His Lady Thief

By Jennifer August

Marcus Elonger, known as the King's Justice, has no time for a quest -- he has a crumbling keep to re-build and lands to re-sow.
Brianna Marillac is so desperate to save her people, she has turned thief and pilfers food from nearby barons.
When Marcus and Brianna are thrown together to fulfill the conditions of the quest and retrieve the lost Cross of Souls, they fight both the attraction that flares between them, and a mysterious enemy who vows to see them both dead.

Medieval romance with paranormal elements.

289 pages

• Language: English
• Publisher: Naughty Ink Publishing
• Release date: Nov 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781386522843

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

Chapter 1

Marcus Elonger shifted in his saddle and gazed down the muddy hill at the dilapidated, beleaguered keep standing sentry in the brown field. A sorrier looking collection of stone and land, he couldn’t recall seeing. The stronghold spread before him bore the stains and scars of both ill-use and savage battle.

Pride, coupled with a strong sense of determination painted over the reality of the neglected place, showing him in his mind’s eye what could be.

What he would make this land.

Though the pockmarked stone walls were streaked with trails of pitch residue and the thatched roofs of the guard towers were riddled with holes, a surge of satisfaction whipped through him.

Ach, lad, I dinna remember the lands being this bad, Temple Langendoon observed from beside him.

Marcus slid a glare at his friend. It only needs a bit of cleaning.

Temple whistled low. More’n a bit, my friend. You probably will hae to level the place and start anew.

Ignoring the pessimistic Scot, Marcus leaned back in the saddle. The wind shrieked and sliced through him like the finest honed sword and he looked up at the dark sky. Nightfall was still hours away, but snow-swollen clouds cast gloomy gray shadows over the keep and surrounding land. Even this dreary welcome did not dim his elation. Marcus nudged his horse to the right, carefully edging down the slippery embankment, making his way to the keep.

His new home.

His.

William’s generosity had surprised him. The unexpected gift from the new king had granted him both lands and a title, two things he never thought to have. Third sons rarely garnered such riches.

When Calvin of Thornhatch, the previous lord of this land, had taken up arms against one of William’s favorite knights and lost, William had claimed the holdings. He’d chosen to bestow them to Marcus.

‘Twas a boon he did not intend to squander.

When they reached the bottom, Marcus held up a hand to stop his small garrison of knights. Though the property had been awarded almost four months ago, he wasn’t sure if the keep’s servants were aware of the change in ownership. He looked at the dark stone structure, seeking signs of movement.

Nothing.

No smoke from cook fires, no guards at the wall. Hell, he didn’t even know if there were any servants.

Temple reined in his big, shaggy horse. I don’t see anyone, he murmured.

Marcus grimaced. Aye, it appears deserted. Damnation, he had not counted on this. He had only twelve knights with which to rebuild and defend the keep. And he was damn certain none of them could cook. Let’s have a look inside, then.

As they cantered toward the front of the keep, Marcus moved his fur mantle, hand at his side, ready to draw his sword at the first sign of attack. The hostilities between the old Saxon guard and the new Norman conquerors still flared.

Much to be done, Temple murmured.

Aye. Marcus swept his gaze up and down the length of the crumbling stone keep. The chinking of the outer wall looked to be in as dire need of repair as the rest of the place. As they rounded the corner to the front, he noted several holes.

The portcullis was lowered, barring entrance and Marcus blew out a frustrated breath.

Mine. ‘tis all that matters.

The reminder did nothing to ease his mounting trepidation. Where were the inhabitants of Thornhatch? Calvin’s servants and what little remained of his guard? Perhaps they’d sought other sanctuary once their leader was killed.

Marcus dismounted and walked to the gate, seeking an entrance to the stairs, finding none. Not that he expected to. The keep might be in near-complete disrepair, but someone had built it properly for defense.

What is it to be, Marcus?

Turning to Temple, he found his brawny Scottish friend leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed and lips curled in a sly smile. He knew that look. They were going to fight. He grinned and unbuttoned the heavy fur mantle.

To the loser goes the climb, he said.

Temple squinted back and pushed away from the wall. You up to it, lad? Took you nigh on four months to recover from that witch’s blade.

Marcus grimaced at the memory. Millane’s treachery had very nearly killed him. Would have if not for the quick thinking of his liege’s wife, Stirling. He rubbed the scar hidden beneath his jerkin. Aye, he’d visited death and won. But the battle had taken more from him than he’d been willing to admit and he’d shamelessly basked in the constant attention of Stirling and her maids. Reveled in the happiness and peace that abounded within the bright, clean walls of Falcon Fire.

