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Malcolm's Honor
Jillian Hart


A traitorous bride!Malcolm le Farouche felt his blood race at the thought. Yet, was rage or passion the reason? He knew only that though Elinore of Evenbough would share his bed by royal command, the warrior-trained beauty was not to be trusted…with his life or his heart!Le Farouche–"the Fierce." The epithet added luster to Sir Malcolm's dark reputation as the greatest knight in the land. But how would Elinore refute his deepest suspicions of an alliance with her treacherous father? For her soul called out that this man was her true mate born!









“You!” Elinore pointed her blade at Malcolm.


“Help me with his armor, since you are the only man without work to do.”

“You despise my idleness?” He chuckled, deep and as intriguing as midnight.

“That and more. Now quickly. I must see the wound. Use my blade.” She jabbed the knife toward him, hilt first.

His big, blunt-shaped fingers curled over the steel weapon, engulfing it. The thick blade appeared like a toy against his size and dark, lethal power. She read the cynical darkness in his eyes, hated the strength in his rock-hewn body. The latent power to kill rested in the thickness of his arms and shoulders, chest and thighs.

Malcolm both took her breath away and made her blood run cold. He was a beautiful masculine form. He was a destroyer of life. The irony beat at her.

Truly this was the epitome of man…!


Dear Reader,

The perfect complement to a hot summer day is a cool drink, some time off your feet and a good romance novel. And we have four terrific stories this month for you to choose from!

Jillian Hart made her writing debut in our 1998 March Madness Promotion with her outstanding Western, Last Chance Bride. The same emotional and gently passionate style she’s developed in her Westerns is ever present in Malcolm’s Honor, Jillian’s first medieval romance. Set in England, it’s the story of Malcolm the Fierce, a loyal knight who captures a noblewoman suspected of treason. When Malcolm brings her to the king, the king awards Malcolm with the woman’s land…then forces him to marry her! Malcolm soon finds himself falling in love with his beautiful wife, but is still unsure he can trust her….

In Lady of Lyonsbridge by Ana Seymour, another wonderful Medieval, an heiress falls in love with a knight who comes to her estate on his way to pay a kidnapped king’s ransom. Judith Stacy returns with a darling new Western, The Blushing Bride, about a young lady who travels to a male-dominated logging camp to play matchmaker for a bevy of potential brides—only to find herself unexpectedly drawn to a certain mountain man of her own!

Rounding out the month is Jake’s Angel by newcomer Nicole Foster. In this book, an embittered—and wounded—Texas Ranger on the trail of a notorious outlaw winds up in a small New Mexican town and is healed, emotionally and physically, by a beautiful widow.

Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor




Malcolm’s Honor

Jillian Hart







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




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




Chapter One


On the road to Dover, 1280

“By the rood, we have company.”

Lady Elinore of Evenbough turned at the sound of her protector’s voice. The tall knight, harsh as the night was long, did not seem alarmed at the cluster of men drawing closer along the forest road, only amused.

“’Tis thieves. Look how slow they ride,” her father said with a laugh. “Luck is with us. We have been journeying for a good part of a sennight and still no sign of Edward’s knights.”

“Do not speak of luck, my lord.” The knight took hold of his sword. “Nor believe the king will forget your transgressions.”

“Yours, as well.”

Elin considered her father’s words. He had told her little the night he’d interrupted her dreams, rousing her with only a shake of her shoulder and a stern order to dress to ride. Was the castle under attack? Mayhap an illness? Her questions had gone unanswered. She had packed a sack of clothing and two small crocks of herbs, and joined her father in the bailey.

There had been only a handful fleeing that night, if indeed they were fleeing. Three of Father’s most trusted knights, and her elderly chaperon, Alma, who had cared for Elin since birth. Father had bidden them to remain silent as he’d led the way down the shadowed road. It had been thus for four nights, traveling beneath the cloak of a new moon, keeping out of the sight of travelers brave enough to risk the dangerous roads after midnight.

Now it seemed their luck had turned. Elin bit back questions she dared not ask her father, a harsh and severe man—questions about why one loyal and close to the king would need to hide in the darkness.

“Thieves can be easily dealt with,” Alma whispered in her ear. “But methinks those are knights. Look how black they are, for there is no moon to gleam off their mail. Were they thieves, they would wear even a small amount of colored cloth.”

“Quiet, old woman,” her father’s knight ordered.

Had they not been in such danger, Elin would have spoken. No matter his worth as a warrior, Brock could improve his manners, especially toward the elderly.

“By the blood, they are knights.” Father’s voice resonated with a hollow sound—fear, mayhap. Or something worse.

“Many knights,” Alma whispered again.

Elin’s grip tightened on the reins. Without doubt, there would be a battle and much danger. She had learned long ago to think of her own safety, for her father had little concern for her or Alma’s welfare. In truth, why he’d brought her with him remained a mystery. Since her brother’s death in the Crusades while fighting at Edward’s side, the mere sight of Elin angered her sire.

“Come.” She spoke low and touched Alma’s cloak. “We must hide.”

A battle was no place for unarmed women. Had Father allowed her, she would not hesitate to carry a sword for protection. Her hand crept to the knife she kept at her girdle. She was not helpless. And any man foolish enough to believe so would discover how fine a warrior she could be.

“Dismount,” Elin instructed when the forest proved too dense for the great horses. It mattered little if they were on foot. She had all she needed—a weapon in hand and the cloak of darkness. “Father will chase off those arrogant knights. Look how they challenge him.”

“Do not be so certain,” Alma warned. “See that big knight, the one atop the black stallion? He is Malcolm le Farouche. Malcolm the Fierce.”

“The king’s protector? You must be mistaken, Alma. What could Father have done to bring the king’s men after him?”

“Treason.”

“Nay, it cannot be. Father is loyal to the king.”

“Your father is loyal to gold coin.”

Elin could not argue that truth. She had long witnessed that flaw in her father’s character. His love of money had nearly been the ruin of the barony. His conscience did not so much as twinge at the thought of others going hungry in order to feed his greed. But treason?

“Put down your sword, Baron Philip of Evenbough, by command of the king,” the black knight ordered.

“I trust you not, Farouche. You have long been known for your dubious misdeeds.” Father’s sword slid from its scabbard, a sound of metal upon leather in the still night. “I command you, le Farouche, to put down your arms and let us go as peaceable men.”

“Since when are a murderer’s deeds peaceable?”

Elin could see the knight’s great gleaming darkness as, clothed in shadows, he lifted his sword. Malcolm the Fierce. His voice came as sharp as his sword, hard as his name. She could see broad shoulders, wider than she’d noticed on any man, and the power of his arm. Painted in shades of night, he led the charge.

“No!” She could not hold back the cry that tore from her throat. Her hiding place revealed, she slapped her hand to her mouth. But she remained unnoticed as the clash of sword upon sword and the blood cry of battling men filled the forest. She could smell the sweat of horses, the fresh musk of upturned earth beneath their hooves and the sharp scent of blood.

“Down, girl.” Alma’s hand curled in the fabric of her sleeve. Not until that moment was Elin aware she’d risen to her feet.

She knelt back in the shadows, her fingers growing clammy around the hilt of her dagger. Violence frightened her, but something terrified her even more.

It came as a whisper in her mind, a shimmer of foreboding as intangible as the night. Her father would lose this battle. Had King Edward’s knights tracked them from Evenbough to kill or capture them? Or was Father right? Was le Farouche working against the king for his own vile agenda? Either was possible. There had been rumors, aye; there were always rumors. But as flawed as her father was, Elin found it hard to believe him capable of murder. And yet—

“We must escape whilst we can,” Alma whispered, her voice raspy from age and fear. “Come. That is Brock who has fallen. There, on the ground by the lee side of that boulder. Do you see him?”

“Aye.” Cold hard fear clenched Elin’s belly. Brock had failed to stop the dark knight, Malcolm the Fierce.

“They may not know we are here,” Elin said. “If we attempt to move, they may spot us.”

“Not in the heat of battle.” Alma tugged hard on Elin’s cloak and, stooping so as not to disturb tree boughs, took a small step. “Those knights are no fools. They are the best in the realm, chosen by Edward himself. They will count the bodies—”

“Then count the horses, and come looking for us,” Elin finished. “We have no choice. We must run. Quietly, now.”

A twig snapped. The fingers gripping her cloak let go. Was she alone? The dark shadows beneath the trees made it impossible to see. “Alma?”

Cold metal touched her throat, and then a hard male hand gripped her shoulder with crushing force. Sinew and bone bruised beneath those mighty fingers, and Elin cried out. “Where is Alma? She’s an old woman. If you hurt her, you devil’s spawn, I shall make you pay.”

Male laughter rang above the sounds of the forest. “God’s teeth, a warrior woman. I truly quake in fear.”

She jabbed her elbow backward and struck chain mail and immovable man. Let him jest. She had not yet begun to fight. She lifted her right hand and slashed at the hard male fist holding a knife to her throat. She hit a steel gauntlet and did no harm. “Fie!”

More laughter. “Easy, little dove. I do not hurt women.”

Before Elin could stop him, he’d stripped the knife from her grip and lifted her into the air. She fell hard against the jagged surface of his mail. It bit into her flesh and she cried out again. When she kicked, trying to flee, he held her more tightly to his chest. Such a broad, unyielding chest.

“Set me down.” She would not allow this man or any man to ravish her. Not without a fight. If only she had her knife. “Set me down, cowardly knave.”

“As you wish.”

Her feet touched ground, and she saw her father. She twisted away from the dark knight’s steely grip, running toward the old man who knelt on the bloodstained road, head bowed. “Father. You’re hurt.”

“Wrongly accused is more like it,” he growled, anger fueling his voice.

Elin knelt beside him. “You’ve a cut to your head.” She reached to better inspect the wound, but steel wrapped around her wrist.

The great black knight stared down at her, and they glared at one another, eye-to-eye. Even in the shadows she could measure the power of the man, the strength and cunning that all should fear.

But she would not. “Are you proud of your deeds? You’ve injured an old man and kidnapped an old woman. What a brave warrior.”

She saw darkness in those hard eyes, a glint of warning. “Do not fool with me, maiden. I strike with the authority of the king. If you have more to say, then tell it to Edward.”

“Nay, I—”

“Silence,” he hissed through clenched teeth. His voice was low and dangerous.

No good would come from pushing one so fierce. But Elin was not through with him. Not by far.

“The old woman you speak of is safe with the horses.” The dark knight raised his sword. “Prepare for travel. We have a long ride this night.”

Elin met his gaze, already hating this man of war and violence who had used brute force to carry her from the woods and who now raised a sword against her father.

What knight was he who made the weak and the old cower before him? Well, Elin would not cower. She was not weak or frightened.

But as she allowed another knight to help her onto her palfrey, she knew she ought to be afraid of the man of darkness, of Malcolm le Farouche.



Malcolm looked down at the baron, wounded and dishonored. Had Philip of Evenbough committed another crime, Edward may have found some way… Nay, regardless of rank, a grave punishment awaited the man. Philip would pay with his life for killing Edward’s cousin.

Now, what was to become of the girl? She ought to be safe in a husband’s bed, not journeying along dangerous roads with a traitor. A thorough search revealed only enough food to see the party to the coast, but no gold. Passage to Normandy had its price. Either the girl had been brought along to be sold, or Evenbough had a supply of hidden coin.

Was she innocent or criminal? Had she known of her father’s actions? She was young, between fifteen and twenty summers, he wagered, and weighed little more than a child. Yet she was not helpless, as she appeared. The traitor’s daughter was no peaceful dove.

“Bind him,” Malcolm instructed his men, pointing his sword at the dishonored Evenbough. “We take him alive to the king, as ordered.”

“And the women?”

