A Knight's Temptation (6 page)

Veronique laughed and poured yet more wine. “Not at all.” She squeezed his arm, lingering in the caress. “I am honored, milord, that you share your memories with me.”

Ransley blinked, his lashes spiked with tears. Then anger glinted in his gaze before he shoved his goblet away, sloshing wine onto the stained tablecloth. “You mock me. You think I am a stupid old fool.”

Caution had shrieked inside her. She’d sensed the distrustful stares of the servants nearby. If she wasn’t careful, her patiently woven snare would disintegrate in her hands. As much as she loathed Ransley’s pathetic display of grief, she needed his cooperation. For a while longer, at least.

She held Ransley’s bloodshot stare. “I do not think you are foolish.”

“Nay?” he grumbled, rubbing at the wine spreading across the tablecloth. “My daughter does.”

“Daughter?” Veronique recalled the young woman who’d drawn Ransley aside and spoken with him in hushed tones the day she and Sedgewick had arrived at the castle gates. The woman hadn’t worn a lady’s garments; she appeared to have been toiling in the dirt. But at the time, Veronique had noted a strong physical resemblance between the woman and Ransley.

“Leona,” Ransley said.

Leona
. Veronique had committed the name to memory and resolved to keep watch on Ransley’s daughter. And, while Veronique had his lordship’s attention, she’d very make certain he confided in
her
when needed. No one else.

Squeezing forward a little more—her breasts on the verge of popping from her gown—Veronique retrieved his goblet and slid it back before him. Trailing one slender finger down the vessel’s stem, she’d smiled at him. “If I may be so bold, milord,” she’d murmured, “your daughter is the foolish one. How can she be so insensitive to your torment? She should be more thoughtful toward her own father.”

His brow had wrinkled with a frown. “In her heart, I know she means well. ’Twas a shock for her, when she lost her mother so suddenly.”

Veronique had slid her hand toward him, then gently linked her fingers through his. A brazen move. To touch a lord of his status without invitation was a tremendous risk—but she’d invited the attentions of other lonely noblemen in the past, with success.

In the years that she and the baron had evaded de Lanceau’s influence, they’d done whatever was necessary to keep themselves in a manner enjoyed by the noble elite. She’d become good at quiet murders, theft, and betrayal, among other talents.

Too much lay at risk now for Ransley to elude her manipulations.

He looked down at their joined hands. His mouth flattened.

Veronique braced herself for his bellowed command to withdraw her hand, while she tried to think of a clever way to keep him in her emotional trap.

But he didn’t push her away.

Good.

“Tell me about your wife,” she’d whispered, forcing tenderness into her voice.

He had. Until, eyes rolling back into his head, he’d collapsed face first onto the table.

For all she knew—and cared—he still lay there.

Thinking of the way he’d rambled on and on caused the muscles between Veronique’s shoulder blades to tighten. Reaching back, she rubbed at the tension and expelled a breath through her teeth.

A sound came from the bed behind her.

A muffled snort.

Turning on her heel, she strolled past the moonlit bed, her gaze sliding up the rumpled sheets to the bloated swell of Baron Sedgewick’s belly, barely covered by the bedding. He lay with one arm over his flabby torso, the other flung out by his side. His mouth drooped in sleep. Saliva, running from the corner of his lip, glistened on his chin.

His skin was almost the same pasty color as the sheets. Only linen didn’t grow wiry hairs that looked ridiculously out of place on his torso. So unlike the beautiful, muscular body of Geoffrey de Lanceau, whose chest hair had rendered him even more masculine and appealing. Long ago, when she’d curled her fingers through his hair, felt his muscles flex beneath her fingertips . . .

How despicable, that the memory of him—after all he’d done to her—should elicit a shiver of desire. Quickening her strides, she walked to the trestle table pushed against the wall and picked up her polished steel mirror before returning to the moonlight by the window. Her reflection stared back, naked, but not so unattractive.

Tilting the mirror, she inspected her body, almost as slim as years ago. The herbal tonics, creams, and foul-smelling potions crafted by toothless crones had helped her become slender and supple again. Staying beautiful was worth any price. Certainly worth every bit of silver she’d stolen or coaxed out of her victims.

