A Knight With Grace: Book 1 of the Assassin Knights Series

All rights reserved. No part of this romance ebook may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its author, Laurel O’Donnell.

The characters and events portrayed in this historical romance novel are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover Design: Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs

Image of Couple: © Period Images

Background: © FairytaleDesign/Depositphotos.com

Dedication

To Mom -

You are amazing! You are a great mother and I can only hope to be half as good a Mom as you are. You are truly an inspiration. I love you.

CHAPTER 1

England

1183

G
race Willoughby hadn’t realized her mother
was so sick. Her mother lay in her bed, her dark fair fanned out against the white bedding, making her face seem ghostly white. So...sickly. Rings lined her eyes and her brow was furrowed in anguish. Grace wiped a strand of damp hair from her mother’s brow, trying desperately to be brave. Trying desperately to be strong. But her mother was so weak. She could hear her labored breathing. She touched one of her mother’s hands, but it was cold. Grace wrapped her hand around her mother’s in an attempt to warm her. “I love you, Mum,” she whispered and tried to keep the tears from closing her throat.

Her mother grasped Grace's hand. Grace entwined her fingers through her mother’s. “Be brave, my little sunshine,” her mother said softly.

“I will,” Grace replied.

Her mother started to cough again. She was coughing a lot lately.

Blood splattered the front of Grace’s dress, the dark red liquid leaving a smear on her mother’s lips. Her mother quickly wiped the blood away with her sleeve. Grace knew what Mitchel, the baker’s son, had told her was true. Her mother was dying. Tears rose in her eyes, blurring her vision of her mother. Grace hated the tears and quickly wiped them away with the heel of her hand so she could get a clear look at her mother. Despite her illness, her mother was still so beautiful. Her dark hair shone in the moonlight against the white cover. Grace stroked a lock of her mother’s hair at her shoulder. She would miss her when she had passed. She would miss her dearly.

Suddenly, the door flung open. Her father stormed into the room, his hard cold eyes sweeping the scene. He was a short man, round in the waist and round in the face. His brow was furrowed. He pointed a trembling finger at Grace. “Get out.”

“Alan!” her mother called and struggled to sit up.

Alan seized Grace by the arm and pulled her roughly from the bed.

Grace tried to get her feet beneath her, but her father yanked her toward the door, pushing her away from the bed.

Her mother shouted, her weakened voice finding a moment of strength. “Grace, don’t go!”

“Father!” Grace called, alarmed at his brutal hold. He had never laid a hand on her before. Not like this.

He flung her from the room with such force she landed on her buttocks on the cold stones of the floor. He shut the door behind her with a resounding thud. Stunned, Grace could only sit and stare, bemused and saddened, at the wooden door separating her from her mother. She looked at the guards standing on either side of the door like silent sentinels. Both men glanced away, unable to meet her gaze. She turned her gaze down at her hands splayed on the stone of the floor. Why had her father tossed her out of her mother’s room? Why had he done that? What had she done?

The room behind her was silent. Strangely quiet. And then a large clatter came from inside the room followed by a roar of rage that so scared Grace she back pedaled into a shadowed corner and pulled her knees to her chest. What had happened? Was her mother dead? Was that what was making her father angry? Was he so angry because he was losing her?

Her heart twisted. She wanted to be with her mother in her last moments, to comfort her. Grace caught sight of her mother’s blood on the front of her dress. Maybe her father was angry because he knew her mother only had a little time left. Yes. That must be it. Father was angry because mother was leaving him.

The handle to the door moved. The guards straightened. The door opened. Her father emerged with a strange sadness in his eyes, but his lips were clenched tight.

Grace slowly climbed to her feet. She knew she should comfort him. He was sad. But she was afraid. Afraid of his anger. What would he do if her mother was gone? Over his shoulder, she saw the flickering candle on the night table cast a dancing shadow of red onto the white blankets of her mother’s bed.

He shifted his gaze to Grace. His lips curled into a sneer of disgust.

Shock raced through Grace at his hateful eyes. “Father.”

“Get away from me,” he whispered savagely.

Grace took an immediate step backward, stunned. Dismayed. Hurt.

He continued passed her, a small whirlwind of command and fury.

Grace quickly moved forward and looked into the room from her position outside in the hallway. Her mother lay half on the bed and half off. Her arm hung down to the floor, her fingers stained with blood. “No,” Grace whispered and jerked forward to go to her. But one of the guards closed the door before her, barring her path. The image of her mother’s open eyes burned into her mind. She walked stiffly to the closed door and reached for the handle.

One of the guards grabbed the handle, blocking her touch. “No, Lady Grace. She is gone.”

Gone. For a moment, she didn’t understand. She looked at the guard blankly. His brown eyes shone with sympathy.

Gone. Dead. Mother. Tears welled in her eyes. She was alone. She reached for the door handle again, but the guard shook his head, refusing to remove his hand and allow her entrance.

