The Maiden And The Warrior

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About The Author

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Copyright

“My kisses do not please you, madam?”

Lucien ground out, annoyed as much with his own show of weakness as with her perfidy.

“You know they do not,” she answered coolly.

“I think you are lying. Do not disappoint me, Alayna. You have always been brutally honest.” He forced himself to relax his grip, sending her stumbling back. “So tell me, what may I do to please you?”

Her lip curled as she tilted her head to its familiar angle. “Why do you keep taunting me in this cruel game? I cannot wait to be rid of you! You will regret it when my mother arrives.”

“And what do you imagine will happen then, my lady love?” Dension dripped from every word.

Alayna did not flinch She leveled her emerald gaze at him and said, “Then I will see your head served to me upon a silver platter for what you have done…!”

Dear Reader,

March is the time of spring, of growth, and the budding of things to come. Like these four never-before-published authors that we selected for our annual March Madness Promotion. These fresh new voices in historical romance are bound to be tomorrow’s stars!

Among this year’s choices for the month is The Maiden and the Warrior by Jacqueline Navin, a heartrending medieval tale about a fierce warrior who is saved from the demons that haunt him when he marries the widow of the man who sold him into slavery. Goodness also prevails in Gabriel’s Heart by Madeline George. In this flirty Western, an ex-sheriff uses a feisty socialite to exact revenge, but ends up falling in love with her first!

Last Chance Bride by Jillian Hart is a touching portrayal of a lonely spinster-turned-mail-order-bride who shows an embittered widower the true meaning of love on the rugged Montana frontier. And don’t miss A Duke Deceived by Cheryl Bolen, a Regency story about a handsome duke whose hasty marriage to a penniless noblewoman is tested by her secret deeds.

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell, Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

The Maiden And The Warrior
Jacqueline Navin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JACQUELINE NAVIN

lives in Maryland with her husband and three small children, where she works in private practice as a psychologist. Writing has been her hobby since the sixth grade, and she has boxes full of incomplete manuscripts to prove it. She decided to take writing seriously five years ago. The Maiden and the Warrior is the result.

When asked, as she often is, how she finds time in her busy schedule to write, she replies that it is not a problem—thanks to the staunch support of her husband, who is not unused to doing the dinner dishes and tucking the kids into bed. However, finding time to do the laundry—that’s a problem.

Jacqueline would love to hear from readers. Please write to her at this address: c/o P.O. Box 1611, Bel Air, MD 21014.

To my parents, John and Patricia Lepore, for their unequivocal support and for teaching me an important lesson in real-life love.

To my children, Kelly, Lindsey and Lucas, whom I adore beyond imagining.

And to Mick, without whom I could never have done it. For your faith and strength and unfailing belief in me, I thank you. YOU are one in a thousand.

Chapter One

England, 1180

Lucien de Montregnier stood over his opponent, his sword pressed against the tender flesh of the other’s neck so that the wicked edge raised a thin line of blood. Every fiber in his body was alive, humming with emotion, his mind exploding with a heady mixture of bitterness and joy. This moment, the one for which he had waited an eternity, was at last here. He had dreamed of it for so very long that the intensity filled him with exquisite, almost painful, rapture. His breath came in great gulps and a thunderous pulse pounded in his ears, but his hand was steady.

His captive said, “I will pay any ransom you demand.”

De Montregnier grinned, feeling a surge of victory that left him trembling. “I have enough riches,” he replied.

He could see by Edgar du Berg’s sly expression that his mind was racing over possibilities. Patiently Lucien waited, watching every nuance of the other man’s face, savoring the intoxicating knowledge that he had this man, his long-despised enemy, at his mercy.

Apparently du Berg decided on his tactic, saying, “Let us bargain, like reasonable men. I have no quarrel with you. I do not even know who you are. You have attacked me without cause, and have fought for two days. You were very clever to strike the day after my wedding, when my men and I are the worse for the night’s revelries. I can tell you, that is why it was so easy for you to breach the outer walls.”

“You are lazy, du Berg, and too sure of your tyranny. That is why I defeated you.”

