Defiant

by Jessica Trapp

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

She Forced His Hand Three years ago Jared St. John was imprisoned, wrongly, for the murder of his own brother. Now, finally free, he wishes only to live in peace, hoping to heal the darkness that plagues his soul. But his self-inflicted isolation is destroyed when he is drugged, spirited away to a church, and forced to marry a brazen enchantress against his will. . . He Captured Her Heart Lady Gwyneth of Windrose knows something of false imprisonment, but that doesn't stop her from abducting a stranger when it's her only hope of gaining her liberty. Yet the moment she's alone in her unwilling new husband's powerful presence, everything Gwyneth thought she knew of men--and of seduction--falls by the wayside. For the first time in her life, it's not freedom Gwyneth craves. . .but to give herself over to unyielding passion. . . "This highly sensual battle of wills/captive-captor romance is highly reminiscent of early Johanna Lindsey." -- Romantic Times on Pleasures of Sin "Jessica Trapp mixes passion, betrayal, abduction and revenge into a tasty brew." --Hannah Howell on Master of Pleasure

Release date: December 1, 2010

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 385

Sample

Jared St. John thumbed the engraving on his staff as he contemplated the best way to steal a lock of Lady Gwyneth’s hair. Monastery life was notoriously bland and perhaps having a small token of the world he would be missing when he took his vows would appease his longing for a home and land—things a common falconer would never have—especially one with a heart as black as his own.

He drew the knife from his rope belt. Gwyneth’s shiny hair was tempting as treasure to a pirate. It was not blond, nor white, but intermingled strands of gold and silver—as if she were not quite human but something otherworldly—fey or elvin. The luminous mass hung in a glittering cascade past her hips, the ends curling and skimming midway down her thighs.

The majestic black-and-white hawk on his shoulder dug her talons into the leather padding Jared wore beneath his clothing as if to protest his immoral desire.

“Peace, Aeliana,” he cooed to the goshawk. “I onlywant a tiny curl. There is a loose one hanging by her shoulder. She will not even notice.”

Skillfully, he concealed the blade in the folds of the brown monk’s robe that he wore.

The bird ruffled her feathers at the motion.

“We will hunt later, my friend,” he murmured to soothe her as he strained his neck to watch his prey wander through the crowds that had gathered here at Windrose Castle. “One small curl will not be missed.”

Aeliana’s feathers fanned against his cheek as if she understood every word and clearly disapproved.

“Perhaps I could gift her with something as an even exchange,” he mused. Most of his possessions had been given into the church treasury. He only had his hawk, his staff, and, in his pouch, a small book. Yes, the book would be a perfect gift. It was valuable and gilded like Gwyneth’s hair. The original leather cover had become worn with age and he had crafted a wooden cover for it that he had carved himself and covered with gold leaf. Surely something like that would satisfy anyone’s sense of fairness.

Whistles and cheers rose from the crowd as if applauding his decision, although he knew no one paid any attention to him. Silken banners waved, acrobats performed on the lawn, and toward the back of the large bailey, an area had been set aside for a tournament. Merchants pushed carts filled with flowers and apples and trinkets. Children, limbs flailing, kicked a ball this way and that followed by a rowdy pack of small dogs.

Lady Gwyneth turned slightly. Jared’s breath caught in his throat. Many women at the festival were beautiful, but she was glorious.

Her skin was alabaster, her eyes a brilliant blue. She had a slightly pointed chin and delicate ears. A sapphire ring twinkled on her finger.

Never in his life had he seen a woman like her.

Bewitching.

His heart pounded and he tightened his grip on the staff. He tried to tear his gaze away, but could not.

Damn. More reason he must get to the monastery—never be near a female again. One woman had nearly ruined his life—torn apart his family and his heart. Monkhood offered salvation for his sins.

Gwyneth’s left cheek dimpled as she smiled at a child. She spoke softly to an elderly hag, then she reached and patted a dog on the head as she passed.

Everything about her bespoke kindness, caring. Qualities he knew that he himself did not possess. Not after what he’d done to his brother.

He closed his eyes.

He would never deserve a woman like her.

He thought of his mother for a moment. With her coiffed hair, shiny jewels, and glittering gowns, she glistened like a cathedral alcove. And like the icons at the church, she always looked at him with blank eyes. He knew little about her except for catching glimpses of her across the bailey when she happened to be out for a walk while he worked with the castle’s falcons. He was an embarrassment, her bastard child—proof of her indiscretions.

He slammed his thoughts against the memory.

