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  Frowning, Landon looked from Tye to Edouard.

  “They are half brothers.” Veronique’s lip curled. “Edouard was born in wedlock; he is considered Geoffrey’s first-born and heir. However, but months after Geoffrey cast me aside, I birthed Tye. Who, I wonder, really is the firstborn?”

  “There is no proof my sire fathered Tye.”

  Veronique snorted in disgust. “Is that what your father told you?”

  Edouard struggled against an unwelcome tug of doubt. “Even if by some chance your claim is true, Tye is illegitimate,” Edouard said through his teeth. “By law, he cannot inherit. He has no claim to my sire’s estates.”

  Her gaze sharpened to a cruel glint. “Did you realize your father spurned him when he was but an infant? I gave Geoffrey the opportunity to acknowledge Tye as his flesh and blood; he refused. Clearly, Tye’s life was—and still is—worth no more to him than a dog’s.”

  Edouard bit his tongue. She was doing her best to provoke him—and succeeding. He wouldn’t dare mention the times he’d come upon his sire, holding one of the gloating missives he’d received from her through the years, that told of Tye’s conquests in various fairs and tournaments in Normandy. Edouard would never forget the haunted regret in his sire’s expression, quickly shuttered away when he realized Edouard was nearby. “Do not speak for my father,” he growled. “What you say—”

  “Is the truth. You will come to know just how true my words are. But for now, we must make you . . . secure.”

  The way her tongue caressed that last word made him queasy. Did she mean to torture him? Force him, through unbearable agony, to betray his father? He’d fight her and Tye every single moment. Until he died.

  “Wait a moment.” Landon caught her arm. “I am lord of this keep.”

  Rage sparked in her eyes; since she faced Edouard, Landon wouldn’t see it. Then, as though warning herself not to succumb to anger, she smiled at Landon and set her hand atop his. “’Tis all right. I will deal with this matter, for both of us.” Her eyelid dropped in a sly wink. “Trust me.”

  “Do not!” Edouard shouted. “Where is your loyalty to my father? Veronique is a traitor—”

  Edouard glimpsed the mercenary’s fist flying toward him, but couldn’t dodge it. The blow sent his head snapping to the side, and he gasped.

  When he straightened, his jaw sore and burning, he heard Veronique say, “Have I ever betrayed your trust? Have I given you any reason to doubt me?”

  “God’s blood, Landon!” Edouard growled. He tried to meet Landon’s gaze, to persuade him to reject Veronique’s manipulations; his lordship refused to look at Edouard.

  “I did not expect Edouard to be harmed.” Landon’s tone roughened. “We did not discuss—”

  “We will,” she said. “Later.” Sliding her body against his, she kissed him on the lips. The intimacy revealed they knew each other well.

  Did Mayda know of her husband’s infidelity? Edouard thought of the embroidered baby blanket he’d brought with him, the one his mother had lovingly worked on for days, and fought rising hatred. How loathsome for Landon to have betrayed Mayda—especially with a traitorous bitch like Veronique—when Mayda had just birthed his child.

  “Go now.” Veronique nudged Landon. “Why not return to the solar and look for that ring from de Lanceau? I will join you shortly.”

  “I do not need the ring now, do I?”

  “You do not deserve it,” Edouard snarled. “I pray you never find it!”

  Landon flinched, even as Veronique murmured, “’Tis best to locate it.” She smiled, but Edouard saw the tautness around her mouth. “We—I mean, you—may need it in coming days.”

  Dread trailed through Edouard. Veronique had a purpose for that ring, one no doubt linked to her vengeance against his sire. “Landon,” he yelled. “If there is any honor left in you—”

  The mercenary’s fist slammed into Edouard’s belly. He grunted and bent over, hauling in breaths, as his surroundings spun. Heedless of his pain, he forced himself to stand upright.

  A hint of doubt lingered in Landon’s expression, but he nodded to Veronique, spun on his heel, and strode toward the keep.

  Her smile smug, Veronique again faced Edouard. “As you see, he will not help you. Neither, by the way, shall any of the folk in this castle. My mercenaries are making certain of that. This keep is mine now.”

