A Knight's Seduction

by Catherine Kean

  The brunette loosed a frightened moan. “Now you have done it, Cl—”

  “With respect,” the blonde hastily said, “I did not refuse to cooperate. I merely wanted your promise—”

  “—of safety. I know. ’Tis a promise I shall not give, because what occurs today in this chamber depends entirely upon you .”

  The tiniest of sounds—a stifled groan, mayhap—drew his attention down the slender slope of her nose to her lips. His interest stirred again, intense and undeniable. He wanted a taste of her. Would she be sweet and ripe, like a forbidden fruit? His lust flared anew. At the very least, kissing her might shut up her bold chatter.

  As though sensing his wayward thoughts, her lush lips pressed together. “I warn you, I will not stand by and let you hurt us. I will use this fireplace poker to defend Mary and myself.”

  He chuckled; he simply couldn’t help it.

  Indignation made her eyes even brighter and bluer. “Why are you laughing?”

  “Defend yourself and Mary? You can barely hold that fire iron steady.”

  “Steady enough to—”

  “Put it down ,” he said, very firmly.

  The blonde trembled, but she didn’t obey him. He had to admire her fortitude. Most gently-raised young women would have fainted at his feet long before now.

  “I will not relinquish the fire iron,” she said, her voice low but steady. “Be warned, I know how to wound a man.”

  “Really.”

  She nodded solemnly. “I know exactly where to aim. That place where it really hurts.”

  Behind her, Mary turned scarlet. He was growing more intrigued by the moment.

  With a practiced tilt of his wrist, he aimed his sword at Lady Defiant’s throat. There were too many steps between them for his weapon to touch her, but a swift lunge would resolve that. “I ordered you to put down the fireplace poker. Do it. Or—”

  A loud clatter. The one called Mary had dropped the stick.

  “Do as he says,” Mary squeaked. “Quickly!”

  “Listen to her,” Tye said. “My patience grows thin, and I have been more than courteous.”

  “Courteous?” The blond looked aghast. “You attacked Wode. You broke into my chamber and—”

  “Courteous,” he repeated. “I do not have to ask you to obey me. I do not have to wait for you to comply.” His gaze raked most thoroughly down the length of her body. “I can simply take what I want from you, Kitten.”

  Chapter Five

  I can simply take what I want from you.

  The man’s silkily spoken words, combined with the unwavering challenge of his sword, made Claire’s breath catch in her throat. He’d intended to frighten her. He’d succeeded.

  Without the faintest hint of conscience, he’d sworn he could get what he wanted from her, without needing her permission. That meant by brute force. A ghastly thought.

  Was that his plan? To take? And what, exactly, would he take from her?

  Would Mary also fall prey to his depravity?

  The chamber had fallen silent, as though Mary and the mercenary waited, too, to see what Claire would do next. Unshed tears burned her eyes. Fighting the tears and the shaking of her legs was taking tremendous willpower. Doubt shrieked inside her, telling her she’d already lost this fight, that he was so much stronger than she was, and that if she were wise, she’d put down the fireplace poker and not provoke him further. He might be merciful, if she surrendered.

  Might .

  The rogue continued to stare her down, no trace of kindness or concession in his steel-gray eyes. Not that he seemed a man to ever concede. His was the face of a man who’d fought all of his life—and likely for his life. His dark brown hair, pulled back from his face and tied with a strip of leather, added to the severity of his features, for it made his cheekbones look more pronounced, his sun-bronzed face chiseled and angular. His nose was slightly crooked, suggesting it had been broken at least once. His squared chin drew focus to his broad, sensual lips.

  The man before her wasn’t beautiful, not in the way refined, golden-haired Henry had been pleasing to the eye. There was an untamed handsomeness, though, to the rogue’s features. Her fiancé had been akin to a polished river stone; this man was a rock broken from a sea-battered crag, with rough edges and a wildness that made his expression ruthless and hard.

