A Knight's Vow

by Lynn Kurland

  "Why?" she whispered.

  "Because you are an innocent," he murmured. "And I am a knight, under a vow to protect…"

  "Damn your vow."

  He desired nothing more. But Hilaire spoke from that innocence. She knew not what she demanded of him.

  "What have we to lose?" she asked. "What more horrible Fate awaits us if we act on our desires rather than denying them?"

  He felt her gaze in the dark, and he knew, for all her youth and innocence, she was right. They were bound to die anyway. And no act could further stain his already scarred soul.

  "Please," she entreated, reaching up one hand to stroke his cheek. "I would taste love just once before I die."

  His heart melted at that, and he swallowed hard. Then he nodded, and she collapsed gratefully into his arms.

  "It may not be as you expect," he murmured against her hair.

  "It doesn't matter."

  "I don't wish to hurt you."

  She toyed with the quilting on his gambeson. "Does not a new-made knight endure the accolade of his lord's fist?" Her fingertip traced the outline of his mouth. "What is a rite of passage without pain?"

  He nipped at her finger, calmed the beast in his braies, and considered carefully what he was about to do. Hilaire was his betrothed. She was to have been his. Their wedding would not, it appeared, come to pass. They had no lifetime together then, not years or months or even days. But they had this moment, now. And perhaps in this small sliver of time, he could grant her just one precious gift—the gift of his body, the gift of his love.

  Hilaire would have been lying if she said she was not apprehensive, but as soon as Ryance gently began removing her garments, setting each aside with care, assuring her with constant touches that he was there for her, her fears vanished like mist. Soon she stood naked before him in the dark, listening while he disrobed as well.

  He lay her tenderly atop the hard earth floor, cushioned by their garments. For a long while he did naught but run his hands over her, like a potter molding clay, and by the quickening of his breath, she could tell he approved of her form. She explored his contours as well, the magnificent breadth of his shoulders, the hard ridges of his stomach, the powerful cut of his arms. He was beautiful, this man who was to be her husband, who was her husband, and she let her hands roam lower, eager to know everything about him.

  He grunted as she enclosed the warm, firm length of him in her palm. For all the crisp nest of curls at his base, his skin was amazingly soft, and he stiffened in her hand like a steel sword sheathed in velvet.

  "Lady," he rasped, guiding her hand away, "you will undo me. Have patience."

  She lay back then, surrendering to his pace, and he brought her a feast of delights. He left little of her untouched, stroking her reverently from the crown of her head to the sensitive soles of her feet. He kissed her belly, and she arched to meet his mouth. He ran his tongue along the back of her knee, and she squirmed in pleasure. He sucked on her fingers, licking the delicate webbing between, and she gasped in unexpected delight.

  But all the while an ache grew deep inside her, a carnal hunger between her thighs, and this was the one spot he would not touch, no matter how her body silently begged. She moaned for him, rocking her head to and fro, lost in dreamy languor as he tormented her.

  "Shh," he admonished. "Hush. 'Twill come."

  At long last he slung one heavy thigh over hers, pinning her, and slipped one stealthy hand down between her breasts, over her belly, and into the thick of her woman's curls. She arched upward, mewling, willing him to touch her… there. And when he finally did, when the moist tips of his fingers parted the petals of her maiden's flower and touched the treasure within, she had to bite her lip to still her cry of relief.

  He circled over her flesh then, sliding his hand across her again and again. And he kissed her—on the mouth, on her eyelids, beneath her ear, atop her breast—branding her with his lips till it seemed he possessed every inch of her. For a long while she languished in an agony of ecstasy, and then he murmured in her ear.

  "Are you ready for me?"

  His rough voice tugged at her passions, and she answered him breathlessly. "Aye. Oh aye."

