Bold Angel

355 Pages·2010·1.05 MB·English

by  Kat Martin

STUNNING REVIEWS FOR KAT MARTIN:
Bold Angel:
"Kat Martin has superbly captured the essence that is the medieval period. Fans
will most assuredly ask for more from this talented author."
Linda Abel, The Mediaeval Chronicle
Gypsy Lord:
"Kat Martin has a winner...A page-turner from beginning to end."
Johanna Lindsay
"Kat Martin dishes up sizzling passions and true love, then she serves it with
savoir faire. Bon appetit!"
Los Angeles Daily News
Sweet Vengeance:
"Kat Martin gives readers enormous pleasure with this deftly plotted, stunning
romance."
Romantic Times
"A rich read, memorable characters, a romance that fulfills every woman's
fantasy."
Deana James
His mouth came down hard over hers and the world spun away. The strength of
Ral's need made Caryn grow flush and damp. In seconds, he was stripping off
her tunic and the chainse she wore beneath, carrying her naked to the edge of the
bed.
"I have longed for this moment." Ral tore the spun gold snood from Caryn's
head, drove his hands through the heavy mass of her hair, and spread it around
her shoulders. When he pulled her against him, shivers raced through her body
and a fever roared through her blood.
"As always, you are ready," he said in a voice gone rough.
Waves of heat washed over her, rippling eddies that tore a whimper of desire
from her throat. Her body trembled and flames roared deep inside her.
"Ral . . . sweet God . . . Ral."
Caryn's hair trailed onto his powerful shoulders. He took her mouth savagely.
The world became blurred and distant, then it faded completely away. Fire
engulfed her and waves of mounting desire, until she finally succumbed to the
mind-numbing fury. She was bathed in sweetness, awash against a blazing
crimson sand. She cried out Ral's name . . .
OTHER BOOKS BY KAT MARTIN
Magnificent Passage
Dueling Hearts
Captain's Bride
Lover's Gold
Creole Fires
Gypsy Lord
Savannah Heat
Sweet Vengeance
Natchez Flame

