The Alchemist's Daughter. Elaine Knighton

      

      “Isidora, you should go to bed.”

      His breath was warm against her ear, for he had bent his head—so that he could keep his voice low, she assumed.

      “Lucien, I will go to bed when and where I choose. I have lived long enough to be fully capable of such a decision.”

      “Have you? I wonder, even at your age, that you do not need some guidance in that regard, or at least some inspiration?” He turned her around. “Do you want some…inspiration?”

      At the sight of him so close, the feel of him, his eyes gleaming in the firelight…his attention focused upon her alone…Isidora had all the inspiration she could handle.

      She felt dizzy. She wanted to fall into his arms. Kiss him. And beat him with her fists, so thickheaded was he. Had he no idea of the torture he put her through?

      Praise for Elaine Knighton’s previous titles

      Beauchamp Besieged

      “Sensational plot turns…a gritty but vivid picture…of medieval times.”

      —Publishers Weekly

      “Rich details create a strong sense of place in this debut.”

      —Romantic Times

      “A definite must-read for those who enjoy a good medieval tale.”

      —Romance Reviews Today

      Fulk the Reluctant

      “Knighton’s talent shines.”

      —Romantic Times

      “Be ready to be swept away to [the] 1200s in this fast-paced story.”

      —romancejunkies.com

      The Alchemist’s Daughter

      Elaine Knighton

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      To my wise and beautiful daughters, Asmara and Angela.

      Contents

      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

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      Chapter Twenty-Seven

      Chapter Twenty-Eight

      Chapter Twenty-Nine

      Chapter Thirty

      Chapter Thirty-One

      Chapter Thirty-Two

      Epilogue

       Prologue

      The Holy Land

       Somewhere between Jerusalem and Acre

       Spring of 1197

       “L ucien! De Brus has fallen. We must stop.”

      “Aye, Allan, I expected it to be so.” Lucien de Griswold’s heart sank as he turned in the saddle and looked back over the straggling line of weary men and horses. De Brus, who had gone with them on pilgrimage to Jerusalem only to please his lady-wife, had taken a deep sword thrust to his thigh. The attacking tribesmen, in search of plunder, did not respect the uneasy truce between west and east, no more than did many Crusaders.

      The dry wind kicked up a spiral of dust and heat shimmered over the sand and rocks. This desert, this place…the Holy Land…was not a land of milk and honey, but of blood and pain and thirst. Only the Saracens, with great determination, faith and skill, were at home here.

      Allan had dismounted and helped the ailing De Brus to the shade of an overhang. Lucien left his horse in the care of a servant and knelt beside De Brus. The knight’s wound was poisoning his blood. His red, sweaty skin, his leg so swollen that his foot was mottled, testified to that fact.

      “He needs more medicine than the camp leech can provide, even could we get him there before he dies,” Allan whispered.

      De Brus opened his eyes. “Don’t bother trying to spare my feelings now, Allan. I know full well I am a waste of further food and water. Just leave me here in the shade.”

      “Be quiet, Brus,” Lucien said. He drew Allan aside. “There was a caravanserai going east. They may know of a physician in a town nearby. It is worth a try.”

      “A Saracen physician?” Allan’s brows knit.

      “Aye. They have the skill Brus’s leg requires. I have seen what they can do. I fear otherwise he will indeed die while our leech deliberates and Brus argues with him. He won’t be able to argue with a Turk.”

      “Very well. But be swift, for we dare not tarry here overlong. If you must go, at least take someone with you. Do not go alone.”

      Lucien shook his head. “To the Arabs we Franj are dangerous wild animals. A pack of us will only make them defensive. One of us may get a better result than many. And if I should fail, there will be fewer of our party at risk. No one in Acre even knows we are here, so we have no hope of them setting out to look for us.”

      “But Kalle FitzMalheury is due to return this way. No doubt he would come to our aid.”

      A surge of distaste filled Lucien at the mention of the knight whose reputation for brutality overshadowed his brilliance as a commander. “I hope we are gone long before then, for I have no wish to encounter Kalle FitzMalheury—especially if I need him.”

      “Aye.” Allan rubbed his dagger hilt. “I know what you mean. He is a restless lion amongst men.”

      “All the more reason for me to make haste.” After downing a mouthful of warm water, Lucien