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The Wedding Knight

Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.

Chapter One

If Lucian Barret had been a righteous, God-fearing man, he might have trembled at the thought of kidnapping a nun.

Fortunately his faith in God had died two years ago, along with his foster father in a stale sickroom. Stealing Melissande Deverell posed no moral dilemma for him now.

Lucian dragged in a breath of thin mountain air and pulled a length of white muslin from his saddlebag to wrap around his face. Although he would reveal himself to his captive eventually, he didn't want her to recognize him too soon and inadvertently betray his identity.

The good sisters of St. Ursula's would not appreciate his plans for Melissande.

He peered through the generous chink in the loose rock enclosure to spy on the young nun. After spending days observing the rituals of the convent's inhabitants, Lucian had narrowed his focus to this particular female.

Studying her profile as she read from her book, he searched for affirmation that she was the object of his quest.

The graceful woman in the severely cut habit bore no similarity to the hellion he recalled from childhood.

Her demeanor radiated contentment and fulfillment, as if divinely called to life behind silent walls.

The Melissande Deverell of ten years ago had screamed herself hoarse the day her parents announced she would enter a convent. She'd been rumored to have sobbed halfway to France once she departed England.

Confirmation of her identity came when playtime began.

Lucian watched his quarry frolic with three children in the sun-filled gardens. The scene reminded him of his childhood with his brother Roarke and their neighbor, Melissande - two boys and one mischievous girl to lead them on a merry chase. After reading to the little sprites for most of the afternoon, Melissande now allowed them to run and romp. Flashes of his old devil-may-care friend became apparent as the young woman tumbled laughing to the ground under the gleeful attack of her small charges.

A glimpse of vivid red hair peeped from beneath the black wimple when she sprawled on the new spring grass. The grin playing about her lips spoke of vibrant life trapped within her Spartan cloak.

Melissande.

There could be no mistaking the woman Roarke had demanded he retrieve from her convent hideaway in the secluded French Alps. The same woman whose deliverance would fulfill Lucian's long debt to his brother.

Roarke would not be disappointed.

As beautiful a maiden as he had ever seen, Melissande had blossomed into a prize who merited stealing. If Lucian were worthy to carry on the Barret family line, he would leap at the chance to possess such a wife to bear heirs.

But that job he left for Roarke. Lucian would continue to pay his penance for the life he had taken with his sword.

In spite of those who had labeled the deed an accident, he blamed himself.

Remembering the need for swiftness in his plan, Lucian jerked the fluttering white muslin about his head to secure it.

A sudden stillness permeated the convent garden.

He wrenched his gaze back to the happy group sprawled on the ground and discovered Melissande had gone stiff and wary while the little ones continued their play. She peered with intent eyes toward the crevice in the wall, as if she saw beyond the fractured rock to the danger lurking there for her.

I am saving her, Lucian told himself, needing that peace of mind to counteract the contented picture she presented as a nun.

Obviously startled by whatever movement she might have detected, Melissande spoke in a hushed voice to the children, hurrying them indoors.

The time had come to act.

Melissande Deverell had known many lonesome moments in her convent exile, but until now she had never known fear.

Heart racing as she struggled with her skirts and willed her children safely inside the sturdy walls of the schoolroom, her hands foolishly gripped the leather binding of the book she'd been reading to them.

Suddenly another set of hands gripped her. Impossibly big, strong hands.

No.

She tried to scream, but one of the massive paws smothered her mouth while the other reached around her belly to slam her backward into a rock wall.

"I will not hurt you." The rock wall spoke.

She kicked and jerked at her captor, wondering how a human body could be made of such hard substance. Even as she feared for herself, she winged a prayer of thanksgiving heavenward that at least Andre, Emilia and Rafael had made it safely inside.

Oblivious to her struggles, the man who restrained her scooped Melissande up as if she were no more than a feisty kitten. Still flailing any portion of her body that would move, she watched in growing panic as her tormentor kicked open the convent gate and left the towering protection of St. Ursula's in their wake.

My babes! Melissande's heart wrenched at the thought of those three dear faces waiting for her in the schoolroom. She fought even harder, screaming behind the hand smothering her mouth and nose.

Her shouts reverberating in her brain, Melissande didn't hear her abductor's commands whispered into her ear. All she could think of was the pain and disillusionment her absence would cost the three little orphans who were finally learning to love and trust again.

The madman who held her released her mouth, apparently needing a free finger to aid in the whistled call that now pierced the air.

"Please!" Her sudden cry rang out with startling conviction in the quiet Alpine forest.

Hesitating only a moment, Melissande launched into a torrent of urgent pleas to the man she still couldn't see. "I am the guardian of three young children. I must not leave them. I am their only stability, their -"

A horse galloped out of the woods, a fleet-footed gray beast with a dappled body and black mane. "They will be taken care of," a deep masculine voice growled in her ear, the rumble of which Melissande could feel against her back. He spoke slightly accented French, as though a foreigner to the land.

She screamed. A blood-chilling, forest-shaking screech that scared birds from their perches and caused the gray horse to rear in displeasure.

If the nuns were alerted to Melissande's absence soon enough, the abbess could possibly track her down before any harm came to her. Abbess Helen commanded a modest army, after all.

And if shrieking helped Melissande escape her captor, then by Ursula's sainted slipper, she would raise a holy terror.

"Quiet!" the voice behind her ordered, though the man could not cover her mouth while his one hand was sorely taxed to hold on to the nervous horse. Yet before she could shriek again, Melissande was hefted high onto the frightened animal's back, her forgotten burden ripped from her arms.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Wedding Knight by Joanne Rock Copyright © 2004 by Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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