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A Knight Most Wicked
Joanne Rock
Baseborn Sir Tristan Carlisle had fought his way to a knighthood.On the threshold of gaining land and power, he would not be distracted from his ultimate goal. Until, deep in the Bohemian forest, he encountered a woman with unforgettable green eyes. He never expected to see her again–but then the gypsy arrived at court as a lady-in-waiting.Convinced that she was an ambitious impostor, Tristan set out to seduce the truth from Arabella–assuming he could resist the power of her charms. . . .



A Knight Most Wicked
Joanne Rock


TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
This book is dedicated with love to Katie Sue Morgan,
my friend and mentor who guided me into a writers’
group when I found myself alone and new in town upon
arrival in Shreveport, Louisiana. Thank you, Sue, not
only for finding me a romance writers’ chapter to join,
but for your immediate invitation to lunch two days
after my first phone call. I’ve never been so grateful for
a reprieve from unpacking boxes! Your generous spirit,
your nurturing strength and your creative eye helped me
take my work seriously as a writer and nudged me down
a path that has given me so much joy.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen

Prologue
Bohemia
Autumn 1381
Arabella Rowan darted into the safety of the woods and forced herself to be still, eyes fixed on her mother’s cottage in the open meadow beyond. Five horses bearing the king’s standard were tethered near the door, stomping and snorting in the late afternoon air.
Men.
Arabella knew better than to approach her home if there were men within the walls. The rule had been clear all her life, though it had been stressed more since the arrival of her monthly courses some seven summers ago. Whether peasant or noble, men could pose a threat to a household of women living alone.
When the planked door swung open, five massive knights garbed in silks and velvets trooped out to their impatient mounts.
Arabella waited in the forest as the king’s men tore out of sight in a cloud of dust. After she dared to breathe a sigh of relief, curiosity consumed her. Barefoot despite the chill of the earth, she ran up the grassy hill to the stone cottage. She burst through the front door, almost tripping on the top step.
“What happened? What did those men—”
Her voice trailed off as she noted the mood in the cottage. Her mother and grandmother huddled together in hushed conversation. Lines of worry added somber age to their expressions.
“What is it?” Sinking onto a wooden chair in the cool open area that served as both kitchen and hall, Arabella set her herb-gathering basket at her feet and pushed tangled locks from her forehead. Anxiety gnawed at her belly far more than a hunger for supper.
Zaharia walked toward her granddaughter. “You are to make a journey, Arabella. The king wishes to send you with the princess.”
It could not be true. Her vision swam as her eyesight blurred, her mind reeling. Even in the farthermost outskirts of the Bohemian highlands, everyone knew the princess had agreed to wed a foreign king in a far-off land. Wordlessly, Arabella looked to her mother for confirmation, despite knowing her grandmother’s dictate would be final in this as in so many things.
Arabella’s mother buried her face in her hands, but not before a muffled sob escaped. Arabella’s heart skipped a frightened beat.
“You know your duty, Bella.” Grandmother Zaharia looked at her with stern green eyes, her long white hair tamed in a heavy knot at her nape, and sat down on the bench beside Arabella. “When the king sends Princess Anne to marry the young English king, you will join her as a lady-in-waiting.”
She knew little of the world, yet she’d heard talk of the constraints placed on women on the remote island. It sounded so different from the wild freedom of her Bohemian hills.
“I do not understand. I thought women abounded at court in Prague. My place should be at your side as it has always been, learning the healing arts.” Surely if she battled her grandmother’s decision with dedication to the wise woman’s craft, Zaharia would bend. Hadn’t her grandmother always told her that a healer’s blood ran in her veins?
“Apparently, King Wenceslas is gathering an unusually large retinue to accompany Anne. He wants her arrival to appear impressive to the English people, as her husband is accepting her without a dowry.”
“But I am no lady-in-waiting. I am not capable of making anyone look impressive.” She extended her bare foot as proof, while desperation knotted her stomach. If she left the country, would she ever see her family again? She might never complete her work as Grandmother’s apprentice, never gather herbs again nor thrill to the discovery of a new healing tincture. “We have never lived as nobility. I might shame us all.”
“Nevertheless, you are as noble as anyone at court, despite our lack of wealth.” Grandmother Zaharia lifted a parchment scroll hidden in the folds of her gown and read from it. “‘The presence of Lady Arabella Rowan, daughter of Sir Charles Vallia and Lady Luria Rowan, is requested in Prague next week.’”
“But my father has never acknowledged me.” The fact had never bothered her overmuch. Her life was happier than that of many other people she knew. Still, if her estrangement from her father would aid her in her cause, she had to remark upon it.
“Do not mention your father in your travels, my dear.” Zaharia’s voice was unusually sharp. “Your heritage is far more important than you think, but it is a family matter.”
Even Arabella’s mother peered up at her through her tears to echo the sentiment. “Say nothing of your past, Arabella. The royal family knows who you are and there is no need to defend yourself against anyone else’s whispered rumor.”
Confused, Arabella wondered about her father for the first time in a long time. She had never met the nobleman rumored to have broken her mother’s heart, but she suspected he sometimes met with her mother in secret. Perhaps that was one of the reasons the Rowan women remained wary of men. But Zaharia had already moved on to speak of other things.
“You must pack tomorrow so that you will arrive in Prague with enough time to prepare for the journey, my sweet girl. You have no choice but to leave us.”
Arabella did not believe her ears. She felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. Stricken. Aching.
She gasped for breath in the close air of the cottage. She needed to escape. To race the autumn winds and feel the earth beneath her feet.
Zaharia reached to embrace her. “Be strong, Arabella. Show your countrymen that Rowan blood runs as fierce as any knight’s.”
“How can I leave everything I’ve ever known to become someone I am not? How will I fulfill the legacy you have foretold would be mine?” She admired her grandmother’s stature as a healer and had imagined her own arts might warrant such respect one day.
“You cannot be a wise woman without seeing something of the world, Bella. I have always known a day would come that would call you to your fate and give you the wisdom you need added to what I have taught you.” Her words were soft and soothing, yet somehow rock solid at the same time. It was the tone she’d used to teach Arabella everything she knew about healing. “Think of your honor. Think of your family’s honor. You will fulfill this obligation and return home. It is not as if you will have to remain in England forever.”
Something about Zaharia’s mention of “England” and “forever” in the same breath filled Arabella with hot frustration, forcing her feet toward the door. It was all too much, too fast, and she feared she would shame herself by shouting her fury to the heavens in front of her family. She needed to flee before that happened.
“I will be strong,” she assured her grandmother, spine straight though her eyes burned at the thought of her fate slipping from her hands. “Somehow.”
“Arabella.” Luria rose to keep her daughter from bolting, but Zaharia held her back.
Zaharia’s words of reassurance echoed in Arabella’s ears as her feet flew down the dusty path, each step of this lonely last run reminding her that her moments as a free woman were quickly disappearing.

Chapter One
“We’ll stop here,” Tristan Carlisle called as he reined in his horse and flung himself from the black destrier so his company might rest for the night.
He cursed his trip, even as he savored this last stop before he reached Prague and the squawking women awaiting him—the largest retinue ever to accompany a princess for her nuptials. A bloody dubious honor for a warrior.
“Escort,” he muttered, disgusted by the very sound of the word. Fifteen years in service to kings of England, and this was the mission his hard work had earned?
England’s war with France raged while he was sent on a courtier’s assignment. Did they think his sword arm grew weak? He could fight better than half of Richard’s hasty-witted front line with his dagger alone, since most of the young king’s men were naught but beslubbering babes who’d seen little combat.
Richard had made excuses about the importance of his bride’s protection and a recent threat to the Bohemian court. But the quest—and the king’s concern—sounded a bit hollow to Tristan, despite Richard’s promise of long-overdue lands in exchange for Tristan’s success.
The black horse snorted as it slaked its thirst, echoing Tristan’s opinion.
“I couldn’t agree more, friend. No warrior in his right mind should accept a courtier’s job, and yet here we are. Roaming our tired arses across this fair land with naught but a bastard’s lot in life by way of royal appreciation. If Richard fails to come through with lands this time…” Snort, indeed. Tristan would be looking into a mercenary’s life if the king did not recognize his efforts after this.
“Tris?” His friend Simon Percival called to him from a few feet away. The presence of Simon on the journey—a knight almost as ancient as Tristan at thirty summers—was one of the few circumstances that made the endless journey bearable. “Should we stop here for the night, or do you wish to ride farther? We can arrive in Prague tomorrow if we pick up speed.”
“I am in no hurry. Tell the men to unload and I’ll search the area.” Needing to clear his resentful head so he might fulfill his duty, he vaulted back onto his horse.
Tristan worked with slow caution to secure the encampment as twilight approached. The solitude of the land suited his mood. The dark woods gave way to rolling hills, providing plenty of cover for foreign knights on strange terrain.
As the sounds of his men quieted in the last purple light of day, he heard a distinct cry from deeper in the forest.
He paused, reasonably sure the noise came from an animal but waiting to be certain. Although he seemed to be in the middle of remote country, perhaps a road wound nearby and some hapless traveler had met with thieves. When the cry came again, Tristan still questioned whether it was animal or human, but it sounded too tortured to ignore.
Sliding from his horse, he stalked toward the sound. When it became continuous, he hastened his step until he reached a clearing with a perfect circle of aged oaks in the middle. The noise emanated from within that ring, but in the falling twilight he could not clearly make out a form. He was fairly certain there were no animals fighting here, nor could he see any horses or thieves.
Moving forward, he gained ground until he touched one of the old oaks.
The cries stopped.
A figure stirred within the ring of trees.
Squinting, Tristan recognized the shape of a young woman…or was it?
Half-reclining on the ground, the woman wore garments that belonged to neither a peasant nor a lady. Her long dress had a full skirt—he could see it floating all about her legs on the ground—but it was not long enough to hide her bare feet. She was covered from head to toe with small twigs and pine needles.
And her hair…
It called to mind a fey witch or fairy in a child’s tale. Thick waves cloaked her upper body in the same way her long dress covered the lower half. The dark tresses reached her waist and looked unaccustomed to the rigors of a comb.
Surely he dreamed.
No woman would be in the middle of the wilderness like this. Yet, she appeared to belong in the woods—wild and uncivilized. An unearthly beauty about her made him wonder if he’d been bewitched.
Her strange appearance in the ancient circle of trees where no superstitious mortal would dare tread supported that conclusion. And before her abrupt silence, she had wailed with pagan fury to the unyielding oaks.
Tristan yearned to satisfy himself that she was real. Softly he approached her, spellbound by the strangeness of the vision.
For a moment, the woman did not move. She seemed frozen, peering into Tristan’s eyes and searching his face. Tristan was so close that he caught a vague scent of her, could see the heavy rise and fall of her breasts, discern the damp trail of tears down dirt-smudged cheeks. Still not convinced she could possibly be real, Tristan lifted his hand to touch her. In one swift, soundless movement, the green-eyed wench sprang to her feet and ran.

