IN THE HEAT OF PASSION
“If you don’t need me, why the pout?” he asked.
Her gaze was full of daggers. “I supposed it would be much more convenient should you kill Glayer Felsteppe for me.”
“Like it was convenient for you to marry him after your father died?”
“Rather more like it was convenient for you to run away to the Holy Land rather than be humiliated by Patrice’s infidelity.”
Constantine raised his hand and Dori stepped toward him. “It’s painful, isn’t it? The truth? Especially when you’re not using it to self-deprecate like some . . . some martyr.”
“Shut up, Theodora,” he warned.
“You left your family, your home; you left the friends who helped save your life. All to serve your own agenda. When all I ever wanted was to keep what I had.”
“Shut up,” he repeated.
“And now I’m to wait on you as well, until it’s absolutely convenient for you to keep your word!”
Constantine thought that he only kissed her to ensure her silence, but in that moment after he dropped his mouth to hers, the only thing he could think of was tasting those lips that had condemned him so thoroughly . . .
Books by Heather Grothaus
THE WARRIOR
THE CHAMPION
THE HIGHLANDER
TAMING THE BEAST
NEVER KISS A STRANGER
NEVER SEDUCE A SCOUNDREL
NEVER LOVE A LORD
VALENTINE
ADRIAN
ROMAN
CONSTANTINE
HIGHLAND BEAST
(with Hannah Howell and Victoria Dahl)
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Constantine
Heather Grothaus
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
IN THE HEAT OF PASSION
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Author’s Note
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Heather Grothaus
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: February 2017
eISBN-13: 978-1-60183-402-7
eISBN-10: 1-60183-402-0
ISBN: 978-1-6018-3402-7
For EKG
Prologue
July 1179
Chastellet
Glayer Felsteppe swaggered into the king’s antechamber, his heeled boots—so vain and out of place here in this land of sand—clicking conspicuously on the red floor tiles striped black with cool shadows. None of the Templar soldiers in retreat from the heat of the day paid the thin man’s entrance any heed, and Constantine kept to his own vantage point in the shadows behind where the king sat. He had waited a long time for this moment.
Felsteppe came to a stop before Baldwin and sank to one knee, spreading his arms and dropping his head of flaming hair in a grandiose display. “You called for me, my liege?”
The king flicked his bandaged hand, releasing the man from his show of homage, but Felsteppe was too entrenched in his performance to notice. “Lord Felsteppe, it has been alleged that you have once again taken to fraternizing with Saladin’s envoys,” Baldwin said, his tone sounding more tired than irritated. “More than fraternizing.”
Felsteppe’s head snapped up and he rose, his gaze going to the darker area behind Baldwin’s chair as if by instinct.
Like a cockroach that senses the raised boot above it and skitters away before it can be stomped, Constantine thought as he emerged from the gloom. He left the evidence of the charges he had leveled still hidden on the table behind him. There would be no skittering this time.
When Felsteppe saw Constantine, his already beady eyes narrowed further before they looked back to the king of Jerusalem. “My liege, General Gerard constantly seeks to besmirch my good name with his outrageous claims. The man is clearly obsessed with me.”
Constantine said nothing, refusing to be baited.
The king’s sparse eyebrows rose. “Do you then deny that you were fraternizing with the Saracen legates?”
“I spoke with them, certainly,” Felsteppe scoffed, drawing his coiffed head back as if shocked at the absurdity of the question. “It was my duty to chaperone the men of lesser rank while you met with Saladin’s general. Unlike some”—here Felsteppe leveled a haughty look at Constantine—“I feel it would not further our cause to be overly combative. After all, Saladin sent his men seeking peace.”
“He’s seeking an end to Chastellet!” Baldwin barked and slapped his hand on the arm of his chair, causing many of the soldiers lounging about the quiet, shadowed room to glance toward the king. Adrian Hailsworth, architect of Chastellet and the only man Constantine could reliably call his friend, did not look up, absorbed as he typically was in the sheets of plans spread out before him at his table in a far corner of the room.
Baldwin ignored the looks of the soldiers. “Saladin knows that while our mighty fortress stands, there is no chance of him seizing control over the crossing at Jacob’s Ford. It’s imperative we remain, no matter the cost to us, and no matter how many dinars he offers in bribes.”
“Your communications with the Saracens were far from mere courtesy,” Constantine added, unwilling to let Felsteppe attempt to turn the charges against him into a pointless political debate. “You’re a liar. And a traitor.”
“General,” Baldwin warned in a low voice, turning his head only slightly toward Constantine. “The man shall have his say.”
