LordoftheHunt

Ann
Lawrence

Blush Sensuality Level: This is a suggestive romance
(love scenes are not graphic).

Adam Quintin, a man with a secret
past, is on the hunt for a traitor to the crown. To find the traitor, Adam must
join the many suitors of England’s most desirable heiress. But when he arrives
at Ravenswood Castle to begin his mission and his courtship, his life is saved
by the seductive, yet humble daughter to the keeper of the hunting hounds.

Joan Swan has her own secret
mission—preserve her father’s livelihood as master of the hunt. Her task
becomes nearly impossible as suitors flock to court the lady of Ravenswood. Can
Joan protect her ailing father? Can she protect her heart once she falls in
love with Adam Quintin, a man destined for her lady?

A
Blush®
historical romance
from Ellora’s Cave

 “A multitude of rulers is not a good thing.”

The Iliad
,
Homer

England, 1217

A row of monks filed into Winchester Cathedral on their way
to celebrate the midnight office. Night cloaked the city, clouds the moon. Only
the bobbing candles of the brothers marked their passage.

Adam Quintin, garbed in unadorned black to help him blend
with the shadows, fell into step behind them. Candles flickered in niches. Wall
torches smoked. Still, the nave was as dark as a witch’s heart.

He slipped down the south aisle and into the Lady Chapel,
avoiding the notice of a few stray parishioners. A monk prayed before the
serene Madonna. Glancing about, Adam knelt beside the man whose face was
concealed by the deep hood of his robe.

They knelt in prayer for more than a quarter of an hour. The
cold stone bit into Adam’s knees. Finally, the man spoke. “Are you willing to
accept a task for your king?”

Adam recognized the voice. This was no ordinary messenger.
This was William Marshal’s trusted squire, John d’Erley.

Adam stared at the steady flame of the candles at the
Madonna’s feet. He felt the thrill of anticipation. “I am always at the king’s
service as William Marshal knows—”

“Please. Speak softly. Walls have ears these days,” John
d’Erley whispered.

Duly chastised, Adam started over. “I am always at your
master’s service.”

“My lord much admired the way you handled the trouble for
him at Dover.”

Adam shrugged. He’d learned long ago to ignore flattery. It
usually masked some bitter brew. “‘Twas luck,” he said.

“We do not believe in luck. We believe in results. And
rewards. Will you pledge yourself to a mission on behalf of our lord and our
king?”

A small sigh escaped Adam, setting a flame dancing. He must
appear reluctant. Rewards were meant to be negotiated.

The moment stretched. D’Erley hastened to fill the silence.
“The reward will be worthy of the deed. You may name your price.”

He had waited thirteen long years for this.

“Have you aught in mind?” d’Erley asked.

The air was icy on Adam’s bare throat, but a flush of heat
swept over him. “I will think of something,” he finally managed.

What must he do to remove a banishment? Redeem a father?

William Marshal’s squire covered Adam’s hand with his. “It
is our lord’s desire you be well compensated. He wishes you to understand the
reward must meet the measure of the duty performed. In truth, you may die if it
is discovered what you are about.” The man idly patted Adam’s hand as if he
were a child. “In addition, it is our wish no man, no woman, shall know for
whom you labor.”

For the first time, Adam turned his head and stared directly
into the man’s eyes. “As you wish,” he said.

“Will you swear to it? Forgive me, but mercenaries are not
known for their discretion.”

“I may have joined King John’s Flemish mercenaries to catch
our lord’s eye, but he knighted me and would not have done so had he not believed
in my honor.”

D’Erley cleared his throat and glanced about. Shadows
flickered across the bare chapel walls as he twisted and turned to see who
might lurk nearby. Adam waited patiently.

The man’s breath smelled of onions and wine as he murmured
near Adam’s ear. “You know that even before King John’s death, the barons were
deserting to Philip Augustus of France through his son, Louis. Thankfully, our
lord was capable of defeating the rebellious ones this past May at Lincoln.”