He remembered the knife, now in his possession, and recalled how the maiden had wielded it with skill. “Bind them, but do not strike them. And take care not to tie the old one too tightly. Tell her that if she escapes, I will take her charge’s life. She will believe me.”

Malcolm the Fierce had killed many and often. Even now three more bodies littered the road. But none were his men, of that he made sure. He worked them hard so in battle they would not be defeated, would not lose their lives carrying out the orders of a fickle king. What was justice in a world ruled by men? They were easily led astray by gold, power and women. Malcolm sighed. He’d seen too much in the Crusades, fighting for a cause he no longer believed in. He no longer believed in any cause.

“Unhand me, you knave.” The girl’s voice rang with a bold fury.

“Ow,” Hugh cried.

Malcolm gave more orders to his men and, certain he would be obeyed, strode to the horses, arriving in time to see the traitor’s daughter land a mighty kick on the young knight’s shoulder.

“Cease, maiden. Or I shall be forced to treat you in a like manner.” Malcolm wrapped his hand around her slim ankle, preventing further abuse to his knight.

“You bade me not to strike her,” Hugh explained as he rubbed his shoulder. “Though I am sorely tempted.”

“I admire your restraint.” Malcolm laughed as the female tried to kick her way free from his steely grip. “Behave, maiden, else I will let Hugh have his way with you.”

“Ha! As if I would want one such as this,” the knight replied. “Give me a soft woman who knows naught of fighting, but much of loving.”

Malcolm bade the young knight to tend the old woman, while the girl, mounted on the gray palfrey, seethed with silent fury. Decisions must be made. The journey ahead was long and brought with it danger, even for the best knights in the realm.

“If I release hold of your foot, will you cease this unruly behavior?”

“Mayhap.” Shadows shaped her face and cloaked it, too. He could not read her intent, but he heard the lie in her voice.

Ah, so she was not as skilled a criminal as her father. Perhaps she was innocent. ’Twas not his place to judge. “Your ankle is finely shaped and delicate, but I am not fooled by your small size. Tell me, warrior maiden, do you carry another knife?”

“Nay. You took my only one.”

“And there is not another hidden beneath your mantle?”

“Why do you doubt me, Sir Cowardly Knight? I speak the truth.”

He caught sight of her chin, a chiseled curve of both silk and defiance.

“Then you will not protest if I search for more of your weaponry. A king’s knight must take precautions.”

“A king’s knight should not attack innocent travelers and force them to his will. I think you are not so brave, sirrah.”

“’Tis not your regard I seek,” he retorted with a laugh. The maiden had the fire of a young mare, not yet tamed or ridden by man. “My loyalty is to the king. Only his opinion matters. And he wishes Evenbough and all who accompany him delivered to his court. You chose the company of a traitor. Do not blame me.”

“I am no more a traitor than you. Mayhap less of one.”

“Watch yourself, maiden, else I may be forced to treat you more harshly. But I am not yet cruel. Here is your choice. Either I search for the knives you keep hidden beneath your mantle, or I bind you like a prisoner.”

Her mouth clamped shut. He could see the generous cut of her lips, bow shaped and tempting. ’Twould be a sad day when Malcolm le Farouche was tempted by any woman.

“I would rather be bound by chains than have a cowardly knight disrobe me.”

“We agree.” For even the sight of a woman’s bare, silken curves could never entice more than lust from him, and even then, a fleeting lust.

He was, as they said, the fiercest of knights, void of conscience, void of passion. A man without heart or soul.

“Mount up, we ride,” he commanded, and bound the woman’s wrists.




Chapter Two


“Take care how you speak,” Alma whispered while they rode side by side. Their horses were led by the knight called Hugh, who kept a careful eye on the position of Elin’s feet. “’Twould not be good to tempt Malcolm le Farouche’s anger.”

“He is a villain.”

“He strikes with the authority of the king. We are at his mercy. Pray do not forget that the next time you speak to him.”

“If I speak. I want naught to do with that cowardly knave.” She could see him up ahead. He was touched by stardust now that the clouds above had parted. Though he shone with silver light, he was still more shadow than substance as he led the entourage, sword raised, an image of power and might.

“See? Again you speak without thought. I bid you to cease with the insults. Call him neither coward nor knave. You have yet to see the world as I have, little one. He has done naught but bind our wrists and your feet. Look how loosely Sir Hugh tied me. ’Tis far better than abuse and rape, so mind your tongue.”

Fine. But Elin’s anger grew. She was no chattel to be bound like a cow on butchering day. Or a weakling afraid to stand up to tyranny. Look how he rode, spine straight and those broad shoulders gleaming with dark light. Triumph and arrogant pride held him up, no doubt. No matter the cost, she refused to be at that knave’s mercy.

“Elin, what are you about?” Alma muttered, and drew the attention of the knight called Hugh, who kept peering with suspicious eyes over his shoulder, despite the restriction of his armor.

Surely Elin’s few kicks to his chest and shoulder had done no more than bruise him. How else was she to fight when she had no weapons—well, none she wanted to reveal?

“I am locating my dagger,” she whispered when Hugh turned forward to watch the road.

“Toward what end? Pray do not tell me you wish to wage war against six knights with one small blade?”

“I intend to cut our bindings, silly goose.” Elin shook her head. “I shall outwit those knights. They are far too sure of themselves.”

“As are you.”

Elin frowned at Alma’s wry comment. Didn’t she have every right to be furious? She was trussed up like livestock. And worse, she had deeper fears she would not confess to Alma. Whether true or not, her father was being taken to the king under the charge of treason. She had at first thought such accusations unlikely, but Father’s righteous fury changed her mind. An innocent man would not spout death threats and then offer bribes to anyone who could free him.

Was the dark knight correct? Would she face the same charges just by being in her father’s company? But what if le Farouche followed his own agenda in kidnapping them? If he’d concocted the accusations against her father, what future awaited her then?

Either way, escape seemed the best course.

As if sensing her intentions, Hugh turned to study her carefully. Grateful for the shadows of a grove they rode through, Elin froze. She tried to appear innocent until he faced forward again. Then she wiggled the knife tucked against her waist so that its hilt caught against the inside of her elbow. With a little concentration, she freed the blade from the small scabbard beneath her mantle.

So far so good. Now to retrieve it. She had to appear innocent every time Hugh turned to spy on her. That damnable knight was truly annoying.

Finally the blade slid down the length of her sleeved arm and into her palm. The sharp point nicked her flesh, but she didn’t even wince. Such victory! With the way that dark knight led his men, eyes straight ahead and nose to the sky, he would never know she and Alma had slipped away into the darkness.

But Hugh would notice. Something had to be done about him.

“I see what you are up to,” Alma whispered, piquing Hugh’s interest once more.

“Alma! Stop this! How are we to escape if you keep drawing that annoying knight’s attention?”

“We ought not to escape.” Alma drew herself up straight, her low voice ringing with authority. “Listen to me for once, Elinore. They will set us free. We are innocent. Edward is a fair and just king.”

“I trust no man, not even the king.” And not Malcolm le Farouche. “Neither should you.”

“And tell me what harm can come to two women traveling these woods unarmed and unprotected? Nothing worse than what will befall us by staying beneath the fierce knight’s protection.”

Elin hated it when Alma made sense. “I will protect you.”

“You have no sword or armor, little one. You are brave, but do not consider it. I pray you, stay with me. No harm will come to us. You wait and see.”

Now what should she do? Elin waited until Hugh faced forward again before she positioned the hilt in her palm and worked the tip of the knife into the bindings.

“Surrender your weapon, maiden warrior.” A deep voice shivered over the back of her neck, vibrating down her spine.

She jumped. The knife fell to the ground, lost forever. Le Farouche rode half a hair’s width beside her. How had he gotten there? He’d been at the lead just moments ago. He made no sound as he rode alongside her. Was he part demon? How would she fight him now?

“As you can see, I have no weapon.” She held flat both palms. “I speak the truth.”

“Then why do you bleed as if pricked by a sharp blade?”

“’Tis from the bindings.”

“Do not mistake me for a fool.”

She lifted her chin. “Or me, cowardly knight.”

“Hsst!” Alma whispered, scolding her.

The dark knight’s laughter boomed through the silent forest. “I see that at least one of you females has good sense. Listen to the older one, dove. Escape would only bring peril and prove your guilt to the king.”

“I have no guilt.” She’d had her share of misdeeds and misadventures, but not treason. “If you believe in our innocence, then release us.”

“And risk the king’s wrath? ’Tis unlikely.”

“The king need never know.”

“You are not just fierce, you’re clever, not a typical maiden. I like that.” His great voice thundered over her, at once powerful and kind.

Kind? Now, where had that notion come from?

He leaned close and she could smell the night scent of him, mysterious, wooded, crisp like cool air. “If I see any knives, I will seize them. Do not reveal your weapons and I will allow you to keep them.”

He spurred his destrier forward, leaving her behind with the shades and shadows of night.

“’Tis twice he’s forgiven your transgressions, Elin. Do not tempt his anger further,” Alma murmured.

Elin cursed at the loss of her knife and felt some satisfaction that she had another tucked inside her mantle. Just one weapon left.

’Twould have to be enough.



“We are being watched,” Sir Giles said in a low tone so that his voice wouldn’t carry.

“That has not escaped me.” Malcolm did not look around. He saw no reason to alert whoever watched them that he knew of their presence. “I sense two riders keeping just to the east of us in the wood. They ride distant enough so we hear naught of their movements but close enough to strike quickly. See how my stallion senses them.”

“I hear now and then the sound of hooves on dried twigs.”

Malcolm pulled off his helm. Cool damp air swept across his brow. “At least two ride west of us as well. Did you hear the sound of a horse exhaling?”

“Look how your stallion swivels his ears.”

“More will be waiting on the path ahead of us. Expect an ambush. Alert the men. Quietly.”

“Aye. We will fare better if we are not surprised.” Giles fell back to speak to each knight in turn, giving no sign of alarm.

Malcolm slid his helm down over his face. He neither loved battle like some nor hated it like others. ’Twas something he excelled at, however. His blood heated with anticipation. His grip on his sword tightened.

“What of the women?” Hugh rode up beside Malcolm for a moment. “If you count four men, surely there will be more. I cannot sit by and watch a battle. I must fight.”

“We may well be outnumbered. Leave the women to their own devices. The girl is armed.”

“She mayhap could level an entire army with that kick of hers.”

As a knight, one who made his way by fighting and war, Malcolm admired courage and strength in all forms. Even in a girl-woman who knew not enough of the world to be afraid of it.

“Look to. Up ahead the road narrows.” The perfect spot for an ambush. Malcolm studied the lay of the land. Enormous boulders blocked his view of the shadowed lane. The stillness of the forest told him his instincts where correct. Their opponents would strike from both the front and behind, an organized charge. By whom? Why?

He drew to a halt. His men, ready to fight, positioned themselves. He heard the girl, Evenbough’s daughter, demand to know why they were stopping. Then why Hugh was cutting Alma’s bindings. Malcolm thought to bid her to silence, but he felt it then, the expectant charge in the air right before battle, as if nature could sense the impending clash of men and muscle and sword, and the resulting injury and death.

He lifted his shield. “Who challenges us?” he bellowed into the night.

There was no answer. “You think you have surprised us? Cowards, show your ugly faces.”

No movement.

Then a stallion trumpeted in the dark, and hooves drummed upon rock and earth. Figures burst out of the brush in front of them and at their flanks. Malcolm met the first man with the might of his sword. He landed a blow to the knight’s shoulder and deflected a thrust with his shield.

The crisp focus found only in battle filled his head, beat in his veins. Malcolm wheeled his stallion around and charged, knocking the knight to the ground. As another attacked him, he easily landed a bloody blow.

