Nicole Locke - The Knight's Broken Promise

‘Artless and bootless.’ She angrily picked up each branch and leaf and tucked them into the crook of her arm. ‘That’s what you are. In more ways than one.’

She slid backwards until the slope became flat and then she whirled around. Robert stood a hand’s breadth from her. Startled, she stumbled, branches flew, and her body slid against his.

Her world was instantly, aggressively, the smell of hot male and cedar and the feel of sweat-covered skin. Her fingers clawed down the shoulder muscles she’d stared at all day. Her breasts burned…her legs tangled. She teetered and pressed harder for support.

Robert inhaled sharply, as if he’d been dropped into an icy lake. He ripped himself away.

AUTHOR NOTE

There are times in your life when you think you’re going to have one experience and you have a completely different one. This is what happened to me when I toured castles in Wales.

Now, I knew I’d be excited and awed, and that my imagination would run wild. They are castles, after all. What I didn’t plan on was the unerring sense of story, of the people who lived during that time. I didn’t have to close my eyes and pretend, and I didn’t have to squint to force my eyes to see. They were all simply there.

Robert, an English knight, was there. Hunched and grieving under a tree. His broad back and bared arms were a testament to the times and to his training—and to a man used to war. But his grief came from something else…from loss, from hope forsaken.

I could do nothing for him. But I knew he couldn’t stay where he was and I knew there had to be someone for him.

And there is someone…in Scotland…in 1296…on the cusp of the greatest conflict. But Gaira of Clan Colquhoun laughs at conflict—in fact she curses at it all the time. And when she meets Robert she curses at him, too.

The Knight’s Broken Promise

Nicole Locke

www.millsandboon.co.uk

NICOLE LOCKEdiscovered her first romance novels in her grandmother’s closet, where they were secretly hidden. Convinced that books hidden must be better than those that weren’t, Nicole greedily read them. It was only natural for her to start writing them (but now not so secretly). She lives in London with her two children and her husband—her happily-ever-after.

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To Mom.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Excerpt

Copyright

Chapter One

Scotland —April 1296

‘Faster, you courageous, knock-kneed, light-footed bag of bones!’ Gaira of Clan Colquhoun hugged lower on the stolen horse.

How much time did she have before her betrothed or her brothers realised in which direction she had fled? Two days, maybe three? Barely enough time to get to the safety of her sister’s home.

She couldn’t push the horse any faster. Already its flanks held a film of sweat and its breath came in heavy pants with each rapid pound of its hooves. Each breath she took matched the same frantic rhythm.

There it was! Just up the last hill and she would be safe. Safe. And there would be food, rest and the vast warmth of her sister’s comfort and counsel.

She turned her head. There was no sign of pursuit. Her heart released its fierce grip and she eased up on the reins.

‘We made it. Just a bit more and you can eat every last grain I can beg from Irvette.’

She smelled the fire before she crested the hill. The stench was a mixture of blackened smoke, heat, dried grass and rotting cow. The horse sidestepped and flicked its head, but she kept its nose forward until she reached the top.

Then she saw the horror in the valley below. Reeling, she fell upon the horse’s neck and slid down the saddle. Her left ankle twisted underneath her as it took the brunt of her descent. She didn’t feel the pain as she heaved her breakfast of oatcakes and water.

When she was emptied, she felt dry dirt under her hands, crunching grass under her knees. Her horse was no longer by her side.

She stood, took a deep breath and coughed. It wasn’t rotting cow she smelled, but burnt hair and charred human flesh.

The stench was all that remained of her sister’s village. The many crofters’ huts resembled giant empty and blackened ribcages. There were no roofs, no sides, just burnt frames glowing with the fire still consuming them.

The entire valley looked as if a huge flaming boulder had crashed through the kindling-like huts. Large twisted and gnarled swirls of black heat and smoke rose and faded into the morning sky.

She could no longer hear anything. There were no birds chirping, no rustling of tall grass or trees and no buzzing insects. All of Scotland’s sounds were sucked out of the air.

Her heart and lungs collapsed. Irvette. Her sister. Maybe she wasn’t down there. She wouldn’t think. Pushing herself forward, she stumbled as her ankle gave way. It would be useless for the sloped descent.

She looked over her shoulder. Her horse skittered at the base of the hill. He was spooked by the heat and smells; she could call, but he would not come.

Bending to her hands and knees, she crawled backward down to the meandering valley. Blasts of heat carried by the wind ruffled up her tunic and hose. She coughed as the smoke curled around her face. When she reached the bottom, she straightened and took off the brown hat upon her head to cover her mouth.

Her eyes scanned the area as she tried to comprehend, tried to understand what she saw. Thatch, planks of wood and furniture were strewn across the path between the huts and so were the villagers: men, women, dogs and children.

Nothing moved.

They were freshly made kills of hacked and charred bodies. The path was pounded by many horses’ hooves, but there weren’t any horses or pigs or even chickens.

Dragging her left foot through the ashes behind her, she stumbled through the burning village, which curved with the valley.

At the dead end of the devastation, the last of the crofters’ huts stood. More intact than the others, it was still badly scarred by the flames and its roof hung limply with pieces falling to the ground.

Near the doorway, she looked at the two burned and face down bodies of a man and a woman. The man was no more than a husk of burnt flesh with his head severed from his body.

But it was the woman’s she recognised: the flame-coloured hair burnt at the tips and the cream-coloured gown smeared with dirt. Blood spread along the gown in varying flows from the two deep sword-thrusts in the stomach. Irvette.