Dark Deceptions: A Regency and Medieval Collection of Dark Romances(111)

She smiled at the first truly warm moment between them. “I am particularly grateful for your keen sense of timing,” she said. “A few seconds later and I might not have been so grateful. Or alive.”

He winked at her and dropped his hands from her face, moving to take her two small hands within his big palms. He kissed them both sweetly, tenderly, as a promise of things to come. Now, it would be different between them. Gryffyn had, if nothing else, accomplished that.

“If you can stand, mayhap we should go and check on your sister,” Keller said. “I am sure you are anxious to see her.”

Chrystobel nodded, glancing at Gryffyn as the man sat up with the Ashby-Kidd twins standing several feet away from him, watching every move the man made.

“I am,” she said, eyeing her brother warily. “What are you going to do with him?”

The warmth in Keller’s eyes faded as he looked over his shoulder at the Welshman, who was holding his broken wrist awkwardly against his torso. His expression suggested anger, defeat, and defiance. Even with the broken wrist, Keller could still see fight in the man. After a moment, he returned his gaze to Chrystobel.

“Lock him in the vault,” he said. “The man has much to atone for so I hope you will trust me to make the appropriate judgment.”

“Of course, my lord.”

His gaze lingered on her a moment, thoughts turning from Gryffyn back to her. He liked thinking of her much better. “You will call me Keller,” he said quietly. “Or husband. I will answer to whatever you choose to call me.”

A beautiful smile spread across her face. She had a delightful grin with straight, white teeth and slightly prominent canines. “I would be honored to call you Keller,” she said sincerely.

He was just about to release her hands but thought better of it as she spoke. The glimmer returned to his eyes.

“I like hearing you say my name,” he said honestly.

Her smile broadened even more, if such a thing was possible. “Then I shall say it again,” she whispered. “Keller.”

He kissed her hand again, smiling when she giggled. In the midst of this hellish situation, it was a tender moment that saw something of a relationship between them take hold. A spark had ignited, and Keller was again thinking on kissing her lips, privacy be damned, when he heard scuffling behind him. Before he could turn around, something violent and painful rammed into the right side of his torso.

He pitched forward as Chrystobel screamed, struggling to keep him from falling even as he collapsed onto his bum. Horrified, they could both see the dagger jutting from his right side, about a foot below his armpit. And there was a hand on it.

Gryffyn stood behind Keller, his good hand on the hilt of the dirk as he crammed it into the man’s flesh. Ripping it from Keller’s body, he pushed the man aside and aimed for his sister with the blade held high.





Chapter One





One day earlier

Powys Region, Wales

“Do you suppose that when God created the earth, he forgot to mention that the sun needed to fall upon Wales as well?”

The question drew low laughter from the group. A column of five hundred English warriors tramped north out of Deheubarth, through Gwynedd and into Powys, traversing the lush green and wild country of Wales. August had seen unseasonably heavy rains, turning the roads to muddy swamps. At the moment, the gray clouds were scattering across the blue expanse of sky, moving to the east as the sea breeze blew strong. The comment came from a young knight because even though traces of blue could be seen among the clouds, it seemed that one was always blotting out the sun.

“God may have made Wales with too much bad weather and too many savages,” an older knight commented. Sir William Wellesbourne was a big, blond knight with dark eyes and a quick wit. “But it is William Marshal who has charged us with taming it. Consider this your test of knighthood, young George. Sun be damned.”

George Ashby-Kidd grinned sheepishly as his identical twin brother, Aimery, laughed the loudest. They were good-looking young men, newly knighted last year, with personalities as identical as their brown-haired, blue-eyed resemblance. They were quick to the sword, quick of temper, and ambitious. Their father was a long-time retainer of their liege, William Marshal, and very ambitious himself. The boys had been well schooled in knightly aspiration.

As the troops surrounding the knights twittered and snorted, a muzzled charger thundered up from the rear of the column. Wellesbourne quieted the snickering men as their commanding officer rode upon them. Mud sprayed as the big horse slowed from a canter to a nervous trot and the knight flipped up his visor with an enormous mailed hand.

Sir Keller de Poyer inspected his knights, flicking the sweat from his brow as he did so. Even in the cooler temperatures, sweat was running in his eyes. It had been a long day at a clipped pace and he, as well as his men, were showing their fatigue. He knew his men had been laughing; he heard them well down the line. He also knew they would shut up as he drew near. They always did, fearful of his temper as well as his punishment. Keller’s knights had learned through trial and error to both fear and respect him. They were all relatively new to his service and he was not, in their experience, a forgiving man.

“We should see our destination within the hour,” Keller glanced up at the waning sun as it struggled to peek from behind the gray clouds. “Will, send a rider on to announce our arrival. I would have sup waiting for us when we arrive.”