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Overview
Christian Hawksblood, Prince and Knight Templar, burned with memories of the beauty he first saw in a vision, clad only in a nimbus of red-gold hair. Brianna of Bedford was his, ordained by fate. But first he had to deal with his jealous brother. And then with Brianna, the innocent temptress who branded him with passion even as she compelled him to listen with his heart...
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780307567383 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Random House Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 11/25/2009 |
| Sold by: | Random House |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 448 |
| Sales rank: | 601,275 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The first time he ever saw her she was naked. Perhaps that was the reason he felt such a raging lust, yet he doubted it. He had seen many naked females in his twenty-odd years. But she was the most beautiful maiden he had ever glimpsed. Her flesh was the color of cream, her lashes lay upon her cheeks in dark crescents, while a tiny witch-mark sat on the high point of one slanting cheekbone. Her golden hair, brightly burnished as newly minted coins, fell below her knees, cloaking her in a nimbus of red-gold.
He had no idea who she was, knew nothing whatsoever about her, save one thing: he coveted her.
The problem was these persistent visions of his “lady” came at the most inconvenient moments, like now. Christian Hawksblood cleared his mind with effort, then focused his total attention upon his lance. It took only a moment for his pulse beat to merge with the rhythm of his charger, for his powerful arm to become an extension of his weapon, and for his fierce eyes to fix upon his opponent. In one fluid motion he couched his lance, lowered his visor, gripped his charger with his knees, and swung his shield to cover his body.
The baton fell and as clods of earth flew into the air, Hawksblood visualized his lance point striking the hostile shield with such force his challenger was flung from the saddle. A split second later it happened exactly as he had envisioned.
His opponent did not lie in the dust, but was on his feet with drawn sword within a minute, an amazing feat considering the impediment of his armor. This was the reason Hawksblood had challenged the Frenchman. He wanted his opponent’s sable armor and his dappled gray charger.
Hawksblood was out of the saddle in a heartbeat. It was within the rules for him to remain mounted, but his pride was too great. The honor of chivalry was at stake. He drew his sword, advancing with such deadly intent his challenger measured his six-foot length prone in the dust and lay still.
A woman screamed.
“Dead!” cried the spectators.
Then the French champion’s squires ran onto the field, managing to carry him from the lists, thankful he had only been stunned by the Arabian Knight.
By the time the dust of the tourney field had begun to settle, Hawksblood sat in his tent soaking the kinks from his body. One of his squires had removed his armor, bathed him, and was now massaging the hard, rippling muscles of his arms and shoulders with oil of almond and frankincense to keep them supple.
Ali, an Arab who had been with him since birth, thrust the stopper into the aromatic bottle and held out the towel for his master. As Drakkar rose from the tub to his full height, the water cascaded down his limbs, leaving his dark skin glistening. Ali thought his master’s Arabian name suited him much better than Christian. He had royal Arabian blood, jet-black hair, and the swarthy visage of a fierce hawk. Only the light turquoise eyes suggested he was not a pure-blooded prince. Ali’s glance ran down the magnificent body. Nay, I delude myself. His great breadth and long limbs proclaim him Norman.
His other squire, Paddy, was out collecting the tournament prizes of horses and armor. Hawksblood and his squires had magnificent warhorses but trained chargers needed for tournaments were in short supply and a pliable hauberk of finely tempered steel cost as much as a piece of manor land.
As Paddy led the dappled gray and a light bay toward the pavilion, he realized how vividly it stood out from the other tents. Brilliant red and purple silk topped by a gold minaret made even its shape differ from the rest, hinting at Moorish, Turkish, or Arabian opulence.
Paddy staked the horses beside what amounted to a small mountain of armor. The pattern had been repeated wherever they had journeyed, through Morocco, Spain, and now France. Hawksblood was still undefeated.
Paddy lifted the silken flap to enter. “Christ, Ali-Babba, get this bloody water shifted. There’s a mountain of armor for himself to sort through.”
“I left it there on the off chance you’d take the hint to use it, Paddy’s Pig. I can smell you across the tent.”
“No bloody wonder with a hooter like yours, boyo. I’ve run bowlegged today, you lousy lump of camel dung!”
Hawksblood’s eyes narrowed against laughter. His squires indulged in a continual contest of name-calling, yet on the battlefield they thought nothing of risking their lives for each other.