Marcus looked up at his crumbling castle again. He would re-create that warmth here. Aye, he growled. I am more than up to a challenge.

Temple clapped his hands together and crouched, waving his fingers at him. Come on, then.

Marcus handed his sword and cloak to a young knight and stepped forward, muscles tense, anticipation high. Don’t fall before you breach the wall.

Temple snorted as he lunged. Marcus took the full brunt of a massive shoulder to his gut, falling backward with a grunt. Maintaining the momentum of their fall, Marcus planted his feet against Temple’s belly, grabbed his shoulders and heaved him up and over. The big man landed with an audible splash. Marcus grinned as he rolled to his feet.

Damn your eyes, Marcus, the stinkin’ mud is cold. Temple shot to his feet, wiping a dribble of brown water from his forehead.

Marcus laughed. Then don’t roll around in it, you idiot.

Ye got lucky.

Marcus didn’t respond, but feinted to the left, then dodged right, coming in low and snaking his arm around Temple’s waist. With a foot behind the big man’s knee, he shoved hard, sending him to the muddy ground once more.

The knights cheered and hooted. Temple’s glare melted into a rueful grin. Guess you paid more attention to my lessons than I thought, lad.

He sat up, shaking his arms. Mud flew, splattering the hovering onlookers. He held his hand out and Marcus chuckled as he reached down to help him up. He’d never beaten Temple at this particular game, but luck and determination were on his side today. He had his own lands. His own title. Nothing could go wrong today.

He clasped hands with Temple and rocked backward, yanking as he did so to lift the big man’s heavy weight off the ground. His arms flailed as Temple let go of his hand. Marcus groaned as he hit the soggy ground with a teeth-rattling thump. He glared at Temple who looked right back with a mud-encrusted, gleeful smirk.

"I taught ye everything ye know, not everything I know."

Ferghal, the young knight holding his sword and mantle, stepped forward, free hand out to Marcus. He waved the boy away, not willing to admit the breath he’d lost was slow to return. He was the liege now, no longer just a soldier. He couldn’t afford to show weakness.

With false smoothness, Marcus pushed to his feet while Temple did the same. The Scot clapped him on the shoulder.

Ye still won, though, lad, fair and square. I’ll do the climbin’.

Marcus didn’t argue. Someone handed a coiled length of rope to Temple who attached an iron hook to it.

Stand back, he ordered and swung the grapple in slow, sweeping circles before tossing it up the wall. A loud clank signaled the landing and Temple pulled back until the rope snapped taut.

He wrapped his hand around the hemp and jerked hard several times until satisfied the thing would hold. He grinned at Marcus. I’ll open your keep for you, my lord.

As Temple scaled the crumbling wall, Marcus reclaimed his sword, belting the blade around his waist. Shrugging into the welcome warmth of his mantle, he looked up to see the Scot crest the wall. Eagerly, Marcus waited for the wooden portcullis to creak open, to venture inside and claim his holding. When the wooden gate did not move, he frowned.

Temple? he yelled.

The Scot poked his head over the wall, a deep frown creasing his forehead.

Foreboding dislodged the anticipation. Marcus pulled his sword, motioning for his men to arm themselves as well.

What is amiss? Marcus pitched his voice low.

Temple’s eyes closed and he shook his head. Ye hae tae see it tae ken, Marcus.

The strong brogue alerted Marcus to the severity of the situation and he re-sheathed his sword, reaching for the rope. Whatever awaited them, it was not an army of angry Saxons ready to cut them down. Something else lurked inside his keep.

# # #

Bri, I’m hungry, Nicholas whined as he tugged on her apron. Brianna looked down at her seven-year-old brother and smoothed back a lock of blond hair tumbling over his pleading brown eyes.

You plan to eat us out of home and hearth, do you? she teased, mind racing through the contents of their meager store of food. ‘Tis hours yet afore we sup. Can you not wait?

He shook his head slowly, lower lip quivering once before he bit down on it. Bread? he asked hopefully.

She let her hand drop from his head, clenching a fist in the folds of her skirts. They had no wheat for bread or meal to grind because the crops died in the field. What little game survived in the area was often sickly and puny, certainly not enough to feed a growing boy. Or a starving village. She would have to go out again tonight.

A bit of cheese, perhaps.

She smiled brightly, turning away and heading for the cloth bag hanging on a wall. She pulled a wedge of cheese out, the last of the precious food they had, and inspected it carefully. Only a few green dots marred the surface. She cut them away and offered Nicholas two meager slices. They must save the rest.