“A traitor as well now, am I?” Felsteppe sneered. “And what fantasy, pray tell, have you concocted in your mind this time that I am to be held liable for?”
“Selling Templar weaponry to the Saracens. In the very bailey belonging to the men it was crafted to defend.”
At these allegations, the soldiers who had before only glanced in the direction of the king now turned toward the trio of men fully, prompting many of the rest to do the same. The quiet murmurs of conversation ceased, and an air of expectation swelled against the stone walls.
Felsteppe’s laughter cut through the silence and seemed to echo. His smile was wide as he threw up his hands. “That’s preposterous.”
Baldwin spoke. “You deny General Gerard’s accusation?”
“Of course I deny it!” Felsteppe scoffed. Constantine turned back to the table behind him while Felsteppe continued. “Surely you must see that the general’s claims become more and more outrageous? I would never—”
His words were cut off as Constantine turned, his arms laden, and tossed the evidence to the floor between Baldwin and Felsteppe. If any in the room hadn’t been paying attention before, the echoing crash and clatter of weaponry ensured that all eyes were on the three men at the head of the tense room.
Even Adrian looked up from his plans.
Felsteppe stared at Constantine for a moment, but then blinked and shrugged. “Am I supposed to be moved by this rather noisy display?”
“The weapons you sold the Saracens,” Constantine clarified through gritted teeth.
Again Felsteppe laughed. “Oh, really? Then why are they in your possession rather than the Saracens I supposedly sold them to?” He rolled his eyes.
“I bought them all back,” Constantine said. “From General Abdal himself.”
Felsteppe looked to the king with an air of exasperation. “Ridiculous, my liege. It is Gerard’s word against mine. Perhaps a Saracen’s, as well, if even his scheme went so far.”
Baldwin was staring at Felsteppe, but when he spoke, his words were directed at Constantine.
“How much did Abdal claim he paid?”
“Three hundred dinars, my liege,” Constantine said.
“That is a paltry amount for such steel.” Baldwin looked away for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. “Judd,” he called out, and his summons was answered at once by a lanky soldier who levered himself aright from a woven mat beneath a far window, shuttered against the baking heat.
Judd bowed before the king. “My liege.”
“Take possession of Lord Felsteppe’s purse, there on his belt,” Baldwin commanded. “Empty it before us all, and let it be counted and the nature of the contents noted.”
Constantine’s jaw clenched as he saw the panic enter Felsteppe’s eyes and the man’s hand twitch toward the bulging leather packet hanging upon his side.
Judd turned to Felsteppe, his palm out. “If you please.”
Now Felsteppe’s hand did cover the purse, as if trying to protect it. He looked up at Baldwin. “My liege, I am greatly disappointed that you would think I—”
Baldwin interrupted. “Take it off, Lord Felsteppe. Or I shall have Judd do it for you.”
Felsteppe’s bony throat convulsed. He hesitated only a moment more before loosening the purse strap from his belt, his voice trembling noticeably when next he spoke.
“I cannot see how the contents of my purse could possibly incriminate me. It is common knowledge that all men in this country must trade in many currencies. I-I—” He struggled with the knot for a moment, and Constantine thought his fingers must be shaking. He at last worked the strap free and handed the weighty purse to Judd before looking once more to Baldwin, his pointed chin lifted. “I have done nothing wrong.”
Judd turned slightly and dropped to one knee, so that his actions could be seen by both Felsteppe and the king. As he opened the purse, a handful of Templar soldiers rose and drew nearer, not daring to encroach on the scene outright but clearly interested in the outcome of Judd’s accounting.
The tinkling wash of coins on the tile floor was like sudden rain on a roof, and even before Judd began to sort the coins near the pile of weaponry, Constantine knew. He knew from the raises and shadows of the coin faces; the color of the metal; the number of stacks equal in height.
“Three hundred dinars, my liege,” Judd said without emotion. “Two pieces of Chastellet gold; one penny.”
The men gathered outside the circle raised their voices in sudden outrage, and Felsteppe seemed to shrink away from the crowd, turning to face them, backing closer to the wall.
“It’s not as you think!” he cried. He looked to Baldwin, his eyes wild. “My liege, I—”
Baldwin stood. “Clear the chamber!” he shouted, and then looked around at the angry group of soldiers. “Clear the chamber!” The king waited, his chest visibly rising and falling as the Templars streamed through the far door, leaving Felsteppe and Constantine—and the once more oblivious Adrian Hailsworth—alone with Baldwin.
