by Tamara Leigh
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Tamara Leigh Novels
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
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Epilogue
Excerpt
Tamara Leigh Novels
About The Author
LADY OF CONQUEST
A “clean read” rewrite of Saxon Bride, published by Bantam Books, 1996
TAMARA LEIGH, USA Today Best-Selling Author
CURSED
England of The Norman Conquest, 1068: Two years have passed since the Battle of Hastings changed the course of a nation. As the defeated Saxons continue to chafe against the yoke of Norman rule, Rhiannyn of Etcheverry finds herself at the center of a rebellion when the conqueror she refuses to wed dies in her arms—cursing her to never know the love of a man or the blessing of children. Certain only her silence can save her people from retaliation, she holds close the dark truth about his death. But when his avenging brother saves her life, she discovers another side to the celebrated warrior of Hastings—one that will test her loyalties and beliefs. And expose the innocent heart beneath her Saxon pride.
UNFORGIVEN
Renouncing his holy vows, Maxen Pendery pledges to discover who murdered his brother—even at the cost of the soul he has wrestled to save since thrusting his sword in the blood-soaked soil of Hastings and walking away. But when Rhiannyn of Etcheverry is at his mercy, she continues to protect the rebel leader to whom she was once betrothed. Though breathtakingly lovely, she refuses to use her wiles against Maxen, instead disarming him with her sharp tongue, strong will, and a selflessness that unexpectedly stirs his ignoble heart. Might the cursed beauty be the death of him? Or could she prove his redemption?
LADY OF CONQUEST (a “clean read” rewrite of the 1996 Bantam Books bestseller Saxon Bride) Copyright © 2015 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-10: 942326-00-7
ISBN-13: 978-1-942326-00-7
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
TAMARA LEIGH NOVELS
CLEAN READ HISTORICAL ROMANCE
The Feud: A Medieval Romance Series
Baron Of Godsmere: Book One, 02/15
Baron Of Emberly: Book Two, Winter 2015
Medieval Romance Series
Lady At Arms: Book One, 01/14 (1994 Bantam Books bestseller Warrior Bride clean read rewrite)
Lady Of Eve: Book Two, 06/14 (1994 Bantam Books bestseller Virgin Bride clean read rewrite)
Stand-Alone Medieval Romance Novels
Lady Of Fire: 11/14 (1995 Bantam Books bestseller Pagan Bride clean read rewrite)
Lady Of Conquest: 06/15 (1996 Bantam Books bestseller Saxon Bride clean read rewrite)
Dreamspell: A Medieval Time Travel Romance, 03/12
INSPIRATIONAL HISTORICAL ROMANCE
Age of Faith: A Medieval Romance Series
The Unveiling: Book One, 08/12
The Yielding: Book Two, 12/12
The Redeeming: Book Three, 05/13
The Kindling: Book Four, 11/13
The Longing: Book Five, 05/14:
INSPIRATIONAL CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE
Head Over Heels: Stand-Alone Romance Novels
Stealing Adda, 05/12 (ebook edition)
Stealing Adda, 2006 (print edition): NavPress
Perfecting Kate, 03/15 (ebook edition):
Perfecting Kate, 2007 (print edition): Multnomah
Splitting Harriet, 2007 (print edition): RandomHouse/Multnomah
Faking Grace, 2008 (print edition): RandomHouse/Multnomah
Southern Discomfort: A Contemporary Romance Series
Leaving Carolina, 2009 (print edition): RandomHouse/Multnomah
Nowhere, Carolina, 2010 (print edition): RandomHouse/Multnomah
Restless in Carolina, 2011 (print edition): RandomHouse/Multnomah
OUT-OF-PRINT GENERAL MARKET TITLES
Warrior Bride, 1994: Bantam Books
*Virgin Bride, 1994: Bantam Books
Pagan Bride, 1995: Bantam Books
Saxon Bride, 1995: Bantam Books
Misbegotten, 1996: HarperCollins
Unforgotten, 1997: HarperCollins
Blackheart, 2001: Dorchester Leisure
*Virgin Bride is the sequel to Warrior Bride
Pagan Pride and Saxon Bride are stand-alone novels
www.tamaraleigh.com
CHAPTER ONE
England of The Norman Conquest
October, 1068
“A thousand times I curse you!” the fallen knight shouted at the one who cradled his head in her lap, whose blue skirts were stained purple with his blood.
