Deborah Simmons - The Last de Burgh

Praise for Deborah Simmons:

‘Simmons guarantees the reader a page-turner …’

— RT Book Reviews

‘Deborah Simmons is a wonderful storyteller and brings historical romance to life.’

— A Romance Review

‘Deborah Simmons is an author I read automatically.

Why? Because she gets it right. I can always count on her for a good tale, a wonderful hero, a feisty heroine, and a love story

where it truly is love that makes the difference.’

— All About Romance

Her name was uttered with such anguish that it took her a moment to recognise the speaker as Lord de Burgh.

Emery’s eyes flew open, relief swamping her at the knowledge that he had returned unharmed. For once she looked eagerly to his face, welcoming his gaze. But his dark head was bent over her body, and just as Emery would have spoken he put his hands upon her.

Stunned, Emery could do nothing except lie prone as she felt him check for injuries. Although she had performed the same service for Gerard, this man was not her brother. And the feel of his warm hands as they ran up and down her legs, gently probing for breaks, made Emery forget her aches and pains and all else.

Closing her eyes, she groaned as warmth filled her, along with a strange sort of yearning. Had she struck her head? That would account for her sudden inability to think clearly. Or was she dreaming? She knew only that she wanted him to continue, even though her very identity hung in the balance.

A former journalist, DEBORAH SIMMONSturned to fiction after a love of historical romances spurred her to write her own, HEART’S MASQUERADE, which was published in 1989. She has since written more than twenty-five novels and novellas, among them a USA TODAY bestselling anthology and two finalists in the Romance Writers of America’s annual RITA ®competition. Her books have been published in 26 countries, including illustrated editions in Japan, and she’s grateful for the support of her readers throughout the world.

Previous novels from this author:

THE DARK VISCOUNT

GLORY AND THE RAKE

REYNOLD DE BURGH: THE DARK KNIGHT

THE GENTLEMAN’S QUEST

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?

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This book is dedicated to all the readers who have come to love the de Burghs as much as I do, to those who have waited patiently for more than fifteen years after the publication of Taming the Wolf until this final book in the series. Thank you for your letters and e-mails and support, but most of all, thank you for taking this journey with me, to Campion and back again.

Nicholas de Burgh kept one hand on the hilt of his sword and a wary eye on the company around him. He had been in worse places, but not many, and this inn might give even his brothers pause. Although the de Burghs were fearless, they weren’t stupid, and Nicholas blamed a bout of recklessness for his presence here.

The stench of drink and vomit filled his nostrils, for these lodgings made no claim to cleanliness, a fact that seemed lost on the others who gathered in the dim common room. Indeed, those around him had the hardened air of men likely to do murder for a handful of coins.

Except for one.

It was the sight of that singular fellow that caused Nicholas to linger. Barely more than a boy, the stranger wore the distinctive robe of the Hospitallers and probably had returned from a stint of fighting in the Holy Land. Although a knight, his limp and seeming lack of a squire made him vulnerable to the thieves, whores and gamblers who frequented these places.

The boy’s eyes were bright with either too much wine or some kind of fever, which might account for his lack of judgement. Or maybe he was so glad to be back in England that he forgot there were plenty of dangers right here at home.

Whatever the reason, he appeared oblivious to the threats around him and Nicholas was determined to warn him. But as Nicholas stepped forwards, a Templar pushed ahead to capture the lad’s attention. Although there were rumours of feuding between the military orders, these two were soon deep in conversation, leaving Nicholas free to go. Yet there was something about the Templar that made him hesitate …

Nicholas surged to his feet as the inevitable fight broke out beside him. Ducking when a cup of wine sailed by his head, he dodged the dark liquid that splattered against the wall and kept to the perimeter while making his way through the growing mêlée. When a bench overturned in his path with a loud thud, he leapt over it, avoiding a candle that fell to the floor with a hiss, its light extinguished.

Reaching the door, Nicholas turned to scan the room, but he could not find the Hospitaller or the Templar, even lying amongst the filthy rushes. There was no sign of the knights outside, either, but Nicholas did not remain, for he was eager to put some distance between himself and the inn before the brawlers spilled out.

Keeping an eye on the entrance, he took to the road, but he had only gone a short way before a figure emerged from the shadows to veer into his path. The slight young man would prove little threat to an armed knight and Nicholas did not halt, but fell into step beside him. ‘Keeping watch, Guy?’

‘I told you those lodgings stank of trouble,’ his squire said.

‘Which is why I quit the place,’ Nicholas answered smoothly. ‘Despite what you might think, I still value my neck.’

Guy shot him a chary glance and Nicholas held up a hand to forestall any further discussion.

His squire frowned, but said nothing, and in the ensuing silence, a noise erupted nearby, too close to be the echoes from the inn. Halting his steps, Nicholas inclined his head towards a narrow lane, piled with refuse.

Ignoring Guy’s protest, Nicholas crept forwards and heard the unmistakable sound of a fist connecting with flesh and bone. Inching around the corner of an abandoned cot, he peered into the darkness and saw the white robe of the Templar visible ahead. By the man’s stance, Nicholas would guess he had someone by the throat, presumably the Hospitaller he had befriended earlier.

‘Where is it?’ demanded the Templar, if that’s what he was. Although the order of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon was not what it once had been, surely its members were not practising petty thievery. But whoever or whatever he might be, Nicholas had no intention of standing by while he assaulted a seemingly innocent fellow knight.

‘Hold,’ Nicholas called, drawing his sword. But the knave only thrust the Hospitaller towards him, forcing Nicholas to grab at the stumbling form or let the young man fall.

‘Danger,’ he whispered. ‘Must help … Emery.’