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

by Catherine Kean

  Worry left a stark chill inside Edouard, for he still couldn’t grasp Veronique’s refusal to see to Juliana’s injury. How could a woman—a mother—be so merciless? She’d obviously become so embittered by the past, her compassion had shriveled like a rotting apple till it no longer existed.

  The men hauled him through the castle’s great hall that smelled of musty rushes and wood smoke, down several dark passageways, and then, after more turns, into a narrow stairwell.

  The scents of old stone and unwashed warriors crowded in around him as he was forced up the uneven steps. In the cramped space, squashed between brawny assailants, he could barely breathe. Yet he shut out his discomforts, and silently begged Juliana to find the willpower to stay alive, for he’d get her the care she needed, one way or another.

  He’d bribe the lackeys who guarded them. He’d trade his fine boots for a pot of salve, and even his horse for a good chance at escape. Veronique might have wrested control here, but surely, someone could be persuaded to help him.

  The stairwell twisted up and up until it ended at a wide area in front of a sturdy wooden door banded with iron.

  “Here we are.” Tye signaled to one of the mercenaries, who unhooked the key from the ring mortared into the wall. He unlocked the door and the panel swung inward, its hinges groaning with disuse.

  Tye entered first, and then Edouard was dragged into the small, rectangular chamber with a plank floor. Light pierced the room’s shadows through a window fitted with a wrought iron grille and crooked shutters. The room held little furniture: one battered straw pallet and a wooden stool laced with cobwebs.

  More spider webs drifted above the window; they teased down to where dust-covered chains, bolted into the wall, trailed across the floor. The chains looked to run half the length of the pallet; enough to allow a man to sit with his back against the stone wall and wrap his arms around his knees, or lie on the pallet with his hands close to his belly, but no more.

  When a rough tug brought Edouard closer to the bed, he saw marks were gouged into the stone above it. Cut by fingernails? Or a spoon, taken by the captive during one of his meals? What had he tried to tell his captors, or those who were to be prisoners after him, as he succumbed to madness?

  The chamber’s lingering atmosphere of despair brought bile flooding into Edouard’s mouth. He didn’t want to be chained like an animal, prey to his father’s enemies. Thrashing against his captors’ hold, he glanced about for any chance of escape. No hope of getting out the window, and the door behind him was blocked by Veronique’s lackeys.

  “Still, ye struggle,” one of the men groused. Before Edouard could twist away, the lout slammed his fist into Edouard’s lower back. Gasping, arching his spine, Edouard tried to control the pain flaring through his side, but the mercenaries hurled him forward, threw him face down on the straw-filled pallet, and grabbed his wrists. Dust whipped into his mouth and nostrils and he coughed, desperate for fresh air.

  “Chain him so he lies on his back,” Tye said, while the iron links clanked. “Mother would want him that way.”

  Edouard clenched his hands, unable to move his head pinned against the mattress by a mercenary’s leg. The way they planned to restrain him, he’d be facing the door—able to see whoever came and went, but unable to defend himself if they mistreated him. A loathsome prospect.

  He struggled anew, thrashing his legs, even as the mercenary increased the pressure on his head. Edouard’s mouth and nostrils stung from the dust, while bits of straw poked into his jaw.

  Cold metal clamped around his left wrist. The lock engaged with a click, and then, with a brutal shove, the men pushed him onto his back. A mercenary sat on his stomach, pinning him down. Before he could struggle, the right manacle snapped into place.

  The men leapt back.

  Spitting an oath, Edouard sat upright. As he shoved snarled hair from his face, iron links banged against his right arm.

  Tye grinned. “Comfortable, Brother?”

  “Do not call me that.”

  “We are kin.”

  Edouard glowered and wondered how close Tye had to get to the pallet before he could knock him to his arse and wrap his hands around his throat. Regrettably, Tye—the gloating bastard—was staying well away.

  “Two of you will stand watch outside,” Tye said to the group of men. “There must always be two guards at this chamber. You are not to respond to any cries or attempts to contact you from the prisoners inside. Understood? Now you may leave.”