“Sit still, Arabella.”
By now the gentlewoman’s command sounded like a threat, and Arabella forced herself to cease her restless wriggling on the velvet-covered bench inside the Prague home of the king. She had been sitting still—mostly still—for the last hour while the matron of the royal retinue pinched, pulled and poked in an effort to fit her with an appropriate traveling gown for the journey to England. Five other young women stood or sat quietly for their maids in the upstairs chamber that had served as home to Arabella and several other noblewomen from far-flung parts of Bohemia for the past few nights.
Yet Lady Hilda grumbled as she worked.
“Merciful heaven help us, you look as fit to join a royal entourage as a wildcat.”
“Pay her no heed, Lady Arabella,” a girlish voice whispered at Arabella’s elbow. “You are a wonderful addition to our company.”
Mary Natansia, Arabella’s lone friend since she had arrived in Prague, squeezed her hand as the two of them suffered the none-too-gentle hands of Tryant Hilda, a distant relative of the princess with enough titles to give her freedom to speak her mind.
Arabella’s brief education in the noble world had already taught her that much. Titles made women invincible here. Their power did not come from herbs and knowledge, or even saving lives.
“Thank you.” She smiled back at the delicate blonde with skin so fair Hilda remarked glowingly upon it.
A quiet girl of eighteen summers, Mary was King Wenceslas IV’s ward, a position of great prestige since the Bohemian king also served as the Holy Roman Emperor. Although Arabella gathered the younger woman was wealthy enough to rule the glittering court life of Prague, Mary shied away from it. After arriving in the city three days ago, Arabella had been consumed with preparations for the upcoming journey to England. She had worked on a few of her own surcoats under the careful tutelage of the princess’s maids. She had been advised what was expected of her on the journey. But she had not ventured out of the women’s apartments for long, and tonight would be her first formal supper at Prague Castle.
She was nervous since her old formal surcoat had appeared like peasant’s garb next to the rich attire of the women who greeted her politely, then dismissed her with their gazes. It did not help that she had arrived at the castle’s gate with her grandmother. Zaharia was a wise and gifted woman, but the superstitious called her a sorceress.
Mary Natansia, however, did not hold Arabella’s family or less exalted appearance against her.
“There,” Hilda announced, smiling with satisfaction at having finished her work. “I will render you presentable whether you like it or not.” Pointing a long pin as if it were a sword, she threatened her wayward charge while she waved over a younger maid. “Now, Millie will assist you with your hair for the celebration this eve.”
Submitting to the dressing and the brushing provided to ladies-in-waiting without their own maids, Arabella allowed her mind to wander with the rhythmic strokes of the silken brush.
The visage of the knight appeared in her mind’s eye, the way it had so many other times during the past sennight since she had first seen him.
The knight had been brazen to walk so close to the circle of trees some called enchanted. No one of Arabella’s acquaintance, aside from her family, would stray near such a place.
And no man had ever dared to look upon her so boldly. For that matter, she had hardly ever met a man’s eyes directly until that day. Her mother worried about the motives of strange men after Luria’s experience with Arabella’s father, who could not be forced to wed the mother of his only heir.
The men of her homeland feared and respected Zaharia, so they avoided her granddaughter out of deference to the wise woman. But the knightly stranger had not only stared at her, he had shamelessly extended his hand to touch her.
His reaching out to her had been compelling…in those moments before her sense had returned. His presence had been impressive. Large and looming with gray eyes. His whole countenance had a rather fearsome element about it, with the predatory eye of a wolf.
She had run her fastest to elude that gaze and the touch that went with it. When she finally paused to discern his whereabouts, the forest remained silent as death. No one followed her. The stranger had vanished as quickly as he had appeared. Yet the moon had trekked halfway across the sky before Arabella stopped trembling. She realized she had grown up too isolated by half, if a stranger could frighten her thus. Who would ever call Arabella wise, like her grandmother, when she fled life like a craven minnow?
“All finished, my lady,” Millie proclaimed finally, drawing Arabella to her feet. She and Hilda stood side by side, wreathed in smiles, until Hilda tugged Arabella’s arm.
“Come and look in the glass, Arabella, and try to appreciate what magic we have wrought.”
Hilda prodded her to a looking glass mounted inside a trunk that had been carted into the room for the day. Curious, Arabella glanced into it. The startled figure who stared back at her bore little resemblance to the young woman she’d seen reflected in the stream that pooled near her home.
Gone were the unruly tresses that her mother once snipped off in frustration. They were replaced by silken waves that shone even in the dull glass. She reached to touch them until Hilda and Millie both lurched forward as if to intervene.
Dutifully returning her hands to her sides, she took in the crisp white linen kirtle topped with a cotehardie of royal-blue velvet, a color so deep and expensive none wore it but those of an exalted station. Tonight, that would be her. Her flat slippers were barely noticeable beneath her long skirts, but when they peeped out from underneath, they matched her velvet skirts.
Arabella wondered where her former untamed self had gone, now that this refined creature had taken her place.
As if sensing her thoughts, Hilda winked and gently turned her toward the door.
“I trust your manners will be inspired by the beauty of your appearance. Pray, do not disrupt our hard work too soon.”
Turned loose to find her way to the great hall, Arabella felt every bit as lost here tonight as she had imagined she might in those final nights on her bed at home. But before she could become fully confused in the maze of corridors leading to the hall, Mary caught up with her, her pale hair tied with a sky-blue ribbon like an angel in one of the castle’s religious paintings.
“This way,” she called, gesturing in the opposite direction and then steering them down corridors growing more populated. The swell of music reached their ears as they neared the great hall. “Do not be nervous, Arabella. The feeling dissipates once you get through the door.”
Arabella halted in her pretty slippers, adrift in this world that had hurt her mother deeply with false faces and false promises. Would Arabella be as susceptible to its beautiful cunning?
“Mary.” She turned toward her new friend, trusting this one woman if no one else. “Perhaps you can guide me on one more matter, since I know nothing of men. I have no father. No brother. I have scarcely conversed with any male. Are we expected to…talk to them at an event such as this?”
Staring back at her with intent eyes, Mary said nothing for a long moment, but Arabella was only too glad to delay her entry into the hall as long as possible. Finally, Mary blinked.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.” Reflexively, she reached for a little knife she normally kept at her waist, only to remember she had lost it that day in the woods she’d met the strange knight. It had been a talisman from her grandmother. Arabella sorely missed the small charm that was the tool of a wise woman’s herbal craft, especially when she needed the comfort of something familiar.
“You really did grow up in the forest, didn’t you?” Mary’s voice possessed a childlike wonder that made Arabella feel a bit stronger for having been raised by the region’s most revered wise woman.
“I have never denied it. I do not look at it as a defect, the way the court does.”
“Nor do I, Arabella, I promise you. Your life sounds wonderful to me. But truly, men are not so ill behaved, at least not around me.” She laughed and her eyes took on a mischievous light. “There are advantages to being the emperor’s ward. Remain at my side, and we will face the men you meet together.”
“Together.” It sounded simple enough. And, although her mother always talked about men as if they were dangerous creatures, Arabella had often wondered if Lady Luria had merely had the misfortune of meeting a poor example.
Arabella’s father.
The lilting strains of the music drifted through the corridor, reminding them of their duty while other ladies-in-waiting passed by them in soft swishes of velvet and linen.
“You will be fine,” Mary assured her, tugging her through the huge doors and into the extravagant hall.
Vaulted ceilings and narrow wooden arches supported the cavernous stone chamber, which vibrated with the din of humanity. Bright silks dazzled her, while torches lit walls filled with colorful tapestries and paintings etched with a metallic sheen that looked like gold.
A woman greeted Mary, who was well-known because of her position, despite her usual lack of presence at court. Arabella smiled, but used the time to study the vast chamber and the people within the walls.
Her attention moved slowly over each individual, fascinated by every detail of the lavish gathering. She admired the precious gems decorating the women’s garments, the fur-lined cloaks of the men, the more austere dress of one man in particular….
Her heart caught in her throat.
There could be no mistaking the knight who had seen her crying in the woods. If crying it could be called, given how she had howled out her frustration.
The sight of him had a peculiar effect on her. She had experienced the same strange sensation the first time she had spied the man. This rush of blood through her veins hinted of a nervousness midway between fear and…anticipation?
She swallowed the uncomfortable thought and attempted to study the knight without him seeing her in return—a feat that did not prove difficult, since the man seemed engrossed in conversation with another dressed in similarly dark garb.
Foreigners.
The realization surprised her, for she had not understood as much the first time she’d encountered him. Unlike most of the men in the great hall, his hair was long, just beyond his shoulders, and dark as a new moon night. His large frame cleared a path through the crowded room as celebrants scurried out of his way. Arabella could not see his face now, but she remembered those piercing gray eyes all too well.
What was he doing here?
As if suddenly sensing her scrutiny, he turned and met her stare.
She held her breath, praying he would not ruin her already dubious reputation by revealing their encounter in the forest. Arabella knew now that most young gentlewomen did not wander about the woods by themselves. While she did not deny her untraditional heritage, neither did she wish to draw undue attention to herself as the granddaughter of a famed healer. Zaharia had urged her to remain on the fringes of the court.
His eyes narrowed and her chest constricted in answer. He betrayed no sign that he knew her, but abruptly turned and headed in her direction.
“Excuse me,” Arabella mumbled, uncertain of her next move as she hurried away from the approaching knight, away from being anyone’s center of attention.
People peered at her strangely as she hastened through the crowd, searching for safety from him, from recognition as a wild child of the forest. Her mother had warned her that court life could be merciless in its judgment of anyone different.
Reaching the back of the room, she turned to be sure he was gone. Unfortunately, he strode only a few steps behind her, yet he did not seem to see her at that precise moment.
A short corridor led from the back of the hall toward a series of doors. Arabella tested one of the handles, checking that he did not see her, and entered the room.
Safe.
Closing the door softly, she perceived the outline of furnishings in a small chamber, a masculine domain with a sturdy horn pitcher and heavy bone cups atop a sideboard. Wondering how long she could hide from the festivities, she wandered about to see a small stack of leather-bound books and a high window of Bohemia’s famed colored glass. Her heartbeat had just returned to normal when a noise across the chamber caused her to jump.
The latch lifted behind her.

