by Diane Darcy
She Owns the Knight
(A Knight’s Tale Book 1)
Diane Darcy
Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Thank you for reading!
Books in A Knight’s Tale series
Also By Diane Darcy
Excerpt from Bewitching the Knight
Excerpt from Gareth (The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Book 5)
Copyright © 2012 Diane Darcy
www.dianedarcy.com
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. All rights reserved. ~
Cover art by Dreamstime/Alvaro Ennes
Cover Design by Kaylee Young
Dedication
To Grandma Murphy, with love.
And also for Brent, my own knight in shining armor, who is just as wonderful and clueless as Kellen.
Acknowledgments
A great big thank you to Heather Horrocks and Bruce Simpson for the fun plotting day. Draining the dragon didn’t end up in the story, but it sure was hilarious at the time!
Also, Melody, Heather, Lesli, Kristin and Sandra. Thank you so much for taking the time to read and refine. You ladies are awesome!
Prologue
England, 1260
“Is aught amiss?” Brows drawn together, Lord Kellen Marshall reached a hand to steady his wife. “Is it the babe?”
Catherine set her goblet on the sideboard, but seemed unable to take her gaze from it. “You switched the cups?”
“Aye. To give you the less cloudy, more pleasing drink. I’ll not have you drinking the dregs.” He gave her a smile, hoping, aching to receive one in return.
Her face turned ashen.
Kellen quickly set his drink aside, lifted her slight weight, and carried her swiftly to the bed to set her among quilts and pillows. He ran to the heavy wood door, threw it open, bellowed for help, then hurried back to where Catherine lay sweating, clutching her swollen belly. In the distance, people scrambled and orders thundered as Kellen lowered himself to her bedside.
“’Tis Cowbane,” she whispered to him.
“What?” Mouth gaping, he shook his head. “No. That cannot be.” Who would do such a thing? Who would dare to poison his wife?
“You have ruined everything.” She turned away from him, pressing her face into the pillows, gagging and shuddering before rolling back to grip his surcoat, her face taut with fear. “Please. You must save me. Please.” She put a hand to her stomach. “The babe.”
Several knights appeared in the doorway, “Find the midwife! Bring the healer!” Kellen roared the words.
A wide-eyed servant rushed out of the chamber as others filled the entrance.
Kellen gripped his wife’s cold hand as her breathing quickened and resignation set her face. “You cannot save me,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “’Tis not possible.”
Her breathing became labored, her throat violently clenched, and her entire body tightened, head thrown back.
Kellen, every muscle in his body constricting with panic, shook her shoulders. “Catherine!”
She took a loud, gasping breath, then relaxed for a moment. Kellen wiped sweat from her brow with shaking fingers. “Catherine, you must be well.” His voice broke. “Perchance the babe comes early?”
“The drink was meant for you.” She breathed heavily, drawing breath an effort.
“What are you saying?”
“My daughter is not of your seed.” Again, she convulsed violently, foam gathering at the corners of her mouth, then relaxed once more, placing a hand to her belly. “Nor is the one in my womb.”
Kellen studied her face, the swelling of her body. He swallowed and gripped her hand. “You are out of your head.” His voice roughened, low, deep, and pleading. “A devil has overtaken your mind.”
“I despise you.”
He tried to convince himself she was not herself, yet saw in her clear eyes she spoke true. And he was well aware the poisoned drink had been meant for him as he’d switched them himself. Why would she dishonor herself this way? It was senseless. “Why?”
“You sicken me.” Her face twisted. “I hate your disgusting, overlarge body. Your vile face. My lover is wonderful, slim and beautiful as a knight should be. Handsome and without scars.” She smiled, her face relaxing. She laughed once, then stopped breathing.
His wife, eyes open and staring, lay dead in his arms. He shook her, rage and despair welling within him. “No!” He clutched her to him. “No!” She’d swallowed poison meant for him? She’d meant to kill him? Surely, he’d misunderstood. She was no poisoner. She could not be.
Kellen’s eyes filled with hot tears and he gently shook his wife once more. “Live. Live, curse you. Live!”
She didn’t move.
His wife was dead. His son, as well. His son.
Kellen’s head pounded. He lay his wife gently on the bed, stood, and backed away. His head, suddenly heavy, bobbed up and down as dizziness overtook him.
Air finally filled his lungs and he threw his head back, and howled like a madman. He clenched his hands in his hair and, heart pounding, every muscle constricting to the point of pain, Kellen turned and grabbed the long bench from against the wall.
