“Stop talking,” he ordered, and leaned over the table until
his scarred, perfect mouth was far too close to hers.
“And if you bark at me again, I will tie you up and make you howl in a way you’ve never dreamt of, Breton lass.”
They were leaning that way, each half across the table, staring at each other, angry and aroused—at least Eva was; Jamie’s face revealed little—when the door of the tavern squeaked open, then slammed shut. She tore her gaze away; habit too well formed, from too many years of running and hiding.
In this case, as in so many others, it saved her life.
The squint-eyed men who’d kidnapped Father Peter had just walked into the tavern. If they saw her now, they would recognize her. Then they would take her. Mayhap kill her. And Father Peter would be lost.
She slowly shifted her gaze back to Jamie in wedged degrees, like the pointed crest of a sundial. The sound of bootheels hitting packed earth thumped inside her head with each pump of blood. Trembling rippled through her in the way of a river, with fierce currents, fear and fury mingling as they so often did, so that she could equally run or attack and not know which until she was already doing it.
But in this moment, like a hand reaching out with a gift, came a new idea: Kiss him.
And so she did.
Praise for Kris Kennedy and her seductive medieval novels
The Irish Warrior
“This medieval romance has it all: tenderness, romance, danger, suspense, politics, sex and a dash of fantasy.. . . The sex is hot and the suspense is breathtaking. This one is impossible to put down.”
—Romantic Times
“An unusual setting and a plot that comes out of the mists of legends. Kris Kennedy has penned a rare, steamy, and adventurous love story with a wild Irish warrior and a strong woman of substance. . . . Sexy and adventurous, intriguing and tender, The Irish Warrior is a page-turner full of high drama and hot, steamy romance!”
—Jill Barnett, New York Times bestselling author
“A sexy, taut medieval that’ll leave you breathless and wanting more. Kris Kennedy has penned the perfect romantic adventure, overflowing with gorgeous imagery, rich characterization, and an unforgettable voice. Passionate characters caught in a page-turning adventure. . . . I devoured every delicious word.”
—Roxanne St. Claire, New York Times bestselling author
“Medieval romance fans rejoice—Kris Kennedy captures the essence of old Ireland in this engaging, sexy adventure! The rich and imaginative story pulled me in from the start, and an irresistible hero kept me riveted till the end.”
—Veronica Wolff, national bestselling author
The Conqueror
“A strong, sensual medieval romance about sworn enemies who fall in love against a tapestry of love, greed, revenge and betrayal. The characters are well written, the history accurate, and the action engaging and intense.”
—Romantic Times
“With her debut release, Kris Kennedy has given us a stunning tale of betrayal and redemption. . . . On the surface this would seem to be just another historical romance novel, but hidden in its depths are real treasures.”
—Book Binge
“If you’ve been looking for a strong medieval romance, The Conqueror is an impressive debut, indeed.”
—All About Romance
“I blushed, smiled, and then happily went back and started reading The Conqueror again.”
—Wild on Books
“If you’re an old-school romance fan, especially one who adores medievals? Yeah, just stop reading my review right now, run out and buy The Conqueror. It has everything you’ll want and more.”
—The Misadventures of Super Librarian
Pocket Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Kris Kennedy
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Pocket Books paperback edition May 2011
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Designed by Jacquelynne Hudson
Cover illustration by Craig White
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 978-1-4391-9590-1
ISBN 978-1-4391-9592-5 (ebook)
To the men in my life, for letting me be mom, wife, and writer, and
for being so supportive on those days when it was mostly the latter. But
especially my husband, first and foremost, for everything.
To my son, for bringing me sharpened pencils with bright fresh erasers—
about fifty of them—and laying them quietly beside me as I worked.
To my wonderful agent, Barbara Poelle, for knowing who’s going to love
what, then forcing them to read it when they’re really, really busy.
To my fabulous editor, Abby Zidle, for a whole lot of patience and
assistance as I trekked through this story without a muse.
To my readers, who love hot romance, hard-headed knights, headstrong
women, and lots of adventure. Here’s to a long journey ahead for us!
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty
-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Kris Kennedy’s
Acknowledgments
I want to especially thank V.K. and D.M. and L.C., who set aside their own work and families to do last-minute reads of this huge manuscript for one reason: to help me out. You restored my confidence. I owe you.
To my friend Rachel Grant, who always points out when I have too many moving eyebrows and too-slow-moving scenes. I thank you. So do my readers.
And a big hug to my buddies in the soon-to-be-renamed Destination Debut group, who have helped me not only feel saner but be stronger.
One
England, June 1215
At first, it appeared they both wanted the same cock.
But as Jamie watched, he realized the slender woman wasn’t after the rooster at all. And neither, of course, was he.
He settled back in the shadows cast by the knobbly stone buildings along Cheap Street as clouds piled up in the twilight sky. He’d only noted the rooster because a priest had been studying it, and Jamie was on the hunt for a priest. But this was simply some poor vicar studying a fowl. Neither was his quarry.
Nor were they the woman’s. Her gaze slid away with disinterest.
On opposite sides of the street, they were each tucked into dirt-packed alleyways, eyeing up the celebrations in the market square. The evening mists floated in flat ribbons around people’s ankles as they rushed through the darkening streets. Jamie tilted his head to keep the woman in sight. Hood drawn forward over her head, lantern extinguished, an almost motionless stance, all bespoke hunting.
He should know.
Taking swift inventory of the busy, heedless market square, he slipped out of his alley, making for hers. Skirting the block, he came up behind her as the fair stalls closed up, leaving room for the more ferocious nighttime entertainments to come.
“Found it yet?” he murmured.
She jumped a foot in the air and tripped sideways. Quickly, with a graceful movement, she righted herself, her slim hand lightly touching the wall, fingertips trembling.
