Ana Seymour - The Rogue

Beatrice said after a long moment.

Nicholas gave a little shudder to shake off the haunting memories, then looked down at her and smiled. “Owen now calls me Papa. Mayhap his aunt should take his example and learn to call me Nicholas. Will you say it for me?”

The flickering shadows of the midsummer twilight lent an air of unreality to the scene. Beatrice’s eyes were inscrutable as she paused, then moistened her lips and said, “Nicholas.”

The word seemed to stir a wave inside him. As it intensified, he suddenly recognized the familiar sensation. With a feeling akin to panic, he tried to tell himself that he was a changed man. Yet as Beatrice swayed ever so slightly closer to him in the shadows, he could not deny his feelings.

He wanted her….

Dear Reader,

This month our exciting medieval series KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK ROSE continues with The Rogue by Ana Seymour, a secret baby story in which rogue knight Nicholas Hendry finds his one true love. Judith Stacy returns with Written in the Heart, the delightful tale of an uptight California businessman who hires a marriage-shy female handwriting analyst to solve some of his company’s capers. In Angel of the Knight, a medieval novel by Diana Hall, a carefree warrior falls deeply in love with his betrothed, and does all he can to free her from a family curse. Talented newcomer Mary Burton brings us A Bride for McCain, about a mining millionaire who enters a marriage of convenience with the town’s schoolteacher.

Whatever your taste in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals novel. We hope you’ll join us next month, too!

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell,

Senior Editor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Bandit’s Bride #116

Angel of the Lake #173

Brides for Sale #238

Moonrise #290

Frontier Bride #318

Gabriel’s Lady #337

Lucky Bride #350

Outlaw Wife #377

Jeb Hunter’s Bride #412

A Family for Carter Jones #433

Father for Keeps #458

Lord of Lyonsbridge #472

*The Rogue #499

With affection and thanks to my wonderful fellow

Harlequin Historicals authors, especially the team who

brought the KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK ROSE to life—

Suzanne Barclay, Shari Anton, Lyn Stone,

Sharon Schulze and Laurie Grant. And special thanks to

Margaret Moore, who started us all down this path.

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 Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

“I’ll not be able to sit straight on my horse if we continue,” Gervase of Palgrave said, shaking away the tankard being pushed at him by the smiling barmaid.

The knight sitting across the table from him frowned, gave an exaggerated blink and stopped the girl’s retreat with a heavy hand on her arm. The tankard clattered to the floor.

“By the saints, Nick, you’re swoggled!” Gervase cried, jumping from his stool. He swatted at his legs where the liquid had splashed his clothes. “I’ll smell like a brewmaster.”

His companion kept his seat but cast a look of remorse at the indignant serving girl. “I beg pardon, sweetheart,” he mumbled, then punctuated the apology with a smile.

Immediately the anger drained from the girl’s round face. “’Twas an accident, milord,” she said, her eyes fixed on the handsome knight. Even masked by the grime of many weeks’ travel, Nicholas of Hendry’s strong features caused most who saw him to take a second look.

As the girl stooped to retrieve the mug and swipe at the spill with her skirt, Gervase seated himself again with a grunt of disgust. “What ails you, my friend?” he asked. “We’re but half a league from Hendry Hall, yet you insist on tarrying here in this sorry excuse of an inn like a bashful bridegroom. Are you not eager to see your family?”

The two knights were the only customers in the tiny inn, which was really just an ale shop, nothing like the bustling establishments they had visited on the long road home.

Nicholas put both elbows on the table and stared into his empty tankard. “Aye.”

“Then, let’s be off, man. I warrant there’s a lady or two who’ll be anxious to see your pretty face again.” He glanced at the serving girl, who had not taken her gaze off Nicholas. “Mayhap more than one or two.”

Nicholas offered the girl another smile and she turned scarlet. She bobbed up and down, holding the tankard in one hand and her sopping dress in the other. “Would the gentlemen, ah, my lords, ah…shall I draw another flagon of ale?”

Nicholas sighed and pushed himself back from the table. “Nay, sweetheart. My friend is right. ’Tis past time for me to reach home.” He stood. “You will accept the hospitality of Hendry Hall this night before traveling on, Gervase?”

Gervase nodded. “I’d like to meet your father. He’ll be a proud man to welcome back a hero son.”

Nicholas gave a humorless laugh. “Surviving makes us heroes, is that it?”

Gervase reached for his gloves and stood. “All returning Crusaders are heroes, Nick.”

“We’ve won nothing, accomplished nothing more than sending a few poor heathens to their own heathen hell. But we’ve struck a blow for Christendom and lived to tell the tale. Aye, you may be right. It might be enough to make my father proud of his son. If so, I don’t know whose will be the greater astonishment—his or mine.”

The two knights started walking out of the inn, Nicholas weaving the first two steps until he gained his equilibrium. “Surely not,” Gervase protested, steadying his friend with a hand on his elbow. “How could a father not be proud of a son like you—a superb horseman, deadly with a sword, quick-witted, not to mention that devil’s countenance that has melted the hearts of half the maidens between here and Sicily?”

“There’s the rub, precisely. My father was always disappointed that I neglected those first attributes you mentioned in favor of the last.”

“He disapproved of your female conquests?”

Nicholas squinted as they walked out into the sunlight. “’Twas a vacillation between disapproval and disgust, I believe. He claimed I curried trouble by what he called my ‘irresponsible attachments.”’

His companion gave Nicholas a sideways glance. The lean, blond Gervase was only a couple of years older than Nicholas, but his expression was much less world-weary. His blue eyes were clear and innocent. “There were many, then?” he asked, his voice softly curious.

“Aye. Many.”