“I fought with our lord at Lincoln.” Adam’s interest was
greatly piqued.

John dropped his voice to so low a whisper, Adam needed to
strain to hear every word. “King Henry may be a child, but he has offended no
one, broken no promises
yet
.”

“It is our lord the barons rally to.”

“Granted, but still, he is acting in the king’s name.”

“You tell me nothing new.”

“Our lord has discovered a viper in our royal nest.”

Adam raised a brow.

“There is a bishop who believed the papal legate, Gualo,
might wield more influence as the king’s guardian than our lord.”

“Gualo is but a pale light to Marshal.”

“As the moon compares to the sun, aye, but this bishop held
hopes of gaining power through Gualo. They are great friends. I suppose this
bishop hoped he might ascend to the same power as the Bishop of Winchester, but
alas, the opposite has been true.”

“And who is more apt to favor an overthrow of power but the
discontent?” Adam said.

“Our informer states that Prince Louis will try again to
gather power for another assault on England’s throne. This time, Louis will use
not only the discontent of the barons, but also of this bishop, who is in a
position to take one of the most important castles in England.”

Adam smiled. “A bishop take a castle? With what army? No one
may gather more than a score of men in any one place without suspicion, and
bishops have no armies.”

“They do if they can persuade a powerful baron to lend his.
Therein lies our difficulty; we know who the bishop is, but not the baron. It
is our lord’s wish you ferret out this traitor, reveal him for what he is.
Unmask him that we might foil this plot before it gathers momentum. At the
least we can force the baron to give hostages to his good behavior.”

Adam remembered well being a political hostage in his youth.

He placed a hand on his sword hilt and traced the cold,
smooth metal. The weapon was out of place in this hall of reverence and prayer,
but a man went nowhere unarmed these days.

“It seems an unlikely mission for someone such as myself. I
am a warrior, not a thinker.”

“We have confidence you will succeed.”

“Or perish in the effort.”

John D’Erley gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. Adam
looked up at the Madonna with her outstretched hands. He sent her a silent
prayer.

Make me worthy of my reward.

“So,” Adam said, “a bishop will seduce a baron, who will
lend an army, which will secure a castle for Prince Louis.”

“As you say.” D’Erley smiled.

“Have you any suggestions as to where I should start my hunt
for this viper? I must assume our lord doesn’t intend I blunder about England
peering under beds.”

“Oh, we can help you there,” D’Erley whispered, his face
hidden again in the deep hood. “Our lord knows the castle to be taken.”

“Surely, the army will be very visible?” Adam could not
resist the jest. “As will be the siege machines?”

A small smile played at the corners of d’Erley’s mouth.
“This baron will take the castle from within. He’ll have no need of an army or
trebuchet. Remember, a siege is visible. It stirs up others to take sides.”

And kills commoners, and destroys farmland
, Adam
thought.

“Nay, a siege is to be avoided at all costs,” d’Erley
continued.

“As I said, I am a warrior, not a thinker. You’d do better
to send me to fight a more visible army somewhere else. Send my friend Hugh de
Coleville in my stead. He’s as loyal to our lord as I am. He can outmaneuver me
at chess and pose a riddle to test the best of scholars.”

“De Coleville’s family is far too powerful. A reward he
might demand would test the power balance.”

Ruefully, Adam realized he was probably not William
Marshal’s first choice. “And I’ll be more modest in my demands?”

William Marshal’s squire blinked. “Of course.”

Of course. I have no powerful family, no name to tip some
invisible scales.

“You will gain access to this castle through the front gates
in the guise of a suitor to one of England’s most coveted heiresses. Once
inside, we expect you discover who the traitor is and foil his efforts to take
control of the castle.”

“Without anyone knowing what I’m about.”

“Aye. Place your hand here.” John d’Erley touched the small
foot of the Virgin where it peeked from beneath her marble robes. Adam placed
his fingers there and d’Erley covered them with his. “Now, make an oath you
will keep your mission a secret. Swear it now.”

