One-Knight Stand Read online

  One-Knight Stand

  Barbara Devlin

  COPYRIGHT

  Cover art by Lyndsey Lewellen

  Copyright © 2014 Barbara C. Noyes

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my best female friends, which includes family, whose unconditional love and support allows me to live boldly.

  BFF Honor Roll (In no particular order):

  Dee Rowell

  Candace Castillo

  Tina Castillo

  Carla Castillo

  Candee Tipler

  Debbie Byers

  Diane Gibson

  Jeanne Adams

  Leah Grant

  Monte Boone

  Amy Barrett

  Carla Chadwick

  Lauren Champagne

  Christi Doporto

  Lyndsey Lewellen

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  One-Knight Stand

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  Excerpt from Captain Of Her Heart

  PROLOGUE

  The Ascendants

  England

  The Year of Our Lord 1313

  “How did we come to this, brother?” Demetrius scratched his chin and frowned.

  “At the pointed end of a sword.” Arucard chuckled, though he knew it wasn’t that simple. “And it is not so bad as you might think, once you accustom yourself to the idea.”

  “You say that now, but if memory serves, you were none too pleased when faced with similar circumstances.” With a groan, Demetrius stood and paced the floor. “Eternal damnation seems an awfully high price. Surely it would have been preferable to die a warrior’s death.”

  “Well, let us not be too dramatic.” In silence, Arucard pondered his fellow knight’s predicament and smiled. Had he not felt the same on the eve of his nuptials? “It just requires a period of adjustment on your part.”

  “Perhaps this is punishment for Randulf.” Demetrius shook his head. “Never should I have left him in my wake.”

  “Wait a minute, brother. You are no more or less to blame for his demise than any of us, and there was nothing we could do to save him.” He pointed for emphasis. “As it is, we barely escaped with our lives, and only five of us remain. Would you rather none survived?”

  “I would have him here.” Demetrius gazed at the ceiling and sighed. “At the very least, I would trade places, as he was the better man.”

  “Now there I must take exception, as such comparison is as apples to oranges.” Leaning forward, Arucard propped his elbows on his knees. “Neither you nor Randulf could claim such distinction, as you are two drastically different beasts.”

  “And yet I persist, and he is gone.” Demetrius speared his fingers through his hair, and then he fisted his hands. “So I am resolved to consider my situation a burden and my fate one of lifelong penance.”

  “My friend, you are not thinking clearly, as your judgment is clouded by misplaced guilt.” Of course, Arucard neglected to mention that he, too, carried their comrade’s death as a stain on his conscience and invisible wounds that had not quite healed.

  Of their set, Randulf had been the youngest and most good-natured Templar. Facing every day with a mischievous grin, a biting sense of humor, and a wild streak to match, Randulf was forever garnering additional weapons practice for himself and his brother knights for a wide variety of infractions. Still, the lighthearted gadling was a favored son.

  “My guilt is well-founded, and I do not deserve happiness. In my rush to stem the tide, I did not realize he had yet to cast off, and it was too late when I noted my error. I abandoned him to the king’s guard. His loss is my shame.” Demetrius scowled. “Perhaps it is fitting that I am required to marry.”

  “You equate matrimony with hell?” Arucard’s ears rang with disbelief.

  “You would argue otherwise?” Demetrius mumbled.

  “Well, in truth, it can at times be an abyss of suffering unique unto itself.” Arucard laughed aloud and slapped his thigh. “But if you ever repeat that to Isolde, I will send you to the glorious hereafter, posthaste.”

  “You find sport in my misery?”

  “I find sport in the absurdity of your logic.” Arucard stood and walked to his friend. “Guilt is a powerful emotion, brother. It numbs your senses and impairs your vision, shrouding your reality in a dense cloud of regret, which further impedes your capacity to reap the rewards of life. You may as well be dead, as you have one foot in the grave, and Randulf, God rest him, would never wish that on you.”

  “What would you have of me? Am I to marry Athelyna and spend my days in connubial bliss?” With fists resting on hips, Demetrius inclined his head. “And what sort of name is that? Sounds like a rather nasty infection. Can you not hear the boys? ‘Poor bastard caught the Athelyna, and his most prized protuberance shriveled and fell off.’”

  “By God’s bones, I will grant you that.” Arucard surrendered to boisterous guffaws. “Why not call the poor lass by a term of affection--one known only to her?”

  Demetrius shifted his weight. “And why would I do that?”

  “To foster a true and lasting bond with your mate.”

  “And why would I want to do that?” Demetrius shuffled his feet.

  “Well, if for no other reason than to hasten conception of your heirs.”

  With a look of sheer terror, Demetrius turned white as a sheet and splayed his arms as he teetered precariously.

  “Whoa, brother.” Arucard steadied his fellow Nautionnier Knight. “Have a seat before you fall flat on your face, and the fair maiden refuses to marry you.”

  “Babes--I forgot about that.” Demetrius cradled his head in his hands. “Back up, else I will ruin the shine on your boots, as I fear I am going to vomit.”

