Tori Phillips

Dedication
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Books by Tori Phillips
About the Author
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
Epilogue
Copyright

Critical acclaim for Tori Phillips

“... historical romance reading at its absolute best.”

—
Affaire de Coeur

“A delightful Elizabethan romp.”

—Ruth Ryan Langan

“A great read!”

—Dixie Browning

“A delight to read...charming.”

—Suzanne Barclay

“... packed with love, adventure, history...I enjoyed it immensely.”

—Rebecca Hagan Lee

“I loved this story!...Tarleton (the hero) is pure magic!”

—Martha Hix

“A stunning debut for Ms. Phillips...”

—Rendezvous

Dear Reader,

Tori Phillips’s first book,
Fool’s Paradise
, won her a prestigious Maggie Award even before she sold it to Harlequin Historicals for release during our 1996 March Madness promotion of talented new authors. This month Tori Phillips returns with another unforgettable story,
Silent Knight
. Despite
his
vow of silence and the fact that
she
is promised to another, a would-be monk and a French noblewoman fall in love on a delightful journey across medieval England. Don’t miss this wonderful book.

The Wastrel
introduces a new series of Victorian romance novels from award-winning author Margaret Moore, featuring a trio of “most unsuitable” heroes that she has aptly named MOST UNSUITABLE....
The Wastrel
is the magical story of a disowned heiress and a devil-may-care bachelor who learn about love with the help of her colorful relatives.

A Western by Rae Muir, another author from our 1996 March Madness promotion,
The Trail to Temptation
, about a star-crossed couple who fight their attraction on a trail drive from Texas to Montana, and
The Devil’s Kiss
, a romantic comedy from longtime Harlequin Historicals Western writer, DeLoras Scott, round out a terrific month.

Whatever your taste in reading, we hope Harlequin Historicals will keep you coming back for more. Please keep a lookout for all four titles, available wherever books are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to: Harlequin Reader Service U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

TORI PHILLIPS

Silent Knight

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

Books by Tori Phillips

Harlequin Historicals

Fool’s Paradise
#307
Silent Knight
#343

TORI PHILLIPS

After receiving her degree in theater arts from the University of San Diego, Tori worked at MGM Studios, acted in numerous summer stock musicals and appeared in Paramount Pictures’
The Great GatsBy
. Her plays, published by Dramatic Publishing Co., have been produced in the U.S. and Canada, and her poetry is included in several anthologies. She has directed over forty plays, including twenty-one Shakespeare productions. Currently she is a first-person, Living History actress at the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C. She lives with her husband in Burke, VA.

My heartfelt thanks and bags of chocolate kisses to:
my agent, Mary Sue Seymour; and my editors,
Tracy Farrell and Karen Kosztolnyik, for
believing in me;
my guardian angels. Kathryn Falk, Lady Barrow;
Carol Stacy; Kate Ryan and Karen Armstrong for
pushing the “Start Now” button;
my mentors, Suzanne Barclay, Linda Castle and
Martha Hix for keeping me on the right track;
my writer friends, Jenny Bates; Katie Beach;
Margo Columbus; Margot Early; Gwynne Forster;
Sharon Frye; Karen Gromada; Loree &
Threasa Leatherman; Ammanda McCabe;
Rita Madole, Debbie Martin; Marlene Million;
Betsy Morgan; Ginger Rapsus; Kimber Rowe;
Shelia Sampson; Karen Skuce; Karen Smith;
Debbie Staley; Mara Segal; Audri Taylor,
Cindy Walker, Karen Webb and all the ladies of the
Society of the Purple Prose for your warmth, humor,
encouragement and love; and to the Write Knight,
Steve Sandalis, for his heroic inspiration,
his great letters and his fantastic smile.

Chapter One

Tie up my love’s tongue and bring him silently. A Midsummer Night’s Dream

October 1528

On the Bristol-to-Chester Post Road

“M
on Dieu
! Aunt Marguerite, are you much hurt?” Heedless of the pelting rain, Lady Celeste de Montcalm knelt in the viscous black mud of the roadside ditch beside the limp form of her aunt. The brown rivulet that filled the bottom of the ditch quickly soaked the skirts of Celeste’s burgundy velvet gown. With trembling fingers, she lifted the soggy headdress and sheer veil from the older woman’s graying hair, then unfastened the heavy woolen traveling cloak that pulled against her neck. She held the wet garment over them both, in- an attempt to shield them from the downpour.

“Aunt Marguerite?” Celeste swallowed back the iron taste of apprehension that rose in her throat. Her beloved companion’s face, usually so rosy, now looked the color of yesterday’s ashes. “I pray you, sweet Aunt, speak to me!” Far from answering her niece, Marguerite barely breathed. Strong hands grasped Celeste’s shoulders. “By the sword of Saint George, my lady, come under the cover of the trees. You’ll catch your death in this damnable English weather.” Gaston, his voice grown hoarse from years of commanding green-willow youths, spoke with gruff gentleness in her ear. “I shall attend your good aunt.”

“Non!”
Celeste shook herself free of his grip. “I will not leave her side for a moment. I cannot let her die!”

