Knight of the Mist

By Jennifer August

When Lady Stirling of Falcon Fire learns her lands-- and her hand -- are to be given away in marriage to one of William the Conqueror's most trusted warriors, she vows to keep Quinn de Trefoid at arm's length. 

She will not risk her heart or her secrets to the Norman knight. 

Battle-weary Quinn de Trefoid is more than ready to settle into the life of a landowner, even if that means taking a Saxon spitfire to wife. One final task for his king and he will gain his promised boon of retirement. 

Neither are prepared for the attraction that flares between them or the danger that suddenly stalks them.

Medieval romance with paranormal elements.

214 pages

• Language: English
• Publisher: Naughty Ink Publishing
• Release date: Jul 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781386910244

Jennifer August

I've been spinning tales since I was a little tyke. My mom called me crécelle when I was young, which means little noisemaker in French (literal translation is rattle!). I loved making up stories to entertain my family, moving from recaps of my day that included fascinating things like how many crayons I broke at daycare to how fast I could run (not very) on the playground. As I grew up and found romance novels, I knew without a doubt, this was my passion and my true calling in life. Growing up in a tight-knit family, I knew what true love looked like and I wanted to parlay those feelings into my characters. I love finding crazy situations for my poor characters to navigate through whether it's medieval curses, Regency England treasure hunts, serial killers, or hot menage scenes. I hope you enjoy my books and I'd love to hear from you! Email me at [e-mail]

Book preview

Prologue

Southern England, October 1064

Norman bastard!

Quinn de Trefoid raised a brow at the Saxon knight’s arrogance but remained silent. Inwardly, he cursed his own stupidity for allowing them to capture him, for venturing so far from camp alone. After tracking the renegade knights on foot for nearly two hours, their trail had simply disappeared with the fading sun. He’d been about to turn back when they surrounded him. It was the mistake of an untrained, untested pup.

Idiot.

William would have his head for this. If he survived with it intact.

Five warriors encircled him, four on foot, one atop a mottled brown warhorse. The beast snorted and shook his head, gnawing at the bit between his teeth.

Each man standing carried a short bastard sword, sharp, honed and obviously well-used and equally as well-cared for. He frowned. It didn’t quite fit with the image of the rag-tag outlaws he been tracking. The mounted man, face half-covered by his helm, gripped a long sword.

They were still and silent, but poised for battle. Quinn’s hammered helm and ring mail vest, though adequate for tracking, offered scant protection in combat. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.

Why are you here, Norman? one called out.

The leader, sitting astride the horse, spat at the ground between Quinn’s feet. It doesn’t matter, we’re going to kill him. Just as Lord Robert commanded.

It was all the warning Quinn needed. He slapped down the faceplate of his helm and he brought his blade up as two of the knights jabbed and slashed at him with their swords. The clashing screech of metal on metal rang through the glade and sparks showered him as he met the attack.

Quinn fought back viciously, grimly satisfied when his blade found its mark and one of the men fell lifeless to the ground. Two more joined the fray and a slashing stroke to his side slipped between the links of his mail, scoring the flesh. Quinn arched, raising his blade in time to ward off what was nearly a death blow.

Keep your mind on your enemies.

Quinn returned the thrust, spilling the man’s lifeblood, evening the numbers considerably.

The two remaining knights on foot renewed their attack with vigor, but Quinn fended them off, managing to repel each new riposte. Their leader cursed loudly before dismounting and entering the melee. Finally, the mercenaries beat Quinn back, bestowing more nicks and cuts, one blow slamming his helm against his forehead, splitting the flesh. Blood poured from the wound, blinding him in one eye. Determined not to die in this foreign land, Quinn lunged forward, sinking the tip of his sword deep through the leader’s right shoulder.

Finish him! The man gasped, cursing savagely as he pulled himself off Quinn’s blade.

Eyes narrowed, Quinn turned to face the two remaining soldiers, but saw only one. The crack of a twig sounded behind him seconds before a blade slipped beneath his mail to the vulnerable side of his lower back. With a howl and an instinctive, yet vicious underhanded thrust, he pierced the man’s flesh, sending him stumbling away, sword embedded in his gut.

