Dragon's Knight

“So beautiful, Aislynn.”

He reached to touch her hair, noting that the fine strands seemed to cling to his callused fingers. “So soft.”

A barely audible sound escaped her, drawing his gaze back to her face. He watched her lips part and her breathing quicken. He found himself unable to tear his gaze away from those sweet pink lips.

Aislynn’s voice was husky and questioning as she whispered, “Jarrod?”

Jarrod’s head spun. Whether it was from the feel of this beautiful woman in his arms, or from the wine, he did not know. And at this moment, he did not truly care.

He could never in his life recall wanting to kiss anyone as badly as he did Aislynn in this moment. And if there were reasons for not doing so, he could think of none of them.

He bent and placed his mouth on hers….

Praise for Catherine Archer’s recent titles

Summer’s Bride

“A delightful read!”

—Romance Reviews Today

Winter’s Bride

“A compelling, innovative tale…with lush details and unforgettable characters.”

—Rendezvous

Fire Song

“This finely crafted medieval romance…(is) a tale to savor.”

—Romantic Times

#603 THE BRIDE FAIR

Cheryl Reavis

#604 MISS VEREY’S PROPOSAL

Nicola Cornick

#605 THE DRIFTER

Lisa Plumley

MILLS & BOON

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and

CATHERINE ARCHER

Rose Among Thorns #136

**Velvet Bond #282

**Velvet Touch #322

Lady Thorn #353

Lord Sin #379

Fire Song #426

*Winter’s Bride #477

*The Bride of Spring #514

*Summer’s Bride #544

*Autumn’s Bride #582

†Dragon’s Dower #593

†Dragon’s Knight #606

This book is dedicated to Mt. Hood Hospice in Sandy, Oregon, for all the wonderful work they do.

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 Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

Aislynn Greatham moved through the high-ceilinged, drafty rooms of Bransbury Castle, with only half her attention on whence she was going. The rest of her mind was centered on thoughts of where her brother Christian might be.

And if he would ever return.

Her father, the baron of Bransbury lands and keep, grew more morose with each day that passed. He asked the same questions each time they were together. Where could his son have gone and why? What could have possessed him to leave without telling his father? For the thirteen years Christian had been gone to the Holy Land. Had this not been long enough for him to be without his son and heir to his lands?

Aislynn could make no answer to any of these queries. She did regret not telling their father when Christian had confided in her that he was leaving. Christian had been so certain that he would return within a fortnight, had, in fact, given his solemn word on it. He had also assured her that he would be free to tell her every detail of his mysterious mission on his return.

Aislynn sighed, catching the first scents of the roasted fowl that she herself had seasoned that afternoon. She felt no pangs of hunger though she had eaten little that day. She greatly dreaded sitting at table with her father, having to bite back her own fears. For, more troubling than their father’s worry, was Aislynn’s thought that her brother had not returned because he could not.

Visions of him, ill…or worse, had begun to assault her day and night.

Those visions had driven her to do something that made it even more difficult to face her father. She had written to the friends Christian had spoken so much of. She had not bid her father’s permission, fearing that in his pride he would not give it.

Although she had asked for no more than information concerning her brother’s whereabouts, she secretly hoped and prayed that they would come to Bransbury. Christian had told her much of Jarrod Maxwell and Simon Warleigh, whom he had known since fostering with them even before the three of them had accompanied King Richard to the Holy Land. Not only his love, but his admiration for their strength and abilities was abundantly clear.

Surely in the event that Christian was not with them, such men could find her brother.

Her father, his leg having never healed properly after a fall from his horse, was in no condition to search further than the immediate surroundings for his son. Moreover, he had no notion of where to start his search.

“Dear God,” she prayed, as she slowed her steps at the end of the corridor that led into the hall, “even if Simon Warleigh or Jarrod Maxwell do not wish to help us, please let them send word soon.”

To hide her anxiety, she took a deep breath and schooled her features to appear calm. Stepping into the Great Hall, with its wide hearth and high, narrow windows, Aislynn gathered the strength to appear hopeful—not only for her father’s sake, but all those at Bransbury keep. As she passed through the hall, she observed, with approval, the clean, scrubbed surfaces of the trestle tables that were set up for the evening meal. Many of the castle folk had already gathered in their accustomed places, chatting as they waited for the food to arrive from the kitchen. But there was a decided solemnity to their expressions.

She was sure they had noted their master’s recent melancholy and were moved by it, not to mention their own uncertainty at the disappearance of the heir to the lands. Strong leadership could mean the difference between peace or war. Aside from being a strong leader, her father, though a reserved and quiet man, was a fair and just overlord. These qualities made him well loved by his folk.

