The Return of Her Lost Knight

by Melissa Oliver

  Her heart thumped rapidly against her chest as she shook her head sadly. ‘I thank you, Ralph, but it is not a question of that.’

  ‘Yet it could be,’ he said softly as he rested his chin on her head.

  ‘Love will not be enough.’ She pulled away a little and sighed. ‘We may wish to banish Stephen le Gros and never speak of him again, but he will always, always be there between us.’

  ‘Only if we allow it.’

  ‘Mayhap not now, but some day it will. What he did to us—to me—shall snake its way between us and spread all that spleen and venom. And I cannot bear for you to come to despise my shame, which you eventually shall.’

  ‘You paint a less than flattering picture, Gwen, but you should try for a little more faith in me.’

  How was she to explain that it had nothing to do with that, but more an understanding about how these powerful emotions would inevitably develop?

  ‘I never took you for lacking in courage,’ he murmured, tilting his head up.

  ‘On the contrary, Ralph, leaving you will take all the courage I have left.’

  He shook his head before releasing her. ‘Then I fought him for nothing. Then ultimately Stephen has won, regardless of it all.’

  ‘You must not say that. You have achieved so much since your return. You have restored your family honour and you’re now the legitimate Lord of Kinnerton. It is a great cause of celebration, Ralph, and I am so very proud of you.’

  He moved to stroke his horse, patting him before lifting his head to the heavens.

  ‘And yet I did not fight him just for my family honour or even to regain Kinnerton.’ Ralph turned to look at her with such intensity, his eyes glittered in the evening light. ‘I fought for every indecent look, every unwanted touch, every intimidation and every injustice my cousin perpetrated. Above all, I did it all for you. Only you, Gwen.’

  Her lips trembled as she tried to say something, the words stuck in her throat. He stepped forward and took her hand in his, brushing his callused fingers over her knuckles.

  ‘God, but it pains me more than you can ever know that I was not able to protect you against Stephen as I should have back then, especially after what it cost you,’ he said hoarsely, his head bent low. ‘But allow me to say that you are a remarkable woman. What you did, what you call your shame was the most selfless, brave and yes courageous thing that anyone has ever done for me. You saved my life, Gwen. Time and time again. And yet, how do you suppose I can ever reconcile and repair the damage that my cousin has done?’ He lifted his head. ‘By either letting you go or eventually despising you, apparently. Neither of which I can readily do, incidentally.’

  ‘Oh, Ralph.’ Her eyes swam with tears. ‘I do not know what to say.’

  ‘You can say that you trust in my words and believe me when I say that none of this—Kinnerton or being its lord—means anything without you. That the notion of being without you rips at my soul. That I would do anything to convince you that I am in earnest.’ He turned her hand around and placed his larger palm over hers, their fingers entwined. ‘Tell me, when are you going to let me in because I love you, Gwenllian ferch Hywel? You are the very beat of my heart.’

  She stared at their fingers laced together. ‘As you are mine, Ralph de Kinnerton.’

  ‘Then marry me, Gwen. Consent to be my wife.’ He cupped her cheek and tilted her face up. ‘Have faith in a future of our making and take a chance on happiness that could be ours. I would do everything in my power to give you that. In fact, I would give you those stars that you’re so enchanted by and throw in the moon as well. But know this—my love for you is more like the vast sky that holds them together, it is enduring and never ending.’

  She was stunned into silence. For as long as Gwen could remember, a dark cloud of uncertainty and bitterness had hung over, resulting with the inevitable separation that pulled them apart for six long years. Was it now really possible to breach that, if only she would reach out and grasp it? Could the strength of their true and binding love for one another be enough to forge a new future, as Ralph said, of their own making?

  There was only one way to find out. Besides, Gwen was tired of fighting her feelings and her deep longing to be with Ralph, which she had been doing from the first moment she saw him again by their tree in the woods near Pulverbatch Castle. She had tried to convince herself that theirs could only be a friendship, that anything else was an impossibility.