  “Never,” Edouard growled, but she merely laughed.

  “Your men are being taken to the dungeon, but you . . .” She curled her fingers, as though caught up in heady excitement. “You are safest in the tower.”

  “Tower?”

  “Landon told me that long ago, a lord of this keep imprisoned the lover of his unfaithful wife. The poor man, chained there year after year, lost his wits. Some folks believe his anguished screams can still be heard.” She gestured to the thugs behind him. “Take him. Use the chains. When he is restrained, summon me, and I will search him.”

  A shudder crawled the length of Edouard’s spine. She’d run her wretched hands over him? Nay!

  “What of Juliana?” Tye looked down at her, still unconscious in his arms.

  “She needs to be taken to the healer.” Edouard struggled as the men forced him to walk. “Her wound—”

  Veronique thrust a crooked finger at him. “You have no say in what happens to her.”

  How he wished he could snatch that finger in his teeth and bite it hard. ’Twould only make this situation worse, though, and Juliana needed care. “However much you hate me,” Edouard said, forcing a plea into his voice, “she has no part in the feud between us. She is an innocent. She deserves to live.”

  Veronique’s gaze shifted to Tye. “Take her to the tower. She will stay there until I wish to see her.”

  Fury boiled up inside Edouard. “She needs a healer!”

  Veronique raised her brows, turned her back on him, and walked away.

  ***

  She became aware of light, glowing at the edge of the darkness. The brightness coaxed, encouraging her to gather her strength. To push through the fog of pain. To rise up from the abyss of oblivion.

  Sounds broke into the shadows. Distorted. Close by. She mentally grabbed for the noises, hungry to understand them.

  A woman’s voice. Hard. Unyielding.

  A man’s, taut with frustration.

  Edouard’s voice.

  Hope, fragile and needy, fluttered up inside her. Edouard. She remembered his handsome face. The way sunlight had glinted on his unshaven jaw. His gaze, wide and earnest, when he’d told her who he was. Such beautiful, honest eyes.

  An eager cry welled within her. How she longed to see him.

  Her eyelids . . . Heavy as rocks. They wouldn’t open.

  The shadows stirred. They grasped at her, clawed like talons into her hope, tried to drag her back down into the stifling nothingness.

  Nay. She mustn’t yield.

  I am here, Edouard. I will find my way out of the dark.

  I will find you.

  ***

  The mercenaries propelled Edouard across the bailey and into the keep’s forebuilding. He tried to note as many details of the fortress’s layout as possible, a strategy that would aid his escape. However, despite his best efforts, his focus kept returning to Juliana several steps ahead, her head pillowed on Tye’s arm as he carried her to the tower.

  Worry left a stark chill inside Edouard, for he still couldn’t grasp Veronique’s refusal to see to Juliana’s injury. How could a woman—a mother—be so merciless? She’d obviously become so embittered by the past, her compassion had shriveled like a rotting apple till it no longer existed.

  The men hauled him through the castle’s great hall that smelled of musty rushes and wood smoke, down several dark passageways, and then, after more turns, into a narrow stairwell.

  The scents of old stone and unwashed warriors crowded in around him as he was forced up the uneven steps. In the cramped space, squashed between brawny assailants, he could
barely breathe. Yet he shut out his discomforts, and silently begged Juliana to find the willpower to stay alive, for he’d get her the care she needed, one way or another.

  He’d bribe the lackeys who guarded them. He’d trade his fine boots for a pot of salve, and even his horse for a good chance at escape. Veronique might have wrested control here, but surely, someone could be persuaded to help him.

  The stairwell twisted up and up until it ended at a wide area in front of a sturdy wooden door banded with iron.

  “Here we are.” Tye signaled to one of the mercenaries, who unhooked the key from the ring mortared into the wall. He unlocked the door and the panel swung inward, its hinges groaning with disuse.

  Tye entered first, and then Edouard was dragged into the small, rectangular chamber with a plank floor. Light pierced the room’s shadows through a window fitted with a wrought iron grille and crooked shutters. The room held little furniture: one battered straw pallet and a wooden stool laced with cobwebs.