Edgar spread his hands out before him. “What I do not understand is your challenge to settle the matter between us. You had already won. Why did you wish to fight me alone?”

“Alone?” Lucien drawled, jerking his head to the tree line to his left. Beyond the clearing, Edgar had his men in hiding.

Du Berg tried to laugh. “You did not truly think I would come unescorted. What if it were a trap?”

“You excel at deceit, du Berg, but your men do not bother me as long as they do not interfere. In fact, I have made certain that they will not. You see, behind them, a bit farther into the woods, I have a few men of my own. Have you not wondered why they have not come to rescue you?”

The widened eyes and dropped jaw of his adversary were satisfying. Until this moment, Lucien realized, the bastard had not really thought himself in danger.

“You do not fight fair!” du Berg cried. He was losing the thin veneer of control that had fed his bravado thus far.

“I have merely evened the game. It is just you and I, as it should be, for the matter we have to settle is personal.”

“Who the devil are you?” du Berg shouted. His voice cracked with strain.

Lucien held his gaze for an interminable period. Taking a deep, uneven breath, he said, “Do you recall the name de Montregnier?”

Du Berg’s face registered puzzlement, realization and, finally, naked fear. “You are the boy. Raoul’s son. I thought you dead.”

“You should have gone with more reputable murderers,” Lucien rasped. “They saw a second purse in selling me as a slave. They sent me to hell, du Berg, and like the demon I have been called, I have returned.”

Du Berg tried to scrabble backward, but an increase in the pressure of Lucien’s blade stopped him. Pinned, the man froze, his Adam’s apple bobbing precariously as he swallowed. “Do you want Thalsbury back? I can give it to you.”

“I will have it in any case.”

“De Montregnier, listen to me,” du Berg rushed, “I will restore your lands. Think on it—’tis a good offer. The days of anarchy are gone. King Henry will not appreciate his nobles killing themselves in revenge wars. You may do better to deal with me.”

“I would just as soon deal with the devil,” de Montregnier answered.

“Be reasonable, man! I can give you more alive than dead. You will never succeed—we have common law now in England.”

Lucien’s voice was very quiet, almost soft, as if he were imparting an endearment. “For my father’s life, I will take revenge. And for my own losses, I shall take everything that was yours for my own.”

Du Berg’s mouth worked mutely, sweat pouring in rivulets from his temples. De Montregnier saw the intent on Edgar’s face even before a single muscle twitched. In a sudden move, he knocked aside de Montregnier’s weapon and lunged forward, reaching for a concealed dagger and bringing it to bear with a flash of reflected light as bright as a torch in the night.

Lucien stepped aside at the last moment and the deadly thrust slashed harmlessly through the air. Du Berg staggered back, still brandishing his blade. He shouted, “What do you want?”

“Your death,” Lucien answered, and in one swift motion brought his sword up and then down again in a controlled arc. The blow landed with a satisfying whack! and a spray of blood, nesting the blade deep into Edgar’s side.

Eyes wide, he stared at Lucien. Not angry or afraid, simply surprised. Then, slowly, pain flooded his features and his eyes rolled up into his head as he collapsed.

Dispassionately de Montregnier yanked out his sword. He stood very still for a moment, staring down at Edgar’s crumpled form. It was a long time before he turned away.

Edgar’s men ran forward. Without a glance, Lucien mounted, calling over his shoulder, “See that he is buried. Have the grave blessed if you can find a priest that will do it, but do not bring the body back to Gastonbury. The barony is mine now, and I’ll not have his rotting flesh despoiling the land any longer.”

Alayna of Avenford stood among the crowd gathered in the bailey of Gastonbury Castle. It had been a long day, one she had spent tending the wounded in the makeshift infirmary set up in the chapel. After two days of war—and that coming so quick on the heels of her disastrous wedding—she was numb, but with fatigue or relief, she was not sure. The news had come hours ago that the Lord of Gastonbury had been defeated by the leader of the attacking army, and, God have mercy on her, she was glad.

