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  Table of Contents

  WANTON ANGEL

  Books by Hannah Howell

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Teaser chapter

  About the Author

  GREAT BOOKS, GREAT SAVINGS!

  WANTON ANGEL

  The way he moved his thumb over the back of her hand sent delightful chills along Saxan’s arm, but she retained enough wit to say, “You want sons.”

  Botolf edged closer to her, lightly caressing the side of her neck with his other hand. “What man does not? I also wish to enjoy the making of those sons,” he said in a soft, husky voice. “I do not need to tell you that I would enjoy the bedding of you.” He smiled gently when she blushed and lightly kissed her cheek. “You know that I desire you.”

  “Ah, but desire can be a fleeting thing, burning sweet and hot for a time, then turning to ashes.”

  She found it somewhat difficult to think clearly when he moved even closer. He slipped one strong arm around her shoulders and held her near. It was not necessary, for she was already leaning into him. He slowly covered her face with warm, soft kisses, firing her blood and clouding her thoughts. She clutched at his broad shoulders as she succumbed to the need to touch him and steady herself.

  “Desire has never run so hot or so sweet for me,” he whispered as he teasingly nibbled at her earlobes.

  “If I do not say aye to marrying you, I will still say aye to this,” Saxan whispered.

  A soft, hungry sound escaped Botolf as he gave Saxan the kiss she craved ...

  Books by Hannah Howell

  ONLY FOR YOU

  MY VALIANT KNIGHT

  UNCONQUERED

  WILD ROSES

  A TASTE OF FIRE

  HIGHLAND DESTINY

  HIGHLAND HONOR

  HIGHLAND PROMISE

  A STOCKINGFUL OF JOY

  HIGHLAND VOW

  HIGHLAND KNIGHT

  HIGHLAND HEARTS

  HIGHLAND BRIDE

  HIGHLAND ANGEL

  HIGHLAND GROOM

  HIGHLAND WARRIOR

  RECKLESS

  HIGHLAND CONQUERER

  HIGHLAND CHAMPION

  HIGHLAND LOVER

  HIGHLAND VAMPIRE

  CONQUEROR’S KISS

  HIGHLAND BARBARIAN

  HIGHLAND SAVAGE

  Published by Zebra Books

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022

  Copyright © 1995 by Hannah Howell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

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  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Attn. Special Sales Department. Kensington Publishing Corp., 850 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10022. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Printing: July 1995

  10 9 8 7 6

  Printed in the United States of America

  Prologue

  Northern England—1319

  Saxan Honey Todd was startled awake by her own cries. She shivered as she sat up, the cool air in her bedchambers rapidly drying the sweat soaking her chemise. Fear was an acrid burning in the back of her throat. The images that had tormented her into waking up still haunted her. She lay back down, huddling beneath her blankets, and struggled to convince herself that it was only a dream.

  It was hard to shake the feeling that she had just foreseen her twin brother Pitney’s death. The image of his murderer was so clear it was as if he stood by her bedside, his dark features twisted into a triumphant smile as her brother’s blood dripped slowly from his hands. She doubted she would ever forget that face with its dark beauty only faintly marred by a small scar near his left eye, his eyes as dark and cold as a grave.

  “ ’Tis but a dream,” she whispered, burying her face in her pillows as she fought to banish the image of the dark man.

  Sighing with resignation after a few moments, Saxan finally accepted that the dream had ended her chances for a good night’s sleep. She turned onto her back to stare up at the ceiling. The worst of her fear had passed, but a lingering unease had settled itself firmly in her heart.

  “I pray you are safe, Pitney,” she said aloud, slowly clenching her hands. “But if this dream proves to be a prophecy and not just some vision born of my concern for you, your spirit can seek its rest without hesitation. I swear upon all the Todds who have gone before us that, if you are murdered, your killer will not live out the year. I myself will cut the villain’s black heart from his body.”

  One

  Banners fluttered noisily in the cool spring breeze. Botolf Corwine Lavington muttered a curse as he pushed aside a stray lock of raven hair, but his dark gaze never faltered from the crowd. The knights’ shields and colors were well displayed outside each tent None of them were the ones he sought, but he was not surprised. His enemy had become increasingly secretive. The Earl of Caindale and his guests began to seek the seats from which they would view the tourney. Ladies laughed, flirted, and gifted their chosen champion with some favor to carry into the mock battle. Botolf knew he would have to join them soon. As the Baron of Merewood and the new Earl of Regenford he was expected to take his full part in the tourney.

  For a moment longer he stood before his tent watching all the activity with narrowed eyes. On his orders, his vassals and close friends, Sir Roger Vane and Sir Wesley DesRoches, also kept a close vigil upon the milling, cheerful crowd. Somewhere amongst the brightly clothed revelers was a person with murder in his heart. Botolf knew the gay confusion of such an event would aid an assassin.

  “Be careful, Botolf.”

  Turning his head, Botolf smiled briefly at his petite mother, Lady Mary. “I will be. I always am. Go find your seat, Mother. Do not fear for me.”

