Prisoner of My Desire Read Online Free PDF Page B

life. He wanted love and laughter, which had been absent since his family had been destroyed and naught but hate and bitterness had filled him. He had two daughters, but they were frivolous and self-centered creatures. He loved them, but he could not abide them for very longwith their bickering and pettishness. He wanted a home life like the one he had known as a child, that would draw him home, rather than send him eagerly into war. And he wanted a son.
    He did not ask for too much, no more than any man could expect. And the right wife could give it all to him. He had found her in Isabella. Already he was very fond of her. He hoped it would soon be more than that, though truthfully, he was not sure he was still capable of that kind of love after so many years of hate. But ’twas not necessary that he love his wife, only that she love him. None of which mattered if he was to die here this night.
    He was not even properly armed. He had left his sword and armor in the room he had rented, where even now Geoffrey would be cleaning it. He had come down to the bathing room with no more than a dagger tucked in his belt. Now he did not even have his clothes, for he had left them with the attending servant to be washed. He wore only a large bath sheet, wrapped and tucked in at the waist, with the short dagger stuck under the edge of it at his belly.
    Even though he was so defenseless, the five men surrounding him were hesitant at first to draw their swords, for Warrick de Chaville was no ordinary-sized man. At six feet and three, he stood a half head taller than the largest assailant, and more still than the other four. With his arms and chest bare, there was no doubt at the strength contained in his large body. But more than that, he looked mean. There was a hard ruthlessness in his face, as if he would enjoykilling for the mere sport of it. And the gray eyes that had marked him as their target were so coldly chilling, at least one man wanted to cross himself before he drew his sword.
    But they did draw their swords. And the leader would have spoken, mayhap to make a demand instead of fighting, except Warrick was not a passive knight. He was aggressive in all things, and this was no exception. He clasped his dagger in hand and let out a war cry that very nearly shook the timbers. At the same instant he charged forward, slashing the man nearest him across his face. He had aimed for the throat, but the man’s scream did him more good in putting fear into the others.
    It became quickly apparent that either they were clumsy with their weapons or they were not trying to kill him. Well and good, that was their mistake. He wounded another, but then his blade began striking the steel of theirs. They had not meant to hurt him, but they did not intend to die either.
    And then Geoffrey joined the fray with a less thunderous battle cry, having heard Warrick’s. The lad was only ten and five, and not the squire Warrick would have taken into any battle, for he deemed him not yet ready for that. He was skilled with a sword, yet his body was not fully developed, giving him not much weight behind his blows. He had more heart and will than anything else, but also the mistaken assumption that he could do exactly as his lord did. He charged, but without the powerful body behind it, no one stepped fearfully out of his way, and without hisarmor to protect him, he was gutted before he could even get in a full swing.
    Warrick saw the look of disbelief and then horror that appeared on Geoffrey’s young face as he bent over the sword buried in his middle and knew he would be dead in moments. The lad had been fostered in his household since he was seven. Only last year Warrick had taken him under his own wing, even though he already had several squires and did not need another. He had developed a fondness for this boy who had always been so eager to please, and now he let out a bellow of grief-filled rage just before he threw his dagger at the man who had