“Enough,” Christian admonished. “I want the brass armor and the sable. Ransom the rest back for money.”
“In that case, Lord Drakkar, I had best do the haggling while Paddy cleans up the tent.”
“Since yer ancestors were rug thieves from the bazaars of Baghdad, I concede ye’r better at cheatin’ knights from their livelihood than meself.”
“I doubt that, Paddy,” Christian murmured, pulling on a cream shirt that emphasized the darkness of his sun-bronzed skin.
Paddy grinned, pleased with the compliment, threw off his clothes, and slid down in the now tepid bathwater. “I’ll have this outa the way in a jiffy, m’lord, long afore the joy girls arrive.”
The evening of a joust was intended for revelry. After fasting all day, campfires would be lit, game would be roasted, and the flagons filled to overflowing. Whores, or women of joy, would dance about the fires laughing, teasing, touching, disrobing, and finally coupling for a penny or a pint or a bellyful of warm food.
“Enjoy the gorging and guzzling, Paddy,” Christian said, stroking the ruffled breast of his gerfalcon on its perch. “Don’t forget to give Salome a few succulent morsels. I’ve an invitation to visit the castle tonight.”
“Ho, watch out fer the noble French fillies. The ones I saw from the lists today all looked like they were sufferin’ from night starvation.”
“I’ll try not to overtax my strength, Paddy,” Christian said with a leer. Hawksblood felt a sense of anticipation. He had glimpsed more than one lady who from a distance looked as if she might have golden hair. Once again he had been lucky in the lists. Who knows? Perhaps this is the night I shall meet my vision.
The Royal Court at Windsor was a haven for at least a dozen young heiresses. Edward III, married to Queen Philippa, was the most spectacular Plantagenet king England had ever known. His court was brilliant because he lived and spent lavishly. He gathered orphaned heiresses into his vast household, then bestowed these coveted young royal wards upon the families who gave him the most loyal service.
One or two of the older girls had been chosen as ladies-in-waiting to young Princess Isabel, whose every whim was indulged by her doting father. Though Queen Philippa was sweet and motherly, her raison d’être was giving birth to Plantagenet princes and princesses. It seemed that whenever Edward spilled his seed in her, her fecund womb ripened it. She had just whelped her ninth Enfant Royale. As a result, the queen’s household grew apace until now it overflowed with nursemaids, nannies, serving women, laundresses, ladies-in-waiting, chaperones, and tutors.
Lady Brianna of Bedford and Lady Joan of Kent picked up their skirts and ran like hoydens through Windsor’s gardens. They were both seventeen, both orphaned, but there the similarity ended. Joan was petite with silver-blond hair the color of moonbeams. She enhanced her dainty looks by wearing pink or other pastels, and entwining her hair with seed pearls. She looked innocent as a child and was never, ever blamed for the mischievous tricks she was always ready to instigate.
Brianna was a beauty. Her ripe breasts and generous mouth proclaimed to every eye that she was all of seventeen and on the brink of womanhood. Her hair cloaked her in golden splendor, falling below her knees in shining waves ending in hundreds of silken tendrils. One glimpse foretold she would become that rare object of desire: a man’s woman.
The two girls stopped running the moment they saw the group of females gathered about the fountain in the privacy of the walled garden where Dame Marjorie Daw instructed them on etiquette each afternoon. They could hardly be punished for being late when Princess Isabel had not yet arrived. All the royal wards were now present, ranging in age from seven to seventeen.
Little Blanche of Lancaster sat decorously by the fountain. Though she was motherless, her father was Henry, Earl of Lancaster, who had been head of the Regency Council for King Edward before he took the reins into his own hands. Though Blanche was heiress to the vast Lancaster fortune, she was pale and ethereal. Her lack of vitality made her almost timid.
The dragon-faced woman with eyes like agates tapped her long stick impatiently on the flagstones as she awaited Princess Isabel’s arrival. The afternoon was extremely warm and as Dame Marjorie removed the black cloak she always wore, Joan’s eyebrows elevated with delight as she looked meaningfully at her friend Brianna, then imperceptibly inched toward the discarded mantle.
Isabel and her entourage finally arrived with her greedy little pug yapping at her heels. They disposed themselves upon the fountain’s ledge while the fat little dog removed itself from the vicinity of the dragon and lay down on Joan’s pink skirt, which billowed upon the lawn.