Chapter Two
“Can this wait? Our host is calling us to sup, Tris.”
Tristan shook his head and led Simon into the small study. The din of the hall had grown tiresome, with arrogant nobles working too hard to impress their English guests and beautiful women disappearing into thin air. One beautiful woman, anyhow. Tristan could not stand the company much longer—especially when the lone female to capture his interest this eve obviously wanted no part of him.
Why had she looked familiar? He knew no one in this land. Yet she had escaped before he could speak to her.
“No, it cannot wait.” He shut the door behind them, sealing out the minstrels’ music and the noise. “We need to discover the extent of the threat against the royal retinue before we leave Prague Castle. If the nobles or the princess are at risk in any way, the situation has my immediate attention.”
Turning to take a seat on the wooden table in the center of the room, Tristan swore he caught a woman’s scent in the air. An odd thought in a dark haven that surely belonged to a man. A tapestry depicting a hunting party and a fleeing stag adorned the lone wall that did not contain stacks of books.
“While we remain in Bohemia, is it not the king’s problem? Or the emperor’s?” Simon sank onto a small bench. “Surely Prague has knights to protect their people while we are on their soil.”
“But apparently two noblewomen have disappeared in the last fortnight and the king has done naught to discover what happened to them. Aside from all the ways that is disturbing, do you know how many women we will have to protect on our journey back home?” Tristan needed Simon’s support in this, as their duty grew more demanding each day.
Tristan might be in charge, but they were more kin than fellow knights. Mutual orphans left in the hands of an abusive guardian, they’d forged a friendship in shared pain. They’d deserted their guardian to join Edward the Black Prince’s army when they’d been scarcely old enough to swing a sword. That knight had found places for them, restored their sense of honor.
For that, Tristan owed the royal family everything, even though Edward had been dead these last four years. His son, King Richard, was but a boy and his reign had encountered enough trouble that his counselors thought a wife was in order.
“You really think this problem will follow us?” Simon steepled his fingers and leaned his chin onto the point.
“I wish to be prepared for anything. Let us relate the incidents to the men and ask them to learn all they can about the missing women.”
“Mayhap they merely ran off and left their husbands.” Simon leaned back onto the stone wall behind him and plucked up an empty inkwell.
“Faithless though they might be, women rarely leave the security of respected court positions for lovers with little to offer them.” Tristan knew well the potential treachery of the fair sex.
“Still, I will at least find out if that is why the Bohemian nobles are not searching more actively.”
Musical feminine laughter floated through the closed door and Tristan wondered how he would manage the long journey back to England in a retinue where women far outnumbered men. He had seen women execute more cunning schemes of entrapment than he had ever witnessed on the battlefield. Long ago, he had been foolish enough to be lured in by a great beauty. The perfume had gone straight to his head.
“Good. We will see our troop safely home with every last woman intact.” Tristan moved to the door, ready to rejoin the Bohemian court now that he’d given orders to heighten security. “I will not allow anyone’s disappearance to besmirch our standing in London.”
“Aye.” Simon nodded, rising from his bench. “But what do you think of Prague after our long lament over having to make the journey? That the city is beautiful cannot be denied and the women have turned out in force to greet us. Have you seen anything that catches your eye?”
“Not this time, friend.” He could hardly count the fleeing beauty, since he’d barely had time to glimpse her before she made a quick escape.
The real woman who’d captured his thoughts of late was the waif from the forest he’d encountered the previous week. He’d made a halfhearted attempt to follow her that day, thinking mayhap she wanted him to.
He could almost believe he’d dreamed the whole thing.
Except…
Reaching into the pouch at his waist, Tristan felt the small knife he’d found within the oak ring. The handle and blade were both short and flat. Smooth and well-worn, the knife appeared more primitive than a traditional dagger, but also more practical. Both handle and blade of this instrument were formed from one continuous piece of metal. Tristan felt certain this knife belonged to the woman. It suited her—smooth and perfectly formed, yet completely uncivilized.
“Gone moral on me, Tristan?”
“Nay. But I have the king’s orders to consider and a threat to his bride on the loose. No doubt I should stick to my duty. As should you, perhaps?”
Simon laughed, his lighter perspective often a welcome counterpoint to Tristan’s darker view of the world. “Seducing one would bring no harm, or maybe two…”
“Stick to the widows, friend, lest you care to find yourself with a bride. I want no whisper of dishonor on my watch.”
As the men departed the study, Arabella peeked over the high chest she had been hiding behind.
The door closed once again. They were gone.
Her face burned from the overheard discussion. They spoke in English, but she understood their language well enough thanks to her grandmother’s lessons.
It seemed her mother had not misled her after all. Noblemen were obviously creatures of lust with little regard for those weaker than they. The very idea that they would idly select a target for their lustful games made her blood chill.
No doubt her mother had been wounded by such a scheme at Charles Vallia’s hands. Her mother had been at court when it happened, too. Arabella’s father might have stood in this very room and plotted to steal Luria Rowan’s innocence.
Arabella shivered at the thought. And yet, at least the dark-haired knight had suggested he wished to seek answers about the disappearances of women no one else seemed to care about. That was to his credit, even if he did it to preserve his reputation with his king. She wondered why the Bohemian nobility cared so little for the loss of their wives, sisters and daughters.
But there was no time for sad thoughts now. Someone might have missed her during her absence and she did not wish to become the subject of undue scrutiny. Quietly, she opened the door and peered out. When no one seemed to be looking in her direction, she slipped back into the party with a heavier heart. The English knights might protect the Bohemian retinue, but who would protect the group from the English knights?
Darting among the clusters of people, Arabella searched for Mary. When she finally caught a glimpse of the vibrant pink surcoat her friend wore, the fabric brushed alongside the austere black garb of the man called Tristan.
Backing away from the scene while wondering how to save Mary from the wicked purpose of her companion, Arabella bumped into someone.
“Excuse me, I—”
She looked up into the face of the most exalted woman present at court this evening. A golden tiara graced the head of the princess, who nodded in greeting.
“Lady Arabella, are you enjoying yourself?” Princess Anne of Bohemia asked, steadying Arabella.
How awkward.
“I am so sorry, Your Highness, really I—”
“Lady Mary has been searching for you. I will bring you to her.”
Arabella sucked in a breath, her mind hunting feverishly for a reason to excuse herself. But before she could protest, Princess Anne was escorting her toward Mary and the strange knight, leading her to certain condemnation once he realized who she was and where he had seen her.
“Arabella,” Mary called, drawing her friend in between herself and the knight from the magic circle. “I am sorry I lost you.”
The princess greeted Tristan warmly, apparently well acquainted with him, though Arabella could not hear their words over Mary’s chatter.
“If it pleases you, my lady.” A man handed Mary a fresh cup of wine. The other man from the study.
Arabella wanted to shout a warning to her warmhearted friend to keep her distance from the handsome foreigner with ice-blue eyes.
“Thank you, sir.” Mary smiled at the knight. “Lady Arabella, may I introduce Sir Simon Percival?”
Aside from disliking the golden-haired Percival instantly, Arabella also struggled with her tongue in her first exchange with a man at court.
“How do you do, sir?” She sounded as stiff and formal as in her first days of learning English at Zaharia’s knee.
The crafty knight barely heard her, however, in his rapt attention to Mary.
“Arabella,” the princess’s voice interrupted her thoughts. In her anger over Percival’s proximity to Mary, Arabella had almost forgotten her other cause for fear.
She was now face-to-face with the dark-haired knight. Yet as close to him as she had been that day in the forest, his eyes held no light of recognition. Saints be praised.
“This is Sir Tristan Carlisle.” Princess Anne spoke in English. “He is the knight King Richard has sent to escort us all to England. He is to be our protector.”
“Our protector?” She hoped her disbelief did not find its way into her voice. Blood pounded in her ears as her hands clenched into tiny fists.
“At your service, my lady.” Tristan Carlisle bowed before her, then, sweet Jesu, picked up her hand and kissed the back of it.
Gray eyes held her captive. For a moment, she felt a strange awareness of him, just as she had on that day in the ring of trees. His perusal intensified, and his hand lingered over hers.
“It is a long journey to your homeland. Think you we shall be safe, sir?” Snatching her fingers back, Arabella prayed Hilda’s magic had rendered her unrecognizable.
“I have pledged myself to the cause, lady.”
“Surely you have heard of the recent disappearances of Bohemian noblewomen.” She had not heard of them herself until those hidden moments in the study.
Arabella noticed even the princess looked interested in his response.
“I have heard, and will seek answers for myself before we depart. Yet there is no reason to believe the problem will follow us.”
She knew very well that was not the true nature of his thoughts, since he’d made a very different answer to his friend. Another lesson to be learned about men. They did not necessarily speak the truth.
“I am sure your king sent you because you are quite capable of ensuring our safety.”
“I can only hope that is the reason,” he replied, his voice oddly fierce before he turned to Anne. “Your Highness, I must beg your leave. I would see to some preparations before the reception winds down. I have supped earlier with my men.”
She made a small inclination of her head to convey her approval and Tristan bowed before her, then turned to Arabella.
“By your leave, my lady.”
Arabella felt the heat rise in her cheeks as he stared at her, an emotion she could not guess simmering in his eyes.
“Sir Tristan.” Her voice sounded small to her ears. Lingering a moment, he looked as if he would speak further, but just when Arabella’s fear peaked, he turned abruptly and strode out of sight.
“Does he frighten you, Lady Arabella?” the princess asked, startling Arabella with her bluntness.
“Nay,” Arabella answered, then, seeing the princess’s obvious disbelief, she confessed a small portion of the truth. “Mayhap a little. Sir Tristan is certainly one of the most intimidating-looking men in the room tonight.”
The princess smiled and winked at Mary. “Granted. But I have noticed many of my young ladies-in-waiting are not in agreement.”
“Your Highness?”
“Rosalyn de Clair—” the princess gestured toward a delicate, dark-haired noblewoman a few tables away “—could hardly keep her eyes off him.”
All the better for Arabella, although it would not be fair of her to allow an unsuspecting noblewoman to be deceptively courted by an errant knave. Perhaps she should speak to Lady Rosalyn discreetly.
“Mary,” the princess continued, “I have heard Arabella has not been to Prague before. I wish you would take an escort tomorrow and show her around. I would not want her to see London before she sees her own Prague.”
Surprised and delighted, Arabella promised herself she would not let thoughts of Tristan Carlisle spoil such an opportunity.
“I would be thrilled.”
“As would I, Your Highness,” Mary added, curtsying in the easy manner of a woman who had grown up around a court full of protocol.
“You must be back early, however, so you will not be tired for our long journey.”
Leaving Mary and Arabella to plot their day, Princess Anne moved away to speak with her other guests. And while Arabella was pleased to have escaped Tristan Carlisle’s notice this time, she wondered how long it would be before the knight remembered their meeting. Would he compromise her position at court with tales of her uncivilized behavior?
Or did the heated awareness the English warrior incited within her pose an even darker threat?

