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Beauchamp Besieged
Elaine Knighton
Twas Madness!The blood of her people stained his hands, yet Ceridwen ap Morgan ached for his touch. Though Lord Raymond Beauchamp sparked fear throughout the Marches, her woman's heart knew that this dragon of a man nursed secret wounds in his soul. And she must wed this enigma. She shuddered–but was it from darkest dread…or deepest desire?Treaties Be Hanged!Raymond Beauchamp saw no advantage in wedding Ceridwen. Her very presence raised unwelcome ghosts of memory, and marriage to anyone would only interfere with older, darker vows he'd made. Yet he feared 'twas already too late! For his blood, once hot for revenge against his barbaric brother, now burned only for her…!
“You are my husband.”
Raymond’s head snapped up, his face pale. He stood, then sat down again. “Nay…she is but—you cannot be—”
“Why not? ’Tis not the person that is important, but the pact. If I do not please you, that is regrettable, but be assured I find the prospect of wedding you no more appealing.”
“I did not expect you to find me appealing. I will force myself upon no one. Do as you will, go where you like.”
His defensive attitude surprised Ceridwen. Not knowing what to think, Ceridwen forged ahead. “Do I or do I not have your word that I may take up residence as your lady—in name only? You said you would not force—”
“I know what I said.” Raymond rose to his feet. “Once we are wed, I care not what you do. Just keep out of my way…!”
Beauchamp Besieged
Harlequin Historical #665
Harlequin Historicals is delighted to introduce new author ELAINE KNIGHTON
“Beauchamp Besieged is a triumph of a novel,
filled with the passion and pageantry of a bygone era,
heart-stirring romance and high adventure.”
—USA TODAY bestselling author Susan Wiggs
#663 TEXAS GOLD
Carolyn Davidson
#664 OF MEN AND ANGELS
Victoria Bylin
#666 THE BETRAYAL
Ruth Langan
Beauchamp Besieged
Elaine Knighton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Available from Harlequin Historicals and
ELAINE KNIGHTON
Beauchamp Besieged #665
I have many people to thank,
but I particularly need to acknowledge:
Linda Abajian, who believed from the beginning.
Shannon Caldwell, whose medieval expertise and
beautiful longbows inspired me.
Liz Engstrom, Wes Hoskins,
Deanna Mather Larson and Doe Tabor,
who taught me all about writing and to never give up.
Teresa Basinski-Eckford, Gwyn Cready, Sue Greenlee,
Sharon Lanergan, Evalyn Lemon, Laurel O’Donnell,
Ann Simas, Outreach International Romance Writers,
Rose City Romance Writers and many other members
of Romance Writers of America who
offered me unfailing advice and support.
My agents, Ron and Mary Lee Laitsch,
and my editors, Tracy Farrell and Jessica Regante,
who gave this story a chance.
And James Pearson, who told me so…
Contents
Prologue (#u6b2a1565-537c-5661-83fb-d570b335b22d)
Chapter One (#ubd7f0f8f-0b66-5c39-b352-965fda2e3972)
Chapter Two (#u99228662-5492-594d-af40-6c41662e0c31)
Chapter Three (#ud5e1122f-9363-5c15-b9b7-3ccec5ccca33)
Chapter Four (#uafc467bf-9262-5239-8920-748440ca2b05)
Chapter Five (#u031bec72-09a0-5309-9742-60e153b4961f)
Chapter Six (#uf036e458-7898-5138-a393-cdd9e5e58c13)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
The Marches of England and southern Wales, 1180
“Slow down—I must lead!”
Raymond de Beauchamp ignored his brother Alonso’s snarling command. As of today he was a full ten winters old. As of today he was one year closer to being a man—a true warrior. And even Alonso could not prevent that.
He galloped his stout cob through the forest, heedless of Everard the Fat’s cries of distress at the pace. On a Welsh pony, little Percy bounced along behind, willing to follow anywhere if his three elder brothers let him.