Not even breathing hard, he drew his mount to a halt. Blood thundered in his head. Battle cries and the clash of steel surrounded him. He counted three knights on the ground. Saw Giles in trouble and rode to his aide. Together, they fought side by side. But the two knights proved difficult to defeat. Malcolm took a bruising blow to his collarbone and another to his ribs before he felled them.

“We are sorely outnumbered,” he shouted as he engaged another knight. “Look to Hugh. He’s injured.”

“I cannot,” Giles cried as more knights descended upon him.

Malcolm spun his destrier and charged deep into the fray. He took another blow, this one to his helm. Blood filled his mouth, though ’twas hardly more than a split lip. “Behind you, Hugh!” he called, lifting his sword.

Hugh turned to face his enemy, but Malcolm could not reach his friend in time. Every galloping step of his stallion seemed in slow motion. The enemy knight evaded Hugh’s shield and drove his sword deep into the young man’s abdomen, breaking mail and flesh. Hugh fell bonelessly to the ground.

“No!” Malcolm cried. In an instant his sword lanced the knight’s side. He knocked away the weapon, then the shield, then dragged the knight to the ground with him. He’d found the man in charge of this attack, for this was no band of robbers. He tossed the knight against the broad trunk of a tree and held his blade to his throat. “Do you yield?”

“Not without the woman.”

“Are you a fool? Attacking the king’s knights? Yield, I say, or I will drag you to Edward myself.”

He felt his enemy tremble. No courageous knight, this; not even a fine mercenary, but one grown soft working for some lord or baron, protecting his fences and castle walls. “I yield.”

“Call off your men. Now, I say!”

“Beo! Cedric! Hold!” The enemy lifted his helm.

“Tell me your name,” Malcolm demanded, the edge of his sword tight beneath the leader’s throat.

“I am Caradoc of Ravenwood and I claim right to the baron’s daughter.”

The little dove? “Is she your wife?”

“Nay, Philip had agreed on a match between us.”

“Philip is bound for the king’s court, as will you be.”

Even in the darkness, Ravenwood paled. “My intent was to capture the woman, Elin.”

“Then you know of Evenbough’s flight?”

“We tracked him.”

Tight with fear, that voice. Ravenwood’s body felt tense. Not with the anticipated bunch of muscles ready for a fight, but with true terror. This was no warrior. This was a man without courage.

“Pray,” Ravenwood begged, “do not kill me.”

Malcolm’s sword hovered while he decided his course. “Bid your men to lie facedown, arms spread. We will take them as prisoners.”

“Why? We want only the woman. She’s a maiden, an innocent.”

“A woman has no innocence.” Malcolm pressed the edge of his blade to Ravenwood’s throat until he drew blood. “’Tis not my place to judge your intentions or the girl’s. Like you, her future will be determined by the king.”

“Then you are the greater fool, Malcolm the Fierce.” Ravenwood’s eyes glittered in the way of men who cannot win by their battle skills, but by deceit and manipulation. “I am a favored nephew of the king. He will have your head, if I do not have it first.”

“You are the fool, Ravenwood. Do not threaten one who has spared your life. Else you may not have the same fate when we meet next.”

“You are not a lord, sirrah, but a hired man of the king’s. A barbarian sired you, and a barbarian you will always be. I know your ilk, le Farouche, and I spit on it.”

“You are a brave man with words, but you mistake my sensibilities. I know I am like my father, a killer to the bone. And knowing this should frighten you.” Malcolm tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. “Do my bidding while I am still of a mind to spare your life.”

“Kill me and earn the king’s disfavor.” Ravenwood laughed with the cocky ease of a lord’s spoiled son, born to a life of uselessness.

“I do not fear the king’s disfavor.” Malcolm tossed the traitor to the ground, pressed a foot to the small of his back to pin him there, and eased the sharp point of his sword into the vulnerable spot between his hauberk and the back of his helm.

“Lie on the ground or your lord will be run through,” he commanded the others.

The half-dozen remaining knights eased themselves to the bloodstained earth, wary and uncertain of their fate.

“Bind them. We’ll have more prisoners for Edward’s dungeon.” Malcolm knelt with some satisfaction to tie Caradoc of Ravenwood’s hands behind his back. “Pray your uncle looks upon you with favor, for being found trying to rescue a traitor is a damning act.”

“I merely wanted the shrew.” Caradoc’s words were muffled from the dirt in his mouth. “I will have your head, le Farouche, one way or another.”

“You are not warrior enough to win it in a fight.” Malcolm did not value his head overmuch. “I will gag you as well. I grow tired of your threats.”

Malcolm stood careful watch while Caradoc of Ravenwood and his bound men were chained to trees like dogs.

“You did not take his head,” Giles observed. “You have taken far more from those who have insulted you less.”

“He is a relative of the king and a powerful man.”

“You are afraid?” Giles’s astonished whisper carried in the still night air.

“Nay, but wary. I never turn my back on a serpent.” He’d seen the contrivances of men like Caradoc and had recognized in his manner a man who took triumph in hurting others. “Is Hugh dead?”

“Mortally wounded.” Giles gestured toward the road, where their men had gathered. “We lost no others.”

“And the women?”

“Escaped during the fray. Shall I track them?”

“The king will be displeased if we do not.” His thoughts turning to the wounded man, Malcolm raced across uneven ground toward the fallen knight. Men parted to allow room at Hugh’s side. Silence and sorrow scented the air.

Grief tore at Malcolm’s heart as he knelt, knowing he was helpless to repair rent flesh and shattered bone. Someone had removed Hugh’s helm and had bathed his sweaty face. Faint starlight showed the deathly pallor tainting pale skin. Hugh would die, and Malcolm seethed with anger at his powerlessness to save him.

“We have not long to wait,” Lulach whispered, so Hugh would not hear.

“Then we wait,” Malcolm decided. He would let the young man, once so eager to serve beneath him, die in peace.

Hugh’s fingers gripped his. “I fear I have done you shame. I am not the knight I prayed to be.”

“Fear not, Hugh. You fought like a true warrior. I am proud of you.”

“’Tis all I ever asked.” Hugh let out a rasping breath, and Malcolm closed his eyes, unwilling to watch another fine man die.

Such was a knight’s life, easily spent, easily expended, lost on a dark road for no reason. The injustice of it beat at him like a wielded spike, but there was naught Malcolm could do to change the way of the world or turn back the tide of death.

He had survived and was left to mourn—as always—those who did not.



“The young knight has fallen,” Alma whispered as they galloped down the dark lane. “We must help him.”

“He trussed me up like a pig. I’ll not risk my freedom and welfare for any man.” Elin thought of the dark, fierce knight and how he’d taunted her. And then of the younger knight, who had shown kindness toward Alma. “I shall not return.”

Yet she slowed the mare from a gallop to a trot. Then she halted the animal entirely. What was her freedom worth? If the king wanted her at his court, then nothing would spare her. That little voice inside her head had been smiting her since she’d fled Hugh’s watchful eye.

“’Tis an unwise decision,” she informed Alma.

“But a noble course.”

“Fie on nobility! The true reason I turn this palfrey around is so that I might sleep at night. I’ll not have some man’s death on my conscience!” Truly, she was no soft-hearted female. She could wield a sword as well as her brother and run twice as far. And a pox on anyone who thought her weak and sentimental.

They had escaped the moment Hugh had dropped hold of their reins to raise his sword in battle. Whoever challenged the king’s knights could only mean more complications. ’Twas rumored few could outfight Malcolm the Fierce. Alma had refused to flee, but Elin could taste freedom. She did not trust even the king’s knight to be true.

So she’d caught hold of the old woman’s reins and galloped off into the night, unnoticed as the clash of steel and the roaring cries from bloodthirsty men rang in her ears. Only a fool would return.

Now, when she reached the last bend in the road, silence met her. Dark shadows revealed the forms of men kneeling in the way, forming a ring around a death-still body.

Unnoticed, Elin dismounted. Her limbs quaked with the act of walking back into the hands of her captors, whether they took her in good faith or bad, yet all she could see was Hugh. Too pale of face meant he had lost too much blood. She had seen that ashen sweat before in the gravely injured, as she had the shallow breathing and loss of consciousness.

There was little time if she held any hopes of saving his life.

“Are you men knotty-pated dolts? Hugh is cold. Fetch me some blankets. You, the tall one. Make a fire over there by the bank. Quickly now. Do not sit there staring at me.”

The dark knight rose from the fallen Hugh’s side. “Do as she bids, men.”

He lumbered close, the jangle of his mail loud in her ears. He turned his forceful gaze upon her. “Have you healing knowledge?”

“More than most.” She refused to tremble beneath the power of his scrutiny. “I need water boiled. You will see to it?”

“As you wish.” He nodded and was gone, barking orders. Authority rang in his voice, in his manner. He was not just a man of war, but a commander of men.

She knelt beside the injured knight, clutching the few crocks of herbs she had in her possession. She reached beneath her mantle for the knife and bared it.

“Look! She has a weapon!” a man cried, and hard fingers imprisoned her wrist.

“Are you mad? Unhand me!” She looked up into eyes of the one who assisted le Farouche.

“Nay, I will not have you slit his throat, you witch.”

“I am more likely to slit yours.” She still gripped her knife and fought with muscle and strength to keep the much larger knight from forcibly lowering her arm.

“Release her, Giles.” That dark voice was rich with both power and amusement. “I trust her to see to Hugh.”

“She is a sorceress, sir, if she thinks she can bring back the dead.”

“He is not dead. Yet. Merely unconscious. Leave me to my work,” Elin demanded, her temper ready to flare. She had not returned for abuse, but to help the knight who had been kind to Alma.

“I share your suspicions, Giles.” Teasing laughter filled that dark voice. “She does possess the unruly manner of a sorceress.”

Elin did not think she could hate le Farouche more than she did at that moment. She had given up her freedom and mayhap her life for a hired killer’s jesting? Fury drove her, and she tore her hand free before the knight, Giles, released her, earning his surprise and a nod of approval from le Farouche.

Fie! As if she needed his approval.

“You.” She pointed her blade at Malcolm. “Help me with his armor, since you are the only man without work to do.”

“You despise my idleness?” He chuckled, deep and as intriguing as midnight.

“That and more. Now, quickly. I must see the wound. Use my blade.” She jabbed the knife toward him, hilt first.

His big blunt fingers curled over the steel weapon, engulfing it. The thick blade appeared like a toy against his powerful bulk. She shivered and bowed her head. She had watched him slash the life from men she’d known much of her life, men who had protected her while she rode the countryside gathering her herbs.

Now, gazing up the length of the dark knight, she knew some measure of fear. She felt the weight of his gaze, read the cynical darkness in his eyes, hated the strength in his craggy body. The latent power to kill rested in the thickness of his arms and shoulders, chest and thighs.

He both took her breath away and made her blood run cold. He was a beautiful masculine form. He was a destroyer of life. The irony beat at her. Truly this was the epitome of man—a beautiful destroyer—and the reason she both feared and hated men so.

“Do you think me a witch?” she demanded.

She watched Malcolm’s impassive face, well molded with high cheekbones and a straight blade of a nose. “Nay, else you would have uttered spells and curses when I captured you. Instead, you relied on more honest weapons.”

Her knife in his hand glinted once in the starlight, illuminating briefly the man kneeling beside her. His head bent with his work. She could see his black hair curling at his nape, could see the fine lines etched around his dark eyes, caused by time and war and too much sun. He was rumored to have fought in the Outremer, as her brother had. ’Twas unbelievable. This dark knight, as frightening as death and midnight, had fought for Christ?

Impossible. He had the coldness of a mercenary, the mockery of a knave and the… She hesitated, watching him separate the unconscious Hugh from his chain mail. He had the hands of a healer. They were strong and gentle, as if he was well acquainted with death and life. Nay, it could not be. Not this man.