  His features, for some reason, reminded her of another man: Geoffrey de Lanceau. Yet, ’twas surely a mistake to draw a comparison between this thug and the powerful, respected lord.

  The rogue’s gaze sharpened. His thick, black eyelashes dropped a fraction, and that slight action made her pulse leap. His stare was like a solid weight pressing into her, commanding her without words or physical contact but in a manner that pierced deep inside her and was thus, somehow, even more powerful.

  Claire could never let him see how terrified she was. If she revealed how much he affected her, she’d give him an advantage, and so far, she’d managed to hold her ground. Indeed, she mustn’t yield, and not just because of her concern for Mary. The way the rogue looked at her, as though he wanted to shove her into a corner and run his big, strong hands all over her naked flesh, was akin to a promise. As soon as he took away the fire iron, she’d belong to him.

  Most frightening of all, however, was the tangle of feelings within herself that she couldn’t quite explain. She was just so aware of him physically. The skin across her bosom tingled. Her whole body felt unnaturally restless.

  And in that moment, she knew she wouldn’t yield—no matter how afraid she was. She fought the doubts still taunting her, fought them with a strength pulled straight from her soul. Her relationship with Henry, however brief, had taught her much, above all, the importance of honor. Surrendering now would be the easiest choice. Fighting for herself and Mary was terrifying, but also right . Her fingers tightened on the fireplace poker and, with the rightness of her decision settling inside her, she edged her chin higher.

  “That is your final answer, then,” he said. “You will not put down the fire iron.”

  “I will not.”

  “I warned you what would happen.” He took a measured step toward her.

  She fought a sickening surge of light-headedness.

  From behind her came a gurgled moan: Mary. She didn’t sound at all well. A shifting of air brushed Claire, accompanied by the rustling of cloth, and then a thud .

  “Mary?” Claire said.

  No reply.

  The thug’s focus shifted to the floor behind her.

  “W-what happened to Mary?” Claire demanded.

  “She fainted.” The rogue smiled.

  How dare he enjoy poor Mary’s predicament!

  The urge to glance at Mary, to see if she was all right, burned within Claire, but she didn’t dare take her attention from the rogue.

  “You are cruel to smile,” Claire said sharply. “She could be hurt because of that fall, thanks to you.” Anger, fueled by her fear and tension, swirled inside her with the crackling energy of a thunderstorm. She raised the implement a fraction higher, wishing her tired arms were steadier.

  He took another step toward her. He moved with sleek efficiency, like a trained hunter. A predator who was pursuing her . He was close enough now that he could slash her arm with the sword—a sure way to make her drop the fireplace poker. An awful coldness settled in her belly.

  “Stay back,” she said, trembling.

  He stepped forward again, too swiftly for her to move away, and his hand captured the end of the fire iron. The strength of his hold sent a brutal tremor racing through her.

  Triumph now softened his roguish smile.
/>
  Refusing to heed the panic welling inside her, she wrenched the implement sideways.

  His grip tightened. “You should have let go.” He jerked his arm, an elegant, calculated movement. She winced, for pain shot up through her hand into her arm. Her fingers instinctively loosened. The implement, torn from her grasp, flew through the air, hit the wall beside her, and landed with a clank on the floorboards.

  Before she could flex her fingers, cold metal pressed into the valley between her breasts. The point of the thug’s sword pressed against her skin, right at the dip of her bodice. With the slightest nudge forward, he’d draw blood.

  Her heart pounding, Claire stood very still. Was he going to take whatever ’twas he’d threatened earlier? Or had he decided to kill her?

  Her thoughts shifted to Henry, who had died by a sword wielded by a murderous prisoner. Had Henry been afraid in his final moments of life? Nay. He’d died a hero. He’d been lauded at his burial for his tremendous courage by Lord de Lanceau himself. If she was meant to perish at this rogue’s hand in the coming moments, she, too, must show such strength, in honor of Henry.

