The Crusader's Heart

by Claire Delacroix

  “Dare I hope my suit is well received?” he asked, his eyes sparkling.

  “Aye, Wulfe. Aye!”

  He laughed again and stood at her urging, catching her close and kissing her soundly. The devotional was pressed between their beating hearts, the fur crushed beneath her chin, and Wulfe’s arms were tight around her. Juliana thought her heart might burst with joy.

  “Are you well, then?” he asked when he broke their kiss, his gaze searching hers.

  “Well enough but better now,” she admitted. “My sister says I will feel better by the Yule, if our babe is like hers.” She smiled, only now taking pleasure in her sister’s words. “Indeed, she says it is boys who make a mother so ill so early.”

  “I care not if it is a boy or a girl,” Wulfe admitted. “Only that you put your hand in mine.”

  “I do. I will. Surely we can be wed this very day.”

  Wulfe grinned. “Surely there can be no cause for delay. But you are not garbed for this wind!” He shed his own cloak and wrapped it around her, frowning at her slippers. Juliana laughed when he swept her into his arms and lifted her to Teufel’s saddle. She saw then that Stephen and Simon rode with Wulfe, also adorned in his livery, and that there was an older man with white hair riding behind. That man inclined his head to her politely, but the boys would not be so restrained.

  “I am glad indeed to see you again, my lady,” Simon said.

  “And I am glad indeed that you will be our lady,” Stephen added.

  “As am I.” Juliana smiled at them both, holding her gifts with one hand while she gripped the pommel with the other.

  “You should know that I have had an invitation from Gaston,” Wulfe said. “I wrote to tell him that I had left the order and why, and he replied, wishing me well in my quest for your hand. He invited us both to Châmont-sur-Maine for the feast of Saint Nicholas, that we might witness Bartholomew gaining his spurs.”

  “That is less than a fortnight away.”

  “Aye.” Wulfe spared her a glance. “If you feel well enough to make the journey, I would like to be there. He wrote that Fergus also lingered for the ceremony. We could be home by the Yule.”

  “I would wager that you will ensure my welfare,” Juliana teased and Wulfe grinned at her.

  “It would not be much of a wager,” he replied, his eyes sparkling and she laughed aloud.

  “I should love to go.”

  “Then it will be so.”

  Juliana watched Wulfe as he led Teufel toward the gates, and she knew she had never been so happy in all her days. Her mother and her sister stood at the portal to the hall itself, their hands clasped and their faces beaming. Otto joined them, nodding with satisfaction as the party approached.

  Juliana kissed the devotional, knowing this was but the beginning of the joy that would come her way. She and Wulfe had taught each other to hope, and the future was theirs to claim.

  He had proven to be her champion, indeed.

  * * *

  Ready for more of The Champions of St. Euphemia?

  Read on for an excerpt from

  The Crusader’s Kiss

  Book #3 in the series

  Excerpt from

  The Crusader’s Kiss

  The Champions of Saint Euphemia, Book #3

  by Claire Delacroix

  His dream of becoming a knight achieved, Bartholomew heads home to avenge his parents—only to find himself hunted and in need of the assistance of a most unlikely and unpredictable ally. Anna seeks justice with a disregard for the law that shocks Bartholomew, but the bold maiden’s tactics are as effective as her kisses are seductive. Does she truly wish to aid him in regaining his legacy, or is she using him as a pawn in some scheme of her own?

  Prologue

  Châmont-sur-Maine

  Bartholomew was torn between his loyalties. He knelt in the chapel the night before his investiture as a knight and wrestled with his decision.

  He had been certain when Gaston had offered to dub him a knight that he would return to England. As a knight, Bartholomew could challenge the villain who had stolen the holding that had been his birthright. As a knight, he could defend justice and ensure that his parents were avenged.

  Still there had been a seed of doubt. Gaston had been more than good to him. That knight had found Bartholomew, orphaned in the streets of Paris, when he had been only a young boy. Gaston had ensured his welfare and trained him as a squire. Though there was only a little more than ten years between them, Gaston could have been Bartholomew’s father, given the role the older knight had played in his life. Now, Gaston not only would knight Bartholomew—at some expense—but had offered him a place, defending the borders of Châmont-sur-Maine. It was opportunity beyond expectation as well as the chance to repay Gaston’s goodness to him.

  All the same, Bartholomew had been certain that his path led north. All of his life, he had burned to set matters right, but had feared to never have the chance to do so.

  His conviction might have held had they not arrived at Gaston’s newly-won estate and so obviously startled the husband of Gaston’s niece. Millard had been displeased to find Gaston arriving home and hale. It was clear to all that Millard had aspirations to claim Châmont-sur-Maine for his own, and might well have done so already if Gaston had been further delayed. It seemed that man might have challenged Gaston immediately, had Gaston not arrived with a company of knights.