Here, now. Take it and be off with you. The boy grinned happily, shoving a slice into his mouth as he turned. He sprinted for the door. And don’t get underfoot.

Brianna watched him scamper away, the cheese already gone. She looked at the molding piece in her hand with disgust before carefully placing it back in the bag. She moved to the window, pushed aside the small square of sturdy cloth and looked out. All that met her eyes were withered stalks of wheat, bony cows that wouldn’t give milk and oxen too weak to pull a plow. She closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead with her palm.

Here now, my dear, are you ailin’? her grandfather asked from the doorway Nicholas had just exited.

Brianna turned to Isaac, forcing a smile to her lips. No, Grandfather, I’m well.

He ambled into the room with his slow hitch-gait. His leg must be plaguing him again.

Here. She motioned to the chair in front of the roaring hearth. Sit and rest for a few moments.

Isaac patted his long gray beard, eyeing her with speculation. No, no, ‘tis all right. I have a bit more work to do this day before resting my bones. He leaned his hip against the high worktable, twining his fingers through his beard before pulling down with a long stroke. Something was on his mind.

And how is the village faring this cold day? she asked, wetting a cloth in the water bucket, then smoothing the fabric over the top of the table, removing non-existent crumbs.

Isaac sighed deeply, his usually lively face pinched and saddened. Dell lost the last of his oxen last night. Poor thing just keeled over.

Brianna tsked lightly and while she thought the scrawny, sickly animal was better off, she did not put the sentiment to words. Terrible, she murmured instead.

Aye. Isaac pursed his lips and looked up, fingers working his beard with more speed.

Brianna tossed the rag into the bucket and moved to stand in front of her grandfather. Propping her hands on her hips, she waited until he finished his contemplation of the thatching and looked at her. When his brown eyes met hers, she raised a brow. What is on your mind, Grandfather?

Isaac remained silent. Brianna’s throat spasmed and her stomach clenched. Was something wrong with him? ‘Twas true he no longer carried the mantle of youth, but she hadn’t thought him to be an ailing old man, either. Bones and spittle, out with it.

He scratched his bristled chin and pursed his lips. He’s come, Brianna.

Her breath caught and her hands trembled ever so slightly before she controlled them. Brianna knew exactly who he was: the new lord and master of Thornhatch. One more spoiled nobleman to demand all they had and punish them when they could not deliver. She shuddered to think what this new demon would do when he found their fields fetid and no crops or game with which to feed him.

Who is he? A Norman? Of course he was. The new king had been very free with the Saxon lands, handing them out left and right to his warriors, heedless of the families which had tended the grounds for generations before his arrogant invasion.

Aye. Isaac brightened, eyes regaining their customary twinkle. He could be the One, Brianna.

Not that already, Grandfather, please. We’ve no food, putrid water and little hope–

Nay, he interrupted gruffly, taking her hand. "That is where you are wrong, my dear. We have hope. You do not. We have the hope this new lord will be the one to save us all, to lift the curse from us."

Bah, impossible. Brianna did not want to hear the same story again. All her life, her grandfather, aye, the entire village, talked about the day he would come to save them. This mythical savior of honor and justice who would lift them from their despair with but a word. Utter rubbish. The land has gone foul, Grandfather. The council must consider moving on. We have no time left.

Isaac shook his head and released her hands, straightening away from the counter and moving toward the door. You are wrong, granddaughter. The fates knew he was coming. Isaac walked to the door of the small cottage, turning to her one last time. How else do you explain the good food and fresh water we have been mysteriously blessed with? With a wink, he waved and disappeared from sight.

Brianna slumped against the high table, stifling the urge to give in to unnatural laughter. Oh, she knew how the food had appeared, all right.

She’d stolen it.

# # #

Marcus hoisted himself up and over the battlement wall, gasping harshly for breath. ‘Twas obvious he needed to increase his time on the training fields. He’d spent too long recuperating at Falcon Fire. A man in his position could ill-afford such softness.

Temple stood stiffly at the other side — the one which looked over the inner bailey.

With haste spurred by mounting apprehension, Marcus made his way to his friend, gaze sweeping down to the ground. Holy Mother, he muttered, crossing himself. Figures of cloth and bone littered the bailey floor. Some wore bits of jerkin, some chain mail. None wore full armor or identifying standards. Who are they?

Not Calvin’s mercenaries, Temple said softly. We fought them here, but the bastard had already flown. We buried those we killed afore we left.

He turned to Marcus, his stare as cold as the wind lashing at them. Whoever they are, the servants dinna even stay to give them a proper burial, damn their eyes. Just brought their bodies inside and left them to rot behind a closed gate.

