A Knight's Seduction

by Catherine Kean

  Sweat dampened Claire’s palms. Why had her ladyship spoken so boldly? Had she intended to come to harm? Had she deliberately provoked Veronique to prove the brutality of the conquerors? If so, that plan bore grave risk. Deadly risk.

  Her teeth bared in a malicious smile, Veronique neared their table. Her posture rigid, head raised high, her ladyship waited, as though resolved to accept whatever unpleasantness would occur next.

  Just steps from her ladyship, the red-haired woman raised her knife.

  Claire’s panicked gaze flew to Tye, who stood silent and watchful on the dais. In the dim lighting, the angles of his face were defined by shadow, his expression unreadable. Why was he not stopping his mother? Was he going to let her stab Lady Brackendale? Desperation flared until Claire could barely breathe past the pressure crushing her ribs.

  “Stop her!” Claire shouted at Tye. “If Lady Brackendale is harmed, you will win the loathing of every person at this keep.”

  Tye’s gaze pinned her where she stood. “Is that so?”

  Claire fought the panic trying to overwhelm her. Now was not the moment to stay silent. She must save her ladyship. “Aye.”

  Tye straightened, his hands lifting from the table. His carefully controlled movements reminded her of an angry cat readying to attack.

  Halting behind Lady Brackendale, Veronique shoved the dagger against her ladyship’s neck. Steel glinted against pale, wrinkled skin. One slight move, even the barest flinch, and Veronique’s dagger would draw blood.

  “Please!” Claire cried. Her stomach lurched. Oh, mercy, she was going to vomit, right here, in front of everyone.

  Worst of all, in front of him .

  As she fought the mortifying urge to retch, Tye crooked a finger at her. “Come here.”

  Chapter Nine

  Across the distance that separated them, Tye watched Claire’s eyes widen with shock and trepidation. Her lips parted on a sharp inhalation that proved she hadn’t expected him to challenge her in such a manner.

  She should have. She was akin to a spoiled kitten who’d just indulged in a whole lot of reckless mewling—and who’d suddenly come face to face with a battle-scarred tom. Her claws were no match for a seasoned cat who could quell an adversary with one strike.

  This was his hall now, with everyone in it beholden to him. Claire, of all people, should have yielded to his authority by now. The fact that she hadn’t… Fury growled in Tye’s gut. He admired Claire’s defiance, but no way in hellfire was he going to lose this clash of wits and words to a woman, especially in front of so many witnesses.

  This was one battle he was going to win.

  By whatever means necessary.

  Still standing at the table, Claire nervously wrung her hands, but didn’t immediately obey his order. His simmering anger heightened; with the thrill of the morning’s victory still burning in his blood, he acknowledged the growing fire of lust.

  He could be patient a bit longer, but if she pushed him too far, she left him no choice but to do what he must to subdue her. He’d use any weapon within his grasp. That included desire.

  “Come here, Claire. Now .”

  “Oh, Claire,” Mary whispered, grabbing her sleeve.

  Lady Brackendale’s hand, clasping the edge of the table, fluttered, a sign of distress, but she obviously didn’t dare speak or move with the knife at her neck. Her eyes, though, shone with concern.

  “’Twill be all right,” Claire said, patting Mary’s shoulder. She smoothed her hands down the front of her gown and started toward the dais.

  Tye watched her approach, never taking his gaze from her. God above, but she moved with such lithe grace, almost gliding over the rush-covered floor. Sunlight shimmered on her wavy hair, turning the tresses to silken gold. The light skimmed lower, highlighting the pleasing curves of her breasts and hips.

  She was beautiful. Elegant. A lady of perfect noble breeding.

  A woman who deserved the attention of a far more worthy man—not a bastard-born murderer like him.

  The thought struck him like a fist. He managed to quell the instinctive urge to flinch. Hell, he wouldn’t apologize for who or what he was. His bloodlines might not be as pure as hers, but he was a son of Geoffrey de Lanceau. More importantly, Tye was a lord now. He could have any woman he wanted, whether she was a lady or not. Especially if she was a lady.

  Claire halted in a stream of sunlight below the dais and looked up at him. The movement caused a glossy coil of hair to tumble back over her shoulder. He followed the slither of blond silk, let his gaze travel to the curve of her elbow, and then along her slender arm to her hands, clasped tightly in front of her. Then, slowly, his gaze trailed up the front of her gown, while he enjoyed again the lush swells and provocative shadows of her figure outlined by her gown. Finally, his stare locked with hers.

  Claire pressed her lips together, an obvious attempt to control her anxiety. He fought a smile, recognizing pride and stubbornness in the set of her mouth. She was a worthy opponent. One he would enjoy bringing to submission.

  He flattened his hands once again to the tabletop and leaned forward, coming closer to her eye level. From his viewpoint, he could see partway down the front of her bodice, to her shadowy cleavage between the uppermost swell of her breasts—a sight more tantalizing than he’d ever imagined.

  He caught the enticing milk-and-honey scent of her and wanted to breathe deeper, to indulge. There would be time for that, and so much more, later.

  He could hardly wait.

  She quivered slightly under his perusal, but didn’t glance away.

