Suzanne Robinson - Lady Valiant

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LADY VALIANT

By

Suzanne Robinson

Contents

HE WAS ALMOST GLAD MISTRESS HUNT HAD RUN AWAY

He hadn't looked to enjoy this task of capturing a woman and forcing her to reveal secrets, but he'd changed his mind the moment she'd begun to fight him in spite of her own fears. She had courage. Instead of weeping, as most women would have, she'd attacked. He was beginning to think he'd enjoy her, once she'd been schooled properly. Mayhap he would amuse himself with her after she confessed her wrongdoings.

Circling around to the area where he last saw Thea Hunt, he saw the flash of a green gown against the grayish brown of tree trunks. He flattened himself against a thick oak. Her steps came nearer. He stepped in her path, and she cried out when he caught her between his body and the tree trunk.

"Running away in spite of my warnings, little papist."

He pressed against her.

"Naughty wench. Now I'll have to punish you."

Burying his hand in her hair, he lowered his mouth to hers. His lips touched hers, and he thrust his tongue between her lips. He felt her gasp and pulled away to look at her. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and the color had drained from her face so that her hair seemed darker than ever. A hot, slow smile played over his lips. Which of them would admit their desires first?

Bantam Books by Suzanne Robinson

Ask your bookseller for the titles you may have missed

Lady Defiant

Lady Hellfire

Lady Gallant

Look for LADY DANGEROUS, coming in early 1994.

LADY VALIANT

A Bantam Book I July 1993

All rights reserved.

Copyright 1993 by Suzanne Robinson .

Cover art copyright 1993 by Alan Ayers .

Stepback art copyright 1993 by Ken Otsuka .

ISBN 0-553-29575-6

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Ann O'Doherty is one of those rare people who can make everyday life sparkle with humor and excitement. This book is dedicated to her with my thanks for all the hours of editing.

Chapter 1

There is no more trusting in women.

Homer

London,

April 1565

Thea Hunt's target was a man. She lifted the crossbow, steadied it against her shoulder, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The bolt shot out of the groove and impaled its mark. The archery butt shuddered, and Thea lowered her weapon.

She never aimed at plain targets. She painted the outline of a man on a sheet and attached it to the butt. In her imagination the outline took on the form of a dark-haired Frenchman, slight of build yet arrogant of demeanor, noble yet impoverished of honor.

She preferred the crossbow because of the force of the bolt. She could feel the power behind the release of the quarrel, imagine the bolt piercing Henri's flesh. Each time she shot the weapon, she assuaged the pain, the humiliation of her flight from the French court.

At her side, Hobby put her foot in the stirrup of another crossbow and winched the bow back. "Aaow, my bones. God's truth, mistress, no other lady's maid has to break her back fiddling with these things."

Thea's lips pressed together as she took aim again. She wasn't ready to give up her favorite pastime. "Take comfort. One more bolt in his heart, no, this time in his face, I think."

"Good," Hobby said. "For it's time to change your gown. The sun sets, and the banquet begins soon."

Thea grimaced at the mention of the banquet. She would have to consort with men. Luckily, she'd thought of an excuse that would save her from the dancing.

She glanced across the lawn and garden to the towers of Bridgestone Abbey. Grandmother would be furious at her refusal to dance, but Thea would rather face the old lady's wrath than put herself within touching distance of a nobleman. She wasn't going to be hurt, not ever again.

Hours later at the banquet, she was still grumbling to herself of how she despised men. To be in a room with over a dozen of them made her want to jump into the nearest tureen and pull the lid shut. She could feel her own fear, as if verminous rats were crawling over her body. Her fear had yellow, curved teeth and a spiked tail, and it never left her when she was surrounded by young men. Thea cast a resentful glance at Grandmother. It was Grandmother's fault that she stood there, watching the merriment.

Grandmother had insisted upon giving a banquet. Luckily, at the moment most of the men she wished to evade were engaged in dancing a pavane. Thea hated dancing almost as much as she hated men. Her chief comfort was that she'd found a new way to avoid it. Standing near Grandmother's chair in the high great chamber, she leaned on a walking stick borrowed from her father.

That morning she had pretended to turn her ankle. She cast a glance at her grandmother. The old lady was surveying the dancers with the look of a milk-gorged calf. Grandmother loved multitudes of persons, especially the powerful and rich. Grandmother had set her heart upon marrying Thea to one of them. This desire was the reason Thea and Lord Hunt were on this prolonged visit instead of remaining at home in peace. Since she and her father had arrived, Lady Hunt had maneuvered to show her granddaughter to as many wealthy young noblemen as she could trap into coming to Bridgestone. Thea had a near escape when Grandmother's favorite got himself killed not long ago in some brawl. Leslie Richmond had been one of those men who felt God owed him wealth, pleasing entertainments, and women of easy virtue. Thea had been considering using him for a crossbow target when he died.

Suddenly Grandmother turned and caught Thea's eye.

"By the rood, where's your father, girl?" she asked.

Thea surveyed the great chamber from one tapestried wall to the other. As usual, Father had wandered away from the merriment, leaving guests to fend for themselves.

"Shall I fetch him, Grandmother?"

"And be quick. I know you, child, and you're as like to vanish as he is."

"Yes, Grandmother."

Thumping her walking stick with ostentation, Thea limped out of the chamber and into the long gallery. Grandmother was especially fond of the gallery. One whole wall consisted of windows while the other was lined with portraits of Hunt ancestors and the kings and queens they had served. Prominent among them was a full-length portrait of Mary Tudor.