by Cheryl Holt
KNIGHT OF SEDUCTION
by
CHERYL HOLT
Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author
CHERYL HOLT
“KNIGHT OF SEDUCTION is a must read, with captivating characters who practically come alive from the page and pull you into their tale of sweet seduction, witty banter, and soul touching emotions."
Novels Alive TV
“Best storyteller of the year...”
Romantic Times Magazine
“A master writer…”
Fallen Angel Reviews
“Cheryl Holt is magnificent…”
Reader to Reader Reviews
“From cover to cover, I was spellbound. Truly outstanding…”
Romance Junkies
“A classic love story with hot, fiery passion dripping from every page. There’s nothing better than curling up with a great book and this one totally qualifies.”
Fresh Fiction
“This book pulls you in and you won’t be able to put it down.”
The Romance Studio
“This is a masterpiece of storytelling. A sensual delight scattered with rose petals that are divinely arousing. Oh my, yes indeedy!"
Reader to Reader Reviews
“Bravo, Ms. Holt, for continuing to entertain us with your exceptional talent."
Coffee Time Romances
The beautiful cover art for this novel was designed by Angela Waters.
www.angelawatersart.com
CHAPTER ONE
Castle Morven, Northern England
Summer, 1192…
“Do this for me.”
“No.”
“Please, Anne. You must.”
Anne glared at her half-sister, Rosamunde, and sighed. She couldn’t count how many times in her twenty years Rosamunde had insisted that Anne must do something for her.
It was the constant rhythm of their relationship. Rosamunde made demands, and Anne—out of an incessant need to keep the peace—acceded to Rosamunde’s pressure.
Surely, this request went beyond any acceptable limit.
“I can’t,” Anne said, adding more sternly, “I won’t.”
They were in the solar, hiding and furiously whispering, while Hugh of Manche paced in the great hall, waiting for Rosamunde to come down. They’d already delayed an eternity, ignoring his command that she immediately attend him.
He had to realize that he was being insulted. How long would the fierce knight allow himself to be snubbed by a mere girl of eighteen? How soon would he climb the stairs and drag her down?
They’d heard such terrible stories about him: that he’d murdered thousands, that he’d pillaged and plundered from Paris to Jerusalem. He was King Richard’s sword, his most loyal subject and friend, willing to commit any mayhem the king chose to implement.
And now, he’d been given their home as his own. He was no longer a lowly knight, but Baron of Morven, rewarded for his valor and fidelity with ownership of the castle, lands, and people. He’d been given Rosamunde, too, with instructions from the king that he could marry her if he wished.
Or not. If Rosamunde enchanted him, she would be his bride, and if she didn’t?
Well, that was the pertinent question.
If Lord Hugh wed Rosamunde, the family would be safe. They would continue to live at Morven, their position secured by the union. But if he declined, what would become of them?
Anne’s and Rosamunde’s father, Ranulf, had been branded a traitor and hanged for his duplicity, so they had few options. They were fortunate that Lord Hugh was pondering their fates, at all. He could have simply ridden up and tossed them all out on the road.
On the one hand, Rosamunde should be counting her lucky stars. On the other, Hugh had killed their father, being the person who had carried out the king’s verdict. What girl would agree to marry the man who had murdered her father?
“Please, Anne,” Rosamunde tried again. “It will only be for a day or two. Until Mother returns.”
“How could you think to trick him?”
“He’s never seen me. He doesn’t know my looks. If you pretend to be me, how is he to guess?”
Rosamunde wanted Anne to switch places with her, wanted Anne to claim she was Rosamunde—just until Rosamunde’s mother, Blodwin, returned to Morven. Blodwin was off on a religious pilgrimage to the cathedral in Dumfries. She’d traveled with Father Eustace, and they were expected back on the morrow.
Blodwin was crafty and shrewd. She would easily deal with Lord Hugh and would never permit Rosamunde to marry him.