  Bartholomew doubted he was the sole one to believe that Millard simply awaited the opportunity to test Gaston anew.

  Which duty should Bartholomew fulfill? Was it better to right an old wrong or to ensure that another matter did not go awry in future? He wanted to ensure that Gaston did not lose his holding. Yet he had been heir to a holding himself, and surely it was not wicked to desire to claim what was rightfully his own?

  Indeed, he found inspiration in the tales of his fellows on this journey. That such a rich reward as Châmont-sur-Maine had come to Gaston, the knight Bartholomew admired most in all of Christendom, was encouragement indeed. Perhaps might did not always make right. Perhaps justice did prevail.

  And then there was the example of the former Templar, Wulfe. That knight had arrived for Bartholomew’s investiture in the black and gold of his own holding, a radiant Christina by his side. Wulfe’s squires had confided in Bartholomew that Wulfe was bastard-born and had anticipated he, too, would always be a Templar. Wulfe, though, had returned to his family abode, driven by the desire to win the hand of his lady love. Against all expectation, he had been accepted by his father. Wulfe had won not only a title and a holding, but the hand of Christina in his own.

  Both tales were fit to be recounted by bards.

  Bartholomew eyed the reliquary on the altar and wondered whether Saint Euphemia had interceded for Wulfe and Gaston. Would she do as much for him?

  How could he chose between two paths, each as honorable as the other?

  It was a riddle with no solution.

  The evening before, Bartholomew had been washed and shaved, and his beard had been trimmed. He had donned a new chemise and chausses and had entered the chapel in reverent silence. The reliquary had been revealed and the priest had kissed it, then placed it upon the altar. The sword which Bartholomew would carry henceforth was before it. He had been left in silence, his head bowed in prayer, to prepare himself for his vows.

  After the portal had been locked, the chapel had become both dark and cold.

  The night passed slowly. He might have dozed, yet on his knees. The chill of the stone rose through his body and seemed to close around his heart.

  Bartholomew’s knees hurt. His belly was empty. His mouth was dry and his fingers were cold. Still, he prayed, hoping for one choice to offer itself as more important than the other.

  Gaston or home?

  Finally, he saw the sky lighten beyond the windows of the chapel and heard birds stirring. He studied the sword that would soon be his own, anticipation rising within him. It was a fine blade of Toledo ste
el, its hilt simple and strong. Gaston had chosen a blade that would serve Bartholomew well all his life. The pommel had a round crystal in it, much like Gaston’s own, but this orb had a fragment of the True Cross trapped within it. The sword, and the spurs Gaston would fit to Bartholomew’s boots on the morrow symbolized his new role.

  One he had never expected to have. It was a gift beyond expectation.

  Behind the sword was the golden reliquary they had carried from Jerusalem to Paris for the Templars. The tale was that it remained in Paris, but to ensure its safety, Fergus would it secretly to Scotland. Duncan would return to Scotland with Fergus, of course, and Leila, Bartholomew’s friend from Jerusalem, would also continue north, yet pretending to be the squire Laurent. The Grand Master in Paris had agreed that it might grace the chapel here, at Gaston’s request, so long as the portal was barred and few saw it.

  Being left alone to contemplate this reliquary was also a gift beyond compare.

  Bartholomew had not even seen it himself until they had reached the Paris Temple, and still he could not believe its richness. The reliquary was large and wrought of gold. It shone in the shadows, and the numerous gems that embellished its surface gleamed. It was adorned with the name of the saint whose sacred relic was sheltered within.

  Saint Euphemia.

  Just the day before, Christina had recounted the tale of Euphemia’s life, including the miracle attributed to her at the Council of Chalcedon. There had been a dispute about the correct doctrine, so two scrolls, each describing one perspective, had been placed in the sarcophagus containing the saint’s relics. They had been and sealed there overnight, much as he had been sealed into this chapel. In the morning, one scroll had been in Euphemia’s hand, the other beneath her feet.

  She had chosen which doctrine would be orthodox.

  She might help him to choose.

  But how could Euphemia tell him which path to choose?

  In that moment, a shaft of sunlight pierced the shadows, painting the west wall of the chapel a rosy gold. It seemed that an answer was presented to Bartholomew.

  Aye! Should the first beam of sunlight to touch the altar land upon the sword—the sword given to him by Gaston—he would remain to defend Gaston’s legacy. Should the sunlight touch the reliquary first, he would choose greater risk and uncertain reward, the path of justice for his lost father. A martyr like Euphemia, after all, had become a saint by following her faith and holding to her convictions, no matter how uncertain the outcome.