  Lady Mary sighed. “Do men never change? Thrice has an attempt been made upon your life, yet you tell me not to worry.”

  “And thrice the attempt has failed.”

  “Aye, but once, the last time, success came too near for my liking. This evil from an unknown—”

  “We both know who means to see me dead.” He fought down his fury when he saw how his mother paled.

  “I cannot believe it,” she said weakly. “Cecil is your brother.”

  “My half-brother.”

  “You share blood, a father’s blood.”

  “We also share the day, the month, the year, the hour, and even the moment of our birth. It matters not. We both know ’tis Cecil who hunts me.” He lightly touched his mother’s still-smooth cheek. “Go. Enjoy the celebration. I will be safe. We will not talk upon this again. It only brings you pain.”<
br />
  “She does not wish to accept the truth,” Sir Roger said quietly after Lady Mary had left, his blue eyes revealing his sympathy for the woman.

  “It is too painful a truth to accept. She held Cecil to her breast, treated him as her own son. To her it is much akin to Cain slaying Abel.”

  “Aye. He had a better life than many another, yet he wants it all.”

  “ ’Tis often the way of it. Now, who is this lad?” Botolf flicked a smile at the boy that another of his vassals, Sir Talbot Yves, led over to them.

  “Pitney Todd, m’lord,” Talbot replied. “Your squire, Farold, has injured his ankle and cannot serve you. Pitney will do so in his stead.”

  “How old are you, Pitney?” Botolf asked, finding it difficult to resist the urge to stare at the boy’s hair, a silver-blond color that was nearly white.

  “Eighteen, m’lord,” the boy replied.

  “From the North?”

  “Aye, m‘lord. Sir Chad Brainard, your castellan at Regenford, sent me here last week. He has many boys and thought I would find more to do here, if it pleases you, m’lord. I have been well trained, m’lord.”

  Amused by the eagerness in the boy’s light-blue eyes, Botolf said, “It could be naught else if Sir Chad trained you. How many boys does he have?”

  “Seventeen at last count, m’lord.”

  “S’elp me God! Does the man think to breed an army up there?”

  “They are not all his boys, m’lord. You have two of his sons with you. Sir Chad trains four Kipps from Ricadene, three Binks from Upwode, three Jagers—my cousins, m’lord—from Wolthill, two Kirkleys, two Rowans, two Verges, and one Torans. Sir Brainard is much favored as a trainer.”

  “So it would seem.” Botolf exchanged a laughing glance with Roger over the boy’s readiness to chat.

  “There is a need for well trained men at the borders. The Scots never know when they are beaten,” Pitney added.

  The men laughed and Botolf sent the boy to ready his arms for the tourney. He could not recall when he had been as eager, as filled with the joy of life, as the young squire. Although he was but seven and twenty, he often felt twice that age. Deep inside he craved peace but, as soon as Caindale’s festivities came to an end, he had to return to Regenford. It was time to take up his duties as a marcher lord. He would find little peace there. Although Botolf knew too long a time of peace could possibly turn sour on him, he did wish for a taste of it.

  “Where in God’s fine earth did the lad get that hair?” Sir Roger burst out once Pitney was gone.

  “Ah, the Todd family is of Saxon descent,” replied Sir Talbot. “Their ancestor was one of the few to hold onto his land after the Conquest, though ’tis a small holding and none too rich. He sat secure whilst all about him were set the Conqueror’s men. If Baron Alhric were akin to that ancestor, then it was skill in battle and guile that kept him secure.”

  “Where is Lord Alhric now?” asked Botolf.

  “Dead, m’lord. He died in your father’s last acre fight at Regenford. The tale goes that the baron was found beneath a dozen dead Scots still clutching his sword.”

  “The lad looks too delicate to come from such fierce stock.”

  “Lord Alhric was fair and slight, but I would have thought long and hard before facing him with a sword. Brainard claims the boy is like him.”

  A page’s approach stopped their idle talk. Botolf frowned as the boy held out a delicately embroidered cloth. It was Lady Odella Alanson’s kerchief of pleasance. Reluctantly, Botolf accepted it, giving the page the appropriate words of gratitude to take back to the woman. To have done otherwise would have been an insult.

  “A fair flower,” murmured Sir Roger.

  “Aye. Pretty, well-mannered, and one of my mother’s favorites.”

  The cold flat tone of Botolf’s voice insured that his men would restrain from making any further remarks concerning the fair Odella. Lady Mary and even the king wished him to remarry. His mother dared not push him too hard, and the king had as yet declined to exert his power. That suited Botolf just fine. For now, the earldom of Regenford existed with no hope of an heir. As he entered his tent to prepare for his turn in the tournament, Botolf hoped he would be allowed to delay the need for remarriage a little while longer.