  As the mercenaries turned and headed for the doorway, Tye glanced at Juliana. His gaze lingered far longer than was appropriate on her breasts. “Since you are taken care of now, Brother, I must see to other matters. You will, of course, keep watch on Juliana?” His attention shifted to the nearest wall, as though deciding where to set her down.

  “Tye, Juliana needs to be tended by the healer. Will you at least send the woman up here, to look at her wound?”

  Tye raised his brows. “And risk Mother’s wrath for disobeying her?”

  “Surely you have some influence with her. You are her son.”

  Wariness touched Tye’s eyes. “You have not seen her when she is angry. She can be truly . . .”

  Over the tramp of the men’s retreating footfalls, Edouard caught the rustle of cloth.

  His gaze flew to Juliana, to see her eyes were open. She peered up at Tye, her expression both puzzled and afraid.

  “Juliana!” Edouard called, hoping this time she’d know him. He shoved up to standing.

  Her head shifted, and she winced. When she saw him, her face brightened. “Edouard,” she whispered. “Oh, Edouard, I found you.”

  Found him? He didn’t understand. But to hear her say his name with such affection was wondrous. “Juliana—”

  “At last, you have awakened,” Tye drawled. “Mother will be pleased.”

  Chapter Ten

  Veronique set her fingers on the solar’s door handle, the thrill of ordering Edouard to his captivity still hot in her blood. She smiled, for as her coveted bag of fortune-telling bones had predicted, events were unfolding that would bring about her revenge against Geoffrey. How she longed for that moment when she saw defeat in his eyes. Could she make him beg for mercy? She would.

  She mustn’t gloat yet, though. There was still much to be done, especially once she had Landon’s ring. Her smile faded as she carefully depressed the handle and eased the door open. Before he sensed her entering the chamber, she’d make certain he was doing as she expected: looking for the jewel. If not, she’d correct that misjudgment on his part—in a way he’d never forget.

  As the solar’s floorboards came into view, Landon’s hushed voice carried to her. “—is very important you tell no one. Trust no one. Do you understand?”

  “Aye,” a woman answered. Azarel, the healer. Holding the door still, Veronique listened.

  Coins clinked. “Here. When you ride out to buy herbs to tend Juliana, take the missive with you. Use this silver and hire a messenger from the village. Tell him this document must reach Geoffrey de Lanceau.”

  Veronique sucked in a furious breath. Landon thought to betray her?

  She shoved the door wide, sending it crashing against the wall. Balling her hands into fists, she glided forward into the chamber.

  Whirling away from the trestle table, where candles, an ink pot, and quill rested, Landon faced her. “Veronique.”

  She narrowed her gaze on Azarel. The young woman’s eyes looked enormous as she hastily tucked a rolled object inside her sleeve. When she dipped her head, acknowledging Veronique in the manner she demanded of the castle folk, candlelight winked off her hairpin braided with brown leather and secured in her long, blond hair. The strings of dried mushrooms around her neck shifted.

  “Give me the missive, Azarel,” Veronique said.

  Landon stepped sideways, blocking her way to the healer.

  “Step aside.” Veronique held his stare, commanding him to yield. Caution flickered across hi
s features before he shoved back his shoulders and remained where he was.

  “You are a fool, Landon, to anger me.”

  “What you are doing to Edouard, the son of my liege . . . ’Tis wrong.”

  She’d walked near enough now to smell the hint of fear in his sweat. “Have you still not realized, Landon? All of my actions were meant to protect you.” Her attention slid past him to the frightened Azarel. “I thought you wanted your subjects to keep believing you are a just, honorable lord, rather than a man who murdered his lady wife.”

  Landon blanched.

  Veronique smiled, savoring the tension in his posture. “Did you do as I asked? Did you find the ring?”

  “Why do you keep asking for it? Why is it so important to you?”

  Insolent bastard. She didn’t have to explain her desires to him. “Did you find it?”

  “I did not look. Edouard was right; I do not deserve it. Whatever your reasons for wanting that ring,”—his mouth flattened—“you shall not have it.”