Geoffrey de Lanceau, Lord of Moydenshire and one of the most respected men in all of England, had desired her. For two years—before he’d cast her aside for a lady who became his wife—she’d shared his bed.

Never would he forget it.

A shrill giggle rose inside Veronique. Holding the mirror up to her face, she smoothed chestnut curls away from her face. Never, until the day he died, would she allow him to forget.

“Every day, you become more exquisite,” a nasal voice said behind her. Bedding rustled.

Revulsion clenched her stomach. As she had every day since she and the baron had escaped together from the king’s dungeons, where Geoffrey had sent them to await trial and punishment, she forced a sultry smile and turned to the bed.

The baron lay with his head propped up on one arm, studying her with his small, bright eyes. The sheet had slipped farther down his belly. Scandalously low. Springy dark hair peeked above the bunched linen at his groin. Why, if the bedding moved a fraction more, she’d see his—

He growled. “My thoughts exactly.”

Arching one eyebrow, she said, “And what was I thinking?”

Lust glinted in his eyes. “You were wondering if I wanted to fornicate, as we did earlier tonight.” His tongue flickered out over his bottom lip. “’Twas a lusty tryst. Satisfying, I vow, for both of us.”

He’d squealed like a pig with a trapped hoof. Veronique smothered the urge to laugh. God’s blood, but he was revolting.

He raised a fat hand, beckoning her to join him in the bed, while his gaze gorged upon her nakedness. “Did I tell you how magnificent you were last night?” He smiled, revealing his chipped and stained teeth. “The way you manipulated Ransley . . . He was like a witless ass.”

Of course he was; she’d made certain of it. “We need him,” she said with a lazy shrug. “At least, until the mercenaries arrive.”

Sedgewick nodded. “Clif will keep his word. Within the next day, they will be here.”

Clif
. Veronique well remembered the rough-looking poacher with a scar cutting close to his mouth from their meetings weeks ago, when she and Sedgewick began their plot to take control of Pryerston. ’Twould be the first of many keeps they’d seize in Moydenshire. With the help of mercenaries paid with coin raised by selling de Lanceau’s pendant, they’d take castle by castle. While Geoffrey struggled to manage his cloth empire and lead his armies, they’d wrest the entire county from his control.

Clif knew many folk in Moydenshire. A smile touched her lips, for he was a forceful man, not only in his negotiations, but as a lover, as she’d discovered in their impassioned coupling in the stable while Sedgewick arranged a night’s lodgings.

“Our plan is going well, then,” she said, holding the baron’s gaze.

He grinned. “Sometimes, Veronique, you are so devious, you terrify me.”

She smiled back, but inside, she relished a smug cackle. He should be frightened. But for now, he had no reason to worry.

A soft rustle, and the bedding shifted. He followed her gaze to his swollen loins. A flush stained his face, glistening with sweat. “Just the thought of you last night—”

Another spasm rippled through her. “So I see.” His skills could never come close to the exciting lovemaking she’d enjoyed with Geoffrey, but Sedgewick never left her unsatisfied. Why waste the desire prowling inside her, even if ’twas not for him?

With loose, enticing strides, she moved toward the bed.

A child’s wail carried from somewhere outside the solar door. Veronique glanced at the wooden panel, bolted shut. With an irritated sigh, she dragged her gaze away, smiled, and again glided toward the bed.

“Veronique,” the baron whined, pushing up to sitting. His body quivered, like a naughty boy awaiting a wicked reward.

The distant crying grew louder. Now, the child was howling.

The baron’s lips pursed. “Surely not—”

A knock sounded on the door.

Veronique threw up her hands.

With a frustrated grunt, the baron collapsed back against his pillow. Snatching at the sheets, he yanked them over his lower body.

Another knock. “Lady Desjardin,” a woman said, her voice muffled through the door. The bawling child was gulping breaths.

Veronique scowled at the panel. She knew that sound well.

Her bare feet thumping on the planks, she crossed to the door.

“Should you not cover yourself?” the baron called after her. “There is a blanket—”

“I will not be long.”

Veronique flipped the bolt and wrenched the door open, bringing in a fresh draft of cold air.

A pretty, blond maidservant stood outside in the torch-lit passage, holding a little boy clad in a grubby tunic and hose. Her eyes flew wide, before she lowered her gaze and stumbled back a step. The child immediately silenced, startled by his sudden jostling, then started crying again. Squeezing his hand into a fist, he pounded it against the woman’s neck.

