Seducing the Knight

  Seducing the Knight

  Gerri Russell

  LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY

  My deepest thanks to Pamela Ahearn for your unwavering support; and to Pamela Bradburn, Teresa DesJardien, Karen Harbaugh and Nancy Northcott. You all know what it means to be warrior women. You inspire me, always.

  DANGEROUS DESIRE

  “So whoever controls the stones of fire controls the ark?” Jessamine cupped her hands over his. A spark passed between them at the intimate contact. It brought a soft gasp to her lips. She should pull her hands away, stand, anything to break the contact between them. Instead, she gazed into his piercing blue eyes and felt a strange lightness at her core.

  “Aye,” he said softly. “But suddenly it’s not the ark or the stones that interest me, but something else entirely.” He abandoned the chest on the ground and stood, pulling her up with him until they faced each other, their bodies only a hairbreadth apart.

  “Jessamine. We are entering dangerous territory.” The words seemed dredged up from his very soul as he pulled her even closer, his gaze on her lips.

  She knew he didn’t mean the dangers of following the prophecy, but the dangerous way desire flared each time they touched.

  “I like adventure,” she breathed.

  They shall make an ark of acacia wood; it shall be two and a half cubits long, a cubit and a half wide, and a cubit and a half high. You shall overlay it with pure gold, inside and outside you shall overlay it, and you shall make a molding of gold upon it all round. You shall cast four rings of gold for it and put them on its four feet, two rings on one side of it, and two rings on the other side. You shall make poles of acacia wood, and overlay them with gold. And you shall put the poles into the rings on the sides of the ark, by which to carry the ark. The poles shall remain in the rings of the ark; they shall not be taken from it. You shall put into the ark the covenant that I shall give you.

  The Holy Bible, Exodus 25

  The Ark of the Covenant is, perhaps, the most sacred object mentioned in the Bible. It is said to have contained the stone tablets upon which the Ten Commandments were inscribed by the hand of God.

  Legends about the ark’s location and purpose are many. This story is just one fictional interpretation…

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Excerpt

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Afterword

  INTERACT WITH DORCHESTER ONLINE!

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  Other Books By Gerri Russell

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Teba, Spain, 1331

  Jessamine Burundi ran through the streets toward her only hope. Her mother’s church. A place of refuge and sanctuary. The church had to protect her from the conde.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. She hated to cry, almost as much as she hated this feeling of helplessness. She raced through the stark white buildings of Teba. She would rather die than become the Condesa of Teba.

  A quick glance over her shoulder as she neared the open doorway showed her the Spanish pig’s mottled red cheeks and blazing eyes. Maybe death would catch her after all.

  Her heart was pounding so hard she could scarcely breathe as she slipped into the building, one of the few Catholic churches her mother’s people had salvaged out of what had become a Moorish Spain. She didn’t have time to pull up the veil that had shifted down to her neck and shoulders. She prayed God would understand. The heavy scent of incense assailed her. The scent of death. She stumbled, then caught herself. A funeral had no doubt taken place here earlier this morning.

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the stone floor behind her. He was gaining on her. She ran toward the altar. A tall, thin man knelt there.

  Jessamine’s breath came in harsh sobs. Candles shimmered at the altar. Silent. Serene. Someday she wouldn’t have to run. Someday she could be silent and serene.

  “Father!” she gasped.

  Father Gabriel twisted toward her; then his gaze shot past her to the Conde Salazar Mendoza. He stood swiftly, his black robes rustling with the movement.

  “Help me.” She ducked behind the priest, praying he would shield her from the conde.

  The conde skidded to a halt. Beads of perspiration dotted his temples. His disheveled black hair and dark eyes made him appear demonic, and he wore a black velvet jerkin, breeches, and polished black boots. Only the redness of his cheeks gave the man any color. “Move aside,” he demanded.

  Wild despair tore through Jessamine. She’d been a fool to hope for rescue. If her uncle, King Alfonso XI, couldn’t protect her, why had she allowed herself to hope Father Gabriel could? She touched the side of her head where the conde had struck her earlier, and winced at the pain.

  “Whatever is going on here?” Father Gabriel asked. He turned halfway toward Jessamine, while keeping his gaze on the conde.

  “She is to be my wife,” the conde said. He lunged for her.

  Father Gabriel shuffled backward, sheltering her with his arms. He reached for her hands. “Jessamine, explain.” He started at the sticky moisture between their joined hands. He pulled back and stared at the blood on his fingers. “You’re hurt.”

  Hurt? The pain she’d suffered already was nothing compared to what the conde intended. Instead of answering the priest, she spoke to the conde. “My uncle has not approved.”

  “This sounds like a matter of royal politics…”

  Jessamine stared at the priest in disbelief. He would desert her as well. “He and his men killed my guards. They broke into my quarters while my uncle and his men were engaged in battle outside of town. There is no marriage agreement, just treachery and brute force.”