  A coarse laugh broke from her. Did he intend his words as a threat? Ridiculous.

  She halted before him, close enough to slap his face if she so desired. “You disappoint me, Landon.”

  Raising his brows—a clear dismissal of her words—he gestured to Azarel. “Go.”

  The healer started forward.

  Veronique threw up a hand. “Stay where you are.”

  Azarel stumbled to a halt.

  “Veronique does not command you,” Landon growled.

  “I do.” Her lips turned up in a ruthless smile. “Try to leave, Azarel, and I will have you killed. Then, I will send men into the village to find your lover and gut him alive.”

  The healer moaned. She didn’t move.

  Veronique forced coyness into her smile and claimed the gap between her and Landon. When their garments brushed, his familiar scent revived memories of him thrusting between her legs; his hoarse groans when his seed pulsed into her; the many ways he’d sated her lust. She’d miss the pleasure he gave her.

  Curling her hand into her right sleeve, she found the opening in the hem and discreetly eased out a small knife.

  He’d stepped back, no doubt unnerved by her closeness. Reaching out her left hand, she caressed his cheek. Regret glinted in his eyes before he caught her wrist. “I will not let you destroy de Lanceau.”

  “You cannot stop me,” she said, very gently, “for you see, Juliana will tell me where to find that ring.”

  He stared down at her, as though suddenly realizing his own insignificance.

  She rammed the knife into his stomach. How delicious, to feel his soft flesh splitting apart.

  Azarel screamed. “Milord!”

  He roared in pain, swiped at Veronique, even as she yanked out the dagger. When he bent at the waist, trying to stem the rush of blood, she slammed the knife into his lower back.

  The healer shrieked. “Stop! Please.”

  Landon wheezed. A dark crimson stain oozed across the front of his garments. When Veronique stabbed him again, he lunged for her. Giggling, she darted out of his reach. With a gurgled groan, he collapsed on the floorboards.

  Sobs breaking from her, the healer knelt beside him. The parchment slid from her sleeve as she lifted his tunic to examine his stomach wound. “Milord,” she cried, but the life was dimming from his gaze.

  Veronique snatched up the parchment. She crossed to the fire and tossed the document into the blaze. Flames licked over it, devoured it.

  She spun, to find Azarel pushing to her feet. Tears streaked her face, and her shaking hands were coated in blood.

  “He is dead?” Veronique demanded.

  Azarel nodded.

  “Good. Now, you will do exactly as I say. You will set the coins he gave you on the table. Then find mercenaries to get rid of this body. Do not try to betray me.” Veronique trailed a finger along her bloody knife. “If you disobey me, you jeopardize not only your lover’s life, but Edouard’s and Juliana’s, as well.”

  ***

  Fear tingled across her skin like an unwanted caress when she stared up at the dark-haired man who held her in his arms. The bold way he grinned at her left a chill inside her, for she sensed an element of unruliness about him. In his snug hold, she felt . . . vulnerable.

  Somewhere close by, men’s voices retreated and then a thud echoed—the sound of a door closing. Merciful God, what had taken place earlier, that she’d be shut in a chamber while in this knave’s embrace?

  Should she know him? A hint of remembrance skittered across her thoughts, and she tried to probe the blankness wrapped around her mind. The inkiness seemed to shift like a murky sludge, to fill in the attempted intrusion with more blackness.

  Dull pain settled in her brow. Dizziness taunted, threatening to snatch her consciousness, and when she’d just found Edouard. The dizziness mustn’t triumph. In a moment, her head might quit spinning; then she’d try to squirm out of this man’s embrace—

  “Juliana,” he murmured, his voice deeper than Edouard’s. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course she is not!” Edouard snapped.

  This dark-haired man had called her Juliana, too. That must be her name. How, though, did he know her? “W-who are you?” she whispered to him, trying not to heed her headache or the thudding of her pulse.

  The man’s expression darkened with suspicion. “You know full well who I am. If you are trying to trick me—”

  “Nay!” she croaked.

