A Knight In Her Arms (Knights of Passion) Read online

  There were five of them, boys, whom Stephen the would-be-king had gathered together for safety. Their fathers were his strongest supporters, lords and barons who had been killed in the battle for the throne between Stephen and his cousin Matilda. He placed them in an orphanage connected to a monastery and there he trained them to grow into knightly warriors. The tattoo upon their arms proclaimed their allegiance to the king and each other, and their determination to win back their destiny.

  A KNIGHT IN HER ARMS by EVIE NORTH

  (KNIGHTS OF PASSION)

  ***

  Copyright © 2012 Evie North

  KINDLE EDITION

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to institutions or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  1150AD England

  Isabella listened to the sounds of the castle stirring. She looked at the empty space in the bed beside her and smiled. It had been over two years since Hamon had died and she still counted her blessings every day.

  As with most marriages, theirs had been arranged, for her father’s convenience, to merge their two adjoining estates. At first she was indifferent to his choice; she was fourteen and she had to marry someone; her own preference was meaningless. Hamon was presentable enough and was polite in her family’s presence. After the marriage though it was a different Hamon who took her to the marriage bed. The act she’d been curious about and even anticipated with some hope and only mild trepidation had for eight years become a nightly ritual of pain and disgust.

  But now! She smiled again. She was mistress of a great castle with a vast number of servants and wealth she’d never imagined. She had power over her own life and the responsibility of others as well. Isabella was aware she was known as the Ice Queen but rather than being insulted she rather enjoyed the title and did her best to live up to it. It wasn’t just that her husband had thought her cold and she’d certainly not enjoyed his sweaty thrusting, but being icy helped when you were a lone woman in charge of so much.

  There were times when she was lonely—if her bed seemed sometimes too big, it was worth it. Ice Queen or not, she was the Lady of Godestone and no man was going to take that from her.

  There was a timid knock on the door and her maid, Joan, entered with a jug of water for Isabella’s morning wash.

  The girl poured the water into a bowl and drew back the heavy curtains around the bed. Isabella washed her face and hands and gestured for Joan to help her dress.

  “How would you like your hair today, my lady?” the girl said nervously. “I have been practising a new style,” she added hopefully.

  “Just as usual.” Isabella had no desire to be anything other than plain and competent, or at least as plain as a beautiful woman could be.

  In spite of her nervousness Joan was adept at braiding the long thick red hair. As she sat beneath the girl’s ministrations Isabella pondered on what would have become of her, and Godestone, if she had been a woman such as Joan. Afraid of her own shadow. She would have been swept up in the wars between Matilda and Stephen long ago, bartered like a counter for her possessions. She had been lucky, yes, but she had also worked hard to hang on to what she had.

  It was only a few minutes until Isabella was ready. Her beauty was indisputable but she was not a vain woman, and any ideas that her looks gave her an edge over other women had been knocked out of her by Hamon. Beauty could be a curse and these days she did her best not to appear in any way alluring.

  “My lady!” Isabella looked up in surprise as she reached the bottom of the stone stairs. Her seneschal was rushing in through the front door, breathless and wide-eyed. “My lady, there are armed men approaching the gate.”

  Isabella frowned. England was at war with itself and any armed band was of concern. Stephen and Matilda had been fighting for control for many years now, and although Stephen currently occupied the throne, Matilda’s young son Henry had now become a major player in the fight to rule.

  “How many men? And what standard do they carry?”

  “No identifying standard or banner, my lady. I would say around twenty men.”

  She nodded. “I will go and see for myself.”

  “But my lady . . .”

  With a swirl of her skirts she turned back to the stairs she had only just descended and he followed anxiously behind her.

  Once on the roof of her keep, she hurried to the walled edge and shaded her eyes against the morning sun. Sure enough down below her was a group of men approaching but although they were clearly armed they didn’t appear to be about to attack. Rather they were weary and dusty from the road, as if they had ridden fast and long.

  Were they on a peaceful visit? Or, more worryingly, did they assume her castle was unprotected since Hamon was not here? Others had made that mistake, believing a mere woman could not possibly hold such a large property all alone. Isabella’s beautiful face grew hard. They had realised the error of their ways, and so would these men.

  “Lady?” The seneschal was hovering behind her.

  “We will let them in and see what they want.”

  “Is that wise?”

  Isabella gave him a cold glance. “There are twenty of them and we are nearly a hundred. I think we can manage to contain them, don’t you? Besides, I want to know what they want from us.”

  As she turned back to peer down at the band of men, the leader lifted his head and looked up. He was bare headed and his hair shone pale in the morning light. Something inside her jolted and she felt as if she was falling. Isabella grabbed hold of the wall, grazing her fingers, startled by her reaction. When she looked again the man had turned away.

  “Lady, are you ill?”

