A Knight's Temptation (15 page)

Her mouth pinched.

God’s blood, but she was beautiful when riled.

Her fingers brushed against his as she took the flask. Pressing it to her lips, she tipped her head back.

“Careful!”

She blinked several times. Tears streamed from her eyes. Then she swallowed. Gasped. Coughed as though she’d chewed a mouthful of peppercorns. “Oh!”

He chuckled. “Your face has color again.”

She dragged her hand over her reddened lips. “The liquor”—she wheezed a breath—“is burning all the way down to my stomach. ’Tis like swallowing fire.”

“Do you feel warmer?”

“I”—she blinked again—“I do.”

“Good.”

She wiped the flask on the blanket and handed it back to him.

He drank. As the potent liquor flowed down inside him, he resisted a grin. “Well,” he said, “since we have a long night ahead, mayhap we should make the most of it.”

Her shoulders stiffened. Pushing more bread into her bowl, she said, “In what way?”

“Lady L, I do not even know your real name.”

Wariness crept into her gaze. She looked back at the fire. “I have told you more than once that I am a noblewoman. ’Tis enough.”

“Not to me. You know who I am.”

A wry smile touched her lips. “As does most of Moydenshire. Your name is well-known, because of that famous
chanson
.”

Heat crept up Aldwin’s neck. He took a large mouthful of brandy, savoring the fiery burn, and then set the flask on a stone beside him. “The incident retold in those songs happened three years ago.”

“De Lanceau is one of the richest, most prominent lords in all of England,” she said, clearly fascinated. “I am surprised he did not kill you for almost murdering him with that crossbow bolt. Surely he saw it as treachery?”

Aldwin gritted his teeth. “’Tis a long and complicated tale,” he said, hoping—but doubting—that explanation would be enough for her. “If I had known, at the time, that de Lanceau was an honorable knight and deserved to be lord of Moydenshire, I would never have shot him.”

He pushed the rest of his meal away, curling his hands against cresting rage and shame. How easily the baron and Veronique had manipulated his passionate ideals to their own selfish desire to see de Lanceau dead.

“Why
did
you shoot de Lanceau?” Curiosity softened Lady L’s voice. She was looking at his fisted hands.

He hated that his heart pinched, encouraging him to yield to her request. “You claim to have heard the
chanson
,” he growled. “Did you miss the part where they say I desired his future wife, Lady Elizabeth Brackendale? That, fearing de Lanceau had won her love, I shot him out of jealousy?”

“I heard such.” She nibbled a morsel of cheese. “I always wondered if ’twas the truth, or told that way to be more entertaining.”

Aldwin choked down an astonished laugh. Few people wanted to know his version of the events, preferring the popular song’s violent drama.

He picked up a stick and poked at the blaze. There was some truth to the
chanson
. He had, indeed, desired the beautiful Lady Elizabeth, in the most idealistic and chivalrous of ways. There was more to the shooting, though, than an emotional impulse to pull the crossbow’s trigger.

Why did Lady L care to know his version of what happened? He didn’t have to tell her. Yet if he confided in her, and thereby won from her a margin of trust, she might willingly share what she knew with him. For the first time in months, he actually felt compelled to talk about the agony that had seethed inside him day after day, and night after night.

“I was deceived,” he finally said while he watched sparks swirl up from the fire. “De Lanceau had kidnapped Lady Elizabeth and was holding her for ransom at Branton Keep. ’Twas part of his plan to exact vengeance for his father’s mortal wounding in a long-ago siege ordered by the king, who believed the older de Lanceau to be a traitor.”

“God’s teeth,” Elizabeth murmured.

“That claim was later proven to be false. At the time of Lady Elizabeth’s abduction, however, de Lanceau believed his sire had been run through by her father. Not long after the ransom demand was delivered, I was told de Lanceau had mistreated Lady Elizabeth.”

“Oh, nay!”

“I could not bear to hear that my dear friend, a lady of exquisite virtue and beauty, had been brutally raped.”

Lady L gasped. “Raped? By de Lanceau?”

Aldwin shook his head. “He never violated her. None of the men at Branton Keep did. I did not realize what I heard was a lie and part of a calculated plot to make me commit a most foul deed.”

The blanket whispered as Lady L drew it closer about her. “Who told you such a lie?”