The crowd was thick and loud and people bumped into each other at every step. If he was quick, he could reach forward, lop off a single lock of hair without her noticing as she passed by. He would braid it and keep it nearby to remind him that there wasmore to life than kneeling on cold stone floors and endlessly reciting Latin chants: a future he deserved, but one he looked forward to not at all. It was his duty to mend the strife he had caused between him and his brother. His duty to pay penitence for the woman and babe he’d killed.

“I thought you were done with women.” Rafe, his half brother—the noble-born son who had grown up in the keep rather than in the falconer’s mews—sidled up to him. He punched Jared on the arm, nearly dropping the two steaming meat pies and the loaf of bread that he was holding.

Blast him! Quickly Jared hid the sharp knife within the folds of his robe, adjusted his staff to hold it in the crook of his elbow, and took one of the pies.

“Watch your clumsiness,” he snarled.

They stared at each other for a moment. Aeliana fluttered.

Rafe was shorter than Jared, but slightly stockier. In sharp contrast to Jared’s plain robe, he wore fancy green boots with silver buckles and a finely embroidered surcoat. He tucked his thumb into his belt and braced his legs wide apart.

So much bad blood between them.

“You nearly dropped our food,” Jared groused, but did not bring up the past between them. Rafe’s betrothed. A beautiful woman. A passionate affair. The accusation of rape. And then her death. And the unborn babe’s as well. ‘Twas the reason he must enter the monastery—set himself away. He could ne’er trust his own flesh again.

A tinge of lavender wafted into the air. The luscious curves of Lady Gwyneth’s hips swayed side to side as she sashayed past.

Curse Rafe and his timing! The opportunity for stealing her hair was gone! Guilt touched him, but he let it go: ‘twas only hair and not her virginity or her soul or her life that he planned to steal. Unlike Colette. Unlike the baby daughter who had been inside her.

The crowd parted for Lady Gwyneth as though she were a princess. She wore finery—silver and blue silks, sapphire jewels, and ermine trim. Small satin slippers graced her feet. Her ethereal beauty set her apart—made her seem to float rather than walk as other humans did. She had delicate brows and generous lips.

“Close your hole, Jared.” Rafe sipped ale from his drinking horn. “You are acting as though you have ne’er seen a woman afore. And after what you did with—”

Giving his brother a withering glower, Jared took a step forward and allowed himself the guilty pleasure of admiring the way Gwyneth’s neck swiveled as she greeted the horde of young men who had come to this feast to vie for her hand. Her hair glistened like a gold-and-silver cloud.

“She’s glorious,” he whispered.

She was an angel. The most picturesque sight he had ever seen. Light and sparkle compared to the darkness and cold inside his own being. He longed to run his tongue over the skin of her shoulder, tease her to pleasure.

Rafe rolled his eyes. “Bah. We will head to the brothel later. One woman is the same as the next.”

Anger flashed inside Jared.

“I have no use for whores,” he said with a piety he didn’t feel. He latched onto the wooden cross hangingfrom a cord about his neck for good measure. Guilt wound through him that he had just imagined the fey Lady Gwyneth in an unclean manner, that he had considered stealing a piece of her hair. He would take his vows soon—become a man of peace and live only for heavenly treasure. There would be no more tasting of women for him.

He tucked his knife into the rope belt.

Aeliana twitched restlessly, her wing brushing against her face.

Lady Gwyneth stopped. Ignoring the scores of admirers, she swooped up a small girl, placed the youngster on her hip, and tickled her toes.

Jared’s pulse leapt as she laughed in response to the child’s giggle. Her white-gold hair mingled with the girl’s brown locks.

What a wonderful wife she would make.

If only he could rip the novice robe from his back and use his staff to fight for her hand as others at the faire would do this day.

He looked down at his plain brown robe and simple leather sandals. Even if he could be free of the guilt that regaled him to be in a monastery, he could not support a wife such as Gwyneth on the meager income of a falconer. He was not of noble blood; it would take a castle with strong walls to keep her safe from men who wanted to steal her.

Asides, she had not so much as glanced at him.

She was far above his station.

Her father—at least Jared supposed it was her father—frowned and cleared his throat. He was an elderly man with a well-stitched tunic, a ceremonial sword, a gray beard, two deep lines betwixt his eyes, and a demeanor of disapproval.

The smile melted from his angel’s face. She set the young girl on the ground and stared straight ahead. Utter misery clouded her sky-colored eyes.

Sadness washed over him. He flicked his fingers against his staff; the wood felt solid and smooth against his palm. Clearly she had no real desire to be here either—to be shown and displayed as a prize.

