Knight of Desire Read online

  He broke the kiss and pulled her into his arms. Closing his eyes, he held her to him and waited for the thundering of his heart to subside. God have mercy! What happened to him? This girl, who trusted him blindly, had no notion of the danger.

  Swallowing hard, he released her from his embrace. He could think of no words, could not speak at all. With deliberate care, he pulled her hood up and tucked her long hair inside it. Then he let his arms fall to his sides like heavy weights.

  “I did not want his to be my first kiss,” she said, as though she needed to explain why she had permitted it.

  His gut twisted as he thought of the firsts the other man would have with her.

  She took a quick step forward and, rising on her tiptoes, lightly touched her lips to his. In another moment, she was running across the yard, clutching her cloak about her.

  For many years, William dreamed of that night. In his dreams, though, he held her in his arms by the river in the moonlight. In his dreams, he kissed the worry and fear from her face. In his dreams, he rescued her from her unhappy fate.

  In his dreams, she was his.

  Chapter One

  Ross Castle

  England, near the Welsh border

  June 1405

  Lady Mary Catherine Rayburn sat on the bench in her bedchamber and waited for news. If the prince received her latest message in time, the king’s army should have caught her husband with the rebels by now.

  She pulled up the loose sleeve of her tunic and examined her arm in the shaft of sunlight that fell from the narrow window. The bruises were fading; Rayburn had been gone a fortnight. She let the sleeve fall and rested her head against the stone wall behind her.

  Not once in all this time did her husband suspect she had betrayed him. But he would know it now. She had been the only one in the hall, save for the men who went with him, when he disclosed the time and place of his meeting with the Welsh rebels.

  She buried her face in trembling hands and prayed she had not made a mistake. What else could she do? Nothing short of discovering Rayburn with the rebels would convince the king of his treachery.

  If Rayburn escaped unseen, he would return and kill her. What then would happen to Jamie? It was unthinkable that her son would be left alone in the world with that man.

  The cold of the stone wall penetrated the heavy tapestry at her back, causing her to shiver. Her raging fever had only broken the night before. She’d been the last to fall to the illness that had swept through the castle.

  Exhausted, she closed her eyes. How had she come to this? She thought back to the beginning, before Rayburn’s betrayal of the king—and before her betrayal of Rayburn.

  The king had been so certain of Rayburn’s loyalty when he chose him as her husband. At sixteen, she had been quite the marriage prize. She possessed that most rare and appealing quality in a noblewoman: She was her ailing father’s only heir. More, she was heir to one of the massive castles in the Welsh Marches, the strategic border area between England and Wales. That made her betrothal worthy of the king’s personal attention.

  At the age of ten, she was betrothed to a young man whose family, like her own, was closely aligned with King Richard. The match lost its luster the moment Henry Bolingbroke usurped the throne. Consequently, her father was pleased when, a short time later, the young man had the courtesy to fall from his horse and break his neck. When the new king “offered” to select a husband for her, her father was happy for the opportunity to demonstrate his new allegiance.

  King Henry deliberated carefully, dangling her as a prize before powerful men he wanted in his debt. When her father fell gravely ill just as the Welsh revolted, however, the king acted swiftly. He could not afford to leave Ross Castle and the surrounding borderlands without a strong man to defend them. As her father lay on his deathbed, the king’s soldiers escorted her to his castle at nearby Monmouth for her wedding.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and rocked herself as the memories came back to her. She had known Rayburn to be a cold man. She did not expect tenderness from him. Still, her wedding night had been a shock. He managed, just, to take her virginity.

  Perhaps it was the novelty that made it possible that first time. He ordered her to put out every candle and wait in silence on the bed. Only later did she understand that the sounds she heard in the dark were her new husband touching himself to prepare for the task.

  There were no kisses, no caresses. It was, at least, mercifully quick. As soon as he was finished, he left her. She cried through the night, believing her life could not be worse.

  How naive she had been.

  He made weekly visits to her bedchamber, intent on getting her with child. She tried not to hear the foul things he said in her ear or to feel the rough hands rubbing over her thighs and buttocks. When he succeeded, she forced her mind far away as he pounded and grunted against her flesh.

  Over time, it became increasingly difficult for him to do his duty. When he could not, he beat her. Sometimes the violence excited him, for just long enough. He took to drinking heavily before he came to her. The drink only made him more violent.

  By a miracle, she conceived. Her pregnancy saved her life. Rayburn still lacked any redeeming qualities, but he ceased to terrorize her in the bedchamber.

  Then, a few weeks ago, he decided he must have “an heir to spare.”

  She had no regrets about what she did to save herself this time. And to save the Crown for Harry. One day, Harry would be a great king, the one England deserved. Still, she was bone-weary from the strain of her deceit.

  Her eyelids grew heavy as her mind drifted to the soothing childhood memories of playing with Harry at Monmouth. Those were happy times, before her mother died and before her friend became prince and heir to the throne. She curled up on the hard bench and let her eyes close.