“A man I wish to die a painful death.” Aldwin stabbed at the fire. “A man I would gladly kill myself, given the chance.”

She raised her eyebrows, even as her face whitened. “What man?”

“Baron Sedgewick of Avenley.”

Her eyes lit with acknowledgment. She seemed to know the baron more than by name. Did she know the bastard’s whereabouts? He wanted to ask her outright, but he must ensure she knew the truth about them.

“Sedgewick was sent to the king’s dungeon for plotting to kill de Lanceau and Lady Elizabeth’s sire, as well as his cruel deceptions that led to the death of de Lanceau’s father eighteen years prior. The baron’s conspirator, de Lanceau’s former courtesan by the name of Veronique Desjardin, was also imprisoned for trying to poison and stab de Lanceau. Somehow, they escaped. They were never recaptured. De Lanceau once heard they had fled England for Normandy, but this was never proven. For years, there was no word of them.”

Again, affirmation shone in Lady L’s gaze.

“’Tis rumored the baron and Veronique have returned to Moydenshire,” Aldwin said, choosing his words carefully, “and that they are once again plotting against de Lanceau.”

Lady L’s head turned a fraction. Firelight etched her profile. “Where, in Moydenshire, might they be?”

“We do not know. De Lanceau has spies throughout his lands, but Moydenshire is a large county. The reports so far have yielded naught.”

A peculiar expression swept her features: curiosity, concern, and indecision. He sensed the armor of secrecy around her yielding a notch. Now he just had to find a way to slip past those weak links, to strip that armor from her bit by bit, until he revealed the truth.

“You seem familiar with the names Baron Sedgewick and Veronique,” he said, keeping his tone casual.

The blanket slipped from her shoulder as she shifted on the rock. Pulling the fabric back into place, she said, “Not as familiar as you, I vow.”

She’d evaded the intent behind his words. Well, he had all night to draw what she knew out of her.

After poking the fire one last time, Aldwin set aside the stick, then picked up the flask. He handed it to her. When she took it, their fingers touched for half of a breath. Her lashes flickered and she bit her bottom lip, implying that contact evoked a sensual reaction within her.

A greedy coil of desire rose inside him. If she didn’t talk, he’d have to resort to more physical means of persuasion. To begin, a kiss, right where she’d bitten.

“If you have heard of the baron and Veronique—even in passing conversation—I would like to know.” He paused, mulling how best to present his arguments. “Whatever evil they are plotting will cause great harm not only to de Lanceau and his family, but to the good folk of Moydenshire. The baron and Veronique are manipulative, ruthless killers. Those two conspirators will not hesitate to murder any man, woman, or child who gets in the way of their ambitions.”

She tugged again at the blanket. From her shuddered sigh, he sensed his harsh words had made an impact upon her.

“De Lanceau brought peace to these lands for King Richard and means to keep that peace. If lives can be spared, de Lanceau will do all within his power to save them. Yet he depends upon his loyal subjects—like you—to alert him of a threat,” Aldwin said.

She met his stare. Her wary gaze hinted at dangerous secrets.

At last, would she confide in him?

Silence.

“Are you loyal to de Lanceau, Lady L?”

“What?” She blinked. “Of course.”

“Then I remind you, ’tis your duty to reveal to me what you know.”

Her fingertips edged from beneath the blanket to touch the pendant’s gold chain. It emitted a soft
chime
, while anguish moistened her eyes. Then, as though annoyed with herself for letting him see her inner turmoil, she looked away across the water.

His hand crushed to the flask. What could be more important than loyalty to her lord? Why would she risk her own honor? Did she fear betraying someone she loved?

“You are foolish to keep your silence. Do you want to be named a traitor?”

“Never.”

“Whether you are a courtesan or in fact a lady, de Lanceau is a just lord. If you have become caught up in a . . . predicament, he will help you.” Aldwin paused. “And those you care about.”

“My situation is not so simple,” she said quietly. “And, no matter how important a knight you are in his household, you cannot speak for de Lanceau.”

Aldwin struggled not to correct her assumption that he was a knight as well as challenge her insult. Anger now would only bolster her resolve not to trust him. “You are right. I cannot speak for my lord,” he said, proud he didn’t snarl the words. “However, I have served him for many years, and that is why I am sure he will help you.”

