PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

The rider was gaining upon her. With each thundering moment that passed, she heard the relentless pounding of the destrier's sure hoofbeats come closer and closer.

Her own mount was sweating, gasping for each tremulous breath that quivered through flank muscles straining to maintain the insane gallop over the mud and through the forest. Elise could feel the animal working furiously beneath her, the great shoulders flexing . . . contracting . . .

Elise chanced a backward glance as the wind whipped about her in the darkness of the night, blinding her with loosened strands of her own hair. Her heart suddenly seemed to stop—then to thud more loudly than even the sound of the destrier's hooves behind her . . .

He was almost upon her. The mare hadn't a chance of escaping the pursuit of the experienced warhorse.

And she hadn't a prayer against the dark knight who rode the midnight-black stallion. She had seen him mount the horse. He was even taller than Richard the Lion-Heart, as broad of shoulder, as lean of hip.

"No!" Elise gasped, leaning against her mare's neck to encourage greater speed. No, no, no! she added silently. I will not be caught and butchered. I will fight. I will fight. I will fight until I draw my last breath . . .

Dear God, what had happened? Where were the men who should have been about the castle? Who should have heard the screams of the guards?

Oh, merciful Christ in heaven! What had happened?

Just an hour ago she had plodded slowly along this same path to reach the castle. To say her last good-byes, to cry, to pray for Henry II of England . . .

And now she was racing insanely away in terror, pursued by the lowest of thieves, the most cold-blooded of murderers.

"Halt, coward!" she heard the dark horseman command harshly. His voice was deep and strong, sure and arrogant against the night. Elise pressed her knees more tightly against the mare. Run, Sabra, run! she prayed silently. Run as you have never run!

"Halt! Desecrater of the dead!"

She heard the words, but they made no sense. He was the murderer! He was the thief! The lowest snake of the earth to attack the dead.

The dead King of England.

"I'll slit you from throat to belly!" the dark knight roared out.

Panic whipped through her like the relentless wind, riddling and racing through her blood, making her quiver as she tried to hold hard to the reins. She turned again. The destrier was pulling beside her mare. She could see him, the dark rider.

His hair was as black as the ebony sky. His face was ruthlessly handsome. His lips were taut and grim. His chin was as strong and firm as the stone of the castle.

His eyes . . . she couldn't tell their color. But they burned with a dark fury beneath sharply arched brows . . .

He wore no mail, no armor. Not even a cloak. Only a dark tunic that whipped in a frenzy about him with the force of the wind and ride.

His arm, muscled and powerful, reached out.

"No!" Elise shrieked, and she brought her small whip down upon him with all the strength that she could muster.

"Bitch of Satan!" he thundered, and reached for her again.

This time she could not stop him. His arm swept around her, and his hand clamped about her waist like an iron manacle. She screamed and gasped as she was lifted from the mare. Then she was thrashing in earnest as she was thrown roughly over the flanks of the destrier, and the air was knocked from her.

Her dagger! She needed her dagger! But it was caught in the pocket of her skirt, and she could neither twist nor move. All she could do was flop against the massive, silken flanks of the mighty animal and pray that she did not fall beneath its lethal hooves.

The dark knight reined in sharply; she was shoved to the ground. A rush of air escaped her as she fell hard. For a moment she was too stunned to move.

Then instinct took over. She tried to roll, but she was tangled in her cloak. She could only gasp again as he straddled her, seeking her wrists and pinning them to the ground.

Her breasts heaved with fear as she tried to twist again. She tossed her head, and clamped her teeth into his arm. A grunt of pain grated from his lips, but he jerked her hands higher, leaving her with no part of his flesh to bite.

"Where are your accomplices, bitch?" he demanded harshly. Vaguely she realized that he spoke to her in French, the common courtly language from Hadrian's Wall to the borders of Spain since the days of the Conqueror. The words were natural, fluent, but they bore a trace of accent. They had not been his first language.

"Tell me now, or as God is my witness, I will strip the flesh from your body inch by inch until you do!"

Still struggling wildly, Elise lashed out in return, choosing to shout in English—language more guttural, more crude.

"I have no accomplices—and I am no thief! You are the thief, you are the murderer! Let me go, whoreson! Help! Help! Oh, help me, someone. Help me!"

She was stunned into silence as the back of his hand cut across her cheek. She clamped her teeth so that she would not cry out with the pain. And she saw his face more clearly.

His eyes were not dark at all. They were blue. Sapphire blue. On fire, burning deeply into her. His cheekbones were high, his forehead broad, his nose long and slender. His face was bronzed deeply by the sun; rugged from exposure. She took all this in with the thought, How I hate this man! Loathe him. Is he a murderer? The thief? He must be. He followed behind me. He assailed me.

"You robbed the dead. Henry of England."

"No!"

"Then I shall find nothing of his upon you?"

"No!" she shrieked. "I'm not a thief, I'm—"

She cut off quickly. She could never tell the secret of what she was. This man would never believe her.

And he still might be the murderer himself.

"Can't you see, fool? I carry nothing of the king's—" She broke off again, trying to hide her sudden panic. Because she did hold something that had belonged to the king. Oh, dear God. No, he would never find it.

Or would he?

She closed her eyes, berating herself viciously for her own stupidity.

"We shall see, madam," he told her, his voice a deadly hiss, "if you can prove your innocence."

Her eyes flew open and met his. They were ruthlessly determined. "I am the Duchess of Montoui!" she declared heatedly. "And I demand that you let me up this instant!"

His eyes narrowed. "I don't care if you're the Queen of France! I intend to discover what you have done with what you stole."

"Touch me, and I'll see your head on the block!"

"I doubt that, Duchess."

He released her arms and sat up, staring at her as he crossed his arms over his chest. "We're going to take a ride back to the castle. I suggest you be ready to talk by the time we reach it."

Swiftly, arrogantly, he rose, then strode to retrieve the reins of his destrier.

Just as swiftly, Elise slipped her hand beneath the folds of her cloak and delved into her pocket. Her fingers gripped tightly around her pearl-handled dagger.

She would have to wait until he turned. Wait until he made another move toward her. And she would have to strike swiftly and surely.

Wait...

And as she waited, she knit her brow in confusion. What had happened? Who was this man? A knight from the castle—or one of the thieves, thinking that she might have taken something before he had robbed the body?

He had to be a thief. A murderer. No knight could behave so despicably.

Dear God, here she was in mortal terror, hoping to drive her dagger into a man's heart.

And not long ago, the night had been one of dull and dragging misery. She had come because she loved the man she was being accused of robbing . . .