A Knight's Temptation (30 page)

Far wiser to nurture those seedlings of doubt she’d strewn in this meadow and bind Geoffrey, emotionally, to Tye, who’d one day seize all from his sire. If she had her way, Tye would run a sword straight through Geoffrey.

Touching her little boy’s shoulder, she said, “You are unkind, milord. I speak only the truth.”

“Ah.” The faintest smile touched Geoffrey’s lips. “Then show me the pendant. Prove to me you meant to return it to me, as you wrote in your missive.”

A scream burned in her throat. She trapped it, silenced it, before it betrayed her. “You care more for that pendant”—she forced a shocked tone—“than your own son?”

A low chuckle broke from Geoffrey, a sound that mocked every gloating thought she’d savored during this meeting. “As I expected. You never intended to relinquish the pendant.” He looked to the man at his right and nodded.

The riders aimed their weapons. At her and the mercenaries.

Her arms tightened around Tye. He choked a sob, and fear whipped through her. If they dared to hurt her son . . . But the Geoffrey she knew wouldn’t harm a child. Above all, one who might be of his own flesh and blood.

Tye quivered. “Mama,” he whispered, pointing to the riders. “S-scared.”

She hated the way his shaking voice made her ache inside. “Shh,” she soothed. “I will protect you.” She met Geoffrey’s stare. Compassion flickered in his eyes.

“No one needs to come to harm,” he said. “Put the boy down. Hold your arms out at your sides, Veronique, where I can see them. You and Sedgewick will surrender to my men, and there will be no bloodshed.”

“And then what?”

“I will arrest you both for the crimes you committed years ago. Once you’re securely imprisoned, I will investigate your whereabouts over the past years and discover if there are any more offenses.”

A gritty laugh broke from her. “How easy for you, once I have surrendered, to simply kill me here. ’Tis the most convenient choice for you, aye?”

“Veronique—”

“Next, will you murder Tye, so your
respectable
lady wife and children will never know of him?”

“M-Mama,” Tye whimpered. Tears welled in his eyes.

Geoffrey signaled again to his men. The riders didn’t move, but she sensed the confrontation had advanced to the next stage. Her grasp on the moment was slipping away.

She shifted Tye in her arms. His little arms and legs flailed, and he shrieked as she flipped him so he faced Geoffrey and his men. Her arm across his stomach, she pinned him against her body.

“
Mama!
”

“Look at him,” she cried, dodging his fists and the backward thrust of his head. “Look upon your son. Your bastard. Look well, for he will destroy you!”

“Veronique!” Geoffrey snapped. “Put the boy down.”

“Never!”

“Do as I ordered. I do not want to harm him or you.”

Tye screamed. “
M-Mama!
”

Geoffrey kicked his horse forward. “God’s blood! You will hurt him.”

Triumph burst from her in a gleeful laugh. At last, she’d reached him. Grabbing fistfuls of her skirt, she yanked it aside to snatch the dagger from her thigh. She shoved the knife against Tye’s neck.

Her little boy screeched.

“If you care what happens to him,” she shouted, “do not come any closer. Tell your men to stay away.” She stepped backward, toward the line of mercenaries.

Geoffrey halted his horse. Blowing hard, it jerked its head, the
chime
of the bridle sharp in the eerie silence.

“Veronique.” Geoffrey’s voice sounded taut. “Do you really care for your son?”

Still moving backward, she laughed. “
Our
son, milord. Of course I do.”

“Yet you put him in jeopardy. You brought him here knowing there would be a confrontation and even bloodshed. You hold a knife to his throat. Why do such things?”

Why, indeed
.

Tye bawled, his body shaking in gulping sobs. He sounded terrified. She fought the inconvenient, motherly need to turn him to face her, kiss his cheek, and hug him. “I know you are miserable, Tye. Look well upon your father,” she said in a voice loud enough to carry. “Remember how he refused to acknowledge you. Remember all he has denied you. What happens from this day on is
his
fault.”

“Enough!” Geoffrey roared. “For the boy’s safety, put him down. Let one of my men take him away from here. ’Tis no place for a child.”

Give up her means to Geoffrey’s downfall? Give up her son, who provided the perfect shield against any attempts to kill her?

“’Tis the right decision, Veronique.”