Or at least, Rosamunde was hoping she wouldn’t. What if Blodwin considered their precarious situation, then ordered Rosamunde to go through with it? Then what?
“How is he to guess that I am not you?” Anne sarcastically chided. “The merest whisper from any occupant of the castle would provide him with our true identities. The man is a monster; he makes giants tremble in their boots. I have no intention of angering him on your behalf.”
“But you know I plan to marry Geoffrey,” Rosamunde wailed.
“And you know that your mother will never let you.”
“She might,” Rosamunde maintained, as Anne rolled her eyes in exasperation.
Geoffrey was a singer and scoundrel who had stayed at Morven for several weeks, then journeyed on.
He’d flirted with Rosamunde, as he had with every female in the castle—including Anne. Naïve Rosamunde believed he was in love with her, that he’d come and steal her away. She was still waiting.
“You must put Geoffrey out of your mind,” Anne scolded.
“I can’t. Not when Hugh the Butcher is down in the great hall, demanding to speak with me.”
“All you have to do is talk to him. Welcome him in your mother’s stead. Where’s the harm?”
“The harm! What if he grabs me and drags me off to the chapel? What if he weds me, and Mother never has a chance to arrive and stop him?”
“Father Eustace is with her,” Anne pointed out. “There’s no priest to conduct a ceremony.”
“What if Lord Hugh has his own?”
“Oh.”
“If he forced me to the altar before Mother could save me”—Rosamunde leaned nearer and hissed—“I’d kill myself.”
“Rose!” Anne gasped, shocked by her sinful comment.
“One day is all I’m asking of you,” Rosamunde said. “One paltry day. Why can’t you give it to me?”
“One day—where I pretend to be you and incur Lord Hugh’s wrath forever. What if he grabs me and drags me off to the altar before I can stop him?”
“He never would.”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“You’re smarter than me. You’ll figure out a way to stall him.”
“If I can’t, I’ll be married to the oaf.”
“Why are you being so cruel?” Rosamunde nagged. “Why are you punishing me like this?”
Anne dithered and fumed, her resistance fading.
She glowered at slender, pretty Rosamunde, wondering—as she often did—how they could be so closely related but be so different. It was obvious they were sisters; their facial features and height were exactly the same. Yet Rosamunde was very fetching, with blond hair and blue eyes, while Anne was arresting in a disconcerting fashion.
Her lush auburn hair, striking green eyes, and curvaceous body made her conspicuous in any group that gathered. Occasionally, she caught herself being wickedly proud of her ability to generate unwanted attention, so as penance, she strove to blend in, to never stand out, which was impossible.
People always stared, men in particular, and Blodwin complained that it was because Anne behaved like her mother, Bedelia. Bedelia had reveled in attracting male interest.
; Anne never deliberately flaunted herself, but she was constantly noticed anyway. In light of who her parents had been, she was too notorious to be ignored.
She and Rosamunde had the same father. It was their mothers who caused the trouble between them. It was their mothers who had Anne feeling as if she should grovel and cringe and do whatever Rosamunde asked.
Blodwin was Ranulf’s lawful wife, with Rosamunde—and her brother, sixteen-year-old Cadel—their legitimate children.
Anne’s mother, Bedelia, had been Ranulf’s great amour, with Anne the shameful child born of their illicit relationship.
Bedelia had been a beautiful, flamboyant singer who’d visited Morven with a traveling troupe. Ranulf had taken one look at her and fallen obsessively in love. When the rest of her company—Anne’s cousins and uncles—had moved on, Bedelia had remained behind, the adored paramour of the master of the castle.
Ranulf had built her her own house in the village outside the castle gates. He’d lived openly with her, had carried on brazenly and been totally unrepentant as to his immoral conduct.
She’d died when Anne was four, and Ranulf had brought Anne into the castle, had ordered Blodwin to raise her with Rosamunde and Cadel. Ranulf had been a renowned tyrant and Blodwin wary of crossing him, so she’d complied. But she’d been bitterly opposed to the arrangement, and her malice toward Anne had never waned.