“I so swear,” Adam said.

“Well done, my boy.” D’Erley turned over Adam’s hand and
dropped two sapphires into his palm. “Just to start you out.”

Adam closed his hand over the jewels. “So, which castle is
our traitor after?”

With another quick glance about, the squire said,
“Ravenswood. If it falls, so could Porchester Castle and Portsmouth Harbor with
it.”

Ravenswood
. A heart-stopping pain like liquid metal
ran through Adam’s veins. For an instant, the flames at the Virgin’s feet
seemed to flare bright.

The need, the desire to shout the name and hear it echo about
the stone walls almost overwhelmed him. He clamped his lips against the
impulse.

“Is something wrong?” D’Erley shot him a wary look.

Adam took control of his face and voice. “Is Ravenswood not
held for the heirs of Guy de Poitiers?”

The old man crossed himself. “Therein lies the difficulty.
Only Mathilda de Poitiers survives. Her father and brother are both dead. Her
guardian is our traitorous bishop, Bishop Gravant.”

“Ah, I see. If our lord sends a force to hold Ravenswood,
the church will object that one of their most illustrious bishops has been
insulted, his loyalty impinged.”

William Marshal’s squire nodded. “Our lord must win the
support of the church, not its enmity. We must hold Ravenswood and do so
without injury to the church—without siege. What you need to know is written
here.” He dug into the folds of his robe and drew out a folded sheet of
parchment sealed with a familiar mark. “Read it and burn it before you leave.”

William Marshal’s squire rose with a groan to his feet.

Adam stood as well. “How will we communicate?”

“A go-between by name of Christopher will seek you out when
you arrive at the castle. He’s been installed for weeks. It is through him we
first gleaned some rumor that all was not as it should be at Ravenswood.”

“How will I know him?”

“Christopher’s a minstrel much favored by Lady Mathilda.”

Adam followed John d’Erley to the chapel entrance and saw
the holy office had ended.

The squire joined the long line of monks as they moved up
the nave in a whisper of wool and scuff of feet on smooth stone. The heavy
double doors thudded closed behind them, the sound echoing down the high,
arched cathedral.

Adam saw no other living soul. He was alone.

He turned back to the dozens of candles dripping at the
Blessed Mother’s feet and knelt. For a moment, he studied the wax seal of
William Marshal on the sheet of paper. Once he broke the seal, he was
committed.

Nay…he had committed himself upon his oath. He drew his
dagger and slit the packet open. He unfolded the fine vellum and one word leapt
off the page.

Ravenswood
.

There were other words, many lines of closely written script
on the paper, but he saw only one. Ravenswood.

He could see the castle walls now as they looked in darkest
night, the towers touched with moonlight and wreathed in mist. He could see the
rolling hills and the deep, silent woods. Smell the water. Taste it even.

For Ravenswood he would attempt anything.

Adam took a deep breath. It was an omen. A sign from God. He
raised his gaze to the ivory visage of the Madonna and sent her another prayer,
one of thanks.

It was the first time in his life a woman had proved of use
to him.

Ravenswood Manor, 1217

Joan Swan followed a well-worn deer trail through the trees
near Ravenswood Castle. Her pack of hounds kept pace like a phalanx of the
king’s men. They did not roam, nor step beyond the length of her stride.

The hound near her right hand whined. She paused and
listened. The hounds fell still in a ripple of sleek gray and brown muscle.

At first, she heard nothing. Then she heard the distant
neigh of a horse. If she remained still, the rider might pass her by unseen.

The horse drew closer. From her right there was the sudden
tearing sound of an animal forcing its way through underbrush.

With practiced ease, she drew her bow from her shoulder,
then stepped from a pool of golden sunlight into a pool of soft green shadow.