Likely she was a pawn in her family and, like himself, forced to a life path that suited not at all. Her shoulders slumped as she followed Graybeard toward the box above the field where she would watch the tournament. Banners waved above them.

Were those tears in her eyes? Surely he could not see such from this distance.

The longing to protect her flowed through his heart. If she were his, he would give her all the babies and children she wished to hold. He would never frown at her for tickling a girl’s toe.

Her hips swayed as she climbed the steps. His groin tightened.

Rafe let out a raucous guffaw. “Oh, she’s a fine vixen, that one. Just look at her arse. I could turn up her skirt and tup her right hard, I could.”

Swiveling on his heels, Jared forgot his guilt, forgot all reason to become a man of God and live a life of celibacy and peace.

He punched his brother in the nose.

Gwyneth of Windrose gazed at the bowed head of the handsome novice who was saying grace and wished she, too, could join a monastery instead of parading about with her titties half hanging out. Being heiress to Windrose along with her own dowerlands made her a sought-after prize, and her father’s quest to marry her off to the highest bidder revolted her. Somehow she had to persuade him that ‘twould be best to hold off just a little longer—that none of the young bucks here were quite rich enough, quite powerful enough.

She should be allowed to control her own lands, her own destiny—no need of a man at all. Her dower estate, given to her by her mother, was small but profitable—all she truly needed. Then Windrose could be given to one of her sisters and she could live a life of freedom rather than duty.

The prayer ended and the young novice lifted his head. Heavens, he was tall. And wide-shouldered. His green eyes locked with hers and she felt a bolt of attraction. Unlike the others, his eyes remained fixed on her face instead of her bosom. He had straight dark hair, chiseled features, and an enigmatic gaze.

Pushing her hair over one shoulder, she smiled at him. He seemed friendly. Safe. A welcome respite from the shamelessly lustful stares she had endured most of the day.

“A toast to Gwyneth’s beauty,” crowed a fat, drunken nobleman. The beginnings of his meal dripped down upon the patterns of his blue brocade doublet.

The scents of roasted game and cinnamon apples wafted through the great hall.

Ivan of Westland, a young lord wearing a prissy tunic with lace around the sleeves and shoes with points so long they were tied to his knees, yanked off his feathered cap and held it to his breast. “Gwyneth, my fair love,” he sang chivalrously.

Another man raised his tankard, spilling dropsof brown ale as he leaned over to peer at the young mounds of flesh pouring over the top of her squarecut bodice. “To Gwyneth’s breasts, er, beauty!” he echoed.

Raunchy laughter burst throughout the chamber.

A pox on them all!

She glanced at the young monk, wishing for a friendly face, someone who did not see her as an object of lust, but he had turned aside, apparently in disgust. At her?

Gritting her teeth, she glared at her father. ‘Twas he who insisted she display her wares as fully as if she were a harlot in a brothel. She had done naught wrong! She never showed this much flesh. ‘Twas unseemly! She wanted an apron, a needle, to do something useful. As her mother would have done.

Brenna, her sister, gave her a cutting look from across the trestle table. She wore a green gown of fine silk and her red hair was swept into an elegant updo with long, curling tendrils that concealed the scar on her cheek. “Slut,” she muttered, not even trying to hide her animosity.

The unfairness of her sister’s envy was a knife stab in the gut. Only a few months ago, the two of them had been stealing pies together and hiding beneath the North Tower’s stairs.

But then their mother died.

Everything had changed. Their friendship. Their relationship. The love between them.

Shrinking in her chair to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, she stared down at her hands, at her mother’s sapphire ring encircling her index finger, and wished she could go back in time.

Brenna pushed around the dish of stuffed salmonon her trencher until it was piled and shaped like two pink breasts. She leered at them in mocking imitation of what the menfolk had been doing for most of the day.

Gwyneth felt her ears heat. “I’ll tell father,” she whispered, kicking her sister beneath the table. It was an empty threat. He would punish her severely for fighting at the feast instead of playing the part of hostess and lady of the keep. She forced herself to sit up straight and proper. The way her mother would have wanted her to do.

Brenna wagged her tongue vulgarly.

“Go rot,” Gwyneth mouthed at her, careful to turn her face to one side so her father could not see the action.

From atop the gallery, a band of musicians warmed up their instruments. A minstrel started in on a warbling ode to the color and shine of her hair.

Faith! She’d heard every trite word of praise over and over until they all ran together: a mishmash of idiotic terminology.