She stood for a moment, unsure. Her mother always had the answers. She had always known what to do. Now, she was gone. A swirling abyss of sadness opened inside of Grace. She turned and began to walk stiffly down the corridor. Her mother was gone. She measured each step, afraid she would miss one and tumble to the floor in a pile of useless sorrow. Mother was dead. She had to get away. Dead. She had to stop the voice in her head. It couldn’t be true, but she knew it was. She ran down the corridor, racing blindly through the hallways. She didn’t know where she was going, but she ran. She tripped, landing hard on her hands and knees. She stared at the stones. Dead. Tears rushed down her face, dripping onto the cold stones. She was alone. She pushed herself to her feet and dashed off again. Someone called her name, but she continued running, racing blindly away.

Grace threw herself onto the floor as sobs shook her body. Her crying echoed through the room; tremors shook her. When she was left with only ragged gasps for breaths, she looked up to find out where she was. A white clad altar towered before her; a tall wooden cross hung on the wall behind it. The chapel. She was in the chapel. She didn’t remember opening the large doors and entering, but she was here. She pushed herself to her knees and clasped her hands tightly. She closed her eyes. “I don’t understand why You took her. But please, Lord, please don’t let me be alone. Help me find a knight to take me away from all of this. I don’t want to be all alone.”

CHAPTER 2

Three months later

T
he rain fell to the
ground in sheets of water. Grace looked up into the sky from inside the candle maker’s shop. It had been three months since they put her mother into the ground. She had tried to take her mother’s place and assume all of her mother’s duties, but sometimes her tasks were daunting. Grace did everything she could to keep busy, but at times she simply didn’t want to be alone.

“You should have gone back to the Keep when I told ya to.”

Grace looked over her shoulder at the woman carefully dipping the wicks into the pot of melted wax that filled a cauldron in the middle of the shop. Minerva was a dear friend. She hunched over the cauldron, tying the wick to a stick laying across the black metal pot. Minerva’s long brown hair was pulled back and tied at the base of her head. Her brown eyes focused on the pot intently, her lips pursed in concentration. Grace turned back to the empty courtyard. “You always tell me to go,” she said to Minerva.

“It appears, this time, I was right.”

Grace grimaced.

“She’s right, you know,” Curtis said.

Grace smiled at her friend. She enjoyed visiting with Minerva because the candle maker’s shop was close to the barracks. Because of the close proximity, the shop was a perfect place for her to meet her friend Curtis and spend time with him. Minerva didn’t seem to mind. They had been meeting at the candle maker’s shop since they were children, although back then it had belonged to Minerva’s mother. Grace crossed her arms. “She told you to go, too.”

Curtis shrugged. He was leaning back against the wall, one leg bent. His wavy dirty blond hair fell to his strong shoulders. He wore a green tunic and black leggings. His sword was strapped to his waist. His blue eyes sparkled at Grace teasingly. “I won’t ruin my dress if it gets wet.”

“You don’t have a dress. But you’d look stunning in one, I’m sure.”

“I’d look stunning in anything I wore.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Aren’t you going to be tired tonight?” She knew he had the watch later that night and should be resting.

“I wouldn’t miss a chance to visit with two beautiful women!”

Minerva smiled as she dipped the wick into wax and shook her head. “Ya need to sow them wild oats, child.”

“Child?“ Curtis frowned. ”I’m almost as old as you!”

Grace walked over to Minerva. Minerva was five years older than she, but she was already married with two children. Her children were the love of her life. Despite her young age, Minerva reminded her of her mother because of the love she held for her children. She had been a good friend of her mother’s and sometimes they would talk about her. Grace sat down at the table where Minerva was working and tied a wick to a piece of stick.

Suddenly, a servant ducked into the room. He was dripping from the rain and his dark hair hung around his face. He scanned the room.

Grace stood up, dread snaking through her.

The servant bowed slightly. “M’lady,” he greeted. “Your father is requesting your presence.”

Grace glanced at Curtis as he pushed himself from the wall.

Minerva lifted her chin. “I told ya.”

Grace nodded to the servant. She waved to Minerva and Curtis before following the servant through the courtyard. She picked up her skirt to dash around the puddles, but by the time she climbed the three stairs to the keep, she was drenched. Her velvet dress was streaked with water, her slippers soaked through to her feet.

The servant glanced back at her. “Would you like to change?”

Grace looked down at her dress. It was ruined, she was certain. She wiped at a streak of water across the velvet at her stomach. Her father would be angry she ruined one of her dresses. But he would also be angry she was making him wait. It didn’t matter what she did, he would be angry. She shook her head and followed the servant up the stairs to her father’s solar. The servant pushed the door open. The room was dark except for two candles on the table that threw small circles of light around them, and the dying fire in the hearth. The light washed over her father as he sat in a plush chair facing the fire.

Grace entered. The servant left, closing the door softly behind him.

A nervous feeling fluttered in her stomach. “Father?” she called. “You wished to see me?”

He grunted softly and pushed his rotund form to his feet. He turned toward her. A scowl of displeasure lowered his brows.

“I’m sorry about my dress, Father. I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

“You look like a commoner. Where were you?” he demanded.

“I was at the candle maker’s shop to purchase candles,” she lied. She knew he didn’t want her befriending the peasants.