Marcus nodded. The work on the keep would be postponed. They must take care of the bodies.

Aye, even bones, friend or enemy, deserve to be in the ground.

He clapped Temple on the shoulder, trying to ease the other man’s anger, knowing ‘twas an impossible feat. His friend should have belonged to the church, not the sword. But like him, Temple’s passions were too strong to be constrained by vows spoken before God. His instinct and proficiency as a warrior far exceeded any heavenly calling.

More than once, Marcus had seen Temple kill a man, bless his soul, then turn to find another opponent. And after each battle, each campaign, he would seclude himself until he’d come to terms with his sins.

Open the gate, Temple, he ordered brusquely. Now was not the time for kid gloves.

Aye. The Scot whirled and headed for an alcove at the far end of the wall.

Marcus followed and discovered a deteriorating spiral staircase that led to the ground floor and the inner bailey. Yet more work to complete.

Is nothing in this blasted keep sound? he muttered to the wind.

Though the battle between Quinn and Calvin of Thornhatch occurred just four months prior, the lands, the keep, damn near everything he looked at bespoke years of neglect.

Bastard. If the man were still here, Marcus would gladly flay the flesh from his back in retribution.

Marcus stepped into the courtyard as the gate creaked open and his mounted men rode in. Lopsided wagons filled with rotting hay stood drunkenly in one corner, wheels split or missing entirely. A stable, leaning to the left and bearing the black marks of fire, occupied another, while a pile of long, wooden poles, some with ends honed to a fine point gathered across from what he presumed to be the training area.

A single quintain stood a silent vigil amid the rubble, its wooden surface heavily scarred.

What will you have us do, my lord? Ferghal asked from behind him.

Marcus turned, finding his entire garrison, all twelve of them, standing stiffly, awaiting orders. His orders. He clenched his fist inside his mantle, squelching the brief, unwarranted flare of panic. What difference did a title make? Be it commander or lord of the manor, the responsibilities were the same: take care of the situation. Problem was he didn’t have a single clue what was required to run a keep. Never had to know.

He’d better learn fast.

Marcus turned his gaze back to the bone piles. Search the keep for others. Find instruments to dig with. He looked at his knights again. Auguste, you and Temple work on preparing and sanctifying the bodies for burial.

Aye, lord. The young man’s face shone with gratitude before he hied off after Temple.

Marcus hoped the duty would satisfy Temple’s need for vengeance. He’d been fortunate to win one fight this day, he had no desire to push the fates further. Marcus knew Temple’s black mood could land him back at Falcon Fire under Stirling’s ministrations with one blow.

He inhaled deeply. Much as he enjoyed his time with his friends, not to mention the energetic wenches, the yearning to build his new lands into a flourishing entity overshadowed everything else.

Looking for Temple, he found the big man kneeling over a mail-clad skeleton, Auguste at his side, head bowed. Marcus would have bet his last bit of gold the boy’s face was tear-streaked, but he needed the money to re-build his keep.

While his men occupied themselves with their duties, Marcus walked through the piles of debris, making his way to a hanging wooden door blocking a side entrance into the castle proper. He pulled on the door, jumping back when the rotted wood crashed to the ground. Waving away the dust, he stepped into the silent stone monolith he now called home.

He paused, accustoming himself to the darkness and the sounds from within the walls. He could hear the murmurs of his men, the occasional step of their feet against the floor. The keep had been deserted so long only a hint of decayed rushes lingered in the stifling air.

Though the grayness of the afternoon sun filtered in behind him, it did not provide enough light for an adequate perusal of his surroundings. He would need a torch for a proper examination. He also needed more than just his knights to make ready the keep. From the accountings he’d already received, he knew the upper floors to be at least habitable. The furnishings within the chambers remained intact, if dusty.

Returning to the courtyard, Marcus once more sought out Temple and Auguste. They’d moved on to another set of bones and he waited until both men crossed themselves and rose before striding forward.

Temple. He lowered his voice. Are you well enough to look after them while I go to the village?

Temple’s face pulled into a scowl of disgust. Of course, do you take me for a soft-hearted woman? ‘Tis disgraceful what happened here, but we’re putting it to rights. Go. He turned, shaking his shaggy dark head as he walked away.

Marcus grinned at the curses floating back to him. Temple had found his composure once more.

Finding his horse among the tethered mounts by the gate wall, Marcus hoisted himself into the saddle and out of the keep. The village, he’d been told, was naught but a mile or so away. Eyeing the still gray sky, he hoped he would make it there and back before either snow or night fell. He had no desire to freeze his arse off or get it lost in the blinding dark.

