Her Banished Knight's Redemption--The follow-up to award-winning story the Rebel Heiress and the Knight

by Melissa Oliver

  ‘I think you’re much more capable than you believe, my knight.’

  He leant forward. ‘Oh, I hope so. I am going to need a lifetime to practise on you, though.’ Will presented her with a bouquet of fresh and dried flowers and herbs, including long stems of blue-purple hyssop.

  ‘Thank you, they’re beautiful.’

  Needing a free hand, she pulled her cloak up and watched the amassed petals rise into the air, as a sudden breeze whipped them away. The evening air, suffused in blue-purple, floated around them.

  Ah, this night seemed to be filled with enchantment, after all. She reached out to take the bouquet, but noticed something dangling from the raffia string that was wrapped around the bouquet.

  She held the small oval-shaped slate that bore Will’s beautiful carvings as well as her own rather crude ones and flicked her gaze back to him. ‘What is this?’

  ‘You once gifted me with something precious for saving your life. I’m merely returning the favour.’

  ‘But I have never saved your life.’

  ‘Haven’t you?’ he whispered in a low timbre that rippled through her.

  She stared at him, as her eyes filled with tears. ‘I love you, William Geraint.’ Oh, God, she mustn’t weep now.

  ‘And I love you, Isabel de Clancey.’ Will removed a few stray petals from her shoulder before pulling her into his arms and kissing her with so much tenderness that Isabel almost swooned. He lifted his head and smiled against her lips. ‘Come, let’s go inside. Shall we?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She beamed, returning his smile.

  They entered the chapel, where they declared their solemn vows to one another, binding them together in front of their loved ones. And rather than exchange customary rings, they exchanged their pendants, signifying an everlasting love.

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this book, why not check out

  this other great read by Melissa Oliver

  The Rebel Heiress and the Knight

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Resisting Her Enemy Lord by Helen Dickson.

  WE HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS BOOK FROM

  Your romantic escape to the past.

  Be seduced by the grandeur, drama and sumptuous detail of romances set in long-ago eras!

  6 NEW BOOKS AVAILABLE EVERY MONTH!

  Resisting Her Enemy Lord

  by Helen Dickson

  Chapter One

  Early November 1648

  Night was drawing in and freezing cold rain and wind buffeted the small group of riders from every direction. These were desperate times. Armed bands frequently travelled the roads and in the dark it was not easy to identify friend from foe. Had the Royalists and Scots not been routed at Preston in August by Oliver Cromwell’s New Model Army, and should the riders encounter such a force, they would stand to be imprisoned and either ransomed off or, at worst, suffer an ignoble death. Mercifully, good fortune had been on the side of Parliament that day and the Scots sent packing back to the border.

  A small band of men rode through the village of Carlton situated in the Welsh Marches. Two horses pulled a wooden cart carrying the earthly remains of Lord Thomas Stratton. Ahead of them the huge stone structure that was Carlton Bray Castle appeared large and ominous in their sights. The brooding, medieval edifice, the massive walls and dull mullioned windows were unwelcoming, even from a distance. Colonel John Stratton sighed his relief. Built of blood and bone in the twelfth century, the castle’s ancient stones were pitted and scarred from past battles.

  The central keep, unapologetically bold and built foursquare in the courtyard with clean, straight lines, stretched like an arm into the sky, as though it would swoop them up and dash them against the defensible walls should they dare to venture too close. Defying entrance to the enemy and protecting those within, it towered over the sleeping village and the surrounding countryside, the small windows having seen four centuries blown past on the wind.

  At last John Stratton felt a warm fire and a cup of wine was close. The half-dozen exhausted riders rattled across the drawbridge which spanned a dry ditch, the supporting timbers rotten in places with age. No one stopped them to enquire as to their business or acknowledge that the Lord of Carlton Bray Castle had come home at last. The clattering of the horses’ hooves disturbed the silence as they passed beneath the raised portcullis and entered the inner bailey. Drawing rein, they dismounted. Guards, disturbed from their slumbers, appeared from the shadows, one of them mumbling something about the ungodly hour, until his eyes lit upon the coffin and he joined his fellow grooms and stepped respectfully aside before taking the horses away to the stables to be rubbed down and fed.