Blushing, the young woman said, “I . . . am sorry to disturb ye—”

Veronique set her hand on her hip. “Really.” Her gaze slid to the sobbing boy looking at her with huge, watery eyes. A tiny part of her heart softened.

“I cannot seem ta make ’im ’appy.” The woman trembled. “’E asked for ye.”

The child shuddered a breath. “Ma.”

The loving little sound poked at the tender part of Veronique. The part reminding her that he’d grown inside her for long months, before he’d burst forth from her womb.

A tentative smile touched the child’s pudgy mouth. “Ma?”

Veronique sighed, but the sound had far less fury than she’d hoped. “Tye.” She reached out and took him from the woman’s arms. He curled his arms around her neck.

“I will bring him back to you shortly,” Veronique said.

“Aye, milady.” The woman curtsied, spun on her heel, and hurried away.

Shifting Tye to her right hip, Veronique pushed the door closed with one hand.

“Not happy,” Tye grumbled, his mouth pinched into a scowl.

Lying on his side in bed, the baron scowled. “Neither am I.”

“Wanted Ma.”

“Of course you did,” Veronique cooed, nuzzling her son’s flushed cheek. She inhaled the sweetish scent of her child and struggled against another bloom of maternal instinct.

She smiled down into her little boy’s face. He grinned back, his golden-brown hair an uncombed mess, his eyes as bright as berries.

A handsome child, just like his father.

Veronique’s smile hardened. Aye, indeed.

Just like his father.

***

Aldwin chuckled as the tavern wench cried out in dismay.
Got you, Lady L
.

“Sir Reginald,” she cried.

Holding tight to her arm, ignoring her desperate struggling, Aldwin pushed himself up to sitting, wincing at the ache at the back of his head. He blinked to clear dizziness from his vision. How long he’d been awake he couldn’t say. Discomfort had roused him from unconsciousness, along with the mutterings of two men and a husky-voiced woman: the temptress, Lady L.

He blinked again, while the blur of darkness and faint light around him gradually sharpened. Upon waking moments earlier, he’d wanted to lunge to his feet and pummel the louts who’d hit him. Aldwin had sensed them standing close, looking down at him lying on the floor that reeked of God knows what.

His wits had sharpened enough for him to realize he was at a disadvantage rising groggily from the ground. He could easily defeat the two old men. But he’d be wiser to wait for a better opportunity to fight them. So he’d pretended to still be unconscious.

What sweet reward that he’d opted for restraint. He’d only had to subdue one of her guards, who now lay sprawled on his back, motionless, his sword only partway drawn.

“Sir Reginald,” Lady L said hoarsely. “Can you hear me?”

Sitting upright now, Aldwin settled his gaze upon her. While his vision hadn’t completely cleared, he realized she was on her knees before him and furious at being captured.

She twisted. Squirmed. Arched her body back, as far away from him as she could go—like a cat with its paw trapped.

Surprising, how strong she was, for a woman. He tightened his grip, aware of her wrist bones jumping against his palm. A memory stirred in his mind, of a creature Ward had described to him one night, shortly before he’d died. Ward had called the large, catlike beast, caged by its captors and on display in an Eastern bazaar, a lion.

Aldwin focused upon the blur of Lady L’s face. Her features became more distinct, and anticipation coiled up inside him. At last, he’d look her straight in the eyes.

“Oh, God,” she gasped, tugging hard on her wrist and seizing advantage of his moment of gloating. He pitched forward, almost careening headfirst into her chest. Slamming his free hand against the filthy floor, he caught his balance. Scowling, he yanked her back.

With a startled squawk and a
thump
, she bumped against him. Her wool-clad shoulder hit his before she wrenched away.

A soft breath escaped him, knocked from him by their colliding bodies, but also by the stunning impact of their touch: her warm breath against his face; her sweet, honeysuckle scent; and her hair brushing his cheek. For a moment, the assault upon his senses rendered him immobile.

He shook his head, forcing the sensations away. However enticing the contact, this wench was no lady innocent. She wore de Lanceau’s stolen pendant. Moreover, she might know the whereabouts of the baron and Veronique. If Aldwin brought about their capture, he’d be knighted for certain.