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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
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
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Kat Martin
Copyright
For the family I rarely see—my uncles and aunts and cousins. Though we are
scattered like seeds on the wind, I think of you warmly and often.
John Crowder and Owen Moore; Bonnie and Ted Hawthorne; Marilyn and
Lionel Oliveira, Kris, Jerry, and Adrianna; Rob Crowder, Rebecca and Matthew;
Rocky and Arlene Loop, Jason and Dawn; Rick and Debbie Loop; Sheila and
Sherri; Betty Pugh, Bob, Bobbie, Carol and Marla, Lollie and Al Short; Geri
Wilson; Ross and Sandra Kelly; Mary Ruth Ledbetter, Joannie and Megan. I
wish you love, luck, and happiness—each and every one.
A special thanks to my great and good friend Wanda Handley for her help on
this and other of my books.
Chapter One
England, 1069
She should have been afraid. A goodly number of Saxon warriors had fled the
sight of him in full battle dress, yet Ral saw no fear in the bright blue eyes that
searched his face. From beneath his conical helmet, he watched her walk toward
him, her small hand offering him a bright bouquet of flowers. She smiled,
heedless of the dried blood darkening his chain mail hauberk or the fierce black
dragon on his shield.
She should have been afraid, yet she only came closer, curious but strangely
serene, interested, almost eager, as if she had found a new friend.
Ral shifted in his saddle, uneasy at her regard. The huge black destrier
beneath him stomped and blew, then perked its ears and turned its head toward
the lovely black-haired maid who stood no higher than the horse’s massive
withers.
Raolfe de Gere would have sworn he had never seen a more beautiful woman
or a smile more winsome than the one that brightened the young woman’s face.
She looked no more than eighteen summers, with a body ripe for a man and a
radiance in her cheeks that said she might welcome one. Yet surprisingly the
feelings she stirred were of a different sort entirely. Feelings of hearth and home
and an end to the blood and the fighting.
She said nothing, just lifted her small bouquet. Ral reached out a gauntleted
hand and took it. When his fingers brushed hers, her smile grew broader, and he
gave her a weary smile in return. He waited for her to speak, curious to hear the
sound of her voice but reluctant to break the spell she had woven. He wondered
where she had come from and what could be her name.
*
Where could her sister have gone? Caryn of Ivesham rounded the large granite
boulder and searched among the oak trees off to the right. Sweet Mary, she had
only been gone for a moment; Gweneth could not have gotten far.
Caryn scanned the meadow then the knoll at the opposite end. The pale blue
tunic rippling softly in the breeze could only be Gweneth’s, but beside her—
Holy Mother of God—Caryn’s breath caught in her throat. The Dark Knight! A
black dragon on a field of bloodred. Raolfe the Relentless! And there stood
Gweneth, painfully unaware, offering him a cluster of posies.
Lifting the hem of her forest green tunic, her heart slamming hard against her
ribs, Caryn raced across the meadow.
“Gweneth!” she shouted. By all that’s holy. “Gweneth!” But her sister did
not turn and Caryn didn’t stop running. Not until she reached the girl’s side and
stared into the hard dark features of the huge Norman knight astride his big black
horse. Ral the Relentless, the man who had been sweeping across the country,
harrying the north in King William’s name, determined to squelch the rebellion.
“Let her go!” Caryn cried, the words a bit irrational since the man merely sat
upon his steed. The huge knight said nothing, just kept staring at Gweneth as if
she were some fey creature from another world, which in a way she was.
“I pray thee,” Caryn said, “my sister means no harm. ’Tis not her way to be
wary. She does not understand. She is not…” What could she say about
Gweneth? About the world in which she lived, about her sweetness, her
gentleness? But looking at the Dark Knight’s face, it seemed there was no need.
“She is lovely,” he said with soft reverence, as if he joined her in that place
faraway. Then he straightened in his saddle, so tall he blocked the sun. Black
hair shone beneath his helmet, worn longer than most of the Normans she had
seen, his jaw strong, his skin swarthy. For the first time, his attention turned to
Caryn and any hint of softness in his manner swiftly fled.
