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

by Catherine Kean

  “She did not tell us who wounded her,” he said quietly. “I should have asked her right away. Yet I wanted her to know she was among friends, for she seemed—”

  “Frightened,” Kaine said.

  Edouard nodded. Fear, however, didn’t quite encompass the emotions he’d glimpsed in her eyes. “As you no doubt noticed, she did not seem to recognize me, or even her own name.”

  “The blow to the head.” Kaine sighed. “I have heard of such happening. It may be some time before her memory returns. Days. Weeks.”

  Clenching his jaw, Edouard looked at his men. “We do not have weeks. I want to know what happened to her. I will not rest till I do.” He fixed his gaze upon the rider who’d gone to find the healer’s cottage. “You. Ride ahead to Waddesford Keep. Tell Lord Ferchante I will arrive shortly with Lady de Greyne, who urgently needs to be seen by the healer. I also have matters of estate to discuss with him, as an appointed representative for my father.”

  “Aye, milord.” The man turned his horse and rode away into the crowd.

  Edouard’s gaze settled upon the other two men-at-arms. Tipping his head to the closest one, he said, “You will return to Branton Keep and report to my sire. He should know of these unusual circumstances, as should Lord de Greyne.”

  The man nodded, then rode past them, back toward the village gates.

  Kaine raised his eyebrows. “That leaves only two of us to protect you, Edouard.”

  “Me and Juliana.” Edouard brushed aside a curious tingle of unease; he, Kaine, and his fellow warrior were all capable fighters. “Is that too great a responsibility for you, my friend?”

  Mirth lit Kaine’s gaze before he shrugged. “I will do my very best to protect your wretched arse. And Juliana’s pretty one, of course.”

  How in hellfire did Kaine know Juliana had a pretty arse? Scowling, Edouard spurred his horse forward. “Enough. We ride to Waddesford Keep.”

  ***

  Standing before the trestle table in Waddesford Keep’s sun-washed solar, Veronique swept a rosewater-dampened comb through her tresses, as she did every morning. The ivory comb whispered as it fulfilled the ritual she never neglected. Her perfumed, vibrant red hair, when trailed over eager, naked male flesh, had seduced many a lover. Including Landon.

  A gloating smile edged up the corner of her mouth. Last evening, despite his reluctance, she’d not only wrested sweaty, gasping control of his body, but after fornicating, he’d fallen asleep in her arms.

  Landon needed her. His emotions were hers to manipulate as she desired. That was most satisfying of all. If all went as she planned today, she’d finally have possession of the ring he’d been awarded for his trust and loyalty by Geoffrey de Lanceau.

  A ring that, slipped onto her son’s finger, would let Tye into his lordship’s most trusted elite. Her grin broadened. What a perfect moment for Tye to run Geoffrey through with his sword. To at last destroy the Great Lord of Moydenshire.

  “Oh, Geoffrey,” she murmured, “if only you knew what lay ahead.” For long, long years she’d waited to crush him—the one man, in all her life, who’d cast her aside. She’d never met a man as strong willed as Geoffrey, until she’d birthed Tye. At last, Fate was leading her to triumph. With a throaty laugh, she smoothed a hand over her breasts, then down the front of her green silk gown to her belly, where lusty tremors clenched her womb.

  Just as her hand eased lower, footfalls sounded in the corridor outside. She recognized that gait; Landon walked like a plodding ox. She ran her comb through her hair one last time and, as the chamber door creaked open, faced him, resting her hip against the table to accentuate her body’s curves.

  “Landon,” she cooed, before realizing another person approached as well.

  Tye.

  Determination blazed in his eyes as he strode in after his lordship, his shoulder-length brown hair tied back from his face with a leather thong and a sword belt buckled over his light gray tunic and black hose.

  Naughty boy. Tye hadn’t even asked permission to enter the solar. Later, she’d warn him not to repeat that mistake. But right now—

  “A rider arrived at the gates moments ago,” Landon said. Sweat shone on his forehead—almost as much sweat as she’d roused from him during coupling. How disgusting.

  Veronique waved a dismissive hand. “Surely you can deal with him.”

  “Mother—”

  “A messenger”—Landon’s voice hoarsened—“sent by Edouard de Lanceau.”