“Ivory glowing in the dawn,” the bard proclaimed. “The fair Gwyneth’s hair outshines them all.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ivan lick his lips and the young monk curl his in distaste.

Heat flooded her cheeks. She jabbed her eating dagger into a hunk of rosemary-roasted rabbit and staved off the urge to scream. Of a truth, she would cut the mass to her shoulders if she did not fear her papa’s reaction. The way men reacted to her was dunderheaded!

Brenna glared at her. “You know you love the attention.”

A tight ache banded Gwyneth’s chest; surely hersister knew she had no say in the bard’s choice of songs.

“You preen like a peacock,” Brenna snarled, “flirting and prissing about and wanting all the men to follow you.”

“That’s not true!”

“Bah. I saw you making eyes at that monk—”

“Your jealousy is pathetic. ”

“Your vanity is so great that you even want men of God to lust for you—”

“You go too far. ”

Twisting away from her sister’s mocking face and the horrible pile of salmon that rounded up on her trencher, Gwyneth searched the sea of faces. If only she could find someone to ease her hurt. She told herself she was not looking for the monk.

Emily, a girl who had been her friend just this past summer, turned a shoulder away as Gwyneth offered a tentative smile.

Brenna coughed at the victory and Emily turned toward her, took notice of the mound of fish on Brenna’s trencher, and giggled under her breath.

Stinging prickles crawled down Gwyneth’s neck, flushing even the tops of her shoulders.

“Gwyneth will make an excellent wife,” she heard her father say in a loud, booming voice as if this were an auction and not a meal. “She’s got fine wide hips for bearing heirs.”

The hundreds of flickering candles lighting the chamber whirled in a spectacular display of color, and it was as if his voice were far, far away.

She longed to cover her ears, to get up, to run, anything besides sit here and pretend this was normal. Twirling her mother’s ring, she stiffened her back and squared her shoulders. A lady should never slump, her mother had instructed.

“And she has her mother’s bosom.”

“Father!” she admonished, but he gave her a sharp look that threatened violence if she interfered.

“And, here, even the bard sings of her beauty.”

Because you paid him to, she longed to wail, but instead stared down at the table and prayed for the evening meal to end. At this point she would have agreed to marry even old man Blake, the gong farmer, to end the festivities.

“Look at those bones on her face, so fine, so feminine—”

“Fath—”

“And she knows how to embroider in the tiniest of stitches. Her delicate hands would tend a man’s every need.”

More guffaws echoed around the chamber.

Unable to bear any more of her father’s comments, she stood.

“Where go you, daughter?” he blasted out. His gray beard fluttered.

She offered a shaky smile. “To … check on the kitchens. The ale runs low.”

Her father frowned, working his jaw back and forth. “Tell Brenna to do it—”

“My lady?” Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She whirled and gasped in surprise. The novice monk! Up close he was even more handsome. His eyes were a startling shade of green—spring grass ringed with the darker shades of summer. His lips sinfully lush. His tall, wide-shouldered body seemed woefully out of place in religious robes, and the plain garments did nothing to distract from his appeal. She wondered how his dark hair would look when it had been shorn and tonsured. It seemed a crime to do anything to mar such perfection.

“I wished to give you this, Lady Gwyneth.”

In his hand, he held a small book. The front cover was made of thin wood that was elaborately carved around the edges and coated with gold.

Wide-eyed, she stared at the gift. “You wish to give me a book?” What on earth was a novice monk doing with something so valuable? Why would he give it to her?

He seemed suddenly self-conscious, flustered.

Brenna tsked. “Seducing a man of God is a sin,” she whispered. “I saw how you were looking at him.”

Oh, heavens.

“I can’t read,” she blurted, feeling her cheeks heating all the way up to her ears.

Her father cleared his throat. “Women have no need for reading.”

At that, the novice straightened his shoulders. He was several inches taller than her father. He winked at her—not monklike at all! Her stomach fluttered. She had the clear impression that all his earlier frowns were for the others and that the two of them were somehow in a conspiracy with each other—that he had sensed her discomfiture, understood how embarrassed she felt about being displayed so improperly. She wished to be a stately lady, modest and regal, like her mother.

“The book contains instruction on the proper place of women,” he said piously, but the twinkle in his green eyes belied the words.

Her heart warmed. She had a friend in this dreadful place after all.

Her father grunted. “For certes my daughter should learn some manners.”

“Mayhap she should start by wearing more modest apparel.”