  Then she felt him move over her, felt the weight of him above her, and she stiffened, but he did not press down upon her yet. Instead, he moved his fingers with more purpose over and over the aching nubbin at her core. With his other hand, he plucked gently at her nipples, awakening such pleasure that she felt afire with it. And then, when she thought she could feel no higher joy, a curious current began to build within her veins, amassing emotion and sensation into one swirling cloud of pure rapture. For one glorious moment, she floated high above the ground, free of care, free of fate, free of her body. Then with a brilliant flash like a thousand bolts of lightning, she cried out her passion on his name and plummeted earthward on the wings of a comet.

  Ryance pressed into her as swiftly and mercifully as he could, but his focus had been irrevocably shattered by her victorious cry.

  Ryance. She'd called him Ryance. She knew.

  She couldn't possibly understand what redemption she offered him when she spoke his name, but he felt suddenly as if he could burst through walls of solid rock for her.

  He filled her completely now, and he sighed at the utter bliss of womanflesh surrounding him. She made not a murmur of protest while he waited for her burning to ease and her muscles to relax.

  "Oh, Hilaire." He wanted to say a hundred things to her, to apologize, to thank her, to vow his undying devotion. But she moved against him, and all his thoughts were lost as desire surged in his veins like a swollen river.

  A score of thrusts, and his long-idle member nigh exploded with relief, spilling its bounty into her hot womb. He shuddered, torn apart mentally and physically by the wondrous woman beneath him. Moved past speech, grateful beyond expression, he simply groaned her name over and over, kissing her face, her hair, her mouth until she giggled with delight.

  Hilaire had never felt anything so wondrous. His breaching of her maidenhead had been like the splitting of a chrysalis, birthing a new and brilliant butterfly. She felt beautiful and precious and alive.

  This was the magic of lovemaking, she realized. Not only the heady desire and the fierce explosion of passion, but this enveloping glow afterward. He still filled her, and it seemed he belonged there, deep inside, as if she'd always been waiting for him, as if he were a part of her.

  She nuzzled his neck, where his pulse yet throbbed warm against her cheek, and for one miraculous moment, forgot about everything but the two of them.

  "I love you," she whispered recklessly, blushing at her own confession, but knowing she'd follow him anywhere now, whether he journeyed to heaven or hell.

  He squeezed her tighter, and his chuckle sounded almost like a sob. "God curse me for a fool, but I love you as well."

  And then, laughing together in the somber face of despair, they slowly drifted to sleep, their limbs entwined, their hearts entangled, The Black Gryphon and Lady Hilaire.

  A trickle of dust awakened Ryance, and he opened his eyes. How much time had passed? An hour? A day? Two? The air was so stale he could scarcely breathe, his mind so confused he couldn't comprehend the bright white line that appeared to cut the world in half.

  He heard voices. Faint, growing stronger. Campbell. A woman. Somebody else. And he realized the line was a beam of sunlight. The captain had found them at long last! His men and hers, from the sound of it, were breaking through!

  His heart leaped in his breast, and he turned to jostle Hilaire awake, to tell her the good news.

  "Hilaire!" he croaked, his throat as dry as dust. He shook her by the shoulder. "Hilaire!"

  The light was dim, yet bright enough now to make out her features. Her hair was dark and lush, and her face, though smudged with dirt, as lovely as an angel's. Her lashes fell thick upon her pale cheek, and her mouth possessed a natural upward curve, even in sleep, as if she dreamt only of happy thin
gs. Lord—his betrothed was beautiful.

  "Hilaire! Wake up!" He shook her more roughly. "Hilaire!" But she would not budge. "Hil—"

  Mother of God.

  Nay.

  It couldn't be.

  His face crumpled, and his heart knifed painfully in his chest. It couldn't be. God could not be so cruel, could He? She couldn't be… dead. Not now. Not after all they'd been through.

  And yet how else had it ever been for The Black Gryphon?

  Had he really believed he could break the curse? Had he truly expected salvation?

  Anguish seeped into his .veins like bitter poison. He smoothed the tresses back from his angel's forehead and clasped her limp hand. Her image blurred in his tearing eyes, and he cursed the Fates that had let her die without taking him as well.