Liquid, hot pain seared Quinn’s back, darkened his vision and he swayed, dropping heavily to one knee.

Quinn blinked away the sting of blood-tinged sweat and pinned the leader who slumped against a large rock, with a glare. William, Duke of Normandy will see you dead for this day’s deeds.

Dead men do not speak. The brigand standing before him sneered, raising his sword.

The long mournful wail of a battle horn stopped him and he whirled to the sound, as did the leader.

Mother of God, the first cried, crossing himself.

Nay!’Tis impossible! the leader shouted furiously. He pointed at Quinn. Finish it!

Do you doubt your own eyes, Tristan? He has the Knight’s protection. The brigand spun from Quinn and scrambled to the edge of the glade. ‘tis death to challenge the Knight of the Mist. I’ll not walk forever the in-between for this Norman dog. He skittered away, disappearing into the dense wood.

Quinn ignored the pain of his own wound, struggled to his feet and yanked his sword from the dead man’s belly. He inched toward the safety of the forest, praying the blackness hovering at the edge of his awareness would not overtake him ere he slipped away. Bleary-eyed, he scanned the ridge above them, seeing only the shadowy darkness of evening. The white mist that wreathed the hills roiled and glided down the grass toward him, but he saw no other knight.

Coward! The one called Tristan shouted as his man fled, then spun back to Quinn. He stalked forward, his own blade clumsily clasped in his left hand. You will not live, Norman dog!

Rage burned in Quinn’s blood, giving him strength as the man drew nearer. I will not be the one to die this day. He deflected Tristan’s heavy-handed attack and retaliated with a slicing blow to the back of his knees. Though he forced the other man back and put him on the defensive, Quinn knew he could not keep the pace up for long. His blood flowed hotly down his back and weakness seeped into his very marrow. He lunged, determined to end the battle, but Tristan swung away at the last instant and the ground rushed up to meet Quinn as he fell, sword flying from his fingers. He sprawled motionless, breath stolen, body aching. The scrape of armor against rock jolted him and he rolled over and watched with wary eyes as the injured leader limped closer.

The man’s blood-streaked battleplate glinted duly in the mist-filtered sunlight. The scrape and drag of his steel-clad foot grated along Quinn’s ears like the whistle of an axe through air. Suddenly, the heavy thunder of hooves echoed through the glade and the Saxon knight froze, his gaze flying toward the sound.

His sword clattered to the ground and he raised his uninjured arm as if warding the approaching figure away. Nay! You are not real.

Quinn squinted upward through the blood of his head wound. A figure covered head to foot in gleaming silver armor stared down at him from atop a gray war horse. The silver knight carried a shield of the same shining metal, but brandished no sword that Quinn’s hazy eyes could detect.

God’s teeth, if only the pain would recede.

Lacking the energy to endure another fight, Quinn sought the stamina to lever himself up and away while Tristan’s attention was turned to this mysterious knight.

The gleaming warrior stopped between Quinn and Tristan and raised a silver-clad arm pointing toward the top of the ridge.

Leave this place, Tristan of Falcon Fire, and live another day. The flat, metallic command echoed from behind the helm.

Tristan clutched at the wound in his shoulder, then slowly backed up until he reached his horse. Mounting with effort, he glared at Quinn and the silver knight. ‘Tis not done, he spat, then quickly urged his horse over the hill.

Quinn sighed in relief, and, unable to hold the darkness at bay any longer, let his eyes fall shut.

The creak of leather and clank of armor brought them open once more. He struggled to rise as the silver knight approached him, determined to fight to the death. But the silver knight wielded no weapon, instead offered his hand.

Quinn eyed it warily. In his weakened state, one false move would leave him completely vulnerable. More vulnerable.

Take my hand and rise, Norman.