“I did not choose—”

The monk pressed the book into her hand, giving her fingers a little squeeze. Her skin tingled at his touch and her protest died in her throat. Who was he? Was he on her side or not?

“Women should be tending to their duty, the needs of their husband and children, not reading,” her father said, reaching for the book. “Thank you for the gift, monk. I will use it for her dowry.”

“Nay!” She clutched the book to her chest. Likely he planned to sell it or try to buy a favor with it!

Her father moved forward. “Give that to me.” His gray beard bristled and puffed around his lips.

She stepped back. The air in the great hall felt thick and murky despite the fact that she had instructed the maids to sweep it clean and put down new rushes just this past week.

His fingers touched the book’s gilded wooden cover.

“'Tis mine.”

“Daughter.” His voice was a warning.

Abruptly she whirled and fled to the door in the side of the great hall.

“Gwyneth!” she heard him bellow behind her, but recklessly she rushed outside, away from them. She knew she would be beaten for her imprudence later—that her unruly behavior would spoil all his plans for a good marriage—but she did not care. He would not take the young monk’s book from her.

“Good riddance,” she heard Brenna say behind her in a loud whisper. “Mayhap the minstrels will playsome decent music now without you whoring around with the priests.”

Her eyes stung.

Blinking back tears, choking back the agony threatening to swallow her, she fled out the keep’s door and down the steps. Her fingers squeezed the book painfully. Perhaps she could find Adele, her younger sister who had managed somehow to escape the festivities.

Later, she would choose a husband. She would submit to a life of duty—but her father would not take the book. And she would learn to read.

Rain scented the air as Gwyneth hurried, heart pounding, for the copse of trees down by the river, her thoughts muddling together as she hopped her way across rocks and patches of grass so that her satin slippers would not get dirty.

It would be best to hide until her father calmed down.

Stopping for a moment to catch her breath, she leaned against a wide oak, laid a hand on her chest, and wished she could somehow thwart her father’s plans to sell her off to the highest bidder.

As she waited for her heart to calm, she realized the book the young monk had given her was still in her hand. Curious about it, she turned it over and over, examining the binding. It was small and exquisite—only the size of her palm—and much too expensive a gift to give to a stranger. The front was made of thin wood that was covered in gold leaf. A dragon, meticulously carved, graced the surface.

Why would he give it to her?

Puzzled, she opened it, recalling the strange way he had said it would instruct her on the place of women. The sly wink and grin he had given her—as if they shared some grand joke together and he was fully on her side—was vexing. ‘Twas not at all monklike and she suspected the book had nothing to do with instructing women at all.

The writing was in clean, beautiful loops and lines of various lengths and heights, artistry all to itself. She squinted at the pages, flipping here and there and holding it this way and that, trying to understand what any of it said. She could make out an A on one page and three T’s on another, but she did not know any other letters.

She ran her hand across the carved cover, wondering at the care that the craftsman had taken in fashioning it. It was a beautifully fashioned golden dragon with delicate scales and a long, curved tail. Its wings—open and lovely—seemed to beckon her to soar, too.

Why had the monk given her something so expensive? Why had he been so cryptic?

Questions with no answers.

Frustrated, she tapped the binding a few times with her palm.

Her father said that women didn’t need to learn to read; the church and society preached that educating women wasted time and resources—a sin to be so lavish—but curiosity burned inside her. She wanted to know what it said! Surely learning to read was only a small indulgence in the pleasures of sin.

Stuffing it into her bodice, she determined that when she returned to the feast she would demand answers from the young monk.

She tugged at her dress, but the bodice was cut so low the book’s spine poked out the top no matter how much she tried to adjust it. She frowned, irritated once again with her father for insisting on displaying so much of her cleavage. She pressed her breasts down, wishing she could make them flat again as they had been only a year ago. Her body had changed so much in the past months it felt as though an animal lived under her skin—a lump here, a lump there.

A sense of deep loss chilled her inside. Her own body had betrayed her, growing in places that once were flat and trickling blood down her thighs each month. She wanted her dolls back, her sister back, her own clothing back—the plain kirtles and tough leather boots—garments she could kick a ball in unhindered. These huge fancy houppelandes with their immodest hems and delicate embroidery seemed too flimsy for any use but to make men leer and women jealous.

A woman’s scream rent the air, interrupting her morose musings.

Gwyneth jumped, terrified it might be Adele, her younger sister. She had not been at the feast and often walked in the woods with her two dogs.

The sound, like that of a wounded animal, came again. She whirled. “Adele?”

A long stone’s throw away, through the thick trees, . . .