A Knight's Temptation by Catherine Kean Read Free Book Online Page A

arrived at the castle gates. The woman hadn’t worn a lady’s garments; she appeared to have been toiling in the dirt. But at the time, Veronique had noted a strong physical resemblance between the woman and Ransley.
    “Leona,” Ransley said.
    Leona . Veronique had committed the name to memory and resolved to keep watch on Ransley’s daughter. And, while Veronique had his lordship’s attention, she’d very make certain he confided in her when needed. No one else.
    Squeezing forward a little more—her breasts on the verge of popping from her gown—Veronique retrieved his goblet and slid it back before him. Trailing one slender finger down the vessel’s stem, she’d smiled at him. “If I may be so bold, milord,” she’d murmured, “your daughter is the foolish one. How can she be so insensitive to your torment? She should be more thoughtful toward her own father.”
    His brow had wrinkled with a frown. “In her heart, I know she means well. ’Twas a shock for her, when she lost her mother so suddenly.”
    Veronique had slid her hand toward him, then gently linked her fingers through his. A brazen move. To touch a lord of his status without invitation was a tremendous risk—but she’d invited the attentions of other lonely noblemen in the past, with success.
    In the years that she and the baron had evaded de Lanceau’s influence, they’d done whatever was necessary to keep themselves in a manner enjoyed by the noble elite. She’d become good at quiet murders, theft, and betrayal, among other talents.
    Too much lay at risk now for Ransley to elude her manipulations.
    He looked down at their joined hands. His mouth flattened.
    Veronique braced herself for his bellowed command to withdraw her hand, while she tried to think of a clever way to keep him in her emotional trap.
    But he didn’t push her away.
    Good.
    “Tell me about your wife,” she’d whispered, forcing tenderness into her voice.
    He had. Until, eyes rolling back into his head, he’d collapsed face first onto the table.
    For all she knew—and cared—he still lay there.
    Thinking of the way he’d rambled on and on caused the muscles between Veronique’s shoulder blades to tighten. Reaching back, she rubbed at the tension and expelled a breath through her teeth.
    A sound came from the bed behind her.
    A muffled snort.
    Turning on her heel, she strolled past the moonlit bed, her gaze sliding up the rumpled sheets to the bloated swell of Baron Sedgewick’s belly, barely covered by the bedding. He lay with one arm over his flabby torso, the other flung out by his side. His mouth drooped in sleep. Saliva, running from the corner of his lip, glistened on his chin.
    His skin was almost the same pasty color as the sheets. Only linen didn’t grow wiry hairs that looked ridiculously out of place on his torso. So unlike the beautiful, muscular body of Geoffrey de Lanceau, whose chest hair had rendered him even more masculine and appealing. Long ago, when she’d curled her fingers through his hair, felt his muscles flex beneath her fingertips . . .
    How despicable, that the memory of him—after all he’d done to her—should elicit a shiver of desire. Quickening her strides, she walked to the trestle table pushed against the wall and picked up her polished steel mirror before returning to the moonlight by the window. Her reflection stared back, naked, but not so unattractive.
    Tilting the mirror, she inspected her body, almost as slim as years ago. The herbal tonics, creams, and foul-smelling potions crafted by toothless crones had helped her become slender and supple again. Staying beautiful was worth any price. Certainly worth every bit of silver she’d stolen or coaxed out of her victims.
    Geoffrey de Lanceau, Lord of Moydenshire and one of the most respected men in all of England, had desired her. For two years—before he’d cast her aside for a lady who became his wife—she’d shared his bed.
    Never would he forget it.
    A shrill giggle