Denise Lynn returns to Harlequin Historical with an explosive medieval marriage-of-convenience story! Lady Gillian of Rockskill desperately needs a husband—one strong and wealthy enough to protect her castle. So she has warrior Rory of Roul captured and blackmails him into marrying her!
Awaking in a dungeon to a marriage proposal, Rory stuns his beguiling captor with a counteroffer: to free his men and complete his mission for the king, he agrees to a temporary chaste marriage. One that can be annulled when his quest is over.
But despite their stormy beginning, their attraction grows, and so does the temptation to claim their wedding night!
Chapter One
Rockskill Keep, Scotland—spring 1146
‘I have need of a husband.’
Rory of Roul shook his head to clear the thick fog muddling his mind and making his head pound. Where was he? He tried desperately to dredge up his last memory, but failed. Was it fog clouding his memory, or was it smoke from the fires set after the battle to lay waste to the land? Land now covered by dead bodies. Bodies not of men, but of smooth-faced boys who’d only recently sparred with wooden swords in mock battles. His stomach rolled at the horrors he’d committed.
No. The battle was over. Without his liege’s permission or knowledge, he’d gathered his men and left. He was no longer in Normandy. He’d run like a traitorous dog with his tail between his legs back to King David begging for a mission—a wolf’s mission—any mission.
He shook his head again. Slowly clearing the murkiness of his mind. He and two of his men had been heading for Rockskill Keep on the King’s orders. Rory jerked his head back, only to wince at the contact with the stone wall behind him. She needed a what?
The bite of iron manacles securing his wrists and ankles to the cold wall at his naked back kept him from laughing at her statement. Why was there a woman on the battlefield? He blinked, then stared at the woman standing before him, not on a field of battle, but in a dimly lit cell, and asked, ‘Where are my men?’
‘They are secure.’
‘Secure?’
‘In a better state than you.’ She shrugged, adding, ‘For now.’
She stepped closer. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. ‘You worry about your men for naught. You should be concerned for your own well-being.’
He snorted. His well-being had been forfeited the moment he’d deserted his post and walked off the battlefield. The penalty for desertion—treason—would be death. The best he could hope for was that his liege the Count of Roul—his brother Elrik—would use a sharp blade and make it a quick, clean end. ‘Where am I?’
‘Rockskill Keep.’
At least he’d arrived at the location of his mission for King David. ‘I demand an audience with the Lord of this Keep.’
‘That would be impossible, as he is dead.’
A piece of information King David either didn’t know or had forgot to mention when he sent him here to bring the shipwrecks, smuggling, murders and other happenings at Rockskill to heel. ‘Then who is in charge here?’
‘I am.’
‘And you are?’
‘The Lady of Rockskill.’
Rory wrenched hard against the restraints, angry at the knowledge that he was at this vixen’s mercy. He pulled harder on the chains, his chest nearly hitting her nose.
She didn’t move, didn’t as much as flinch, simply looked up at him, warning, ‘If you harm me, you will die. But if you hurt yourself, I will send in the midwife. Trust me when I say you will not like her attention. She enjoys making her charges cry.’
He ignored her threat to send a woman’s healer instead of a surgeon to attend him. The slanted tilt of her lips and arching of her brows let him know she’d insulted him on purpose. And while he highly doubted a woman could make him cry, he was in no position to test that theory.
She reached out, stopping just before her palm touched his chest. Her hand was so close that a breeze would not have passed between them. He looked down, wondering if her touch would burn, and suddenly was grateful that he only lacked clothing from the waist up.
The woman paused, frowning. As if uncertain of her next move. Rory lifted a brow. If he didn’t know better, he would guess this woman had never been alone with a man before. Yet she had just claimed her husband had died.
He watched the play of emotions cross her face as she stared at his chest, as if the sight was unfamiliar. Her curiosity while studying his shoulders, chest, then stomach blinked to hesitancy before she quickly flashed her gaze back up. But the raising of her finely arched brows and the slight widening of those blue eyes silently spoke of interest.
She jerked her hand away, produced a dagger from behind her back and held the tip towards the tie of his braies. ‘It would be an easy thing to strip you completely. Perhaps I should see if the rest of you will suffice as husband material.’
Was she that witless, or truly that bold?
Rory doubted if she’d be bold enough to do so, but he had no desire to discover the answer, at least not while chained to a wall. ‘Do you know who I am?’
She tucked the dagger back behind her. ‘You are Rory of Roul, the youngest of King David’s wolves.’
She knew who he was and yet still saw fit to capture him? He frowned, unable to remember how this had happened.
Denise Lynn lives in NW Ohio with her husband, son and slew of 4-legged "kids". She has been an avid reader of romance novels for many years, travelling to lands and times filled with brave knights, courageous ladies and never-ending love between the pages of those wonderful books. She writes medieval romances set in England, Ireland, Normandy, France and a few fictitious islands in the waters surrounding Great Britain. When Denise isn't writing, she can be found hiking, baking, sitting in front of a sewing machine, or snipping herbs for various edible and not-so-edible recipes.
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Sounds like a book I will enjoy reading.
ReplyDeletelooks like a fun one
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