  A warm, wet drop fell upon Hilaire's cheek, and her eyes fluttered open. Where was she? The light was gray, and a man was bent over her, his face concealed by a fall of dark, unruly hair. She frowned. The poor man was weeping; Horrible sobs racked his chest. Her heart went out to him instantly.

  Though her throat felt thick with sleep, she managed a whisper. "Don't cry."

  His gaze flew to her with such intensity that for an instant she was petrified. But in the next heartbeat, she remembered everything—the siege, The Gryphon, the passion they'd shared.

  It was Ryance. It was her betrothed, the man she'd vowed to marry, this—dear God—devastatingly handsome man with sad eyes and a tousled mane, an expressive mouth and a bristled jaw. She could see him. Every bit of his watery gaze and battered face and dazzling smile. Which meant there was light in the tunnel.

  "Blessed Virgin!" she croaked, struggling to her elbows. "We're going to get out, aren't we?"

  The curse of The Black Gryphon was broken at last.

  And she was going to be the wife of… Lord—he was beautiful when he looked at her like that.

  She flashed him a shy smile, and his eyes twinkled in return. But it was all the exchange they had time for, for—sweet Mary—there they sat, naked as newborns, and already Hilaire heard her father commanding The Black Gryphon's men to make haste with the tunnel.

  Epilogue

  Ryance tucked his tiny son deeper into the crook of his arm, shielding the infant from the icy spray drenching the deck of the ship. Hilaire laughed again in delight, reveling in the mist, shivering as the sea rose up to spit playfully at the small vessel rollicking across its bosom.

  "You'll be soaked by the time we reach port!" he warned.

  "I don't care!" she cried, grinning with excitement just before a wayward splash careened off the bow and doused her, plastering her hair to her head. She shrieked in alarm, but refused to give ground. Instead, she raked her hair back from her face, gripped the rail, and braced herself for another onslaught. Riding the sea was the most exhilarating, thrilling, heart-tripping sensation she'd ever…

  Nay, she thought. There was one thing more rousing. She glanced sideways at her husband, who stared at her with an expression of such adoration that it took her breath away. Abandoning her play, she swallowed hard and ambled toward him.

  "You know," she murmured, running a finger along his arm, "if you don't stop looking at me like that, I might have to pleasure you here on the deck in plain view of the other passengers."

  His reply was part chuckle, part groan.

  She took the babe from him, careful not to drip on little Alden's sweet, slumbering face, and nestled back into her husband's protective arms. He made no protest as she rested her wet head against his broad shoulder.

  The ocean was just as he'd described, wide and open and endless. It shimmered azure under the cloudless sky, shifting and folding like liquid samite, winking at her where the sun tickled its crests. The crisp breeze whipped at the ship's sails and left its briny flavor in her hair and on her lips.

  Wood and ropes and chains creaked in complaint as the ship rocked with the current, but Ryance assured her they'd make the short journey to France in one piece. And from there, who could say where they'd go? After their harrowing escape from beneath the earth, neither of them desired to be confined again. As soon as she could travel, Ryance vowed to show Hilaire London and the world and all the open sea she could endure.

  It sounded marvelous, voyaging to exotic places, breathing the air of foreign climes, sailing at the whim of the wind. But in truth, Hilaire had all of the world she desired beside her.

  The babe fussed in his sleep, and she bent to him, hushing him with a tender promise. Then she pressed her chilled ear against her husband's warm chest, listening for his steady, strong heartbeat. He sighed in pleasure, and his contentment rumbled all through her.

  This—this was all she needed. All she'd ever need. Her Ryance. Once cursed, now blessed. The Black Gryphon. And the precious child born of their love.

  She turned her back on the ocean and burrowed into Ryance's welcome embrace, her love for him as free and enormous and eternal as the sea.

  Turn the page for a preview of

  My Warrior

  the exciting new novel by

  Glynnis Campbell

  coming soon from Jove Books!

  Cambria saw her father in the dream, walking toward her with his arms outstretched. She smiled as he crossed the sunny meadow toward her. But suddenly a great gray wolf appeared between them, its paws massive, its eyes penetrating. The beast opened its jaws in a mournful howl, and a great black shadow fell across the Laird.