Edgar was dead, yes, and a blessing it was, but she had only to look at the faces of those around her to realize that her providence was their tragedy. These were the families of the wounded and the dead, facing an uncertain future at the hands of their conqueror.

A hand fumbled for hers, and she looked to see her nurse, Eurice. The older woman’s face was lined with worry. “Sweetling,” she whispered.

Alayna shook her head. “Rest easy. I am well.”

Eurice’s sharp eyes were troubled and searching. It was not difficult to surmise what was worrying her. “He did not harm me, Eurice. In fact, Edgar could not even remove his clothing, he was so far gone with drink. By the time he came up to the chamber, he was barely standing.” It was true she was still a maid. Wed only a pair of days ago, already a widow, she had been spared the revolting ordeal of submitting her body to her despised husband. On their wedding night he had been too drunk, and the call to arms the following morn had saved her from Edgar putting the matter to rights. “Whatever this war brings to these poor folk, it has won me my freedom.”

Eurice was not reassured. “I do not think it will be that simple, child. War rarely benefits the defeated.”

Alayna shook her head, releasing dark tendrils of hair from its loose knot. “We are not of the defeated. I was forced into this marriage, and now God has provided an end to it. I do not belong to Gastonbury, but once again to myself. As soon as I can get a message to Mother, she will send her men to see me home.”

“You are impetuous, child,” Eurice scolded. “You were Edgar’s bride, and his enemy shall not overlook that.”

“But I was not!” Alayna insisted. “I am a virgin, still, and so no widow in truth, for I was never a wife.” She narrowed her eyes as the faraway sound of hoofbeats began as a low, distant rumble. The victorious army was arriving. “And I will go home,” she vowed.

The gates had been flung wide to admit the invading forces. Despite her brave words, Alayna clutched Eurice’s arm and squinted in the glare of the late afternoon sun, surprised to note that her heart was racing and she was holding her breath as the soldiers appeared, seeming to be a solid mass silhouetted against the light. They moved forward as one, the sound of their approach rising to a steady thunder.

The amorphous form took on the shapes of individual men. Their leader rode on point ahead of the others, flanked by the mounted knights, then followed by footed soldiers who fanned out behind. They spilled into the courtyard, filling it and pressing the crowd back. When the last of the soldiers had come to a stop, the leader kicked his destrier forward so that he stood alone. All was silent as the people of Gastonbury and their conqueror regarded each other.

Alayna heard someone behind her hiss, “He looks like a devil!”

Indeed, his dark countenance and grim expression did put one to mind of a demon. He had a long mane of unruly black hair, matched by brows that hovered in a scowl over eyes of piercing black. They glowed like coals as he stared unwaveringly into the crowd. A close-cropped beard, cut so short it looked like only a few day’s growth, ran along his jawline and chin, connecting to a thin mustache. His nose was strong, his cheekbones sharply defined. Upon his left cheek, high up next to his temple, a jagged scar showed starkly against his sun-darkened skin. It did not detract from his looks, only enhanced the sinister attractiveness he wore with ease. He was large, broad shouldered and hard muscled in the manner of a man taught well in the arts of war.

Alayna felt something curl tightly in the pit of her stomach, something within that reacted to the power of him, the unaffected handsomeness, the commanding presence and arrogant air that would make the most stouthearted tremble. Even if he had not ridden in front as was his due, she would have recognized him as the leader from the effortless mantle of authority he wore.

“I am Lucien de Montregnier,” he announced without inflection.

There was a reaction to that name. A few people gasped and a low murmur echoed among the throng, but it died quickly. Alayna looked about, curious.

“Lord Edgar is dead,” he said. “His defeat gives me this castle and all holdings tied to it.” His voice held neither apology nor brag, merely stated fact. “As the victor in this challenge, I declare that I am your new lord until the justice of these events can be determined by a representative of King Henry, which is what the law commands.”

Alayna watched his eyes scan the crowd, then settle on her. There was something there in that dark gaze that held her captive, even while she did not comprehend it. He frightened her in a different way than Edgar had. Of Edgar, she had feared his brute strength and unbridled cruelty, both of which she had sampled during their brief acquaintance. Yet, there was something far more dangerous in this man’s look. She was unable to turn away.