Swearing a string of colorful words heard more usually in the taverns of Paris, Gaston vented his frustration upon the five men-at-arms and the white-faced driver who strove to lift the overturned wagon off the unconscious lady.

“Move, you filthy lice! Put your backs to it! What are you? Coney rabbits?”

Ignoring her sergeant’s language, Celeste focused her attention on the faint rise and fall of Marguerite’s spare bosom. The good Lord be praised! She lived yet! Clasping her aunt’s hand in hers, Celeste willed her young strength into Marguerite’s fragile body. The side of the baggage wagon that pinned the woman against the wall of the ditch barely moved, despite the combined efforts of the men.

Shielding her eyes against the cold, driving rain of the autumn storm, Celeste scanned the flat countryside about them. Farmers’ fields, recently harvested, lay in dark boggy patches, relieved here and there by sheltering trees, whose black dripping branches released the last of this year’s leaves. She gnawed her lower lip as her gaze swept across the unpromising scene. If a troubadour wove this latest misadventure into verse, several handsome knights would come galloping down the road any minute, led by the darkly handsome Sir Lancelot. Alas, this was no story sung by a hearth fire or illustrated in one of her father’s precious books. The rain pelting against her face hid the tears Celeste couldn’t stop from rolling down her cheeks. She must not let her men know how truly frightened she was. A dark, square building, half-hidden by a rise in the landscape, suddenly caught her attention.

“Gaston, regardez!”
She pointed across the flooded fields. “A house, and of goodly size, I think.”

Gaston let go the near wheel and squinted in the direction his mistress pointed.
“Oui
, my lady. And pray God they understand French, for there’s not a man among us who speaks this bastard country’s tongue.” He motioned to the young driver who attended the horses under a roadside copse of elm trees. “You, Pierre! There’s a house of some sort ahead. Don’t snivel and ask me where. Mount up my Black Devil and ride for help.”

The slim boy nodded, then flung himself into Gaston’s saddle.

“And if you value the hide on your skinny arse, do not return without goodly company!” Gaston shouted after Pierre as the boy urged the great stallion into a gallop. “Pah! I may skin him like a coney if he mistreats my horse!” the sergeant growled into the gale.

Celeste shook the droplets out of her eyes. “Please, good Saint Catherine. Let whoever they are understand Pierre!” she prayed, her words snatched from her lips by the wind. Her veil whipped into her face, wrapping her features within its wet white folds. Angrily she snatched the bothersome thing off her head, allowing her raven tresses to fly freely about her. A low groan returned her attention to her aunt.

Marguerite’s eyelids fluttered, blinked, then opened. For a scant moment, the woman stared past Celeste, and then her face crumpled into a portrait of pain.

“I am dying!” Marguerite wheezed. Then, in a clearer tone, she snapped. “What happened?”

Celeste’s heart leapt with joy. If Marguerite could complain and question at the same time, she was certainly not dying.

“Hush, sweet darling,” Celeste crooned, in much the same way Aunt Marguerite had often comforted her and her sisters when they were younger. “Don’t try to move. The wagon hit a rock in the roadway. It broke one of the wheels and bounced you out. Then the wagon fell on top of you. Are you badly hurt?” she added, hoping to sound calm and in control of the situation.

Marguerite rolled her eyes.
“Oui
, silly child! Of course I am hurt! And what is that ox Gaston doing about it, one asks? Swearing death and destruction, as always? Fah! We never should have set foot on this cursed island! Why couldn’t you have stayed in the Loire and become a nun?” Marguerite groaned loudly again.

Celeste kissed her aunt’s hand and murmured foolish endearments, all the while hoping to hear the sound of horses approaching. Where was that laggard Pierre?

“Bonjour,
Lady Marguerite!” said Gaston, peering over Celeste’s shoulder. “We shall have you free in no time.”

Marguerite glared at the rough-hewn soldier. “In no time? Ha! You speak true, you slug. Time will run out before you can manage to relieve me of this burden. Then where will I be, eh? With the angels in heaven, that’s where!”

“I predict your good aunt will recover,” Gaston muttered in Celeste’s ear. “Her tongue still holds a sharp sting.”

The wagon shifted slightly. Gaston threw his weight against it, growling down a great number of oaths upon drivers, horses, English roads, English weather, and England in general. His scarred brown leather boots slid down the muddy embankment as he fought against the unwieldy weight.

“Courage, good Aunt. Pierre has gone for help.”

“Bah!” Marguerite grimaced. “A great heap of good that will do! ’Tis like sending a tortoise to market!” She groaned again, though Celeste could not tell if it was more for effect than from pain. Aunt Marguerite’s convenient headaches and mysterious stomach disorders were legendary among the extended Montcalm family. This time, however, the older woman indeed had something to complain about.

“I am not surprised this happened. A witch put her curse on us from the moment we landed, I am sure of it.” She sighed. “Why must your parents send you to this godforsaken country simply to be married?” Marguerite continued, her voice growing weaker. “Just wait until I next see your father! I tell you truly, Lissa. I shall deal him such a blow upon his ear, he will see stars at midday!”