The thrashing sound grew louder. A horse snorted, whinnied,
and she heard the thunder of its hooves as it broke into a gallop, crashing
through underbrush. It was a wild sound, the sound of a horse out of control.

The hound at her side whimpered again.

Through the trees she saw the reason for the animal’s fear.
A boar. Her arrows were useless against such a beast.

She shouldered the bow. Her heart thumped in her chest. They
must get away before it scented them. She lifted her right hand at the wrist so
it was parallel to the ground. The hounds crouched. With a sharp gesture, she
dipped her fingertips and the hounds went down on their bellies, preparing to
slide through the brush like snakes in the grass.

Then she saw the man. He lay on his back, half supported on
one elbow. His skin was stark white in contrast to his black hair and beard.

The boar clashed its tusks, lowered its head. Thank God she
and her hounds were downwind.

The man was not.

Fear caused her stomach to churn.

Were the dogs ready? Was she?

The man moved. The boar charged.

She swept her hand out in a quick, sharp gesture.

Her dogs leapt in a monstrous, snarling maelstrom of teeth
and sound.

The man scrabbled back and rose. He drew his sword. He did
not run as she expected. Instead, he faced the swirling mass of animals who
held the great boar at bay. In a motion as planned as if he and the dogs were
one, they parted and he thrust the blade deep into the boar’s neck.

It swung its monstrous head, eyes rolling. The dogs brought
it down.

Then all was silent.

She closed her eyes, bent her head, and offered thanksgiving
for the man’s life. She knew the terrible sounds of the kill would remain in
her head. At least none were human, none that of a man being torn apart by
razor-sharp tusks.

A hand touched her shoulder and she opened her eyes. Dazed
from her deep concentration, she was startled to find the man so close.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

His vivid blue eyes were grave. His skin, no longer white,
was suffused with high color. The close-cropped beard did not conceal his well
formed mouth. His high cheekbones betrayed his Norman ancestry.

Though uncommon in appearance, still, he was common enough.
He wore a simple V-shaped iron pin to hold his mantle at one shoulder. Red
streaked the humble wool.

Blood
.

“Are you hurt?” he asked again.

He had a low voice with a touch of an accent she could not
place. A man-at-arms to one of the visiting nobles at Ravenswood, she decided.

“Me?” she managed, not sure if she could stomach the sight
that surely lay over his shoulder. The man looked down and she did too. Blood
splotched her gown. She shook off her squeamishness. She had witnessed the end
of a hunt often enough, watched the butchering of the animal. Why did she feel
so dizzy?

“It’s not my blood,” she said. “Are you hurt?” She touched
his mantle with her fingertips, briefly, lightly.

He shook his head. “I’m well, thanks to your hounds. They
are your hounds, are they not? Well trained, they are, not to feast,” he said.

They faced the wide clearing. Her dogs stood like sentinels
over the carnage. In truth, the hounds awaited her next signal. They had killed
and now wanted their reward. But not here. Not yet. There would be no
traditional unmaking of the beast here, no blood of the beast for them this
time.

What distraction should she offer this man so she might
exercise her power over the animals unseen?

A crashing of branches and the sound of several horses
coming at speed made the man swing about, his back to her.

“God’s throat. They would appear now when I’m unhorsed,” he
said under his breath. “I’ve never been unhorsed.”

Joan lifted her left hand and cupped her fingers into her
palm. The dogs bounded to her, passed her, and disappeared into the thick
forest.

A knight on a mud-splattered destrier burst through the
trees into the clearing. He drew to a halt by the boar. “By the rood. What
happened? Your horse passed us in a frenzy.”

The knight’s face was hidden by his helm, but when he
wheeled his horse, she saw the device on his shield. A blue field with a wolf
rampant. The house of de Harcourt. It was suddenly cold in the clearing—icy
cold.

The knight slid his helm and mail coif off his head. ‘Twas
Brian, the youngest de Harcourt son.

Brian de Harcourt’s gaze moved slowly over her. He gave her
an almost imperceptible nod.

