How could he?
For years Isobel had lived for some sign of attention from this man. Any sign would have doneâa letter sent to the convent in Conques, perhaps⦠even a simple message. He had done nothing.
And now he had the impudence to wait until they were in a smoky inn to kiss her. In a whorehouse, to be precise. He was kissing her as a pretence, the devil. He didnât want her. Her pulse thudded. She liked his kiss.
When a large hand crept to her cheek, cradling it in its palm, making tiny caressing circles with its fingertips, pleasure shot along every nerve. She bit back a moan. It was fortunate that his hand hid her face from onlookers. She felt hot and confused. He doesnât want to do this. He doesnât know me. In the years she had lived in the south he had not shown the slightest interest in her welfare. I am just another trophy to him. I am a prize. Lucien is marrying me for my inheritance.
And then his mouth was on hers again and her thoughts were scattered.
Duty, Honour, Truth, Valour
The tenets of the Knights of Champagne will be sorely tested in this exciting new Medieval series by Carol Townend.
The pounding of hooves, the cold snap of air, a knightâs colours flying high across the roaring crowdânothing rivals a tourney. The chance to prove his worth is at the beating heart of any knight.
And tournaments bring other dangers too. Scoundrels, thieves, murderers and worse are all drawn towards a town bursting with deep pockets, flowing wine and wanton women.
Only these three knights stand in their way. But what of the women who stand beside them?
Find out in
Carol Townendâs
Knights of Champagne
Three Swordsmen for Three Ladies
CAROL TOWNEND has been making up stories since she was a child. Whenever she comes across a tumbledown building, be it castle or cottage, she canât help conjuring up the lives of the people who once lived there. Her Yorkshire forebears were friendly with the Brontë sisters. Perhaps their influence lingersâ¦
Carolâs love of ancient and medieval history took her to London University, where she read History, and her first novel (published by Mills & Boon>®) won the Romantic Novelistsâ Associationâs New Writersâ Award. Currently she lives near Kew Gardens, with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at www.caroltownend.co.uk
Previous novels by the same author:
THE NOVICE BRIDE
AN HONOURABLE ROGUE
HIS CAPTIVE LADY
RUNAWAY LADY, CONQUERING LORD
HER BANISHED LORD
BOUND TO THE BARBARIAN*
CHAINED TO THE BARBARIAN*
BETROTHED TO THE BARBARIAN*
*Palace Brides trilogy
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?
Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Arthurian myths and legends have been popular for hundreds of years. Dashing knights worship beautiful ladies, fight for honourâand sometimes lose honour! Some of the earliest versions of these stories were written in the twelfth century by an influential poet called Chrétien de Troyes. Troyes was the walled city in the county of Champagne where Chrétien lived and worked. His patron, Countess Marie of Champagne, was a princessâdaughter of King Louis of France, and the legendary Eleanor of Aquitaine. Countess Marieâs splendid artistic court in Troyes rivalled Queen Eleanorâs in Poitiers.
The books in my Knights of Champagne mini-series are not an attempt to rework the Arthurian myths and legends. They are original romances set around the Troyes court. I wanted to tell the stories of some of the lords and ladies who might have inspired Chrétienâand I was keen to give the women a more active role, since Chrétienâs ladies tend to be too passive for todayâs reader.
Apart from a brief glimpse of Count Henry and Countess Marie, my characters are all fictional. I have used the layout of the medieval city to create my Troyes, but these books are first and foremost fictional.
October 1173âin the east tower of Ravenshold, in the County of Champagne
With the tip of his dagger, Lucien Vernon, Comte dâAveyron, prodded what looked suspiciously like a dead sparrow. âIs that what I think it is?â He grimaced as he surveyed a table littered with leavings. There was a handful of tiny bones; any number of butterfliesâ wings in a clay pot; and a mortar holding a gnarled fragment of bark that Lucien was pretty certain would never be seen in either kitchen or infirmary. The pestle was chipped, and the surface of the table was lost beneath a dusting of dead flies, leaf mast, beech nuts and acorns.
âDried bat?â his friend Sir Raoul de Courtney suggested. âOr perhaps a toad?â Raoul was examining a stoppered glass jar filled with cloudy liquid, his expression finely balanced between intense curiosity and disgust. Daylight was squeezing past a frill of cobwebs hanging in the lancet window. Holding the jar to the light, Raoul eyed the contents. âMon Dieu!â He dropped the jar on to the table with a thump that sent up a haze of dust. His lip curled, disgust had won out over curiosity. âHoly hell, Luc, havenât you seen enough? Letâs get out of here.â