“I will require an oath from each of you to be sworn to me, one by one. Those of you who will not do this will be held until the king’s justiciar arrives. If justice does find me rightful lord of this burh, you will be given another opportunity at that time to make your choice but you will be fined. If you still do not wish to serve me, your properties will be assigned to one who will.

“However, if the king’s man should disavow my claim and declare that I have no right to these lands, I will personally recompense any man who was unjustly imprisoned.”

A chorus of incredulous murmurs rippled through the crowd. Lucien held up his hand to quiet them. “I do this to assure you that while I will tolerate no disloyalty, I will deal fairly with you. But I will not allow dissension to reign free, so I counsel you to think carefully before making your choice.”

This said, he swung down from his saddle and moved through the crowd with a long stride. The populace hurriedly parted a path for him. Heading straight for the keep, he bounded up the steps, flung open the tall studded door and disappeared into the hall.

One of the other men, a handsome knight with shining blond hair, outfitted splendidly in a vest of well-kept chain mail and silver armor, called from his seat on his horse, “Your new baron awaits each of you in yonder hall.” He grinned. His good looks were incongruous with the stained weapons he bore and the gore smeared over the fine silver plate.

From behind the knight who had just spoken, a large man loped into view. His long hair, of a shade so light it was almost white, fell past his massive shoulders. A Viking, that was plain to see by both his size and his coloring, but even that race of giants must take notice of this one.

“Agravar!” the other man called, laughing. “Lord Lucien will be most displeased if you frighten half of his new villeins to death!”

The Viking tossed his head in wordless response before he disappeared into the castle. The fair-haired knight cast a conspiratorial look to one of his fellows, apparently pleased with his jest.

“Dear Lord,” Eurice breathed in Alayna’s ear. “They look evil. That fair one has the handsome face of an angel, but ’tis Lucifer I am thinking he resembles! And what in the name of all that is holy does he find so funny? He mocks us, I think.”

“Who among you is the Lady of Gastonbury?” that same knight called.

Faces turned toward Alayna. Stunned, she answered in a small voice, “I am.”

The man dismounted. As he strode toward her, he smiled. “I am Sir Will, a mercenary of Lord Lucien’s. He has asked me to bring you to him.”

“Why me?” Alayna asked, casting an anxious look about her as if someone would step forward and protect her from this dreadful duty.

Sir Will shrugged. “You are the lady of the castle, are you not? You are to be the first to make your pledge to him.”

Alayna wanted to refuse, feeling a strange premonition. How odd. She usually teased Eurice unmercifully for all of that one’s belief in such notions. Yet, there it was—a fear inside her. She did not wish to confront this dark warrior all by herself. Looking to Eurice, the old nurse just shook her head.

Premonition or not, Alayna had no choice but to nod her acquiescence.

Chapter Two

Inside the keep, Alayna had to blink to adjust to the dimness of the hall. Other than the man pacing at the far wall, the vaulted chamber was empty. Being the social focal point of every castle, Alayna had never seen a hall without at least a dozen people about, engaged in various activities. It gave her an eerie feeling, this vast, barren place.

Or perhaps it was the way this Lucien de Montregnier moved, with a leonine grace that reminded Alayna of a caged animal, or a prowling beast searching for prey.

He stopped when he saw her, swinging around to arch an expectant brow. When she hesitated, he called, “Hurry up, then, come forward!”

She jumped at the sound of his voice echoing among the pointed cornices and hastened forward before she even realized she had obeyed. Catching herself, she slowed her steps, squared her shoulders and told herself to, above all, remain calm.

“Lady Alayna of Gastonbury,” he said. His gaze flickered over her, and Alayna was at once taken aback at his bold, assessing glance.

Up close, he was more forbidding than he had been on horseback. And more handsome. Even with the offensive proof of his day’s chores staining the black chain mail—or because of it—he was an awe-inspiring sight. The chiseled features she had first noticed in the bailey were more appealing upon closer inspection—the straight, proud nose, the planes of his face, the firm set of his broad, sensuous mouth. Blood and grime streaked his face, and his hair was matted in some places, wild in others, giving him an untamed, almost feral look.