Again, the odd, almost-lilting metallic voice. Strangely compelling and soothing. Quinn accepted the proffered hand and winced, a groan and gasp escaping as he gained his feet and full weight. His legs were weakened by fatigue and the loss of blood but his determination to return to William’s camp spurred him on. The knight led him to his horse, a giant dappled gray who stood stock still as Quinn pulled himself onto his back aided by the now-silent, mysterious benefactor. He bit back the roil of nausea.

My sword, he muttered.

Take this, the knight said. He pressed a shorter sword, the hilt of which was encrusted with a round diamond, into Quinn’s hand, closing his palm over it. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Quinn lifted the light sword to examine it. Strength waning, he lowered the weapon and turned to thank his rescuer, but the figure in silver was gone.

Quinn knew his chances of reaching his overlord’s camp alive were slim, but he must try. The knowledge he’d gained this day would be invaluable to his campaign. He kneed the horse’s flanks, urging him in the direction of William’s tents. Gripping the sword tightly, he cast one final glance over his shoulder. A tendril of white mist moved restlessly over the ground. If I live to see another day, I will return, Quinn vowed. You have my oath.

Chapter One

Southern England, August 1067

So the rumors are true, John, Stirling of Falcon Fire murmured to the captain of her guard, forcing away the nervous nausea swimming within her. She dropped the leather window covering and turned to face him, drawing a deep breath. The usually pleasing aroma of lavender that wafted in the air did nothing to soothe her agitation. The Conqueror has indeed seen fit to give Falcon Fire to one of his knights. Someone approaches bearing the Norman’s banner.

You knew this would day come my lady. The big man’s voice held a hint of resignation. Lord Calvin, he spat the monster’s name, "is going to make trouble over this, mark my words.

She shared a knowing glance with John. Aye, and I would rather marry this Norman stranger than be at that monster’s mercy.

Lady Stirling, your search has not been completed. You must end it now.

She held up her hand, silencing him. Enough, John. I need your support, not your lectures. Just because he comes, does not mean my quest will end. I cannot just forget Father. She turned her gaze away from her captain. God only knows what this man will be like. Do you know who he is?

The aging knight shook his head. Only that he had his pick of all of England and chose you.

She stiffened, both at the comment and the sound of horses in the courtyard. He chose the land, not the bride. Most likely another fool who has heard the rumors of a golden treasure which does not exist.

Certainly the Norman cared naught for the woman he was to marry. He’d not even sent an emissary to visit before making his choice, nor one to haggle the bridal price. She was not ready to meet the man who would take her to wife in a loveless marriage while reaping the bounties of her fertile lands. But she was no coward, either.

Come, John. We shall greet them together.

He held out his arm and they paced the length of the great hall to the front entryway. The huge oak doors opened slowly and a great cloud of dust, noise and armored men poured inside. Stirling tightened her grip, heart beating quick as a rabbit caught in a snare. Like that rabbit, she knew her capture was inevitable. Pasting what she hoped was a demure, if not a welcoming smile on her lips, she stepped away from John.

Good eventide, sirs. Though she spoke French, she chose to address them in her native tongue. A childish display of rebellion, but all she would allow herself, for now. I am Lady Stirling of Falcon Fire. She cast a curious glance over them, searching for their leader. A lean, blond-haired man stepped forward, a wide grin on his dust covered face. He lifted her hand and placed a soft kiss against it.

"Bonjour, demoiselle. I am Marcus Elonger, and have been sent here by King William."

Stirling relaxed slightly, warmed by the man’s genuine greeting and flawless English. Surreptitiously, she scanned his handsome features. Brown eyes danced merrily in his long, tanned face.

Was this her intended? This man with laughing eyes and gentle demeanor? Mayhap she misjudged him and this forced marriage would not be such a burden after all. Welcome to my home, my lord. I hope your journey was pleasant.

All the more so just to gaze upon your beauty. He winked and his smile broadened.

She knew her cheeks flamed as she tugged at her hand, but he refused to let go.

Aye, that is all well and good, I suppose. She tossed a pleading glance over her shoulder to John, who only shrugged. Stirling cleared her throat. Aye, welcome to Falcon Fire.

You said that.

Enough, Marcus, free the wench so that we may be about our business.