  Bartholomew’s heart beat a little faster as the sun rose higher outside the chapel and the beam of light eased closer to the altar. He prayed as he watched its progress.

  The light was slanting directly over the altar, dust motes dancing in the sunbeam, when he heard a footstep outside the portal. The priest spoke softly to another, probably Gaston, and the key was turned in the lock. The sunlight touched the corner of the altar cloth in that moment, and still he could not anticipate whether relic or sword would be illuminated first.

  The priest murmured a prayer from the back of the chapel. His soft footsteps came closer, the tread of a knight’s boots following behind. Bartholomew watched the sunlight move slowly, nigh holding his breath.

  The flare of light when the sun touched the reliquary was so bright as to blind him. The reliquary shone so vividly that it might have been afire, and truly, Bartholomew felt as if the saint’s will set his own blood afire.

  He would ride north, and see his father avenged.

  Home it would be.

  * * *

  The Crusader’s Kiss

  The Champions of Saint Euphemia #3

  Available January 20, 2016

  Available for pre-order at some portals

  About the Author

  Deborah Cooke sold her first book in 1992, a medieval romance called The Romance of the Rose published under her pseudonym Claire Delacroix. Since then, she has published over fifty novels in a wide variety of sub-genres, including historical romance, contemporary romance, paranormal romance, fantasy romance, time-travel romance, women’s fiction, paranormal young adult, and fantasy with romantic elements. She has published under the names Claire Delacroix, Claire Cross, and Deborah Cooke. The Beauty, part of her successful Bride Quest series of historical romances, was her first title to land on the New York Times List of Bestselling Books. Her books routinely appear on other bestseller lists and have won numerous awards. In 2009, she was the writer-in-residence at the Toronto Public Library, the first time the library has hosted a residency focused on the romance genre. In 2012, she was honored to receive the Romance Writers of America’s Mentor of the Year Award.

  Currently, she writes paranormal romances featuring dragon shape shifter heroes under the name Deborah Cooke. She also writes medieval romances as Claire Delacroix. Deborah lives in Canada with her husband and family, as well as far too many unfinished knitting projects.

  Deborah’s Website and Blog

  Deborah’s Newsletter

  Books by Deborah Cooke

  Paranormal Romances

  - The Dragonfire Series -

  Kiss of Fire

  Kiss of Fury

  Kiss of Fate

  Winter Kiss

  Whisper Kiss

  Harmonia’s Kiss

  Darkfire Kiss

  Flashfire

  Ember’s Kiss

  Kiss of Danger

  Kiss of Darkness

  Kiss of Destiny

  The Dragon Legion Collection

  (including “Kiss of Danger”, “Kiss of Darkness” and “Kiss of Destiny”)

  Serpent’s Kiss

  Firestorm Forever

  Paranormal Young Adult

  - The Dragon Diaries -

  Flying Blind

  Winging It

  Blazing the Trail

  Contemporary Romance

  - The Coxwells -

  Third Time Lucky

  Double Trouble

  One More Time

  All or Nothing

  * * *

  Books by Claire Delacroix

  Time Travel Romances

  Once Upon a Kiss

  The Last Highlander

  The Moonstone

  Love Potion #9

  Medieval Romances

  - Harlequin Historicals -

  The Romance of the Rose

  Honeyed Lies

  Unicorn Bride

  The Sorceress

  Roarke’s Folly

  Pearl Beyond Price

  The Magician’s Quest

  Unicorn Vengeance

  My Lady’s Champion

  Enchanted

  My Lady’s Desire

  - The Bride Quest I -

  The Princess

  The Damsel

  The Heiress

  - The Bride Quest II -

  The Countess

  The Beauty

  The Temptress

  - The Rogues of Ravensmuir -

  The Rogue

  The Scoundrel

  The Warrior

  - The Jewels of Kinfairlie -

  The Beauty Bride

  The Rose Red Bride

  The Snow White Bride

  The Ballad of Rosamunde

  - The True Love Brides -

  The Renegade’s Heart

  The Highlander’s Curse

  The Frost Maiden’s Kiss

  The Warrior’s Prize

  - The Champions of Saint Euphemia -

  The Crusader’s Bride

  The Crusader’s Heart

  The Crusader’s Kiss (January 2016)

  The Crusader’s Vow (April 2016)

  Urban Fantasy Romance

  - The Prometheus Project -

  Fallen

  Guardian

  Rebel

  Abyss

  Short Stories and Novellas

  An Elegy for Melusine

  Beguiled

  Audio Editions

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Cha
mpions of Saint Euphemia

  Copyright

  Dear Reader

  Wednesday, July 22, 1187

  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