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

by Catherine Kean

  What else had taken place while she was unconscious?

  A lump lodged in her throat as she looked about her surroundings. She reclined on a wide, rope bed in a chamber far larger than the one where Edouard was imprisoned. In the darkness to her left, she saw a doorway to an adjoining room. An antechamber?

  A sudden awareness nudged at her consciousness. The antechamber was familiar to her. Why?

  The sputter of a candle drew her gaze to the nearby trestle table cluttered with pots and other items. When she glanced farther down the room, she saw the wooden shutters at the window were closed against the daylight, and a low fire glowed in the hearth. Veronique crouched by the flames, poking at the embers to start burning new logs.

  When she stood, Juliana dropped her head back down upon the coverlet. Closing her eyes, she feigned sleep.

  Silk rasped as Veronique approached the table. A soft thud: she’d dropped a cloth item on the tabletop. Then she muttered under her breath, before a hollow clatter echoed, the sound of small, hard objects landing on the wood.

  Juliana dared to open her eyes a little. Vivid red hair flowing down her back, Veronique peered at the tabletop. Muttering again, she ran her hand over the wood to gather up whatever lay upon it.

  She stilled, her fingers curling into a fist. Her head turned, a gesture that not only implied she sensed Juliana watching, but that she’d expected Juliana to rouse.

  “’Tis good to see you awake.”

  For a fleeting moment, Juliana thought of pretending to still be asleep, but Veronique was too clever to be fooled by such a ruse. Opening her eyes, Juliana pushed up to a sitting position.

  “What place is this?” she asked.

  “The solar.”

  “Why have you brought me here? What have you done to Edouard?”

  Veronique chuckled. “So many questions.”

  Questions Juliana wanted answered. When she last saw Edouard, he’d stood with knives against his neck, forced by Veronique into indignity. Ignoring the cautioning cry inside her, Juliana said, “Is he all right? That much you must tell me.”

  Veronique faced the bed, and the full force of her piercing gaze settled upon Juliana. She scooted toward the edge of the mattress, fighting the spinning in her head and an awful sense of entrapment. As Juliana swung her legs over the edge, Veronique strolled forward, closing the distance between them.

  “Calm yourself, Juliana. I will not harm you.”

  The lump in her throat hardened. “How can I be certain?”

  A smile curved Veronique’s painted mouth. “I had the healer care for you while you slept. She bathed you, washed your hair, dressed you in a clean chemise, and tended your wound.”

  “Th-thank you, for arranging such.”

  “I was glad to do so, for I am not your enemy, Juliana. I am your friend.”

  Juliana pressed her lips together. She might not remember her past association with Veronique, but she knew, purely by instinct, that this woman wasn’t, and never had been, her friend.

  As though attuned to Juliana’s unease, Veronique said gently, “How is your head?”

  “A little better. Thank you.” Liar, Juliana’s conscience shrilled. Indeed, she’d be standing now, on a level with Veronique, if her head didn’t pound like a drum.

  Still, if Veronique thought her well enough, would she let her return to Edouard?

  “Juliana, do you remember the first time we met?”

  “The chamber where Edouard is chained.”

  Suspicion filtered into Veronique’s gaze. “We had met before then.”

  “I . . .” Juliana struggled to recall. The blankness in her mind refused to yield. “I do not . . . remember.” Disquiet coursed through her, for there must be a reason for Veronique’s question. “What took place, at our first meeting? I would like to know.”

  A hard gleam lit Veronique’s eyes. “This chamber. Do you remember it?”

  “It seems familiar—”

  “Aye?” Veronique leaned forward, as though to snatch each word.

  “Yet I do not know why.”

  “You lived here for many months. You were Lady Ferchante’s closest friend.”

  Juliana frowned and took another glance about the room. That explained the sense of familiarity, but not the feeling that something was . . . wrong. “Why is she not here now? May I see her? Mayhap, if I speak with her . . .”

  “She is dead.”

  “Dead,” Juliana whispered. Her mind shot back to the blood on Veronique’s sleeve. She’d killed the lord of his keep; had she murdered the lady, too?