  But then she had not known how Ralph would truly view what she had endured for him. Incredibly, he had thought her brave and courageous, a remarkable woman.

  Mayhap she needed to be brave one more time and trust in him and his love.

  ‘Yes.’ She lifted her head and gazed into his eyes. A slow smile spread on her lips. ‘I’ll marry you, Ralph de Kinnerton. And I do not need the stars or the moon—just you.’

  Before she knew what had happened Gwen was pulled into a warm embrace, as Ralph bent his head and covered her lips with his in the most tender kiss that almost made her knees buckle.

  ‘I suppose I can now seek those hopes and dreams you once asked me about,’ she teased.

  ‘Yes, sweetheart, and far more besides.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The day that Ralph de Kinnerton married Gwenllian ferch Hywel of Clwyd in the small chapel at his birthplace of Kinnerton Castle was a wonderfully bright and sunny day. The short journey from Pulverbatch Castle to Kinnerton was made in a cavalcade by the young King Henry himself, as well as the Earls of Chester and Hereford. Their friends, William and Isabel de Clancey, Hugh and Eleanor Tallany as well Sir Thomas Lovent and Gwen’s companion Brida O’Conaill also attended the ceremony, solemnised by Hugh Foliot, the Bishop of Hereford.

  The moment the music soared to herald the arrival of the procession outside the chapel would be etched in his mind for ever. Ralph stood waiting on the steps outside the chapel, with a small posy of wildflowers bound with a ribbon made by Gwen’s fair hands as he first glimpsed his bride walking to meet him.

  Her flaxen hair was tightly bound under a delicate silky veil topped with a simple gold circlet. She wore a vivid blue woollen kirtle dress with long fitted sleeves, the same shade as her eyes, edged in intricate gold embroidery and worn over a cream tunic. He stood mesmerised as he watched Gwen, who had never looked lovelier than on this morn. And on a day when she would utter vows that would bind them in union for ever. Except perhaps when she looked up at him and smiled. His breath hitched in his throat as he felt that smile through every vein of his body. God, but he loved her.

  The moment was naturally broken when the short cape he wore, with the crest of Kinnerton over a dark blue padded gambeson, was tugged at the edges.

  ‘Psst, Ralph? Ralph?’ William Tallany whispered, looking a little flustered. ‘Do I give Gwen the ring now when she gets here or later on?’

  ‘I thought your lady mother told you.’

  ‘She did, but I have since forgotten,’ he hissed loudly.

  Ralph rubbed his forehead and sighed. ‘Later, when we have both said our sacred vows.’

  He returned his gaze to Gwen as she continued to make her way towards them, only to notice William shuffling nervously by his feet.

  ‘What is it now?’ Ralph asked from the side of his mouth.

  ‘I need to go. Now.’ William stepped from one foot to the other.

  Ralph shook his head in disbelief. He knew it had been a bad idea to allow the boy to be involved in the wedding procession, but he did not have the heart to say no, once William asked with such joyous excitement.

  ‘Did you not use the piss-pot beforehand?’

  ‘I did, but I have to go again.’

  He met Tom’s bemused gaze as he tried not to laugh out loud himself. ‘I’ll take him, while you wait for your bride.’

  ‘Do not let him lose that ring, Tom. I need it!’


  ‘Naturally.’ His friend winked. ‘And do not worry, we shall get back before anyone notices our absence.’

  ‘See that you do and before he causes any mischief.’

  ‘I would never do that,’ William said, outraged.

  ‘Of course not.’

  And, thank God, he kept his word, as the marriage ceremony proceeded without any further interruptions. Well, except when Isabel de Clancey’s dog somehow managed to get in the chapel, making William Tallany giggle uncontrollably despite his mother’s chagrin and embarrassment.

  None of it mattered in the end and it certainly made this splendid day far more memorable—charming, even. And to top it all, Ralph had finally married the woman who held his heart and completed him.

