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CONQUEROR'S KISS
Hannah Howell
Released Oct 27th, 2015
Kensington: Zebra
There
is little hope for sanctuary in the midst of the tumultuous Scottish border
wars, yet one woman may find safe refuge . . . in the arms of her sworn enemy .
. .
Jennet Graeme has witnessed terrible
tragedy during the many years of strife between the Scots and the English. As
Scottish invaders plunder her convent sanctuary, she defiantly resists the
blond warrior who claims her as his prize. But his brute strength is overpowering
and Jennet is forced to ride with him through the lawless lands, tending to the
wounded, protected and desired by a man she wants to hate . . . but cannot . .
.
Sir Hacon Gillard is moved by
Jennet’s compassion and mercy. As a loyal knight, he’s pledged fealty to his
king’s command, even as he loses his heart to this remarkable woman. Merciless
in combat . . . yet there burns within him a spark for something far beyond the
heat of battle…
Excerpt
“And what do ye mean to do with
that wee needle, lass?” he drawled in a soft, deep voice.
“Cut ye a new smile, ye godless
heathen,” she cried, and lunged at him.
He caught her with ease, one large
gauntleted hand curled tightly around her thin wrist, the mail
cutting into her skin. “So fierce for a nun.” As they struggled,
he turned slightly so that her back faced the hallway.
There was no way she could break his
grip, but the amusement in his voice kept her struggling to push her
dagger down until it might pierce his flesh. “I am no nun,” she
cried, “but a seeker of refuge, and I mean to send ye straight into
hell’s fires for defiling this holy place!”
“’Tis a petty threat to hurl at
a mon who is already excommunicated.”
“So the abbess spoke true. The
Bruce’s men are naught but the devil’s minions, cast off by the
Pope.” She saw a look of cool amusement on what was visible of his
hard face, then, without warning, a blinding pain filled the back of
her head.
Hacon caught the too-slim girl as
she collapsed, rendered unconscious by his comrade’s blow to her
head. “I wondered if ye meant to act, Dugald, or stand by and watch
me being slaughtered.”
Dugald grunted. He frowned down at
the heavy silver chalice with which he had struck the girl, then
dropped it back into the sack he held. “She had no chance. ’Twill
be a woeful shame to kill her. The wee lass has spirit.”
“Kill her? Now, why should I kill
her?”
“We were told to show as little
mercy as the English king did when he took this place in Baliol’s
Rebellion. Kill all we can and plunder the place.”
“And this”—Hacon neatly tossed
the unconscious girl over his shoulder—“is plunder.”
“Aye? Looks like a wee lass to
me. And what need have we of a nun, forsaken by the Pope as we are?”
“She isnae a nun. Are ye so eager
to spill her blood?”
“Nay. I have no stomach for
killing a lass, and weel ye ken it. I have no stomach for angering
the Black Douglas either. The Bruce chose a fierce, hard mon as his
lieutenant, and ’tis unwise to cross him. Douglas doesnae mean to
halt here but to go on. What will ye do with your plunder then? Ye
cannae hide her from him.”
“I willnae hide her. She is mine,
and there is an end to it. Now, grab hold of her blanket and help me
tie her onto my back.” He nodded toward her cot.
Even as he did as he was told,
Dugald grumbled, “And how do ye expect to fight with such a
burden?”
“This slight lass is no burden,
and I doubt much fighting will be done. The townsfolk flee if they
are able. We but need to fill our coffers with plunder.”
“If we dinnae get to the doing of
it, the plunder will be all gone.”
Hacon winked at his scowling cousin.
“Dinnae wear yourself thin worrying. I ken weel where to look. Have
I not given us a good beginning?” He nodded at the sack Dugald
carried.
Dugald nodded grimly as he strode
down the hall of the nunnery toward the main entrance. Hacon adjusted
the weight of his captive more comfortably against his back and
followed. He winced and increased his pace as a woman’s
high-pitched scream echoed through the dim hallways. He preferred the
chaotic battle out in the streets between the victory-drunk Scots and
the panicked, fleeing English to the rape and slaughter of the
defenseless nuns going on in here.
For ten years he had been with
Robert the Bruce, ever since the beard on his face had been but the
light fluff of a boy. When the Bruce returned from exile in Arran,
Scotland had been demoralized, the devastation widespread. Bruce’s
victory against the English at Loudon Hill had renewed the people’s
hope, and Hacon had joined many others in racing to aid the claimant
to the Scottish throne.
But now he ached to go home to
Dubheilrig. Instead, he found himself on yet another raid into
England, another bloody foray over land that had been deeply scarred
by war.
“Ye cannae stop fighting for the
Bruce now,” Dugald said as he started through the gates leading to
the narrow, winding streets of Berwick.
“How do ye ken I was thinking
about that?” Hacon asked as he strode beside his kinsman into the
heart of the walled town.
“That black look upon your face. I
have seen it before. Ye cannae walk away from it yet. Aye, ye got
your knighthood at Bannockburn, but ye havenae won a square foot of
land yet.”
“Did my father send ye to be my
conscience?”
“Nay. He trusts ye to do as ye
ought. Aye, as ye must. ’Tis just that I feel I must speak the
truth. The Bruce holds our lands. Only he can return them to us.
’Twas our weakness which lost them to the de Umfravilles. Weel,
after being honed in this war we willnae be weak. ’Tis some
comfort, kenning the de Umfravilles lost those lands to the Bruce,
but even that comfort will wane if the Bruce gifts our lands
elsewhere.”
“That will ne’er happen,”
Hacon muttered as he stepped ahead of his cousin. “Come along. If I
cannae win back our lands through faithful service and the strength
of my sword, then I mean to have enough plunder to buy them back.”
He strode off into town, confident Dugald would watch his back, just
as he had done for ten long, bloody years.
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Hannah D. Howell is a highly regarded and prolific romance writer. Since
Amber Flame, her first historical romance, was released in February 1988, she
has published 25 novels and short stories, with more on the way. Her writing
has been repeatedly recognized for its excellence and has "made
Waldenbooks Romance Bestseller list a time or two" as well as was
nominated twice by Romantic Times for Best Medieval Romance (Promised Passion
and Elfking's Lady). She has also won Romantic Times' Best British Isles
Historical Romance for Beauty and the Beast; and, in 1991-92 she received
Romantic Times' Career Achievement Award for Historical Storyteller of the
Year.
Hannah was born and raised in Massachusetts (the maternal side of
her family has been there since the 1630's). She has been married to her
husband Stephen for 28 years, who she met in England while visiting relatives,
and decided to import him. They have two sons Samuel, 27, and Keir, 24. She is
addicted to crocheting, reads and plays piano, attempts to garden, and collects
things like dolls, faerie and cat figurines, and music boxes. She also seems to
collect cats, as she now has four of them, Clousseau, Banshee, Spooky, and
Oliver Cromwell.
Thanks!
ReplyDeleteCrystal, Tasty Book Tours