  “You speak very boldly for one in your position, Kitten.” Despite his rage, he kept his voice low, ensuring his exact words would not reach the others watching them. There was power in keeping the witnesses wondering what was being said, in fueling the fear and suspense practically humming in the air.

  Her fingers twitched. “I was only trying to help.”

  He laughed, the sound rough to his own ears. “By threatening a mutiny among the servants?”

  “By speaking the truth,” Claire said firmly. “Her ladyship is well liked here. Her loyal subjects—”

  “Are mine now. By right of conquest, they will be loyal to me, whether they like it or not. So will you.”

  Anger lit her blue eyes. He heard her silent retort as clearly as if she’d spoken it: Will I, you bastard ?

  “I will not tolerate rebellion or disloyalty in this hall, especially when ’tis voiced in front of a room full of other people.”

  He half expected her to yield on a blurted apology, or to give voice to a flood of anguished words that would prove he’d won this clash of wills. Yet, despite her wary expression, he saw no sign of surrender. “I had to speak up,” she said fiercely. “I could not stay silent. Someone had to help Lady Brackendale, before she got her throat cut.”

  “Her ladyship is old enough to look out for herself.” His lip curled into a sneer. “With her years of wisdom, she should also know when to keep her mouth shut.”

  Claire’s gaze darted away, as though his words had struck her conscience. “That may be so. However, she is unwell. She has been since Lord Brackendale’s death.”

  “She is a fool to provoke me and my mother.”

  “Your mother.” Claire’s lips parted on a shaky breath. “You could have stopped her, but even now, Veronique has a dagger pressed to her ladyship’s neck and is threatening her life.”

  He looked at Lady Brackendale, held hostage to the knife blade. His gaze met his mother’s, burning with triumphant fury, and he smiled before his attention again settled on Claire. “Lady Brackendale must take responsibility for what she said. ’Tis only just.”

  Her eyes flaring in des
peration, Claire shook her head. “Hurting her will accomplish naught.”

  True. Harming Lady Brackendale, even if his parent did the cutting, was probably the worst tactical move at this moment, especially with tensions running high and with so many onlookers. Sensing Claire wavering, though, torn between her loyalty to her ladyship and yielding to his demands, was too delicious to let go—especially with all gazes in the hall upon them.

  “What choice to I have?” he asked. “I will not ignore her insult to my mother. Lady Brackendale will be made to understand that I am the one in power here.”

  “Please—”

  “Please?” The heady taste of victory flooded his mouth. He loomed even closer to her. “What, exactly, are you saying, Kitten?”

  “I am saying…” She gnawed her bottom lip.

  “Do you wish to bargain for her ladyship’s safety?”

  “W-would you allow it?”

  “That depends.” His fingers curled, his fingertips pressing against the hard oak table. “Your offer would have to be worthy of the offense her ladyship has caused. There is also the matter of your own bold words.”

  Staring down at her exquisite face, he could think of one offer he’d readily accept—a bargain his loins craved with ruthless intensity. She would have to offer herself willingly, though. He had enough skill with the fairer sex to ensure that even though she was likely a maiden, she’d be thoroughly pleasured in his taking of her.

  He shifted his weight to ease the inconvenient, pressing tightness of his hose.

  “I…have naught to bargain.”

  He laughed softly. “Not true, Kitten.”

  “You took my jewels and coins along with my journal and letters. You have no use for any of my other possessions. What, then—?”

  “Surely you can think of at least one thing that would please me?”

  Claire stared at him, as though searching for the answer in his features. “You cannot mean—”

  “What, Kitten?”

  She blushed and crossed her arms over her bosom.

  “I cannot read your mind,” he coaxed.

  “And I cannot read yours!” she hissed, her face turning a darker shade of red.

  Claire clearly didn’t want to admit to the dangerous truth filling her thoughts. She was going to keep at this war of wits, to try and sidestep the verbal snare into which she’d walked so neatly. Well, this time, he wasn’t going to let her get away.

  He leaned even closer to her, the folds of his cloak pooling on the table top. He was almost close enough to reach down and touch her, to run his fingers down the dewy plane of her cheek if he so wished.

  Softly, he murmured, “If what you are thinking involves my mouth moving upon yours…”

  She made a strangled sound.

  “You would be right.”

  “A kiss,” she choked out. Her gaze riveted to his lips. Her expression registered both revulsion and fascination. “You would bargain for my kiss?”

  “Aye. To begin.”

  “To begin ? W-what happens after the kiss?” She was breathing more quickly now, like a cornered rabbit caught in a hawk’s sight.

  “I would touch you.”

  She nibbled her bottom lip with her teeth again. He imagined the taste of her lush, rose-red lips beneath his, and how she’d gasp with stunned pleasure when he slid his tongue into her mouth, gently at first, and then more deeply, fiercely, each slick stroke intended to thrill and seduce her.

  “Where…would you touch me?”

  “Wherever I wanted.”

  Her mouth parted on a little moan.

  “I would not just touch you with my hands,” he added, “but with my lips and tongue.” His voice became a lusty growl. God’s bones, but he wanted to start right now , regardless of where they were, or who was watching. “I would learn every bit of you, every womanly curve, dip, and hollow.”