  John shuddered, certain he could hear the whispers of days gone by, of good and bad who had resided within the walls, their tortured voices rising up from the dungeons and echoing round the castle.

  * * *

  From a window high in the keep, Catherine Stratton looked down on the covered casket containing her husband’s dead body before passing on to the men who had escorted it from the north. The new heir of Carlton Bray Castle and estate was John Stratton, the noble Earl Fitzroy of the Sussex branch of the family. His heritage was so vast, with land and properties in both Sussex and the Midlands, that Thomas had told her there were few noblemen in England who could surpass it.

  She had never met John Stratton, but in the early days of her marriage to Thomas he had told her about his handsome cousin. By his account John Stratton was the most impressive of his cousins. As a second son, with the lure of adventure strong in his veins, he had become a soldier. Colourful and exciting were the military exploits of John Stratton, the charismatic soldier with a reputation as being one for the ladies, although he was always discreet in his affairs. By Thomas’s account he was arrogant and ruthless—in fact, he was everything Catherine hated. He was here now not only to see his cousin laid to rest, but to claim his inheritance. Catherine had her own ideas of what she would do with her future, and, seeing Thomas’s heir for the first time, she was determined that nothing would sway her from her plans.

  Shrouded in a black cloak, he stood back from the cart. She could not make out his features, but she could see he was as dark as Thomas had been fair. She felt a strange slithering unease. He had an air of command she had never encountered before—not even in her father.

  As if the man sensed she was staring at him, he tilted his head back and looked up at the window where she stood. The meeting of their eyes was fleeting, but before Catherine could take stock of his features he turned away.

  * * *

  Ordering the castle guards to take care of his escort and hunched against the biting wind, John and his steward, Will Price, climbed the steep steps of the fortress-like entry. The massive door at the top moaned its rusty objection as it was pulled wide by a servant within. Showing deference, he stepped aside and bade them enter the lower hall of Carlton Bray Castle.

  Their boots sounded hollowly on the bare boards. Tall and powerfully built, John Stratton looked as if he could claim the very ground on which he walked. He emanated an authority and forcefulness that made every man who had fought under him during the civil wars obey his command. With his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword and his sodden cloak swept back over his broad shoulders dripping water on to the floor, he paused to assess his surroundings, finding them as he remembered when he had last been here as a youth. He noted the fine chimney breast carved with the Stratton coat of arms. The cold stone walls were hung with dusty old standards and weaponry from another age. Stout wooden beams hung with cobwebs and a wide open fireplace where logs sizzled beneath the great stone arch gave out a welcoming heat. John peered up into the corners of the hall already shadowed by dusk.

  Will strode to the hearth, holding his hands out to the heat. Hearing the sharp tread of boots descending the stone stairs, John stood still, waiting to see who would materialise from the deep s
hadows of the staircase. A figure appeared, a man, he thought, until more of the person was revealed and he saw it was a woman attired in male garb. She drew his whole attention, so at one was she with her surroundings. Beneath the padded doublet his discerning eye could see the fabric pulling over her breasts—there was nothing masculine about her form.

  Seemingly wholly unconcerned with his arrival, she paused, studying him with cool interest, her expression immobile and guarded with as little of alarm in it as it had of proud self-assertion. She was tall, as slender as a willow, her hair caught in a band at the nape of her neck, the vibrant tresses the colour of antique gold, curling down her spine. Her skin was creamy, glowing, a soft flush highlighting perfect cheekbones. Her lips were moist and the shade of coral that lay on the bottom of tropical seas, her eyes as green and bright as emeralds and framed by sweeping dark lashes. Without expression her eyes swept over him, sharp, calmly assessing. Pausing on the second step, she had the advantage of height.