With a yell, he heaved it into the fireplace and watched as pieces of heavy wood, ashes, and smoke burst into the air.
Next, he gripped a chair and dashed it against the stone wall, once, twice, until the heavy wood shattered. He ripped a tapestry Catherine had fashioned from the wall. He smashed her writing table with his fists. Threw a basket of knitted baby clothes into the fire. Tore and pulled the linen hangings from the great bed and cast them to the floor.
Breathing hard, searching for something else to destroy, Kellen stood still in the middle of the chamber. He looked to the doorway, where only a few of his knights remained, and a few more beyond, out in the hall. The servants had run off.
Only the midwife, Catherine’s old nurse, the one come from Corbett Castle, had dared enter the bedchamber. She covered Catherine’s body with a fur coverlet, knelt on the stairs beside the bed, crossed herself, and wailed.
Kellen watched her wipe foam from Catherine’s mouth, and turned away.
His dream had died with Catherine. With the babe. His marriage, the chance to continue his line, to build a family, was th
e one thing that had kept him alive through all the petty wars, the politics, the tournaments, and his dangerous allegiance to King Henry.
Who provided her the poison? Who turned her against him? He knew she could not have done this on her own.
Her lover, no doubt.
Kellen’s teeth ground together, and a guttural sound escaped his mouth. The babe was not his? The girl child not of his seed? There lived a man who did not have long for this world.
“Mamma?”
Kellen turned to see his three-year-old daughter lingering in the passageway with her nurse, and pain twisted his guts. She should not be there, and he did not want to look on her. He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Take the girl away from here.”
He would not be cheated this way. His eyes narrowed. He would marry again. He would petition the king and remind him of his loyalty and—
No. That could take years and numerous favors. At a score and ten, Kellen could not wait. Would not. He sucked air into his lungs. Corbett owed him an honorable daughter. He had seven. Six, now. He would demand another, the youngest, and most trainable, or Corbett would pay the price for his daughter’s treachery with a war. Any betrothment on the girl’s part would needs be broken. He would show no mercy. He’d have his heir within the year, or else.
He grabbed the nurse still kneeling beside Catherine, startling her, and hauled her to her feet. “Give me the name of her lover.”
Rigid with terror, the woman gaped. “My lord?”
“Catherine’s lover. His name?”
The woman trembled, shook her head, and her head-cover slid to reveal gray hair as fear widened her eyes. “Nay, my lord. She would never play you false.”
Kellen forced himself to release the woman before he gave into the desire to shake her. “She admitted such. Doubt not that I will find and kill him.”
Teeth clenching, he nodded toward Catherine. “Finish this. After, go home to Corbett. Tell him of his daughter’s infidelity, of her attempt to murder her lord. I want another daughter in reparation, or there will be war. You will leave directly after the burial.”
He would have a wife and heir. But he would never make the mistake of trusting another woman. With one last glance at Catherine’s white face, he turned and strode from the chamber.
Chapter 1
England: Present day
The slam of a car door alerted Gillian Corbett to the fact that she was no longer alone. She had a hard time pulling her gaze from the sketchpad and the castle ruin she drew but finally glanced up to see three men getting out of a Volkswagen.
They’d parked beside her rental car, and a tingling at the back of Gillian’s neck suddenly made her aware of the remoteness of the location.
Her mouth went dry, and her stomach hollow.
She glanced around. Thanks to her lousy, cheating, money-grubbing, narcissistic ex-fiancé, she was spending what was supposed to be her honeymoon sitting on a big gray rock, in the middle of a big green field, in the heart of a foreign country. Alone.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Her car sat parked off the side of the road, about a football field’s length away. The rolling grass in front of her, leading to the picturesque graveyard and castle ruin in the distance, didn’t calm her sudden unease. What had seemed so beautiful and interesting only moments ago, now appeared desolate, threatening and . . . stupid.
What had Ryan said that last day? ‘You’re like a throwback to another time, babe. It’s like you live in La La Land. Going to England to do genealogy? What are you going to do, anyway? Take pictures of headstones? That’s just wrong, Gillian. Disturbed. And drawing castles? Look at yourself. You’re only twenty-four years old and even your clothes are old-fashioned, with your skirts and blouses. You need to loosen up a bit. Unbutton and show some skin. Stop being so frigid and prudish. Cut your hair or something. It’s like you’re an old-timer in a babe’s body.’
Again, the distant slam of a car door seemed loud in the silence, and brought her out of her reverie. There were now four of them.
And one of her.