  Shock tightened her grip to crushing force on the comb. “What?” Edouard, Geoffrey’s firstborn son. His heir, destined to inherit a rich, flourishing empire. Hatred flared inside her, for she loathed every de Lanceau. Loathed them.

  “Edouard is on his way here,” Tye said, his voice steady and cold.

  “With Juliana.” Landon groaned. “He asked for the healer to tend her wound.”

  Veronique hissed a breath. “Juliana is alive?”

  “I do not want to believe it, either. How could she have survived?” Shoving his hair back with his fingers, Landon began to pace. “That injury should have killed her. I should have made certain. Left no doubt.” His unruly gaze locked with hers. “You assured me she was dead. ’Tis your fault.”

  Rage whipped through her. “How dare—?”

  “If she wasn’t dead by the time your mercenaries reached the river . . .”

  “They believed she was. They would not have disobeyed me.” How unwise of Landon to blame her for this unforeseen complication. If he wasn’t of such use to her, she’d grab her knife and slice his flesh until he begged an apology. Still, she’d find those two mercenaries who’d taken Juliana away and, after questioning, would see them killed, for no one failed to do what she ordered of them.

  Landon’s boots scraped on the planks as he continued to pace. “De Lanceau must have heard of Mayda’s death. He doubts she killed herself. ’Tis why Edouard has come.”

  Veronique snorted. “I do not think so.”

  “Why else would Edouard be visiting my keep? The messenger mentioned matters of estate, but . . .”

  Shutting out the annoying drone of Landon’s voice, Veronique set her comb down on the trestle table and swept her hair back over her shoulders. Landon’s insecurities didn’t matter. Neither did Edouard’s reasons for visiting Waddesford Keep.

  “Mother.”

  Tye’s tone of voice compelled her to look at him.

  “Edouard is riding here.” He spoke each word as if ’twas forced between his teeth, and pride kindled in her breast. She’d raised him well. He might have de Lanceau blood running in his veins, but he, too, shared her hatred of them all.

  “’Tis an opportunity we cannot ignore,” Veronique answered, while her thoughts began to fashion a new plan. Edouard, Geoffrey’s beloved son, so close by. Easily within her grasp. Her breath caught, suspended by the enticing promise of vengeance. She’d have tremendous leverage over Geoffrey, if she owned his son’s life.

  “Veronique,” Landon groused. He clearly didn’t like being ignored.

  Her attention slid to him, while laughter bubbled within her; it broke free on a shrill cackle.

  Landon threw out his hands. “You laugh? Why in hellfire . . .?”

  Warning tingled in the back of her mind. She mustn’t lose his cooperation. Not till she had that ring. Softening her laugh, she crossed to him. “Do not be angry with me, Landon. In truth, Edouard’s visit could not be more perfect.”

  He squinted at her as though she was mad. “We will turn him away at the gates. I will order my men to tell him I cannot speak with him, because . . . I am away.”

  “Oh, come now. ’Twould not be very hospitable.” Tilting her head to one side, Veronique glanced at Tye. She nodded once.

  The corner of his mouth tilted in a smirk. He turned, strode to the door, and closed it behind him.

  Landon scowled. “Where is he going? I did not give him orders.”

  Her hips swaying, her gown rustling like a cruel whis
per, Veronique strolled to Landon. “Tye will make arrangements for Edouard.” With a breathy sigh, she slid her hand up under his tunic and stroked his sweaty chest.

  Landon caught her hand, stilling it with a fierce grip. Sensual excitement rushed through her as he said, close to her cheek, “I want Edouard sent away.”

  Did Landon really believe the keep was still in his control? That what he said or thought made any difference? Steeling the disgust from her expression, she lowered her lashes on a provocative flutter. “We would be wise to find out why he has ridden here. Also, we must know what Juliana has told him. That is, before we murder her.” Veronique nuzzled his cheek and then kissed him. “Aye?”

  “How will we kill her? Edouard will know—”

  Veronique pressed her fingers to Landon’s lips, silencing him. By the time Juliana died, Edouard would be in no position to save her pathetic life, or his own. But Landon didn’t need to know any details of what was to come. “We shall say poor Juliana perished from her wound.” A credible tale. Even witless Landon would agree.