  Clinging to that thought, she said shakily, “Go on, then.”

  “Go on?” the rogue murmured.

  “Do whatever evil deed ’tis you intend. If you have any mercy, you will do it quickly.”

  His eyes lit with admiration. Then, as though he suppressed the flare of emotion, his mouth set into a hard line. Drawing the sword away from her flesh a fraction, he said, “Move. Toward the wall.”

  What was going to happen once she’d reached the wall? Claire’s mind raced, each possibility more frightening than the last, but she obeyed him, turning slightly and then stepping backward. Her shoes made a shuffling sound on the planks. He moved with her, his strides bold, light glinting on his sword.

  Claire looked past him at Mary, who still lay on the floor, her eyes closed. The mercenary stood guard over her.

  “Please,” Claire said. “Mary—”

  “She will be all right.”

  Shivering, Claire pressed back against the stone wall. “How do you know? You have not even checked her for injuries… Or does it not matter to you whether she lives or dies?”

  His brittle laugh skated along her nerves. “She is not going to die.”

  The tiniest burst of hope warmed Claire. He sounded so certain. Mayhap his intentions didn’t involve killing her and Mary. “Why do you say that?” she dared to ask.

  “I have seen enough wounded in my days to know that she will be fine.”

  The sword again touched Claire’s skin. Her momentary flare of hope faltered, for while his words were encouraging, he’d given no assurances as to their fate. If she kept him talking, though, she might learn more. “Mary should have woken by now, should she not? She might have hit her head when she fell. Her injuries could be of the kind that do not cause visible bleeding, and that are only apparent later.”

  Holding her stare, the rogue flicked his hand at the mercenary. With a scowl of reluctance, the burly man dropped to his knees beside Mary, set down his sword, slid off his right glove, and pressed his dirty, scarred fingers to Mary’s neck. Then, he lifted Mary’s head and checked the side of her face that had lain against the planks.

  The mercenary grunted. “She looks fine to me. No bruises. Unlikely she hit her head.”

  “Good.” The rogue’s attention didn’t shift from Claire. “Now, search her.”

  Claire gasped. “W-what?”

  “Mary might have a weapon hidden in her garments. Say, a small lady’s dagger bound to her thigh.”

  “Nay!”

  “’Twould not be the first time a lady had a knife hidden up her skirts.”

  True, but how did he know that? He didn’t seem like a man who’d be familiar with what went on within the noble elite. He could have gotten his knowledge by some other means, of course, such as seducing a lady and in the midst of heated passion, finding the knife. That Claire would believe. Her skin tingled, an uncomfortable betrayal of just how vividly she could imagine him undertaking a seduction.

  Still, Mary didn’t even own a dagger. She’d lost the one Lady Brackendale had given her and hadn’t replaced it. At Wode, her safety had never been in question. Until now.

  A lusty grin curved the mercenary’s mouth as he slowly ran his hands up Mary’s limp arms.

  “She doesn’t have a weapon,” Claire insisted. “I swear.”

  “I might believe you,” the rogue said, “if I hadn’t seen her brandishing a stick.”

  Revulsion coiled up inside Claire, for the mercenary’s palms were sliding toward Mary’s shoulders. Soon, his grubby hands would be heading to her bosom. Such violation shouldn’t be allowed, although she had heard of ladies concealing daggers between their breasts. “Tell him to stop. Please.”

  “I will not.”

  “But Mary—”

  “He will finish his search. ’Tis the surest way to confirm you are not lying to me.”

  Claire swallowed the awful taste in her mouth. “He must not touch… ’Tis wrong, his hands on her—”

  As though sensing Claire’s thoughts, the rogue glanced over his shoulder. “Do more than search her for weapons,” he told the mercenary, “and your pay is forfeit.”

  The lout paused, his splayed hands on Mary’s upper chest, his fingers shockingly close to her bosom. Frowning, he muttered under his breath, skimmed the sides of his hands down between her breasts, and moved on to her belly and lower back.

