England—1180
The wood creaked, a faint noise that hardly anyone would
notice. But Honora St Leger had trained herself to perceive
details such as this, the underlying hints of a man's
presence.
He was here. The thief she'd been waiting to capture.
Her knees ached against the cold stone floor of the chapel,
and though she pretended to pray, she inched her way closer
to the altar and the sword she'd hidden beneath it.
A sennight ago, the thief had stolen a wooden cross from the
chapel. And last night, a chalice had gone missing. Her
father's men had found nothing, not a trace of the thief.
The hairs stood up on the back of her neck, her instincts
roaring. Closer now. Her breathing grew steadier as she
mentally steeled herself for battle.
She reached beneath the altar cover, finding the cool metal
hilt of the sword. The candles extinguished from a sudden
gust of air.
Honora leapt to her feet, poised to strike. The soft sound
of footsteps betrayed the man's presence. Darkness shielded
both of them, and she used her other senses to her
advantage. Although she could not see her opponent, neither
could he see her.
The rhythm of footsteps shifted, and fear suddenly arced
through her. Oh, Jesu. There were two of them.
The air within the chapel shifted without warning, and
instinct made her swing the sword behind her. Her blade
struck steel, and the thief parried, the blow numbing her
arm.
Where had the cur gotten a sword? A sword meant he was no
ordinary thief—he was a trained fighter. Her pulse
quickened, her fear rising. Though she had full confidence
in her skills, fighting blind made it more challenging.
And there was still someone else in the chapel, someone she
couldn't see. The footsteps quickened, though she could not
tell if they were running towards her or running away.
She swung the blade and was rewarded with a hiss of pain.
'Who are you?' she demanded. 'What do you want?'
Silence.
When she sliced the sword again, it missed. She halted the
blade, listening. Nothing remained but the coolness of air
coming from the open door. Not a footstep, not a foreign
breath marred the stillness. Both men had vanished.
Why?
Unless one of the men had driven the other off. Like an
unseen protector.
She frowned, dropping to her knees again. The sword hilt
warmed beneath her palm while her heart pulsed with energy.
It had been half a year since she'd fled her husband's home,
Ceredys, and returned to her father's donjon. She'd
thought she was safe here at Ardennes. Now, she wasn't so
certain.
It unnerved her that this thief kept returning, as though he
were searching for something. But what?
Honora contemplated returning to her chamber, but her sister
Katherine was still abed. She couldn't endanger her by
leading the attackers there.
Instead, she lit the candles once more, trying to calm
herself while the familiar scent of beeswax and old incense
filled the space.
With her sword in hand, she sat against the stone wall.
Though it was freezing and uncomfortable, she tucked her
feet beneath her skirts.
It was then that she noticed the missing chest. She had
brought it back from Ceredys, a gift given by her
mother-in-law, Marie St Leger.
Now stolen.
Furious, she eyed the empty space where it had rested only
moments ago. As she murmured a silent prayer for Marie's
soul, she vowed she would bring the thief to justice.
'She won't wed you.'
Ewan MacEgan shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun
beginning to sink below the horizon. His brother's
prediction came as no surprise to him. He was the youngest
son, with not much more than a tiny plot of land. What right
did he have, thinking he could win the hand of an heiress?
None at all.
But this was Lady Katherine of Ardennes, the woman he'd
idolised since he was a lad of sixteen. While others had
mocked his clumsiness, she had smiled at him, reassuring,
'You'll beat all of them one day.'
Though she was only a girl of fourteen years, Lady
Katherine's quiet faith had sustained him. Now that she had
grown up to be a lady worthy of a thousand suitors, he
intended to wed her.
'I've known her since we were children,' Ewan told his
brother.
Bevan drew his horse to a stop by the river and let the
animal drink. 'That was five years ago. Her father will want
her to wed a wealthy nobleman, not a penniless Irishman.'
'I'll gain my own wealth,' Ewan answered. 'Enough to build
whatever kingdom she desires.' Though he spoke with
confidence, like Bevan, he had his doubts that Lord Ardennes
would even consider him as a suitor for Katherine. The only
thing in his favour was his royal bloodline, for his eldest
brother, Patrick, was king of their province in
éireann.
