A Knight's Persuasion (Knight's Series Book 4)

by Catherine Kean

  “Turn her around,” he growled. She tried to struggle, but the thugs spun her so her back faced Landon.

  Whack! Stunning pain crashed through the back of Juliana’s head. Her teeth cracked together, while her upper body jolted forward. Do not . . . drop Rosemary, Juliana told herself through the blinding agony.

  Oh, God. So . . . dizzy.

  She couldn’t stand up . . . any longer.

  Juliana’s legs wobbled. The passageway floor swirled into a muddy blend of grays and browns.

  Mayda, I am sorry. So sorry.

  The cloying tang of rosewater stung her nostrils. Veronique. Juliana tried to open her mouth, to speak, but her jaw refused to work. She could only groan as Veronique pulled Rosemary from her arms. “Kill her,” Veronique muttered, shoving the wailing baby at a mercenary.

  Mayda, I am sorry . . .

  Juliana collapsed to her knees. Head . . . spinning. Men . . . still holding her arms. She fought to lift her head.

  Fight. Save Rosemary, her mind screamed, even as the agonizing pain sapped the strength from her limbs.

  Her groggy mind barely registered the masculine grunt behind her. The whistle of the sword through the air—

  Whack!

  Blackness.

  ***

  Veronique stretched out atop the bed in the candlelit solar, propping her head up on her hand. As she tugged at her bodice to reveal more of her cleavage, her gaze settled upon Landon, standing before the hearth with his back to her.

  The orange-yellow firelight licked over the front of his body and etched shadows over his legs braced slightly apart, broad arms hanging listless by his sides, face bowed to the flames. He’d stood that way for long moments, tense and silent, as though his mind was elsewhere.

  Back on the wall-walk with his shrieking wife, no doubt.

  Veronique stifled a sigh of disgust. Was he battling with his morals? Condemning himself for what he’d done? How she despised a man who couldn’t subjugate his own conscience.

  She’d sensed the turmoil inside him when he’d aimed to run Juliana through with the sword. He couldn’t do it; his sense of chivalry had got in the way. Instead, he’d ordered her turned around—sparing himself from the condemnation in her eyes—and then had hit her twice at the back of the head, rendering her senseless.

  “I will finish her off,” Veronique had said, taking a sword from one of her mercenaries. How sweetly the pleasure of killing had run in her veins, urging her to plunge the sword into Juliana’s pretty flesh.

  Landon, however, had stayed Veronique with a hand on her arm. “No need. I hit her hard enough to cause death.”

  Had he? Or had he not wanted to see his wife’s best friend slashed while he looked on? The true reason no longer mattered, for Veronique had made certain of Juliana’s death. Even if Juliana had somehow survived her wound, she’d died from drowning, for two of Veronique’s loyal mercenaries had carried her limp body to the river and thrown her in.

  The thoughts brought a smug smile to Veronique’s lips. The unfortunate Lady Juliana, who saw what really transpired on the wall walk, was safely eliminated. No one would dispute that Lady Ferchante committed suicide by throwing herself over the edge. If, for some reason, any of the castle folk questioned Landon’s account of what happened, Veronique’s mercenaries would discreetly eradicate them.

  All in all, the perfect ending to the night’s developments that left Landon completely in her hands. He was a vulnerable but necessary puppet in her plot to crush his wretched lordship, Geoffrey de Lanceau. The only man she’d ever loved.

  Just thinking her former lover’s name caused anguished rage to sear through her breast. How she would make him suffer! Now, though, was not a wise moment to indulge in her hatred of him; now, she must ensure Landon was firmly in her control.

  Catching a strand of her hair—its natural, graying color dyed red with henna she’d bought from a merchant in France—she began to twirl it around one of her fingers. “Landon,” she said with a petulant sigh. “Come to bed.”

  His head lifted a fraction, causing his light brown hair to glint in the firelight. Yet he didn’t glance her way or attempt to speak.

  The anger in Veronique’s blood deepened. No one ignored her. He should know that by now. He owed her respect, for she’d helped rid him of his wife and the babe he never wanted. She’d freed him.

  “Landon,” she said again, more forcefully.