Although Ranulf had lodged Anne with his family, he was never at Morven to protect her from Blodwin. After Bedelia’s death, he’d left for London, preferring the excitement and intrigues at court over the quiet existence of their rural village.
When he’d joined King Richard and ridden off to the Holy Land, Anne—and everyone else at Morven—had assumed they’d never see him again.
And they never had.
Anne had spent her life apologizing for who she was and struggling to fit in, but it was a futile effort. Blodwin was too intent on hating her.
“If I help you,” Anne was disgusted to hear herself offer, “you have to help me.”
“How?”
“You have to convince your mother to assist me with the convent. Say that you will, and I shall go downstairs and tell Lord Hugh that my name is Rosamunde.”
“You know Mother is against the idea.”
“I don’t care. Will you have me forestall Hugh or not?”
Anne wanted to enter a convent and devote herself to Christ, but she had no money to pay her way, and Blodwin wouldn’t give her any. With Ranulf dead, and Hugh in control of the castle, everyone was in jeopardy, but none more so than Anne.
By taking the veil, she could atone for her mother’s sins, for her own illegitimate condition. If Hugh started tossing people out, hers would be the first eviction. Why not leave for the Sisters of Mercy before Hugh could devise a worse conclusion?
Rosamunde squeezed Anne’s hand.
“If you will save me from Lord Hugh,” she said, “I will dedicate myself to your cause. I will never cease trying to persuade Mother to send you to the nuns.”
“Thank you.” Anne spun and walked to the door, but distrust had her glancing back. “I will placate Hugh for one day, Rosamunde, but once Blodwin returns, the farce is over.”
“Of course.”
There was a gleam in Rosamunde’s eye that Anne didn’t like.
“One day, Rose. Swear it to me.”
“Father Eustace doesn’t like us swearing.”
“Swear it, or I won’t proceed.”
“Yes, yes,” Rosamunde huffed, “the moment Mother arrives, the ruse will end.”
Anne nodded, figuring it was as close to a promise as she’d ever get.
“Spread word among the servants,” Anne advised. “Make sure they call me Rosamunde and you Anne.”
“I’ll see to it immediately.” Rosamunde tilted her pert nose. “If anyone spills the beans, I’ll have them whipped.”
“You will not.”
“I will.”
Anne shook her head in annoyance and left, her mind awhirl as she went down the stairs.
If Anne saved Rosamunde from bloodthirsty Lord Hugh, Blodwin would be grateful. It would afford Anne some leverage in her argument about the convent. Her father should have provided her with a dowry, but he hadn’t, and Blodwin had always wanted her gone. Anne’s opportunity was now within reach.
She tiptoed to the great hall, slowing, anxious to collect herself and catch her breath. She had planned to sneak in so she could study Hugh of Manche, the man who had terrorized people all over the earth, the man who had murdered her father.
Ranulf had been dead for over a year, and Anne had hardly known him, so she couldn’t exactly claim to be grieving. But that didn’t temper the fact that Hugh had killed him.
Her stealthy entrance was ruined by a serving boy who’d been watching for her.
“Lord Hugh,” the boy loudly announced, “I give you the Lady Rosamunde.”
Anne glared, wondering when he’d been apprised that she should be addressed as Rosamunde. Obviously, Rosamunde had implemented her scheme before asking Anne’s permission. Not eager to play Rosamunde’s game, Anne nearly stomped off, certain the ploy would end in disaster, but the infamous Lord Hugh had already spun toward her, and she couldn’t make her feet march in the other direction.
He was over by the hearth, lurking like a black specter. His hair was black, his clothes black, his boots black, but not his eyes. They were a piercing blue, a deep sapphire, like the western sky at sunset.
“Lady Rosamunde.” He tipped his head imperiously and gestured for her to approach.