Bevan rested his arm upon the horse and regarded him. 'Let
us help you. Take the land Patrick offered.'
'I won't take what I haven't earned. I'll get the land
myself, or not at all.' He would not be a leech, feeding off
the family's wealth.
'Too proud, are you?' The scar upon Bevan's cheek tightened.
'It won't do you any good here. The girl's family possesses
wealth beyond your imaginings. She'll marry a nobleman of
the highest rank. You haven't a chance.'
Ewan refused to believe it. 'I have to try.' He stiffened,
keeping his gaze fixed upon the horizon. Urging his mount
forwards, he tried to behave as if he didn't see the pity on
his brother's face.
'There are others who might be more suitable,' Bevan
continued, softening his tone. 'Someone from éireann.
You don't need to live here, among enemies. Wed an Irish
cailín.'
Give up this Herculean task, was what his brother
meant. Don't reach for what you cannot possibly
achieve.
It was what his brothers had counselled him, long ago when
he'd expressed his desire to be a warrior. He had not
possessed the natural talents of Patrick or Bevan. And
though he'd poured himself into the training, his skills
came from brute strength rather than finesse. Despite all
the failures he'd suffered, he had overcome his weaknesses
to become the man he was now.
Could he not do the same with winning a bride? Persistence
counted for something, didn't it?
He turned to Bevan. 'She is the one I want.'
His brother expelled a sigh, drawing his horse to a stop.
Although they were less than five miles from the donjon,
Bevan turned his gaze westwards. 'Be sure of it, Ewan.'
They travelled alongside one another for the remainder of
the journey, not speaking. The landscape was familiar to
him, verdant fields that rolled into hills. In five years,
none of it had changed.
It struck him suddenly that he'd been content here. Though
most of his kinsmen viewed Normans as the enemy foreigners,
Ewan had never seen them as such. He'd spent three years
among them, after Bevan's wife, Genevieve, had arranged it.
He'd finished his fostering with her father, Thomas de
Renalt, the Earl of Longford. There, he had finally learned
to fight.
A sense of unease passed over him, and he glanced at the
scars upon his palms. Although the wounds had healed long
ago, his hands were stiff. Grasping a sword took his full
concentration, and he'd had to compensate for his
awkwardness in other ways.
But he deserved the scars, for what he'd done to Bevan. He
risked a glance at his older brother, wishing to God he
hadn't betrayed him. And though Bevan had forgiven him, he
felt unworthy of it.
Ahead, he spied the castle that belonged to the Baron of
Ardennes. The fortification was a blend of stone and wood.
The outer bailey wall stretched high, perhaps the height of
two men. The inner donjon held stone battlements
and wooden outbuildings. Though he had not dwelled within
the fortress, he had visited a time or two, along with his
foster-father.
He tensed as they drew close to the barbican gate, wondering
if Katherine would remember him.
Or Honora.
His grip tightened on the reins. During his fostering,
Honora had nearly killed him on three different occasions.
Accidents, she'd claimed. Though it was forbidden for women
to train, that did nothing to stop her. She'd wanted to
learn swordplay, like him, and he'd reluctantly offered
instruction.
She was married now, he'd heard. Perhaps to a husband who
could tame her wildness. He'd never met a woman so eager to
wield a blade. And though he'd tried to avoid her, Honora
had followed him everywhere.
Would that her sister had worshipped him so.
Despite the number of men vying for her hand, he intended to
win Katherine first—no matter what it entailed.
Anticipation rose up inside him, for soon he would conquer
her heart.
The thief was among the suitors who had come for her sister;
Honora was certain of it. With so many strangers, it would
be simple enough to avoid notice.
She'd waited many hours until darkness shrouded the castle
once more. In the ebony cloak of night, she moved
soundlessly. Past the guards, keeping to the shadows while
they conversed and played games of dice.
Find the chest, find the thief. It was as simple as
that. Already, she had searched the Hall, but there was no
trace of it among the low-born knights and retainers. All
that remained were the private chambers reserved for guests
of noble birth.
Not a sound did she make when she entered the first chamber.
After searching the men's belongings, she found nothing. She
slid against the wall, moving towards the next chamber.
Ahead, she spied the guard standing by the staircase.
