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  “Nay!” Juliana screamed. “Mayda!”

  Eyes rolling, Mayda keeled sideways, then backward. Toward the gaping space between the merlons.

  Juliana hurried forward, trying not to jostle Rosemary, heedless of the wind buffeting her and slowing her down. “Mayda,” she shrieked. “Beware!”

  Mayda bumped against a merlon, then staggered. Her hands flew wide, a frantic attempt to regain her balance. “Juliana—” she groaned.

  Landon lunged forward and shoved her. Hard.

  Mayda’s hands flailed, grasping for a handhold. Seizing only air.

  “Mayda!” Juliana shrieked.

  With a shrill cry, her friend fell backward over the side. Her scream carried, and then . . . abrupt silence.

  Several yards from Landon, Juliana stumbled to a standstill. Horror pounded inside her. Her whole body shook as she looked from Landon, his seething stare upon her, to the dark, vacant space where Mayda had disappeared.

  Rosemary bawled.

  The wind hissed, cold and . . . empty.

  “Mayda,” Juliana whispered, pressing her arm across her churning stomach. “Oh, God!”

  Over Rosemary’s cries, Juliana heard shouts somewhere down the wall walk. Castle folk were investigating the scream. At the same moment, Landon glanced over the battlement, as if to see what had become of his wife.

  Could she have survived such a fall? Not likely. Not when the almost dry moat was strewn with rocks.

  Mayda was dead. A demise she’d feared days ago.

  Even as bile stung the back of Juliana’s mouth, another, more deadly thought snared her focus. She was the only one to have seen what happened. A witness to a lady’s murder.

  Landon would no doubt convince any curious folk that what had taken place was an unfortunate accident. He was lord of Waddesford; his statement wouldn’t be questioned. Hers, however . . .

  She took a shaky step back. He’d murdered once tonight. Would he kill her this evening, to silence her? Then would he do away with his daughter, whom he’d never wanted?

  As he tugged down his sleeves and faced her, Juliana scrambled backward toward the doorway. She’d whirl around and run—

  Movement on the wall walk snared her gaze. A slender figure emerged from the shadows close to Landon. Veronique. Raising her hands, she started clapping.

  Merciful God!

  As she strolled into the pale moonshine, light swept over her waist-length red tresses that brushed against her long black cloak. The vibrant, reddish hue, unnatural for a woman her age, looked even more eerie in the moonlight. Not only was Veronique applauding, but smiling as though she’d witnessed a superb performance.

  “Well done, Landon.” Each of Veronique’s words sang with triumph.

  “Well done?” Juliana choked out while forcing her shocked body to continue backward. Get to the doorway, her mind screamed. Save yourself. Protect Rosemary, as you promised. Hurry!

  “I killed my wife.” Landon sounded stunned. Did he not believe what he had done?

  “You did what was necessary.” At his side, Veronique reached up a hand, turned his face so that he looked at her, and kissed him full on the lips. Pressing up against him, she said, “Now you are free. No one will separate us.”

  Juliana swallowed. There could be but five steps left till she reached the doorway.

  “Aye.” Landon exhaled a sharp breath. “But—”

  Four.

  “You had no other choice,” Veronique murmured. “Do not worry. We will ensure her death is considered no more than an accident.” Veronique’s gaze fixed on Juliana. “Starting with her.”

  Run!

  Juliana spun and bolted into the stairwell.

  Her bare feet skidded on the rough stones. Rosemary, bouncing in her arms, shrieked. Her cry echoed in the passageway, the sound mirroring the frantic scream rising inside Juliana.

  “She cannot get away,” Veronique snapped from the wall walk.

  “I know,” Landon said. “Guards!” he yelled. “Guards!”

  Juliana heaved in a breath. She must get out of the castle.

  How?

  No time to retrieve Mayda’s hidden jewels. Juliana would have to—

  Footfalls pounded on the stairs behind her.

  She reached the torch lit passage. Holding tight to crying Rosemary, she raced toward the wooden landing that led down into the great hall. Most of the castle folk would be asleep there; she’d weave through the rows of straw pallets, dash into the forebuilding, and down to the bailey. From there . . .