  * * *

  Later, when they both sat on the dais watching the fool flanked by their many guests, he leant over to Gwen and whispered into her ear, ‘Happy, my love?’

  ‘Yes, more than I could ever imagine.’ She beamed at him. ‘And it is all because of you.’

  He lifted her hand to his lips and shook his head. ‘It is finally because we are where we should always have been—here in Kinnerton,’ he muttered, his eyes scanning the huge hall before returning to hers. ‘Together.’

  ‘I never thought it could be possible.’

  ‘Ah, but life can be full of possibilities if you happen to look for them.’ He winked. ‘Which reminds me. Here, I have something for you.’

  He passed her rolls of vellum tied with a ribbon that he beckoned a maid to bring.

  ‘What is it?’ Her forehead creased in bewilderment as she looked at the rolls and then at him.

  ‘Best to open them and see.’

  Ralph smiled as he watched Gwen’s stunned reaction. She opened the scrolled rolls to find that they were her beautifully crafted parchments of pen and the artwork that she had used to pay for Fortis.

  ‘I never thought to see these again, Ralph. How in heaven’s name did you manage it?’

  ‘Have I not told you that I’m pretty good at making conciliatory bargains? Besides, I made Geoffrey de Clun an offer he could not refuse.’

  ‘I dare not think what that means, but thank you.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘This means more than you can ever know.’

  ‘Well, I could hardly let those little pieces of yourself that you imbued on these scrolls to be misplaced.’ He shrugged. ‘They belong with the rest of you.’

  ‘As I belong to you. And you to me?’

  ‘Always.’ He grinned before he returned her kisses. ‘And for ever, Gwen.’

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this story, be sure to read

  the first two books in Melissa Oliver’s

  Notorious Knights miniseries

  The Rebel Heiress and the Knight

  Her Banished Knight’s Redemption

  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Marquess Next Door by Virginia Heath.

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  The Marquess Next Door

  by Virginia Heath

  Chapter One

  The most delicious rumour to find my ear this week, Gentle Reader, concerns Miss H. from Bloomsbury, a certain lieutenant who is newly returned from the Peninsula and a violet ice cream at Gunter’s Tea Room. I have no idea what the handsome soldier said to the young lady in question to vex her so, suffice it to say that whatever he proposed resulted in him wearing the fiery young lady’s colourful frozen dessert like a jaunty hat...

  Whispers from Behind the Fan

  May 1814

  ‘Just the one dance?’ The overfamiliar and persistent fool stared pointedly at the fan-shaped card dangling from Hope’s wrist, which was resplendent with purposely blank spaces. Spaces he could plainly see, thanks to the stupid card’s design. ‘Surely, at this late hour, you can now spare me one? A cotillion perhaps...’ His eyes dipped unsubtly to her cleavage again, because in the eighteen months Lord Harlington had doggedly pursued her he always struggled to focus on her face. ‘Or better still, the last waltz? It hasn’t escaped my notice that you haven’t yet danced once.’

  ‘What part of never in a month of Sundays do you struggle to understand, Lord Harlington?’ She did not bother hiding her irritation, even though she’d worked out long ago that her dismissive and curt treatment of some men only seemed to spur them on. Not that refusing politely worked either. This one was as persistent as gangrene in a festering wound and twice as obnoxious. Being arrogant, exceedingly pompous and convinced he was God’s gift to women, the hapless Harlington wrongly assumed she was playing hard to get. ‘Because trust me, I would rather stick pins under my fingernails or salt my eyeballs than waste a single second waltzing with you.’

  True to form and much to her irritation, her answer seemed to fire his blood further and he got that funny lascivious look in his eyes which men like him always got when she was unspeakably rude to them. Or simply when they ogled her figure. ‘Would you like me to beg?’