For the family I rarely seemy uncles and aunts and cousins. Though we are
scattered like seeds on the wind, I think of you warmly and often.
John Crowder and Owen Moore; Bonnie and Ted Hawthorne; Marilyn and
Lionel Oliveira, Kris, Jerry, and Adrianna; Rob Crowder, Rebecca and Matthew;
Rocky and Arlene Loop, Jason and Dawn; Rick and Debbie Loop; Sheila and
Sherri; Betty Pugh, Bob, Bobbie, Carol and Maria, Lollie and Al Short; Geri
Wilson; Ross and Sandra Keily; Mary Ruth Ledbetter, Joannie and Megan. I
wish you love, luck, and happinesseach and every one.
A special thanks to my great and good friend Wanda Handley for her help on this
and other of my books.
Chapter One
England, 1069
She should have been afraid. A goodly number of Saxon warriors had fled the sight of him in full battle
dress, yet Ral saw no fear in the bright blue eyes that searched his face. From beneath his conical helmet, he
watched her walk toward him, her small hand offering him a bright bouquet of flowers. She smiled,
heedless of the dried blood darkening his chain mail hauberk or the fierce black dragon on his shield.
She should have been afraid, yet she only came closer, curious but strangely serene, interested, almost
eager, as if she had found a new friend.
Ral shifted in his saddle, uneasy at her regard. The huge black destrier beneath him stomped and blew, then
perked its ears and turned its head toward the lovely black-haired maid who stood no higher than the horse's
massive withers.
Raolfe de Gere would have sworn he had never seen a more beautiful woman or a smile more winsome than
the one that brightened the young woman's face. She looked no more than eighteen summers, with a body
ripe for a man and a radiance in her cheeks that said she might welcome one. Yet surprisingly the feelings
she stirred were of a different sort entirely. Feelings of hearth and home and an end to the blood and the
fighting.
She said nothing, just lifted her small bouquet. Ral reached out a gauntleted hand and took it. When his
fingers brushed hers, her smile grew broader, and he gave her a weary smile in return. He waited for her to
speak, curious to hear the sound of her voice but reluctant to break the spell she had woven. He wondered
where she had come from and what could be her name.
Where could her sister have gone? Caryn of Ivesham rounded the large granite boulder and searched among
the oak trees off to the right. Sweet Mary, she had only been gone for a moment; Gweneth could not have
gotten far.
Caryn scanned the meadow then the knoll at the opposite end. The pale blue tunic rippling softly in the
breeze could only be Gweneth's, but beside herHoly Mother of GodCaryn's breath caught in her throat. The
Dark Knight! A black dragon on a field of bloodred. Raolfe the Relentless! And there stood Gweneth,
painfully unaware, offering him a cluster of posies.
Lifting the hem of her forest green tunic, her heart slamming hard against her ribs, Caryn raced across the
meadow.
"Gweneth!" she shouted. By all that's holy. "Gweneth!" But her sister did not turn and Caryn didn't stop
running. Not until she reached the girl's side and stared into the hard dark features of the huge Norman
knight astride his big black horse. Ral the Relentless, the man who had been sweeping across the country,
harrying the north in King William's name, determined to squelch the rebellion.
"Let her go!" Caryn cried, the words a bit irrational since the man merely sat upon his steed. The huge
knight said nothing, just kept staring at Gweneth as if she were some fey creature from another world,
which in a way she was.
"I pray thee," Caryn said, "my sister means no harm. 'Tis not her way to be wary. She does not understand.
She is not ..." What could she say about Gweneth? About the world in which she lived, about her sweetness,
her gentleness? But looking at the Dark Knight's face, it seemed there was no need.
"She is lovely," he said with soft reverence, as if he joined her in that place faraway. Then he straightened in
his saddle, so tall he blocked the sun. Black hair shone beneath his helmet, worn longer than most of the
Normans she had seen, his jaw strong, his skin swarthy. For the first time, his attention turned to Caryn and
any hint of softness in his manner swiftly fled.
"You should not be out here. There are men in these woods, knights and men-at-arms fresh from battle who
would do you grave harm. Surely you know 'tis not safe to be about in these times." He spoke to her in
Saxon, not fluently, but well enough to be understood.
"We were on our way home from the village," Caryn lied, for in truth they had merely been escaping a
dreary day in the hall. "We mistook our way but we have found it now. We will return home at once."
"You are no peasant. From the looks of your clothes, you are highborn, both of you. You should be better
tended."
Caryn stiffened. " 'Tis no concern of yours. I tend my sister well enoughbetter than anyone else. I can take
care of us both!" She grabbed Gweneth's arm, but her sister pulled free. Smiling, Gweneth reached a hand
to the tall knight above her. Caryn's eyes went wide when the huge knight reached down and grasped it,
giving it a gentle squeeze.
"Go," he said, looking back at Caryn, his voice once more harsh and rough. "Return to your home before
trouble finds you. The next man you cross may seek far more than friendship. Go!"
Caryn swallowed and backed away. With a sharp tug on her sister's arm, she hauled Gweneth away toward a
copse of trees. She was shaking by the time they reached the forest, though Gweneth merely strolled along
beside her, picking up more spring flowers, the towering dark man on the knoll already forgotten.
Thinking of their narrow escape, Caryn leaned against a boxwood tree and released a breath of relief. He
was so big! One blow of his massive fist could end the life of a man. It was said he'd slain dozens of Saxon
warriors, that he had raped and pillaged all the way from the coast. The image she saw instead was one of
the huge dark Norman holding the small bouquet of posies, of him gently squeezing her sister's hand.
Caryn frowned, unable to puzzle it out. They shouldn't have come out today. She had known that from the
start, but the Normans were rumored to be miles away and she had been cooped up in the hall far too long.
She thought of the Dark Knight's words, that she and Gweneth should be better tended. In truth, her uncle
rarely knew where she was and, she suspected, was most times relieved when she and Gweneth were not
underfoot. Besides, Ivesham wasn't in danger. Though her uncle's sympathies lay with his Saxon brothers,
he had staunchly pretended loyalty to the king.
None knew of his rebel sympathies. Not even Caryn, until she had overheard him one night in the hall.
She let go of her sister's hand and leaned down to pluck a perky yellow marigold. The day was so perfect,
so sunny and warm. She glanced at the cloudless blue sky with yearning. There was little to do in the hall,
save for the usual women's work which she hated. Caryn kicked a pebble with the toe of her cloth shoe then
heard it alight in a nearby pond.
She should return to Iveshamand she wouldbut what harm could there be in an hour or two delay? The Dark
Knight was gone, they would take better care, and no other would come upon them. They could enjoy the
pond, spend a bit more time in the sun, then she and Gweneth would go home.
Ral stared at the trees where the girls had disappeared, torn between his worry for the beautiful black-haired
maid and his need to return to his men. So far the rebels had been routed, but there was always the chance
they might return. If that happened, his men would need him.
Beneath his helm and heavy chain mail, the sun beat down unmercifully, making him uncomfortably warm.
Satan, his big black destrier, pawed the earth with growing irritation, yet Ral's thoughts remained on the
lovely young girl who had tried to befriend him, who for a few short moments had blotted out the horrors of
war. Surely the little maids would do as he bade and return to the safety of their home. But recalling the
saucy auburn-haired girl who had faced him with such defiance, he wasn't so sure.
He smiled to think of it, then swore an oath at her foolishness in wandering the fields alone. She was hardly
the beauty her sister was, yet in time she might come into her own. Both of the women were tiny and fair,
the auburn-haired maid far thinner, still at the gawky stage before womanhood. He wondered what she
would look like when she was a woman grown.
He glanced their way one last time. 'Twas needless to worry. He had seen the younger girl tremble at the
roughness in his voice. Even she would not be foolish enough to disobey his command. He looked down at
the flowers in his hand and their fragrance stirred a memory of clear blue eyes and incredible sweetness.
Reluctantly, he tossed the flowers away and rode back toward his men.
"Ral! 'Tis good you've returned. I had begun to wonder at your absence." This from Odo, his most trusted
knight and longtime friend, who rode up beside him. lance in hand.
"What news?" Ral asked. "Have our scouts returned?"
The red-haired knight merely nodded. "They bring tales of a rebel force fleeing toward de Montreale's men.
T'would serve us well should we reach them first." The rivalry between Ral and Stephen de Montreale,
Lord of Malvern Castle, was legend, an enmity carried down even through the ranks of the men in their
command.
"Which way do they ride?"
Odo pointed in the direction Ral had just come. He thought of the two little maids and an uneasy shiver slid
down his spine. "Gather the men. Warn them to be on guard and let us be off."
Two hours later the small rebel force had been discovered, met, and routed. Twenty Saxon men had been
taken, another twenty lay dead or dying on the field of battle. Still, the rebellion was far from ended. Soon
word would come from the king revealing the treachery of other Saxon thegns. It would be Ral's task to end
that treachery. William wanted peace once more in his war-torn land.
And Ral wanted land of his own.
"The men have done a good day's work," he said. surveying his defeated foe and his battle-weary soldiers.
"There's a meadow not far from here. 'Twill be a good place for us to make camp."
Bone-tired, he rode beside Odo through a thick grove of alder toward the place where he had seen the two
young girls. They were nowhere in sight and for a moment he felt relieved. Then a noise drew his attention
and he paused. Off to his right, he heard the trickle of running water mingled with boisterous men's voices