Aislynn was taking her place at the high table when her father, Thomas Greatham, lord of Bransbury keep, entered with several of his men. She could see the weariness in his lean face as he removed his gloves. It was also apparent in his slow, measured step that did much to disguise his limp as he moved toward her. She was glad of the heat from the fire as the men’s entrance brought with it a breath of chill air that made gooseflesh appear on her arms even beneath the heavy sapphire velvet of her gown.

As her father took his place, she noted a sheen of frost in his mustache. He looked to her with a hopeful expression in his periwinkle-blue eyes, eyes he had passed on to both of his children. “Any word of your brother?”

Regret made Aislynn look down at her folded hands. She took a deep breath then faced him with a fixed smile. “Nay, Father, not yet. But I am sure he, or word of him, will come soon.” It was something she said each day and she no longer imagined that it offered any comfort.

The naked disappointment that came over her sire’s face for a brief instant made her wish there was something, anything else she might do to help. There was nothing.

Not for the first time she considered telling him about the letter she had sent to Christian’s friends. She dismissed the notion instantly. There had been no reply. Better that he not know in the event that no word came. Not only might he be angry with her for sending it, he would surely be even more disheartened.

She spoke with forced cheer. “And you, Father, what of your day?”

He frowned. “The blackguards will not give me rest of late. Llewellyn’s constant efforts to plague me have been extended to his neighbors on the Welsh side of the border as well. Obviously there is some trouble brewing there, but I have been unable to glean any hint of what it might be.”

Aislynn sighed. The problems of holding the lands along the border did not abate simply because they had other worries. “Have you contacted Gwyn?”

“I have questioned your intended, but he seems to know naught, though he is deeply troubled by his neighbor’s obvious quest to wreck havoc with us all.”

Aislynn sighed again. Gwyn ap Cyrnain was the one of the few Welsh lords who had reached out in any kind of friendship to them. He had done so to the point of offering for Aislynn’s hand in marriage. Her father approved of the match and Gwyn had been a friend to Aislynn in the long years when her brother had been away. The marriage would strengthen her father’s position with Gwyn’s countrymen. She had agreed. That Gwyn seemed in no great hurry to see the matter settled suited her most well.

Gwyn was a good man, a solid man, not only in size but in heart. With him she would create a stable base about which their children would gravitate. It would be a family such as she had always wished hers had been.

To the getting of those children she gave little thought. Although Gwyn had kissed her on the day their marriage contracts were signed over a year gone by, she had felt nothing but the same filial affection toward him that she always had. She did not bemoan this fact, for she had no notion of experiencing love such as was told in tales of romance. Family was what mattered to Aislynn.

Her father sighed now, bringing her attention back to him. He said, “As you know, under normal circumstances, I do my duty here gladly. It is only now, with Christian gone and with no explanation that I chafe under the responsibilities of keeping matters in check.”

She touched his hand gently. “I understand.”

There was no more conversation between them as the trays arrived from the kitchen and the meal began.

Aislynn did not take her father’s distraction as any insult to her person. In the years she had lived alone with him he had been a good father, if somewhat preoccupied with his duties. Only after Christian’s return from the Holy Land had he been more garrulous at mealtimes. That was, until her brother’s disappearance.

Aislynn was making every effort to eat the food, when the door to the hall flew open wide, bringing on a rush of cold air.

Like all those present, she glanced up, thinking the new arrival must simply be some latecomer for the meal, and stared. For the man coming toward them was not a resident of the keep or the surroundings lands.

Aislynn was quite sure that had she seen this man about the demesne she would certainly remember it. As he moved toward them with both casual grace and alertness, she noted the exotic quality of his appearance. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, his skin darkly tanned, though most other men were paling as they all did at winter’s approach. When he halted before the high table, she saw that his eyes were no less dark than his shoulder-length hair, their centers lost in that seemingly depthless darkness.

Even before the stranger began to speak, Aislynn realized who, in fact, this man was.

Jarrod Maxwell.

She had met him once, many years ago. It had been before Christian had left on crusade. She and her father had gone to bid her brother Godspeed where he was camped with King Richard’s army. Her father had allowed her to go off with Christian, who had, of course, gone looking for his friends. They had seemed to forget her until someone had shouted out that the king had arrived. The throng had risen to watch the king pass by. It had been Jarrod Maxwell who had lifted her up on his shoulders so that she could see above the heads of the many soldiers. Everyone wanted to watch King Richard as he passed within a mere stone’s throw of them.

Though she had been but six at the time, Aislynn had not forgotten that day. Her memory of it was sharper than that of her mother, who had died three years before.

