The Roul brothers are King David's Warrior Wolves -
each finds their (true love/mate) with a little
push from the king...
The Warrior’s Bride
Alliance
Warrior Wolves #3
by Denise Lynn
Genre
Medieval Historical Romance
The Warrior’s Bride Alliance (Warrior Wolves #3) - Excerpt
Chapter One
Rockskill Keep, Scotland—spring 1146
‘I have need of a husband.’
Rory of Roul shook his head to clear the thick fog muddling his mind and making his head pound. Where was he? He tried desperately to dredge up his last memory, but failed. Was it fog clouding his memory, or was it smoke from the fires set after the battle to lay waste to the land? Land now covered by dead bodies. Bodies not of men, but of smooth-faced boys who’d only recently sparred with wooden swords in mock battles. His stomach rolled at the horrors he’d committed.
No. The battle was over. Without his liege’s permission or knowledge, he’d gathered his men and left. He was no longer in Normandy. He’d run like a traitorous dog with his tail between his legs back to King David begging for a mission—a wolf’s mission—any mission.
He shook his head again. Slowly clearing the murkiness of his mind. He and two of his men had been heading for Rockskill Keep on the King’s orders. Rory jerked his head back, only to wince at the contact with the stone wall behind him. She needed a what?
The bite of iron manacles securing his wrists and ankles to the cold wall at his naked back kept him from laughing at her statement. Why was there a woman on the battlefield? He blinked, then stared at the woman standing before him, not on a field of battle, but in a dimly lit cell, and asked, ‘Where are my men?’
‘They are secure.’
‘Secure?’
‘In a better state than you.’ She shrugged, adding, ‘For now.’
She stepped closer. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. ‘You worry about your men for naught. You should be concerned for your own well-being.’
He snorted. His well-being had been forfeited the moment he’d deserted his post and walked off the battlefield. The penalty for desertion—treason—would be death. The best he could hope for was that his liege the Count of Roul—his brother Elrik—would use a sharp blade and make it a quick, clean end. ‘Where am I?’
‘Rockskill Keep.’
At least he’d arrived at the location of his mission for King David. ‘I demand an audience with the Lord of this Keep.’
‘That would be impossible, as he is dead.’
A piece of information King David either didn’t know or had forgot to mention when he sent him here to bring the shipwrecks, smuggling, murders and other happenings at Rockskill to heel. ‘Then who is in charge here?’
‘I am.’
‘And you are?’
‘The Lady of Rockskill.’
Rory wrenched hard against the restraints, angry at the knowledge that he was at this vixen’s mercy. He pulled harder on the chains, his chest nearly hitting her nose.
She didn’t move, didn’t as much as flinch, simply looked up at him, warning, ‘If you harm me, you will die. But if you hurt yourself, I will send in the midwife. Trust me when I say you will not like her attention. She enjoys making her charges cry.’
He ignored her threat to send a woman’s healer instead of a surgeon to attend him. The slanted tilt of her lips and arching of her brows let him know she’d insulted him on purpose. And while he highly doubted a woman could make him cry, he was in no position to test that theory.
She reached out, stopping just before her palm touched his chest. Her hand was so close that a breeze would not have passed between them. He looked down, wondering if her touch would burn, and suddenly was grateful that he only lacked clothing from the waist up.
The woman paused, frowning. As if uncertain of her next move. Rory lifted a brow. If he didn’t know better, he would guess this woman had never been alone with a man before. Yet she had just claimed her husband had died.
He watched the play of emotions cross her face as she stared at his chest, as if the sight was unfamiliar. Her curiosity while studying his shoulders, chest, then stomach blinked to hesitancy before she quickly flashed her gaze back up. But the raising of her finely arched brows and the slight widening of those blue eyes silently spoke of interest.
She jerked her hand away, produced a dagger from behind her back and held the tip towards the tie of his braies. ‘It would be an easy thing to strip you completely. Perhaps I should see if the rest of you will suffice as husband material.’
Was she that witless, or truly that bold?
Rory doubted if she’d be bold enough to do so, but he had no desire to discover the answer, at least not while chained to a wall. ‘Do you know who I am?’
She tucked the dagger back behind her. ‘You are Rory of Roul, the youngest of King David’s wolves.’
She knew who he was and yet still saw fit to capture him? He frowned, unable to remember how this had happened.
Denise Lynn returns to Harlequin Historical with an explosive medieval marriage-of-convenience story!
She needs a husband…
So she captures one!
Lady Gillian of Rockskill desperately needs a husband—one strong and wealthy
enough to protect her castle. So she has warrior Rory of Roul captured and
blackmails him into marrying her!
Awaking in a dungeon to a marriage proposal, Rory stuns his beguiling captor
with a counteroffer: to free his men and complete his mission for the king, he
agrees to a temporary chaste marriage. One that can be annulled when his quest
is over.
But despite their stormy beginning, their attraction grows, and so does the
temptation to claim their wedding night!