  “M’lady, what are you doing out of bed?” The maidservant’s voice roused Catherine from a troubled sleep.

  “What is it?” she asked, sitting up.

  “Men at arms approach the castle,” the woman said, her voice pitched high with tension.

  “What banner do they fly?” Catherine demanded.

  “The king’s, m’lady.”

  The surge of relief that flooded through her was so intense she had to grip the bench to steady herself.

  “What does it mean, m’lady?” the maid asked, twisting her apron in her hands.

  “I do not know,” she said, trying to sound reassuring, “but we should have nothing to fear from the king’s men.”

  If Rayburn was caught, why would the king send armed men here to Ross Castle? Perhaps Rayburn had escaped and they were looking for him? Would he come here to hide? Panic rose in her throat. She forced herself to be calm.

  Nay, if Rayburn’s treason was found out, he would hardly come here. Faced with the risk of execution or imprisonment, he would flee to the Continent. She was almost sure of it.

  “M’lady, the king’s soldiers are almost to the gate. The men are waiting for you to say what they must do.”

  “Since they fly the king’s banner, we must open the gate to them,” she said. “But tell the men to wait until I come.”

  “But, m’lady, you are too weak. You must not—”

  Catherine silenced her maid’s objections with the lift of her hand. “Help me dress. I must know what news they bring.”

  Holding the maid’s arm for support, she got to her feet. Her head swam at first, but the feeling passed quickly enough. She nodded approval at the first gown the maid held out and let the woman dress her. Her mind was occupied with a single question: Why would the king send his men here after the battle?

  “There is no time for that,” she said when the maid brought out an elaborate headdress in blue brocade. “A jeweled net will have to do.”

  Ignoring the maid’s protests, Catherine twisted her hair in a roll and shoved it into the net. As soon as the maid fixed a circlet over it to hold it in place, Catherine sent her running to th
e gate with her message.

  She was relieved to find Jacob waiting outside her door. Gratefully, she took the arm the old man offered and smiled up into his weathered face.

  “Let me give your apologies to the visitors,” he said, his brows drawn together in concern. “I’ll tell them you are too ill to greet them.”

  “Thank you, Jacob, but I must do this,” she said. “They shall not set foot inside the castle walls until I assure myself they are truly the king’s men.” And until I know what it is they want.

  After so many days in the darkness of her bedchamber, the bright sun hurt her eyes when she stepped outside the keep. She felt weak, but the fresh air cleared her head as they walked across the inner and outer bailey. Half the household waited near the gate, anxious about the armed men on the other side.

  As soon as her son saw her, he broke free from Alys and flung his arms around her legs. She knelt down to kiss him.

  “Jamie, stay here with Alys while I go speak with these men,” she told him firmly. “Do not go out the gate.” She gave a meaningful look over his head to the housekeeper, who responded with a quick nod.

  When she stood up again, bright sparkles crossed her vision. She’d never fainted in her life, and she could not permit herself to do so now. She would meet her duty to protect her household.

  She waved the others back and went to stand alone in front of the gate. At her nod, the men dropped the drawbridge over the dry moat with a heavy thud.

  Through the iron bars of the portcullis, Catherine could see the men on horseback on the moat’s other side. They had a hard look to them, as though they had seen much fighting and were prepared for more.

  She turned and gave the order. “Raise the portcullis, but be prepared to drop it at my signal.”

  The iron chains clanked and groaned as the men turned the crank and slowly raised the portcullis.

  As soon as it was high enough for her to pass under it, she stepped out onto the drawbridge. She sensed the waiting men’s surprise. They stared at her, but they remained where they were, just as she intended.

  As they rode toward Ross Castle, William Neville FitzAlan’s thoughts kept returning to the traitor’s wife. The traitor’s widow now. Lady Rayburn’s last message to the prince led to her husband’s capture and execution. Rayburn deserved his fate. But what kind of woman could share a man’s bed for years and yet betray him to his enemies?

  William wondered grimly if she had been unfaithful in other ways as well. It seemed more than likely. In his experience, fidelity was rare among women of his class. The knightly ideals of loyalty and honor certainly did not guide female behavior. Perhaps it was desire for another man, then, rather than loyalty to Lancaster, that led her to expose her husband’s treachery.

  Regardless of her motive, both he and the king had cause to be grateful. The lady, however, now presented a political problem for the king.

  With his hold on the Crown precarious, King Henry needed to give a strong message that traitors and their families would be severely punished. The powerful families needed this message most of all. As the wife of an English Marcher lord who turned against the king, Lady Rayburn should be sent to the Tower—a place where “accidental” death was a common hazard.

  On the other hand, Prince Harry insisted it was Lady Rayburn who had sent him the anonymous messages about rebel forces. However, few of the king’s men believed it, and the man who delivered the messages was nowhere to be found.

