His Duty, Her Destiny

Juliet Landon

London, 1473The time had come…duty called. Bound by his word, Sir Fergus Melrose would honor his betrothal, but first he must claim his betrothed….His task wouldn't be easy. Lady Nicola Coldyngham was no longer the young lass who had worshipped his every move. Nor, since he'd spurned her childish love, was she willing to give up her heart so easily again.Her defiance became his challenge–a challenge he was unable to resist. Spurred on by the promise of her fiery beauty, this was one contest Sir Fergus Melrose had every intention of winning.

This intruder was not exactly a stranger.

His slow scrutiny of her from head to toe and back again was exactly what Nicola remembered from their first meeting. He pushed himself away from the open doorway, unbuttoning his velvet jerkin. “Try me,” Fergus said quietly, describing circles with his rapier point.

Her reply was to put her sword at arm’s length and to touch the point of his with hers, locking her deep brown stare with his hard gray one, but knowing in her vitals that this would be no pushover.

The end came well before she could score a hit. She could see the fearlessness in his eyes, which, as a child, she had both admired and found intimidating.

“Well,” he said, watching the torrent of dark brown hair fall across her face, “some things have changed for the better, but not the temper, it seems. You’ll have to deal with that, my lady, if you want to play men’s games.”

Praise for Juliet Landon

The Knight’s Conquest

“A feisty heroine, heroic knight, an entertaining battle of wills and plenty of colorful history flavor this tale, making it a delightful one-night read.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

His Duty, Her Destiny

Juliet Landon

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter One

F linging her thick brown plait over her shoulder, Nicola picked up her rapier and turned to face her opponent with a disarming smile. ‘Ready?’ she said, sweetly. The young man had put himself on the line by telling her she knew nothing about the Italian style of fencing, not thinking that she could produce a pair of rapiers she’d been using for years. He should have known better.

‘What do I do with it?’ she asked, innocently.

The young man smiled. ‘Your best, my lady,’ he said.

‘Shall we take these silly guards off the points, then?’

The smile disappeared. ‘It’s not usual, in practice.’

‘Oh, then let’s be unusual, for a change.’

‘Are you sure, my lady?’

‘Quite sure. There, that’s better. Now, on guard. Is that what they say?’ He had been a nuisance for weeks, this young man: it was time to get rid of him. He could not be more than her own twenty-four years.

Fencing with an unprotected point obviously concerned him, for he was defensive, extremely wary and immediately rattled by her obvious familiarity with the weapon. Only aristocrats took this kind of fencing seriously, and most of them had learned in either France, Germany or Italy; very few in England. But women, never.

Nicola, however, had fenced with her four brothers since she was old enough to stand; she was naturally nimble, graceful, quick-thinking and, most of all, had learned from an early age to hold her own against men. In a house full of them, there had been no place for a faint-hearted woman.

Clearly taken by surprise at her sudden swift attack, his defence came a split second too late and his rapier went flying through the air to slide across the stone-flagged floor of the hall well before he’d had time to settle into a rhythm. It was a very undignified beginning.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Nicola. ‘D’ye want to try again?’

‘You’ve had some practice,’ he said, accusingly, picking up his rapier. ‘You might have said.’

‘I did say, last evening. You didn’t believe me. On guard.’

He started the next bout with more determination, but with a heavy chip on his shoulder, wondering how this lovely woman, whom men held only in the