  She woke with a scream stuck in her throat. Her heart raced like a sparrow's as she tried to break the threads of the nightmare. She rested her damp head in trembling hands. They came more frequently now, the prophetic dreams that haunted her sleep, forcing her to glimpse the future. This one was a warning, she was certain. The wolf boded ill for her father.

  Shaken, she rose on wobbly legs, dragging the fur coverlet with her, and peered out the window. Damnation! The sun was in the sky already. Katie had let her oversleep, probably out of kindness—Cambria had been up past midnight polishing armor—but she couldn't afford to be late, not today. She let out a string of curses and tossed the fur back onto the pallet.

  A loud crash echoed through the stone corridors and shook the oak floor, bringing her instantly alert.

  The shouting of unfamiliar voices rumbled up from below the stairs, and then she heard the frenzied barking of the hounds. Her heart began to pound in her chest like an armorer's mallet. She scrambled over the bed, snatching her broadsword from the wall. With frantic haste, she struggled into a simple gown, cursing as her tangled hair caught in the sleeve. The crash of hurled crockery and women's terrified shrieks pierced the air as Cambria finally pulled open her chamber door and rushed out.

  She was fairly flying down the long hallway when she heard the unmistakable clang of blades colliding. She hurtled forward, descending the spiraling steps that opened onto the gallery above the great hall.

  At the top of the landing, she froze.

  The scene before her took shape as a series of gruesome paintings, none of which she could connect to make any sense: brightly colored tabards flecked with gore; servants huddled in the corners, sobbing and holding each other in terror; hounds yapping and scrambling on the rush-covered stone floor; lifeless, twisted bodies of Gavin knights sprawled in puddles of their own blood; Malcolm and the rest of the men chained together like animals. For a moment, a numbing cold seemed to enclose her heart like a great helm warding off the attack of a blade.

  But as her eyes moved from the overturned trestle tables to the slaughtered knights and cowering servants, trying to make reason out of the confusion before her, that armor shattered into a million fragments.

  The Laird. Where was the Laird?

  Panic began to clutch at her with desperate claws. She shifted her death grip on the pommel of her sword, her eyes frantically seeking out her father. If she could only find him, she thought, everything would be all right. The Laird would explain everything. He always took care of the clan.


  She ran trembling fingers over her lips. Dear God, where was the Laird?

  As if she'd willed it, two lads came forth from the side chamber, struggling with the weight of the grisly burden they carried between them.

  Dear God, no! Cambria silently screamed as she recognized the tabard of her father. Not the Laird!

  Even as her heart clenched in her breast, she dared to hope he yet lived. But his body was limp, drenched with blood, far too much blood, and when his head flopped back, the glazed eyes stared sightlessly toward the heavens, where, 'twas clear, his spirit already resided.

  The shrill keening initiated in her soul pierced through her heart and escaped her lips. "Nay!" she screamed, hurtling down the steps, her gown floating behind her like a wraith. "Nay!"

  Cambria dropped her sword and shook the pale body, unwilling to accept the Laird's impossible stillness. He had to wake up. The clan needed him.

  She stroked his forehead, but there was no response. She took his big hand in hers, but 'twas as heavy and slack as a slain rabbit. Blood soaked her linen gown, smearing across her breast as she embraced his silent form.

  "Nay," she whispered, "nay."

  He couldn't be dead. He couldn't. He wouldn't have left her alone. She'd already lost her mother. He wouldn't have made her endure that pain again.

  And yet there he lay, as silent as stone.

  A wretched sob tore from her throat, choking her. Dagger-sharp pain lanced through the empty place in her chest.

  The Laird was lost to her forever.

  Hot tears spilled down her cheeks onto her father, mingling with the blood of the Gavin who was no more. She wept as all around her the nameless invaders murmured on, calmly wiping the blood from their blades, blood of the brave Gavin men who'd not live to fight again. She peered at them through the wild strands of her hair, the obscene enemy who had massacred her people.