Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set

by Jill Elaine Hughes

  “Easy there, Amir,” Robert said in a soothing voice when one of the largest Arabian stallions pulled hard against the reins as Robert tied him to a picket line for grazing. The stallion was even more restless than usual, probably because his favorite mare was with foal back at Lord Reginald’s castle compound in Essex. “I know you haven’t had a woman in a while, Amir, but we don’t take mares with us on journeys. God knows if we did, none of us would ever get out of camp.”

  And what was true of horses was equally true of men. No women ever accompanied Lord Reginald’s garrison on the high road, not even so much as an old wrinkled crone for cooking and laundry. Lord Reginald had picked up that habit from his time with the Saracens, who forbade any mingling of the sexes of any kind, outside of lawful marriage. Robert thought such thinking was completely unnatural. But then again, it wasn’t his place to question Lord Reginald’s odd customs, or his less-than-pleasant treatment of anyone who got in his way. After all, Robert wasn’t here to ask questions. He was here to make a living.

  Robert de Tyre was a mercenary. He’d come from a long line of mercenaries, going back at least seven generations, possibly even longer than that. His grandmother had even told tales about some of his Gallic ancestors collaborating with Julius Caesar in exchange for cattle and three sacks of gold. The men of Tyre, a tiny village just off the shores of Normandy, all had the same thing in common, whether they were tied together by blood or gold. They were opportunists, always looking for the next big thing on the horizon. And while they occasionally tried their hands at fishing or farming, more often than not the men of Tyre latched their fortunes to a sword and shield and sold their skills to the highest bidder.

  After so many generations of mercenary work, the men of Tyre were legendary warriors, and even more legendary horsemen. Robert’s father had helped to lead the cavalry for William the Conqueror at the Battle of Hastings, which secured England for the Normans once and for all. Not that King Harald’s army would have been hard to defeat even without horses, though. The English had gotten weak and timid during the reign of Edward the Confessor, who cared more for saving souls than he did for protecting his realm. When Edward’s weakling son Harald took the throne, William and the rest of the noble Normans saw an opportunity, and took it. The Normans were a whole race of opportunists, after all. William the Conqueror might have been a king, but he was no more or less a mercenary than Robert de Tyre was. William the Conqueror, bastard son of the Duke of Normandy, had thirsted for legitimate royal power, but he discovered that gold and riches was a kind of power in and of itself. For without wealth, there was no power to be had anywhere in Christendom. And so, William the Bastard became William the Conqueror because lacking a kingdom and throne of his own, he decided he could just steal someone else’s.

  Robert de Tyre had no interest in becoming a king, or even a minor baronet like his grandfather was. His needs were simple. He merely wanted to earn his food and lodging, along with enough gold and silver to maintain the small house and farm where his mother and sister lived with their few remaining servants. Robert was of noble blood, but he was descended from the second son of a second son of a minor baronet, which meant he had no title and little money other than what he earned for himself. Therefore, Robert latched his sword to whoever was paying the most at any given time. Right now, it was Lord Reginald.

  Lord Reginald paid his mercenaries handsomely for two reasons. One, he demanded only the highest level of skill and bravery from his mercenaries, and paid them accordingly. Second, even considering he paid his mercenary soldiers two to three times more than any other employer in all of Western Europe, because of Lord Reginald’s fearsome and brutal reputation, he had a hard time finding enough skilled soldiers willing to work for him at any rate of pay. That, compounded with the fact that Lord Reginald was detested even by his fellow Normans—tolerated only because of his unmatched skills as a battle general—made him an unpopular employer indeed.

  Robert couldn’t have cared less about how brutal or violent Lord Reginald might be, or how much most of his own countrymen loathed him. Like all men of Tyre, Robert cared little for religion, ethics, or morals—except as they applied to earning a living. And if Robert had to kill or maim a few men here and there to earn his living and to keep his mother and sister decently fed and clothed, so be it. Going months in the field without the comfort of a woman was a small price to pay.