  “Surely you remember the night she perished.” Veronique’s words held a distinct edge. “You were there. You saw.”

  “I did?” Juliana trembled. Her ladyship’s death . . . ’Twas clear from Veronique’s tone that Juliana should remember the crucial event. But she didn’t. She didn’t!

  Veronique reached out and smoothed a hand down Juliana’s hair. “I did not mean to upset you. I know ’tis difficult, not remembering your past. The healer, however, believes your wound will heal and your memories will return.”

  Juliana fought the revulsion roused by Veronique’s caress. She didn’t dare wrench away.

  “Since we are friends, Juliana, I will do all I can to help you heal and reclaim your past. I trust, in exchange, you will help me?”

  “H-how?”

  Veronique’s fingers slid under Juliana’s chin, tilting it up so their gazes met. “When your memories return, you will tell me right away. Agreed?”

  “My memories . . . are important to you?”

  “Some of them, aye. They will help forge the days ahead.” A cackle broke past her lips, and Juliana fought a shudder. What knowledge could she possibly have that would influence the future?

  “Agreed?” Veronique said again.

  If she said nay, would Veronique refuse to treat her wound? How very much Juliana wanted to remember who she was. To be complete again. “A-all right.”

  “Good.” Veronique’s hand dropped from Juliana’s face. A muffled clatter, a sound akin to what Juliana had heard earlier, came from the shifting of Veronique’s curled fingers. A hard intensity tightened the older woman’s features, a look that suggested she saw beyond Juliana’s answer to the coming days.

  Curiosity nagged, stronger than Juliana’s inner warning to beware. “How can you know,” she asked carefully, “what might take place in the days ahead?”

  Veronique’s stare focused when it returned to her. “Circumstances surrounding me and my son Tye have been unfolding for years. Those, I know well. I also have these.” She threw out her arm and objects scattered on the coverlet with a soft tap, tap, tap.

  Bones. Bleached white, polished, and of various sizes. They looked to be the size and shape of . . . Juliana’s hand flew to her mouth. Surely not.

  “Human bones,” Veronique said. “Fingers, cut from prisoners in a French dungeon. They are so beautiful and straight.”

  “W-why—?” Juliana couldn’t find her voice. The nearest bone lay near her hip and she edged sideways, hoping the shifting mattress wouldn’t bring the vile object even closer.

  “Why were the fingers taken?” Veronique picked up a bone and trailed her bent finger over it in a reverent caress. “These belonged to criminals, the most treacherous of villains. They would not tell the French king’s warriors what they were entitled to know. So the king’s loyal subjects had no choice but to start cutting off the prisoners’ fingers, one by one, to get the information.”

  The men had been tortured. Juliana could only imagine the terror and suffering the captives must have endured as the fingers were severed, which made Veronique’s possession of the bones even more grotesque.

  “How did you get these bones? W-why would you want them?”

  “Tye and I were living in Normandy, close to the prison. I knew several of the king’s men”—she grinned—“intimately. When I asked one of them about the finger bones, he gave me a bag full.”

>   “He—?” Juliana choked down a moan.

  “I took them to an old crone who lived outside the town,” Veronique went on, clearly ignoring Juliana’s distress. “She cured them and showed me how to interpret them.” Not the slightest remorse touched her expression as she studied the haphazard arrangement of bones. “I ask a question of them. The way they fall reveals to me what will happen.”

  “To . . . me?”

  Veronique’s gaze flickered. “Not just you. Tye. Edouard. Tell me, what do you know of him?”

  Juliana shook her head. “Edouard said we met last spring. I do not recall.” A blush warmed her face. “I intend to ask him, though, what he remembers about me, and who I am.”

  The impassioned way Edouard looked at her, and the way her heart answered . . . They must have been lovers. They’d kissed, held hands, and made promises of love. That would explain the breathless excitement inside her every time she looked at him.

  Veronique began gathering up the bones. “Beware, Juliana, of thinking kindly about Edouard. He will win your trust and then crush it. He is a deceitful bastard, just like his father.”

  The older woman spat the word “father” with such ferocity, Juliana wondered what had taken place between them. Of all the people she’d met since she woke, though, Edouard seemed the most honest and compassionate. “Edouard seems so gallant,” she insisted.