The scent of freshly spilled blood reminded her of her purpose. She bent to remove the lids of her unmarked crocks and, because of the darkness, sniffed each one. She recognized the sharp smell of marigold. And then the sweet odor of camphor.

“Blankets.” Giles returned, careful to keep his distance.

She took the wool coverings he offered and was not amused when the knight stepped back. Out of fear? Revulsion? She noticed now that others did the same, suspicion written on their shadowed faces. The same suspicions she always raised when she acted differently from the obedient baron’s daughter they expected. Fie on them! As if she could sit at embroidery all day without going insane. Men did not do it. Why should she?

“Do you wish him covered?” Malcolm’s voice drew her back to the task before her.

Now that Hugh was free of his armor, she could begin her work. “Aye. First I want him off this cold ground. Spread out one length of wool, and you and I together will lift him onto it.”

“You and I?” He crooked his brow skeptically.

“How stupid of me to forget my lack of muscle! I will just have to try all the harder. Now, grab his head. Lift him gently on count of three.”

“Let one of my knights…”

Elin was used to the foolish beliefs of men. She grabbed Hugh’s ankles firmly, eyeing the stain of blood from his neck to his groin. A mortal wound. Sadness filled her. At least Hugh was unconscious and out of his misery. ’Twas always her patient’s pain that caused her the most sorrow. “One, two, three,” she counted, and lifted.

As le Farouche hurried to secure Hugh’s head, knights rushed to Elin’s side, obviously doubting her strength. But she lifted Hugh almost as easily as the fierce knight did, and when they laid the injured man on the warm blanket, she saw the approval in Malcolm’s eyes—eyes like night without shadows. Light from the nearby fire chased away the deepest shades of darkness, giving more shape and substance to the knight. Dried blood marked his face in two places, above his brow and on his swollen lower lip. He was injured, but she read in his actions, on his face that he thought only of the one gravely wounded.

“Looks like a deep gash to his abdomen. ’Tis not good.” She probed the wound with careful fingers. Blood rushed from the raw cavity. She scented severed intestines. “Alma, I shall need bandages and a good light.”

“Giles,” Malcolm ordered. “Bring a torch.”

In seconds a torch on a long handle was impaled in the ground at her side, revealing without remorse the neat and terrible wound. “I need to stop the blood first.”

“There’s naught you can do.” Worry and regret weighed down le Farouche’s words. “Unless you truly are a sorceress.”

“I have been called worse.” She thanked Alma for the needle and thread. The old woman hurried away to make ready bandages and to check on the water’s progress. “Take my knife and cut his flesh here. And here.” She pulled at the raw skin at the edges of the wound.

“I’ll not worsen it.”

“Then I will.” She snatched at the knife he held, but his fingers of steel would not release it. “I do not know if I can save him,” Elin confessed. “I have lost men injured far less seriously. But if I cannot bind the entrails and stem the source of blood, there will be certain death.”

“You cannot be a healer. No one claiming to cure would carve a deeper wound.”

“Then let your friend die. But know this, le Farouche— Sir Hugh’s death will not be on my conscience, but on yours.”




Chapter Three


Hugh would soon be dead, Malcolm knew, but the maiden’s challenge goaded him. Regardless if he allowed her to continue her ghastly work, his conscience would never forgive this senseless death. He had failed to protect the young knight, a responsibility he felt toward each and every man who fought at his side, who willingly risked their lives at his command.

The old woman ambled forward with a trencher of steaming water and a pile of torn undergarments. “Shall I soak the bandages?”

The girl nodded. She looked like a witch—not knobby nosed and wart ridden, but different from most women. Strong willed, the way a man was. And strong of body. He’d had difficulty keeping hold of the knife when she’d tried to take it from him, and ’twas amazing how easily she lifted half of Hugh’s weight. A sorceress, Giles had declared.

Hugh lay dying, his face a deathly gray. Soon he would bleed to death. Malcolm would have to trust her. His experience told him to be wary of women holding knives, women who gazed at him with that confident knowledge of a battle-experienced leader. Her strength beguiled him, contrasting sharply with the fragile cut of her face, at once beautiful and innocent; to her lithe grace and womanly curves. Truly such a sorceress could enchant a man. Or worse.

Yet she gazed at him with human eyes, waiting patiently for control of her knife. He saw in those blue depths a wise purpose. She had healed others gravely wounded before. He could read her confidence in her stance, feel it like an imminent storm on the wind—half instinct, half experience, but certain.

He’d seen evil, and it was not Elinore of Evenbough.

He released her knife. “Do what you must. But I will have you know Hugh was my friend.”

“I will do him no harm, fierce one.” She was young to be so confident, but her words eased his fears. She tapped herbs from a small crock into the steaming water and then dipped her blade into the mixture. “I learned my meager healing arts from a wise woman. She was skilled in anatomy and cures.”

Malcolm’s stomach turned as Elin slipped the blade into the red-edged flesh and tore widthwise across the gaping slash. The skin opened wider, like a hungry mouth. Blood rushed with renewed fury, and he almost stayed the girl-woman’s hand.

“I was not surprised to return and see your knights victorious.” She soaked strips of cloth in the trencher, then stuffed them into Hugh’s wound. They became colored with blood. “Tell me what fearsome enemy of the king’s you have overpowered now. An old man? Mayhap a lame woman? A goat?”

“Take care, dove, else you shall offend.”

“’Tis good to know I come close to succeeding.”

He snorted. What manner of woman was this Elin of Evenbough? He believed women should be tamed like a good horse, bridled and saddled and prepared to answer a man’s command, and this girl was not. Yet he couldn’t deny a grudging respect for her. She did not flinch as he did at the sight of the wound. He was used to inflicting them, not studying them.

“See, there is much damage.” She removed the cloths and probed the pink cavity with knowing fingers. “I note two tears, here and here. Look how deep they are.”

“I prefer not.”

She laughed. “Can it be such a great warrior has a weak stomach? Aye, ’tis not pretty to see the damage done by a man’s violent sword.”

He heard the censure in that and chose to remain silent. She had returned of her own accord—why, he could not fathom. Surely not to heal a fallen man, one she had not thought twice about kicking like an angry donkey. Yet Malcolm could not deny her touch was tender and her intent to heal sincere. She stitched and cleaned, studied her work, then stitched some more. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead and dampened the tendrils of gold gathered there, curling them, though the night was cold.

He could not deny how hard she worked. And for what? This daughter of a traitor ought to be bound like her father to a tree. She ought to fear for the crimes she faced. And yet she saw only Hugh and uttered commands to the old woman as if she were a king at war.

Light brushed her face, soft as the fine weave of her gown and cloak, stained by travel. ’Twas a pretty face, not beautiful, but striking. She had big, almond-shaped eyes, blue like winter, direct, not coy. Long curled lashes, as gold as her hair, framed those eyes. He admired her gently sloping, feminine nose. And her mouth! God’s teeth, ’twas bow shaped and as tempting as that of the moon goddess herself.

Then Elin sighed, a soft release of air, all emotion, all sadness. Her unblinking gaze collided with his directly; there was no flirting, no shyness, no feminine submission. “I fear there is more damage than I can repair, but the wound, both inside and out, is closed.”

He swallowed. “Hugh will die?”

“There’s no fever yet.” She laid a small hand to the unconscious knight’s forehead. “A fine sign. Now we must pray he is strong enough. I will do all I can.”

“You will, because I command it.” She may have returned of her own volition, but Elin of Evenbough was his prisoner still. He would not fail his king.

A smile tugged at one corner of her mouth, and that defiant chin firmed. “Again you try to terrify me, a woman half your size. Always the valiant warrior.”

Anger snapped in his chest and he held his tongue. She challenged his authority; she rebelled at something deeper. He was, as she said, twice her size and twice her strength. And he had her knife—her last one, he guessed—in his keeping. The only weapon left her was her tongue, and he could withstand those barbs. And if not, he would gag her, as he had her betrothed, the treacherous Caradoc.

“Old woman.” He caught the crone’s gaze, and she trembled at the attention. Though old and stooped, she possessed a strong set to her jaw, too. “See that your charge tends the injured men, mine and those captured. But not her father. Let the man suffer like the men he left to die.”

“Yes, Sir Malcolm. I will see the rebellious one obeys.” Head bowed, she scurried away.

Malcolm stepped away into the darkness. The wee hours of morning meant there would be little, mayhap no sleep for him before dawn. And then another day of raising his sword for the king.

Elin of Evenbough had the freedom to speak as she wished, whether innocent or criminal. But Caradoc was right. Malcolm was a peasant born, a barbarian king’s bastard, and both peasant and bastard he would always be. A savage hired merely because he was useful. Useful until another took his place, his livelihood or his head.

He thought of Caradoc’s threat, thought of the unrest of ambitious knights wanting to lead, thought of Elin’s courage in returning to aid her captors.

Lavender light chased the gray shadows at the eastern horizon. ’Twould be another day without peace, without rest, watching his back for treachery and the road ahead for danger.

The lot of a knight was a hard one, but Malcolm was harder.



“Caradoc!” Elin dropped to her knees before the bound man, neighbor and friend to her father. “I do not believe my eyes. What have you done? Challenged the king’s knights and lost?”

He colored from the collar of his hauberk to the roots of his dark hair. “Aye. Your father—”

“You are in league with my father?” she yelped, lowering her voice so it would not carry to the watchful knight keeping guard. That Giles, he looked untrustworthy, far more threatening than poor spying Hugh had ever been.

“Nay, I am no traitor. I would never turn against the king. I came for you.”

“Me?”

“My future bride.” Triumph glittered in his cold eyes.

“’Tis news to me.” She fought to sound unaffected. Surely this man dreamed! By the rood, she would no more marry him than Malcolm le Farouche.

“Your father and I had exchanged words on the matter.”

“We are not betrothed and you know it, Caradoc.” She swiped a clean cloth through the steaming trencher.

“We could be.”

“You only covet my father’s holdings, else you would not risk your life, your freedom and your barony.”

“Your father offered you to me.”

“I am not a cow to be bought and sold.” She brushed at the bloody but shallow cut beneath his jaw. “Look at this wound. Put there by le Farouche’s sword.”

“Loosen my bonds and I will kill him for you. For your honor.”

“Do not do my name that injustice. You would kill him for your uses, not mine, if you could.”

“He defeated me unfairly.”

“Most likely the unfair warrior was you.” Elin knew Caradoc, not by rumor, but from experience. He despised her, as she did him. Worse, she was afraid of him. Hard and dark were his eyes, not lethal like Malcolm’s, but colder still, like a man who killed for pleasure.

As she thought of Malcolm, she looked up and saw him, a fierce knight shrouded in darkness and shadow, standing away from the shivering light of the fire and torch, alone with the night. He had removed his helm, and the wind moved through his long tresses, which were as black as the night. His gaze fastened on hers, and she read his suspicions like a thought in her own mind. As if he were part of her, or she part of him.

Traitor. Malcolm thought her guilty of her father’s crimes. She shivered inside as he strode toward her. He moved like a predator, with silent, powerful strides, until he towered overhead, all tensed male might.

“Do you conspire with this man, this suspected traitor?”

She blanched. “Caradoc is no traitor! Do you accuse every man, woman and child?”

“Silence. I forbid you to speak further with this unworthy lord.” Le Farouche’s lethal look came as a warning.

Yet two different responses sparked to life in her breast. Fear, because she knew Alma was wrong: the fierce knight had his own dark agenda, and Elin knew now to be wary of it. And a light, hot flutter of attraction, because his steely presence stole the very breath from her lungs and stilled the blood in her veins. She fought this response to him. No man of war and killing could attract her. Not even a man this compelling, this beautifully made.

“’Tis just as well, for I will have naught more to do with Ravenwood.” Let le Farouche think she was following his bidding. She had her own reasons for keeping distance between herself and Caradoc. “May I tend my father now that I have treated all other manner of men?”

