—if such was possible in light of the blows she had landed to his body and pride.
In a civil, albeit sardonic voice, he said, “And here I feared you might have broken your neck, Lady.”
Whose fault would that be, knave? she silently demanded, then compressed her lips lest her tongue tapped out the words.
Well done, her beloved Conrad praised from afar. A civil tone across a civil tongue is full of the possibility of goodwill, my darling.
A civil tongue was beyond her. Thus, a quiet tongue it must be.
“Are you hurt?” the knight asked as the others advanced.
Could so simple a word describe the discomfort felt in every joint, the sting of skin abraded by her bliaut digging into her shoulders, the ache behind her eyes?
Oh, Conrad, she silently bemoaned, would that I were not so alone. That my world were yet the beautiful thing you built around me. That there was something true to laugh about. But the walls tumble down.
“I hope you will forgive me for granting your wish to dismount,” the knight persisted. “’Twas that or see us both beneath the hooves of a distraught warhorse.” One that remained agitated, as told by its snorting and stamping.
She knew her struggles had so provoked the beast that the man and she could have suffered grave injury, perhaps even death, but she was in no mood to forgive.
She looked around and saw the knight had lowered his mail hood, revealing dark hair that sprang back from his brow. The side of his face into which she had thrust he
r elbow was livid and swelling around the eye. On either side of a short, trimmed beard encircling his mouth were bloody scores running down to his throat. And the hand he had dug into her waist further evidenced the rake of her nails. She had been vicious.
Though she told herself he deserved no better, remorse gripped her. If he and his companions had merely happened on the count’s attempt to abduct her—had not been looking to do so themselves—gratitude was their due. If not for them, she would be Sir Renley’s captive and once more torn from all she held dear.
Regardless, unless allowed to continue her journey, she would find herself in the company of King Henry, which could prove as detrimental as being held by the count.
As she foraged for conciliatory words, the knight’s gaze probed her shadowed face, and he said, “I am Sir Durand Marshal. You are?”
He did not know? She narrowed her lids at the one who, until that moment, she had mostly looked near upon to note the damage she had inflicted. Many would think him handsome, and he was, but not to her taste. However, his golden eyes were captivating.
“As one who shall bear the marks of our encounter”—his mouth lifted toward a smile that made no sense in light of those marks—“I ought to at least have a name to blame them upon.”
It might be his due, but he would not hear it from her.
“Sir Knight!” called the only one of her escort who had remained astride during their flight. “I am Sir Norris.”
Relieved by his intercession, she looked to the middle-aged man flanked by King Henry’s men. When he glanced at her, she discreetly inclined her head. All was in his hands, just as she had been instructed.