Across the great hall, Rosalyn de Clair stamped her foot in frustration under the concealing skirts of her richly jeweled surcoat. She watched as Mary Natansia walked off with Arabella Rowan. Rosalyn had been trying to catch Mary’s ear so she might gain the simpering twit for an ally at court, but the Rowan witch engaged her in conversation and remained steadfastly at Mary’s side.
Rosalyn hoped to appeal to Lady Mary’s heralded sympathetic nature with a clever mistruth she had been working on. Everyone knew the emperor doted on his precious ward. Rosalyn just had to make the most of it, and she was sure she could. Hadn’t her lover once told her she was the most cunning woman he had ever met? Having clawed her way from her status as a bastard castoff to an enviable position among the nobility, Rosalyn considered those words a compliment.
She turned to find other company for the evening meal. Mary could be cornered another time. There would be plenty of opportunities on the way to England. In fact, maybe she should use the extra time to find an English nobleman to woo prettily, rather than the Bohemian gentleman she had tentatively marked. Everyone knew no one in Bohemia had money these days. Even King Wenceslas had stooped to sending his sister to England without a dowry. It was a disgrace.
Yes, an English lord would be all the more beneficial. Rosalyn’s smiles were restored at this new development of her plan. And, as fate would have it, she had just spied the most delicious Englishman she could have ever dreamed of.

Chapter Three
A bazaar took place once each fortnight on the Vltava River in Prague. Everywhere Arabella looked as their carriage rolled past the marketplace, she saw vibrant colors and lively people. Hundreds thronged the merchants’ stands to haggle over vegetables, spices, cloth, animals and tools. Gypsy wagons provided entertainments of all kinds, from dancing to fortune telling.
Astonished by the sights, Arabella thrilled to each new discovery. She was as impressed by the Gypsy street entertainers as she was by the Venetian mosaic of the Last Judgment on St. Vitus’s cathedral wall. At the moment, the bazaar caught Arabella’s eye and she wanted desperately to take a closer look.
“We have time to stop, don’t we? It is all so colorful.” Arabella tugged on Mary’s sleeve as she asked their driver to stop. She jumped from the small conveyance they had been given for their expedition. Briefly, she wondered whether exploring the market was a suitably ladylike pursuit, but she pushed her reservations about her place at the Bohemian court from her mind. Surely Zaharia would approve. Arabella could almost smell the herbs at a local wise woman’s stall.
“I don’t know, Arabella. Our driver wishes to take us home before dark.”
“We won’t stay long. And I would remember this bazaar more than the university or the city palaces, long after we depart.” Her gaze already roamed the marketplace for anyone selling unfamiliar tinctures or medicinal oils. “Please?”
Mary bit her lip, clearly unsure of herself in the raucous setting.
“If you promise we won’t stay very long—”
Arabella gave her friend a quick hug before pulling her to a booth overflowing with fabric samples. Perhaps that would be more to Mary’s liking.
“Feel this. Isn’t it sumptuous?” she exclaimed over a piece of brightly colored silk with an exotic Eastern design. Mary chose two bolts, giving the merchant her name to have them delivered.
Moving away from the cloth merchant’s booth, Mary soon engaged another merchant in haggling over a jeweled comb. Now that Mary was enjoying herself, Arabella hoped she might find the local herbalist. She was searching through the crowd when a large figure garbed in black caught her eye.
Tristan Carlisle.
Arabella was not ready to face the familiar figure striding among the Gypsy booths, speaking briefly with several of the peasant families who ran them. Ducking behind a pie-maker’s stand, Arabella watched the English knight as he perused the items of a silversmith.
Observing him while he was not looking at her, she decided his face was handsome enough when he did not have a glower set upon his brow.
His eyes, however, were nothing short of beautiful. A silvery shade of gray rimmed with long, dark lashes. After her few days at court, she already understood the ladies of that realm would have done crime to possess such lashes. The slash of the knight’s brows, however, gave him a slightly fearsome aspect even when he did not scowl. The rest of his face could only be described as angular, with a hard, square jaw and prominent cheekbones.
She blushed to realize how carefully she studied Tristan Carlisle when he failed to hold women in high regard. She guessed he was the kind of man her family had warned her about before her trip.
Pausing to finger a delicate bit of silver that he had picked up off the cloth full of wares, Tristan spoke to the boy behind the counter. Arabella could see the knight held a small knife in his hand.
It was ridiculous to stray near him. Yet she found herself walking closer, avoiding his notice but suddenly curious to hear what he asked the Gypsy boy about the blade.
“…from India,” Arabella overheard the boy telling Tristan. “I brought it all the way here myself.”
While the boy boasted, Tristan took the flat-handled dagger in his palm. Arabella looked longingly at the little weapon, thinking it looked similar to the one she lost before she came to Prague.
“Is that why you can charge an exorbitant amount? Because it weighed you down on the long journey here?” Tristan reached to give the boy’s arm a gentle pinch. “You might swing a sword more often. Then mayhap a little knife wouldn’t seem like such a burden.”
Puffing out his chest, the lad defended himself with the courage of youth.
“It is not exorbitant because it was a burden. It costs much because it is a witch’s knife. It is used to draw magical rings for worshipping demons.” The boy almost whispered the last words, as if imparting great wisdom to the knight.
Arabella scoffed at the tale. Demons indeed. According to Zaharia, other healers used the weapon in a symbolic way, as if to cut away the world and focus inward to pray.
Tristan laughed at the peddler’s ploy. “You may keep your wondrous weapon. I believe I already have a knife that is similar to the one you sell.”
The knight produced something from his pocket and held it up for the boy to see.
Arabella’s herb-cutting knife.
“Saints!” the boy cried, his dark eyes wide. “I hope you had it blessed. That blade surely came from a powerful sorceress.”
Arabella was tempted to run up and snatch it out of the warrior’s big hands. How dare he steal it?
“A powerful sorceress, eh? Mayhap she was.” Tucking the dagger back in his pocket, he tossed a coin up in the air for the boy to catch. “Thanks, lad. You’ll make a fine storyteller one day with tales such as those.”
Mayhap she was? What was that supposed to mean?
Arabella wondered if the knight was teasing the boy or if he indeed thought he had come across a spell-casting sorceress in the forest. Thinking back to their strange encounter in the oaks, Arabella imagined she had looked a fright with her hair covered with twigs and leaves, and her eyes wet with tears. Indeed, she had been wailing at the top of her lungs as though the skies were falling, but only because she thought she was alone.
Yes, she’d probably made quite an impression on the English knight.
Thinking she would look at the boy’s knives herself, Arabella was about to ask Mary to come with her. But when she turned to look for her friend, the emperor’s ward was nowhere to be found.
Arabella tried to remain calm, but she could not see Mary anywhere. All at once, the rumors of stolen women assailed her. She should not have left Mary’s side for even a moment. Running down the row of Gypsy wagons, she searched and called for her friend.
Frantically peering into every conceivable corner, Arabella came to a noisy row of Gypsy booths before she turned around.
“May I help you, my lady?”
A man touched her arm.
Stay calm. Arabella bit her lip, hard, to prevent herself from giving in to full-blown fear.
“No thank you, sir.” Jerking her arm out of his grasp, she stepped away from him.
“A woman alone must need some assistance.” The stranger was a well-dressed Bohemian, but Arabella did not appreciate the steely glint in his eye.
Beyond caring if she attracted attention, Arabella lifted her skirt to run and was yanked back so hard she cried out.
The man’s demeanor changed as he shoved her with unexpected force behind a large tapestry for sale at a merchant’s booth.
“Help!” Arabella shouted at the top of her lungs, a moment before the brute pushed her to the ground and clamped a ruthless hand over her mouth.