“You have yet to tend me.” Brows arched across his blade-sharp gaze.

“I refuse to touch the likes of you.” Elin lifted her chin, certain now of the danger she was in. “Even a lowly woman unable to bear weapons has her standards.” She rose.

The fierce knight towered over her, as immovable as a great stone mountain. His mouth twisted when he spoke, mayhap in anger. “Tempt me any further, maid, and I will care naught for your skills to heal, and bind you to a tree like the rest of the traitors.”

“Then bind yourself as well, for you keep to your own agenda in holding captive whomever you come across, be it lord or unarmed woman.” She balanced the trencher so as not to spill it. Curls of steam rose in the chilly dawn air. “I will tend my father.”

“I say you shall not.” His grimace flashed in the waning darkness. “Try me no further.”

“What will you do? Slay me here in the road? ’Tis better than waiting for the same fate in London.” Fear trembled through her, for she was no fool. She heard both anger and truth rumbling in that voice.

“You think I will strike you down?” he roared. “Have I raised my sword to you? Have I struck you? Ravished you? Given you to my men to suit their pleasures?”

She felt small as his wrath filled him, making him seem taller, larger. The air vibrated with his keen male power, and she shivered. “I cannot say you have.”

“Nor will I, on my honor.” He spat the words, and fire-light caught on the steel hilt of his sword, glinting with a reminder of his undefeatable strength. “You have endured no more than being carried from the woods and forced to ride with us. Do you think your betrothed, Ravenwood, would be less cruel?”

“He is not my betrothed,” she declared savagely. If she married the man, ’twould be like ordering her own death. “Never call him that to my face.”

“The maiden warrior is not so easily bent. Do you not fear me?”

He leaned close. She saw the flash of black eyes and white teeth and the hard demanding countenance of a man used to leading battles, of a man used to facing death. She shivered again. “I both fear and loathe you, sir.”

“A true answer, at last. I despise liars, dove. And the company they keep.”

“As do I.”

“Then keep this in mind.” His gaze bored into her, as sharp as any dagger. She stepped back, but he followed, intent upon dominating her as a wolf stalks wounded prey. “I despise your sharp tongue and your rebellious ways, and ’tis clear your father failed to beat you properly.”

“Beat me?” She seethed. What was this? “A knight such as you would surely think violence is the greatest teacher.”

“What I think matters naught. Only how the king judges you. Keep this in mind, fighting dove. I tell no lies to my king. If Edward asks if you fought, if you lacked respect, if you gave any indication you were guilty, then I will tell him what has transpired between us.”

“You would condemn me either way.”

“Nay. Only you have that power.”

She shivered yet again. The threat of such a future felt real for the first time. In Malcolm’s eyes, she could see the grim reality ahead. Would she truly be seated before the king and judged a traitor?

“I am a terrible daughter for certain,” she confessed. Everyone from the lowliest peasant farmer to the highest knight would agree. “But I am loyal. To friend, family and country. Believe me, or condemn an innocent.”

One corner of his mouth quirked. “I am not your judge, Elin of Evenbough.”

“Do you mock me?” There, on his bloody swollen lip, shone the barest hint of laughter. “Does talk of an unjust traitor’s punishment amuse you?”

“Nay.” That humor waned, as silent as the night. “You amuse me—the cruel world does not. Take care in how you act from this moment on. You have tended my men. That will serve you well in the king’s court. I will tell how you worked of your own free will until day’s light without food or water or rest.”

“I came to tend Hugh. I shall not have a dead man on my conscience. I returned to care for his wound, not to prove my innocence or earn a better judgment from the king.”

“You ought to worry about proof, or you will watch your entrails be cut from your body as they draw and quarter you. I have seen enough of such punishment to know it one of the cruelest. You will be alive when they begin butchering you. Remember, innocent or guilty, all that matters is proof of innocence.”

“And I have no proof, no lies to cover, no one to bribe, no way to show I know what my father plotted.”

“You know he plotted?”

“He plots constantly. And as he sits weeping there in the shadows, he still plots a way to escape.” Tears knotted her throat and she fell silent. Anger, fear and an enormous chill of betrayal cloaked her body. What had her father done, involving her in his escape? Had she known he sought to evade the king’s protector, she would have held fast to her bedpost and refused to let go.

Now she would face court. With no way to prove her innocence, save Caradoc, the king’s nephew, trussed up to an oak tree. She could not ask his help. Not from a cheater, a killer and a wife beater. To enlist his aid would mean she would have to agree to his outrageous claims of marriage.

What she needed was a plot of her own. She needed to avoid the king’s court, Caradoc’s influence and the strong sword of Malcolm le Farouche. Already the lavender tint to the horizon began fading to peach. Soon the sun would rise, and they would journey toward London and her fate as a traitor’s daughter.

An idea came to her, and she could not take time to think through the consequences. Being kind to the fierce one would not be easy, though she vowed to do it. For both her life and her freedom. “You bleed, sir.”

“What? No insults? No name-calling? Not ‘sirrah,’ or ‘cowardly knave’?”

Let him mock her. He might be twice as strong, but she was twice as smart. “Nay, I must apologize for my disrespect. You speak truth. I have a rebellious nature, but I have neither the power nor the will to conspire against the king. I will seek to show from this moment forth that I am innocent, and each action will prove this to you and to the king.”

“Well chosen. I will do all I can to aid your cause, for you have given all to tend my wounded men.” The frown faded from his mouth. Though he did not smile, she saw a glimmer of kindness, another puzzle to this man of steel and might. “How fares Hugh?”

“He lives yet.” She selected a clean cloth from the many slung over her shoulder and dipped it into the trencher she held. She stepped close to him—close enough to inhale his night forest and man scent, to feel the heat from his body and see the stubbled growth on his jaw. She dabbed at the cut to his lip and he winced, but did not step away. “Hugh cannot be moved.”

“We cannot remain here.” He gestured with an upturned palm at the road.

“To move your knight is to kill him. He must remain still for the stitched wounds inside to heal. Else I guarantee he will bleed to death. I recall a village not a league from here. It must have an inn. I believe Sir Hugh can travel that far.”

Malcolm caught her hand, his fingers curling around her wrist and forcing the cloth from his face. The power of his gaze, unbending and lethal as the steel sword at his belt, speared her.

“Is this a plot?” he demanded. “Are you attempting to fool me into a trap you and your lover have devised?”

“Lover? You mean Caradoc?” Outrage knifed through her. “What has that addlepated knave told you?”

“Only that he is your betrothed.” Was that amusement she saw flash in his dark eyes?

“As I said, ’tis untrue. He covets my father’s holdings. Seeing him bound like a scoundrel gives me great pleasure.”

Malcolm laughed, the sound rich and friendly this time, not mocking. “You need not tend my wounds, dove. They will heal in time. Day breaks. See to Hugh and prepare him for travel. We will leave him at this inn you know of. If I spy any act of treachery, I will chain you to the wall of the king’s dungeon myself.”

Aye, but you will never be able to find me. Fear trembled through her, and yet she forced a smile to her lips. Her heart thumped with some unnatural reaction to this man of sword and death, dark like the shadows even as the sun rose and brought light to the world.




Chapter Four


A sense of doom settled in Malcolm’s chest as he watched three of his knights lay an unconscious Hugh upon a rickety bed covered in fresh linen. He did not care what the traitor’s daughter predicted. They had brought Hugh here to die.

Malcolm could not stomach how he’d failed the young knight, who’d often proclaimed his eagerness to serve his king and fight beneath the Fierce One’s command. Bitterness soured Malcolm’s mouth.

“I’ll need hot water. You—” Elin pointed a slim finger at one of his men “—see to it.”

“Dove, these are my men to command. Lulach, Hugh needs fresh water. We cannot send the traitor’s daughter for it.”

“True.” Anger burned in resentful eyes, for Lulach, as Malcolm suspected others did, blamed Elin and her father for Hugh’s injuries. “I’ll go, but make no mistake. I’m no criminal woman’s handmaiden.”

Malcolm watched Elin of Evenbough blanch, and saw the denial sharpen her face. She muttered something beneath her breath—and he knew he would have objected had he heard it—then she knelt gracefully at Hugh’s side.

The poor knight’s chances were not good; Malcolm knew this even before she rolled back layers of wool and linen. A neatly stitched gash stretched from Hugh’s ribs to his groin. She bent to study it, her golden hair, with a hint of red, like a flame that caught and shimmered in the sunlight slanting through the open door. She was liquid fire, and when she tilted her face up to meet his gaze, his chest burned as if a firestorm raged there, wicked and untamed.

“I see no sign of fever. Look, no redness marks the edges of the wound.” A measure of joy filled her voice. Not triumph or pride, for Malcolm knew those well enough, but gladness. And her gladness surprised him. “I predict Hugh will live.”

“Do you always predict what you cannot control?”

“What? You doubt my abilities?”

“Aye, I doubt all women.” The girl was too green. She’d not seen death and dying the way he had. A gray pallor clung to the wounded man’s face and took hold, growing stronger as the light shifted and deepened.

“Truly, a man such as you sees naught but dying. What do you know of the living?” She turned her shoulder to him, as if he’d insulted her.

He could not argue. For once the dove was correct.

“Where’s Alma?” Her low voice wobbled a bit.

“I sent her to aid the innkeeper’s wife, who is crippled with joint pain. They are not accustomed to receiving so many men at once. ’Tis a small village, and these roads not often traveled. Only a traitor evading the king’s knights might choose this path.”

“You needn’t remind me of my plight.” Elin bowed her head, searching through the satchel she carried. Crocks clattered together, and the dull clunks and thunks chimed noisily in the somber tension of the air. “Bring me Alma.”

“Nay, dove. If you need assistance, I shall give it.”

“You?” Her eyes widened, and she lifted one corner of her mouth in disbelief. Then, mayhap remembering her vow to behave, she erased that sneer from her delicate lips, pearled with early morning light. “You admit you know naught of healing.”

“I can hold a trencher well enough.” He hid his chuckle behind a cough, amused at her valiant effort not to insult him. Aye, the poor girl was trying, but like an untamed horse facing the prospect of a saddle, she could not hide her unwillingness. “Besides, you are my prisoner. I’ll not leave your side, traitor’s daughter.”

Temper flared in her eyes, glaring like sunlight on water. Her fists curled, but no anger sounded in her voice. She was like any woman, always pretending. “I will honor your offer of assistance, for you are the greatest knight in all the realm.”

“Not so great.” He waited, and although he sensed them, no insults spewed from her sharp tongue. He accepted the trencher of steaming water Lulach handed him. “I’ve seen many manner of men, dove, and not one has been so noble as to bear that title.”

“In this we agree.” She tapped herbs into the water, her gaze avoiding his. “Do you think the king will believe Caradoc’s claim?”

“I cannot say. The king has a mind of his own, though he’s known to be fair. It depends on your father. Whether he chooses to speak the truth, or if he is swayed by Caradoc’s false promises to help save him.”

“Caradoc, aye, he is my fear.” She dipped the cloth into the trencher, leaning close. Her delicately shaped mouth frowned as she worked, and with it her entire face. Soft lines eased across her brow and crinkled at the corners of her eyes. His gaze flickered across the cut of her lips.

Aye, she was young, far too spirited for his taste and much too soft. Yet his chest tightened, and air caught with a painful hitch between his ribs.

“Caradoc is a man of much weakness, many lies,” he admitted.

“What? You believe me? That I am not betrothed to him?” Her measuring gaze latched on to his.

He could see the intelligence in those eyes, the thoughts forming behind them. “I know the like of Ravenwood far too well. I’ve seen many brutes of that ilk.”

“He’s nephew to the king.”

“Aye. I’m well acquainted with that fact.”