  The king was keeping his own counsel as to what he believed. The truth, in any case, was irrelevant. In the midst of rebellion, the king could not leave a border castle in the hands of a woman. The Marcher lords who were supposedly loyal were nearly as worrisome as the rebels. If one of them took Ross Castle—whether by force or by marriage—the king would be hard-pressed to take it back. The king wanted it in the hands of a man of his own choosing.

  William was the man the king chose. His loyalty had been proven through the severest of tests. Even more, the king understood that William’s hunger for lands of his own was so deep that, once he had them, no one would ever take them from him. Ross Castle would be safe in his hands.

  William led the attack that morning, catching the enemy unprepared. At the king’s command, his guard executed Rayburn on the field. The traitor’s head barely left his shoulders before the king declared his lands and title forfeit and granted them to William.

  William rode straight out from the battlefield to secure his property, the blood of the enemy still wet on his surcoat. But there was one last price he had to pay for it.

  The king put the fate of the traitor’s widow in his hands.

  The choice was his. He could send the lady to London to be imprisoned in the Tower for her husband’s treason. Or, he could save her—by making her his wife. The king sent the bishop along to grant special dispensation of the posting of banns in the event William chose to wed. The king knew his man.

  The prince would be enraged if Lady Rayburn was imprisoned. While the king could disregard the prince’s feelings, William could not. Young Harry would be his king one day. William would have wed the widow regardless. It was not in him to let harm come to a woman or a child if it was in his power to prevent it.

  His thoughts were diverted from the problem of the woman when he crested the next hill. Pulling his horse up, he stopped to take in the sight of his new lands for the first time. Lush green hills gave way to fields of new crops surrounding the castle, which stood on a natural rise beside a winding river. The castle was an imposing fortification with two rings of concentric walls built around an older square keep.

  Edmund Forrester, his second in command, drew up beside him. “On the river, easy to defend,” Edmund said approvingly.

  William nodded without taking his eyes off the castle. All his life, he’d wanted this. In his father’s household, he was provided for, but he had no right, no claim. His position was always precarious, uncertain. Now, at long last, he had lands of his own and a title that declared his place in the world.

  If only John could be with him on this day of all days! Four years since his brother’s death, and he still felt the loss keenly. John was the only one with whom he shared a true bond. Still, he was glad to have Edmund along. They had fought long years together in the North. There were few men he trusted, but he trusted Edmund.

  William spurred his horse and led his men in a gallop down the path to the castle, his heart beating fast with anticipation. Although the lookouts should have seen the king’s banner as they rode up, the occupants of the castle took their blessed time opening the gates. He was fuming long before the drawbridge finally dropped.

  As the portcullis was raised, a slender woman ducked under it and walked out alone onto the drawbridge.

  William squinted against the sun, trying to see her better. Something about the way the young woman stood, staring them down with such self-possession, caused his men to shift uneasily in their saddles.

  Her move was so daring that William smiled in appreciation. Clearly she intended to give the guards opportunity to drop the portcullis behind her, should he and his men prove to be enemies. There was one flaw in her scheme, however: The castle might be saved, but the lady most surely would not.

  Chapter Two

  Catherine scanned the soldiers on the other side of the dry moat as she waited for one of them to come forward. They wore armor and chain mail, and their horses looked as if they had been ridden hard. A lone churchman rode with them, his white robes bright in a sea of burnished metal.

  She watched as the churchman dismounted and walked onto the drawbridge.

  “Father Whitefield!” Fortunately, her father’s old friend did not hear her exclamation. Recalling his quick rise in the church since Henry took the throne, she dropped to a low curtsy.

  “ ’Tis good to see you again, child,” the bishop said, holding out his hands to her.

  “What is this about, m’lord Bishop?” she whispered. “Why does the king send
armed men here?”

  “I bring you a message from the king,” the bishop said in a voice that echoed off the castle walls.

  What sort of message required a bishop and armed men?

  “I am sorry to tell you this, my dear,” he said, patting her hand, “but your husband was killed today.”

  “Praise be to God!” Catherine cried out and fell to her knees. Squeezing her eyes shut, she clasped her hands before her face. “Praise be to God! Praise be to God!”

  “Lady Catherine!” the bishop roared above her. “You must beg God’s forgiveness for such sinfulness.”

  Catherine knew it was a sin to wish her husband dead. But God, in his infinite wisdom, had answered her prayers and removed Rayburn from this world.

  Praise God, praise God, praise God.

  “… shameful behavior… unwomanly…”

  She was dimly aware the bishop was still speaking. She ignored him and continued praying.

  “Mary Catherine!”

  When he shouted her name, she opened her eyes.

  “Get up, get up,” the bishop said, jerking her up by the arm. “There is more I have to tell you.”

  He pulled a parchment from inside his robe, broke the seal, and unrolled it. Holding it out at arm’s length, he gave her a solemn look over the top. Then, he began to read. “All lands… forfeit to the Crown… grant these same… for faithful service…”

  Catherine could not take in the words. Her head spun as the bishop droned on and on.