A Knight's Temptation (3 page)

Thwack
. “Never again will you stain our family name with dishonor.”

“Never!” Aldwin choked out.

“Swear it, before these witnesses.”
Thwack
. “Wretched boy.
Swear it!
”

Chapter One

Moydenshire

Summer 1195

If hell were a place on earth, this might be it.

His right hand on his sword’s hilt, Aldwin stood in the shadows of an oak tree outside the Raging Bull Tavern. The night breeze whispered, and with his free hand, he yanked his cloak sleeve over his nose to quell the stench wafting from the stable a few yards away. The foul odor, combined with the smoke hissing from the wet logs on the fire outside the tavern . . . Whew.

Blinking against the smoky breeze, he focused on the laughter and voices carrying out into the night from the run-down tavern. Orange-yellow light poked out from the cracked wattle-and-daub walls; it streaked into the blackness like wisps of hair, giving the place the air of a strumpet desperately past her prime who struggled to still appear comely.

A roar erupted from the drunkards by the fire, who had not yet noticed him. Smoke snaked up around the group of mostly farmers and peasants while the firelight cast their faces in grotesque orange masks. None of the folk looked likely to possess the priceless ruby pendant he sought for his lord, Geoffrey de Lanceau. Still . . .

“Oy! I asked ye ta move aside,” one of the drunkards groused.

The teetering man beside him sneered. The two exchanged punches.

“Bets! Bets,” another sot yelled over the fighters’ pained grunts.

The others cheered.

“God’s blood,” Aldwin muttered. All he needed was to face a bloody brawl.

“Get the pendant and leave as quickly as possible,”
de Lanceau had instructed at Branton Keep days ago, his steel-gray gaze grim.
“The fewer who know of the missing jewel, the better.” Glancing away, his eyes shadowed with remorse. “I cannot disappoint my lady wife, Aldwin. Not when she endured such a difficult birthing to give me a beautiful daughter. Not when for weeks I promised my love a wondrous gift.”

“I understand, milord,” Aldwin said.

De Lanceau’s expression didn’t change. While Aldwin wondered if his lordship had heard him speak, de Lanceau’s face contorted with loathing. “As you know, the man who was to deliver the jewel to me from London is missing. I have heard whispers that Baron Sedgewick of Avenley and that conniving bitch, Veronique, are in this part of England. I do no doubt they will try to undermine my rule. They will destroy me for thwarting their murderous plans to seize control of Moydenshire years ago. They will do all they can to hurt my family. If they were to come into possession of the pendant . . .”

The way his lord’s words trailed off to silence made cold sweat bead on Aldwin’s brow. All too well he knew of the baron’s evil, manipulative nature; because of the baron’s lies, Aldwin had fired a crossbow bolt into de Lanceau’s chest three years ago, after the battle at Wode. He’d almost killed his lordship, a mistake Aldwin sorely regretted. He struggled to tamp down intense mortification.

If he completed this mission for his lord, might he at last be awarded knighthood? How Aldwin longed to become one of de Lanceau’s knights. To finally rise above the dishonor blemishing his past.

“Veronique and the baron will not get the jewel, milord,” Aldwin vowed. “I will do what I must to bring it safely to you, as you ordered.”

De Lanceau’s harsh gaze locked with his. Nodding, he said, “Take as many men-at-arms as you wish. Horses, weapons—”

“I go alone.”

“Alone?” De Lanceau frowned. “We do not know who sent word of the pendant to me here at Branton Keep.”

“By going alone, I rouse fewer suspicions,” Aldwin said.

“I will not have you fall prey to a trap.”

The concern in de Lanceau’s voice twisted Aldwin’s gut. To think he had almost killed this honorable man who’d brought peace and prosperity to Moydenshire . . . “I am well capable of defending myself, milord. Moreover, if this missive is a ruse, the sender—or senders—will be expecting a convoy of armed riders. Not a lone man who will slip into their midst, seize the pendant, and vanish.”

A faint smile touched de Lanceau’s mouth. “Very well. If you are not back within four days, I will send my army to find you.”

“I will not fail you, milord.”

De Lanceau’s hand tightened into a fist. “You must not. Many lives may depend on your success. Including my own.”

A cry snapped Aldwin’s attention back to the blazing fire. Four men were fighting now. Glancing at the two-story building, he mentally catalogued the entrances and exits, and then strode from the tree’s concealing shadows.