Tristan and Simon were already atop their horses and ready to leave when a cry pierced the din of the marketplace.
Requiring no words, the men sprang forward.
Tristan steered his horse through the crowded bazaar, ignoring protests from people forced to clear a path for him.
With a sweeping scrutiny, he quickly narrowed the possible places the scream could have come from. The two most likely spots were either in the back of a Gypsy wagon in a quiet corner of the bazaar, or behind an arras right next to it. Tristan held his horse motionless as he watched the two places simultaneously and listened with the finely tuned hearing of a man used to stealth in battle.
He heard not a sound aside from the shouts of disgruntled merchants in his wake, but he soon saw the tapestry move a fraction of an inch near the ground. Drawing his sword, Tristan slashed it down and watched it fall on top of two struggling forms.
Dropping to his feet, he turned aside the heavy arras to reveal a middle-aged Bohemian man and a rumpled pile of green velvet and dark hair.
A noblewoman.
“Move away from her now.” Though he spoke calmly, he felt the fury of growing bloodlust in his veins. The man wisely scrambled to obey his command.
The villain stuttered his protests as Simon yanked him away from the commotion, but Tristan paid no heed. His eyes were fixed on the woman before him.
Arabella Rowan, the distant beauty he’d met last night at Princess Anne’s reception. Only she didn’t look so immaculately groomed today. Now that she had been rolling around the ground she looked dusty and disheveled and…
Damnation.
Tristan could not believe his eyes as his vision of aloof Arabella Rowan melded with his memory of the green-eyed enchantress from the forest. They were one and the same.
Her hair, so shiny and luxurious the night before, was a formidable tangle around her head. She was covered with dust and smudged with dirt, recalling her forest appearance.
It was the wild glint in her eyes now, however, that confirmed her identity. Unlike her courtly appearance, she now exuded passion. Heat. Fear and anger radiated from her with palpable force. ’Twas clear at a glance this member of Anne’s royal party was not the noblewoman her princess believed her to be.

Arabella knew the instant he recognized her. Really recognized her. The flash of recall revealed itself in the darkening and narrowing of his eyes.
He stepped toward her. Arabella’s first response was to scramble backward but he was too quick. Huge, hard hands wrapped themselves about her waist and lifted her as though she were no more burden than a child. Setting her once again upon her feet, he released her swiftly, giving Arabella the impression the contact had disturbed him as much as it had her.
“You are unharmed, Lady Arabella?” The way he stressed “lady” sounded decidedly unpleasant, conveying his doubt that she deserved the title.
She nodded, her lack of voice betraying her discomfiture.
“The man accosted you?”
Forcing herself to converse with him out of the desire to see her attacker punished, Arabella cleared her throat and met Tristan’s hard gaze.
“He offered his assistance to find Mary. She had disappeared from my view for a moment and I became concerned she had met with harm.”
“And when you refused his help, he attacked you?”
“Yes.”
“When we depart Prague and you are in my charge, you will never wander around without a man to escort you. Do you understand?”
A strange dictate, considering she had been fine today until a man got near her. But perhaps the princess should have asked one of her guards to accompany them, since other noblewomen had disappeared recently.
Then again, perhaps Arabella should not have followed her heart’s desires and asked Mary to leave the safety of the carriage for the marketplace. Guilt pinched her hard, perhaps making her words more biting than she’d intended.
“I would hope that once I am in your charge, sir, I will not be attacked by anyone.”
“I cannot protect wayward lasses.”
Her eyes connected with his and she felt the keen edge of that remark. Tristan Carlisle thought her unworthy of the Bohemian court. He did not think she could be true nobility because he had seen her out in the oak ring, venting her fury to the heavens.
“Wayward?” His remark insulted her grandmother and her heritage as much as it insulted her.
“Arabella!” a small voice cried out moments before Mary appeared from the thick of the surrounding crowd and threw both arms around her friend. “Are you hurt?”
Anger cooling as she reassured Mary of her good health, Arabella decided it would be useless to explain herself to Tristan. He would believe what he wanted.
Heaven knows, most everyone in the Bohemian court already thought she was a wayward lady because of her unusual upbringing. What difference did it make that Tristan Carlisle agreed with their assessment?
What she regretted most about the day was that she had unwittingly broken her grandmother’s most important rule. In the course of an afternoon, she had become very much the center of attention.

After spending a fruitless afternoon trying to twist answers out of the Bohemian trader who’d grabbed Arabella, Tristan accompanied Simon back to the keep to continue their preparations for the journey home. They’d discovered the man’s name was Ivan Litsen, but had learned precious little else about his motive. The man had seemed unconcerned about his encounter with Arabella, assuring Tristan that many men of his acquaintance would have done the same had they spied a beautiful young woman unaccompanied in a crowded marketplace.
If such was the case, why had the princess allowed Arabella and Mary to ride about the city? Did Arabella have enemies at court?
“Arabella Rowan is a fair one,” Simon observed as he studied the horizon from his horse, trotting beside Tristan’s mount.
Simon had been attempting conversation ever since they’d left the alleyway across from the marketplace where they’d questioned Litsen at length and finally given the man into the keeping of the king’s guard.
“Passing fair.” He had no wish to discuss the woman with his friend, whose appetite for feminine diversion had angered more than one protective father in their rare excursions to the English king’s court.
“Are you blind? Such beauty in a lady is as rare as it is striking to the eye.”
“She is no lady.” Tristan wondered if he could be the only man at court who knew of Arabella’s peasant roots.
“I am pleased to hear it. The prospects for our journey home have just begun to improve.”
“No.” Tristan suspected he was being skillfully manipulated—tested for his own interest in Arabella—but the knowledge did not prevent a surge of possessiveness at the thought of Simon with the green-eyed beauty.
“Pardon? Did the Sultan of Silence speak?”
“She is not your type of woman, Percival, and we both know it. You merely mean to examine my reaction to the wench. Why not just ask?” Irritated to realize he indeed found himself attracted to Arabella—nay, more fascinated than attracted—Tristan had no patience for idle talk of her. Yet he listened because Simon was his brother in spirit, if not by blood.
“I thought I was the picture of subtlety.” Simon laughed. “But since you’re offering, I am curious what you think of Lady Arabella.”
“I met her in the woods on one of the last nights we made camp on the way to Prague, and she bore little resemblance to the lady-in-waiting she plays for her princess.” He had not shared the incident with Simon, preferring to remember the encounter in his mind and not pick it apart with questions. “I do not know if the other nobles are aware of a pretender in their midst, or if Princess Anne has purposely gathered as large a retinue as possible, with no regard to the breeding of her travel companions. But either way, Lady Arabella’s court facade is a falsehood.”
“Perhaps the princess knows nothing of it, and Arabella has merely used that charming body of hers to lure a nobleman to her bed in an attempt to be included in the princess’s train.”
“Leave it to you to consider the most illicit possibilities.” Although heaven knows, Tristan of all people should have been quick to consider such a scheme, after having been betrayed by a woman seeking a higher station in life than a lowly knight could afford.
“Women must use what means they possess. A lesson hard won by us both, Tris, wouldn’t you say?”
“There is more.” Briefly, Tristan explained about the knife he found after she left. “It may be just an ordinary tool for gathering herbs, but there are some who believe such weapons are ceremonial items for Gypsy wise women or…”
“You don’t mean to suggest the girl is—”
“I suggest nothing. I’m merely telling you what I found and sharing the local superstitions.”
“You do not believe such rump-fed foolishness.”
“I do not fear the girl could turn me into a hopping toad, if that is what you mean. Yet I know she is not who she pretends to be.”
They were in a more untamed land, after all. A woman brought up in the Bohemian wilderness among the old ways could be a dangerous influence on the English court, even if her only crime was that of deception.
“’Tis all mumble-minded nonsense,” Simon remarked, reining in as they approached the knights’ quarters near the main keep. “Arabella Rowan is naught but a wild beauty with unearthly green eyes, and you would call her a Gypsy witch.”
“Hardly. Mayhap I will simply call her mine, instead.” He had not thought it over before he spoke the words aloud, but the idea had a certain appeal.
“Have you lost your wits? What happened to your aversion to treacherous women?”
“Perhaps my sense of fair play demands I do not allow another ambitious woman to bend the court to her whim.” Tristan was no longer the unknown bastard Elizabeth Fortier had once rejected. After seeing the way his former love had broken the spirits of a much older and far wealthier man following her courtship with Tristan, he had regretted his quiet complicity in her scheme.
He might not have denounced Elizabeth, but he had the power to unmask Arabella Rowan.
Arabella would be the king’s problem in England, but until they reached London, Tristan would be wise to keep a close watch on the reckless female with secrets in her past.
“You’d better be careful then, friend.” Simon grinned, one brow arched in lopsided mockery as he slid from his mount. “If our young enchantress truly is a powerful wise woman in disguise, you may be in for more than you bartered for.”
Tristan did not deny it.