“You should not be out here. There are men in these woods, knights and
men-at-arms fresh from battle who would do you grave harm. Surely you know
’tis not safe to be about in these times.” He spoke to her in Saxon, not fluently,
but well enough to be understood.
“We were on our way home from the village,” Caryn lied, for in truth they
had merely been escaping a dreary day in the hall. “We mistook our way but we
have found it now. We will return home at once.”
“You are no peasant. From the looks of your clothes, you are highborn, both
of you. You should be better tended.”
Caryn stiffened. “’Tis no concern of yours. I tend my sister well enough—
better than anyone else. I can take care of us both!” She grabbed Gweneth’s arm,
but her sister pulled free. Smiling, Gweneth reached a hand to the tall knight
above her. Caryn’s eyes went wide when the huge knight reached down and
grasped it, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Go,” he said, looking back at Caryn, his voice once more harsh and rough.
“Return to your home before trouble finds you. The next man you cross may
seek far more than friendship. Go!”
Caryn swallowed and backed away. With a sharp tug on her sister’s arm, she
hauled Gweneth away toward a copse of trees. She was shaking by the time they
reached the forest, though Gweneth merely strolled along beside her, picking up
more spring flowers, the towering dark man on the knoll already forgotten.
Thinking of their narrow escape, Caryn leaned against a boxwood tree and
released a breath of relief. He was so big! One blow of his massive fist could end
the life of a man. It was said he’d slain dozens of Saxon warriors, that he had
raped and pillaged all the way from the coast. The image she saw instead was
one of the huge dark Norman holding the small bouquet of posies, of him gently
squeezing her sister’s hand.
Caryn frowned, unable to puzzle it out. They should’t have come out today.
She had known that from the start, but the Normans were rumored to be miles
away and she had been cooped up in the hall far too long.
She thought of the Dark Knight’s words, that she and Gweneth should be
better tended. In truth, her uncle rarely knew where she was and, she suspected,
was most times relieved when she and Gweneth were not underfoot. Besides,
Ivesham wasn’t in danger. Though her uncle’s sympathies lay with his Saxon
brothers, he had staunchly pretended loyalty to the king.
None knew of his rebel sympathies. Not even Caryn, until she had overheard
him one night in the hall.
She let go of her sister’s hand and leaned down to pluck a perky yellow
marigold. The day was so perfect, so sunny and warm. She glanced at the
cloudless blue sky with yearning. There was little to do in the hall, save for the
usual women’s work which she hated. Caryn kicked a pebble with the toe of her
cloth shoe then heard it alight in a nearby pond.
She should return to Ivesham—and she would—but what harm could there
be in an hour or two delay? The Dark Knight was gone, they would take better
care, and no other would come upon them. They could enjoy the pond, spend a
bit more time in the sun, then she and Gweneth would go home.
*
Ral stared at the trees where the girls had disappeared, torn between his worry
for the beautiful black-haired maid and his need to return to his men. So far the
rebels had been routed, but there was always the chance they might return. If that
happened, his men would need him.
Beneath his helm and heavy chain mail, the sun beat down unmercifully,
making him uncomfortably warm. Satan, his big black destrier, pawed the earth
with growing irritation, yet Ral’s thoughts remained on the lovely young girl
who had tried to befriend him, who for a few short moments had blotted out the
horrors of war. Surely the little maids would do as he bade and return to the
safety of their home. But recalling the saucy auburn-haired girl who had faced
him with such defiance, he wasn’t so sure.
He smiled to think of it, then swore an oath at her foolishness in wandering
the fields alone. She was hardly the beauty her sister was, yet in time she might
come into her own. Both of the women were tiny and fair, the auburn-haired
maid far thinner, still at the gawky stage before womanhood. He wondered what
she would look like when she was a woman grown.
He glanced their way one last time. ’Twas needless to worry. He had seen the
younger girl tremble at the roughness in his voice. Even she would not be foolish
enough to disobey his command. He looked down at the flowers in his hand and
their fragrance stirred a memory of clear blue eyes and incredible sweetness.
Reluctantly, he tossed the flowers away and rode back toward his men.
*