  Then what?

  “Juliana!” Landon roared, close behind.

  With an agonized gasp, she tried to run faster. Her lungs burned.

  Shouts and tramped footfalls carried from behind her—and the landing ahead.

  She was trapped.

  A sharp tug on her hair yanked her head back. Pain spread through her scalp, while the passageway’s ceiling became a blur. She stumbled, almost dropping Rosemary.

  “Got you,” Landon snarled.

  She screamed with all the breath left in her lungs. Landon slammed her back against the passage wall. Rosemary jounced in her arms, even as Juliana twisted against his bruising grip on her upper arms.

  “Let me go!” she choked.

  Rosemary’s gulping cries rang off the stone. Landon didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “Quiet.” Breathing hard, his grasp as tight as manacles, he glared down at Juliana. He smelled of drink, night air, and . . . danger. Juliana shuddered. Would he kill her now?

  “Do as I say.” Landon clearly expected her obedience.

  “Killer!” she cried. How she wanted to spit in his face! “Mayda loved you! How could you—?”

  Armed men crowded in from the landing. Not Landon’s men-at-arms, most of whom she knew by name, but mercenaries. Veronique’s hired thugs.

  Oh, God. Oh, God!

  “Lady de Greyne has gone mad,” Landon called, loudly enough for all to hear.

  “Liar! You—”

  “She means to harm the babe,” he cut in, drowning her voice with his own. “She—”

  Juliana threw her body’s weight to one side. He tightened his grip. She kicked and struggled.

  Behind her, metal rasped: the sound of a sword being drawn.

  Terror whipped through Juliana, a moment before Veronique sauntered out of the stairwell to block that way out. Crossing her arms, she smiled.

  “Someone help me!” Juliana sobbed. “Lady Ferchante was murdered. I saw! I swear—”

  Landon pulled her away from the wall. “Take her.”

  Two of the mercenaries grabbed her arms, restrained her, as Landon stepped away.

  “Give me a sword,” Landon commanded.

  She was going to die! “Please, listen!” Juliana shrieked. “He—”

  His lips drawn back from his teeth, Landon raised the blade. One swift slash, and she’d be dead. So, most likely, would Rosemary. Sobbing, Juliana cradled the baby tighter.

  A curse broke from Landon. Daring to glance up, she saw him standing as though frozen, his sword ready for its killing strike.

  For an instant, their gazes met. In his eyes, she saw remorse.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Landon, I beg you—”

  “Turn her around,” he growled. She tried to struggle, but the thugs spun her so her back faced Landon.

  Whack! Stunning pain crashed through the back of Juliana’s head. Her teeth cracked together, while her upper body jolted forward. Do not . . . drop Rosemary, Juliana told herself through the blinding agony.

  Oh, God. So . . . dizzy.

  She couldn’t stand up . . . any longer.

  Juliana’s legs wobbled. The passageway floor swirled into a muddy blend of grays and browns.

  Mayda, I am sorry. So sorry.

  The cloying tang of rosewater stung her nostrils. Veronique. Juliana tried to open her mouth, to speak, but her jaw refused to work. She could only groan as Veronique pulled Rosemary from her arms. “K
ill her,” Veronique muttered, shoving the wailing baby at a mercenary.

  Mayda, I am sorry . . .

  Juliana collapsed to her knees. Head . . . spinning. Men . . . still holding her arms. She fought to lift her head.

  Fight. Save Rosemary, her mind screamed, even as the agonizing pain sapped the strength from her limbs.

  Her groggy mind barely registered the masculine grunt behind her. The whistle of the sword through the air—

  Whack!

  Blackness.

  ***

  Veronique stretched out atop the bed in the candlelit solar, propping her head up on her hand. As she tugged at her bodice to reveal more of her cleavage, her gaze settled upon Landon, standing before the hearth with his back to her.

  The orange-yellow firelight licked over the front of his body and etched shadows over his legs braced slightly apart, broad arms hanging listless by his sides, face bowed to the flames. He’d stood that way for long moments, tense and silent, as though his mind was elsewhere.

  Back on the wall-walk with his shrieking wife, no doubt.