  He stirred then, straightening to his full height while he plowed a hand through his hair. The movement caused the wool of his tunic to draw taut over his broad shoulders, outlining indents and swells of firm muscle.

  A lustful growl scratched her throat, for while he might annoy her, he was, indeed, an attractive man. Half her age, he’d proven again and again how thoroughly he could pleasure her, and, in his ramblings, had proved how useful he could be in furthering her ambitions.

  “Why do you not heed me?” She drew out her words with a petulant purr. “You should be abed. With me.”

  “I cannot,” he rasped, still not facing her.

  “You are not tired?” A lusty giggle slipped from her. “’Twill be a challenge, then, for me to render you sweaty and sated.”

  His arm fell back to his side. Tension marked the set of his shoulders. “I killed my wife tonight, Veronique.” His voice shook. “I killed her.”

  Before she could catch it, a fierce breath broke from her. “Landon—”

  He spun then, the soles of his boots squeaking on the glazed hearth tiles. A gasp—quickly forced down—scalded her throat at the redness of his eyes and the moisture glistening at his lower lashes. His expression bespoke barely leashed anguish.

  Her disgust for him hardened. The sooner she twisted his torment to her desires, the better. A delicate kind of manipulation, but she’d practiced on countless other lords. Years ago, before he became lord of Moydenshire, she’d even manipulated the great Geoffrey de Lanceau, turning his vengeful anger over his father’s killing into a scorching passion unlike aught she’d ever experienced before. Or since.

  Anger hummed again at the memory of Geoffrey. She forced all thoughts of him aside and, softening her expression into one of concern, pushed up to sitting on the bed. “All is taken care of, Landon, as I promised. Do not fret.”

  While she held his gaze, she tilted her head and swept her hair to the side, causing it to tumble away from her tightly laced bosom to reveal all of her bountiful cleavage. Since Tye’s birth, she’d taken good care of her body, splurging on creams, lotions, and ghastly-tasting brews that scoured her innards with painful efficiency but kept her slim. The result was well worth every bit of coin she’d coaxed from her hapless lovers, for her breasts were still smooth and enticing enough to lure men as young and virile as Landon. As she eased a pucker in her bodice, his gaze followed the movement of her finger, and she fought a triumphant little grin.

  “Do not fret,” he said, before spitting a curse. He looked away, at the far wall. “I was so angry with her, I could scarcely think.”

  Still, he was dwelling upon his dead wife. Veronique would have to use more effective persuasion. She slid her legs over the side of the bed, stood, and strolled toward him, her fine silk gown brushing at her ankles. “I know you were angry,” she soothed. “How could you not be? I saw how your wife provoked you. Bitter word after bitter word.”

  Landon’s watery gaze shifted back to her.

  “She was cruel. Relentless.” Veronique halted before him and cupped her hand against his cheek. “I vow she planned to enrage you, to make you strike out at her—”

  “You do?”

  Veronique nodded. “She wanted you to wound her, so she could win sympathy from the folk of this castle. What better way to turn your loyal subjects against you?”

  Landon’s throat moved with a swallow. “She meant to manipulate me, then.”

  “Exactly. You wanted a son and heir, as is your right as lord. She birthed you a daughter.” Veronique stroked her thumb acro
ss his mouth. “She failed you, Landon. She is to blame for all that happened tonight. Not you.”

  Sensing the emotional barrier around him wavering, Veronique dared to press flush against him and loop her arms around his neck. He tensed, but she placed a line of kisses down his cheek. “How foolish she was to turn against you,” she murmured against his skin. “You made her the lady of a fine castle. You gave her all she could ever want. Yet still she wasn’t satisfied.”

  Landon shuddered. “I killed her.”

  “She killed herself.” Veronique slid her tongue along his stubbled jaw line, tasting the rough salt of his skin. “Remember that, my love. She committed suicide.”

  His head turned, and she followed his gaze to the gold ring lying on the trestle table near the pots and grooming essentials she’d brought to the solar. How tempted she’d been to slip that bit of jewelry into her gown, to claim it had gone missing. Before she took the ring, though, she’d wanted to be sure ’twas the one he’d spoken of nights ago, as they lay in each other’s arms after coupling—the ring he’d been given by Geoffrey de Lanceau to show he could be entrusted with the most secret of information by Geoffrey’s spies and warriors.