  Besides, working in Lord Reginald’s garrison wasn’t without its perks. Managing Lord Reginald’s unmatched herd of fine horses was one of them. Traveling the beautiful English countryside was another. Unlike his master, Robert loved everything about England. He loved the beautiful green countryside with its rolling hills, fields full of grazing sheep and yellow wildflowers, the Celtic castles and monasteries of stark gray limestone, which seemed so simple and elegant compared to the overly decorated Gothic structures of his Norman homeland. He liked the language and the culture—especially the music and bards’ tales. He even liked the weather. Robert was melancholy by nature, so he actually enjoyed the gray skies and cold drizzle of England most of the time, possibly as a throwback to one of his Dane ancestors from countless generations ago. The Danes had ruled England for several generations before the Normans invaded, intermarrying with the Britons and Saxons until all the bloodlines were indistinguishable. And now Robert felt his single drop of Danish blood from who knew how many generations ago awakening as he and his sword roamed the rolling hills of southwest England.

  Robert finished tying the horses to their grazing lines and was about to reach for his currycomb when Pierre, Lord Reginald’s annoying, effeminate lead footman, bounded up to him.

  “Master Robert, you must come to His Lordship’s pavilion at once! There is an emergency.”

  Robert spun around and placed his hands on his hips. “Let me guess. His Lordship ran out of sheep’s milk again? I’m not raiding any more pastures, Pierre. The peasants around here need to eat, too.”

  Pierre rolled his eyes. “No, Master Robert. This is a genuine emergency. His betrothed bride Lady Sabina has gone missing. The Duke of Angwyld dispatched an urgent message seeking His Lordship’s aid in finding her.”

  Robert raised an eyebrow. “So we’ve got a runaway bride, eh? Why am I not surprised? I’m sure any sane woman would flee at the very thought of marrying Lord Reginald.”

  Pierre gasped. “How dare you insult His Lordship in my presence! In anyone’s presence! Do you not understand what our lord and master is capable of?”

  Robert laughed. “Pierre, I meant it as a compliment. Lord Reginald’s ruthless reputation is the main reason I signed on to work for him. And unfortunately, it’s also most likely the reason his bride has fled for the hills.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Master Robert?”

  “What attracts mercenaries to a man isn’t necessarily going to be a boon with the ladies, I’m afraid.”

  Pierre rubbed his hands together nervously. “This is not a time for your ill humor, Master Robert. Your presence is required in His Lordship’s pavilion at once. Follow me, please, sir.”

  Robert patted Amir’s withers, dusted the horsehair off his hands, and trudged across the camp behind the footman. Brutus, Lord Reginald’s hulking Roman guard, greeted them at pavilion door and held back the tent flap for them both.

  Lord Reginald paced the inside of his tent, hunched over and muttering. His humpback was always more pronounced whenever he was angry. Robert cleared his throat loudly to announce their presence, and his employer stopped mid-stride. “Ah, Robert. Thank you for coming so quickly. Pierre, leave us.”

  “But Sire—“

  “Leave us.” Lord Reginald’s booming voice could melt iron. Pierre bowed deeply and shuffled out of the pavilion without another word. “I trust Pierre informed you of the situation?”

  “Yes, Your Lordship.”

  Lord Reginald didn’t mince words. “The Duke does not know his daughter’s whereabouts. His letter speculated that his daugh
ter had been captured, possibly for ransom, but I highly doubt it. Most likely she has fled rather than marry a dried-up old stick like me.”

  That remark surprised Robert. Such personal candor was highly unusual in his employer. Robert wasn’t sure how to respond. He decided something neutral and noncommittal was best. “Arranged marriages are always difficult for women, Sire, regardless of the groom.”

  “True,” Lord Reginald said. “Though I’m hardly what you’d call a good catch.”

  “On the contrary, sir,” Robert said, turning on his mercenary charm. “You are rich, and powerful, and have one of the finest estates in all of England. Not only that, you have lands and holdings all over Europe, and more riches than half the kings in Christendom. Few Saxon women would have the opportunity of such security as you can provide. Surely the Lady Sabina will grow to love you in time.”