  “I am perfectly well,” she said coldly. Was the seneschal watching her more closely than usual? She had never liked Hugo, but he did his job well and she had never had reason to find fault with him. He’d been Hamon’s man, but she tried not to hold that against him, and he had been invaluable in the early days after her husband died. But she had never entirely trusted him and lately he seemed more skittish than usual, as if he had a guilty conscience.

  “Come, we must prepare the men,” she said and hurried back down the stairs and from there out into the castle bailey.

  Once she’d called together her garrison she began to give her orders.

  “Although I’m sure these men will not cause trouble when they see we are well prepared,” she said, “we must be alert in case they are foolish enough to try to take the castle.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The garrison captain appeared ready for anything. He began ushering his men into strategic defence positions along the castle walls and inside the bailey.

  Isabella waited on top of the stairs, before the huge oak doors of the keep, and nodded to the gatekeeper to give them permission to enter. If their visitors thought they could just ride in and overtake Godestone Castle they were in for a rude shock, she thought grimly. Her men were well trained fighters and she trusted their loyalty completely.

  Still she held her breath when the gates opened and the men rode in.

  They were all big men on their large destriers, dressed in chai
nmail but bare headed. The leader looked relaxed as he approached her, and now she saw his hair was golden in the spring sunshine. She could not imagine why the earlier sight of him had affected her so. He was just a man.

  Smiling, he slid easily off the black horse, handing the reins to the lad who ran to him. He wore chain mail over his tunic and a heavy sword was strapped about his waist, and he looked dusty. There was a long scratch across the chain mail on his chest, the metal bent and torn, as if he had lately been in a fight. When he walked towards her she noted he had a slight limp.

  “My lady,” he said, bowing low. “I am Alric of Wenton. Thank you for allowing us entry. We have come from London. My men are weary and we would appreciate a chance to rest.”

  “Of course.” She gestured to Hugo to deal with the horses and the men. “Will you take refreshment?” she added, turning back to Alric. That was when she realised that he was standing before her, looking up at her from the step below, and his piercing blue eyes were soaking in every inch of her. As if he planned to sit down and dine on her.

  She shivered. She’d had many men desire her, but she suspected that after the death of her husband their desire had more to do with her lands than her body. She had never been at all inclined to succumb to their beseeching, dismissing them with the coldness that had only enhanced her reputation as the Ice Queen.

  But there was something about this man, something that made him different.

  In an attempt to discover what it was, she stared back at him, inspecting him as closely as he was her. His muscular body was honed by war. Isabella was tall for a woman but if he’d been on a level with her he would have towered over her. His face was handsome, there was no doubt about that and with his brilliant eyes and his smiling mouth . . .

  “. . . Most grateful, my lady.”

  Isabella realised uneasily that he’d spoken and she hadn’t heard what he said. That was not like her. She nodded brusquely and turned away. She could hear Alric following behind her as she walked through into the great hall, holding her head high and her back straight.

  The seneschal had already given the order for food and drink to be made ready for their unexpected guests and the servants were bustling about the tables and benches where the men would sit. Alric came toward her and she noted he was still limping, perhaps a little worse than before.

  “Lady?” Alric said, his voice dropping. “I have something I wish to discuss with you. A matter of some importance.”

  Isabella’s look was sharp. “What matter?”

  Alric moved closer, grimacing as he jarred his leg. “A matter I must discuss with you in private, lady.”

  It went against her better judgement to be alone with this man but there was an urgency in his manner she could not deny. She cast a cool glance over him. “Your leg needs attention. Come with me and I will see to it.”

  The small room beyond the great hall, tucked away behind an arras, was private and often used for bathing when she had guests. She sent for Alric’s squire to help him undress.

  “What is wrong with your leg?”

  “There is nothing . . .” he began, but Isabella was weary of male pride.

  “You are limping, sir. What is wrong?”

  He glared at her a moment as if he would like to tell her to mind her own business, and then a glimmer of laughter lit his blue eyes. “You are persistent, lady. I fell while fighting off some brigands in the forest south of here. A foolishness for which I am paying now. But it is not necessary for you to concern yourself—”

  “You are my guest, Alric,” she said smoothly, “and as such I will see to your hurts.”

  The boy arrived just then, and hurried to help his master with his heavy chainmail. There was no need for Isabella to stay; she could have returned when Alric was ready for her, but for some reason she wanted to stay. The man intrigued her, and it would do him no harm to be put off balance by a woman watching him undress.

  His tunic came to mid thigh, and when the boy helped him off with his tight breeches, he was still decently covered. Isabella felt a tingle of disappointment. She would have liked to see him stripped bare, naked before her. She told herself she would have stood, hands clasped before her, observing him as if he was nothing to her.

  And yet the thought of his naked body also brought a strange warm glow to her skin. She could feel it, and the pulse beating at the base of her throat. Foolishness. Why was she hungering after a man she didn’t even know? She’d been disappointed before. On the first night that Hamon came to her bed she’d had such hopes. Why did she think this Alric would be any different?