“I am not as certain.” Her words ended on a sad laugh.

Aldwin frowned. What reason did she have to believe de Lanceau wouldn’t assist her, especially if her dilemma involved the baron and Veronique? Mayhap she feared that by having the pendant she was considered a conspirator, and, no matter what she said or did, she’d be spending the rest of her days in a dungeon cell?

“Whatever you can tell me, I would be grateful. I will be sure to tell de Lanceau how you cooperated,” Aldwin coaxed. How sincerely he meant those words; she must sense that.

She stared at him a long, thoughtful moment. Then she grabbed the flask, wiped the top, and downed a gigantic mouthful. She squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered several times.

“The burn is not so bad now, is it, Lady L?”

Gasping, she blinked at him. “’Tis still like ingesting fire. And my name is not Lady L. ’Tis . . . Leona. Lady Leona Ransley.”

Chapter Ten

Whatever Leona had expected from Aldwin, ’twas not the ruthless fury clenching his features. His brows drew together in a scowl so ominous, she struggled to breathe.

With almost painful slowness, his hands flattened against his thighs. Not in a relaxed manner, but one that implied he might lunge and seize her by the throat.

“What did you say?”

His brittle tone sent chills racing through her. She carefully set down the flask. No matter how menacing he looked, she wouldn’t turn into a cowering damsel. She held his glower, drawing upon the rage that had lived with her since that childhood day she’d been a victim of his whims.

Think of the bee stings. Think of his arrogance that afternoon and today. Think of how he hauled you from the tavern, forced you to ride to this forest, and the indignity of his kiss
.

“My name is Leona Ransley.”

“Is that so?”

He practically growled the words. She didn’t discern the slightest regret. Neither did she hear any hint of an apology.

Fury rose to a hum inside her. He couldn’t have forgotten what happened that summer afternoon. Did he not consider himself responsible? Did he see himself as blameless? A man with a clean-as-freshly-fallen-snow conscience?

Arrogant, pigheaded turd!

“You are a bold woman,” he bit out, “to speak that name to me.”

She heaved a breath. “Are you—”

“Furious? Aye.” His scowl blackened. “To attempt such a deceitful ruse—”

She threw up her hands. “’Tis my given name!”

“Impossible!” His lips curled as he leaned forward, into the too small space separating them. “Leona Ransley died years ago.”

“
What?
” Shock threatened to knock her sideways. Lowering one hand, she clung to the stone beneath her to keep herself upright.

“You were one of the onlookers on the riverbank.” His furious gaze pierced her. “A child huddled against her mother’s skirts.”

Rage boiled so hot inside her, she could hardly speak. He’d thought she’d died? Why? Had someone told him such?

“You witnessed what transpired that day,” he went on, wrenching her from her thoughts. “Now, attempting to cast doubt in my mind and win my sympathy, you pretend to be Lady Ransley.”

She glared back. “I do not speak false. I
am
Leona. I will never forget what you did to me.”

Anguish touched his eyes before his mouth curved into a hard smile. “What, exactly, did I do?”

“You convinced my brother to tie me to a tree. You forced me to be part of your game even when I had asked more than once to be set free. And, . . .”
You kissed me on the lips. A kiss I have not forgotten to this day
. Nay. She was not going to remind him of that embarrassment.

“And?” he growled.

“You ignored my cries for help when the bees started attacking me.”

He raised his brows. “Those facts are well known. Not only by those who rushed to the river that day.”

“Meaning?” She raised her brows back at him.

“You have proved naught.”

“If you choose not to believe me, ’tis your own wretched fault.”

Aldwin snorted and picked up the flask.

“What proof do you need?
Why
do you not believe me?”

“Why?” His voice dropped to a gritty rasp. “I saw the stings covering her. There were too many. No one could have survived.”

“I did,” she said, huddling inside the blanket. “For reasons I have yet to understand.”

As he exhaled another sharp breath, the torment of that period in her life rushed into her thoughts. “The healers said I would never recover. I remember that much—snatches of them talking to my parents. I do not recall much else. The pain from the bee stings was terrible. My mind faded in and out. My mother was weeping. My father, raging”—she swallowed hard—“as the old women tended me. They said if I survived, ’twould be a divine miracle.”