Hugh murmured, as if fighting to awaken. Malcolm reached for his hand so the young knight would know he was not alone. But Elin’s fingers were already there, and her compassion glimmered, as unmistakable as the steady glow of sunlight into the dim room. Hugh quieted, and she continued her work bathing his wound.

“Then he will awaken?”

“Aye.” She cast Malcolm a mischievous smile, quick and fleeting. “You doubt my knowledge, but you’ll soon see. Hugh will live.”

“Then he’ll owe his life to you.”

“Nay, to Alma. She pecked like a troubled conscience until I had to return to aid him.”

But Malcolm knew the truth when he saw it. “Nay, I think you returned to aid your betrothed.”

She sparkled with humor. “Go ahead, tease. You shall see what a sacrifice I made in returning, once you spend an entire day with Caradoc. Your knights are likely to behead him just to stop his insults.”

“Does he cast an insult more sharp than yours?”

She almost laughed, and with the sunlight alive in her fiery curls, she was transformed before his eyes into a nymph of beauty and mischief. “I admit I studied Caradoc’s skill, for although I hate the man, I do admire his foul temper.”

“’Tis a skill you practice then? Like wielding a sword?”

“Aye. I am a woman who does both.”

He laughed. How this girl-woman amused him. He’d not been amused by much in more years than he could count. He handed her a fresh bandage when she gestured for one. “Caradoc is trussed up in the stable under guard. At last report, he still had his head.”

Elin gazed at Malcolm with that fire flickering in her eyes, as mesmerizing as a mirage in the desert, when heat and earth and imagination created illusions. “Will the king judge me innocent of treason, but condemn me in marriage to his nephew?”

“’Tis more likely than Edward deciding to have you hanged, drawn and quartered.” A warning twisted in Malcolm’s guts and prickled along the back of his neck. “As long as you continue to prove your innocence to me, you will live.”

“You are not my judge.”

“Nay, but I am your jailer.”

But not for long. Elin thought of the dried oakwood tucked into a pouch in one of her herb crocks. Even a small amount of the berry could render a grown man ill for hours. Ill enough to allow her escape.

Malcolm caught hold of her hand, his big callused fingers rough and strangely fascinating as they covered hers. “Quit your worries, dove. Edward will be pleased that you saved young Hugh’s life.”

For a brief instant she saw behind the heartless eyes, to the ghost of the man he must have once been before he turned killer and traded his soul for the coin it would bring.

’Twas almost a shame she’d have to poison him. But death or marriage to Caradoc? She would not go quietly toward either darkness.



“The crone is serving Giles and the prisoners in the stable. The innkeeper’s wife could not do it.” Lulach settled on the bench and quickly drained the tankard of ale. “I must hurry, ere the old woman begins a plot to free the traitors.”

“Rest and eat, the crone will cause no trouble.” Malcolm took his eating knife from his belt. “’Tis the younger one we must watch.”

“She is a witch, that one. Able to defeat us with her spells and powers.”

“Nay, she’s no sorceress. Look how she works.” He gestured to the young woman emerging from the kitchen, steaming trenchers in hand, her fine wool mantle shivering around her slim thighs with every step she took.

Lulach growled, still disbelieving. “Beware she does not cast a spell over our meal and sicken us.”

“I’ve seen sorcery, and ’tis not what the traitor woman practices with her simple herbs.” Any memories of the Outremer filled Malcolm with blackness and horror. He forced those images to the back of his mind. “But still, I trust her not.”

“’Tis wise.” Lulach carefully studied the food Elin had helped prepare after tending Hugh.

“More mead?” The dove’s voice sang as pleasantly as a morning breeze. With a smile, she handed Malcolm a second tankard.

The back of his neck crawled. Aye, he could sense she was up to no good. When they departed after the meal, he would tie her again to the saddle. While he could not bear to leave Hugh, his king expected the traitor without delay. They would have to leave the injured man behind. The life of a knight was not fair.

“Elin?” He caught the female by the elbow, and she turned to him with concern in her eyes.

“What is it, le Farouche? Is it the food—”

“Nay. I am considering asking Alma to stay with…” His stomach twisted, and he placed a hand there.

An agonized groan sounded in the room behind him, rumbling like a thunderclap. Another groan was followed by an unpleasant sound.

“She’s poisoned us!” Giles accused, arriving breathless in the doorway. Sunlight shifted around his form and betrayed how he trembled. “Men are dropping like flies in the stable. Even the prisoners. Look, I begin to sweat.”

Discord rose as rough shouts and threats resonated in the smoke-ridden air. As if she was guilty, Elin’s eyes widened and she spun away. Malcolm reached out and snared her by the sleeve, but only briefly.

“Silence,” he roared, temper raging with the force of a storm at sea. His stomach squeezed again, and he fell to his knees. “Lady Elinore, what have you done?”

“What I had to do.” She laid a hand on his forehead, a touch of compassion. Her caress soothed like water against the shore.

“Kill the king’s men, and you’ll pay with more than just your life.” He tried to climb to his knees, but his senses spun. His vision blurred. He remained crouched like a dog upon the earthen floor.

“The poison is not a lethal dose. I was careful. Do not fret, Sir Malcolm. You’ll live.”

A sick taste filled his mouth. Strength seeped from his limbs until he could only lie motionless in the dirt. “Then when this poison loosens its hold on me, believe this. I will hunt you down. You cannot hide from me.”

“I can try.” She knelt over him and took the dagger from his belt. He saw her soft leather boots, small and finely tailored, as she stepped over him.

“Elin!” he shouted. “Do not do this! I beg of you.”

But the tap of her step against dirt and stone faded away into nothing, nothing at all.

She was gone, the vile betrayer, and he wretched, groaning in misery.

He would hunt her down. Malcolm the Fierce would not rest until he had the traitor woman’s head.



“I cannot leave.” Alma dug in her heels. “There is Hugh to think of. And look, these men will need an herbed tea to calm their stomachs.”

“Nay, I want their stomachs churning.” Elin gave the cinch a good pull. “Listen, only danger lies ahead for me.”

“Danger?”

“Why did Father bring us on this journey? We have no explanation. Perchance he planned something sinister. Then innocent protestations will not save us.”

“What if justice prevails? I see no danger then.”

“Not for you. But Father’s barony may be lost, and who will be at court to beg favors from Edward? Caradoc. He claims we are betrothed, and there will be no debate. Why should the king not secure the barony with his own blood?”

“’Tis logic you speak. And truth.” Alma frowned, her brows drawn together in serious thought. “Yet I cannot leave Hugh. He needs much care.”

“Aye. It weighs heavily on my conscience.” Elin rubbed her forehead, then turned to her waiting palfrey.

“Elin!” ’Twas Caradoc’s voice, thin with sickness. “You’ve not fallen ill from this vile food. Free me, and I’ll take these black knights to Edward’s punishment.”

Alarm beat in her chest. She leaned close, whispering to Alma. “See what he plans? There still remains doubt over the true cause of his wife’s death. Can you blame me?”

“Nay. Do as you must.” Troubled, Alma laid her hand over the cross at her neck. “Promise to take care. I love you as a daughter and could not bear to lose you.” Tears misted the old woman’s eyes.

And burned in Elin’s throat. “You’ve been a mother to me, Alma. If le Farouche harms you, he will answer to me, king’s protector or nay.”

“Aye, fierce you are.” Alma’s affection whispered in her voice, soft like an east wind. She lifted the chain from her neck. The silver cross, hand hewn, caught a flash of sunlight from a crack in the roof.

“Nay, I cannot—”

“Take this with my blessing. ’Twill bring you safely to Elizabeth’s.” She secured the chain around Elin’s neck, tears on her face. “My prayers are with you.”

“Then I have all I need.” Elin pressed a kiss to Alma’s papery cheek, and then mounted the waiting palfrey before she could change her mind.

She was not sentimental, not one bit, but leaving Alma made her heart ache. As she galloped past the inn, she saw the wide-open door and thought of Malcolm within, the fiercest of knights who now suffered by her hand.

She didn’t like what she had done, but she could not depend upon a knight without heart or soul, without mercy or conscience to save her, to plead her cause, to protect her from Caradoc before the king. Malcolm was more shadow than substance, more killer than man.

Yet she’d seen the pain on his face when she’d taken his dagger. He hurt in the way of a real man.



Giles leaned against the door frame, sagging from weakness. “She left the prisoners.”

“Even her father?”

“Aye. He curses her alongside the proud Caradoc.”

“I curse her as well.” Bitterness soured Malcolm’s mouth, but he was the king’s protector, the best knight in the realm, a reputation earned by his skill with a sword and the cold hard calculation needed to win in battle. He should have watched the woman more carefully.

“I fear we’ve tarried far too long. The king is awaiting Evenbough.”

“I know the king’s eagerness to face this traitor.” The king’s cousin was dead, a young woman Edward swore to avenge. “I’ll not disappoint my king. Giles, take command of the men and prisoners. See them safely to the king’s dungeon. There had better be no more attacks, no more poisonings, no more surprises.”

“Aye, I will see to it. You’ll hunt down the girl?”

“Hunt her?” Full afternoon light burnished the landscape, and he gazed at the lay of the land, at the rise and fall of hillsides, the denseness of forests and groves. She would not be easy to find. “Aye, the traitor’s daughter is mine. Tell that to Edward.”



Only as the sun skirted the western horizon did Elin truly feel hunted. Twilight threatened, and she could feel the danger behind her. The vengeful knight tracked her, and he grew closer. But she couldn’t see him, even when she paused her mount on a rise and gazed over the valley below. She sensed he was there, somewhere in the gathering dusk.

She’d risked her life to escape him, she knew that. If he found her, she would be as good as dead. If I spy any act of treachery, I will chain you to the wall of the king’s dungeon myself.

Aye, ’twas best to keep ahead of him. She nosed her palfrey off the road. Bare limbs grabbed at her mantle and at the hem of her hood. Cool winds through the forest brought with it the scents of the coming night.



He trailed her with a vengeance, driving his stallion hard as twilight thickened. Spears of darkness pierced the somber trees and cast ever-deepening shadows along the forest floor.

Lady Elinore of Evenbough. She’d betrayed him, deceived him, poisoned him. The warrior maiden was no different from all women.

Sweat dripped off his brow and into his stinging eyes blurring his vision. The sickness still lay claim to him, twisting his stomach, but he cared not how he suffered. With every passing league he felt stronger and more certain of his course.

He drove his destrier deep into the forest, following the crash of broken boughs and crushed undergrowth. Though it was almost night, he could see the imprints of hooves upon the rain-drenched earth.

Blood thickened in his veins and quickened his heart. He was close; he could taste it. Aye, he was closer than he’d thought. Malcolm could sense her, like a hunting wolf knowing the hidden rabbit shivered nearby.

Shiver she should. He was no longer amused, no longer curious. In the inn’s chamber, assisting her with Hugh, he’d lowered his shield. For one moment she’d tempted him, just a bit, and he’d looked at her through a man’s eyes.

He would not make that mistake again.



As midnight gathered, she could not see before or behind her. But she could hear the ghostly sound of hooves upon the forest’s carpet of decaying leaves and rotting branches. Night had slowed her escape, but not the fierce knight’s pursuit. She suspected a man like Malcolm le Farouche saw best in the harsh hours after midnight, when not even stars cast faint light from above, when not even heaven dared to watch.

He was gaining. And likely to overtake her as well. She’d not believed he could trail her, for she worked hard to disguise her tracks. ’Twas impossible to hide all traces, and yet she’d not expected even the king’s greatest knight to find her like this, and so swiftly. Especially after a dose of oakwood.

No man was that powerful or that impossible to defeat.

Fear dampened her palms and made her heart kick with a fast, quivery rhythm. Aye, she grew more afraid with each step. She had no doubt he would condemn her, drag her to the king’s court and certain death. Or worse.