Stirling narrowed her eyes at being labeled a wench by the deep voice echoing from the doorway of the keep.

Of course, my lord. Marcus winked again and stepped away, chuckling as a tall knight stalked forward.

Awareness tingled over Stirling’s skin at the sight of him. Surely this black knight could not be her betrothed! Unwillingly her gaze swept over him, from the long, tied-back thickness of his raven hair to the impossibly broad shoulders and powerful legs encased in dark armor. A broadsword was strapped low across his hips, and the cloth-covered hilt of another blade jutted from behind his head, the scabbard belted across his chest. She fell back a step, his mere presence like a physical blow.

I will gladly appease your curiosity, demoiselle, after we eat and drink. His battle armor gray eyes raked her body with a leisurely perusal, lingering at the rounded tops of her breasts.

Anger warred with unwelcome awareness. Mutinously she met his glare. I wondered what sort of knight had won this land. Now I see William has given even his stable boy a boon!

Laughter from the dark knight’s warriors bounced off the stone walls. The side of his mouth quirked upward, though the storm in his eyes did not calm. You will call him King William. You are Stirling, I gather? The orphaned child of the traitor Robert?

She stiffened, the sting of his words piercing her like a sharp blade. The arrogant man needed a lesson in manners. Stirling narrowed her eyes as she fingered the bag of herbs she always wore at her waist. Perhaps a potion to make him indisposed for a few days.

She is Lady Stirling, John stepped forward, voice filled with bullish insistence. And her father was no traitor.

The dark knight shrugged. Matters not. I am now lord of this keep, and as I have said, I require food and drink.

And definitely a bath, Stirling couldn’t help but mutter.

His icy gray eyes pierced her, full lips curling into a sensual snarl. Aye and you will assist me.

She blanched. ‘Twas not uncommon for the lady of the house to bathe visiting lords, and in fact, was expected. But for a maiden to do so was forbidden. She crossed her arms and raised her chin. I will not.

He stalked toward her though no sound came from his booted feet against the flagstone floor. Amazed at the control he exerted over his powerful body, she offered no resistance when he tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. You will. Now.

The heated strength of his fingers dropped to her wrist, clamping around her newly-sensitive flesh with iron intent. With her in tow, he started toward the staircase at the back of the entry. She had no choice but to follow.

Marcus, see to the men. And find a kitchen maid to ready a meal.

His crisp command of her servants chafed.

As you will, my lord, the man called back, laughter coating each word. With a loud clap, he barked out orders.

Stirling seethed at the sound of her suddenly compliant servants scurrying to perform the invader’s bidding.

Who was this rigid warrior?

She seethed at his lack of manners; he’d not even introduced himself.

I demand you release me. She tugged at his big fingers, wrapped around her wrist like an iron manacle.

Nay.

He stopped at the first landing, glancing both left and right at the doors lining the halls, then shook his head.

Upstairs.

They rounded the landing and climbed the next set of steps. Again he stopped, glancing each way. His gaze lingered to the right where her rooms were, but he pulled her left and down the hallway. Unerringly, he pushed open the door to her father’s chambers, untouched since the day he’d been dragged away in chains. Whorls of dust rose to greet them.

Coughing, the black knight released her and strode to the window, untied the rope and flung open the covering. He did the same with each of the other three windows until the air no longer danced with motes of dirt. Stirling remained near the door, tempted to flee to her room, unable to face the pain of her past, unwilling to face the shadows of her future.

‘Twould not be wise, he said, as if he knew the thoughts chasing through her mind. Motioning her forward, he unbuckled both sword belts and laid them on a sturdy oak table near the bed. Arms spread wide, he nodded. You may remove my hauberk.

She shook her head. ‘Tis your squire’s job.

He’s dead and I haven’t had time to appoint a new one. ‘Tis a simple enough task and one you will perform as my wife. Come. He motioned her forward, the challenge clear in his hooded gaze.

She glared at him, but sensed she could not win this battle.