  “Is it safe to assume you did not avail yourself of a whore, as Morgan suggested?” Arucard grimaced, as he had rejected the same notion prior to marrying Isolde. “It might have put your mind at ease for tonight.”

  “No, it would not. Call me a lunatic, but if I am to risk everlasting condemnation, then I would join my body only with whom I have spoken the vows, per the sacrament.” With an expression of unfailing determination, Demetrius compressed his lips. “I will have no other.”

  “Then let us be done with it.” With arms crossed, Arucard retreated a step. “So you might beget your heir, as the King commands.”

  “Am I to breed as a prized stallion put to pasture?” Demetrius grumbled with unveiled irritation. “Are we nothing more than means to produce the next generation of mariners insane enough to undertake His Majesty’s bidding?”

  “You make procreation sound so romantic, brother.” Arucard blanched. “Believe me, it is not a chore, though it does require some effort to master from the start, but the work is good.”

  “That is precisely what it is
to me--drudgery.” Demetrius thrust his chin. “And I suspect we have merely exchanged one hangman’s noose for another. In short, it is nothing more than the trappings of duty owed to an oath ill-pledged that I shall endeavor to persevere.”

  “Oh, come now.” Since his brother would soon learn differently, Arucard succumbed to a full-blown belly laugh. “As I have seen Athelyna, she is nice duty, if one can get it.”

  “Then you should take her to wife.”

  “Alas, I am in love with Isolde.”

  “Be that as it may, I am obliged not to enjoy the experience.”

  “You forget yourself.” Arucard wiped a stray tear from his eye. “As I explained last night, you must enjoy it, to some degree, in order to conceive a child.”

  A knock at the door gave them pause.

  “Oh hell, it is time.” Demetrius paled in an instant and swallowed hard. “Come.”

  Morgan peered inside and cast a playful grin. “Ready to face the enemy?”

  Once again, Demetrius tottered, and Arucard all but carried him to the chair. To Morgan, Arucard said, “Brother, we have a problem.”

  “What is this?” Morgan closed the oak panel. “Did you not pay a visit to Matild, as I instructed?”

  “She has a groat-sized wart on her nose.” Demetrius flinched. “And she is missing two front teeth.”

  “Indeed, she is.” Morgan clucked his tongue. “That is what makes her proficient in her most popular service. And why the devil would I care for a wart? Matild’s reputation precedes her.”

  Demetrius snorted. “You know, I am not entirely comfortable with your lustful embrace of English customs.”

  Morgan waggled his brows. “As they say, when in Rome--”

  “We are not in Rome.”

  “And we are no longer Templars.” Levity aside, Morgan said, “Are you still going on about Randulf?”

  The room was as silent as a tomb.

  Morgan glanced at Arucard, and he shrugged.

  “Neither of you were there when he disappeared into the sea.” Demetrius closed his eyes. “Screaming for his mother, the lad went down with his ship.”

  “And, apart from the screaming, he would have it no other way,” Arucard stated softly. “Randulf was a fine mariner and man, albeit a young one, and your steadfast refusal to let him go does no credit to his memory.”

  “Arucard is correct.” Morgan cocked his head. “But if you are truly unwilling to wed the lady, I shall be too happy to take your place, as the woman is handsome and the title generous.”

  Demetrius snapped to attention. “She is my bride--already promised.”

  “And I suppose the earldom means nothing?” Morgan rocked on his heels.

  “I would have her without it, but the King gives me no choice,” Demetrius asserted without hesitation. “He seems intent on corrupting us.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?” Arucard inquired. “Do yourself a favor, brother, and leave the past to yesterday.”

  Demetrius opened and then closed his mouth. After a minute, he sighed heavily and mustered a smile. “All right. Bring on the archbishop, for I am to wed. But you must promise me something.”

  “Whatever you require, know you shall have it.” Arucard slapped his longtime friend on the back. “Now, let us get you to the altar.”

  “Wait.” Demetrius halted in his tracks. “At the first opportunity, you must help me compose a pet name, as Athelyna is not something I imagine myself uttering in the throes of passion.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Descendants

  The English Channel

  September, 1812

  If one had to die, now was as good a time as any, or so Lance Prescott, sixth Marquess of Raynesford, thought as his ship heeled hard a larboard. Of course, he did not want to die, but neither did he think that, when his days were at an end, he would seriously be consulted in the matter.

  Memories, bits of the past, flashed before his eyes.

  His mother had died in childbirth, so he never knew her. In brief, he relived the sadness when his father had perished of a liver ailment after years of excessive drinking, although the man was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger. He revisited the sense of vulnerability when, at the age of four and ten, he struggled in vain against frigid waters to save his cousin, Thomas.

  As an anchor about his neck, he considered his title, which he inherited once his guardian passed, because Thomas, the original heir, had preceded his sire in death. Lance had always looked on the burden of the peerage as penance for his inability to rescue his beloved relation.