She swallowed hard and backed closer to the safety of the
trees, but the man she’d rescued took her arm. His grip was gentle, but yet too
firm for her to break away.

“You did not kill this beast on your own, did you, Adam?”
Brian asked, swinging his attention to her again.

Adam. A simple name for a simple man. Then she realized the
rest of Brian’s men would be right behind him.

She must go.
Now
.

“In a manner of speaking. I took the beast with one lucky
stroke, but it would have had my entrails for supper if not for this kind
woman’s hounds. They saved my skin.”

Joan tried to tug away from him as three more men and horses
pushed their way through the trees. She trusted a pack of hounds far more than
a pack of men.

Adam still held her imprisoned, his gloved fingers almost
encircling her upper arm. He sketched a quick bow. “Mistress? How may I reward
you?”

More men surged into the clearing, their horses shying from
the sweet stink of the boar’s blood. Soon the clearing was crowded with men.
She looked from one face to the other. Most were hidden by their helms as de
Harcourt’s had been.

The forest shrank around the men and scores of iron-shod
hooves. The scent of greenery was overwhelmed by that of horses and men.

“Please, I must go,” she said softly, urgently, loath to
draw anyone’s attention but he who held her.

“This is quite a trophy.” Brian dismounted and approached
the dead boar. He measured the tusks against his forearm.

Others did as he, touching the beast and prodding it with
their feet. A woman was not safe with so many men—with these men in particular.
Her heart beat more quickly. Her hands began to sweat.

Brian drew a short sword and hacked a tusk from the felled
beast. “Here, Adam, have it carved into dice. They would surely be imbued with
your good luck.” He tossed the tusk to Adam in a spray of blood.

He let her go to catch the trophy. More blood dotted his
mantle and hers. He frowned. “Brian, you’ve insulted this young woman.”

“Joan’s not easily insulted, are you?” Brian inclined his
head to her. He had hair the color of chestnuts.

Joan made a deep curtsy to him, but bit her lip on any
retort. Brian’s father held an adjoining manor, had hunted with Lord Guy just
the day of the man’s death, though Brian had not deigned to visit Ravenswood
for nearly two years.

Heat ran over her cheeks. Brian could be at Ravenswood for
only one purpose—the Harvest Hunt and Tournament at which the lady of
Ravenswood was set to choose a husband. The suitors, ten in all, were all due
to arrive before nightfall.

Joan carefully turned to Adam, a man more of her station—a
man who, by the lack of ornamentation or trim on his black garb, was the only
man she might comfortably speak to or acknowledge with any propriety. “You owe
me nothing. Now, I must go.”

“Surely you could use a few pennies?” Brian’s words held her
in place. “After all,” he continued, “you saved Adam’s life. He can spare the
silver, I assure you.”

How dare Brian imply she was needy? Her father was Master of
the Hunt, not some lowly kennel man. She fought to keep her voice mild. “I ask
no reward, my lord.”

There were some quips about Adam’s unhorsing from the newly
arrived men; then a voice penetrated the banter. It was as hard and harsh as
the winter wind that would come in a few weeks.

“Ah, Adam Quintin and a wench. A dog and a bitch will always
end up in the grass together.”

Joan pulled against Adam Quintin’s hold. His fingers
tightened on her arm, then relaxed and slid down to take her hand. The
sensation was soothing, but nothing he could do would make her feel at ease,
save that he would release her—and she could flee.

“I can only assume, my lord Roger,” Adam said, “that you’ve
spent so much time with your men, you’ve forgotten how to conduct yourself
before a woman. Lady Mathilda will be tossing you in the moat where you’ll
stink as much as your manners.”

There was a beat of silence. Then the men laughed and the
baron reddened. Joan was a bit shocked a lord would tolerate so tart a response
from a mere swordsman.