Chapter Four
After days of riding in Princess Anne’s specially fashioned carriage, Arabella thought she would expire from the tedious polite conversation and the confinement of the padded velvet walls.
There were windows in the carriage at least, to provide an occasional breeze, but the view was disturbing.
Tristan often rode near the royal carriage, providing Arabella with too much opportunity to brood over the man.
He looked more at ease on the destrier than most men looked on their own two feet. His black hair was caught in a queue trailing carelessly over his mantle. Dressed in his customary austere black, he bore no decoration on his person, no trace of family emblems, heraldry or garters from the king. As if no ties of loyalty bound him to anyone or anything.
Why her eyes were drawn to him time and again, she could not fathom.
He was dangerous. Arabella knew it because her mother had assured her every man was. And from his crude discussion with his friend, she knew he was accustomed to taking advantage of women. The fact that they were usually widows did nothing to lessen her indignation.
Yet…he’d saved her.
The day at the bazaar had scared her witless. Like a madwoman, she’d fought her attacker with all her strength, the cold certainty that he intended her serious harm driving her to frenzied kicking and pushing.
Out of nowhere, Tristan appeared. In that moment, her heart nearly burst with relief. He seemed larger than life as he loomed over the brute who hurt her. Yes, Tristan Carlisle was dangerous, but all that power and strength had been on her side. She could not forget that feeling of absolute protection.
Unsure how to handle the strange mixture of feelings he inspired, Arabella had done her best to avoid him since they’d left Prague. Her eyes, however, had a will of their own.
Lost in thought as she stared at his broad back, she was caught off guard when he turned and met her gaze, as if he felt her watching.
Flustered, she studied her knotted hands in her lap. Still, he drew closer. Arabella could feel his presence. He reined in near Anne’s window, a few hand spans from her own.
“Excuse me, Your Highness. We are in Cologne now,” Tristan informed her. “It will take all day to reach the countess’s lands. Do you wish to ride straight through?”
“I want to be sleeping under Countess von Richt’s roof this night.” Anne smiled warmly. “Think you we will be there for a late supper?”
“We will make all haste so that it may be. I wish you good morning, Your Highness. Ladies.” Acknowledging the other women in the carriage by a quick bow of his head, he disappeared to rejoin the head of the party.
As Arabella tried to make sense of the feelings he roused within her simply by his presence, she decided she would make every effort to maintain her distance from him during their stay at the countess’s keep. No matter what the leap of her pulse meant when Tristan was near, she was certain it couldn’t be good.

“Let the entertainment commence,” Countess von Richt announced after an endless supper.
Finally.
The meal had dragged for Arabella, whose seat provided her with an unimpeded view of Tristan Carlisle with Rosalyn de Clair. The sight diminished her appetite even though she had promised herself not to be drawn in by the knight.
“Come, Arabella.” Mary pulled her along to the side of the room as the trestle tables were moved aside for dancing.
When the music began, Mary partnered with one of the countess’s sons for a dance and Arabella watched, enthralled, as the couples moved by in a graceful swirl of velvets and silks. The lady’s dress would swing away from her body with a swish, the man’s head would incline to hers for a private exchange, and the music would move the pair along the floor. It was so pretty.
“Would you like to join them?” a voice asked from behind, and she knew who would be there if she dared to turn around. Tristan’s question caressed her cheek. A shiver chased down her spine.
“No, thank you,” she whispered, unable to face him and yet unable to move away.
“Yet you seem to enjoy it.” The heat from his chest warmed her back even though they did not touch.
She swallowed hard.
“It is beautiful.” Her heart pounded so loudly he must hear it above the minstrels’ music. But was it fear exactly? Arabella had known the cold dread of fear after the bazaar attack. This was not it.
“Were you the kind of child to sneak from your bed and watch the entertainment in your family’s keep?”
His question confused her. “Oh no. My home is not so splendid as this. I have never seen dancing like this before.”
She did not count the times she had danced beneath the stars to the music of the heavens on warm summer nights. Seeing the way others danced brought home how simple her rudimentary steps seemed.
“You do not dance?”
“I do not know how.” One of the couples glided by her and she smiled, thinking that her grandmother had been right to send Arabella into the world, even though the experience had frightened her.
It frightened her still. Especially with a powerful warrior at her back and a mixture of confusing thoughts in her head.
“But you would like to learn.”
“Yes, but—” she began, until she recalled she could not always speak her mind anymore. “I mean, no. I’d like to someday, maybe…” Her words trailed off because her answer did not sound convincing, even to her own ears.
“I would be glad to teach you.” He turned her gently around to face him and her senses spun at his touch.
He looked different this evening. She had realized that earlier when he’d been sitting with Lady Rosalyn. But now that she viewed him close up, she could identify the subtleties of the difference. The dark cape circling his neck was held together with a silver brooch of intertwining serpents. The sapphire eyes of the strange beasts glittered.
The shirt he wore beneath the cape boasted a fine linen, the fabric snowy-white against his darker breeches, the stitches closely sewn. The clean scent of his clothes told her they’d been washed by the maids of Prague keep. She remembered the sweet herbs the washerwomen had used for their soaps.
Merciful heaven, how long had she observed him thus?
“No, thank you, sir.” She sounded cold when she had not meant to be. She owed him so much and she had not even thanked him. But sweet Jesu, he unsettled her.
Just then there was a break in the music and a general changing of partners. Rosalyn de Clair extracted herself from the arms of one of Countess von Richt’s many sons and attached herself to Tristan’s side.
“Tristan, you promised me a dance.” The woman touched his arm lightly with a trembling hand.
Arabella vowed she would never let her feelings for any man appear so obvious. Seizing her chance to escape the confusion Tristan wrought, she hurried from the hall. She did not look back as she found the main doors to the keep and fled down the stairs into the cold evening. It was late autumn, but the brisk night air helped clear her mind after the heady atmosphere in the hall. The nearness of the man and the beauty of the dancers had rendered her spellbound and starry-eyed.
Rosalyn de Clair’s arrival had been a welcome slap in the face. The raven-haired noblewoman in the scarlet-red dress reminded Arabella of the nightshade flower that was beautiful but poisonous.
Thinking of the nightshade reminded Arabella that she was alone out of doors, where she could peer around the grounds for some late autumn herbs. How she missed her forest. She had brought along a great variety of herbs from the Rowan lands, but it would be interesting to see what she could find in this part of the world. Mayhap something unusual she would not be able to identify.
The prospect so enticed her that she wandered away from the keep. She found some hawthorn, and some spices, but not many medicinal herbs due to the late season. She used her gown to carry the things she picked.
It was a waxing of the moon, so that meant good, constructive herbs could be collected. Arabella had no cause to gather any other kind. She was interested in herbs for their medicinal value, but knew there were others who used them to wreak harm. Zaharia had met such people before and assured her they could be very dangerous.
The thought of such darkness made Arabella grow cold, and she waved a small branch of hawthorn in a circle around herself. A tree of good fortune, its twigs could be used to ward off bad spirits.
“Witchcraft is punishable by death in this country, chovihani.”
Arabella was so startled she dropped her gown full of herbs to run.
“Not this time, Arabella.”
A warm hand yanked her back and she found herself held fast in the strong arms of Tristan Carlisle.

