My Lord's Desire. Margaret Moore

      She felt as if they were veering onto treacherous ground. “He’s a knight in the king’s household,” she answered carefully.

      “That doesn’t mean you have to like him.”

      She decided it would be better not to talk about the other men of the court. “I hope the kitten’s scratch is healing, and you suffered no lasting effects?”

      “No. And you?” he asked.

      “A few small scratches—nothing of consequence.” She slid a glance his way. “You left the stable rather abruptly.”

      His discomfort at her observation was obvious. For a moment, she wished she hadn’t mentioned it, until he gave her a wry little grin and said, “I was embarrassed by the scars on my wrist. I’m as proud as any man, my lady, and some consider surrendering cowardice.”

      “I don’t,” she truthfully replied. “What good would it do to have a knight like you dead?”

      The look that came to his eyes made her heartbeat quicken, and her whole body pulse with something that could only be lust. Many men had said ridiculous things to amuse or flatter her, and to arouse this sort of sensation, she didn’t doubt. None of them ever had, yet Lord Armand had done so without a single word.

      Again, a warning sounded in her mind. This time, though, it had little to do with her future, and everything to do with what she was tempted to do right then and there.

      Fortunately, before her wicked impulse could triumph over her rational mind, a door banged open on the far side of the garden, followed by a burst of feminine laughter.

      “Lord Aaarrr-mand!” Hildegard called out, sounding as if she’d been sharing a cask of wine with someone. “Come out, come out, wherever you are, or you’re going to have to pay a forfeit for abandoning us!”

      Lord Armand grimaced. “God’s blood, I thought I’d gotten clean away.”

      Adelaide knew exactly how he felt. “Come with me, my lord,” she said, rising and taking his hand in hers. “There’s a little hut at the far corner of the garden where the servants keep their tools. It’s well hidden behind some climbing roses.”

      He made no objection, and as they hurried down the path, she noticed that he favored his left leg.

      “Here,” she said, a little out of breath as they reached the wooden building. She pulled open the door and ushered him inside. “If they come this way, I’ll tell them I haven’t seen you.”

      “You’d lie for me?”

      “To Hildegard, I would.”

      He was about to close the door when they heard other voices close by. It was the king and his companions, obviously back from the hunt.

      “God’s teeth!” Adelaide muttered under her breath. She didn’t want to see them any more than Lord Armand wished to converse with Hildegard.

      Without a word, Lord Armand yanked her into the hut and closed the door. The building was hot and stuffy and smelled of damp earth, but that wasn’t why Adelaide found herself breathing rapidly, and she knew it.

      Lord Armand was close, much too close, in this dark, confined space. She could hear his breathing and feel the heat from his body as he stood behind her. She could sense his powerful muscles held in check as he, too, tensely waited. She could discern the scent of his warrior’s body, of the soap he used to soften his whiskers before he shaved his jaw clean, of his woollen clothes and leather belt and boots.

      The closest she had ever been to a man before was during a meal, when touch was by accident or conscious design—the sort of scheme she consciously and continually thwarted. Indeed, she could imagine all too well what Francis, the king and several other men at court would do if they found themselves in Lord Armand’s place. He, however, continued to stand perfectly still and made no attempt to touch her—which was good, because she didn’t dare leave their hiding place. She couldn’t risk being discovered in this situation by anyone.

      She couldn’t move, either, lest she knock over the tools leaning against the wall or hanging from pegs.

      Her ears strained to hear anything from outside; all was silence. Perhaps it was safe to go out—

      “I wish I could kill them all, each and every one, and Philip most of all,” the king declared, sounding as if he were less than three feet away.

      She instinctively shrank back, colliding with Armand. It was like hitting the castle wall, except a stone wall wouldn’t put its hands on your shoulders to steady you.

      She squirmed, silently commanding him to let go. Which he did. Thank God.

      “He would kill me if he dared, that French fop,” the king continued. “As for Hugh the Brown, he should thank me for taking Isabel off his hands. She’s a spoiled little brat.”

      “A very pretty little brat,” Francis replied. “You certainly showed Hugh you were a man to be reckoned with when you stole her away from him. He shouldn’t have tried to make an alliance with her father.”

      The king chuckled, sounding a little farther away. “Yes, I got the better of him there, didn’t I?”

      “As you will of all those who try to defeat you,” Francis assured him, his voice even more distant.

      Adelaide slowly let out her breath, and Armand did the same. She put her hand on the latch, determined to leave, until he covered it with his own.

      “Not yet,” he whispered in her ear. “They may turn back.”

      She couldn’t disagree, although it was a torment having Armand so close behind her, his hand slowly slipping from hers like a caress.

      She never should have led him there. She should have let him take his chances with Hildegard, as she should have taken hers with the king and Francis and whoever else might be with them. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t done so before. Instead, she found herself trapped in this little hut with this handsome, incredibly virile man.

      She put her ear to a crack in the door. She could hear nothing. Surely it was safe to leave now. Once again she put her hand on the latch.

      Hissing a curse, Armand clapped a strong hand over her mouth. His left arm encircled her waist, pulling her back hard against him. She struggled and twisted but he held her in a viselike grip, his arms as confining as iron bands.

      “Shhh,” he whispered, the sound as soft as wind passing through the grass.

      “Then it’s decided,” said a man outside the hut, his voice low and from somewhere close by. “Both must die.”

      Adelaide stilled.

      “First the archbishop, then Marshal,” confirmed another man whose voice she likewise didn’t recognize.

      “Why not the earl first?” a third man demanded in a harsh whisper. “He’s the stronger.”

      “The archbishop is old. It’ll be easy to make his death look like an accident or illness.”

      “When?”

      “You don’t need to know. Just be ready to move when the archbishop is dead.”

      They heard the sound of foliage being moved, followed by retreating footsteps.

      For a moment, Adelaide stood limp in Armand’s grasp, too stunned by what she’d heard to move. Those men, whoever they were, were planning assassination.

      Startled into action by that realization, she fought her way free of Armand’s grasp and wrenched open the door. She hurried down the path in the direction she thought the men had gone, determined to find out whose voices they’d heard.

      The garden was deserted. There was no sign of anyone—not the men they’d heard, or the king and his party, or Hildegard and the ladies.

      Armand ran after her and grabbed