The baron jerked his reins and retorted, “I’ve no time for
such nonsense. Fetch someone to butcher this animal and see the best of the
beast gets to the bishop’s table.” With a kick of his mount, he and half the
party cantered off. The ground trembled at their departure.

“Forgive Lord Roger’s churlish manners,” Adam said to her.

Joan’s heart slowed, her stomach eased. “It is nothing.”

She squared her shoulders, prayed the man would release her
hand. His glove was frayed, but of fine, well-tanned leather. It made her
uneasy to stand with her fingers in his.

Just as the thought entered her head, he dropped her hand
and made her a more proper bow. “A few hours in the saddle and Lord Roger’s as
prickly as that boar’s snout.”

Then Adam smiled and Lord Roger and Brian de Harcourt fled
her thoughts. She could but stare at his eyes. They were blue as a field of
harebells and framed with thick black lashes.

“Now,” he said. “Your name is—”

“Plain Joan,” interjected Brian.

She wanted to put an arrow right through his throat. She
almost reached for the bow slung at her back.

Adam raised a black, straight brow. He cocked his head and
considered her. “Plain Joan?”

She ducked her head. “Aye. So I am called.”

His voice dropped even lower. It coiled about her like a
silken thread. “Lord Brian is right. I must reward you in some manner, Plain
Joan.”

Now. I must go now
. She turned. Her path was blocked
by a small, wiry man on a dun-brown mare coming straight toward her. He led a
gray horse as huge as any she’d ever seen. Its hooves were the size of meat
platters, its black mane plaited in a fanciful manner with leather thongs. The
horse danced and pawed as it neared the dead boar.

“Yer mount,” the little man said to Adam. “Ye rightly named
him when ye called him Sinner.”

Adam grinned and looked sheepishly in Joan’s direction. “He
should be called Lady. He’s as spoiled as any of those fine creatures.” Then he
took the reins and patted the destrier’s heaving side. “And he dumped me like
an inconvenient suitor the instant he saw that boar. Never take a nervous horse
on a hunt.” The horse bumped his shoulder.

Slung across the battle charger’s saddle was his shield.
Adam was no common man-at-arms, for the shield bore his personal device. It
echoed the simple shape of his mantle pin. But painted on the leather cover of
the shield, she saw it more clearly. It was a gold “V” rendered as if by an
illuminator of fine manuscripts. The Roman numeral of five—five for a man whose
name meant fifth son.

Men with their own devices were not simple. That she’d
mistaken him so staggered her.

“I have to forgive him, though, as he’s not a hunter,” Adam
said, pulling himself slowly into a sleek saddle of Spanish leather. “Now, in
battle, there’s no finer horse in all—”

Joan darted into the trees.

He was a knight. Mayhap a lord. That meant he, too, was here
for one purpose only—marriage to the most beautiful woman in Christendom. Lady
Mathilda.

Joan heard Adam Quintin shout after her, but she ignored
him. She’d save a beggar with her hounds if he had been one so cornered. And in
truth, ‘twas the dogs, not she, who’d done the work. She paused a moment, hand
to her breast, and took a deep breath. The boar had almost killed the man, but
the dogs had performed as she’d directed.

Her hand signals had worked.

The dogs were waiting on the bank of the river that wound
from Winchester to Portsmouth Harbor, passing Ravenswood Castle on its way.
They had run through the shallows, romped on the banks, cleaning themselves.

She hugged them one by one, stroking velvety ears and
rubbing smooth bellies. “I am sorry you cannot have your just reward, but I
could not remain for the butchering. You made me proud, my loves. You rescued a
man of worth for Lady Mathilda.”

She remembered how he’d been addressed with familiar ease by
the other men. It took little effort to imagine the carnage to the men’s
friendship as they vied for Lady Mathilda’s hand.

Plain Joan
, Brian had called her. His tongue was as
quick as ever. Her cheeks heated that Adam Quintin should be introduced to her
in such a manner. Now, Brian’s opinion would be Adam’s. It was an uneasy
thought and she thrust it aside.