Skirting the fighters, he headed toward the tavern door. Smoke gusted around him, stinging his eyes. His garments would reek of smoke for the rest of the evening. He reached for the crooked door handle, no more than three weathered bits of wood hammered together.

Before his fingers connected with the handle, the door flew open with the
creak
of rusty hinges. Light and bawdy cheers flared out into the night, and a pock-faced drunkard staggered out. Aldwin slipped past him into the dimly lit interior.

The stench—bodies gone unwashed for months, rotting food scraps mashed into the dirt floor, and an ill-vented fire—made his stomach roil. Narrowing his watery eyes, he dragged a hand over his face to ward off a sneeze and sauntered forward.

Somewhere in this wretched place was the person who’d hand over the pendant.

Or, as de Lanceau warned, a trap.

Aldwin scanned the room, lit by the hearth in the opposite wall and candles crammed into holders. Heading toward the crowded bar, he indulged in a smile. Any man who thought to attack him would be in for hard fighting.

As he neared, several men leaned away from the wooden bar and cast bleary gazes over him. The barman, scrubbing the top with a grubby rag, glanced up. His gaze settled on Aldwin’s sword and his fat mouth quivered, as though he wondered why Aldwin had set foot inside his premises.

“A drink, milord?” the bar owner said. Sweat dotted his forehead, a sign of a guilty conscience. Did he believe Aldwin had come to demand an unpaid debt? Or, mayhap the lout was in on a trap.

“In a moment.” Aldwin stood at the best vantage point to assess the room and the tavern door.

“Just let me know.” The man managed a nervous smile before mopping his face with his rag. “I will have yer drink right up.”

Aldwin nodded his thanks. Chairs scraped across the room. Two men broke into raucous laughter, while a strumpet, squeezed into a linen gown, sidled toward a group of men motioning her over to them. She had a lovely figure; however, from the looks of her, she was old enough to be his mother.

“Hardly a wench for you, I would say,” said a male close by.

Aldwin discerned amusement in the low, faintly gravelly voice. His gaze slid to the wiry man standing beside the bar, who barely reached Aldwin’s shoulder. With uncombed, shoulder-length gray hair, a pointed nose, and bright blue eyes, the man resembled a creature yanked from books of lore.

A silent groan rumbled in Aldwin’s throat. The last thing he wanted was to be drawn into senseless conversation. Foolish chatter could prove a deadly distraction. A knife through his back, before he even sensed an assailant.

Distracting him could be the man’s purpose.

“Excuse me.” Aldwin pushed away from the bar.

The old man’s hand shot out. His gnarled fingers—surprisingly strong—clenched Aldwin’s cloak sleeve. “The woman you desire—”

Aldwin glared at the old man.

“—has lips as red as rubies.”

Aldwin tensed, then forced aside his astonishment. This old man might not know about the pendant. His words might simply be a coincidence.

“Rubies,” Aldwin repeated with a faint smile. “She sounds most tempting.”

An answering grin tipped up the man’s mouth, revealing the gap between his front teeth. He looked like a cheeky gnome. “Aye, milord, but she is.” He winked. “Exquisite.”

Anticipation tingled at the base of Aldwin’s skull. Either the man was trying to sell him the services of a whore—for an extortionate price he’d soon reveal—or he was indicating he had information on de Lanceau’s pendant. In either case, Aldwin had better not appear overly excited.

Pointedly glancing down at the wizened hand clenched into his cloak, Aldwin said, “I am intrigued, old man. I would like to see this . . . prize.”

The little man beamed. Dipping his wild gray head, he said, “I hoped you would.” He withdrew his hand, and then twirled it in a courteous gesture of encouragement. “Follow me.”

***

Leona stood in the tavern’s shadowed back room, sipping a mug of ale. Bitter, watered-down rot, but at least it dulled her nerves.

Tipping her head back, she downed another mouthful, cringed, and then set the chipped earthenware mug on the window ledge, next to the lit candle. She pulled her waist-length braid over her shoulder and fiddled with the leather thong. She should be doing something—anything—other than pacing this grimy room that smelled of damp kegs and moldy flour sacks.

Yet she would wait.

When the knocks came upon the door, she must be ready.