  Lord Reginald rubbed his knobby brow and sighed. “She shall not grow to love anything if she is not found soon. The wilds of the English countryside are no place for a maiden.” The miserable, misshapen old man leaned hard on his cane. “Robert, she must be found, for her sake as well as mine. And I have decided to entrust this task to you, and only to you. You shall take Amir and ride out alone immediately in search for her.”

  Robert coughed. This was the absolute last thing he’d expected his employer to say. “Me, sir? Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why me, sir? And why not allow me to take a small number of soldiers with me? The West Country is a hostile and uncivilized land, Sire, and there is safety in numbers.”

  “You are correct, Robert,” Lord Reginald said with a sigh. “But this is not one of your usual assignments. Today our quarry is a woman, not a band of wild Saxon outlaws. A woman is a very different kind of prey.”

  Robert stifled a laugh. “Yes, Sire, I am aware of the differences between men and women.”

  Lord Reginald raised his fist in a warning gesture. “Don’t turn this into another one of your jokes, Robert. I enjoy your humor at the feast table, not in times of crisis.”

  “I’m sorry, Sire.”

  Lord Reginald folded his hands behind his lumpy back. “I ask you to go alone partly for stealth, and partly out of respect for my bride’s wishes. I know she has most likely fled out of revulsion. I am not a stupid man, Robert. I know that I am not attractive. If I am to have her returned to me safely as my bride, I must respect her needs as a woman, and not come on too strong. If I send you, my best and strongest henchman—not to mention my best-looking one—in my stead to fetch her, perhaps she will come quietly and accept her fate as my honored bride.”

  “And if she doesn’t, Sire?”

  Lord Reginald laughed his trademark sinister laugh. “Then we shall use force, of course.”

  Robert forced out a laugh of his own. “Of course. Though where ladies are concerned, I would hope that Your Lordship would use force like a gentleman.”

  “If there is such a thing,” was Lord Reginald’s noncommittal reply. “Robert, in this purse you shall find the first half of your pay for completing this vital and risky quest. Your full pay for the job, should it be completed successfully, will be five hundred crowns, payable in full when my bride is delivered safely to me for her lawful marriage. I suggest you keep to the high road, and head towards Glastonbury. Methinks that any young woman in Lady Sabina’s position might be considering a career as a nun. Half the abbeys in England are filled with noblewomen who took the veil rather than undertake the marriages their fathers made for them.”

  “But of course, Your Lordship. Though I expect Her Ladyship probably thinks her plan is quite original.”

  Lord Reginald guffawed. “This is why I chose you for this assignment, Robert. You have the right line of thinking when it comes to women. He reached into his doublet and produced a heavy velvet pouch. “Here are the two hundred fifty pounds, paid to you as a deposit only.”

  “A deposit, Sire? We’ve never made such an arrangement before.”

  “That’s because I never thought you might fail me before, Robert. Should you fail in this quest, you shall return the two hundred fifty pounds to me, plus five percent interest. That’s assuming you return alive, of course. As you know, Robert, I am known to have somewhat of an ill temper when my servants fail me.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Robert said, his stomach quavering the slightest bit. “But why do you think I might fail? ‘Tis a mere woman, after all.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m afraid of,” Lord Reginald replied. “For nothing is simple where a mere woman is concerned.”

  Chapter 4

  The king’s high road, five miles outside of Glastonbury, two days later.

  Sabina was making good time. She was less than an hour’s ride from Glastonbury. She could already see the Tor, the conical hill with its high gray belltower atop its green sloping hillsides. At the foot of the Tor was Glastonbury Abbey, her destination, where peace and safety awaited her behind its thick stone walls.

  Well, safety perhaps. Not peace. Sabina fully expected her years as a nun to be hell on earth. But still a better alternative than spending her life with a misshapen, murderous Norman monster. The far-off Tor became blurry with her tears; she wiped them away with her sleeve. What on earth had her father been thinking when he made such a miserable match for his beloved firstborn? Was their existence at Angwyld truly in such peril? Surely her father should have known that she would have found such a marriage detestable, a fate worse than death.

