Margaret Moore - The Notorious Knight

‘Set during the reign of King John,

[it] is filled with fast-paced dialogue and historical details

that add depth and authenticity to the story.

Readers will be well entertained…’

— RT Book Reviews on MY LORD’S DESIRE

‘Ms Moore transports her readers

to a fascinating time period, vividly bringing to life a

Scottish medieval castle and the inhabitants within.’

— Romance Reviews Today on LORD OF DUNKEATHE

‘This captivating adventure of thirteenth-century Scotland

kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!’

— Romance Junkies on BRIDE OF LOCHBARR

‘Ms Moore…will make your mind

dream of knights in shining armour.’

— Rendezvous

‘When it comes to excellence in historical romance books,

no one provides the audience with

more than the award-winning Ms Moore.’

— Under the Covers

‘Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the

uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.’

— Affaire de Coeur

‘[Margaret Moore’s] writing captivates, spellbinds, taking

a reader away on a whirlwind of emotion and intrigue

until you just can’t wait to see how it all turns out.’

— Romance Reader at Heart

‘If you’re looking for a fix for your

medieval historical romance need, then grab hold of a

copy of award-winning author Margaret Moore’s

THE UNWILLING BRIDE and do not let go!’

— A Romance Review

Gillian laid her hand lightly on Bayard’s arm, to offer what silent comfort she could.

Yet as she did she became achingly aware of the feel of his flesh and muscle beneath her fingertips. Of his proximity and the masculine scent of leather and wool attending him. Of his lips so close to hers.

He was her sister Adelaide’s brother-in-law, sent to protect her. Not to woo her. Never to court or to kiss. Never to wed or to love. He drew her to him. She should stop him…protest…refuse…run…

She couldn’t. Didn’t want to. The moment their lips met the walls she’d erected around her heart broke into a thousand pieces, destroyed by his touch.

Desire, so long held in check, burst free from its restraints, and the longing she had tried to deny leaped into life.

She wanted to be in his arms, to feel and experience passion once again, and to be desired in return.

So she kissed him fervently, and with an almost desperate longing—as if she were a wanton with no more thought for the future than warming a man’s bed.

This man’s bed.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Award-winning author MARGARET MOOREbegan her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief nicknamed ‘The Red Sheik’. Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, Canada. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award-winning public speaker, a member of an archery team, and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department store chain in Canada.

Margaret lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband of over twenty-five years. Her two children have grown up understanding that it’s part of their mother’s job to discuss non-existent people and their problems. When not writing, Margaret updates her blog and website at www.margaretmoore.com

Novels by Margaret Moore:

THE OVERLORD’S BRIDE

COMFORT AND JOY (in The Christmas Visit ) BRIDE OF LOCHBARR LORD OF DUNKEATHE THE VAGABOND KNIGHT (in Yuletide Weddings ) THE UNWILLING BRIDE THE DUKE’S DESIRE HERS TO COMMAND HERS TO DESIRE THE DUKE’S DILEMMA MY LORD’S DESIRE

And as a Mills & Boon® Historical Undone eBook:

THE WELSH LORD’S MISTRESS

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

In memory ofPatricia Probert and Holly Stemmler

England, 1204

THE IRON RINGS of chain mail jingled as Sir Bayard de Boisbaston raised his right arm to halt his men.

“Well, Frederic, what do you make of Castle Averette?” he asked his young squire, pointing across the wooded valley.

Frederic de Sere squinted at the gray stone fortress on the low rise opposite and shifted nervously in his saddle. “Small, isn’t it?”

“From what we can see, you’d think so,” Bayard agreed, “but not every castle is built in a circle. It could be that the barbican and towers facing the main road are at the narrow end.”

He gestured at the towers at either side of the gate. “Archers have a clear view of the portcullis and good angles to shoot anybody approaching or getting close to the gate.”

He’d also noticed that the trees and bushes had been cut back from the sides of the road, leaving a swath of bracken-covered ground between the road and the wood that was at least ten feet wide on either side. No enemies or footpads could ambush travelers before they had time to draw their swords and defend themselves.

Frederic brushed a lock of light brown hair from his eyes. “Yes, I see, my lord.”

“On to Averette,” Bayard said as he nudged his horse into a walk.

Whatever else the late lord of Averette had been—and apparently he’d been a terrible man—he’d also been a man of some intelligence, at least when it came to defense, Bayard reflected as he and his men rode in silence along the river toward what looked to be a prosperous village. They passed a millpond and the mill, its wheel turning with a slow, steady motion. Cattle lowed from a nearby field, a few sheep scattered as they went past a meadow, and they could hear geese honking and chickens clucking in farmyards along the road.

The village itself was not large, but the buildings were in good repair and the people appeared well fed. A few ragged children, with mongrel dogs yapping at their heels, ran out of an alley between a chandler’s stall and an inn sporting a sign depicting a stag’s head to stare at them, openmouthed. At the inn’s door stood an ample-bosomed wench who eyed Bayard and his men with avaricious calculation. If she thought she’d get any custom from him, however, she was sorely mistaken.

Around the green, merchants at their stalls, as well as their customers, stopped to watch them go by. So did the group of elderly men seated beneath the large oak by the smithy that belched smoke even on this summer day, and the girls and women standing by the well.

No doubt there would be the usual comments after he was gone, Bayard thought, about his body, and his bearing, and the scar that ran from his right eye to his chin. They’d wonder where he got it, and how, and who had done it. Some would say it marred his face; a few would declare they liked it.

He’d heard it all before. Too many times.