There was no hope for it. She had to welcome him, and a niggling voice told her she should show no sign of weakness. He’d likely have no patience for timidity.
She strode over, but didn’t curtsy to him. She wouldn’t. He’d killed her father, and she wouldn’t pretend he hadn’t.
They assessed one another, like combatants waiting to see who would strike the first blow.
He towered over her, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow, his legs very, very long. He was incredibly handsome, which confused her. She’d loathed him forever, so she’d pictured him as an ogre, had thought he would be ancient and wrinkled and hunched over, with a misshapen body to match his corrupt soul.
Instead, he had a face like an angel, a fallen angel that an artist might have painted on a church ceiling. Strong nose. Stark cheekbones. His dark hair needed a trim, a strip of leather holding it so it dangled down his back.
His skin was very tan from being out in the sun, lines creasing his eyes and mouth, but she doubted they’d been caused by laughter. He looked hard and brutal—and tired.
“You’re clean shaven,” she stupidly mentioned before she could remember to be circumspect.
“I’m relieved to note that you’re not blind,” he snidely retorted.
She flushed bright red. “It’s just…just…” She halted, aggravated by her stammering. “Men here at Morven usually let their beards grow. I was merely surprised.”
“Did you hear that, Hugh?” a man called from over at a side table. “You’ve surprised her.”
Anne glanced over to see several knights sitting together. At the comment, they rudely guffawed. Someone had fed them, and they must have been famished. They were gulping down food.
“My cousin, Henry,” Hugh said.
Anne made no sign of acknowledgment to Henry. He was a black-haired devil, too; he could have been Lord Hugh’s twin.
She whipped her attention to Hugh.
“What may I do for you?” she asked.
“I’m told your mother is away.”
“Yes.”
“When will she return?”
“We expect her back tomorrow or the next day.”
“You received my letter?”
“Yes,” Anne replied, carefully shielding her view of his haughty message.
With a paltry two-sentence explanation, he’d informed them of her father’s perfidy, how Ranulf had betrayed th
e Crown and been hanged for it. Then Hugh had proclaimed himself to be the new owner of Morven and had tendered a cold, tepid suggestion of a possible marriage.
For ages, they’d been aware that he was coming and why, but he’d taken his merry time in arriving. They’d hosted other guests and travelers who had seen him on the road, with his gaggle of knights, drinking and rampaging in a slow dance across the countryside.
She was slightly afraid of him, but she was not impressed.
“So you know,” he said, “that I might deign to wed you—if you can convince me that it would be to my benefit.”
“I’m positive it wouldn’t be.”
“Is that your mother’s opinion, too? Would she rather snub me and be thrown out to scrounge in the forest?”
“I’m bound for the convent, Lord Hugh. Matrimony is the last thing on my mind.”
“And is it the last thing on your mother’s mind, as well?”
“Yes,” Anne lied, having no idea as to Blodwin’s position on a marriage between him and Rosamunde.
“Too bad, Hugh,” his cousin, Henry, chimed in. “You journeyed all this way just to find a little nun.”
“Yes, pity that,” Hugh concurred, looking bored, as if he couldn’t care less whether Anne wed him or not.
His lack of regard incensed her, and she felt oddly let down.
“If that will be all, Lord Hugh?”
She stepped as if she might leave, but he impaled her with those blue eyes of his.
“No, my Lady Rosamunde, that won’t be all. We must speak privately. Where is there a quiet spot?”
“I’ll go nowhere with you. You must wait and confer with my mother.”
“I don’t think so.”
He grabbed her arm and started out, and Anne was so astonished that she stumbled along after him. She supposed she could have screamed and begged for assistance, but the only people in the room were his knights, and none of them would rush to her aid.
“Unhand me,” she hissed, trying to tug herself from his grasp.
“No.”
“Unhand me!” she repeated more vehemently, but he tightened his grip.