  John strode towards her. The piercing green gaze from her eyes almost knocked him back off his feet. A spark of desire was sent coursing through his body and for a moment he was rendered speechless. If this was Lady Stratton, she could not have been more different to what he had expected. Beneath the solemn yet proud exterior he believed was a woman of surprising qualities. What irresistible charms were concealed beneath her male garb? As he felt himself undergoing the same close scrutiny he was giving her, their eyes met and he held her steady gaze. For one discomforting moment it seemed that she was staring into the very heart of him, getting the measure of him, of his faults and failings. He had never seen eyes that contained more energy and depth.

  He bowed. ‘My lady. Colonel John Stratton—Lord Fitzroy—at your service.’ The deep timbre of his voice reverberated around the hall.

  ‘I know who you are,’ she was quick to reply. ‘You are expected. You have brought Thomas home—and, I imagine, as my husband’s heir, come to claim your inheritance, such as it is. I have had no account of Thomas for nigh on four years—not since the Royalist army was defeated at Marston Moor. Neither hide nor hair has been noted of him since—until I received your letter. You were with him—at the end?’

  ‘Sadly, no, I was not. I arrived shortly after.’ He indicated his companion with a movement of his head, a man tall and well-built with a shock of tawny hair. ‘This is Will Price—my steward.’

  ‘Forgive me it I do not curtsy. It would be inappropriate and laughable dressed as I am.’ Her voice was well-modulated, confident and distinctly feminine. ‘Welcome to Carlton Bray. I have had accommodation prepared.’

  There was no smile of welcome to warm her conventional words. No look in her eyes to indicate shyness or modesty—her manner showed no sign of grief that her husband was dead. John suspected this was no ordinary young woman. He sensed in her an independent spirit, which had no room for convention or etiquette. There was nothing demure about her, unlike the young ladies who flitted in and out of his mother’s circle in Sussex, whose eyes would be ingenuously cast down, even among those they knew, which was proper. This young woman showed none of the restraint instilled into girls of good family. She stared directly into his eyes. Her own glowed with an inner light and hinted of the woman hidden beneath her lovely features. For all her dignified composure and confidence, she was the loveliest, proudest-born and most alive figure John had seen in a long time. It annoyed hm to feel compromised by this situation.

  ‘So you are Catherine Stratton—Thomas’s wife.’

  ‘I am Catherine Stratton. I trust you and your steward have come alone—that there isn’t a troop of Parliament soldiers encamped outside the castle walls?’

  ‘Be assured there is not—just a small escort of four men who are being attended to by your guards. Although my cousin’s—your husband’s—adherence to King Charles has been noted.’

  ‘I imagine it has. Hopefully Cromwell’s soldiers will keep away.’

  ‘If they don’t, they will have no difficulty gaining entrance—your watchmen weren’t at their posts.’

  ‘Do I detect criticism in your remark, sir?’ she said coldly. ‘It is my hope along with every person in England that the wars are over and the defence of one’s property can be relaxed.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. My words were not meant as a criticism, Lady Stratton, merely of concern. Since the fighting stopped the country is full of displaced men roaming freely and taking what can be had from lone travellers and properties with a relaxed guard. One cannot be too careful even now. I apologise if my presence offends you. Knowing your husband was a Royalist, I assume you, as his wife, must be also.’

  Her lips curled in a wry smile. ‘You assume too readily, sir. Just because my husband was a Royalist does not make me one.’

  ‘Were you not of one mind?’

  ‘No man makes up my mind for me,’ she assured him, leaving him to decide which side she favoured. ‘But I will tell you this. If it would cause the wind to blow fair for England, I might well turn my mind and heart to either side. Of late it has blown noticeably colder.’

  ‘It is not the wind that grows cold, Lady Stratton. Say rather that it is the times in which we live that cause one to feel an inner and outer chill.’