Raymond gloried in the crisp air against his face. Golden leaves swirled and tumbled in the wake of the ponies’ hooves. Ahead was an open hill, with crags of rotten stone that broke apart as they trod upon them. At the top lay the dolmen. A forbidden place, where evil spirits lurked and wicked lads might forever disappear. At least that was what old Nurse Alys said.
The stone slab seemed impossibly large and heavy. Raymond halted and stared, caught up in its mystery, in its implications of age-old, sacred blood.
Alonso strutted its length, a lock of gilded hair falling over his eyes. He challenged the two youngest boys with his gaze. Blue, gleaming, sharp as a blade. “Raymond and Percy! Let us make an offering, like the old ones, upon this stone.”
Raymond stilled. So this was the price for winning the race through the forest. Everard, a chubby version of his older brother, stood next to his pony, twisting the reins around his hands. “Nay, ’twould be blasphemous to do such a thing.”
Alonso narrowed his eyes at Everard. “Did I ask you, knot-head? It will not be if I say it is not. Percy. You will do, for you are the sweetest and the softest. The crones who come here to dance this eve will feast upon you with delight.”
Grinning, he swung the child onto the slab.
The rosebud color drained from Percy’s cheeks. Raymond’s stomach tightened into knots of outrage. Percy was but a wee lad. Why, he still had creases of baby fat where his hands met his wrists. Loathing for Alonso filled Raymond, but he held himself in check, fiddling his sore, loose milk-tooth with his tongue. “Put him down, Alonso. He thinks you mean it.”
Alonso merely bared his teeth and continued preparing to tie Percy up. Raymond clenched his jaw despite the ache. His brother’s familiar, leering grin marred a face so fair that to all who did not know him, Alonso was surely a young man of nobility and honorable intent. But he had the heart of a carrion-eater, Raymond knew full well.
His blood pounded in a red wash of fury. He rammed his elder brother with his shoulder, fists pounding ribs. Alonso, taller, heavier, and more experienced, kneed Raymond in the belly, kicked his head, then dragged him upright by his hair.
“Never interfere with my pleasure, fool.”
Staring into ice-blue eyes, Raymond struggled to draw breath and longed to batter that sneering face. But Percy needed him, he must hold back. The child sat on the stone, his straw-colored hair awry, rubbing his eyes with dimpled hands.
Alonso unsheathed his dagger. “Well then. Someone has got to be it. If not Percy, then who?” He cut a length of rope and started to wind it around Percy’s wrists.
The lad turned a frightened gaze upon Raymond, who found it impossible to wink or smile in reassurance. He cleared his throat. “You desire a sacrifice? Let it be me.”
Alonso smiled. “’Tis always more pleasing to the gods when the victim is willing. Get off of there, Percy.”
The child stayed put, his lower lip trembling. “Nay. I will not let Raymie die for me.”
Alonso simply tossed Percy to the ground. The boy scrambled up and ran weeping to Raymond, who brushed the gravel from his small palms. “Hush! I am not going to die.” Raymond heaved himself onto the stone and hoped he’d spoken the truth.
“On your knees, Brother. We must do this properly.”
Raymond’s insides twisted as the cords bit into his wrists. “My hands are going numb.”
“Get used to it.” Alonso pulled harder.
Raymond began to struggle in earnest as his brother drew the bindings from his ankles around each thigh. Raw panic chewed at the last threads of his confidence, and sweat dampened his brow. “Alonso. I will not be hamfasted.”
“You already are. Everard, help me get this knot right.”
“Perhaps this is excessive.” Everard’s statement was more whine than protest.
Alonso jerked Raymond’s feet and hands together for the final stage of his bondage. “Everard, hamfasting is an art. Do it properly—you are going to be a churchman, are you not? So, you must know how to persuade your flock to confess!”
Everard pushed Raymond’s face against the stone slab. Now his wrists were behind him, lashed to his ankles. His heels were tight against his buttocks, and each ankle was bound to its respective thigh. The worst sort of criminals were hamfasted like this, before they were…Raymond fought down the terror welling within him. He would rather die than let them see it.