All he could see were the dark things about her. Her eyebrows slanted low in suspicion, little black ink swipes on a wide, pale forehead, framed by the dark hood.
“I beg your pardon?” she said in a cool voice. But her hand had slid beneath her cape.
She had a weapon. How . . . worthy of note.
He tipped his head in the direction of the crowd. “Have you found yours yet?”
She looked utterly nonplussed as she took a step back and hit the wall. “My what, sir?” But even in the midst of her confusion, she continued to appraise the crowd, swift, sweeping surveys of it and everyone within. Just as he did when he was on the hunt.
“Your quarry. Who are you after?”
She turned her full attention to him. “I am shopping.”
He leaned his shoulder against the far wall, a state of repose. I’m not dangerous, it said. Because she might be. “The bargains are awful back here. You’d be better served to actually speak with a merchant.”
Her eyes were dark grayish, but for all that, highly forceful. She watched him for a long moment, then seemed to come to some decision. Her hand slid out of her cape and she turned back to the crowd.
“Perhaps I am fleeing my husband and his terrible temper,” she said. “You should leave now.”
“How terrible would his temper be?”
She punched a small fist into the air. “This terrible.”
He turned and surveyed the crowd with her. “Shall I kill him for you?”
She gave a low murmur of laughter. The dark hood she had drawn over her head swooped in small waves beside her pale face. Long black tendrils of hair drifted out around her collarbone. “How chivalrous. Would you so easily? But then, I did not say I was fleeing a husband. Simply that I might be.”
“Ah. What else might you be doing?”
“Perhaps stealing roosters.”
Ah. She was cognizant, then, that anyone watching her would have thought she was intent on the rooster. In which case, he oughtn’t to be feeling the urge to smile whatsoever. A woman who knew she was being watched was a dangerous woman.
He turned and peered into the square where Father Peter was rumored to be coming for an evening meet with an old friend, a rabbi. Jamie had explicit instructions, which began with “grab the thick-skulled priest” and ended with “bring him to me.” A ruthless royal summons to a skilled illuminator and agitator who had declined previous invitations. But then, a great many people declined invitations from King John these days, because so often, those who accepted were never heard from again.
Jamie scanned the market. The rooster in question was in a cage atop a cage atop a cage, all filled with bantams trying to strut. The topmost one, drawing all the attention, was a magnificent creature.
“Green tail feathers?”
She nodded. He nodded along with her, as if it were common to skulk in alleys and discuss animal thievery. “Pretty. Do you steal often?”
“Do you?”
“All the time.”
She turned her pale face to him, her gray eyes cool and searching. “You lie.”
“Perhaps. Much like you.”
Why did he care? She was neither quarry nor obstacle, therefore outside his realm of interest. But something about her bespoke the need to attend.
One of her graceful dark eyebrows arched up ever so slightly. “Were we to be honest with one another? I did not realize this.”
“No, you would not,” he rejoined, looking back to the crowd. Still no sign of the priest. “You don’t often inhabit such warrens as this. I, on the other hand, regularly cavort with bandits, thieves, and the like, who inhabit such crevices of humanity as this alley, so I know such things.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw one of her cheekbones rise. She was smiling. “Ah. How convenient for me. A tutor.” She was quiet. “Cavort? Do thieves cavort?”
“You should see them around a fire.”
She laughed, a small thing. He was vaguely surprised to find probing the intent of this stranger so enjoyable. He rarely . . . enjoyed.
They were silent for a moment, an oddly companionable condition.
In front of them passed a veritable river of humanity in the throes of madness. Or rather, jubilation, but of the mad sort. Civil war was imminent. On streets from Dorset to York, there was the feel of celebration in the air, a diffuse revelry that made men drunk. And reckless. Come midnight, it would turn to violence. It always did. The realm was like a fever, bright and hectic, flush with sickness.
“I am certain I ought to be frightened of you,” she said quietly.
“You most certainly ought,” he said grimly.
“Stab you with a blade, perhaps.”
He shifted his shoulder against the wall and looked down at her. “We needn’t go that far.”
“I knew this, of course,” she mused in a cool, graceful voice. “That you were dangerous. When I first saw you.”
“When was that? When I crept up behind you in an alley?”
Again, the lift of her cheekbones, like alabaster curving. “When I espied you across the road.” She tilted her head slightly, indicating the church on the other side of the square.
Ah. She had good eyesight. He had a way of blending in, being unseen. It was part of what made him so successful. That and the ruthlessness.
“Did you now?” he murmured. “What gave me away? The alley, the skulking?”
She glanced over. “Your eyes.”
“Ah.”
“Your clothes.”
He looked down in surprise.
“The manner in which you move.”
He looked up and crossed his arms in silence, inviting her to continue. She obliged him.
“Your smell.”
&n
bsp; His arms fell. “My smell—?”
“Your smile,” she said, turning away.
“Well, that is about everything,” he said, anything to keep her talking, for she was growing more intriguing with each word that fell from her lips, although he wasn’t certain it was for the usual reasons. The vital ones, the sort that kept a man quick or made him dead.
“How do I smell, precisely? As if I am a hungry bear, or as if I am coated in the blood of my victims?”
“As if you get what you want.”
She had a good nose as well, then. Smart and comely. And lying.
She looked back at the crowds rushing past down the streets. “And what of you, sir? Are you intent on a rooster?”
“No.”
“A whore?”
He snorted.
“A head of garlic, perhaps?”
He paused, then, on impulse, told the truth. “A priest.”
She started ever so slightly, a small, repressed ripple that shook the trailing black ends of her hair, which is when he had his first suspicion things were about to go downhill to such a degree he might never climb back up again.
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