Honora held her breath, praying he wouldn't see her. Her
father would murder her if he knew what she was doing.
When she reached the next chamber, she opened the door.
Inside, silence permeated the space. She moved closer to a
pile of belongings, staring at the shadows for a glimpse of
the chest.
Abruptly, someone grabbed her. His hand clamped over her
mouth, the other arm gripping her waist as he spun her
around. Honora fought, kicking at his legs, but he lifted
her up, pressing her back against the wall. A blade of
moonlight slipped from behind the clouds, casting a beam
upon his face.
She froze at the sight of Ewan MacEgan. By the Rood, she'd
never thought to see him again. What was he doing here?
His sculpted bare chest gleamed silver, his pectoral muscles
rising and falling as he breathed. Her heartbeat pounded,
her skin prickling with gooseflesh, despite the warm summer
heat.
'Looking for something?' he accused. His muscles did not
appear taxed in the least by her body weight.
The last time she'd seen Ewan, he'd been a gangly boy of
sixteen. Tall and thin, she remembered him as an awkward
fighter, driven to succeed. He'd trained night and day,
struggling to gain expertise.
The boy had become a man. A handsome one at that. His dark
blond hair was cut short, emphasising a lean face and a
strong jaw line. Broad shoulders revealed a tight strength
she hadn't remembered. Ridged muscles lined his abdomen,
down to…
Oh, dear God above. He was naked.
With that, every coherent thought left her. She gaped at
him, unable to stop herself from stealing a long look. Her
husband had never looked like this. Like a savage Celt, Ewan
had a wildness about him that made her uneasy.
He eased her down the wall, still holding her wrists
trapped. She had stopped struggling, too disconcerted at
being near him. He released one wrist and ripped her hood
free.
'You're a woman.'
She couldn't gather up her thoughts to answer.
'Who are you?' he demanded.
Her tongue caught in her throat. Didn't he remember her?
After all the years she'd humiliated herself, tagging along
and trying to defeat him in swordplay? But then, the
darkness hid her features from him. He couldn't see her
clearly.
'Katherine?' he asked gently.
Anger surged through her. No, she wasn't her beautiful,
saintly sister. He ought to have figured that out, from her
unexpected entrance into his chamber. Her sister wouldn't
dream of entering a man's bedchamber, much less hunt a
thief.
Before she could deny it, his mouth came down upon hers. A
shocking sensation rushed through her skin, as though every
part of her had caught fire. She forgot what she was
seeking, forgot what was happening. The world around her
crumbled, with nothing else, save his kiss.
She didn't know how to respond, and her lips remained
frozen. Gentle and coaxing, Ewan slid his hands through her
hair. His powerful thighs pressed up to her body, the hot
length of him suddenly reminding her why it was unwise to
awaken a sleeping man.
His hands caressed the hollow of her back, slipping beneath
the man's tunic she wore. A light shiver rose up on her skin
while his hands roamed her body, caressing her as though she
were made of silk. The touch of his rough palms aroused her,
and an aching warmth bloomed between her thighs.
The unfamiliar sensation caught her without warning. His
rough palms stroked her spine, and she longed for his hands
to move upwards. To fill up with her breasts, easing the
heaviness and the shocking need.
Never had a man touched her in this way. Especially not her
husband.
The memory slashed through her, shattering the moment. She
pushed him away, her lips swollen and her body restless.
'I'm not Katherine.'
'Honora.'
She nodded, not trusting her voice. She reached for her
dagger, but discovered it wasn't there.
Ewan raised the blade, the steel reflecting in the
moonlight. 'Looking for this?'
'I didn't come here to harm you.'
'No. Only to rob me.'
'I didn't even know you were here,' she protested. 'I came
looking for—' She almost said a thief, but
silenced herself. For all she knew, Ewan was the thief.
Doubtful, but she could not rule it out.
'Looking for your husband?' he queried. Accusations filled
up his voice, as though she were a little girl caught
stealing sweets.
'My husband is dead.' She pulled his hand off her other
wrist and held out her palm. 'Give me back my dagger.'
'No.' Ewan held it out of reach, and Honora lunged for it.
With her full weight bearing down on him, she took him down.
Before she could grab the blade from his grasp, he rolled
over, his body crushing hers.