Chapter Five
“Chovihani?” she asked, more incensed now than afraid.
It was a Gypsy word for witch and Arabella did not appreciate the description, or the implication that she had committed some crime. She struggled to pull away, but his hold did not waver.
“I did not mean to startle you. I wondered where you had disappeared.” His voice caressed her ear and she felt her knees weaken just a little as he spoke. And there was that flip in her belly she knew only happened when he was near. She stopped struggling and he released her.
“What do you mean by calling me witch?”
“Imagine yourself as I have seen you.” Tristan turned from her to look up into the star-filled sky. “I believe I am in the Bohemian woodlands alone until I hear an awful, gut-wrenching cry, like an animal in pain. Venturing through the forest, I find a beautiful wailing woman in a ring of ancient oaks.”
Arabella felt her cheeks heat.
“But she does not look like any woman I have ever laid eyes on.” He stepped closer to her. Arabella could not move. “She is barefoot, with a veil of wild hair enveloping half of her body and covered with twigs and leaves. She is like a wood nymph or…an enchantress.”
Arabella shook her head in mute denial. “Never, I—”
“Then, when I find her again, she is transformed into a princess of a woman I barely recognize except for the green eyes, but every now and then I get a glimpse of the wild woman out in the moonlight, gathering herbs to make strange potions and waving sticks around her head in some sort of ancient ritual.”
“I am no chovihani. If some people choose to believe medicine is an art of witchcraft, that only shows their lack of knowledge. But I think you know better.” Or, she hoped he did. She spied intelligence in those gray eyes of his, even when he called forth unexpected feelings from deep inside her. “Call me drabarni, herb woman, mayhap. That name would be more fitting.”
“You are a healer?” he asked, eyes narrowing.
“I try to be. There will forever be some things that are impossible to heal. But I try to find cures and relieve ailments, and in some instances I have been granted the grace to really heal. But even when I can’t heal, I can usually help.”
She took pride in her skill and had worked all her life to be as knowledgeable as her grandmother in the healing arts. She saw no reason to hide her talents.
“You possess a great talent,” Tristan said, his voice hinting at genuine admiration. “From years of battlefield experience, I can appreciate a good healer. It is painful to watch a man die whose time has not yet come. England has great need of you.”
“Perhaps she needs me, but will she want me?” Arabella peered up at the partial moon as a chill crept over her skin.
“What do you mean?”
“Will England welcome me, or will her people make the same mistake that you did and shun me because of my calling?”
“Others have made such an error?”
“Indeed sir, you are one of the few who have even bothered to admit their mistake. Most people feel more comfortable with their superstitions, even when the truth of my gift stares them in the face. Were I somewhat less skilled, people would not accuse me of witchcraft. It is because I am exceptionally good at my art that I make people uncomfortable.”
Tristan frowned. “After witnessing your abilities, I would think most people would be grateful.”
She shrugged, powerless to understand human nature.
“I really must return to the keep.”
“Wait.” His fingertips reached out to curl lightly over hers. “Let me show you how to dance.”
Tristan had not planned to ask her as much. He scarcely knew what had made him chase her through the keep. In part, he had wanted to elude Rosalyn de Clair’s company, since his head warned him away from her obvious advances. But he supposed Arabella intrigued him more than she should. He’d wanted to maintain a boundary between his knights and the Bohemian noblewomen, but she called to him on a gut level, no matter what his reason had to say.
Now he found himself playing courtier to her when what he really wanted was far less chaste.
“I should not stay.” Her eyes told him a far different story, however. And her feet—remaining firmly planted on the dark earth of a rocky hillside—were even more telling.
He would not take advantage of her. But he could linger with her.
“We will stay but a moment. Would it not be useful for you to learn the steps of our dances out here, where there are no witnesses but the trees? The great halls of the English king’s keeps might be less forgiving.”
She bit her lip and his mouth watered. He knew he played unfairly with her. And yet it was she who had left the safety of the countess’s hall. She who had put herself in this most vulnerable position.
“Do I have to wear my slippers?”
Tristan laughed, drawn to her untamed spirit. They would be well matched in so many ways that he ached at the thought.
“Nay. You do not need your slippers.” He drew her a step closer, trailing his thumb over the back of her hand to savor the delicate skin. “Allow me.”
Sweeping Arabella off her feet and into his arms, he strode to edge of the clearing. She started to protest until she seemed to realize his intent. Gently, he sat her down on a large, flat rock and knelt to remove her shoes.
“I do not blame you for wanting to be rid of these shoes your princess has all of you wearing.” Forcing himself to keep his touch gentle, he skimmed his hands over one ankle in the space between her hem and her shoe. It was only a thumbnail’s width of her that he stroked, but the knowledge of how easily he could take more was enough to make the touch sweetly passionate.
“I—” Arabella’s breath caught in her throat as he trailed a finger down the arch of her foot. “The curled toes are a bit awkward for me.”
Tristan removed her other shoe quickly before he scared her out of the clearing. He would carry this only so far—at least for tonight.
“The ground is smooth here.” He offered his arm and guided her a few steps away toward a patch of open ground. “Do not stray from me, lest you step on a root or fallen branch.”
Not that he would release her long enough for her to go that far.
He explained the pattern of the dance—the step together, step kick alternating—and then moved her briefly around the clearing to demonstrate. When they were ready to begin, Arabella faltered for a moment.
“What?”
“What if I miss a step?” She peered down at their feet, his heavy and booted, hers small and bare. “You will surely break my foot.”
“You will be safe as my partner.” Tristan squeezed her hand, reminded anew of her innocence despite her earthy appeal.
“Shall I sing the minstrels’ tune to guide us?” Her green eyes were dimmed under the dark sky, the stars reflected in her gaze.
“You have such a gift for song?” He could not even recall the music, let alone repeat it, yet a tune hummed from between her lips, light and sweet.
Gently, he steered her forward to begin their steps, the song wrapping them in the moment. She followed him easily, although her focus remained directed at her feet for the first few passes as they wove their way around the clearing. When at last she looked up at him, a smile lit her face.
The knowledge of her joy damn near robbed him of his breath. Her happiness made him regret his duty to inform his sovereign of the rumors about her. Indeed, in that moment, he found them difficult to believe himself.
Moments passed before he realized her song had faded along with their steps. They stood frozen in the moonlight, their breathing evenly matched.
“Thank you.” Her simple gratitude humbled him at a time when his thoughts already strayed to a future date when she would resent him for revealing her past. Her family.
By all that was holy, he already resented his position himself.
“It was my pleasure.” He bowed over her hand, recovering his wits. “Shall I deliver you back to the keep?”
“Only if you promise to safeguard our encounter as a secret. I would not have my princess think that I am as wayward a lady as you once believed.” Arabella’s scent drifted on the cool breeze, her gown and her hair bearing a hint of spring flowers despite the lateness of the year.
“If I protect your secret, you must agree to keep mine.” He would be damned for taking advantage of her. He knew it, and yet he could not stop himself.
“I know nothing of you to remain quiet about.” She shivered from the chill in the air, or perhaps from her body’s awareness of his.
He hadn’t missed her response to his nearness as they danced, as her gown was a tighter fitting affair than the costumes customary for English noblewomen. Heat suffused his limbs, calling him to advance upon her and show her exactly why her cheeks burned and her soft breasts tightened whenever he touched her.
“You must never tell anyone about this….”
Lowering his mouth to hers, he brushed a kiss across her lips. She made a small sound in the back of her throat—whether it was a squeak of surprise or protest, he did not know. But he did not lock her against his body and she could easily back away.
She did not. Her cry faded into a sigh of pleasure before she relaxed against him. She parted her lips and only then did he pull her into him, wrapping one arm around her waist and lifting her off the ground to stand atop his boots. He gathered the dark masses of hair flowing down in his other hand and gently tilted her head back. Arabella followed the subtle demand, arching her back to offer him a better taste. The effect of her breasts flattened against his chest stole his last intelligent thought and steeled every inch of his flesh.
He ran his tongue along her lower lip before allowing himself the sweet reward of her mouth. He let go of her hair and stroked the length of the silken tresses, feeling the curve of her spine right through the soft locks. When his hands reached her rounded hip, Tristan summoned every scrap of restraint to resist a more carnal touch. Instead, he reached up to touch her face, his fingers none too steady from the force of blood pounding his veins.
He half waited for her to push him away, to find some sense of maidenly outrage. But instead she wound her arms about his neck and held tight, forsaking all control of the situation. Raw lust swamped him, testing his honor and his will, until a noise sounded in the forest very close to them.
A light, animal snuffle.
Tristan stilled, gripping Arabella’s arms tightly as he shot her a warning look. Only when he was certain she understood did he turn to peer into the surrounding woods.
Responding to the slightest movement to their left, Tristan charged into the forest only a few feet behind a dark figure. He knew he would quickly overtake the person who lumbered awkwardly through the night, but just before Tristan laid his hands on the spy, the fleeing man reached a scrawny horse. The lout leaped onto the mount and urged the nag as fast as it would take him.
Devil take the rutting hound.
“Tristan?” Arabella called from much too near and he realized she had quietly followed him through the trees. He had to admire her speed and soundlessness, though her feet would no doubt protest the trek.
Tristan swore a mild oath as he trudged back to where she stood.
“You’re going to need to be very careful, Arabella. I don’t know who would be watching us secretly, but I have to believe whoever it was could be following the princess’s retinue.”
“Of course.” She swept her hair behind her ear, her silver circlet askew. “I will return to the keep with all haste.”
“Not without an escort.” Tristan halted her quick retreat with a restraining hand. “There will be no more late-night escapes from the rest of your party or secluded searches for herbs unless you are with me. Do you understand?”
Her curt nod told him that he had wounded her feelings, yet he could not temper his warning when her safety depended on it. He had been idle-witted to allow himself to touch her, to allow himself to forget for a moment his purpose in escorting the princess’s women. The mission that had started out as a courtier’s errand had turned into a critical duty with high stakes.
No wild and reckless beauty would tempt him away from it, no matter how sweetly she danced for him in the moonlight.

