Catherine Archer - 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

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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.

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

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.