Trapped, she felt every line of his body. And the dangerous
glint in his eye made her aware that she had made a very bad
decision.
'I'm not the boy I was, Honora.' He kept her pinioned, and
tossed the knife away. 'You won't defeat me in a fight. Not
any more.'
Her face flushed. Apparently, he hadn't forgotten how she'd
bested him. More than once she'd disarmed him, her fighting
skills equal to his. But that was long ago.
'Let me get up.' She tried to sit, and Ewan rolled off her.
He sat beside her on the floor, seemingly at ease.
She tried to straighten her clothing, regaining her
composure. 'Why are you here?'
'I'm going to wed your sister.'
She bit back the argument that he was but one man among
many. Her father hadn't settled the betrothal yet, nor would
he, until he had taken each man's measure.
'I'm sorry I kissed you,' he said. 'I mistook you for
Katherine.'
His apology only heated up her temper. Honora knew she
wasn't as comely as her sister, but she didn't need to be
reminded of it. 'Katherine would never enter a stranger's
bedchambers.'
'Unlike you.' There was a hint of humour beneath his tone,
but she didn't acknowledge the teasing. It made her feel
insulted, and she regretted her impulsive behaviour.
The door opened, and Honora jerked to her feet. Oh, heaven.
Another angry MacEgan brother was staring at her.
'Am I interrupting something?' He glanced at Ewan, who
didn't seem at all embarrassed to be naked with a woman
beside him.
'Honora was just leaving.' Ewan gestured towards the door,
and she took the invitation gratefully. She didn't even
bother about the dagger, so thankful was she to flee their
presence.
Bevan closed the door behind Honora, setting a torch within
an iron sconce. Ewan didn't miss the questioning look upon
his brother's face. 'Wrong chamber,' was his only offer of
explanation.
Bevan didn't believe a word of it, and waited for him to
elaborate. Frankly, Ewan didn't feel like it. He'd been
awakened by the sound of Honora's intrusion, and hadn't at
all expected to find a woman in his chamber.
His uneasiness escalated, for he'd acted on impulse, kissing
her. At first, he'd tricked himself into thinking Katherine
had come to see him. Fool. Katherine was shy and demure, not
nearly as brazen as her sister.
Honora. He rested his fingertips against his mouth, thinking
of the kiss he'd stolen. The taste of her lingered, soft and
sweet. Completely unlike the stubborn girl who had plagued
him so many years ago.
'Her father won't be pleased,' Bevan said. 'I drank nearly
half a barrel of ale with him this night, pleading your
case.' He grimaced at the late hour, running a hand through
his hair. 'You'd best ensure that he doesn't find out about
this. I doubt if he'll let you wed his youngest daughter if
you were dallying with her sister.'
'Honora intruded upon my sleep.' Ewan returned to his
pallet, flipping the woollen coverlet over himself. 'It
wasn't my fault.'
'What was she doing?'
'Looking for someone.' He shrugged, as though it were of no
importance. Though now that he considered it, he wondered
precisely whom she had sought. 'What else did her father
say?'
'He will consider your suit. Thomas de Renalt also spoke
with him and offered his approval of the match.'
Ewan's tension eased a bit at the mention of his
foster-father. 'Good.'
Sinking back onto his pallet, he stared at the ceiling while
Bevan retreated to his own sleeping place. The torch
flickered shadows on to the walls, while all around, he
heard the noise of other guests. In the distance, a dog
barked, its cries mingling with the sounds of night.
Honora's hair had been short, barely touching her shoulders.
Ragged and silky, he hadn't expected that. He was accustomed
to seeing her with a veil. The intimacy of her bare head
reminded him of how he'd kissed her, winding his fingers
through the softness.
Her hair was the colour of a midnight sky, her skin milky
pale. Large, full lips had kissed him back, and she'd tasted
like apples, succulent with a hint of sweetness. Her arms
were not the soft skin of most women, but they held a lean
strength. So often she'd tried to best him when they were
fostered together. She'd won, more times than he wanted to
remember.
Not any more.
He shifted upon the bed coverings, trying to force his
thoughts back to Katherine as he drifted off to sleep. Even
so, he couldn't forget Honora's kiss.