  And that was probably yet another of his perverted fantasies. Because there was something about her which always sparked this sort of nonsense from men. Whether that was down to her vivid red hair or the pale skin, the bigger than average, cumbersome bosoms she abhorred or the fact her waist was disproportionately smaller than her overly generous hips, she wasn’t sure. Although, more likely, she had long been of the opinion it was a particular combination of all those obvious womanly things which life had cursed her with and which rendered her, not so much a human being in their blinkered, lustful eyes, with thoughts and feelings and opinions—but an object. A plaything. A vessel. And one they were convinced could be owned.

  Which wasn’t just degrading, demeaning and downright uncalled for—it was exhausting.

  ‘No, Lord Harlington, I would like you to go away. In a perfect world, preferably for ever.’

  ‘You are such a tease, Mistress Vixen.’ He smiled in what she assumed he thought was a sultry and seductive manner, but which was anything but, especially thanks to the dreadful nickname he had given her and always insisted upon using whenever he caught her alone. It was improper and lecherous, and she loathed it. ‘I know you do not mean that.’

  ‘If you suddenly dropped dead at my feet here in the Earl and Countess of Writtle’s ballroom, I would spontaneously rejoice at my good fortune. I might even dance a jig around your corpse, my lord, because you are an irritating, nauseating, infuriating pest who gives pestilence a bad name. One who continues to labour under the gross misapprehension that when I say no to your unattractive offer of being your mistress, repeatedly and vociferously, I actually wish for you to woo me harder and that my outright and open disgust of you which is always written as plain as day on my face, is a form of flirtation. Or worse, merely a bargaining chip. Which, of course, it isn’t.’

  For good measure, she pointed her closed fan at him, wishing she weren’t in a packed ballroom so she could smash it over his thick head. ‘After a year and a half, even the stupidest of cretins would have worked out my extreme aversion to you by now. But alas, unfortunately, you are so cretinous, so thick-skinned, thick-headed and pig-ignorant, I sincerely doubt the combined efforts of a royal proclamation, an Act of Parliament and a town crier simultaneously bellowing out my complete and unwavering revulsion for you has any chance of hammering that undeniable message home.’

  ‘If you dance with me now, I promise I shall leave you alone for the rest of the evening...’ Briefly, his eyes met hers before they latched determinedly back on her breasts. ‘Just grant me one dance...please. I ache for you.’

  It was like talking to a wall. She rolled her eyes heavenward, praying for the strength not to kick Lord Harlington hard in the gentleman’s
area so that he had a proper ache to contend with. The nuisance had been following her around for the last half an hour. Instead she scanned the ballroom to see if there was any sign of anyone from her family who might save her.

  Much to her chagrin, they were all too engrossed to notice she was stuck in an alcove all alone with the most nauseating of her current sorry collection of lacklustre or downright despicable suitors. Her theatrical mother, the famous soprano Roberta Brookes, was waxing lyrical in the centre of a gaggle of devoted opera fans next to the refreshment stand, while her equally famous father, the portraitist Augustus Brookes, was holding court in another crowd in the opposite corner. Both of her sisters were busy too, which was why she was left in this predicament alone. While Charity, the youngest Brookes, happily danced and flirted with everyone because she adored attention, Hope usually spent most social occasions stood with her slightly older sister Faith diligently refusing all dances because dancing with her never failed to give her dancing partners lustful ideas. Faith had always shared the same cynical view of the unworthy predators who swarmed around young ladies at social functions, or at least she had since she had foolishly allowed one past her defences. Since then they had always protected one another and thoroughly enjoying it while they did, but things had changed of late. The dynamic had shifted, since her most reliable, formerly cynical and similar sibling had fallen hopelessly in love.

  Faith was currently with Lord Eastwood, her handsome husband-to-be, hardly a surprise when this had tonight been announced as their engagement ball. And, in typical Charity fashion, the youngest of the three Brookes daughters was again the talk of the ballroom because she had, unbelievably, snared the Duke of Wellington as her current partner. No mean feat as the last time Hope had seen her, Charity had been twirling around the dance floor with none other than Lord Bryon.

  Which left the floundering Hope with three choices.