  But even if she was the Duke’s eldest and favorite daughter, Sabina knew full well that in England, the wishes of any woman mattered for naught under the law. Women were chattel, to be bargained over like cattle or thrown about like dice on a gambling table. Even her educated, enlightened father had his limits where women were concerned. Her father was a master politician, and he had used his eldest daughter as collateral to make a political deal.Sabina had heard of scores of similar acts throughout her young life. Her own mother had married her father in just such a political deal, though her mother had been fortunate enough to be betrothed to a kind, learned man who soon grew to love her above all things. Political betrothals happened among the nobility all the time, all over Europe. The only difference here was, Sabina was now the dice thrown upon the table, to be picked up and pocketed by Lord Reginald de Guillaume.

  Ha. Not if she could help it.

  Her journey thus far had been an uneventful one, though it had been far from easy. It had rained for almost her entire journey, sometimes in torrential downpours where the wind whipped the rain so hard it almost fell horizontally. Arthur’s underquarters were caked with mud, as was her cloak and gown. She’d run out of provisions the day before, and was sustaining herself on edible berries and roots she found growing along the side of the road. She drank rainwater from puddles after her waterskin ran dry. She was soaked through to the skin, and her waterlogged hair had come out of its braids and stuck to her head, neck and shoulders. She’d appear at the abbey a bedraggled, filthy stranger begging for help—which she hoped would only help her cause with the abbess. Although the abbess at Glastonbury had a reputation for her compassion and benevolence, that didn’t necessarily mean she accepted every damsel-in-distress who showed up at her door into her godly order. The abbess had plenty of problems of her own, after all—many of them financial. Sabina wasn’t so naïve as not to know that the abbess would probably respond best to a bribe. Even women of the cloth weren’t above such things. The gold-inlaid box of precious aromatic woods that contained her mother’s entire jewel dowry was nestled inside a hidden saddle pocket between Sabina’s legs. Those jewels were her entire future, and she was taking no chances. Even if she had only five miles to go, Sabina well knew that highway robbers could still be lurking behind the next boulder or bend in the road.

  Or if not highway robbers, something far, far worse.

  Sabina was just wondering what she might do to protect herself and escape if she came upon something strang
e and sinister on the last few miles of her journey when something strange and sinister appeared out of nowhere.

  A dark hooded figure rode out from behind a clump of evergreen trees. His face was invisible, hidden behind the shadows cast by his heavy overhanging black hood and the gray skies overhead. His robes were heavy and draped about his body in many loose folds. But even hidden underneath all that heavy fabric, it was obvious that this man was tall, broad-shouldered, powerful. He rode an enormous dapple-gold horse of a size and breed the likes of which Sabina had never seen, even among her father’s prized personal herd. The horse’s golden coat was so shiny and fine it fairly glowed, even under these damp, overcast skies, and it was easily a good four or five hands taller than Sabina’s mount Arthur. And Arthur was already one of the largest, most powerful stallions in all the West Country.

  A huge, dark-robed man riding a massive, almost supernatural-looking horse stood ready to overtake her. A man such as this could only be one of two things, Sabina knew. A highwayman here to rob and rape her—or one of Lord Reginald’s henchmen.

  Either way, it meant only one thing.

  Run.

  Sabina touched her spurs to Arthur’s sides and he immediately took off at top canter. But Arthur was exhausted from more than three days’ travel across the rainy countryside, and soon began to lose speed. Knowing full well that she couldn’t hold off her pursuer on the main road, Sabina steered her mount off the highway and into the forest. She followed a narrow bridle path for a short while, but it soon became overgrown and impassable. Sabina struggled to steer Arthur through the tangled vines, brush and undergrowth, but it was no use. Less than a minute passed before the hooded figure and his massive, mysterious horse overtook her.