His face was unreadable, dark and scowling, while his eyes seemed to bore into her with black regard. It was perfectly reasonable, she told herself, that her knees seemed to suddenly go weak. After all, he was the warrior victorious, and she stood before him awaiting his pleasure. Anyone would be daunted in these circumstances, yet it was not like her. Even against Edgar she had stood in contempt, but this man…it gave her some disquiet to acknowledge he affected her like no other.

Seized with a sudden self-consciousness, she smoothed a stray lock into place, an unsuccessful venture as the tendril promptly sprang back into its original position. She forced her hand to her side, not wanting him to see her discomfort.

“Aye, I am,” she answered, annoyed that her voice sounded meek. It took every ounce of courage to stand unflinching under the steady glare.

“As Edgar du Berg’s widow, I will hear your pledge of fealty first.”

A wild hope leaped to life. Was that all he wished? “Sir,” she began, her voice stronger now, “I will gladly recognize any claim you make to this castle and its lands, or call you by any title you covet. It is nothing to me.” She hesitated, gauging his reaction. He still regarded her with that uncanny calm. “I care nothing for Gastonbury, it is not my home.”

“You are mistress of the castle,” he said evenly. “How can you say that you do not belong here?”

Alayna swallowed hard. Her sharp eyes caught the whitening around the scar on his cheek, the only visible sign of his annoyance. “I was wed only two days, and I have been at Gastonbury for little over a month. My home is in London, where my mother is one of Eleanor’s ladies.”

He studied her for a moment. “And?” he rumbled.

“Since Edgar—my husband—is dead, then I wish to return to my family.” He was so hard. Did he do it apurpose, she wondered, leveling that murderous glare to make her quake?

“You are not going anywhere,” he said with finality. Again the easy mien of command took over as his irritation receded.

“But—” she began, hardly knowing what it was she would have said in objection. But his hand stayed her.

“It is not that I do not sympathize with your wish, my lady.” A sardonic smile twisted his mouth, making him appear the scoundrel for a moment. “I do, in fact, understand the wish for freedom, perhaps more than you know. It simply does not serve my purpose to let you return to your former life, not just yet. You will indulge me in this, I trust, and when matters have been settled here to my satisfaction, we shall see about you.”

He leaned against the hearth, striking an insolent pose that matched his manner. Pinned by his hard stare, she found herself wishing incongruously that she had taken the time to freshen her appearance.

Shaking off the thought, she ventured, “What matters?”

“I am most anxious that my work today has not been in vain,” he explained. A faraway look came to his eye that was chilling. “I have been waiting a long time for this day, and have come far to see it through. Defeating du Berg is only the beginning. I will take everything of his as my own.”

Though unsaid, the implication that she was to be counted among his booty made Alayna stiffen her spine. She certainly had no quarrel with the man desiring revenge against Edgar du Berg. No doubt Edgar was deserving of it. But to include her was not fair.

“I do not understand,” she said. “What does any of that have to do with me?”

“Are you unaware of your position, or merely think me daft?”

He was growing irate again, and the thought of his wrath directed at her nearly made her retreat. But Alayna was not without a temper of her own, and it rose now in her defense. “I have not called you daft. I only wish to leave.”

“And go to Henry and plead your rights as widow of this burh? No doubt you are much put out by the loss of your husband. It would be advantageous for you if you could manage to win back what you have lost.”

“I have no intentions of doing anything of the sort!” she objected. “I want nothing to do with this place. And make no mistake, my lord, I do not mourn any of my losses, least of all my husband!” With everything she had endured at Edgar’s hands, this suggestion stung most. “I hated him, perhaps more than you did, de Montregnier. He tricked me into coming here and forced marriage upon me.”

An insolent look lifted his brow in vague interest. “Trickery was du Berg’s specialty. How is it you were duped?”

