Silverhawk

He’s everything a proper lady should never want, and she’s everything a bastard mercenary can never have.

Sir Giles of Cambrai kidnaps a bride on the eve of her wedding. And now he’s dragged her into a political intrigue that threatens both their lives. What in Satan’s own hell has he gotten himself into?

Sir Giles of Cambrai, the infamous Silverhawke, has come to England to kill his father, the man who seduced and abandoned his mother 28 years earlier. But first depriving the old lord of the one thing he wants most in life will make revenge even sweeter. So Giles kidnaps the man’s betrothed—his last chance at an heir. In the process, Giles uncovers a plot against England. Now he’s faced with a dilemma—take the lady or find the traitor?

What’s a good mercenary to do? Both, of course.

Lady Emelin has had enough. Abandoned in a convent by her brother, at last she can have a home and family—the two things she’s always wanted. Now, she’s abducted by a rogue mercenary. Trouble is, he’s the image of the knight she’s always dreamed of. Still, she’s not going to let him spoil her last chance at happiness.

Her only option? Escape, of course.

Giles is determined to keep her safe, even if it means dragging her back each time she slips away. Protecting her as he tracks the traitors is a greater challenge than he imagined. But the greatest challenge to both Giles and Emelin is the fire that blazes between them. For he’s everything a proper lady should never want, and she’s everything a bastard mercenary can never have.

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Excerpt:

Lady Emelin tucked her heavy brown wimple beneath her chin and watched the wounded knight.

Swollen eyelids, a puffy cheek, and bloody scrapes couldn’t hide his handsome features. Waves of midnight hair fell across his wide forehead to brush one side of his square, stubble-darkened jaw. Grit clustered on the high bridge of his nose. What shame such a strong, rugged man should be cut down. Her pulse fluttered, and she sucked in a sharp breath. Ashamed of such reaction, she squeezed shut her eyes.

Would Stephen have been so handsome, had he lived? She hardly recalled what her youthful first betrothed looked like when he joined his foster father on King Richard’s crusade. If only he’d returned, she’d be wed now, with the family she craved.

She sighed, reached for a leaf on her patient’s cheek—and found herself staring into the palest gray eyes she’d ever seen. His mouth moved; she leaned forward.

“What is it?” she murmured.

“Before…I…die,” came the hoarse whisper.

“Yes? What would you like before you die?” If it were in her power, she would provide the poor man with his wish. Drink? Food?

A strong hand gripped the back of her head, pulled her forward. That close, she saw his eyes weren’t gray, but layered like a winter pond winking with ice. They were silver.

“To…kiss…a nun,” came the outrageous reply before his lips met hers.

His warm mouth robbed her of breath for an instant. Then she snapped back with a gasp. And, with inborn reflex, slapped him. His head jerked, his eyes closed, and he lay motionless.

“Oh, Sweet Mary,” Emelin whispered, “I’ve killed him.” Leaning close, she saw his narrow, beautifully molded lips relax. His mouth curved at the corner.

At least he died with a smile on his face.

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