  More spider webs drifted above the window; they teased down to where dust-covered chains, bolted into the wall, trailed across the floor. The chains looked to run half the length of the pallet; enough to allow a man to sit with his back against the stone wall and wrap his arms around his knees, or lie on the pallet with his hands close to his belly, but no more.

  When a rough tug brought Edouard closer to the bed, he saw marks were gouged into the stone above it. Cut by fingernails? Or a spoon, taken by the captive during one of his meals? What had he tried to tell his captors, or those who were to be prisoners after him, as he succumbed to madness?

  The chamber’s lingering atmosphere of despair brought bile flooding into Edouard’s mouth. He didn’t want to be chained like an animal, prey to his father’s enemies. Thrashing against his captors’ hold, he glanced about for any chance of escape. No hope of getting out the window, and the door behind him was blocked by Veronique’s lackeys.

  “Still, ye struggle,” one of the men groused. Before Edouard could twist away, the lout slammed his fist into Edouard’s lower back. Gasping, arching his spine, Edouard tried to control the pain flaring through his side, but the mercenaries hurled him forward, threw him face down on the straw-filled pallet, and grabbed his wrists. Dust whipped into his mouth and nostrils and he coughed, desperate for fresh air.

  “Chain him so he lies on his back,” Tye said, while the iron links clanked. “Mother would want him that way.”

  Edouard clenched his hands, unable to move his head pinned against the mattress by a mercenary’s leg. The way they planned to restrain him, he’d be facing the door—able to see whoever came and went, but unable to defend himself if they mistreated him. A loathsome prospect.

  He struggled anew, thrashing his legs, even as the mercenary increased the pressure on his head. Edouard’s mouth and nostrils stung from the dust, while bits of straw poked into his jaw.

  Cold metal clamped around his left wrist. The lock engaged with a click, and then, with a brutal shove, the men pushed him onto his back. A mercenary sat on his stomach, pinning him down. Before he could struggle, the right manacle snapped into place.

  The men leapt back.

  Spitting an oath, Edouard sat upright. As he shoved snarled hair from his face, iron links banged against his right arm.

  Tye grinned. “Comfortable, Brother?”

  “Do not call me that.”

  “We are kin.”

  Edouard glowered and wondered how close Tye had to get to the pallet before he could knock him to his arse and wrap his hands around his throat. Regrettably, Tye—the gloating bastard—was staying well away.

  “Two of you will stand watch outside,” Tye said to the group of men. “There must always be two guards at this chamber. You are not to respond to any cries or attempts to contact you from the prisoners inside. Understood? Now you may leave.”

  As the mercenaries turned and headed for the doorway, Tye glanced at Juliana. His gaze lingered far longer than was appropriate on her breasts. “Since you are taken care of now, Brother, I must see to other matters. You will, of course, keep watch on Juliana?” His attention shifted to the nearest wall, as though deciding where to set her down.

  “Tye, Juliana needs to be tended by the healer. Will you at least send the woman up here, to look at her wound?”

  Tye raised his brows. “And risk Mother’s wrath for disobeying her?”

  “Surely you have some influence with her. You are her son.”

  Wariness touched Tye’s eyes. “You have not seen her when she is angry. She can be truly . . .”

  Over the tramp of the men’s retreating footfalls, Edouard caught the rustle of cloth.

  His gaze flew to Juliana, to see her eyes were open. She peered up at Tye, her expression both puzzled and afraid.

  “Juliana!” Edouard called, hoping this time she’d know him. He shoved up to standing.

  Her head shifted, and she winced. When she saw him, her face brightened. “Edouard,” she whispered. “Oh, Edouard, I found you.”

  Found him? He didn’t understand. But to hear her say his name with such affection was wondrous. “Juliana—”

  “At last, you have awakened,” Tye drawled. “Mother will be pleased.”

  A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION

  CHAPTER TEN

  Veronique set her fingers on the solar’s door handle, the thrill of ordering Edouard to his captivity still hot in her blood. She smiled, for as her coveted bag of fortune-telling bones had predicted, events were unfolding that would bring about her revenge against Geoffrey. How she longed for that moment when she saw defeat in his eyes. Could she make him beg for mercy? She would.

