My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3)
Read My Heart Belongs to You (Medieval Romance Trilogy Book 3) Online
Authors: Leigh Bale
Tags: #medieval romance, #Scottish
Excerpt from The Heart’s Warrior
MY HEART BELONGS TO YOU
by Leigh Bale
Copyright 2014
by Leigh Bale,
www.LeighBale.com
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogues are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
First Edition published 2014 by LAS Publishing
All rights reserved. This book is a copyrighted work and no part of it may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or any information storage and retrieval system) without permission in writing from the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the author’s permission is illegal and punishable by law. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights by purchasing only authorized editions.
Cover Design by The Killion Group
LEIGH BALE NOVELS
INSPIRATIONAL CONTEMPORARY TITLES
The Healing Place, 12/07
The Forever Family, 08/09
The Road to Forgiveness, 05/10
The Forest Ranger Series
The Forest Ranger’s Promise, 04/11
The Forest Ranger’s Husband, 10/11
Falling for the Forest Ranger, 12/12
The Forest Ranger’s Child, 05/12
Healing the Forest Ranger, 04/13
The Forest Ranger’s Return, 02/13
The Forest Ranger’s Christmas, 10/14
INSPIRATIONAL ROMANTIC SUSPENSE TITLES
Broken Trust, 12/13
CLEAN READ HISTORICAL TITLES
My Heart Belongs to You, 09/14
The Heart’s Warrior, 07/13
The Silken Cord, 01/13
Discover these titles at:
Amazon.com
Contact Leigh Bale at:
www.LeighBale.com
MY HEART BELONGS TO YOU
by Leigh Bale,
www.LeighBale.com
A Stolen Bride ~
Upon her father’s sudden death, Lady Ysabelle of Sutcliffe is forced by her English king to wed a loathsome old man. On her wedding night, the Scotsman she was betrothed to steals her away, determined to gain the wife and lands promised to him by her father years earlier. Though she cannot deny the passion her betrothed inspires in her, Ysabelle knows their union will thrust her people into war and she soon finds herself caught in a treacherous web of duty and desire.
A Broken Promise ~
Born in sin, Nicholas Ramsay has spent a lifetime warring for lands on behalf of others. Having lived too long without love, his fierce demeanor masks a soul filled with pain. Secretly desiring a home and family to call his own, he will do almost anything to secure them. Yet, the truth of Nicholas’s birth may destroy all that he has obtained. Now, he fights a different battle…to win Lady Ysabelle’s trust and also her heart.
Note to reader: This book is a clean-read Historical Medieval Romance, Scottish
Chapter One
The Debatable Land, 1100 AD
“If my father lived, he would kill you for this.” Lady Ysabelle of Sutcliffe locked her jaw as she stared at her new bridegroom.
Sir Malcolm de Litz leaned over her, a lecherous smile curving his thick lips. Heavy darkness gathered around his plump face, making his eyes appear hollow and cold. Ysabelle shuddered, wishing she were anywhere but here.
“Then, I’m grateful he’s cold in his grave,” Sir Malcolm laughed.
Ysabelle glared her disapproval. She struggled to hide the tatters of her broken heart. Now was not the time to show any weakness. Her father had taught her to be strong, no matter the threat. But right now, she felt more alone than at any other time in her life.
The fire in the grate popped and sprayed an eruption of sparks skyward. Spidery shadows danced across the stone walls of the dark chamber. The flames of candles flickered in time to the beating of her pulse. What should have been a joyous occasion was clouded by gloom.
This wasn’t right. He wasn’t right. In her dreams, she’d seen the man she should wed, and it was not Sir Malcolm. Both a blessing and a curse, her girlhood dreams had always come true.
Until now.
His lascivious grin curled his mouth and he laughed. His heavy jowls wobbled and she averted her gaze from his yellowed teeth. If only her father hadn’t died so unexpectedly, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.
A woman’s piercing scream came from the far corridor. Ysabelle’s breath caught in her throat and she jerked her head toward the oak panel. Without warning, the solid door crashed open against the opposite wall. Sir Malcolm scrambled to his feet. In his haste, he lost his balance, toppled over the chest at the foot of the bed, and thumped to the floor.
What was happening?
Springing off the bed, Ysabelle stood in the middle of the room. She clenched her ruined nightdress tight with her chilled fingers. Confusion raced through her mind. She should be frightened by this new threat, but gratitude washed over her as she eyed the doorway. Though she had no idea what fate might await her, all she wanted to do was flee.
A man rushed into the room. Wearing a helmet and dressed in chain mail, he brandished a broadsword. Behind him, Ysabelle caught a glimpse of Ada, her loyal handmaiden, being pulled down the hall by another stranger also dressed for war.
Who were these men? And what did they want?
“My lady!” Ada screeched as she stretched her wrinkled hands toward Ysabelle. Within seconds, she disappeared into the stairway.
Spying Ysabelle, the intruder glanced over his shoulder. “She is here.”
Ysabelle watched with disbelief as another, larger man, strode into the chamber. Head held high, he walked as if he owned the place. Dressed all in black, he dominated the room, his presence like a tempest at sea, fierce and terrifying. As though the very air he breathed belonged to him.
His dark gaze stabbed her. She could make out his chilling eyes and grim mouth from beneath the face guard on his helmet. Though she could not see his hair or features, he moved with supple grace, his frosty gaze scouring over Sir Malcolm. Coming to a halt, his lips curled with contempt.