Perhaps I should wait until the morrow. Marcus shoved the thought aside before it fully formed. He needed women to clean and cook, strong, able men to help re-build the walls and defenses and lusty, willing wenches to warm his bed.

He urged his horse to a faster trot, following the narrow trail from his keep to what he hoped was the village. At the edge of a dense portion of the forest bordering his lands, he eased his mantle aside, freeing access to his sword should he require it.

Visibility became more difficult the further into the woods he ventured and Marcus was forced to slow his mount. No sense breaking both their necks. He lost track of time and distance and was surprised when suddenly the trees cleared and he caught sight of a curl of white smoke in the gray sky.

Praying ‘twas neither an illusion of his mind, nor an errant cloud, he quickened the horse’s gait. When they topped the rise, Marcus’ reined Whistle in, hovering above the village. Neatly laid out, it boasted a number of buildings and pens, but he saw little movement, no animals.

His gut clenched. Had this village met the same fate as the mercenaries at the keep? A high-pitched squeal jerked his attention to one of the buildings and he breathed a sigh of relief as a young boy, clad in a simple brown jerkin and leggings, darted from within. Another child ran after him, arms outstretched and gleeful mayhem etched on his small face. Marcus grinned and headed down the hill.

As he cantered through the village, people streamed from the cottages, staring silently at him, blank expressions on their faces. He slowed Whistle further, stopping beside a round of bricks with a winch and bucket attached to it. Dismounting, he tethered his horse at the well and looked at the townsfolk.

Who is reeve here?

No response. Not even a murmur to each other. Were they daft as well as mute? God, he hoped not. He needed them. But no sense letting them know how desperate he was. He walked to stand in front of a white-haired man bent over a wooden staff.

Good sir, can you tell me who is reeve here?

The man looked him over, studied him with searing intensity. Marcus forced himself to hold still, despite the urge to throttle the information from the man.

Subtlety, not force, is the key to good leadership.

Marcus had snorted at Quinn’s often-uttered advice. Now, he tried the tactic.

It did not seem to be working.

Just as he lifted his hand to prod the man’s recollection, a voice rose through the silent crowd.

I can tell you.

Finally, someone who can speak, Marcus muttered as he spun to find the owner of the single voice. The crowd had grown during his silent confrontation with the old man, but the speaker did not step forward. Marcus gritted his teeth. Subtlety be damned. Marcus palmed the hilt of his sword. Then let it be known.

The crowd rippled in the back, the motion carrying forward until a young woman stepped through a part in the townsfolk. Her wide eyes, nut brown and glittering, narrowed as they held his.

Marcus grinned and swept a bow as fine as any he’d executed in court, raking her with a thorough, hungry glance as he did so. She wore her chestnut hair pulled away from her face, probably in a braid, but it did nothing to detract from the full, pink luscious curve of her lips or the long line of her creamy neck.

Though small in stature, she possessed high, full breasts which pushed snugly against the hideous tan material of her dress. They would fill a man’s palm and then some. The sheath she wore draped over her like a monk’s cowl, dropping from the thrust of her breasts to the tips of her well-worn boots. To his annoyance, he could make out only a hint of voluptuous hips and nothing of her legs. Later, he promised, not caring if they were tall or short so long as they wrapped themselves around him.

I bid you good even tide, demoiselle. It is demoiselle, is it not?

You are the new lord of Thornhatch? Her voice held more chill than the December wind swirling around him.

Marcus raised a brow, grinning wider. Perchance the maid desired a chase. As soon as he took care of his labor problem, he would see she labored under him. "Indeed, I am, demoiselle, though the land has a new name now. The keep is called Chance D’Aigle. It means Eagle’s Luck."

He looked at the crowd, pleased to see sparks of life brighten their features. Murmurs stirred the air, but still only the comely wench with the fire in her eyes spoke.

More like the devil’s luck if you ask me.

Her muttered words pricked his ire and Marcus moved closer, gripping her chin between his gloved fingers. She did not try to pull away, but held his gaze, her eyes filled with fiery defiance. I shall enjoy teaching you to put that tongue to better use.

She did jerk away then, cheeks burning a deep rose, delectable mouth working fiercely. She fell back into the security of the townspeople, her spirit not so quickly dimmed. You’ll not have the chance.

Marcus’ momentary flare of irritation faded and he chuckled. He would thoroughly enjoy taming this beauty. ‘Tis a discussion for another day, demoiselle. For now, all I require of you is the name of the reeve.

The old bent man with the cane stepped