Knight's Move. Jennifer Landsbert

      “You are the Lady Hester?” he demanded.

      “How dare you come here?” Hester retorted. “Isn’t it enough that you have insulted me on my own land, without coming into my house to insult me here, too? Your very presence is intolerable to me, sir.”

      “But my lady—” Maud tried to interrupt.

      “No, Maud. I will not have this miscreant in my house. There is no hospitality here for such as he.”

      “But he is—”

      “I wouldn’t care if he were the king himself,” Hester interrupted. “After the way he treated me this afternoon, only an imbecile or an oaf would expect me to offer him hospitality. Which, sir, are you?”

      His eyes locked with hers and seemed to pierce her. The whole courtyard appeared to hold its breath as the stranger replied.

      “I am Guy, Lord of Abbascombe,” he said. “And you are my wife.”

      Knight’s Move

      Jennifer Landsbert

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

       JENNIFER LANDSBERT

      lives in Brussels with her husband and their two young sons. She worked as a journalist before becoming a mother, and is now well used to writing to the accompaniment of Teletubbies. She has always loved literature and history, so writing historical fiction is the perfect combination of the two, as well as the fulfillment of a lifelong ambition. Jennifer and her family enjoy exploring the Belgian countryside in search of settings for new novels.

      Contents

      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 One

       ‘H ey, you! YOU! Get off my land NOW!’ Hester yelled at the galloping horsemen, but the sharp March wind snatched at her words and carried them away, over the clifftops and out to sea.

      The riders continued their game of chase, their huge hound leaping and cavorting, barking gleefully at the fun, as they tore across Hester’s freshly ploughed field.

      ‘Ruining everything,’ she raged as she marched towards them, her clogs sticking in the mud as she stomped through the thick, wet soil. Suddenly, one of them, a large, muscular man on a black steed, swooped round towards her, his thick, dark hair swept out behind him by the speed of his horse.

      ‘Get out of the way, woman,’ he shouted, as he thundered past her, his horse’s great hooves throwing up a cloud of muck, showering Hester from head to foot.

      ‘Ugh!’ she spat, furiously wiping the mud from her eyes. The outrage! This scruffy devil, an intruder on her land, destroying the weeks of hard labour she and her men had put into preparing the soil, and he was treating her as if she were the trespasser.

      ‘Who do you think you are?’ she yelled back.

      This time he heard her. He reined in his horse hard, and turned to stare at her.

      Hester saw the scar first, its deep, crescent shape puckering the skin from eyebrow to cheekbone. Then she noticed the black, menacing eyes glaring at her through the tousled locks of hair, which the wind had swept across his forehead. His lips, surrounded by thick stubble, sneered down at her.

      ‘You stupid wench!’ he shouted, as he approached. ‘You could have been trampled to death. If I hadn’t seen you in time, you’d be lying senseless in the mud by now. What the devil did you think you were doing?’

      ‘Trying to save the crop from your idiot games, you fool.’ The bold words tumbled from her mouth in spite of his terrifying appearance. Everything about him was dark: his horse, his hair, his eyes, even the leather of his coat and breeches. And no doubt his heart too, thought Hester. He’d kill me as soon as look at me.

      But she refused to let fear master her. She was determined to get this wretch off her land and away from her people. Somehow she could always find the courage to face danger for their sakes.

      Holding her head high, she fixed her eyes on him and felt the force of his glare burning into her. She delved deep into her reserves of courage and found the words: ‘I want you off this land before I—’ but her command was interrupted by the arrival of the other five riders.

      ‘Friend of yours?’ one of them called out with an insinuating smirk.

      ‘Hardly,’ returned the dark rider. ‘She seems to be ordering me off the land.’

      There was a chorus of laughter around her as the six mounted men closed in.

      ‘Ordering you off the land? That’s rich,’ said another in an ugly tone and with a face as repellent as his friend’s.

      Hester could see the swords hanging in scabbards by their sides, their handles glinting against the leather of their tunics, a warning in the thin, spring sunshine. But she must not let them see her fear. The more they tried to scare her, the braver she must appear.

      She flung back the mud-spattered blonde curls which had escaped from her plaits. ‘Yes, I was ordering you off this land,’ she pronounced majestically, her turquoise eyes flashing. ‘You will leave Abbascombe immediately, without causing any further damage to the crops.’

      But instead of obedience, her commands were met with howls of derisory laughter. How dared they? How dared they treat her, the Lady of Abbascombe, with such disrespect? Hester felt herself blushing crimson with fury, her face burning with indignation, and heard the men laughing even louder as they sat high on their steeds, looking down on her as if she were an entertainment.

      ‘You must forgive my friends’ mirth, my dear lady,’ the dark one said, his words heavy with scorn. ‘We have returned to England after many years overseas and the latest fashions are new to us, particularly this fashion among fine ladies for adorning their garments with mud.’

      His friends threw their heads back, guffawing raucously at her expense. Of course, he was right that she was covered with mud—mostly his fault, she thought angrily. But she had to admit to herself that, with her hair awry, her workaday woollen skirts hitched up to allow her freedom of movement and wooden clogs on her feet, she wasn’t looking her most ladylike. Still, that was no excuse for his appalling rudeness.

      ‘At least this mud will wash off,’ Hester flung at him. ‘But no amount of cleaning would wash away your ill breeding, sir.’

      His eyebrows arched with surprise, elongating the scar, which tugged threateningly at the corner of his eye. Time seemed to freeze as Hester waited for his reaction, regretting that her angry quip had been unwise. There was no laughter now; the only sound was the wind whipping off the sea. Suddenly she felt how vulnerable she was; alone here in the field with six armed strangers; rough-looking men, perhaps desperate outlaws who might do anything. She longed to look around, to scan the horizon for a friendly form, to gauge exactly how far from help she was, but did not dare show such a sign of weakness.

      His eyes locked into her and Hester steeled herself to meet his fearsome gaze, clenching her fingernails into the palms of her hands to stop herself from shaking.

      ‘The vixen knows how to scratch,’