Rosalyn hid herself behind the small wardrobe when she heard the door to Tristan’s chamber open. She tensed with anticipation as she heard him step into the room and close the door behind him. Too bad she had to resort to such drastic measures, but Tristan had disappeared after their dance. Afraid he had gone to find the Gypsy Rowan woman, Rosalyn decided she would waste no more time. She needed to lie with him tonight.
It was fortunate that the captain of the English guard had been given his own chamber in the castle, rather than sharing quarters with the other knights. Tristan’s quarters gave Rosalyn the opportunity to see him in private and to consummate their relationship before her condition developed more noticeably. With the help of a few restraining garments, her waist remained tiny. The only hint of her upcoming babe was the new weight in her breasts that enhanced her figure. She smiled in the darkened room, knowing that she had already won this battle.
Surprised Tristan had not already lit a candle and discovered her, Rosalyn wasn’t sure how to proceed. Should she wait for him to spy her in the moonlit room, or should she announce her presence? He might not notice her at all and she could slide into bed beside him after he lay down. She decided to do just that if he did not notice her on his own, and watched in breathless anticipation as he removed his houppelande and the tunic underneath.
Rosalyn ran her tongue around her lips as her mouth went dry. The man was magnificent. His broad chest boasted great strength. The muscles that his tunic had hinted at were now clearly revealed to her hungry eyes. Sitting on the bed, Tristan removed his boots and let them fall to the floor. He was about to remove his breeches when she stepped out from the shadows in her scarlet gown, one sleeve already slipping purposefully down her shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” His stillness was not the response she had expected.
Taking a deep breath, she called upon devices her mother had taught her long before Rosalyn turned away from her father’s fallen whore to claim the nobleman’s protection. Rosalyn arched her shoulders enough to press her breasts more fully against the seams of her surcoat.
“Are we back to being strangers, Tristan?” She draped herself across him. “I thought we were better friends than that,” she purred into his ear.
“Mayhap we could have been. But I fear you are sweetly attired trouble.”
He had spoken softly, but his words cut her almost as much as his obvious imperviousness to her offer.
She slid from the bed and stared him down.
“What are you insinuating?” Rosalyn’s mind raced, wondering how he could have guessed her plan.
“I mean no insult. But I fear ’tis not me you really want. Are you using me to hurt someone else? Another lover, mayhap?”
She spun away from him as though in the throes of emotion, although she needed solely to conceal her surprise. He missed the mark on her intentions, but—truth be told—not by all that much.
“No. I have no other lover, although mayhap at first I spoke to you to take my mind off of a cruel man who misled me.” Sniffling, she turned back to face him and thought his stance appeared slightly softened.
“He was a fool,” the English knight assured her, his taut muscles bronzed by the golden glow from the hearth.
“A man of noble standing in Bohemia led me to think he wanted to marry me and I foolishly let him pay court to me at our home.” Heaven knows, her father hadn’t helped her obtain the match. De Clair thought he’d given her all she deserved when he’d opened his home to her six years ago and had graced her with his name.
“The matter of marriage is often fixed long in advance. Perhaps your father had hopes that you would ally yourself with another.”
Someone well beneath her, no doubt. But Rosalyn would not be sold off so cheaply.
“I cannot say, because I forgot all about the Bohemian nobleman and my father’s wishes when I saw you.” She reached out to touch him and smoothed her fingers across his chest—a most pleasurable diversion. Something stirred inside her and it was not her fledgling bairn.
Trusting her womanly senses, she trailed her hand down his bare stomach to the waist of his breeches and beyond. Only then did he reach out to restrain her, holding her hand in midair.
“You are a beautiful woman, Rosalyn.” The hoarseness in the knight’s voice made her hopeful. “But I am without lands and a title. Your parents would not approve of me.”
“But you are well respected by your king. Your undertaking here proves that. King Richard will reward you when you bring him his bride.” And by the saints, she had affected him. She could see it in the impressive rise of his garments.
“The English king rewards knights who win battles, not knights who guard royalty. I am afraid I will receive no such reward, no matter how valuable the princess is to my sovereign.”
Something in his answer did not settle well upon her ears. She had told enough lies in her time to recognize one when she heard it. Tristan was obviously a strong warrior. Anger swelled in her belly where desire had been. With an effort, she forced a few tears from her eyes, desperate to make her ploy work.
“I am rejected again, no matter how prettily you spoke to me at dinner.” With a broken cry, she lunged for the chamber door, hoping he would stop her. She even paused on the threshold.
“Good night, my lady.” His feet remained firmly planted until Rosalyn had no choice but to leave. She would try another approach tomorrow, or perhaps she would shift her attentions to Tristan’s second in command.
Departing the chamber and closing the door softly behind her, Rosalyn heard a startled gasp in the hall. She turned around to see a wide-eyed Mary drop her eyes quickly to the floor. Of all the blessed, wonderful good fortune.
Hiding a smile, Rosalyn feigned embarrassment as she straightened her drooping gown and wiped false tears from her eyes.
“Oh please, Lady Mary,” she begged. “Do not tell anyone.”

Chapter Six
Arabella stretched contentedly in her bed beneath the sun’s warm rays. She must have slept late for the sun to be so high. She was loath to wake because her dreams were so inviting. So hopelessly inappropriate for a woman who did not wish to draw attention to herself.
Throwing off the covers, she walked to her chamber door and peered out into the corridor, just in time to see Tryant Hilda bustling toward her.
“Well, look who we have here. If it isn’t the sleeping beauty. I was beginning to think we’d have to call in a prince to wake you, Arabella.” Hilda pushed her way into Arabella’s chamber after calling for a maid to help her dress. “I hope you don’t mind I didn’t wake you for the hunt—”
“Hunt?”
“I could not imagine you wanting to shoot down a wild boar, so I let you sleep on.”
Arabella could not envision herself shooting a wild boar either, but she knew the party would be hunting on horseback, and she would very much have liked the chance to sit her own horse.
“Did Mary go?” Arabella asked, thinking her gentle friend would not want to participate in the bloody sport.
“Yes, my lady. But I think it was more for the arm of the knight who asked than for the sport itself.” Hilda winked.
“A knight?” Memories of her moonlight dance rushed over her, filling her with a warmth she knew she should not feel. Her mother had warned her all her life, yet Arabella had foolishly made herself vulnerable to Tristan’s touch.
His kiss…saints preserve her, she did not know how she would ever put those heated moments out of her mind.
“The English guard’s second in command. Sir Simon Percival, I believe.”
Arabella nodded, although she only had one knight on her mind this morning.
“Did anyone else stay behind?”
“Hmm…I think several women did not go. And the English captain stayed behind. Of course, very few of the servants were needed.”
Tristan had not gone. Arabella wondered if he would have ridden if she had.
“May I go down now, Hilda?” Arabella asked. “I am frightfully hungry now that it is so late.”
Obtaining the lady’s approval, Arabella excused herself to steal a muffin from the sideboard in the great hall, but she did not bother to sit down to break her fast. She wished to wander about the grounds, although she would stay close to the keep since Tristan had warned her away from solitary walks.
Besides, who would wish to steal her from the countess’s home? Arabella might possess a noble connection, but she did not have any great wealth. Mary might have to be more careful as the emperor’s ward, but Arabella Rowan did not fear for her own safety, especially not in the comfort of woodland terrain where she knew how to keep herself safe.
Outside the keep, she could almost forget she was halfway across Europe from her Bohemian home. The forest surrounding Countess von Richt’s home was beautiful. More lush than the woodlands Arabella had known, the forest seemed alive even in the middle of December. The sun’s warm rays felt more like those of early autumn, and the dense trees beckoned. The smell of the woods and dry leaves soothed her. Arabella realized how much she missed the quiet solitude of a forest after the endless days in a carriage full of other women.
She had wandered into the trees when she remembered her muffin. Taking a bite of the still-warm pastry, she hastened ahead, enjoying the crunching of the leaves under her feet. But as she listened, that sound mingled with another, more threatening noise.
Hoofbeats.
Someone approached at a breakneck pace. Turning to see the rider, she discovered Tristan Carlisle astride his fearsome beast of a horse. Her muffin dried in her mouth at the sight. He did not look pleased.
“What in the name of all that is holy are you doing out here?” He halted a mere foot in front of her.
“Gathering the herbs I dropped yesterday, when you scared me out of my wits.” She dusted the crumbs off her hands and peered about the clearing.
“Do you not remember my command that you leave the keep only with an escort?”
“I can see the towers from here.” She pointed to the roofline, where the countess’s men-at-arms guarded the walls and could surely see her. “I purposely remain close to the keep.”
“And you expect those men to protect you?” He slid from the back of his horse and stood a hand’s span from her. “What makes you think one of them would not spy you alone out here and decide your foolishness makes you fair game for their sport?”

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