  Veronique stifled a sigh of disgust. Was he battling with his morals? Condemning himself for what he’d done? How she despised a man who couldn’t subjugate his own conscience.

  She’d sensed the turmoil inside him when he’d aimed to run Juliana through with the sword. He couldn’t do it; his sense of chivalry had got in the way. Instead, he’d ordered her turned around—sparing himself from the condemnation in her eyes—and then had hit her twice at the back of the head, rendering her senseless.

  “I will finish her off,” Veronique had said, taking a sword from one of her mercenaries. How sweetly the pleasure of killing had run in her veins, urging her to plunge the sword into Juliana’s pretty flesh.

  Landon, however, had stayed Veronique with a hand on her arm. “No need. I hit her hard enough to cause death.”

  Had he? Or had he not wanted to see his wife’s best friend slashed while he looked on? The true reason no longer mattered, for Veronique had made certain of Juliana’s death. Even if Juliana had somehow survived her wound, she’d died from drowning, for two of Veronique’s loyal mercenaries had carried her limp body to the river and thrown her in.

  The thoughts brought a smug smile to Veronique’s lips. The unfortunate Lady Juliana, who saw what really transpired on the wall walk, was safely eliminated. No one would dispute that Lady Ferchante committed suicide by throwing herself over the edge. If, for some reason, any of the castle folk questioned Landon’s account of what happened, Veronique’s mercenaries would discreetly eradicate them.

  All in all, the perfect ending to the night’s developments that left Landon completely in her hands. He was a vulnerable but necessary puppet in her plot to crush his wretched lordship, Geoffrey de Lanceau. The only man she’d ever loved.

  Just thinking her former lover’s name caused anguished rage to sear through her breast. How she would make him suffer! Now, though, was not a wise moment to indulge in her hatred of him; now, she must ensure Landon was firmly in her control.

  Catching a strand of her hair—its natural, graying color dyed red with henna she’d bought from a merchant in France—she began to twirl it around one of her fingers. “Landon,” she said with a petulant sigh. “Come to bed.”

  His head lifted a fraction, causing his light brown hair to glint in the firelight. Yet he didn’t glance her way or attempt to speak.

  The anger in Veronique’s blood deepened. No one ignored her. He should know that by now. He owed her respect, for she’d helped rid him of his wife and the babe he never wanted. She’d freed him.

  “Landon,” she said again, more forcefully.

  He stirred then, straightening to his full height while he plowed a hand through his hair. The movement caused the wool of his tunic to draw taut over his broad shoulders, outlining indents and swells of firm muscle.

  A lustful growl scratched her throat, for while he might annoy her, he was, indeed, an attractive man. Half her age, he’d proven again and again how thoroughly he could pleasure her, and, in his ramblings, had proved how useful he could be in furthering her ambitions.

  “Why do you not heed me?” She drew out her words with a petulant purr. “You should be abed. With me.”

  “I cannot,” he rasped, still not facing her.

  “You are not tired?” A lusty giggle slipped from her. “’Twill be a challenge, then, for me to render you sweaty and sated.”

  His arm fell back to his side. Tension marked the set of his shoulders. “I killed my wife tonight, Veronique.” His voice shook. “I killed her.”

  Before she could catch it, a fierce breath broke from her. “Landon—”

  He spun then, the soles of his boots squeaking on the glazed hearth tiles. A gasp—quickly forced down—scalded her throat at the redness of his eyes and the moisture glistening at his lower lashes. His expression bespoke barely leashed anguish.

  Her disgust for him hardened. The sooner she twisted his torment to her desires, the better. A delicate kind of manipulation, but she’d practiced on countless other lords. Years ago, before he became lord of Moydenshire, she’d even manipulated the great Geoffrey de Lanceau, turning his vengeful anger over his father’s killing into a scorching passion unlike aught she’d ever experienced before. Or since.

  Anger hummed again at the memory of Geoffrey. She forced all thoughts of him aside and, softening her expression into one of concern, pushed up to sitting on the bed. “All is taken care of, Landon, as I promised. Do not fret.”