  “The stick was my idea,” Claire said. “I gave it to Mary and told her to wield it.”

  The rogue chuckled. “That, I believe.”

  “We had to defend ourselves! We did not know what would befall us in the attack.” Claire focused all of her desperation into her gaze. “We still do not know. Nor do we know who has dared this assault.”

  “ I dared.”

  “Who, exactly, are you?”

  “You can call me Tye.”

  “Tye,” she repeated, committing it to memory. “No surname?”

  “Just Tye.”

  How unusual, that he didn’t wish to share his last name. There must be a reason. She didn’t want to appear too curious. “I have never heard the name Tye before.”

  Anger sparked in his eyes. Had he thought himself more renowned? Had he expected her to know who he was and respond with a shocked cry? Mayhap the arrogant rogue had even expected her to swoon. “My name is one that you, and all of Moydenshire, will soon know very well.”

  “Why? What is—?” The mercenary’s moving hands claimed Claire’s attention. He was now at the hem of Mary’s gown. Fine wool bunched beneath his fingers, revealing the embroidered edge of Mary’s cream-colored linen chemise and her calf, covered in silk hose. Claire shuddered as he yanked up both garments and shoved his hand up along her leg. “Oh, Mary.” Claire’s dear friend would collapse in horror if she learned such a highly improper inspection had taken place while she was rendered senseless.

  “Remember what I told you,” Tye growled to the lout.

  “Aye,” the mercenary said sourly, his tone suggesting he was bitterly disappointed that he couldn’t enjoy a grope under Mary’s skirts. After a brisk sweep with his hand, he yanked her clothing back down and then skimmed a finger inside both of her shoes. His search complete, he picked up his sword and rose. “No weapons.”

  “As I told you,” Claire said.

  The mercenary snorted, a disparaging sound, and Claire’s hands curled into fists. How she wanted to smack his ugly face.

  Wry laughter snapped her attention back to Tye. “Easy, Kitten.”

  “Stop calling me that!”

&nbs
p; “Why? It suits you.”

  “I am not a cat.”

  “What should I call you, then? You have not told me your given name, even though I told you mine.”

  Claire hesitated. She’d rather he didn’t know who she was. However, she disliked even more the way he said kitten, infusing the word with unwelcome affection. The endearment seemed to slide around on his tongue and end on a sensual purr, a shocking way to speak such an innocent word. Of course, a rogue like him could probably make the word ‘buttercup’ sound sinful. “Claire,” she said. “That is my name and what you should call me.”

  “Claire,” he echoed. “A lovely name. Yet, I still prefer Kitten.”

  “As far as I am aware, I do not have four paws, pointed teeth, or whiskers,” she answered tartly. “Or a tail.”

  Of all things, his smile broadened. “No tail? How unfortunate. Yet, you are reckless and impulsive, just like a young cat.”

  “Now you are being ridiculous.”

  Tye’s eyes glinted. “In a moment, you are going to hiss at me.”

  “Hiss? What makes you say that?”

  Tye summoned the mercenary to his side. Once the thug had drawn near, Tye said, “Keep your sword trained on her.”

  “My pleasure.” The mercenary shifted the point of his weapon to hover at her neck.

  Steel rasped as Tye slid his sword back into its sheath. His hands, sun-bronzed and callused, were now unencumbered.

  Oh, mercy . “You cannot mean to—”

  “I do.” Tye winked. “’Tis your turn to be searched, and I shall do it myself.”

  ***

  Tye reached down and caught Claire’s right hand. Her skin was smooth, soft, and had not a single rough patch, as he’d expected for a cosseted young lady. Her fingers were still tightly fisted, a small measure of defiance, but he patiently worked them open, refusing to let her deny the pressure of his hand, and then slid his fingers through hers. With her firmly in his grip, he pulled her arm out at her side, so that her sleeve draped like an angel’s wing. He felt his way up her arm, pressing and squeezing.