Gillian swallowed as they headed in her direction. They didn’t talk amongst themselves, and Gillian tried to convince herself nothing was wrong. They were probably just friendly locals who’d spotted her, and wanted to chat. Maybe even flirt.
But her heart hammered in her chest. None of them glanced at her, or each other. They just steadily moved her way and Gillian felt a sense of menace. She hadn’t seen another soul until the men showed up, or noticed any cars driving by. She was staying in the town of Marshall about six miles away, but the river, hills, and trees isolated the area.
She’d been a single woman living on her own in a big city for too long to ignore the caution she felt. She’d taken a self-defense class once, and the instructor taught to always go with her instincts. Hers were screaming to run.
One of the men finally looked up and waved at her, a jerky pointing of fingers, but the friendly gesture didn’t make her feel safe. It had the opposite effect. She felt marked. Hunted.
Her heart pounded against the sketchpad she clutched to her chest. She slipped her pencil inside the pink backpack and fumbled for her cell phone.
It wasn’t there.
She had candy bars, a light jacket, a change of clothes, her wallet, keys, some extra pencils, and pepper spray, but no cell phone.
She suddenly remembered taking it out and sticking it in the convenient car cubby, in case any of her friends or coworkers called to see how her trip to England was going.
It wasn’t going so well at the moment.
She quickly studied the area. Nothing but fields, trees, the graveyard, castle, and river in the distance. Not a soul in sight to help her.
The men moved steadily closer.
Was she being foolish? Paranoid? All she knew for certain, was she couldn’t wait around like an easy target. She’d rather avoid them, and look like a fool in front of strangers and be safe, than stand there like an idiot and get robbed. Or worse.
She quickly stuffed her sketchpad in her backpack, put on her jacket, dug out her pepper spray, pulled the zipper, hoisted her pack, tightened it, and headed quickly for the castle. Away from the men, but also away from her car.
If she were mistaken about their intentions, they’d realize they’d scared her and leave her alone. If she wasn’t, then they’d come after her. Either way, she’d know for sure.
With her heart hammering, she was almost too scared and embarrassed to look back. Would they follow? Leave? Head toward the cluster of rocks and hang out?
The fine hairs on her neck stood on end and she considered running, but was already breathing so hard she was afraid she’d hyperventilate if she tried. Heat suddenly flooded her face.
What if the guys were simply trying to help? Maybe her rental car had a flat, and they were going to offer to fix it? Or perhaps these were their favorite stomping grounds and they simply wanted to say hello? She could be making a total and complete idiot of herself.
Ha, ha! Look at the foolish and paranoid American. What a tourist!
She felt like an idiot. A scared one. She hoped they’d get the hint, realize they’d frightened her, act like gentlemen, and leave. She reminded herself that even if she were wrong, she’d never see these men again, so if she completely humiliated herself, it didn’t matter. Better safe than sorry.
Gillian let her jacket sleeve fall down over the pepper spray in her hand, and finally chanced a glance over a shoulder. The men were still walking toward the boulders, but only talking and checking in her direction, not following.
Relief flooded her but, still uneasy, she didn’t break stride. Maybe they’d just think she was hiking to the castle and leave her alone. They were more than welcome to climb, picnic, or play king of the mountain on the rock, just as long as they left her to go her own way.
Gillian rose over the slight hill, getting a better view of the graveyard in the process. Her stomach sank. She’d
hoped to find someone there, but it was completely deserted. Why wouldn’t it be? Old and decrepit, with weathered headstones, and grasses grown up around everything. The surrounding fields were dotted with wildflowers and clusters of trees. Earlier, she’d planned to explore it, now she just wanted to get through it as soon as possible.
She checked out the castle. Didn’t people hang out in ruins all the time? Maybe she’d find someone there. A tour group would be nice. Perhaps visitors came at the castle from the back side. Maybe the castle even had a gift shop, and she could bum a ride to her car.
She glanced at the men again. They’d veered in her direction, and walked toward her, fast. Gillian gasped, and her heart seemed to stop for a moment, before thudding painfully in her chest.
“Hey, wait up there, pretty lady,” one of the men called out to her.
She didn’t answer, only shook her head. Every one of them gazed straight at her now, and fear trilled through her. Forget about embarrassment. She ran.
She glanced over a shoulder to see them chasing her! They laughed and panic and fear flooded her. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt, her feet slipped on the grassy slope. Could she make it to the castle? Surely, she’d find help there. For all she knew, there was a city or something on the other side. Or an archeology dig setting up camp.