  “If you . . . think ’tis best.”

  Anticipation throbbed inside Veronique, for now was the ideal moment to mention the ring. “I vow, Landon, you should also be wearing the jewel de Lanceau gave you. Edouard will expect to see it. We do not want to arouse his suspicions.”

  “A-all right.” Drawing away, he strode to his wooden chest shoved against the wall by the bed, opened it, and rummaged inside. He drew out a leather bag and tipped the contents onto the chest’s closed lid.

  Veronique’s fingers curled into fists. At last. At last!

  Landon went very still, before a strangled cry broke from him.

  “What is wrong?” Veronique snapped.

  Dismay shivered across his face. “The ring. ’Tis gone.”

  Her jaw clamped so tightly that pain lanced through her cheek. “Are you certain ’tis not there?”

  “Aye. Many other jewels are missing, too. Cloak pins, gemstone rings inherited from my sire.” He shook his head. “A chain with a gold cross—”

  “Did you put these jewels somewhere else, for safekeeping?”

  “Nay. I—” His expression hardened. “Mayda. She took them!”

  A likely possibility, considering their bitter fights in the days before she’d died. Trying to control her rage, Veronique said, “Your wife confided in Juliana, did she not? They were the closest of friends.”

  “Aye.”

  Welcoming the malice burning within her, Veronique smiled. “Let Edouard ride straight through the castle gates. We will be waiting.”

  Chapter Eight

  The dirt road curved out of a stand of trees, guiding Edouard and his men into open sunlight and the approach to Waddesford Keep. The stone fortress sprawled across the land ahead, with guards visible above the gatehouse and along the battlements.

  As his gaze fell upon the lowered drawbridge and raised portcullis, Edouard blew out a sigh of relief. His messenger had reached the keep. They were expected.

  Gently squeezing Juliana’s limp body, he murmured, “Help is moments away, I promise.” She hadn’t stirred since waking in the village. Worry for her left a gnawing ache in his gut, but soon, she’d have the care she needed.

  Ah, God, he’d sell his fine horse, even the prized dagger belted at his hip, if the healer needed money to purchase special herbs or ointments to save Juliana.

  When he neared the keep, Kaine and the other man-at-arms riding a few paces behind, he sensed many gazes upon him. He was used to drawing awed stares, being the son of Moydenshire’s lord. Holding his head high, he tamped down a pinch of nervousness over the meeting he’d promised he’d have with Ferchante, one that now must include blunt questions as to why Juliana was found near dead in the river. Not an easy matter to discuss, but one that mustn’t be ignored.

  Aware of the onlookers on the wall walk, Edouard briefly savored the honor of visiting on behalf of his respected father. One day, this castle’s lord would owe allegiance to him. One day, these folk would be his.

  Foreboding suddenly pierced the glow inside him, and his gaze shifted back to the gatehouse. For a moment, he sensed . . . malevolence.

  Surely not. His sire and Lord Ferchante weren’t enemies, but friends and allies. His taxed nerves must be playing tricks upon his mind.

  Mentally shoving aside his unease, he guided his horse onto the drawbridge crossing the moat that looked nearly dry. The scent of stagnant water wafted up to him as the animal’s hoofbeats sounded on the wood. A moment later, Edouard heard the other horses walk onto the drawbridge behind him. The escalating clatter of well-trained mounts, handled by skilled, loyal men, sent reassurance flowing through him.

  The guards at the end of the drawbridge—heavily-armed, tough-looking men—bowed as he rode under the wooden teeth of the portcullis into the shadows of the gatehouse. The sun-brightened inner walls of the bailey came into view. A small crowd had gathered in the bailey, an array of castle folk and servants who’d left their daily duties to get a glimpse of him. They were separated from him by warriors, lined up in two opposite rows to form a corridor, a sign of respect when greeting honored guests.

  The warriors dipped their heads as he rode past, and Edouard nodded back while keeping a secure hold upon Juliana. When his gaze skimmed the bailey, he saw Lord Ferchante striding out of the forebuilding’s doorway. He looked much the same as the last time Edouard saw him, at a Christmas feast last year. Ferchante smoothed a hand over the front of his tunic, clearly wanting to make the very best impression.