  While she held his gaze, she tilted her head and swept her hair to the side, causing it to tumble away from her tightly laced bosom to reveal all of her bountiful cleavage. Since Tye’s birth, she’d taken good care of her body, splurging on creams, lotions, and ghastly-tasting brews that scoured her innards with painful efficiency but kept her slim. The result was well worth every bit of coin she’d coaxed from her hapless lovers, for her breasts were still smooth and enticing enough to lure men as young and virile as Landon. As she eased a pucker in her bodice, his gaze followed the movement of her finger, and she fought a triumphant little grin.

  “Do not fret,” he said, before spitting a curse. He looked away, at the far wall. “I was so angry with her, I could scarcely think.”

  Still, he was dwelling upon his dead wife. Veronique would have to use more effective persuasion. She slid her legs over the side of the bed, stood, and strolled toward him, her fine silk gown brushing at her ankles. “I know you were angry,” she soothed. “How could you not be? I saw how your wife provoked you. Bitter word after bitter word.”

  Landon’s watery gaze shifted back to her.

  “She was cruel. Relentless.” Veronique halted before him and cupped her hand against his cheek. “I vow she planned to enrage you, to make you strike out at her—”

  “You do?”

  Veronique nodded. “She wanted you to wound her, so she could win sympathy from the folk of this castle. What better way to turn your loyal subjects against you?”

  Landon’s throat moved with a swallow. “She meant to manipulate me, then.”

  “Exactly. You wanted a son and heir, as is your right as lord. She birthed you a daughter.” Veronique stroked her thumb across his mouth. “She failed you, Landon. She is to blame for all that happened tonight. Not you.”

  Sensing the emotional barrier around him wavering, Veronique dared to press flush against him and loop her arms around his neck. He tensed, but she placed a line of kisses down his cheek. “How foolish she was to turn against you,” she murmured against his skin. “You made her the lady of a fine castle. You gave her all she could ever want. Yet still she wasn’t satisfied.”

  Landon shuddered. “I killed her.”

  “She killed herself.” Veronique slid her tongue along his stubbled jaw line, tasting the rough salt of his skin. “Remember that, my love. She committed suicide.”

  His head turned, and she followed his gaze to the gold ring lying on the tr
estle table near the pots and grooming essentials she’d brought to the solar. How tempted she’d been to slip that bit of jewelry into her gown, to claim it had gone missing. Before she took the ring, though, she’d wanted to be sure ’twas the one he’d spoken of nights ago, as they lay in each other’s arms after coupling—the ring he’d been given by Geoffrey de Lanceau to show he could be entrusted with the most secret of information by Geoffrey’s spies and warriors.

  Trying not to give away her excitement, she said, “The ring. I noticed it earlier. ’Tis yours?”

  “Nay. Mayda’s wedding ring.” A groan broke past his lips. “She chose it herself—”

  “Shh.” Veronique used the pressure of her fingers to turn his head back to face her.

  “Veronique—”

  “She is to blame. Remember.” Veronique pressed her open mouth to his and forced his lips apart with her tongue, coaxing him to kiss her back.

  How unyielding his posture felt—as though he might shove her away. She couldn’t allow that. Not when she hadn’t yet got hold of the special ring. Not when he had so much more to offer her and Tye in their goal—nurtured for long, long years—to destroy Geoffrey and all he cherished.

  Even as she sensed Landon rallying a protest, she moved her hand to the back of his head, to tangle into the hair at his nape. While she intensified the kiss, her other hand slipped between them, to the belt of his hose, and then lower, to cup his maleness. ’Twas flaccid at the moment. But she knew how to make him hard.

  “Veronique,” he choked out, against her mouth.

  “Let me ease your torment,” she whispered, while her fingers dipped inside his hose and closed around his manhood. She rubbed him with gentle strokes. “I know what you like. Let me pleasure you, Landon.”

  He groaned against her lips. “I . . . cannot . . .”

  “Hush, my love. You can.” As he trembled, and she felt him thrust against her palm, she indulged in a silent, gleeful laugh. She’d won him over as she knew she could.

  While she rewarded him with a shattering climax, she’d savor his grunts, gasps, and groans. For with him under her sway, she was ever closer to the day she vanquished Geoffrey.

  A KNIGHT’S PERSUASION