Taking a deep breath, Alayna steadied herself. She would have to explain it. “He sent a message telling my mother that he was a cousin of my father’s and inviting us for a visit. My mother was anxious to get me away from court, for the intrigue and debauchery there troubled her, so she accepted. My father is dead these six years, you see, so she did not suspect Edgar’s claim to be a relation was a lie. Once here, he set a trap with that vile creature who has the audacity to call himself a bishop, claiming my reputation had been compromised.” She drew a breath, noting that he had the grace not to look bored with her explanation. “My choices were marriage or the stake.”

“Now, is that not a bit dramatic?” he asked.

“Yes, I thought so, but the suggestion was bandied about just the same. You know, they can burn an adulteress. Edgar would have done it.”

“Why did your family not intervene?”

“I was forbidden to write to my mother. She never knew.”

His eyes narrowed to slits of black. “And what was the late Lord of Gastonbury’s motivation for this great scheme?”

“My lands, you dolt!” she snapped, then immediately regretted it. This man was not someone to goad. He was not, however, perturbed by her insult; he didn’t flinch. She continued in a calmer vein. “He sought me out because I was an heiress.”

“A terrible tale,” de Montregnier tsked insincerely, “but quite irrelevant, even if it is true. You will remain. At least until I can see what is to be done.”

“You cannot do this!”

He smiled with audacious smugness, spreading his hands out before him. “Demoiselle, I have just killed your husband and defeated his army. I assure you I can do anything I wish.”

When she opened her mouth to protest again, he held up his hand, forbidding her entreaty even before it was made. “My lady, I have allowed you much freedom in expressing your displeasure. But I warn you not to try me.” Again that superior grin appeared. “I have had a difficult day.”

A slow burn of rage claimed her, banishing her previous fear and propelling her headlong into open rebellion. “You have no right—”

“But I do, lady, for all of Edgar’s possessions revert to me.”

“I am not a possession!”

“A modern opinion, but not one shared by our law,” he drawled, watching her reaction through hooded eyes. “You were Edgar’s property, and now you are mine. And since you will be here, where I can watch you, you can spread no mischief for me.”

Alayna was speechless. So there it was. He thought her some kind of threat to him, to his hard-won prize. Hastening to reassure him, she said, “There is nothing I want here. I give you my word that I will do nothing to interfere with you.”

The twitch of his eyes warned her of his displeasure and of a depth of rage she dared not tap. “I have no use for a woman’s promises. They are not worth the breath required to speak them.”

Her mouth worked in mute indignation as she struggled to find her argument. Then, a thought struck her suddenly, and she relaxed, returning his bitter smile.

“You have no need to worry. I am not Edgar’s widow!”

Lucien gave a long sigh. “What nonsense is this now? I am in no mood for your games. Now, will you pledge fealty to me, or will it be the dungeons?”

“You would not dare!”

“You do not know what I would dare, demoiselle,” he threatened. He stood before her, legs spread, arms crossed before him with easy arrogance. He seemed to loom gigantic, impossibly immense and threatening. “And let me further warn you that I am not tolerant of the female sport of coyness and pointless intrigue. If you have something of import to say to me, speak it outright. My patience, what little I have for your sex, is wearing thin.”

“The marriage contract is invalid,” she stated, “for there was no consummation.”

His brows shot up. “What lie is this? You say Edgar did not take you?”

Blushing deeply, Alayna forced herself to meet his incredulous stare. “That is what I said.”

“I do not believe you,” he challenged.

“’Tis true,” she countered stubbornly.

Lucien raked a hand through his tousled hair. “Who knows of this?” he demanded, “Were not the linens displayed?”

“There was no time. Indeed, all assumed the marriage fulfilled, if they gave it any thought in the midst of being besieged.”

“I returned to Gastonbury for one purpose only—to possess all which belonged to Edgar du Berg as payment for his crimes against my family. I intend to do just that. You were his beloved wife, so too shall you belong to me.”

“But I told you, I am not the lady of the castle.”

He gave no answer, but made a swift move toward her. She cringed, thinking he meant to strike her. Instead, his hand shot out and long, steellike fingers closed around her wrist.