  “Release her to me, Father, or things will go badly for you.” The conde’s eyes were fierce and filled with unchecked violence. “One word from me, and my men will take you down along with this church.”

  Father Gabriel turned pale and took another step back from her. “Jessamine, I’m sorry, but I cannot risk so much for one life.”

  “No,” she cried, feeling suddenly exposed. The conde gripped her arm and jerked her toward him. She slammed against his chest. The hilt of his sword bit into her hip. He twisted his fingers in the flesh of her arm, then smiled.

  Jessamine gasped.

  His smile broadened.

  Terror flooded her. He wanted her fear. He thrived on it.

  “Come along, Princess. I’ve wasted enough time, trying to secure a place in the House of Castile. You are my last chance. You won’t get away from me.”

  “You murdered my mother!” She jerked backward.

  He held tight. “Regrettable, but necessary. Now, come with me. Once I’ve taken you physically, no one can argue about formal vows. You’ll be ruined. By me.” He propelled Jessamine forward, his grasp cruelly tight.

  Jessamine realized she c
ouldn’t break free of his grip, but she could fool him. Acting as though she’d given up, she walked silently beside him.

  In the middle of the cemetery, they stopped. The conde’s lips tightened until they formed a thin line. “You’re suddenly quite meek. I’ll hope for more spirit when I delve between your thighs.”

  Jessamine brought her heel down hard on the man’s foot, then thrust her knee between his legs with all her might. He bellowed, released his grip, and clutched his groin. She jerked away and streaked through the cemetery. She ran around the headstones, across a freshly turned grave. When she came to the headstones of her mother and father, her steps faltered. Tears she’d been fighting filled her eyes. Blinded, but desperate to escape, she pushed herself forward, past the last earthly remains of the family she’d loved.

  She was alone now, with only minimal protection from the royal court. And the conde had taken advantage of that fact.

  She quickened her steps.

  A dull roar sounded in the distance.

  The conde shouted something.

  Jessamine tore through the graveyard.

  Footsteps sounded behind her, as did the clash of steel upon steel.

  Blood drummed in her temples. She headed for the shrubbery that enclosed the cemetery. Branches lashed her face and clawed her arms as she pushed through the bushes. The delicate peach silk of her dress caught, ripped. She lifted her skirts and kept running.

  “You’ll pay for your insolence.” The conde crashed through the bushes behind her.

  Jessamine ran faster. She had to outdistance the demon in black. Mother of God, I don’t want to sacrifice myself to that pig. She broke through the other side of the shrubbery and into a dense copse of trees beyond. The shadows of the trees covered her in slivered light.

  Her feet flew over the ground, her pace frantic.

  She couldn’t hear the conde any longer. Was it because he’d given up or because the soft earth absorbed the sound of his footfalls? She couldn’t look behind her to find out.

  Her heart pounded painfully. She fixed her gaze on the morning light streaming through the trees at the opposite edge of the copse of trees. The edge of town. Beyond the trees was only desert. But what choice did she have? She couldn’t loop back without the conde capturing her. She broke through the trees.

  The shouts of men mixed with the shrieks of horses, punctuated by the clang of steel upon steel. The violent sounds of battle rushed over her as she stumbled down the hill. She tried to stop, to slow herself down, but the loose rocks beneath her feet made that impossible as she skidded into the periphery of the battle.

  Dust surrounded her, choked her. She cried out as her feet nearly slipped out from under her. She could hear the crunch of the conde’s feet close behind. She had no choice but to go forward onto the battlefield. The acrid scent of smoke and the coppery smell of blood overwhelmed her senses. Her stomach lurched.

  Blood. War. Death.

  Heavy footfalls sounded dangerously close.

  A single sob escaped her throat. She would die this day. The only choice was whether her end came at the hands of the conde, or by the blade of a sword.

  A sudden chill gripped her. She preferred the latter.

  Bracing herself for the pain to come, Jessamine hurled forward into the fray.

  Sir Alan Cathcart, known to his brothers in the Scottish Templars as the Falcon, gripped the hilt of his sword and prepared for the onslaught as ten thousand Moors swarmed toward him. He studied their numbers, calculating the odds. It would be difficult to win the day, but if the Templars stuck to the strategy he’d planned, they just might have a chance with luck and the Lord on their side.

  Alan felt his horse’s muscles bunch beneath his legs. Even the animal sensed the odds were against them. He stroked the beast’s neck, trying to soothe its fear. The Templars were here to take back the Castle of the Stars from Moorish occupation at the request of King Alfonso XI of Spain. The Scottish Templars and the Spanish had joined forces to rid the country of the heathens under the direction of Sir James “Black” Douglas of Scotland, the Templars’ commander.

  Though they’d come through Spain intent on making their way to the Holy Land, Black Douglas didn’t mind a little diversion along the way. The Templars he commanded would triumph as they had so many times before.

  Despite Alan’s attempts to calm his horse, the beast quivered at the Moorish forces lined up on the hillside opposite them. This had a different feel to it from other battles they’d fought. Was it the sheer numbers opposing them? Could it be the high desert air, which Alan and the other Templars were unused to breathing? Or was the odd feeling that tightened his chest an omen of something more?