Malcolm trembled like a newborn pup, scooting backward on his fat buttocks. Fearful of this new foe, Ysabelle shivered and stepped away. Though they’d never met before, she recognized this man from stories she’d heard. Some deep instinct told her his identity.
“Nicholas Ramsay,” she whispered his name beneath her breath.
Her betrothed. The Scots Ram had come for her, but too late.
The Ram’s gaze shifted to Ysabelle. Conscious of his brutal reputation for vengeance, she jutted her chin. No doubt he’d heard that she’d been forced to wed Sir Malcolm. She could only imagine what he might do in retaliation.
Her knees wobbled but she refused to budge as he came to stand before her. Tall and ferocious, his wide shoulders and hardened body seemed beyond imposing to a slight maid such as herself. If she could make it to the door, she might be able to escape.
“Has he taken what belongs to me?” the Ram asked in a low voice.
The heat of embarrassment scorched her cheeks. She clenched her hands, her nails biting into her palms. “It was not my choice to wed him.”
The Ram’s eyes narrowed as he took another step closer. Her gaze locked with his, and she was aware of nothing but him, his scent and towering height. A flash of light filled her mind, almost overpowering her. With utmost clarity, she saw a vision of a tall, powerful man with hair the color of tar kneeling beside her at an altar. She’d seen the image before, the night her father had died. A nightmare that had both thrilled and frightened her.
No, it couldn’t be.
In the vision, a shadow had loomed over her. Malcolm de Litz had swung his heavy sword, bathing her in blood. A scream congealed in her throat.
“Has he taken what is mine?” the Ram demanded.
She flinched and blinked her eyes, clearing the memory of her dream, returning to the present. Her ears felt clogged, as if she were under water. As though she couldn’t breathe.
Her gaze dropped to the sword in Nicholas Ramsay’s hand, and she remembered every horrifying tale she’d been told about his cruel deeds. Surely she could not belong to this brutal Scotsman. God and the fates could not be that cruel.
“My king gave me to him,” she said.
“Your king had no right to give you to any man but me.”
His chilling voice sent a tremor up her spine. Though her pulse pounded with fear, her father would want her to protect Sutcliffe, even if it meant breaking her betrothal. Her father would want her safe. Nicholas Ramsay was Scottish, but she was English and must do her king’s bidding.
She lifted her head. “You are too late, Scotsman. If I go with you now, it will thrust my people into war. I won’t see Sutcliffe destroyed by my king’s army.”
The Ram’s face hardened. His gaze never left her as he called to the other warrior. “Find her some clothes. We must leave this place now.”
He moved nearer, almost stalking her. Ysabelle stepped away, until she could feel the coarse stone wall at her back. It snagged her nightgown, but she ignored it.
“Don’t be frightened, lass. Come. You belong to me.”
How dare he claim her like a lost goat? He must be daft. His gentle demand did nothing to bolster her trust.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sir Malcolm movements stumble to his feet. She caught the gleam of his eating knife where it lay on the table next to her hairbrush, still stained by grease from his evening meal.
A weapon!
Locking her jaw, Ysabelle spoke between clenched teeth. “I won’t come with you. I won’t betray my king.”
With intense scrutiny, the Ram’s gaze lowered, flickering over her scantily clad body. She felt devoured like a fatling pig as he appraised her bare limbs through the gossamer fabric of her nightdress. Made for a man’s delight, her gown showed more than it covered of her body. Like everything else this day, she’d been forced to wear it for Malcolm’s amusement. At this point, she would accept a muddy horse blanket. Anything to shield herself from these dreadful men.
The Ramsay stared at her hair in the fireglow. Standing before his perusal, she forced herself not to flinch or show him fear. She had no doubt her English king would prefer war to accepting this Scotsman as lord of Sutcliffe. But her home was hers to protect and she would do so at any cost. If that meant giving herself to Sir Malcolm and becoming his wife, she swallowed hard, then so be it. Her hope of having a husband she could love and respect dissolved like the early morning mists across the lonely moors.
Blinking, she voiced a lie. “You are too late. I am already his.”
The Ram’s gaze moved to the bed. With a gauntleted hand, he pawed and lifted the bedclothes. A grim frown spread its way across his mouth and Ysabelle recoiled with indignation.
The loathsome cad!
“Perhaps I lost my virtue long ago.” She hoped to see doubt fill his eyes, but he didn’t waver in the least.
“Lord Maston would have killed any mon who touched you,” the Ram said.
His Scottish burr swept over her and she almost laughed. His words were true, but how dare he make such a claim? Her father had betrothed her to this man without King William’s consent. Though she feared the Ram, she dreaded her king’s wrath even more. And she was tired of being forced to and fro by a pack of unruly knaves.
Anger spurred her into action. With a flash of speed, she grabbed Malcolm’s eating knife and brandished it before Nicholas Ramsay. His brows quirked in amusement. She challenged him with a daring lift of her chin. When he stepped closer, her pulse skittered.
“Maston told me you were lovely. He also said you were biddable and of a sweet nature.”
Biddable and sweet? Surely her father had not said such things about her. Outraged, Ysabelle could not contain a look of repugnance.
“I mean you no harm, Belle. You will accompany me outside,” he said.
Her father had been the only one to call her Belle. Now dead, he would never speak her name again. Nor would he challenge her to race their horses across the barren hills or kiss her forehead when she darned his favorite socks. The loneliness of it brought unbidden tears to her eyes. She could not prevent their flow no matter how hard she tried, and they rolled down her cheeks. And she hated it. Hated showing any weakness before this cruel man.