Very well, then, she snapped ungraciously, stepping behind him, pushing aside the dark blue cape covering his armor. The scent of leather and musky sweat filled her nose. Sniffing, she decided ‘twas not so unpleasant, but he did require a bath. Leaning closer she detected another faint aroma, a pleasant woodsy odor that teased her nose with familiar pain. Hawthorn. She drew back slightly, startled. Her mother used to boil the leaves of the hardy plant into a liquid for her father’s bath. She claimed they eased his aches and the fragrance was quite pleasing.

What is the problem now? the dark knight demanded gruffly and the memory faded.

Naught, Sir Norman.

He held the heavy breastplate as she struggled with the stubborn buckle that anchored it. It refused to release its hold and she nearly shouted with anger. I cannot unfasten the bloody thing. ‘Tis hopeless.

He shook his head and heaved a deep sigh as if pooling all his discontent in that one long breath. She hoped he fell unconscious from lack of air.

He didn’t.

Pity, that.

Pull the strap to the left, then yank on the buckle. ‘Twill come free, he ordered, voice crisp and gruff.

She grabbed the leather and did as he instructed, amazed when the hook slipped free. Stepping back, she dusted her hands off. There, I am certain one of your men can assist you further.

Again he encircled her wrist in a light, but unbreakable grip, holding the heavy metal armor aloft in his other hand. She gulped at both the display of strength and unflinching resolve on his face.

Nay. You will assist me.

She lowered her gaze so he would not glimpse the anger she knew flared in her eyes.

Aye, definitely a potion to make his innards twist. I will have water heated for you, she said when at last she’d controlled her ire.

My lord, he said, tossing his armor to the bed. The iron garb crashed against the feather ticking with a loud clatter. More dust kicked up, surrounding the bed and twirling into the air.

She waved the motes away and looked at him in confusion. Pardon?

You will address me as my lord or Lord Quinn.

She inhaled sharply. Arrogant bastard. Is that your name then? Quinn? She kept her voice as calm as possible, but even she heard the disdain in it.

Aye. Quinn de Trefoid. He released her wrist and turned away.

She tucked her still-tingling arm into the folds of her skirt, watching him wary regard as a sense of familiarity surfaced.

Who was this man?

He tugged his dirt-stained blue vest over his head, baring the black-dusted strength of his muscular chest. Order the water, demoiselle.

Good God, he was huge. Little wonder that he could lift the weight of his armor with but one hand. He looked to be carved from stone, so defined was his muscular physique. He is the enemy, Stirling chastised herself, appalled to find her mouth dry and pulse racing. She opened the door and walked to the landing rail. He would not do. Not at all.

Dustin, she called down to her porter. The Norman requires heated water for his bath. Please see to it.

The old man nodded and shuffled from the entry hall, presumably to do her bidding. Stirling stifled a chuckle. Dustin, frail and forgetful, would be as likely to call for the maids to heat soup as bath water.

What amuses you so?

She gasped at the nearness of the Norman’s voice. The deep timbre, close to her ear, sent goose bumps of sensation across her skin.

Why, nothing, she said as she faced his massive bare chest. His swarthy skin rippled with lethal, yet intriguing, strength. Pale nicks dotted the dark landscape. Old battle wounds, she was certain. The man exuded both power and arrogance, something as trifling as a sword slash would not keep him from his goals.

He leaned his face so close to hers, she could see the flakes of blue floating in his narrowed gray eyes. A hint of darkness shadowed the strong line of his jaw and his full lips pulled into a flat line. You will find I am most impatient, Stirling. And not forgiving when crossed. I suggest you oversee my bath preparations yourself.

Stirling heard the threat in his voice, and with foolish recklessness challenged it. She would not kowtow to this irritable intruder. Or what, Sir Norman?

This.

He pulled her against his hard body and slanted his mouth to hers. He was fiery hot and unyieldingly strong, yet his lips caressed her with soft demand.

His hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her even closer. Vividly aware of her breasts pressed so intimately against his bare chest, she trembled. She had nothing to compare to this invasion; no man had ever dared take such liberties. Instinct warned her to find her freedom. She pushed against his chest, but his smooth strength called to an awareness within her, overpowering her caution and she allowed the heady