Her brother had gone into fosterage only months after her mother’s life had been taken in a tragic accident when the horse she rode stepped in a hole and tumbled upon her. Though Aislynn had been very young at the time, barely recalling her mother as more than a warm scent, Aislynn had learned her father had lost much of his joviality upon her mother’s death.

This in no way surprised Aislynn. She knew her father blamed himself for his wife’s death. The night before she’d left Bransbury for a visit to her sister’s home, he had awakened from a vivid dream that foretold her death on the journey. Yet he had been unable to convince her that she must not go. He felt that he had not tried hard enough to convince her of the danger.

But Aislynn did not wish to think on this, for it had all happened long before she could remember. She must concentrate on the man before them.

And truth to tell that did not prove difficult.

Christian had told her that his friend had been born of an Eastern woman while his father was on crusade and that he had brought the child home with him after she died. That exotic heritage was stamped on this man in not only his coloring but in the flowing ease of his stride, in the noble set of his wide shoulders, and the regal angle of his head. He was garbed as any other knight, in a burgundy velvet tunic and a flowing cape of fine wool with a dragon clasp that was fashioned in the same manner as the one her brother wore on his cape. Yet it was also easy to imagine him in the Eastern robes of the people in the many sketches Christian had drawn on his travels.

Christian had shared tales of the many women who had sought the exotic knight’s favor wherever they had gone. And suddenly as those black eyes met hers for a brief moment, Aislynn knew a feeling of resentment for all those faceless dames.

Quickly she looked away, telling herself how very mad such a thought was even as the man began to speak. “My lord Greatham, my name is Jarrod Maxwell. I have come as quickly as I could in answer to the letter concerning Christian’s disappearance.”

Her father’s tone was dull with confusion. “Letter?”

Aislynn watched from the corner of her eyes as Jarrod Maxwell nodded, a crease appearing in his brow at her father’s obvious confusion. “Aye, it came to Avington by messenger some days gone by.”

Her father said, “I sent no letter.”

Aislynn, feeling her sire’s assessing gaze upon her, looked into his blue eyes. “I sent it, Father. Christian had just returned from Avington when he set off on this mysterious quest of his, and I thought that those there might know where he had gone. Or that he might even have gone there as he has before.” Her gaze flicked to the dark knight, and away. “I cannot deny that I did hope Christian’s friends might even come to our aid. They are, after all the years they spent in the Holy Land together, as much family as we are to Christian. Besides, Christian himself once told me if there was ever any reason, I should not hesitate to call upon them as I would him.”

Her father’s voice was filled with disapproval. “Daughter, that all may be true, yet it does not explain why you would do this without consulting me?”

Jarrod Maxwell spoke up, drawing her gaze back to him. “If you will permit, my lord, I can not disagree that your daughter erred in not begging leave before writing to Avington. Yet Simon and I are indeed family to your son and come to your aid in finding him gladly.” There was a coolly assessing expression in his dark eyes as they rested upon Aislynn for a brief moment. She felt a strange sense of unrest, though she was not sure why.

The fact that he glanced away again, clearly dismissing her, should not have brought such a prodding of displeasure. She told herself that it was because he had had the very nerve to express his own disapproval of her writing without her father’s permission.

But his easy dismissal was especially irritating when she had been so immediately taken with the sight of him. Which was ridiculous of her, given that she was to be married. Yet for reasons she could not understand she found her gaze going to the knight once more as he bowed to her father, his lean-jawed countenance and strong nose in profile. Jarrod Maxwell was indeed as handsome a man as any maid might long for.

She pushed away this thought when her father spoke her name with irritation. “Aislynn!”

He watched her with a glowering expression and she realized she had not answered him. She addressed him hastily. “I deeply regret that I did not tell you, Father. I know how worried you have been, how frustrated in your efforts to find Christian. As I said, I thought that if naught else Warleigh or Maxwell might have some notion of whence Christian has gone. I…” She blushed again, looking down at her hands, feeling very self-conscious as she felt Jarrod’s gaze upon them.

Her father raised her chin to look at her. He continued to scowl, yet she noted that most of his irritation with her had already passed. He said more gently, “In future I will thank you to recall that not only am I your father but the lord of these lands. You will not take such action without my consent.”

She nodded, for there was no denying that she had acted rashly. Then in spite of her displeasure with Jarrod Maxwell, she faced him. She was glad that he had come to aid them. Surely he had come because he thought he could help find Christian. She asked hopefully, “Do you have any idea of where Christian might be?”

His expression showed clear regret as he shook his head, making his rejoinder to her father rather than to Aislynn. “Nay. I am sorry, but I have not the least notion. When he left Avington he said only that he was going home, and, though he seemed a bit preoccupied, I thought little of it after all we had been through.”