  It did not take Botolf long to see young Pitney’s value as a squire. The boy seemed to anticipate each move and command Botolf made. He found himself wishing Pitney were his squire instead of the accident-prone Farold. Then he felt the pinch of guilt. Farold was his cousin’s youngest son. The boy had been performing to the best of his ability. It was not Farold’s fault that his ability left much to be desired. Sighing with regret as he donned the last of his armor and made his way to the tournament field, Botolf hoped he could accept Farold’s eventual return with good grace.

  Botolf took his turn upon the tourney field quickly and efficiently, retiring from the field amidst hearty congratulations on his skill. He came very close to beaming at the young Pitney when he found a hot bath readied for him. It was not until he had sunk his aching body into the soothing hot water with a pleasured sigh that he recalled that he had no such amenity as a tub amongst his baggage. Looking around for Pitney, he discovered that the youth knew the game of least-insight very well. Laughing softly, Botolf began to scrub himself clean of the sweat and dust from the tourney field.

  His laughter increased as he heard one of his recent opponents, Sir Walter Trapp, bellowing, “What rogue has stolen my tub? You there, lad, where are you taking that water?”

  “This water, sir?” asked Pitney, his sweet voice heavily ladened with a false innocence.

  “Aye, that water.”

  “To my Lord Botolf so that he may rinse away the dust raised when he felled you earlier.”

  “Impudent whelp,” grumbled Sir Walter. “Let us go and see what he rinses in, eh?”

  “Sir,” gasped Pitney in dramatic outrage. “Do you accuse the honorable Baron of Merewood, the Earl of Regenford and brave defender of our northern borders, Lord Botolf Lavington, of being a common thief?”

  “Of course not,” blustered Sir Walter.

  Botolf could hear a great deal of laughter. Although quieter in his mirth, he was enjoying the exchange as much as those who watched it He hesitated in rinsing his soapy hair, not wanting to miss any of the confrontation being enacted before his tent. Botolf suspected that the somewhat dull Walter was easy prey for the clever Pitney.

  He grinned as he heard Walter desperately try to extract himself from the insult he now believed he had delivered. Suds slowly trickled down Botolf’s face as he listened. Absently, he flicked at them, cursing viciously when they went into his eye, stinging and blinding him. He groped for the drying cloth he had watched Pitney leave within his reach.

  A steely arm suddenly curled around his neck. Botolf heartily cursed Providence. Naked, soap blinding him, he knew he was easy prey for the murderer who had managed to slip past his guards and into his tent. His cry for aid was stifled at its birth by a gloved hand clamped firmly over his mouth.

  Botolf became a creature of fierce, thrashing muscle, his sole interest throwing off his attacker. The murderer’s soft curses reached Botolf’s ears as a knife thrust itself into the fleshy part of his shoulder instead of piercing his heart. When his sight began to clear Botolf saw the killer raise his dagger again. The man was trying to strike one more time before Botolf succeeded in throwing off his hold. Botolf was not sure he could stop that thrust either, and he felt the chill of impending death.

  “Murder!” Botolf heard his new squire scream, and the assassin’s choking grip abruptly lessened.

  Struggling to stand, his weakness and the water impeding him, Botolf saw Pitney hurl himself at the startled attacker. The boy revealed no hesitation despite the fact that the man was twice his size. Sir Walter, Sir Roger, and Sir Wesley all stumbled into the tent to gape at the unevenly matched pair thrashing on the ground.

  Obeying Botolf’s bellowed commands, Sir
Roger helped him out of the tub. The other two knights moved to stand near the fighting pair, prepared to strike as soon as they were able to do so without hurting the boy. Botolf rushed to dress and grab his sword in order to lend a hand.

  An instant later there was an opening, but Botolf loudly cursed the manner in which it arrived. Knowing he was caught, that death loomed over him, the killer thought only of insuring that he did not die alone. Before Botolf or the other men could stop him, the erstwhile murderer buried his knife in Pitney’s chest. When the man rose up to stab at the boy again, Sir Walter found the chance to strike. With one fierce swing of his sword he cleanly removed the man’s head from his shoulders.

  “I wish you had not done that,” Botolf said, sighing with a mixture of frustration and disappointment.

  “The man tried to kill you,” Walter grumbled “He did kill the boy.”

  “Nay!” Botolf cried in denial. “Close the tent flaps,” he ordered Roger when he caught sight of the small crowd of curious onlookers outside. Botolf continued to curse as he listened to the people leave, murmuring the tale that someone had tried to kill Lord Lavington and his brave squire Pitney Todd had given his life to save that of his lord. There was no time to put an end to their gossip. He fleetingly prayed that none of the boy’s kin would be caused unnecessary grief as he turned his full attention to Pitney. There would be time enough later to correct what was being said.

  Moving quickly, he knelt by the slim youth’s side. Even as Botolf searched for a heartbeat, the boy opened his eyes. The soft depths of his eyes were clouded with pain. Botolf found himself thinking rather irrelevantly that the boy had uncommonly pretty eyes.

  “Not dead yet, m’lord,” the boy whispered in a hoarse voice.