  Alan sloughed off the disquieting sensation and focused on the enemy. A shout went up, followed by the thunder of hoofbeats and the swirling of dust. The moment had arrived. Men dressed in black robes and turbans bore down on him and his brothers. They were one hundred yards away.

  “Hold steady,” Alan crooned to the anxious beast beneath him as again the horse quaked. “We’ll get through this.” Beside Alan, Sir James Douglas sat upon his warhorse, clutching the silver vessel containing the heart of Robert the Bruce. The Bruce had promised to see them through to the Holy Land. He’d promised his heart would protect them.

  And along with that promise, Alan had accepted from the Bruce an additional burden. Once they reached Jerusalem, even an army of Moors wouldn’t stand in the way of fulfilling it. He’d find the Ark of the Covenant and bring it back to Scotland.

  Fifty yards, and closing fast. Black Douglas gave the call for the Templars to charge.

  Alan set his horse in motion. As he surged forward, his thoughts wandered back to a more familiar land, that of his ancestors. Where the wind blew gently through the grass, where the heady scent of heather permeated the senses, where blue-black hills dotted the land and clouds roiled overhead, promising rain. But not here in the land of his enemies. Nay, the grass was dry and brown, the soil a rocky gray, the air heavy, and the constant heat prickled his skin beneath his white Templar tunic and heavy chain mail.

  Ten yards away. Alan could see the men’s dark eyes framed between their turbans and beards. He tightened his grip on his sword.

  Alan could feel the air move past him as Moors on horseback came within reach. A shiver of anticipation stilled his breath as the first man attacked. He swung at Alan, bringing his sword down at an angle, intent on slashing the Templar’s torso. Alan deflected his stroke, watching the sparks fly as their blades clashed. That attacker retreated and two more approached on foot. Alan kicked one in the chest, sending him tumbling backward, then struck the other man in the chest with his sword. The man dropped to the ground, dead.

  When the two fell away, two more replaced them. His enemies were a tide of unending black. The Templars broke formation. Alan tensed. Nay! “Keep to the line!” he shouted over the roar of battle. No one listened. The Moors swarmed in, separating the men from each other. Alan’s mind raced, looking for ways to pull them back. Together they were strong. Apart they’d be easy prey.

  Alan felt himself losing ground. The Moors forced him back, farther from his men. He could see the Templars’ white tunics in the distance, but there was no way to reach them. A knot clenched his gut as Sir William St. Clair of Rosslyn went down. A swarm of black surrounded the knight. Sir Simon Lockhart raced for their fallen brother, but he was too far away. The Moors closed in.

  Desperate to help, Alan hacked at the men around him, trying to break free. To no avail. As soon as one man went down, three more surged forward. They pressed him back toward the fringes of the fighting.

  Sir Walter Logan and his brother Sir Robert surged forward to try to help William. A cry of despair tore from Alan’s throat as a hooked blade pierced Walter’s body. Another blade split Robert’s chest. Alan felt their pain in his own body as he pitched himself and his horse forward. But too late.

  The sea of black kept coming. They cut off his vision. He c
ould no longer see the Templars. Were they all dead?

  Frustration and anger drove his actions as he sliced one Moor with his sword and broke another’s nose with his hand. He could feel the bones crunch beneath his fist. Blood soaked his hand. Blood was everywhere.

  His eyes nearly blinded by the red haze of rage and pain, Alan kept fighting until eventually exhaustion and the sting of his wounds dampened his rage. From the corner of his eye, peach-colored silk fluttered at the edge of the fighting. Not a Templar, his mind warned, as a streak of bright silver steel swung close to his head.

  He ducked, shifted his horse to the left, then countered with a boot in the face of one man and the flat of his blade against the head of the other. The flash of peach came to him again.

  His breath caught. A woman? Dark hair streamed out behind her as she ran at the edges of the fighting, avoiding swords and scimitars, men and horses.

  A woman? Something inside him lurched to life as he shifted his weight forward. His horse understood the command. Together they charged through the sea of black toward that strangely incongruous femininity floating in a sea of death. As he came ever closer, he could see a thin, graceful form, a riot of shining dark hair, and wide frightened eyes.

  He sliced through the fighting, the carnage, almost as if his drive to reach her was aided by Providence. Never slowing his horse, he came up beside her and scooped her slight body into his arms.

  She screamed.

  He kept on going, taking them farther from the fighting, through the dead and the dying.

  The clash of steel and cries of men echoed all around him. Alan tried to block out the sound. She struggled in his grip.

  “Cease your writhing, woman! There’s a sea of blood beneath us.” His voice was harsh, but at his words she stilled.

  “A sea of blood?” she responded in perfect English. Her eyes, if it were possible, grew even wider as her gaze dropped to the red cross of the Templars upon his chest. “Turbans and crosses,” she breathed in disbelief.