  She mustn’t gloat yet, though. There was still much to be done, especially once she had Landon’s ring. Her smile faded as she carefully depressed the handle and eased the door open. Before he sensed her entering the chamber, she’d make certain he was doing as she expected: looking for the jewel. If not, she’d correct that misjudgment on his part—in a way he’d never forget.

  As the solar’s floorboards came into view, Landon’s hushed voice carried to her. “—is very important you tell no one. Trust no one. Do you understand?”

  “Aye,” a woman answered. Azarel, the healer. Holding the door still, Veronique listened.

  Coins clinked. “Here. When you ride out to buy herbs to tend Juliana, take the missive with you. Use this silver and hire a messenger from the village. Tell him this document must reach Geoffrey de Lanceau.”

  Veronique sucked in a furious breath. Landon thought to betray her?

  She shoved the door wide, sending it crashing against the wall. Balling her hands into fists, she glided forward into the chamber.

  Whirling away from the trestle table, where candles, an ink pot, and quill rested, Landon faced her. “Veronique.”

  She narrowed her gaze on Azarel. The young woman’s eyes looked enormous as she hastily tucked a rolled object inside her sleeve. When she dipped her head, acknowledging Veronique in the manner she demanded of the castle folk, candlelight winked off her hairpin braided with brown leather and secured in her long, blond hair. The strings of dried mushrooms around her neck shifted.

  “Give me the missive, Azarel,” Veronique said.

  Landon stepped sideways, blocking her way to the healer.

  “Step aside.” Veronique held his stare, commanding him to yield. Caution flickered across his features before he shoved back his shoulders and remained where he was.

  “You are a fool, Landon, to anger me.”

  “What you are doing to Edouard, the son of my liege . . . ’Tis wrong.”

  She’d walked near enough now to smell the hint of fear in his sweat. “Have you still not realized, Landon? All of my actions were meant to protect you.” Her attention slid past him to the frightened Azarel. “I thought you wanted your subjects to keep believing you are a just, honorable lord, rather than a man who murdered his lady wife.”

  Landon blanched.

  Veronique smi
led, savoring the tension in his posture. “Did you do as I asked? Did you find the ring?”

  “Why do you keep asking for it? Why is it so important to you?”

  Insolent bastard. She didn’t have to explain her desires to him. “Did you find it?”

  “I did not look. Edouard was right; I do not deserve it. Whatever your reasons for wanting that ring,”—his mouth flattened—“you shall not have it.”

  A coarse laugh broke from her. Did he intend his words as a threat? Ridiculous.

  She halted before him, close enough to slap his face if she so desired. “You disappoint me, Landon.”

  Raising his brows—a clear dismissal of her words—he gestured to Azarel. “Go.”

  The healer started forward.

  Veronique threw up a hand. “Stay where you are.”

  Azarel stumbled to a halt.

  “Veronique does not command you,” Landon growled.

  “I do.” Her lips turned up in a ruthless smile. “Try to leave, Azarel, and I will have you killed. Then, I will send men into the village to find your lover and gut him alive.”

  The healer moaned. She didn’t move.

  Veronique forced coyness into her smile and claimed the gap between her and Landon. When their garments brushed, his familiar scent revived memories of him thrusting between her legs; his hoarse groans when his seed pulsed into her; the many ways he’d sated her lust. She’d miss the pleasure he gave her.

  Curling her hand into her right sleeve, she found the opening in the hem and discreetly eased out a small knife.

  He’d stepped back, no doubt unnerved by her closeness. Reaching out her left hand, she caressed his cheek. Regret glinted in his eyes before he caught her wrist. “I will not let you destroy de Lanceau.”

  “You cannot stop me,” she said, very gently, “for you see, Juliana will tell me where to find that ring.”

  He stared down at her, as though suddenly realizing his own insignificance.

  She rammed the knife into his stomach. How delicious, to feel his soft flesh splitting apart.

  Azarel screamed. “Milord!”

  He roared in pain, swiped at Veronique, even as she yanked out the dagger. When he bent at the waist, trying to stem the rush of blood, she slammed the knife into his lower back.