Well, the battle was not yet won. Elin snared her satchel from her saddle and dismounted. The palfrey nosed her with an inquisitive gesture. ’Twas her father’s horse, not her preferred mount, and she hoped the animal would not follow her. She gave the mare a sound smack on the rump. Emitting a startled whinny, the animal leaped and ran, crashing through the undergrowth. That was sure to draw the fierce knight’s attention. And as long as the mare galloped, Elin would have plenty of time to escape.

Like dry leaves in a wind, the quiet crackled as he spurred his great warhorse into a similar gallop. He exploded past low boughs and high brambles, thundering through the night like an ancient god.

She crouched low until he was out of sight, and then she headed north, toward the safety of her devoted aunt’s castle. Elizabeth would protect her by cloistering her away until the traitor Philip of Evenbough was forgotten and his daughter not even a memory in the minds of dangerous men.



He found the palfrey, saddle empty, standing in a clearing, munching on last summer’s dead grasses, for stubborn winter still gripped these lands. He laid a hand against the mare’s neck and felt the heat from a hard ride still damp upon her coat.

How long had she been without a rider? How long did the traitor’s daughter think she could outsmart him?

Malcolm retraced his route, and could tell by the change in the depth of the tracks where she’d dismounted. She was not far. He studied the thousand shades of black upon black in the forest and felt her. Yet he saw no movements, no shifting shadows, no human eyes gazing out at him from behind fern or bramble.

She was very close.

He turned and saw only silent forest. Trees reached tall, with shadowed trunks and knobby limbs, toward the starless sky. Bushes covered the ground.

She had hoped her palfrey would keep wandering, leading him away from her. But she hadn’t bargained on his tracking skills. As the king’s favored knight, he was expected to hunt down any manner of men—to search out where they hid, and where they believed they could hide from the power of the king. Or from Malcolm le Farouche.

The soft imprint, barely discernible, was buried in shadow and decaying leaves.

He laid his hand upon the cold steel hilt and drew his sword. “I’ve not been that ill since my last trip across the Channel.”

He heard the slightest whisper of movement, and knew her intent.

“Drop that upon my head and pay, traitor’s daughter. My temper has been tested beyond endurance. Climb down, else I will come up after you. Believe me, you’ll not like the sting of my fury.”

The limbs above shivered in answer. He heard the creak of wood upon wood and the scrape of branches against moss. She was descending, but what plot did she have now? He would not endure humiliation by a woman a second time.

“What? Are you going to slay an unarmed woman, Sir Cowardly Knight?”

“I warned you, maid, tempt me no further.” He spotted her hanging halfway down the tree trunk and wrapped his left hand around her upper arm. She was so small that his fingers easily encircled her. He hauled her, not roughly, to the ground. “Surrender your dagger.”

“I have no—”

“Give it to me.” Cold anger iced those words.

She heard his threat and the fierce control that even now kept him from violence, and knew she’d pushed him too far. Still, ’twas not easy to surrender. “’Tis in my packs. Check my palfrey.”

“You lie, little manipulator.” He drew himself taller, fiercer, then lifted his sword and swung.

She stumbled back, hitting her spine against the tree. Rough bark bit her flesh. Sweet Mary, his blade cut the air soundlessly. In the space of a breath, her fingers curled around the cold hilt of the dagger at her waist and she drew it out. Steel sparked upon steel.

“Unhand the weapon.” He tore the knife from her grip with an inhuman strength, spurred by rage. “Do not think to lie to me again, or you will regret it.”

She believed him. By the rood, she believed him. For the first time in her short life, she’d met an enemy she could not conquer, could not outsmart and could not fight. He stood like stone in the night, living stone that could not be chipped or beaten or destroyed.

She trembled. “You’ll take me to Caradoc and the king.”

“Aye, but ’twill be a gentler fate after enduring my wrath.” He drove the tip of his sword into the soft mossy earth, impaling it there.

Elin watched, horror spearing through her chest and into her heart, as he pulled the length of rope from his saddle and dragged her hard against him. He held her with bruising force to the span of his steeled chest.

“Lady Elinore of Evenbough, daughter to Philip of Evenbough, suspected traitor to King Edward, you are my prisoner. You have attempted to kill the king’s knights—”

“I meant only to sicken—”

“Silence.” His roar echoed through the forest. “Another word and I shall gag you as I did your father. I will do my duty to my king and bring you to him alive, but how I bring you and in what condition, the good sovereign cares not.”

He felt her every tremble, for she was tucked beneath his chin and caught in the shelter of his arms. She was slight and delicate—easily crushed. Now she seemed aware of that fact as she leaned against him, rigid with fear, unable to stand on her own.

Good, ’tis as it should be. She ought to be afraid.

He bound her wrists tightly, so she could not escape. The small noise in her throat, the one that said he’d bruised her, made him wince. He hated treating a woman thus, but ’twas not his choice. ’Twas Edward’s. And Malcolm’s oath to serve his king drove him now.

“But my father’s mare—”

“Will follow us or nay. ’Tis not my concern.” He swung her up onto his saddle.

She clutched the stallion’s mane with her delicate fingers. “But my herbs—”

“Not another word.” He caught her ankle before she could level him with a kick. He bound her well, wise to her tricks of defense, and mounted behind her.

“But my satchel is in the tree—”

“Where you are headed, worldly possessions are of no concern. Now, you’ve disobeyed my order to stay quiet. Open your mouth.”

“Prithee, do not force a gag on me.”

He could see her clearly. The deep pools of her eyes gleamed with honest terror. She was daughter to a brutal man, and at the thought Malcolm’s chest tightened. No doubt she expected all manner of brutality from the land’s fiercest knight.

But he did not harm women, regardless of how they treated him. He relented on the gag, certain now that she would obey him and remain silent. He sheathed his sword and gathered the reins. Imprisoned in the strength of his arms, the warrior woman was subdued enough.

For now.

He spurred his warhorse into a well-disciplined lope and protected her the best he could from the slap of stinging limbs. She still trembled. As she sat in the cradle of his thighs, he was not unaware of her soft, womanly curves. Even through his armor, he could feel her heat and her temptation.

If his shaft hardened and his blood thickened, ’twas a weakness a man who lived and died by the sword could ill afford.

Where once he had vowed to help her, he was now bound by duty to his king to condemn her.




Chapter Five


Afraid to say even one word for fear of the discomfort of a gag, Elin endured the long hours trapped against Malcolm’s steeled chest. She was not unaware of his maleness, of the solid man hewn of muscle and bone, or of the hardness of his shaft, unmistakable against the back of her thigh.

He held her trapped against him endlessly as he drove his stallion across vale and hill and through a world brushed by shades of night. No other living creature stirred until dawn grayed the edges of the eastern horizon and the first birds woke the world with song.

Still she felt the hardness of the man and his virility. His arousal remained solid and rigid, and she feared it. She feared what one as dark and powerful as this king’s knight might do. He did not even glance at her, but the threat lingered.

Aye, she was vulnerable without weapon and protector, vulnerable to this man without mercy.

He sat tall, easily guiding his giant destrier as dawn brightened. He looked magnificent riding in the blinding gleam of the rising sun. Light radiated all around him in eye-watering shafts.

He stopped to allow her to tend to her body’s needs, and then wordlessly offered her drink and food. They rode again, unrelenting and hard. They traveled thus for two days. And when Elin saw the silhouette of a city on the horizon, she knew a different sort of fear. One so quiet and cold it wrapped around her soul like a winter’s freeze.

She would die in that city. ’Twas a certainty. And would Malcolm the Fierce feel even a twist of conscience, knowing that he’d hunted her down like a ruthless wolf, only to deliver her to her death? That he could have shown her mercy and allowed her to escape, but had not?

Eyes averted, he hauled her from his horse and slung her over his broad shoulder. He easily carried her down stone steps into a dungeon rank with the scents of rotting wood and cruelty. He lowered her like a sack of grain to the floor and chained her to the wall.

Terror beat in her heart as she listened to the click of the lock. Though darkness cloaked him, she felt the force of his gaze.

He towered above her like a mythical warrior. Then he turned without a word, leaving her alone in a dark hell.



“Malcolm, I heard a woman got the best of you.” Ian the Strong slapped Malcolm on the shoulder, a gesture of old friendship. “Heard she rendered you and every last one of your men sick as dogs.”

“Tease all you wish. If Edward hadn’t assigned you to a different task, you would have been retching in the courtyard with the best of us.”

“Nay, my friend. I would have had the brains to know a woman should never be trusted. Liars and manipulators, every last one of them. Why, look at the tavern wenches. See how they plot and play for our benefit?”

“For the benefit of coin.”

“Aye, what woman doesn’t? From the queen to the lowest peasant, ’tis how they survive and how they are made.”

Malcolm drained the last of his ale and dropped the tankard on the table. “’Tis true I gave the traitor’s daughter too much freedom. After she saved Hugh’s life and mixed a healing ointment for the old innkeeper’s wife, I grew less suspicious. I thought she only meant to help serve the food.”

“I cannot believe you would give a woman aught but a good swiving.”

Malcolm rubbed his aching brow, where exhaustion and long-pent-up rage tensed the muscles, causing a blasting pain.

“Why, ’tis Sir Malcolm and Sir Ian.” A serving wench well known for more than her skills in dispensing ale appeared at the edge of the trestle table, pitcher in hand. “What a lucky maid I am to host such powerful knights in my tavern.”

“You, a maid?” Ian’s gaze roamed the wench’s form, from ripe, half-exposed breasts to the swell of her generous hips. “I’ve often been between those thighs. You long ago left maidenhood behind.”

“Aye, for womanhood pleases me better.” She winked at him, certain now there would be more coin added to her earnings this night, and ’twould not be only from serving ale. She filled both tankards handily. “And you, Sir Malcolm? Shall I send over a maid for your amusement?”

“Maid?” Ian laughed. “Your maids have too much experience for the Fierce One. They may well overpower him, and his reputation will be in ruins again.”

“Enough with the jests, Ian. Matilda, I have no need of a woman.”

As the wench turned, dropping their small coins into her pocket, Ian watched lustily. “Aye, I have me a liking for that one. Rough she is. Knows how to satisfy a man. I hear the king’s nephew attacked your band and you killed half his men.”

“Aye, but I did not kill the nephew.”

“Edward will owe you a boon, then. Mayhap it will compensate for the prisoner woman’s escape, and he’ll not demote you.” Ian’s eyes teased, but his words held a ring of warning as he lifted his tankard and drank deeply.

Fie, would the traitor’s daughter haunt him forever? Malcolm could still feel the womanly shape of her body pressed hard to his in the saddle, for he’d trapped her there, beneath his arms and against his chest. She’d been his captive, a slim reed of a thing, and the memory of it still ached like an old wound, like a tooth slowly festering. He’d scared the spirit from her and intimidated her until she did not dare even look at him.

He remembered her words, so cocksure and dismissing. Tell me what fearsome enemy of the king’s you have overpowered now. An old man? Mayhap a lame woman? A goat? He could not remember when anyone had dared to demean the king’s favored knight.

And he’d left her in the dungeon.

His guts tightened into hard knots and he drank until the tankard was empty, and the next one after that. But the image of the frightened-eyed maiden chained to the stone wall remained with him and would not fade. Even through a night of sleep and dreams and into the next morning, when word of Caradoc’s fury and Philip’s impending execution buzzed on the lips of the villagers.

Malcolm watched the new day dawn, and the brightness of it never touched him. For he knew there would be no mercy for the warrior dove. ’Twas the way of the world, and the futility of it deadened him. He gathered his men, because it was yet another day of serving the king.



“Elinore of Evenbough?” Booted feet halted before her.

Cold, hungry and stiff, Elin tilted back her head. Her gaze traveled up the hosed legs to the fine tunic bearing the king’s standard.