  Trying not to give away her excitement, she said, “The ring. I noticed it earlier. ’Tis yours?”

  “Nay. Mayda’s wedding ring.” A groan broke past his lips. “She chose it herself—”

  “Shh.” Veronique used the pressure of her fingers to turn his head back to face her.

  “Veronique—”

  “She is to blame. Remember.” Veronique pressed her open mouth to his and forced his lips apart with her tongue, coaxing him to kiss her back.

  How unyielding his posture felt—as though he might shove her away. She couldn’t allow that. Not when she hadn’t yet got hold of the special ring. Not when he had so much more to offer her and Tye in their goal—nurtured for long, long years—to destroy Geoffrey and all he cherished.

  Even as she sensed Landon rallying a protest, she moved her hand to the back of his head, to tangle into the hair at his nape. While she intensified the kiss, her other hand slipped between them, to the belt of his hose, and then lower, to cup his maleness. ’Twas flaccid at the moment. But she knew how to make him hard.

  “Veronique,” he choked out, against her mouth.

  “Let me ease your torment,” she whispered, while her fingers dipped inside his hose and closed around his manhood. She rubbed him with gentle strokes. “I know what you like. Let me pleasure you, Landon.”

  He groaned against her lips. “I . . . cannot . . .”

  “Hush, my love. You can.” As he trembled, and she felt him thrust against her palm, she indulged in a silent, gleeful laugh. She’d won him over as she knew she could.

  While she rewarded him with a shattering climax, she’d savor his grunts, gasps, and groans. For with him under her sway, she was ever closer to the day she vanquished Geoffrey.

  Chapter Six

  Edouard lifted a hand from his horse’s reins, shooed away a fly that had landed on his mantle’s sleeve, and squinted against the morning sunlight. The dirt road that he, Kaine, and three men-at-arms traveled ran alongside the slow-moving river to their right that continued through the village a short distance ahead, built close to Waddesford Keep.

  His gaze rose to the stone fortress ruled by Landon Ferchante. Memories drifted into Edouard’s mind of the wedding celebration at Englestowe. What a night that had been, one that had forever changed him.

  He struggled with the resentment that flared whenever he thought of his regrettable betrothal to Nara. However, he’d never dishonor his family by forsaking the code of honor that formed the mortar of his life and had bound him to her from the moment they’d kissed. Theirs would be a marriage of duty, never love.

  Stifling bitter regret, he tried to shove the recollections aside. Not long now until he and his men reached the castle, and he must conduct the crucial meeting on his father’s behalf.

  Not long, also, before he might see Juliana again.

  Anticipation wove through him, for he’d heard she still lived there as lady-in-waiting to Lady Ferchante. With him arriving at the keep as his sire’s representative, Juliana might at least make an appearance to greet him. ’Twould lift his spirits to see her lovely countenance. Most likely, though, she’d do all she could to avoid him, as she had since his betrothal was announced last summer.

  The resentment inside him became a dull ache in his chest. Nara might have succeeded in getting a betrothal, but he hadn’t stayed around to be shown off like a coveted bauble. He’d returned to Dominic’s keep, focused on his duties, and honed his fighting skills. By accepting every assignment Dominic offered to him, he’d managed to delay the wedding. But by the end of May—mere weeks away—he’d be a married man.

  Edouard sighed and lowered his arm to rest it upon his thigh. When he’d persuaded his sire to let him ride to Waddesford, he’d never imagined that he’d be this unsettled. Neither had he planned to journey to the keep, but while Edouard was visiting his parents, his sire had fallen ill.

  “You cannot ride to Waddesford,” Edouard had insisted when he’d come upon his sire scrutinizing the accounts ledger spread out on the lord’s table in the great hall. Edouard’s father had refused to rest, despite his lady wife’s protestations and the fever burning his brow.