  Veronique snorted. “’Tis what he wants you to think. Once he has won your trust, he will ask you to help him escape. He insists he cares for you only because he needs your help.”

  Could the Edouard she knew be that callous? “Why is Edouard in chains? What crime did he commit?”

  Veronique’s hand brushed Juliana’s hair again. Those same fingers had held and cast the bones of tortured men. Shivering, Juliana turned her head to break the contact.

  “There are too many of Edouard’s transgressions to recount,” the older woman said, picking up more bones and dropping them into her palm. “Above all, he will never accept that his half-brother, Tye, is deserving of his father’s acknowledgment and riches.”

  Juliana pressed her hand to her head which had begun to ache anew. Edouard and Tye were siblings? She’d sensed the hatred between the two men, but never had she guessed they were related by blood.

  If, that is, Veronique spoke the truth.

  Her account, however, was the only insight Juliana had into what was happening at this keep, and her part in all of it; she must find out all she could.

  “Edouard is jealous of Tye, then?”

  “Exactly. He will do all he can to prevent Tye from one day inheriting what he is due. Did you realize Edouard came here to kill Tye? To eliminate the threat he poses?”

  Juliana gasped. “Surely not.”

  “He planned to murder me, too.”

  “Why?” Juliana couldn’t stifle her shock.

  “I am Tye’s mother. That alone makes me a threat to Edouard and his despicable family.”

  “I . . . see.” Juliana didn’t. Not at all. Surely Edouard wouldn’t kill someone just because she was a bastard child’s mother. There must be more to the situation than Veronique wished to divulge. When she had a chance, Juliana would ask Edouard about the older woman’s allegations.

  “I know ’tis a lot for you to consider, especially when you are wounded. But—”

  A knock sounded on the chamber door.

  Veronique smiled. “Enter,” she called.

  The door opened with a creak, letting in torchlight from the outside passageway. A slim, blond-haired woman, who looked about Juliana’s age, stepped in, carrying a wooden tray. Her waist-length hair, tied back in a loose braid, swayed against the back of her brown woolen gown as she shut the door behind her and headed toward Veronique.

  “Azarel,” Veronique said, before glancing at Juliana. “The healer.”

  For the briefest moment, Juliana caught the woman’s gaze. “Thank you.”

  Azarel nodded, and then her gaze dropped to the floor. Either she was afraid of spilling what was on the tray, or she feared Veronique. As she came close, Juliana tried to make out the design of Azarel’s necklace. Not clay beads, but various kinds of dried mushrooms, strung onto twine. Several were the same color as the decorative hairpin in Azarel’s tresses.

  The healer hesitated a few steps from the bed. The objects on the tray were clear to Juliana now: an earthenware mug, one large and one small covered pot, and a wooden spoon. A peculiar, earthy scent wafted; it reminded Juliana of crushed leaves and wet rocks.

  “Did you prepare the potion as I asked?” Veronique demanded.

  “A-aye, milady. I brought honey to add sweetness, if needed. I-I also finished the facial cream for you, as you commanded.”

  “Hand it to me.” Veronique took the small pot from the healer and strode to the trestle table. “Set the tray on the coverlet, Azarel. Stay here and wait till Juliana has drunk the potion.”

  Azarel moved to the bedside and, with a slight tremble to her hands, put the tray beside Juliana.

  “What is this drink?” Juliana tried not to sound leery.

  “’Tis a calming draught to lessen your pain.” Veronique set down the pot of cream. After opening up a cloth bag, she poured the bones inside and drew the drawstring. “Go on. Drink it.”

  Juliana clasped her sweaty hands together. Truth be told, she’d rather endure the pain than ingest that concoction. “I will manage.”

  “Please, Juliana, do not be difficult,” Veronique went on. “Not after Azarel toiled to make that drink for you. What would Edouard say if he knew you refused the healer’s care? He was so insistent that you be properly looked after.”

  Edouard. Juliana’s heart constricted and she looked again at the brew. If it healed her wound, and helped revive her memories, she must drink it. She wanted to be well again, for him.