  ‘You may say what you please about the weather, but it is colder still in the prisons in which those loyal to the King are incarcerated.’

  ‘It is common for wives to follow their husband’s beliefs,’ John said, watching her through narrowed eyes. It was difficult to read her. Unless he was mistaken, he sensed she could see no other point than her own. Perhaps the years of living at Carlton Bray Castle in an area strong in its support for King Charles had taken a firm hold of her, John thought, deeply troubled. May God help her if indeed this was the case.

  ‘So, you have brought Thomas’s body home,’ Lady Stratton said. ‘Well, you are now the new owner of Carlton Bray. Do you intend to take up residence immediately?’ Her voice, clipped and businesslike, cut across the distance between them.

  John did not reply at once. There was something solitary and untouchable about her. He could feel the young woman’s nerves stretched taut as a bowstring, perhaps at that limit of tension that comes before it snapped, which he thought might have been brought about by his arrival. ‘Not immediately—no. I am in no hurry. I am to meet with Thomas’s lawyers eventually. Unfortunately they are in London so it will have to wait. As Thomas’s wife and a beneficiary, it is necessary that you hear what they have to say. I have not been to Carlton Bray since I was a youth. I am curious to see if it is as I remember before riding on to London.’

  ‘The funeral will take place immediately. I have notified Reverend Armstrong and everything is in readiness.’

  John nodded. ‘Then tomorrow would suit us all. I am also here at the bequest of your father.’

  She did not answer at once. A slight narrowing of her eyes was her only reaction. What went on behind the cool visage John could only guess at.

  ‘I see. Why did he not come himself?’

  ‘He—is busy.’

  She gave him a wry look, her eyes never leaving his face. ‘My father has always been too busy to waste his time with his family. He is not concerned with what I do. Are you closely linked to my father?’

  ‘I am. We know each other from our dealings during the war and our mutual relationship to Thomas. He and my father were friends of long standing.’

  ‘Yes—I recall the Stratton name being talked about when I was a child, but I was young and paid little attention.’

  ‘You father sends tidings and his apologies for not coming himself. He has written you a letter.’ He produced a letter from inside his doublet.

  ‘Then I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies. How considerate of him to write to his daughter at last,’ she said in an acerbic tone. ‘I wonder what he wants.’

  ‘Have you not thought that he
might want to see you—for yourself?’

  A faint, contemptuous smile touched her lips. ‘If that is so and he wishes to make amends for his neglect of me, then it is too little and too late.’ Descending the two remaining steps, she walked towards him, holding out her hand. Taking the letter, she read the words carefully. When she had finished reading she strode to the fire and tossed it into the flames and watched it burn.

  John was struck by her proud, easy carriage as she walked. She was stately and immensely dignified.

  ‘It is as I thought,’ she said. ‘Having heard of Thomas’s death, he writes that it is his wish that I go to him at Oakdene House—though God knows why. I want none of it—of him.’

  ‘You are hard on your father. Clearly you do not see eye to eye.’

  She was silent, considering his words, then she turned, her eyes capturing his. ‘No. We have never got on. Would that I could. It is his fanatical obsession with this infernal war that I hate.’

  ‘He works for the good of the realm.’

  Her lips curled wryly. ‘My father works for the good of himself, Edward Kingsley, and no one else. He was for the King before the King raised his standard at Nottingham. Deciding that England would be better and more comfortable under Parliament rule he became a turncoat, whose politics are as variable as the seasons. If you know him at all well, sir, you will know I speak the truth. He is his own worst enemy and is apt to be pulled in different ways than most ordinary mortals. I, too, want what is best for the realm, but my idea of bringing this about is different from that of my father.’

  John paused to master himself and marshal his arguments. Catherine Stratton’s views, whose animosity to Edward Kingsley’s opinions as seen from a daughter’s perspective, were of a different nature to his own. ‘I imagine they are and am most interested for you to enlighten me.’