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Her Dark Knight's Redemption
Nicole Locke
‘This man was shadow and night… He was Darkness. ’ Homeless Aliette is saved from punishment for stealing by a mysterious knight. This stranger informs her that to stay alive she must claim his child as her own. She should fear the knight’s power, and yet it’s clear there’s more good to this man than he’s prepared to show. Can she break down the barriers of the tortured knight she calls Darkness…?
“This man was shadow and night.
He was Darkness.”
Homeless Aliette is saved from punishment for stealing by a mysterious knight. To stay alive, she’s informed by this stranger that she must claim his child as her own. She should fear the dark knight’s power, yet it’s clear there’s more good to this man than he’s prepared to show. Can she break down the barriers of the tortured knight she calls Darkness?
NICOLE LOCKE discovered her first romance novels in her grandmother’s closet, where they were secretly hidden. Convinced that books that were hidden must be better than those that weren’t, Nicole greedily read them. It was only natural for her to start writing them—but now not so secretly!
Also by Nicole Locke (#u72a54595-01f8-5158-94d4-7601fb1ba97c)
Secrets of a Highland Warrior
Lovers and Legends miniseries
The Knight’s Broken Promise
Her Enemy Highlander
The Highland Laird’s Bride
In Debt to the Enemy Lord
The Knight’s Scarred Maiden
Her Christmas Knight
Reclaimed by the Knight
Her Dark Knight’s Redemption
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Her Dark Knight’s Redemption
Nicole Locke
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-0-008-90120-2
HER DARK KNIGHT’S REDEMPTION
© 2019 Nicole Locke
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Note to Readers (#u72a54595-01f8-5158-94d4-7601fb1ba97c)
This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:
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Text to speech
There are some readers who just keep you going.
And I owe two such readers my great thanks
for cheering me on through this book.
Diane, our chats have been such a joy
when I was writing the darkest parts of this story.
Especially special? Your messages of
‘How’s it going?’ I must admit those kept me writing
on days I feared the keyboard!
Karine, it has been a serendipitous gift
meeting you through your wonderful blog
https://songedunenuitdete.com (https://songedunenuitdete.com). Those pictures you sent me of beautiful Troyes were a brilliant inspiration! Thank you!
Contents
Cover (#u513eb3b1-294c-5295-8bb0-2aa78084f13c)
Back Cover Text (#u61a8adbf-8b25-5371-8aa9-df1914e8e2ee)
About the Author (#u3822ce0a-ee91-51b6-8c2a-ea93d7feb77e)
Booklist (#u4937162b-1da0-5664-9521-631e9b49191e)
Title Page (#u05dc847b-85a0-591f-a411-ed5477d53c54)
Copyright (#u6f801acf-0d93-54e1-92bd-91f529b8d156)
Note to Readers
Dedication (#ue50b1bfc-a3b8-5102-96ca-c4fec92faecc)
Chapter One (#u712f4a7a-e534-56d8-948a-7e489860c635)
Chapter Two (#u3cd91f9b-a80d-5567-9da9-005f366a3382)
Chapter Three (#ue44a2ebc-8ffc-5ff8-b554-8c04dac66676)
Chapter Four (#u496c938a-941e-5ea6-ab0a-727510e751e6)
Chapter Five (#u02dd68a5-7abe-5552-84fd-5baf737d1f70)
Chapter Six (#u37e231b8-26e8-58b0-94d2-2fe15af1a50a)
Chapter Seven (#ub74e126d-a50a-5f90-aea8-5eb07a3cc02c)
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)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u72a54595-01f8-5158-94d4-7601fb1ba97c)
France—1297
‘I can assure you, monsieur, the child is yours.’
Reynold didn’t bother to turn for the woman who was standing behind him. He rarely acknowledged anyone unless it suited him. The woman’s guttural accent and well-aged sweat stench ensured that she was most definitely beneath him in every way.
In truth, almost everyone was. If Reynold was forced to entertain among the parasites who clung to the teat of court, he would say, but for the King of England, he was beneath no man.
In the privacy of his own home, he barely acknowledged he was beneath God.
He was a knight, highly skilled and deadly with almost every sword and blade man had ever made. Yet what no one knew was the fact that he was deadlier with the games he played. Those who did discover this hidden talent didn’t survive to spread the tale.
He was also fortunate enough to possess wealth that rivalled King Edward’s. Some of it was amply displayed in his private chambers, where he and the peasant behind him stood. Cascading silks, intricate gold-threaded embroidery in colours resembling precious gemstones and volumes of books. He owned many homes and travelled more than any man he knew, and the books always travelled with him.
The only matter that irked him was his wealth didn’t rival the church’s. But he consoled himself that they had had a thousand years in their plundering and he had years ahead of him to bridge the difference.
He was all of this, yet what set him above others was his family name: Warstone. Through that title, he gained unimaginable power and unparalleled fear. Though he wanted only to obliterate every last relation, tear down every monument and shred all scrolls bearing the name he was born into, for now, he used it for his purposes. In the end, it suited the games he played. And he looked forward to the time when the name wouldn’t matter anymore. Then he wouldn’t acknowledge the Warstone legacy just as he didn’t acknowledge the commoner shifting warily behind him.
Commoners always shifted when in his presence, often readied their little feet to make a dash for safety. It never did them any good. They could run to beyond the edge of existence and, if he desired, they’d be dead. Nobles were too stupid or lazy to realise they should be warier in his presence. Instead, they often shared their pitiful lives or confessed...as if he’d have pity.
Wondering if the wench behind him needed to die, he shifted his gaze from the sights beyond his window, to the reflection in the glass which revealed a distorted reflection of her...and a child she held.
Distorted, but enough to know from her dark hair to her tattered clothing that the babe in her arms couldn’t be his...if that was to be her claim. It was visual information that didn’t surprise or please him and he waited for what her fear should be telling her. Run.
Perhaps she had some noble blood and didn’t know her life was about to end. Not here, in this particular undisclosed home in the heart of Paris, however. He wouldn’t sully this sanctuary with her spilled blood.