“Are you Lady Elinore of Evenbough?” This time it was a rough demand.

“Aye.” She tucked her ankles together. “Am I to go to the king? Will he hear my tale? I—”

“Silence!” Unlike Malcolm the Fierce, this man’s voice seemed to resonate with cruelty, as if he treasured doing violence.

She felt the tug on her chains, and the brutal oaf nearly pulled her arms from their sockets before he unlocked her. She stood and her irons clattered. Her knees wobbled. Fiery pricks of pain shot through her limbs, numb from cold and lack of circulation.

“Come.” The guard shoved her roughly, and caught her when she stumbled. “He awaits.”

“Who? Malcolm?”

Why his name came to her lips, she could not imagine, nor the hope that accompanied it. That man had dragged her here and chained her up like a misbehaving dog.

All night she had thought upon it, unable to sleep. The night noises of the dungeon were terrifying, and she had much time to think upon her crimes. She had poisoned the king’s men and she was the daughter of a traitor. No king would allow her to live.

The only man who could stay her execution was Malcolm. And if he’d come for her—

“Nay, Edward has granted Lord Caradoc a boon.” The guard’s laugh rang with glee, as if he enjoyed bringing the worst of news. “’Tis Caradoc who awaits you.”

Defeat lodged like a blade between her ribs. Caradoc was planning to claim that they were betrothed. What had she done to deserve this end? She would refuse it—that’s what she would do. She would rather have a swift death at the hands of the executioner than allow Caradoc the right to finish the rape he’d started years ago.

“Elin, how pathetic you look.” That putrid swine rose from a cushioned chair in a private chamber. He wore an elaborate tunic of embroidered gold on red velvet, and he looked like a rooster, all trussed up for show.

“Caradoc. I am not surprised to see you. As I walked down the corridor, I could not quite place the unpleasant odor—”

“I warn you, Elin.” His hand entrapped her wrist, his grip much used to inflicting violence. His eyes gleamed coldly, bold and naked and brutal. “Tempt me not, for I hold the power to spare your life.”

“What makes you think I want it spared?” She jutted her chin and met his flat gaze.

“No mortal wishes to face the agony of being drawn and quartered. ’Twould be a shame to waste your beauty on the edge of a blade.”

Fear at the king’s judgment lodged hard in her stomach. “’Tis preferable to what you propose.”

His thumb rubbed bruising caresses on her skin. He would not let her go, even as she struggled. “You will marry me, Elin, and your life will be saved. That is, if you hold your tongue and refrain from insulting the king.”

“Insult him? He needs none of my insults, for he is related to you. That is pox enough on his name.”

“Now you anger me.” His hand swung back, ready to land a blow.

She planted her feet and lifted her chin, prepared for the strike.

It never came. Malcolm clamped his unyielding grip around Caradoc’s wrist. “Edward awaits the girl.”

’Twas all he said, and he avoided her gaze. She’d been wrong in believing he might come to free her. He despised her. He’d not forgiven her. She could see it in the cold steel of his face as he released the king’s nephew. His free hand remained on the hilt of his sword.

He’d come to make certain she would not escape her punishment. A cold anger brewed, low and deep. How she despised him, despised both men.

The fierce knight’s fingers bit into her shoulder, as if to remind her of his authority. He would escort her down the passageway to her execution.

She clamped her jaw, determined to hold back the tears balled in her throat. She shook with terror, yet she did not fight le Farouche as he herded her down a long corridor. “I suppose you take great pleasure in my execution.”

“I take no satisfaction.”

She heard no anger in his voice, yet his rage had been unmistakable when he’d chained her in the king’s dungeon. “I sickened your men. I humiliated you.”

“You made me writhe on the ground in intestinal agony, ’tis what you did.” A muscle jumped in his jaw, the only sign of emotion on the rogue’s face. “You leveled a half-dozen warriors with your evil herbs.”

“Herbs are not evil. Only man has the capacity for that.”

“And woman.” His chain mail jangled, echoing in the stone corridor.

“I suppose you intend to stand by my side and make sure I take the noose obediently. Or will you terrify me into it?”

“Your words are far too bold for a disgraced woman facing death.” His gaze did not meet hers, but his voice held censure. He nodded to the guards who flanked a pair of great iron doors. “Consider acting contrite before Edward.”

“What, you give me advice?” Her stomach curdled, and she tried to swallow the sob in her voice. She did not want him to know how terrified she truly was. “A cowardly knight like you? I’d think you would advise me on how best to swing from a noose.”

“Do not call me a cowardly knight.” Low and harsh rang his warning, as lethal as a wolf’s growl.

The ringing din of voices within the hall silenced. Elin looked up to see a tall man robed in brilliance, and she knew at once she gazed upon the king, upon Edward, and that he had heard all that she’d said to his favorite knight.

Heat flamed her face. ’Twas far too late to act meek and contrite now, not that she was good at acting. She might be a traitor’s daughter, but no one, not even Malcolm the Fierce, could call her a coward.

She set her chin and stepped forward. “Your highness—”

“Do not speak until I request it of you.” Like a hard punch, she heard the king’s icy condemnation and knew the truth: death awaited her.

“On your knees, traitor.” A rough hand shoved her to the ground, but it wasn’t Malcolm’s grip or Malcolm’s roughness.

Her kneecaps struck stone, and pain shot upward. She bit back a curse, and then realized she did not kneel alone. Her father huddled at her left shoulder. To see him again made her heart stammer. She both feared the man and pitied him. She couldn’t rightly say she cherished her father, but to see him like this…

Though his head was bowed, he looked furtive. His brown hair, greasy now, had grayed since she’d seen him last. His proud face was haggard, with many wrinkles and lines.

“Philip.” The king’s voice boomed, and riveted the onlookers. Even Elin started at the innate authority in his royal manner. “You have been found guilty of murder and treason. Now, after much consideration, I will sentence you.”

There was no startled gasp from the crowd, and no remorse shown on the king’s face as he delivered his judgment. “Your lands and title will be seized. All your wealth now becomes mine. You shall be immediately hanged, drawn and quartered, a just penalty for the death and suffering you brought to my cousin and her protectors.”

“’Twas not me,” Philip cried pitifully. “I will give you all I own, sire. But pray, spare my life.”

“As you showed no mercy, none will be shown to you.” Edward lifted a hand, as if dismissing a scornful fly on a dung heap. “Guards, give him his just punishment.”

“But you misunderstand, dear sire.” Philip’s eyes sparkled with cunning. “I was Edith’s lover, but not her only one. The killer you seek is Caradoc—”

“Silence.” Fury drove Edward forward, his royal robes whispering of masculine power as he moved. He leveled a mighty punch to her father’s jaw, and the man reeled backward, knocking against the stone floor. “That was for Edith, a gentle woman who suffered by your treachery. Guards, take him.”

Rough hands hefted Elin’s father from the floor and dragged him through the crowd toward the yawning doors.

Tears battered her eyes. ’Twas horrible to see Father so humiliated. Pity sliced through her, sharp edged and raw, and so great she could not draw breath. Her father, this man she’d feared and fought all her life, was no longer terrifying. He now cried like a child.

“’Twas my daughter and Caradoc!” Philip kicked and twisted, struggling to break free. “’Twas they who plotted against you. Caradoc thought himself next in line for the throne, once your cousin and your family were gone!”

“Silence! A true man faces his sins and admits them. He does not blame others.” Edward shook his head, as if truly saddened by events. But there was no softness in the gesture, nothing diminutive about him as he turned his gaze upon Elin’s face. ’Twas not a look of mercy.

She quaked before this man of great power who now sought to judge her, who even now might believe her father’s desperate accusation. What could she say to save her life? What argument would be good enough?

’Twas all she could do to draw air into her lungs. “Your highness, my father lies.”

“I commanded you to remain silent,” Edward barked, and his words reverberated off the stone and tapestried walls. Shocked onlookers gasped in the breathless silence.

How would he view the traitor’s daughter? Elin feared she already knew.

“Your highness, may I address you?” Caradoc’s arrogant voice fragmented the silence. His shoes tapped as he faced the king.

Elin’s chin fell. She stared hard at the floor. Please, Edward, do not listen to that rooster.

“Nephew.” Edward nodded. His voice was steady and betrayed no emotion or hint of what was to come. “Speak.”

Behind her, she heard the slight jangle of a knight’s chain mail. Malcolm le Farouche stood guard directly behind her, no doubt with his hand on his sword’s hilt. Was he so determined to see her punished? Or did he think she would push past the guards and flee?

Well, the thought had crossed her mind. But she was no coward, not like her father. She would face any fate but marriage to Caradoc.

The cocksure Caradoc gave a nod in her direction. “I’ve long been in love with Elinore of Evenbough and—”

Elin hopped to her feet. “You lie! I despise you—”

“Silence!” the king roared, striding swiftly toward her, terrifying in his anger. “I’ll not warn you again, lady. Sir Malcolm, I see now the trouble you had with this one.”

“Her worst weapon is her sharp tongue, highness.” Malcolm’s deep voice held a hint of mockery as his hand gripped her shoulder and forced her back to her knees. “She is not modest or well tempered.”

“’Tis true, sire.” Caradoc wrung his hands together, as if uncertain now of his case with the king. “I heard the lies Philip spewed as he was dragged from this chamber. But pray, do not believe the words of a proven traitor. Philip was sorely angry that I refused to rescue him in the forest, when I came to ensure my Elin’s safety.”

By the blood, she couldn’t believe this Caradoc’s wretched lies. “I’m not your—”

“Lady Elinore. Silence.” The king towered over her. “What am I to do with you, a woman who cannot obey a simple order?”

She remembered how Edward had struck her father, and knew that her life was forfeit to this man of wealth and power. She ought to take Malcolm’s advice and act contrite. She bit her bottom lip, determined to obey.

“I cannot release you. You are the daughter of a proven traitor.”

Her heart skipped five beats. “That doesn’t make me one, sire.” Then she clamped one hand over her mouth.

Edward paused, considering. His mouth quirked down in one corner. “Did you attempt to kill my knights with your poisons?”

“Of course not.” How could anyone believe that of her? “I’m a healer. I could never cause real harm. I was afraid no one in this court would believe me, so I chose to escape. I only meant to sicken your knights like the dogs they are.”

“Dogs?” Amusement glittered in those wise eyes.

Elin did not much like that he thought to laugh at her. Better to let her hang from a noose! She only told the truth. She would not stoop to lying, as Caradoc did. “Mayhap you would want to know how cruel your men can be. They trussed up my helpless old nursemaid, even though it was clear she was no traitor to the king and no threat. Do men of power feel greater when they harm those smaller? Methinks that is a sign of cowardice. And these are the men who serve you.”

“She offends the king!” A guard raised a hand to cuff her.

Malcolm’s hand curled around that offender’s wrist and stopped the blow. Elin gazed up into the Fierce One’s hard eyes, black and unreadable. Why had he protected her, he who vowed to condemn her?

Caradoc stepped forward. “Uncle, allow me to wed her. I will teach her submission.”

“I’ve heard from you enough, Nephew.” Edward rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I now require a word with Sir Malcolm. Only then shall I render a decision.”




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Jillian Hart

Тип: электронная книга

Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература

Язык: на английском языке

Издательство: HarperCollins

Дата публикации: 16.04.2024

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О книге: A traitorous bride!Malcolm le Farouche felt his blood race at the thought. Yet, was rage or passion the reason? He knew only that though Elinore of Evenbough would share his bed by royal command, the warrior-trained beauty was not to be trusted…with his life or his heart!Le Farouche–"the Fierce." The epithet added luster to Sir Malcolm′s dark reputation as the greatest knight in the land. But how would Elinore refute his deepest suspicions of an alliance with her treacherous father? For her soul called out that this man was her true mate born!

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