  “Lord Ferchante,” Edouard called and reined in his horse. Kaine and the men-at-arms halted their horses a short distance behind him, as they’d been trained to do. They’d keep a lookout for danger. A formality, really, when they were on friendly ground.

  “An honor to see you, Lord de Lanceau.” Ferchante dropped into an elegant bow.

  “Please, call me Edouard.”

  “If you will call me Landon, milord.”

  Edouard smiled. “Agreed. Thank you for opening your gates to us and preparing for our visit.”

  Landon smiled back. Somehow, though, his expression seemed strained; ’twas even more evident when he looked at Juliana. His hand swept over his face and, for a moment, alarm gleamed in his eyes.

  Disquiet tingled anew in Edouard’s blood. Was Landon worried about Juliana’s condition? She had, after all, been Mayda’s closest friend. Or, was he more concerned that he’d suffer punishment for what had befallen Juliana, since she resided at his keep? Questions to be dwelled upon later.

  “Landon,” he said, “as you can see, Juliana is badly hurt. The man-at-arms I sent on ahead was to request the healer. We were told she is here.”

  “She is,” Landon agreed. “We have readied for Juliana’s care.”

  “Good.”

  Landon’s gaze darted to the crowd, and then back. The nervous gesture suggested he wanted to be certain all was in order for this initial meeting.

  Yet someone standing within this bailey must know who’d attacked Juliana. Edouard’s sire wouldn’t have let an opportunity pass to coax out a witness; Edouard mustn’t, either. “Lady de Greyne was living at this keep, was she not?” His arm tightened a protective notch around her. “Do you know how she came to be injured? It appears someone tried to murder her.”

  “Murder?” Landon seemed to grow tense. Doubtless he was shocked by the thought that someone in his household may have committed such a heinous deed. “Did she . . . tell you such?”

  “Nay. She only roused once on our journey here, and only for a moment. Let it be known,”—Edouard raised his voice to carry across the bailey—“I offer a reward to anyone who saw what happened to her.”

  A murmur rippled through the throng.

  “Please, Edouard.” Landon thrust a hand toward the keep. “Come inside with your men. Refresh yourselves. As you ordered, we must get Juliana to the healer.”

  Indeed, the sooner her wound was treated, the bette
r. The unsteadiness of Landon’s tone, though, made Edouard pause.

  “My men will see to your horses,” Landon went on. “They—”

  “One moment.”

  “Aye?” Landon’s hand skimmed over his sweaty face again. A hand that bore only one ring, and it wasn’t the one given to him by Edouard’s sire.

  Edouard forced his lips into a genial smile. “My father has certain ways he likes matters to be conducted between his loyal lords. If you would show me what he gave you. A sign, if you will, of the trust between us.”

  A curious silence fell upon the crowd, as though all the others, too, awaited that confirmation from Landon. “The ring, you mean.” Landon’s face crumpled on a wry laugh. “I fear I was so busy making arrangements for your visit, I forgot to fetch it from my chamber.”

  A fair explanation. Still . . .

  “Surely, Edouard, you do not need such proof to know you can trust me?”

  A chill crawled through Edouard. He did, indeed, want proof. Why didn’t Landon offer to fetch the ring and prove his loyalty?

  Just as he tightened his hold on his horse’s reins to wheel it around, Kaine’s mount nudged alongside his. “Something is wrong,” Kaine said between his teeth. “There are too few guards on the battlements, and that man by the stable . . .”

  As Edouard began to turn his horse, he risked a glance. His gaze locked with the unwavering stare of a dark-haired warrior who looked about his age. His hair, tied back with a strip of leather, was long enough to touch between his shoulder blades. He had the physique of a seasoned knight. His obvious fighting strength, however, didn’t cause dread to slam through Edouard.

  The man’s face . . .

  Familiar.

  He looked like Edouard’s father. A harder, rougher version, but still . . .

  Only one man could fit this shocking resemblance: Tye, the bastard son of Edouard’s sire and Veronique. A child Edouard’s father pointedly refused to acknowledge.

  If Tye was here, then his ruthless mother must be also.