  The potion lurked in the mug; the brownish liquid reminded Juliana of a brackish pond. She quickly lifted the mug to her lips and sipped. The liquid sluiced onto her tongue. It tasted the way it smelled: earthy and raw. Tipping her head back, she downed the rest and, after wiping her lips, set the vessel back on the tray.

  “Well done,” Veronique murmured. “I expect you will feel better very soon.” Setting aside the bone bag, she smoothed her hands over her gown and started toward the bed.

  An eerie tingle swept through Juliana. Was she imagining it, or were her fingers starting to feel numb? She flexed them. “What herbs are used in that brew?” Juliana gestured to Azarel’s mushrooms. “Did you use any of those in—?”

  The shadows in the room were growing fuzzy. She blinked. The inkiness was starting to creep in upon her.

  “Why . . ?” Juliana managed to say, before her tongue became . . . heavy, akin to a . . . small pillow in her mouth. Her mind, too . . . was sluggish. Stagnant . . .

  “Take her other arm,” Veronique said, sounding far away.

  Hands . . . upon her. Pressing . . . her onto the bed.

  Juliana groaned. And then, the shadows rushed in upon her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Veronique leaned over Juliana, lying on her side on the bed. The young woman slept deeply, eyelids still, jaw relaxed. A grin curved Veronique’s lips. Azarel had done exactly as asked.

  But of course she would have. Azarel was a gentle soul. The threat of harm to Edouard and especially her friend Juliana—although Juliana, because of her memory loss, no longer recognized Azarel—was more than enough to convince the healer to make the pain potion a higher potency than normal.

  “You may go,” Veronique said, not bothering to look at Azarel. “Take the tray.”

  “Of course, milady.”

  Veronique continued to hover, waiting until the chamber door closed. Then she exhaled a slow breath as she stretched out a gnarled hand and swept it down Juliana’s glossy tresses, drawing out strands to play over the coverlet. Years ago, when Veronique was younger and Geoffrey’s courtesan, she’d had hair that beautiful. Geoffrey had enjoyed running his
fingers through it and for her to wear it loose and flowing.

  Her jaw hardened on a stab of resentment as she studied Juliana’s face. Smooth, dewy skin. A delicate nose. Full mouth. Her gaze moved down Juliana’s slender neck to the swell of her firm breasts, then lower, to her belly and hips. The loose chemise didn’t conceal her beauty. No wonder Edouard desired her. Oh, aye, there was no doubt of it. She’d seen the yearning in his eyes, even though she’d heard he was betrothed to Juliana’s younger sister.

  Tye, also, lusted for Juliana. This unexpected complication made her fate even more interesting. For two brothers who hated each other to want the same woman made for fascinating sport.

  Tye, however, mustn’t lose his focus. Naught must interfere with his destiny to kill his sire and seize the de Lanceau empire. Edouard? Veronique smirked. Despite his noble breeding, he was still a man with carnal needs. If offered the right persuasion—a clean, beautiful, sweetly scented Juliana—he might not be able to resist her.

  Imagine the dishonor that would befall his respected family, if he, the heir of Moydenshire’s lord and a soon-to-be-married man, ruined the sister of his betrothed, while being held captive. Even if Veronique ended up killing Edouard, she had ways to make sure that the scandal was well known.

  How disappointed Geoffrey would be in Edouard. And the anguish the disgrace would cause the de Lanceau family? Wondrous!

  Veronique trailed her fingertip down Juliana’s cheek. “If only you knew what lay ahead—”

  “Mother.”

  Veronique started. She whirled to squint at Tye, standing barely three steps away. She looked past him to the chamber door. Closed. That meant he’d entered and crossed the planks without her hearing. “When did you come in?” Veronique scowled. “Did you knock?”

  Tye grinned. “As Azarel left, I stepped inside. You were so engrossed, I decided not to interrupt. We both know you do not like your concentration disturbed.”

  True. The boy did have some sense, after all.

  Walking to the bedside, Tye frowned. “Is she all right?”

  Veronique smothered a smile. How quaint, that he was concerned. “She is sleeping.”