Free A Knight's Persuasion by Catherine Kean Page B

registered the masculine grunt behind her. The whistle of the sword through the air—
    Whack!
    Blackness.
    ***
    Veronique stretched out atop the bed in the candlelit solar, propping her head up on her hand. As she tugged at her bodice to reveal more of her cleavage, her gaze settled upon Landon, standing before the hearth with his back to her.
    The orange-yellow firelight licked over the front of his body and etched shadows over his legs braced slightly apart, broad arms hanging listless by his sides, face bowed to the flames. He’d stood that way for long moments, tense and silent, as though his mind was elsewhere.
    Back on the wall-walk with his shrieking wife, no doubt.
    Veronique stifled a sigh of disgust. Was he battling with his morals? Condemning himself for what he’d done? How she despised a man who couldn’t subjugate his own conscience.
    She’d sensed the turmoil inside him when he’d aimed to run Juliana through with the sword. He couldn’t do it; his sense of chivalry had got in the way. Instead, he’d ordered her turned around—sparing himself from the condemnation in her eyes—and then had hit her twice at the back of the head, rendering her senseless.
    “I will finish her off,” Veronique had said, taking a sword from one of her mercenaries. How sweetly the pleasure of killing had run in her veins, urging her to plunge the sword into Juliana’s pretty flesh.
    Landon, however, had stayed Veronique with a hand on her arm. “No need. I hit her hard enough to cause death.”
    Had he? Or had he not wanted to see his wife’s best friend slashed while he looked on? The true reason no longer mattered, for Veronique had made certain of Juliana’s death. Even if Juliana had somehow survived her wound, she’d died from drowning, for two of Veronique’s loyal mercenaries had carried her limp body to the river and thrown her in.
    The thoughts brought a smug smile to Veronique’s lips. The unfortunate Lady Juliana, who saw what really transpired on the wall walk, was safely eliminated. No one would dispute that Lady Ferchante committed suicide by throwing herself over the edge. If, for some reason, any of the castle folk questioned Landon’s account of what happened, Veronique’s mercenaries would discreetly eradicate them.
    All in all, the perfect ending to the night’s developments that left Landon completely in her hands. He was a vulnerable but necessary puppet in her plot to crush his wretched lordship, Geoffrey de Lanceau. The only man she’d ever loved.
    Just thinking her former lover’s name caused anguished rage to sear through her breast. How she would make him suffer! Now, though, was not a wise moment to indulge in her hatred of him; now, she must ensure Landon was firmly in her control.
    Catching a strand of her hair—its natural, graying color dyed red with henna she’d bought from a merchant in France—she began to twirl it around one of her fingers. “Landon,” she said with a petulant sigh. “Come to bed.”
    His head lifted a fraction, causing his light brown hair to glint in the firelight. Yet he didn’t glance her way or attempt to speak.
    The anger in Veronique’s blood deepened. No one ignored her. He should know that by now. He owed her respect, for she’d helped rid him of his wife and the babe he never wanted. She’d freed him.
    “Landon,” she said again, more forcefully.
    He stirred then, straightening to his full height while he plowed a hand through his hair. The movement caused the wool of his tunic to draw taut over his broad shoulders, outlining indents and swells of firm muscle.
    A lustful growl scratched her throat, for while he might annoy her, he was, indeed, an attractive man. Half her age, he’d proven again and again how thoroughly he could pleasure her, and, in his ramblings, had proved how useful he could be in furthering her ambitions.
    “Why do you not heed me?” She drew out her words with a petulant purr. “You should be abed. With