Taken by His Sword (Words of Chevalerie #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

The men of Provence loved everything about their swords. The brutal strength. The unyielding power. The length.

And no men were better with their swords than the sons of the Duke of Chevalerie.

Steel cracked hard above Philippe du Chevalerie’s head as he caught the sharp of a blade with his own sword.

He pushed the metal off with a zing and jabbed forward.

His feet: slow, quick, quick. His opponent bent and countered, attacking again from above.

Philippe caught the man’s sword at the hilt, stepped in, parried up the shot, and yanked the weapon right out of his hands.

“Son of a bitch!” His cousin Laurent yelled as his blade clattered to the ground. “Good move.”

Philippe grinned. “I told you to watch your lower right.”

“One more?” Laurent asked.

They paused in the glistening sunlight, glazed in sweat, while onlookers whooped and cheered. The two had been training on the edge of the marketplace since late morning and had drawn a ring of spectators. Philippe nodded towards Laurent. They charged each other like battering rams.

The collision came loud and heavy, splitting through the buzz of the market.

It was just the distraction Philippe needed.

As third son of the Duke, he would be leaving in a few days to lead a mission north to figure out who was terrorizing and torching a series of villages.

But, for now, he could ignore that responsibility, at least while he had a sword slashing at him.

Laurent launched forward to deliver a strike to Philippe’s flank which cut into his protective gear.

Philippe absorbed the shock and countered with a fast jab of his sword.

Laurent ducked and threw an uppercut, which caught Philippe off guard and clipped his chin.

Philippe shook his head, pivoted back, and came around with the hilt of his sword to his cousin’s temple, stopping just before he made contact.

“Merde!” Laurent threw his hands up in defeat. “You’re too much today. I’m out.”

“You got a few hits in,” Philippe said, rubbing his chin. He smirked, and his cousin snorted at him. The townspeople swarmed them then, complimenting their form and offering treats they had picked up in the market.

“Oy, Monsieur Philippe,” called a pretty maid working at a nearby stall.

She held out a bright green apple. Philippe eyed the offer.

A welcome diversion, he thought, but he would have liked…

something different. Once long ago, he had tasted a peach.

A perfect, ripe, delicious peach and nothing else had ever compared.

But peaches were a rare find, so he walked to the maid, plucked the apple from her fingertips, tossed it in the air, and caught it with a clap in his hand.

The maid demurred her eyes, but he didn’t miss the smile on her lips.

It was unfair, he thought, how easily it came, the devil growing inside him.

He watched the maid and bit into the apple.

Then he moved his thumb against the old scar at the bottom of his lip to collect the juice, and he grinned at her.

Just then, a rumbling went through the crowd.

It started at the stone arch entryway at the bottom of the road and flashed through the market like lightning.

Philippe followed the current of excitement and saw a troop coming toward where he stood.

Four—five— six men on mount came into view, but nothing struck Philippe as odd.

They didn’t seem aggressive; the horses bore no marks of affiliation.

Just regular mercenaries. But the people around him continued to gawk and stare.

Voices popped. Fingers pointed. Women jumped on their suitors’ backs to see above the crowd, while children scampered onto market stall poles to get a better view.

By instinct, Philippe grabbed his sword.

He stood on his toes and scanned down the road, looking through the marketplace, past the spices in jars, over the olives marinating in the sun, past the cheeses, chickens, eggs, grapes, and buckets of tripe.

He searched through the mercenaries and down their ranks, to the rider on the last horse of the party.

And the spectacle made his sword strike full attention.

It was a woman in tight, dark breeches and a billowy cream-colored shirt cinched on the outside by a plain leather corset.

A simple dark shawl covered her head and wrapped around her shoulders, leaving only her eyes exposed, which she kept fixed on the road ahead.

It was not typical attire for a young woman, but that’s not what made people stop and stare.

There was danger in her. She brought with her some force, not just in her proud posture, but in the air around her, and it thickened in Philippe’s throat.

He was drawn in, fascinated, couldn’t look away.

An impulse told him to call out, to get her attention somehow, but he stood there unable to speak, frozen in the crowd.

Then suddenly, she turned to him. Philippe, startled by her attention, felt some quiet explosion go off in his brain.

She stared into his eyes as she passed by, and he had the sensation that she would call out his name, to greet him like an old friend.

But then she winked at him and turned away, continuing up the road toward Chevalerie Palace.

Philippe stood there dumbfounded, shaken, confused.

And as his thoughts and rationale began to piece themselves back together, they all screamed one thing:

Who in the hell was that?

He spent a moment standing with a half-eaten apple in his hand, staring down the road like a fool. Then the voices around him came back into focus. “‘Tis the lady guide,” someone whispered. “She’s led many dangerous mercenary groups.”

“I hear she has the strength of a man.”

“I hear she has the strength of ten.”

“I hear she sucks their strength out right through their willies!”

Now Philippe was running to meet this person before she slipped away.

Up the steps to the palace, around the back, he raced to the stables as he peeled off his protective equipment, leaving it in a trail.