“I think not.” Her next backward step brought her alongside a mercenary holding a broadsword. Several other men stood beside him.

“If you cooperate,” Geoffrey said, “I will let Tye visit you in the dungeon.”

She laughed, a ruthless, disparaging chuckle that echoed through the meadow. “You have lost, milord.”

A muscle flexed in his jaw.

“Look upon your son, so very different from the boy your wife birthed you.”

Geoffrey’s face tautened. “How do you know—”

“Tye will grow up to despise you.” She edged toward the forest and the horses tethered there earlier.

“I will not ask again,” Geoffrey barked. “Surrender—”

“He will kill you!”

She spun and raced into the undergrowth, while lowering the knife. Tye bounced in her arms. He screamed. A low branch slapped her arm, and he screamed again.

Shouts, whinnies, and thudded hoofbeats erupted from the meadow.

“Do not harm the boy!” Geoffrey yelled.

Veronique smirked. How noble. From Geoffrey, however, she expected no less.

Arrows whistled through the air. With a
thud
, one embedded in a nearby tree. She raced on, ignoring the brush grabbing at her gown.

Footsteps crashed behind her. Raising her dagger, she whirled, to see Sedgewick approaching.

“Mercenaries,” he wheezed, while wiping his face. “Fighting de Lanceau.”

The
clang
of swords carried from the meadow. Cries. Screams of pain.

Through the trees ahead, she spied their horses, and the four mercenaries left to guard them.

Turning Tye in her arms, she let his head settle into the crook between her neck and shoulder. As he cried against her, she grinned at the baron. “To Pryerston Keep. I cannot wait to celebrate our victory.”

Chapter Eighteen

With a firm tug, Aldwin tightened the strap of his destrier’s saddle, the familiar smells of leather and horse a reminder of the ride ahead. And his duty, soon to be fulfilled.

Looking up at the sky, he found the sun behind the trees near Neale’s barn. Midmorning already, but if he and Leona rode with only short stops, they should reach Branton Keep by nightfall.

Startled squawks erupted near the front door of Neale’s cottage. Soot had flopped into the dirt among a crowd of chickens, inviting Leona to scratch her belly. Dressed once again in her own clothes that Gillian had cleaned yestereve, Leona dropped to her knees and gave the dog’s chest a hearty rubbing. Soot groaned, a sound of utter delight.

“Silly dog,” she murmured.

Aldwin tried not to let his gaze linger—they must begin their journey—but he couldn’t stop his gaze from traveling over Leona’s profile. How vibrant she seemed, her face aglow and her tresses shining in the sunlight. He wished he could see her that way every day.

Concentrating again on the saddle, he forced himself to think of what needed to be done before their travels. Not an easy task, when memories of her lying beneath him, panting, wanting, made him want to drag her back inside the cottage and finish what they’d begun. To sit another whole day with her thighs brushing his . . . Argh!

Leona glanced at him. That one look shot heat straight to his loins.

He averted his gaze and ensured, for the third time, that his saddlebag was secured.
Keep focused, you besotted fool
. Until they were safely within Branton’s walls, his beautiful captive still might try to flee. She’d already proven to be more resourceful than any woman he’d ever known.

Rom snuffled at Aldwin’s shoulder, clearly eager to be on the move. Patting the horse’s glossy side, he turned toward Leona. “We must be on our way.”

Leona rose.

Good. She wasn’t fighting him. He deliberately hadn’t told her that only Neale’s wife and babe were within earshot. Neale had left earlier to deliver eggs and finish other business in the town; his older children had gone to work the fields. If Leona knew so few were around, she might try to run. Neither did he want another confrontation this morning.

With his booted foot, he pushed over a wooden mounting block. Holding tight to Rom’s reins, he waved to the horse’s back. “After you, Lioness.”

A hint of rebellion touched her gaze. Still, she stepped up onto the mounting block, reached up to the front of the saddle, and hauled herself up. Straightening out her gown and cloak, she stared down at him, her hair shot with gold.

Aldwin swung up behind her. Rom sidestepped, rocking Leona’s body more snugly against Aldwin’s. He didn’t shift away—and neither did she.

Surprise spread through him, along with a sense that in some significant way, their relationship had changed.

Setting aside the thought to ponder later, he checked his weapons one final time, and then nudged Rom with his heels. The destrier wheeled toward the main road.