“It’s not as you think,” Felsteppe repeated, then licked his lips, advancing a step toward Baldwin. “These pieces are clearly broken, useless; surely Gerard retrieved them from a refuse heap. I-I—”
“The pieces were discarded. For repair,” Constantine growled. “Regardless of any excuse you might concoct for your thievery, you cannot deny the coin in your purse.”
“Constantine,” the king warned. He looked back to the accused man. “You understand that every allegation General Gerard has levied against you now has many times more weight.”
“He is a danger to Chastellet, my liege,” Constantine insisted, the words out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
Baldwin looked between the two men with a sigh. “I was to leave for Tiberias on the morrow and I’ll be damned if the pair of you will cause me to shirk my duties.” His eyes pinned Felsteppe. “You were to be left in charge of the hold during my absence, but it could mean danger to the fortress or yourself should I leave you unattended—with or without my authority. You shall accompany me to Tiberias.”
Felsteppe’s jaw flexed, his sneer just below the surface of his skin. “As you wish, of course. My liege.”
Then Baldwin turned to Constantine. “Which means that you, General Gerard, must continue to attend your duties at Chastellet until my return.”
No; no, no, no.
“Bal—my liege, surely you have forgotten that I was to depart for my home within the fortnight. Am I to be punished for bringing the actions of a thief and a traitor to light?”
“I have not forgotten. Nor do I mean to punish you, Constantine,” Baldwin said, and although he had twice used Constantine’s given name, the king’s tone was still stern. “But what did you think would happen if your accusations were found true? Would you now leave Chastellet in his care?”
Felsteppe’s face reddened further, but he was wise enough not to comment. It was Constantine who felt the fool now.
“What of Hailsworth?” Constantine said, pointing toward the man still hunched over his plans in the corner. “He’s been in residence as long as I. And he’s titled. Surely he could—”
“No.” Adrian Hailsworth did not so much as look up as he called out. “Not a soldier. Don’t care about the lot of you.”
When Constantine looked back at Baldwin, the king had one eyebrow raised. “It’s a short journey. You will be free of my tyranny forever upon my return.”
It was not in Constantine’s nature to beg, but he could not help expressing the yearning pain in his heart. “I want to go home, Baldwin. My son was only four when I last saw him—little more than a baby; Christian’s nearly seven now. He needs me. Have I not served you faithfully for two years?”
“You have, and I am grateful. But you’ll stay until my return or risk besmirching an otherwise exceptional career.” Baldwin paused and then pressed, “Your answer, General?”
Constantine’s anger simmered. “As you wish, my liege.”
Baldwin turned to Felsteppe. “I’ve not passed judgment on you before the men as of yet and so you will probably be safe. All the same, it is best if you do not encroach on the soldiers’ common areas this eventide.” He glanced at the piles of coin and weaponry still on the floor. “You may, however, see the return of your purse and your penny.”
The king turned and, as he limped toward the doors that led to his private chambers, called out, “And do pick up the mess on the floor before you’re off.” He slung the door closed with a crash behind him.
Constantine looked back at Glayer Felsteppe, whose reddened, watery eyes and curled lip gave evidence to his rage.
“You son of a bitch,” Felsteppe snarled. “You just couldn’t stomach the idea of me being in charge of Chastellet
, could you?”
“I couldn’t care less who Baldwin retains to fill my appointment after I am gone,” Constantine replied, turning his back on the loathsome man to walk to the large cask mounted on its side against the wall. He watched the liquid flow into his cup and wished it was wine. “But while I am responsible for the welfare of this hold, I will report anything I feel the king needs be aware of. Especially if it is of a traitorous nature.”
“You’re only trying to further your rank,” Felsteppe continued behind him as Constantine raised his cup to his lips and let the cool water flood his mouth. “Lazy, entitled bastard! You deserve not even the tiniest fraction of the power you claim at Chastellet.”
Constantine swallowed and then sighed, his eyes trained on the smooth stone above the cask. He called to mind the verdant landscape stretching out around Benningsgate, the wet greenness of the very air in her forests. He imagined sitting in his own hall of an even, drinking from his own casks and speaking of things such as crops and flocks and servants. Hearing the gossip about the town. He thought of the moment—delayed now, true, but only by weeks—he would approach Benningsgate and see the blond little boy running for him, leaping into Constantine’s arms....
He felt slightly calmer. “Any power I have here has come hand in hand with my duties, and both were given to me after I proved myself worthy.”
Felsteppe sputtered. “Did you earn your title? Benningsgate Castle? Did you work your way into your earldom? Your wife’s bed? I’ve heard the latter at least can be done with little effort.”
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