He skidded to a stop just before he came around the corner.

He counted five horses outside and the men who matched, but the woman was not there.

“Salut,” Philippe called. “What is your business at the palace today?”

They bowed their heads to him, and the man he had seen at the front of the party spoke. “Our companion has been summoned by the Duke, Monsieur. You must ask her for the details.”

“And where is she?” Philippe asked, more anxiously than he intended.

“Already in the stables.”

He nodded his thanks to the man, jogged up the stone path leading to the large stable doors, and pushed inside.

Philippe called a sharp order, scattering the stablemen.

And there he saw her, past rows of grazing horses, grooming her animal with her back to the entrance.

Her thick, dark hair tumbled out from under her scarf in waves, meeting the waist of the pants she wore tight across her hips.

He had never seen a woman wear men’s clothes in such a way, and how the breeches hugged her backside was almost obscene.

He cleared his throat. She did not turn around.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Mademoiselle.”

“May I help you?” she said, still not turning to him.

He approached her, taking in the sight of her knee-high riding boots, strong legs and that perfect backside he could almost feel in his hand.

He came up next to her as she groomed her horse, his body going rigid.

She still wore the trail cloth around her nose and mouth, so he could not see her face.

“My Lady,” he said. “I would like to know from where you came.”

“No,” she said without regard. Her voice was a song.

He took another step towards her as she rounded the horse’s haunch.

“Well, then I would like to know your name.”

She passed the brush over the horse’s rump then looked back over her shoulder. “No,” she said, her tone sparkling.

Another shiver went through his body. Those shimmering eyes seemed familiar, but without the rest of her face, he could not place her.

She began to move around the horse again.

He followed. “Then remove your scarf,” he said.

“I would like to see if the bottom half of your face is as pretty as the top.”

“No,” she replied, still inching away from him.

“Jolie, do you know who I am?” he said, taking slow steps in her pursuit.

“Oui, you are the son of the Duke.”

“Then you are aware that when the son of a duke makes a formal request, you shall abide.”

She stopped to stare him down with large, innocent eyes. “But, Monsieur, I was not aware that your request had been formal.”

She turned away and continued grooming the horse. She was teasing him now. He liked this kind of foreplay, whatever it was, and he was sure it would end too soon. He took a more aggressive step toward her, invading her space. “I formally request that you take off your mask.”

She threw down the brush and dusted her hands against her legs and, squaring her shoulders, looked up at him. She reached out to walk her fingers up his chest and stood on her tip toes to bring her lips right up to his ear. “No,” she whispered.

He watched a moment, dumbfounded, not used to a woman so bold.

Then he snatched her hand and held it tight to his chest. The beat of his own heart surprised him, just as his gesture seemed to surprise her.

There was something in her eyes he couldn’t grasp: a memory, a feeling fighting to come through.

But he shook it off and grinned. “You are insubordinate,” he said, voice low but playful.

“Now remove that scarf or I shall do it for you.”

She cocked her head, a smile back in her eyes. He breathed her in, as delicious as any peach he’d ever tasted. He reached up to pull the scarf away, thinking only of how sweet her lips would be.

All of a sudden, she struck both hands against his chest and pushed him back.

It was like he took a cannonball to the chest. He sucked in a breath as her leg slipped between his and caught the back of his knee.

She pulled forward and before he could think another thought, he was flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

He shook focus back into his head and saw her standing at his feet with her hands on her hips.

“Who are you?” he asked, stupid from the fall.

She dropped to all fours and crawled across him like a lynx.

He felt her breasts press against his torso while she drilled into his eyes with her stare.

She settled above him then reached up to remove her scarf.

That’s when he saw, for the first time, the beauty beneath it.

He knew this face from somewhere long ago, but his brain was too sluggish to make any connections.

Her full, raspberry lips parted, and she leaned towards him.

He thought for a second, she might kiss him.

He arched in response, but she moved past his lips to his ear.

She whispered, her voice pure as dew, “I’m the one who gave you that scar.” Then without another beat, she traced the old scar at the corner of his lip with the moist tip of her tongue.

He was out of his mind, not understanding if the woman on top of him was looking for a lover or just looking for a fight. Then, just outside the stable, he heard his mother’s voice calling, “Alexandra? Where are you, chère?”

The woman popped up and dusted herself off, leaving nothing but cool air where her body had seconds ago been pressed against his. She jogged away and Philippe was left staring at the muzzle of her horse, who chewed a mouthful of straw and watched Philippe unsympathetically.

Regaining some control over his body, Philippe flipped over to watch her.

Outside, he saw that she picked up speed and ran to his mother who embraced her.

He could make out nothing beyond the happy chatter between the two women.

It was Alex. Little Alex. His heart dropped into his stomach, as old, terrible feelings of guilt rushed to him.

Alex and his mother linked arms and walked towards the palace.

He didn’t know why she had come back or how long she would stay, but as he breathed in her luscious scent still clinging to his skin, Philippe knew, unequivocally, that he was in trouble.