  “I will go as planned.” Edouard’s sire hadn’t looked up from the ledger. “I intended to pay a surprise visit to Landon’s keep soon anyway to confirm all is as I expect, as I do of all of my estates now and again. I will also take the blanket your mother embroidered as a gift to celebrate the babe’s birth.” His voice softened. “But as you know, I aim to discuss another matter with him, and I—”

  “—should be abed,”Edouard said. Words his worried mother had insisted he work into the conversation somewhere.

  His sire, rubbing his sweat-beaded brow with one palm, sighed. “God’s teeth.” As he wiped perspiration from his flushed cheek, his hand shook.

  “You look wretched, Father.”

  “As I feel.” He tossed the quill on the table, splattering black ink, then dropped his head into his hands. “I cannot even stand the taste of wine. The mere smell makes me want to vomit.”

  “Then you will not be able to raise your goblet in a toast when Lord Ferchante agrees to join your rebellion. One more reason why I must take your place.”

  His sire, looking weary, shook his head. “I would not ask such of you. ’Tis too dangerous. If aught went wrong—”

  “’Twill not. Trust me.”

  His father had thrust his palm up in clear refusal to discuss the matter any further. “I will contact Dominic.”

  With effort, Edouard had reined in his disappointment. Dominic would undertake the mission if Edouard’s sire asked, but Edouard was capable of the task. Last autumn, after he’d helped to drive murderous thieves from a forest on Dominic’s lands, Dominic had ensured Edouard was knighted. The prestige of knighthood proved that Edouard was a skilled warrior and could be entrusted with important duties.

  Edouard’s father, always over-protective because of the remote chance Veronique could resurface in Moydenshire, might be reluctant to put his son in danger, but Edouard was ready for difficult responsibilities. Even a mission as treacherous as privately asking Lord Ferchante if he’d join other lords in trying to reinstate a charter created over one hundred years ago by King Henry I, a document that would set limits upon King John’s powers and help curtail his corruption.

  “Father,” Edouard had said, “with all due respect, sending a missive to Dominic and awaiting his reply will take several days. I can ride to Waddesford on the morrow.”

  A faint smile touched his sire’s mouth. “I appreciate your offer, Son, but you are not yet a lord. ’Tis not your battle.”

  Edouard pushed his shoulders back and refused to heed the awkward feeling he got every time he challenged his sire. “I believe ’tis my battle, Father. One day, I will inherit
the honored title of Lord of Moydenshire from you. If I undertake and succeed in this vital mission, surely that better prepares me for my future responsibilities?”

  Edouard’s insistence had succeeded, for with a grudging laugh, his sire had relented and assigned him the mission. Thank God. Thinking of the upcoming meeting with Landon Ferchante wasn’t what made Edouard’s stomach cinch into a knot. Thinking of Juliana, though . . .

  “Oy! Edouard. Any chance we can stop for a piss?” Kaine called from behind him.

  Another of the three warriors escorting Edouard grunted in agreement.

  “Of course,” Edouard said over his shoulder. He looked at the bank sloping down to the shallows, where some industrious folk—fishermen, mayhap—had cleared away a section of the tall reeds that grew along the water’s edge. “’Tis a good spot, also, to water the horses.”

  “Quite picturesque, really,” Kaine said. “Good for all kinds of pleasurable pursuits.”

  Edouard snorted a laugh and, with a nudge of his heels, steered his horse down toward the river. Kaine seemed to think of naught else these days but seducing women. A pang of regret ran through Edouard, for he could only imagine what his best friend was enduring after his young wife’s death last winter from a virulent sickness. Kaine had loved her, and losing her had deeply wounded him.

  The closest Edouard had come to love were his feelings for Juliana. Somehow, no other woman compared to his memories of her. Whether she was truly as exceptional as he recalled, or whether his recollections of her had distorted since last year, he’d soon find out, when he met her again.

  Today.

  His gut tightened another notch as he halted his horse and slid from the saddle. Holding the reins in one hand, he led his mount forward, his leather boots sinking into the mud as he strode into the shallows. Small fish scattered like tiny arrows in the water, while he inhaled the heady scents of moist earth and vegetation. When his horse lowered its head to drink, Edouard turned his face up to the sunlight. How good the sunshine felt on his skin.