“Will we reach Branton Keep today?” Leona asked, her voice carrying over Rom’s rhythmic hoofbeats.

“Aye.” He’d make certain they did.

“What will . . . happen to me there?”

Aldwin longed to draw her close, kiss her hair, and assure her all would be well; he’d do all he could to spare her from the consequences of her sire’s willingness to help Veronique and the baron. Yet Aldwin had heard only her account of the situation at Pryerston. There might be far more she hadn’t told him, because she’d wanted to protect herself or her father. De Lanceau must undertake a full investigation, and Aldwin dared not guess what his lord might or might not decide.

No doubt unsettled by his silence, Leona twisted around to look at him.

“I cannot say,” Aldwin answered. “’Tis a matter for de Lanceau to decide.”

Leona’s expression turned pensive. “Surely you have some say in the matter.”

He resisted the lure of her tempting mouth. As much as he cared for her and hoped for a happy resolution, his vow bound him to his lord, not her. So close to achieving his lifelong ambition, he’d be a fool to let her stand between him and knighthood. “I will report on what occurred over the past days,” he said, looking across the lush green field on the road’s right side. “I will make my recommendations. I cannot promise, though, that my lord will accept my suggestions.”

“Or mine.”

Glancing back at her, Aldwin raised his brows.

“I am a loyal subject. Should I not have an opportunity to offer my thoughts?”

Aldwin glanced again at the field, where birds swooped to catch insects. De Lanceau was a just man; he’d let her speak. “I am sure you will have your say.”

“Good.”

Unease coursed through him at the determination in her voice. With tears brimming in her eyes, she might portray Aldwin to be a cruel knave who, although he knew she was a noblewoman, had treated her with dishonor. The red mark on her wrist would support her claim. If she handed the pendant to de Lanceau, insisting she’d meant to return it to him all along, she’d have his gratitude.

Aldwin focused on the dust-blown road ahead. If that moment came, he’d defend his actions. So he hadn’t treated Leona like a delicate flower. He’d done what he believed was necessary to succeed in his mission—and get his willful captive to cooperate. After Aldwin’s years of diligent service, de Lanceau knew Aldwin’s character. Moreover, de Lanceau knew how headstrong women could be; his own lady wife was as stubborn as Leona.

The saddle creaked as Leona faced forward. She said no more. Did she believe she’d had the last word? He’d let her believe such.

Ahead, a church steeple rose over the roofs of two-story townhomes, and Aldwin thought back to Neale’s sketch in the dirt that morning. After collecting a fresh supply of crossbow bolts from the blacksmith—an associate of Neale’s who knew a good armorer and owed Neale a favor—Aldwin would head for the road scoured out centuries ago by the Romans. Neale had insisted this road ran straight and true toward Branton Keep’s lands. This route would be safer than lesser known roads, too, since ’twas well-traveled.

The scent of baking bread, the
clang
of a hammer, and merchants’ shouts guided Aldwin through the town to the cobbled square cornered by the stone church.

“The door,” Leona said as they rode near. “Just as I remembered.”

A semicircle of intertwined carvings above the doorway merged into two figures—a man and woman—wrapped around with leafy vines. The figures stood on either side of the wooden door banded with wrought iron.

“See the serpent?” With her finger in the air, she traced the carved snake slithering over the doorway. Then she pointed to the figures. “Adam. Eve.”

“Impressive.” How many men had seen these doors and pondered their own temptations?

He dragged his gaze from Leona’s awed face and headed Rom into the square. Townhouses rose toward the sky. Assorted shops, situated on the homes’ ground levels, featured leather goods, pottery, clothes, and other wares set out on fold-down wooden shutters.

A tavern sprawled along the square’s opposite side; its sign, held by worn rope, hung at an angle above the door. Horses stood by a water trough, while townsfolk, arriving by cart or on foot, chatted or made their way to make their purchases.

Shielding his eyes against the glare of sunlight, Aldwin searched for the blacksmith’s. There. By the baker’s shop. He guided Rom through a gap in the crowd.

As he drew near, Aldwin caught sight of a broad-shouldered man with unkempt black hair standing by a forge, examining a yellow-hot horseshoe at the end of a pair of iron tongs. Shaking his head, the blacksmith set the horseshoe on an anvil and brought his hammer down with a sharp
clong
.