Trembling violently, he pulled the dagger from his chest, let it fall to the dirt road, and clawed a hand over the wound. “To eternity I curse you, Rhiannyn of Etcheverry. If you will not belong to a Pendery, you will belong to no man, your days and nights gaping pits of despair. Never again to know—”
He drew a gurgling breath, expelled it on blood that fell like crimson mist.
“Thomas,” Rhiannyn whispered.
He jerked his head. “Never again to know the love of a man, never to hold a child at your breast.”
Throat pained by unspoken sobs, she brushed the hair off his glistening brow. “Forgive me. Pray, forgive me.”
“The devil forgive you!” He raised his bloodied hand and dug his fingers into her neck.
Though death surely crouched at his side, she knew he could strangle the life from her. Still, she did not try to free herself. It would be no less tha
n she deserved if all ended here, and she almost wished it would. Then the torment of these past years, which had seen so many dead, would also end. For her.
As she drew breath through her constricted throat, she longed to relive these last hours. She would not run from Thomas, and he would not be dying in her arms.
Warm tears slid down her face. “I did not want this.”
“Curse you!” He released her neck, dragged his bloodied hand down her bodice, and pressed his palm between her breasts as if seeking the beat of her heart. With a grating breath, he shifted his gaze to the gray sky and rasped, “Avenge me, Brother!” Then his body convulsed, lungs emptied, and arm dropped to his side.
A sob broke from Rhiannyn as she stared into sightless eyes that would never again darken with anger over her defiance. Nor would they smile.
She turned her face up. “Why?” she asked as the advancing storm rolled out its thunder. “Now more will die. Surely that cannot be Your will.”
Chill droplets fell, spotting her, mixing fresh water with salt tears—gentle at first, as if heaven wept with her, then fast and hard, as if with a grief more vast than her own.
She was drenched when the sound of approaching horses reached her. Uncaring whether those who came were friend or foe, she bent nearer over Thomas.
“I will belong to none,” she accepted the great emptiness to which he had banished her, an emptiness complete now that she had lost not only her family to the conquering Normans, but the family she might have made with another. “No children will I bear.”
Though the voices of those who came spoke Norman French and were raised in anger, relief swept her. With the arrival of the Pendery knights, her own death was imminent, meaning she would not long be burdened with guilt.
Rhiannyn thought herself prepared for the fury, but she could not keep from crying out when hands wrenched her upright and dragged her back from Thomas.
“What have you done?” Sir Ancel snarled.
Rain pelting her face, she met the gaze of one who had been Thomas’s friend. “He is dead,” she spoke in his French. “I—”
The back of his hand snapped her head to the side with such force she would have flown backward had she not been supported by a man on either side.
It will be over soon, she silently counseled amid bursts of blinding white and pounding pain. He would come at her again, and within minutes, she would join Thomas upon this dirt road—for a short time. Whereas he would be taken away for a proper burial, she would share the fate of the numerous Saxons who had fallen to the Normans. No kindness in death.
Of a sudden, the men between whom she hung released her, and she dropped to her hands and knees amid the sludge of the road.
“Thomas!” Sir Ancel bellowed, and when she lifted her throbbing head and narrowly opened her eyes, she saw he approached the prone figure of his liege, around which the others gathered.
She slid her gaze to the bordering wood. It was a short distance, but though the instinct to survive urged her to run, reason told her she would not reach it unopposed. And her Norman captors knew it as well.
Peering past Thomas’s men, she saw one rider had not dismounted.
With stricken countenance, Thomas’s fourteen-year-old brother moved his gaze from her to the man Sir Ancel had pulled into his arms.
The youth’s name was Christophe. Lame from birth, he was a gentle soul destined to know books and healing rather than weapons and lording. Henceforth, he would hate her, but he would not avenge his brother’s death as bid. Of such violence he was not capable.
Though Rhiannyn longed to explain to him what had happened, she knew if she were believed, Thomas’s men would seek retribution. What they considered an eye for an eye would mean further carnage of her people. Thus, she would bear the blame for Thomas’s death. And since he had died because of her, it was a good version of the truth.
“Rise!” Sir Ancel commanded.
She startled to find he once more stood over her.
“Lady Rhiannyn!”
Lady because Thomas had named her one. Determined to wed her, though she had shamed him with her public refusal, he had bestowed the title upon her. After all, it would not do for a favorite of the Norman king to take a Saxon commoner to wife.
Imagining her blood would soon join with his, though not in the manner he had wished, she struggled upright to face the one who would do the deed.
Short-cropped hair plastered to his head, face contorted, Sir Ancel demanded, “Who did this to our lord?”
She lowered her eyes to more easily tell the lie. “I did it.”