Sir Theodore Wrenleigh—Twig, she’d affectionately called him since childhood because he reminded her of a spindly tree—had slipped out some time ago, promising to report back as soon as he had any news. His fellow man-at-arms, Sir Reginald Themdale, would stand watch in the corridor outside.

“Milady, wait here. Listen for the signal.” Twig had thrust up his hand to stop her objections before she’d uttered one word. “’Tis a rough crowd in the main room. Not at all the place for you.”

“Twig—”

He’d slapped his scrawny fist to the front of his cloak, his expression solemn. “Milady, these are unusual circumstances, and I am a man of my word. I made a promise before we left Pryerston Keep. I would rather cut off my own toes than see you come to harm.”

Leona sighed at the memory. Dear, kindhearted Twig. Overprotective, irritating Twig. She should have brushed past him, slipped out into the corridor, and headed to a shadowed corner of the tavern, where she’d help keep watch for the man de Lanceau sent to collect the pendant. No one would recognize her as a noblewoman, hidden by the ragged cloak that covered her from head to ankle. Moreover, she was no fragile maiden who depended upon others to defend her.

She’d started to tell him so, when shouting erupted in the main tavern.

“If ill befalls you,” Twig had said quietly, “who will care for Pryerston?”

Sadness had deepened his voice and, in that moment, the defiance inside her had melted away. For he spoke true. Her father, drunk every day since her mother’s tragic death that past spring, could barely tend to his own needs. Leona had had no choice but to take over running the keep, working alongside the servants and seeing to the necessary decisions, asking, however, that her efforts be kept a secret. As lord, her sire deserved his subjects’ respect; he was still the castle’s ruler.

That is, before the baron and Veronique had arrived.

Thinking about them roused a surge of fury so intense, she’d clenched her teeth. “Very well. I will wait.”

Twig had smiled in that gallant way of his. “Thank you.” And then he and Sir Reginald had left, shutting the door behind them.

Turning around, she paced back across the floor, past empty ale barrels and a wooden crate stacked with candles. While run down, the tavern—located roughly halfway between Branton and Pryerston keeps—was the perfect site to trade the stolen pendant for the reward de Lanceau offered. Paying a traveling musician to deliver the missive she’d written about the exchange was Twig’s idea, and a good one, for the man had no connection to Pryerston.

She’d never met de Lanceau, but from all she’d heard, he was no fool. If she’d sent one of the keep’s servants, he or she would have been promptly arrested, questioned, and forced to reveal how the jewel came to be at Pryerston. As much as Leona wanted to be rid of the pendant, she wouldn’t risk implicating her father as a traitor.

Moreover, she reminded herself, the offered reward money was desperately needed to replenish Pryerston’s coffers. Then, overdue repairs could begin about the keep. And, at last, there’d be coin for Leona to buy Adeline, the young daughter of Pryerston’s cook, specially made shoes to help straighten her legs bowed from her difficult birth. In time, Adeline would walk without hobbling, and would run as fast and well as other girls her age.

Some of Leona’s happiest memories were of racing Ward through the meadows near Pryerston. What child—peasant or noble born—wouldn’t want that freedom?

Crash
. Leona jumped at the sound, which came from the main part of the tavern. She swiveled on the heel of her worn leather boots and retraced her steps, hoping Twig wouldn’t be too much longer.

Oh, Father. No matter what you have done, I still love you
.

Two knocks rattled the chamber door.

The signal.

Leona’s hand instinctively flew to her bosom. Her fingers brushed the oval-shaped ruby, about the size of a robin’s egg and set in a delicate gold framework, hidden beneath her garments. The jewel hung on a gold chain and rested just above her cleavage, under her linen chemise. Safe against her bare skin. The pendant couldn’t be snatched without her knowledge.

Or consent.

Two more knocks, slightly louder.

De Lanceau’s man was approaching.

Her pulse became a drumming thunder. She longed to draw the dagger from her right boot, for an extra measure of security, but de Lanceau’s man might interpret that as a threat. She didn’t want any misunderstandings to delay the exchange.

With trembling fingers, she checked the hood of her cloak, drawing it as far down as possible to fully conceal her face. Perspiration moistened her palms. Her legs shook, as they had that summer day when she’d stood on the forest pool’s rocky edge, trying to ignore her brother’s teasing while she prepared to jump into the deep water, even though she wasn’t sure she could swim to shore.