  Triumphs. Losses. Regrets.

  Things he had said and done that he wished he could take back. Accomplishments he wished he had achieved but had not attained. There were so many experiences of which he had yet to partake and places to which he had never journeyed. He had not married, and he had no heir.

  They were all there.

  There was a woman he admired--always had. He had known her since she was born, but he did not deserve her, never would. Long ago, he had resigned himself to marrying another. Trouble was, in his mind and his heart if truth were told, none compared with her.

  Lance shook himself out of the morbid reverie that was his personal history and focused on the task at hand. Grasping the carved quarterdeck rail, he held on tight as the Demetrius righted herself. Frothing waves crashed over the sides, spilling onto the deck. A ravenous beast, the angry seas threatened to swallow the mighty frigate in a single gulp.

  Staccato bursts of lightning pierced the turbulent skies, flashing rapid-fire glimpses of the tempest raging in all directions. In the distance, four imposing vessels belonging to the knights of the Brethren of the Coast tossed about like wooden toys in a bath, and his was the fifth ship in the line.

  In his wake, he could barely make out a familiar silhouette. Trevor Marshall, the most recent addition to the infamous knighthood descended of the famed Templars, the warriors of the Crusades, struggled to steer the Hera through violent waters and did not appear to fare any better.

  “Into the wind, Scottie,” Lance yelled.

  “We’re tryin’, Cap’n.”

  Scottie and the helmsman, Mr. Hazard, engaged in fierce combat for control of the craft. Lashed to the wheel to keep from falling overboard, they waged war against the tempestuous ocean.

  Surrendering to a mighty gale, the Demetrius heeled hard a starboard. Clutching the rail, Lance peered down and surmised he could skim the surface of the swirling sea if he fully extended his arm. With a wicked shudder, he gulped and decided not to put it to test.

  “Hold her, boys!” The first mate screamed above the howling winds.

  With a death-grip on the wheel, Lance braced himself as the bow rose sharply. The ship crested, lightning speared the clouds, and thunder roared in an ominous specter of doom.

  In an instant, the fore topmast stay snapped, and the staysail unfurled. Lance noted the fluttering canvas and cursed, because he knew what would happen next, and it was the last thing he needed at the moment.

  “No.” Though he voiced the denial, it was muffled amid the bluster of the storm.

  As if Mother Nature had read his thoughts, the wind caught the end, filled the sheet, and hauled the large sail into the blast.

  “Bloody hell.” He gritted his teeth. “Hold on!”

  The bow jerked forcibly to starboard, and the relentless zephyr threatened to bring down the rigging en masse.

  “Cap’n, we have to take in that sail before we founder.”

  “I know.” Lance tugged at his lifeline.

  It was time to dance with Death. The gnarled hand of his first mate halted him, and he glanced at the seasoned tar. The stern lamps had long ago been doused by the mountainous waves, and in the flickering light from the storm, he spied grim resolution etched in his crewman’s expression.

  “The Demetrius will swim without me, Cap’n. You’re responsible for the ship and her crew.” Scottie squeezed hard on his wrist. “Let me go,
sir.”

  Despite instincts to the contrary, Lance nodded once.

  In mere minutes, Lance lost sight of his first mate in the driving rain. “Can you see him?” he shouted to the helmsman.

  “No, sir.” Mr. Hazard wiped his brow. “He might have gone in the drink, Cap’n.”

  With a hand, Lance shielded his eyes from the savage deluge that pummeled his flesh, stinging like a swarm of angry bees. He did not want to think it, did not want to consider the fact that he may have sent his first mate to his death. Craning his neck, he strained to focus through the torrent. Lightning blazed across the sky, and Lance caught sight of Scottie. A tremor of fear wrenched his gut.

  Off the bow, which rose as they rode the peak of the wave, the first mate dangled precariously from the larboard rail. Another thunderbolt momentarily blinded Lance.

  In an instant, he was no longer aboard his ship. Instead, he found himself at Eton. It was winter, and his cousin Thomas asked him to skip Latin and go skating on a nearby frozen pond.

  “Come on, Lance.” Thomas waved. “You do not always have to follow the rules.”

  With clenched fists to his hips, he stopped short of reminding his errant relation that rules were put in place for a reason. And unlike his brash cousin, Lance always followed the straight and narrow path. He supposed it was that difference that made them such good friends. While he kept Thomas grounded, the fiery gadling kept Lance from being the proverbial stick in the mud.

  Finally, Lance smiled and shook his head. “We are going to get into trouble,” he hollered to his cousin, who was already walking away. He frowned and checked to see no one was watching before following Thomas into the field.

  Nestled in a crescent of snow dusted oak trees, the little pond was almost perfectly round, and a thick, white layer of ice covered the small body of water.

  Amid hoots and hollers, the young cousins, more like brothers, exactly the same age and lifelong mates, took turns running onto the ice. The air was crisp, and their expelled breath produced puffs of smoke, as they slid across the slippery surface on the smooth soles of their boots.