  “Enough, Tye,” Edouard growled. “’Tis not a deception.”

  The man named Tye snorted, a sound rife with scorn. “I should trust your explanation?”

  “I was with her when she first woke. She did not recognize me, despite us having met before. She has lost her memory. Due, I expect, to the blow to her head.”

  Lost her memory. That would explain a great deal.

  “You know who did this to Juliana.” Edouard’s tone hardened. “Were you the one who struck her?”

  “As much as you would like to hear me say ‘aye,’” Tye answered, “I did not.”

  “Who did?”

  Tye chuckled, but didn’t answer.

  Juliana sensed Edouard’s intense gaze, and carefully turned her head to look at him, standing in a swath of sunlight. His stare held fierce concern.

  When unexpected tears brimmed along her lashes, his eyes widened. He took a step toward her. Metal clanked, drawing her attention to his wrists.

  He was chained. A prisoner!

  Shock raced through her. Bracing one hand against Tye’s shoulder, she scrambled to sit up. Pain scraped down the back of her skull. Tendrils of agony speared through her forehead and neck, before spots swarmed into her vision.

  “Careful!” Edouard cried.

  Juliana groaned, fighting an upsurge of nausea.

  Her vision swam, and then her cheek met solid warmth: Tye’s arm. She’d fallen back into his hold.

  “Juliana.” Edouard’s worried voice called to her, luring her from the edge of that cozy blanket of oblivion. How easily she could slip into it, but that would mean abandoning him. She couldn’t, for she had many questions—among them, why he was a captive. What had happened to put him in peril? And what had happened to her? Warning trailed through her, for she had no doubt his imprisonment meant danger for them both.

  By sheer willpower, she forced her eyes to open. To find him again.

  As their gazes met, he released a rush of breath, a sound that implied she was important to him. A friend. His lover . . .

  His Juliana.

  If only she could remember what they meant to one another!

  He tried to take another forward step, but his chains snapped taut. His muscles bulged beneath the fabric of his tunic, while he scowled at Tye. “She wishes to be free of you. Put her down.”

  At the possessiveness in his voice, tiny shivers darted through her. Why couldn’t she remember their relationship? What else didn’t she recall that, for her and Edouard’s well-b
eing, she really should?

  Tye vowed he hadn’t wounded her, but he could have held her down whilst someone else hit her. Had Tye imprisoned Edouard? Was she to be a captive, too, for reasons she didn’t even know? Oh, God, nay. She shoved against Tye, forcing herself to fight through her rising pain. “Edouard is right. Set me down.”

  Tye tsked. “I doubt you can stand upright.”

  Her body, indeed, felt weak. She’d rather crumple on the floor, though, than spend another moment in this knave’s arms.

  “Set me down. Please.”

  Tye’s brows raised. Then, he eased his arm out from under her knees and lowered her legs to the floorboards.

  Her feet brushed the dusty planks. Her wobbly legs took her full weight for one breath. Two—

  Her knees folded.

  Just as she plummeted to the floor, Tye’s arms slid around her waist from behind. “I have you.”

  Tye drew her back against him, supporting her quivering body with his strength. Dizzy with the effort of standing, she slumped in his hold. When her head landed against his shoulder, she gasped at the spike of pain. Darkness swirled into her mind, beckoning her to yield.

  “Juliana!” Edouard shouted. “Stay awake.”

  For you, Edouard, I will.

  She fought the weightiness of her eyelids, focused on the emotions churning inside her to give her strength. How she loathed being dependent upon Tye. Hated the manner in which he held her. His arms shifted; as one swept higher, touching the underside of her breasts, she shuddered.

  “Tye,” Edouard growled. His fists clenched, causing his chains to rattle, an eerie echo of the laughter rumbling from Tye.

  “I would like to sit,” she said quickly, gesturing to the wooden stool. That simple movement sent more dizziness rushing through her head. Edouard spoke again, but his words grew fainter, as though she’d plunged through a hole in the floor.

  Dragging up the last of her strength, she concentrated on his voice. On the excitement that raced through her when he looked at her with such fire.