Kat Martin - Bold Angel

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.