  “Mother Mary!” Claire squeaked.

  “And then…”

  “Then?” Her lashes fluttered. She looked as if she might succumb to a faint.

  “Then,” he said, drawing out the last note for a poignant moment. “If what you are imagining is shocking, inappropriate, and unquestionably sinful…then ’tis exactly what would happen.”

  Her hand flew to her throat. Her fingers curled against her neck like the wilting petals of a flower. “Nay!”

  “Aye,” he rumbled.

  “You say such things to shock me!”

  He laughed huskily. “I say such things because I mean them—”

  “Tye,” his mother called, shattering the sensual web that had ensnared him. “How long must I wait?”

  He slowly straightened. At the trestle table, his mother still held Lady Brackendale captive at knifepoint.

  “I understand your impatience, Mother,” Tye said, aware of Claire’s anxious gaze upon him. “You have every right to want retribution, for her ladyship was disrespectful. She deserves to be punished.”

  “I am glad you agree.” Veronique yanked her ladyship’s head back even more. Horrified whispers rippled through the servants, and several lurched to their feet, as if to intervene.

  “However,” Tye said, “I have decided, in honor of my victory, to be lenient.”

  Claire gasped.

  Veronique choked. “ What ?”

  “This one time, I will allow Lady Brackendale to go unharmed. She spoke rashly. In future, such foolishness from her or anyone else at this keep will be met with swift punishment.”

  Spitting a foul curse, Veronique let go of the older woman and drew away the knife.

  He met his mother’s furious stare before looking at her ladyship. “Lady Brackendale has lost the privilege to be in this hall. Mother, take the two mercenaries behind you. You and Braden will escort her ladyship to the guest chamber opposite the solar. She will remain there, under guard, until I say otherwise.”

  Lady Brackendale’s disdainful smile sent rage whipping through Tye.

  “Get her out of my sight,” he muttered. The hired men pulled her ladyship from the bench and, with Veronique and Braden close behind, they propelled her up the staircase to the castle’s upper level and disappeared from view.

  Tye’s attention returned to Claire, still standing below the dais. She seemed relieved, but also wary.

  “Thank you for not harming Lady Brackendale.”

  “Do not be so quick to thank me, Kitten.” Hunger for her still burned within him. The need taunted him, filled him with a chafing sense of frustration.

  As though attuned to his volatile emotions, she said quickly, “You and I did not make any bargain. Y-you spoke of your…desires, but we did not agree—”

  “True, we did not. Not on the matter of Lady Brackendale. Yet, I have still to pass judgment on your insolence.”

  Her face paled. “I know I spoke rashly—”

  “You did. You will also leave my hall. Like Lady Brackendale, you will remain locked in your chamber until I say otherwise.” He motioned to two mercenaries standing below the dais. As the men caught hold of her arms, he said, “Once you are alone in your chamber, I suggest you think on what we discussed. You and I will speak again very soon.”

  Chapter Ten

  Standing at the front edge of the dais, Tye gazed out across the great hall. His hall. At last.

  A short while ago, he’d sent the servants back to their duties; he’d assured them they wouldn’t come to harm as long as they obeyed him and his men. He’d recognized anger and resentment in the folk, especially after Lady Brackendale had been escorted from the hall, and had forewarned them that his mercenaries would crush any attempts at uprisin
g; those who rebelled would be punished.

  As the crowd had left, he’d ordered several women to help tend to the injured in the dungeon. Since his wounds had been treated when he was a prisoner in his father’s dungeon, he would show the same mercy to the warriors at Wode. Hopefully such generosity would help the castle folk look upon him more favorably.

  Soon, a mercenary would arrive in the hall with a list of the wounded prisoners. Tye also awaited an accounting of the weapons recovered after the siege. For now, though, he had naught more pressing to do than wait.

  As he smiled, savoring the heady glow of accomplishment, the thump of logs on glazed tiles drew his attention to the maidservants kneeling before the hearth, setting in fresh wood to rekindle the blaze. They glanced nervously at him before returning to their work. He ignored their furtive whispers. As the days passed, they and all the others would grow used to his presence. Once King John officially approved Tye’s position, the whispers would diminish. Even more so when Tye slew his sire and claimed all of Moydenshire. Excitement rippled through him, for his long-awaited victory over his father would come soon. Very soon.

  He walked along the dais, studying the hall that appeared to be well kept. The rushes on the floor were reasonably clean; the high, animal-horn-covered windows weren’t cracked or broken; and the walls were decorated with colorful tapestries that were free of dust. ’Twas a hall its lord would be proud of. And he was.

  He circled the end of the table and walked down the back, halting at the chair reserved for the lord of the castle. Drawing the chair out, he eased down into it. His fingers curled over the armrests, worn smooth over the years. How many men of de Lanceau bloodlines had sat in this chair before him? The aged oak creaked while he shifted his weight, swung his legs up onto the table, and crossed them at the ankles.

  ’Twas strange to look down from this privileged position into the rest of the room, when all of his life, he’d been unworthy of setting foot on the dais.