  No, it was simply rutting, like the beasts of the field; men seemed to enjoy it well enough and some made babies. She hadn’t even been able to do that. There was no heir to inherit Godestone when she was gone, no child to teach to be a custodian of the estate. It was a source of grief to her that she kept very private.

  The squire had finished and Alric waved him away. He sat upon the stool by the narrow window, shoulders hunched, his bare leg stretched out awkwardly before him. His thighs were thick with muscles, and he looked as if he could do with a good wash. Isabella was glad she’d asked for water to be brought for a bath for her guest. But for now she must see to his injury.

  Kneeling, she began to inspect the swollen knee joint with practical but gentle hands. He winced when she pressed, but she could find no break of the bone and no puss in the swelling. He had twisted the limb, no doubt, and it would heal in its own time. If he’d allow it to, that is. He did not look to be the sort of man to sit still for long.

  “You should rest it until the swelling goes down,” she said, looking up at him.

  He was closer than she thought, his blue eyes fixed on her, his big body curled over toward her. While she’d been busy tending to him he’d been taking the opportunity to observe her.

  “I do not have time to rest,” he said quietly, his voice a rumble in his chest. His arms were bare beneath the short sleeved tunic, and there was a tattoo on one of them, a Celtic cross. His hair needed cutting, and the whiskers grew long on his jaw, but there were traces of the boy he must have been. A memory played with her, teasing, but the harder she tried the further away it fled.

  “If you wish your knee to heal you must find time. Otherwise you may well be lame for life.”

  Now he said nothing, and she wondered whether he had not heard her or was simply ignoring her. But his silence was disconcerting and she felt colour rising in her cheeks. Was she blushing? She had not blushed since she was a young untouched girl. She was the Ice Queen and the Ice Queen did not blush. Ever.

  “Lady, have you met me before?”

  Isabella shook her head.

  He sighed, rubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw. “Never mind. There is something more important I must tell you. I have a purpose in being here at Godestone.”

  The seriousness of his voice made her forget anything else. She stayed at his feet, watching his face intently. “What purpose? You spoke before about an urgent matter, sir. Please tell me what you meant.”

  Alric reached down to rub his knee, and she saw that the back of his hand had a wound in it, a cut that looked deep and not very clean. With a click of her tongue, she reached for her bowl of water and cloth, and began to clean it.

  He stared at her as if he could hardly believe what he was seeing. “Lady, this is important.”

  “So is this, Alric. Talk to me while I work.”

  He shrugged, then gave a huff of laughter. “You have not changed,” he murmured.

  Startled, she met those blue eyes again. It was as if they were looking beyond her Ice Queen beauty, beyond the years, to . . . but the memory eluded her again.

  “Lady,” he said, and his face was serious now, “there is a band of men on their way here. They come from Matilda, the king’s cousin, and their leader is Lord Freemantle.”

  A tremor went through her and she dropped the cloth into the water, sloshing it onto her skirt. Isabella knew her
face was white when she met his eyes again. “Freemantle is my husband Hamon’s cousin.”

  Alric nodded and his mouth was tight and grim. “Matilda has agreed to him marrying you, lady, and ruling Godestone in his own right.”

  Her first thought was that this was a lie. Hamon had left her everything, probably because he’d believed himself invincible and not thought to leave it elsewhere. But before now there had never been an issue with her rule, and Matilda had seemed happy enough. Why the change of heart? And why inflict such a man as Freemantle on her? If her memory was correct he was as cruel as Hamon.

  “No,” she said furiously. “I will not let him through my gates. I will not let him in my bed!”

  “You may have no choice, he comes with quite an army and Matilda’s blessing. If you do not let him in then he will take Godestone by force.”

  Isabella’s green eyes blazed. “We will fight him!”

  Something about her seemed to rivet his attention. “You will need help, lady. My men are here to stand by your side.”

  His offer was surprising and she hesitated, suspicious. Perhaps he was Freemantle’s man; perhaps this was all an elaborate trick? Slowly she opened the carved box that had belonged to her mother and now to her, its little drawers and crevices full of healing lotions and potions, and found the ointment she had always found helpful for cuts and scrapes among her garrison. She held out her hand for his, and after a momentary hesitation he gave it to her.

  His hand was warm and heavy in hers, the calluses on his palm and fingers rough against her softer skin. Normally such contact meant little to her. She wished her men to remain healthy because their health was important to the safety of her castle, that was her reasoning, but she had never gazed upon a man’s hand with such intensity, nor longed to feel it caressing her skin.

  Hastily she began to apply the ointment.

  “I will not refuse your offer, Alric, but it puzzles me why you have come here to warn me. In fact why you are here at all? You are from Wenton, you say? Where is that? I would guess it is a long way from Godestone.”