He grabbed her shoulders. “No more of your Saxon lies. I want the truth!”
“I have told it!”
“Do you think me a fool? It was your lover who put a dagger through him.”
He spoke of Edwin, the second son of the Saxon thane who had ruled Etcheverry before the coming of the Normans. Edwin, whose bitterness kept the enmity alive between the conquering Normans and the vanquished Saxons. Edwin, who was not her lover, though he would have been her husband had the Normans not claimed this land to which they had no right.
Though she would never admit it, he had aided in her escape this morn, and it was he who had fought Thomas and been wounded by his opponent’s blade. But it was not Edwin who landed the deathblow. After Thomas had sliced through Edwin’s sword arm, a dagger had been thrown from the wood.
Thomas’s cry, mingled with Edwin’s angry shout, returned to Rhiannyn as she stared through Sir Ancel. She saw herself take Thomas in her arms, saw the disbelief with which he regarded her as Edwin urged her to her feet, saw Edwin’s contempt as he berated her for refusing to leave with him, saw the injured arm Edwin pressed to his chest as he struggled to mount his horse. And then Thomas’s sightless eyes.
Blinking Sir Ancel to focus, she said, “Non, it was I who killed him.”
He sneered. “Where is your weapon?”
What had become of it? She lowered her chin and searched for a glint of silver. The dagger hid itself well, and she had to drop to her hands and knees and scrabble in the wet earth to find it.
She regained her feet and raised the weapon toward Sir Ancel. Though the blade had drawn the mud of the earth, the red spilled from Thomas’s veins was yet visible amid the recesses of the intricately carved hilt. “This is what I used.”
Disbelief continued to shine from the knight’s face and the faces of those behind him.
Did they not believe her capable of the atrocity—that she did not possess the stomach or strength required to kill a man?
She stepped forward. “God is my witness,” she said, promising herself she would repent later.
Sir Ancel knocked her hand aside, sending the dagger into the rain-beaten grass alongside the road. “Lying Saxon. It was the coward, Harwolfson, who did it!”
As she clasped her pained wrist to her chest, Sir Guy retrieved the dagger. When he looked askance at her, she averted her gaze.
“It was Harwolfson!” Sir Ancel insisted.
She shook her head. “You are wrong. I hated Thomas.”
“Non!” Having dismounted, Christophe hobbled forward. “You did not hate my brother, and even had you, you could not have done this.”
“I am responsible,” she asserted, which was true whether it was she who had wielded the weapon or the unseen one in the wood.
“Fear not, Christophe.” Sir Ancel grabbed Rhiannyn’s wet hair and forced her head back. “Justice will be done.”
Quelling the impulse to struggle, she said, “Do it now.”
“That would be too merciful.”
Mind ripe with imaginings of what he would do to her, she began to fully feel the chill of clothes soaked through. Or did fear make her shudder? “Do with me as you will,” she said through chattering teeth.
“Be assured, I shall.” He thrust her from him.
She threw her hands up and felt her palms tear when they met the muddied road. Prostrate, she silently prayed, Dear
God, be here, be merciful, be swift.
A hand gripped her arm and, with effort, pulled her to her feet.
It was Christophe. Wondering how it was possible to find no smudge of hatred amid the pain upon his face, her burning eyes brimmed.
He smiled sorrowfully. “Lady Rhiannyn—”
“Do not call her that, boy!” Sir Ancel snapped. “She is no longer a lady—indeed, never was.”
Christophe Pendery, who knew most believed he was undeserving of his surname, looked around. “She was to have been my brother’s bride.”
“Oui, and Thomas was a fool to think he could trust her.” The man jabbed a finger at where two knights arranged their lord’s body over a horse. “Your brother is dead.”
Christophe lowered his chin, closed his eyes, and fought emotions that sought to unman him before knights who would scorn him for showing a woman’s weakness.
He had to be strong. With Thomas gone, the estates fell to him, he who would never train for knighthood, whose destiny had been to serve as his brother’s steward. He did not want the responsibility, nor the struggle for power that would ensue. But what other course? Of the four sons born to Lydia Pendery, but two survived, himself and the eldest.
He opened his eyes. “Maxen,” he whispered. He to whom all would have belonged had he not pursued a different life. A far different life.
But would he come back out into the world? If so, would he stay?
CHAPTER TWO
His demons quieted, the lone figure rose from before the high altar and lifted his tonsured head to consider the holy relics—sole witnesses to his prayers.
“Answer me, Lord,” he said. And waited, as he did each time he prostrated himself in the chapel, but again he was denied deliverance from memories that had made him seek this place.