She tried to tell herself that her disappointment was brought on by his words, rather than by his continued disregard of her. Chagrined, she found herself studying her folded hands once again and wondering if she had gone quite mad in the intervening moments since this man had walked into the keep.

Even though Sir Jarrod Maxwell addressed his host rather than Christian’s young sister, he could not help being aware of the disappointment that emanated from her. He flicked a glance over and saw the pain that tightened Aislynn Greatham’s delicately beautiful profile and washed the color from that creamy skin. He fervently wished he had another answer to give, which surprised him.

He did not even know the girl.

She took that moment to look up across the table, laden with the evening meal, and Jarrod was held by a pair of startling cornflower-blue eyes. He found himself truly looking at Aislynn Greatham for the first time. There was a restive fragility about her, the type of restlessness as displayed by a butterfly. Her skin was like porcelain in contrast to the dark blue velvet of the head covering that framed her face. Her honey-colored lashes were thick, her lips, pink and pleasingly formed, her cheeks sweetly curved above the slender line of her jaw. He felt a stirring inside him, a desire to touch, though he knew that he could not do so, for to touch a butterfly was to destroy its ability to fly.

He was shocked at this fanciful thought, for it was so unlike him.

It was not the first time he had thought of this girl. Many years ago when he was a boy of fifteen, he had met her when she, so small she could barely be more than a babe, had come to bid her brother, Christian, Godspeed before his journey to the Holy Land. She had been such a little child, straining to see King Richard as he rode by the troops, who had gathered for the journey. He had felt an unfamiliar twinge of affection and protectiveness, reaching down to lift her up. She had weighed next to nothing as he had raised her up to see above the crowd of soldiers.

Now there was a difference in his reaction to Christian’s young sister that he could not quite put his finger on. And, strangely, he felt an intense reluctance to attempt to name it.

Jarrod had no personal interest here other than to find Christian.

Even as she watched him, her gaze darkened with some deep emotion that he could only read as sadness. He felt that tug in his belly once more and deliberately focused his attention on her father again. “I take it, my lord, that you still have no idea of your son’s whereabouts either.”

Lord Thomas Greatham shook his gray head. “Nay, I do not.” He bowed with studied politeness. “But really, sir, you need not concern yourself with our difficulty. It was wrong of Aislynn to bring you all this way.”

Jarrod frowned. “Not at all, my lord. As I said, Christian is as my brother. I am happy to be informed that there is a problem, as was Simon who would have come as well if it were not for his duty to his lands, not to mention his new bride.” Simon was indeed well and happily occupied, having found more bliss with the daughter of his enemy Kelsey than Jarrod would have thought possible. But he did not wish to think on that now, nor the fact that any thought of Kelsey reminded him of the untimely and unjust death of The Dragon, the very man who had brought himself and his two friends together as fosterlings.

The loss of his foster father still brought a wave of pain. The Dragon had taken an angry lad of thirteen and taught him that he was the master of his own fate, had not only made him knight but a man. Jarrod chafed under the knowledge that he and his friends had been denied retribution against Kelsey by a king who loved those who were of like nature as himself.

Knowing these thoughts gained him nothing, Jarrod looked to Lord Greatham. “Neither Simon nor myself would have you do aught but contact us about this matter.”

Jarrod recalled Aislynn’s obvious understanding of their brotherhood, and felt an unwanted rush of kinship toward her. He knew again a strong pull of awareness that centered in his lower belly. Instantly Jarrod called himself firmly to task.

He forced himself to look at her again, to see her clearly as the child she was. It was almost with relief that, as he swept her form, which was enveloped in a gown of heavy sapphire velvet, his eyes told him that she was indeed a tiny waif of a girl with fragile bones. And her blue eyes were, as they had been the first time he saw her, too large for her heart-shaped face.

He also recalled a blond braid of so pale a shade that it was not readily forgotten. His gaze slid over the hood that completely concealed her hair. The honey of her brows and lashes made him wonder if it had darkened as many children’s did as they approached adulthood.

At the moment, his eyes met those blue ones again and he saw that they bore an expression of uncertainty as well as sadness over her brother’s disappearance. He found himself thinking that he would do whatever he must to see that sadness gone from her eyes. To see her smile.

His gaze went to those lips, which were not smiling now. Her tongue flicked out to dampen the lower lip, which seemed more full than before. He felt a stab of awareness and found himself once more looking into the blue eyes that were watching him with an expression he could not begin to name.

The baron’s voice intruded on Jarrod’s thoughts like a cold draft as he said, “I appreciate your enthusiasm, sir, but I am certain you must have your own matters to attend.”