From Harlequin Historical: Your romantic
escape to the past.
Warrior Wolves #2
The Warrior’s Runaway Wife (Warrior Wolves #2) - Excerpt
Prologue
Carlisle Castle—April 1145
The large double doors of the Great Hall groaned open, slowing the fever-pitched conversations to a hushed whispering. Lord Elrik of Roul strode through the open doors, bringing even the whispers to a complete halt.
Rain from the spring storm fell in rivulets from the wolf pelts trimming his full-length mantle. The cape swirled, sending droplets of rainwater to the floor in his wake.
Men and women alike made way, clearing the path ahead of his long strides. The clinking of his linked-mail hauberk and spurs, along with the heavy fall of his footsteps, were the only sounds echoing in the hall.
The visitors to King David’s court stared in fascination at the sight of the fabled man before them. Some were young enough to have grown up hearing stories of the King’s Wolves. They’d trembled at the tales told in the dark of night, wondering how much truth lay behind the words, yet not wanting to discover the answer for themselves.
From the unkempt, overlong hair, black as night and shot through with silver, to his frowning countenance, the furrowed brow resembling a dark outcrop over his greenish-gold eyes, to the beard covering his lower face, hiding his features, leaving only the thin line of his tightly held mouth visible, made them wonder if he was indeed part-wolf. A barely civilised, not quite human warrior who would think nothing of unleashing the terrors of hell on an unsuspecting prey.
Elrik dropped to a knee at the bottom of the raised dais and bowed his head. He knew what these people thought of him, these weak-kneed courtiers who had rarely, if ever, used the sword belted to their side for anything more than show, and he cared not. As the Lord of Roul, he did what he needed to do to keep his lands and his family safe.
Being one of David’s Wolves wasn’t easy, but then he’d never been blessed with a life of ease, so why would this be any different? The one saving grace was that his three brothers made up the rest of his wolf pack and he could trust them with his life.
King David stood. ‘Roul, join me.’
Elrik rose and followed the King into the smaller chamber beyond the dais. Once the door closed behind the two of them they were afforded a privacy not available in the Great Hall.
‘Thank you for coming so quickly.’ David poured two goblets of deep red wine and offered one to Elrik, before settling into a chair.
He accepted the liquid, hoping it would thaw his blood. ‘My liege?’
‘I apologise for taking you from the comfort of your fires, but I’ve a need for your particular skill.’
‘Who do you need found?’ He’d been born with an uncanny ability to track down things lost, whether it be a missing shoe or a person not wishing to be found.
‘Avelyn of Brandr.’
Elrik paused before swallowing his wine. In the space of one heartbeat, it all came flooding back. His father had sought to commit treason against King David at the prompting of Galdon, Lord of Brandr Isle. Brandr, named so because of the long, sharp, pointed rocks that stuck out from the northern end of the isle like ready swords, drawn for attack, wasn’t enough land for Galdon. Whether the traitor had acted of his own accord or at the behest of his uncle by marriage and liege, Lord Somerled, the Lord of Argyll, or his maternal grandfather Óláfr, the King of the Isles, was never discovered since Brandr had used his connections to escape punishment. Unlike Elrik’s father.
To save his father’s life, he and his younger brother Gregor had thrown themselves at King David’s feet, begging for mercy. Their plea had been heard and mercy granted—at the cost of nothing more than their souls.
While their father had been confined to Roul Isle, he and Gregor, along with their two younger brothers, when they’d become old enough, had become King David’s Wolves. Men tasked with deeds that required secrecy and, at times, the steadfast ruthlessness of a wolf.
He swallowed, then said, ‘I wasn’t aware Brandr had a daughter.’
‘A natural-born daughter.’
The notorious
Lord of Roul…
…must take her as his bride!
Lady Avelyn flees an unwanted betrothal to an elderly warlord only to be hunted
down and returned to King David’s court by fearsome Elrik, Lord of Roul, a
legendary warrior with a heart of ice—and a kiss of fire. And now Avelyn is
bound to Elrik—and his bed—when Elrik is commanded to wed her instead!
“Another sensual, action packed tale” — RT Book Reviews on At
the Warrior’s Mercy
“Lynn has real talent” — RT Book Reviews on Dragon’s
Promise
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At the
Warrior’s Mercy
Warrior Wolves #1
In
twelfth-century Scotland, a woman is trapped into marriage with a warrior—by
order of the king!
Deceived and alone, Beatrice of Warehaven is forced to flee—straight into the
powerful arms of feared warrior Gregor of Roul. He escorts her home, though not
before a kiss ignites true passion between them.
If Gregor is to gain his freedom, he must obey one last royal order—overthrow
Warehaven and marry Beatrice. His betrayal will earn Beatrice’s hatred, but
Gregor is prepared to go into battle with this stubborn beauty—and finish what
he started with his innocent bride!
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At the Warrior’s Mercy (Warrior Wolves #1) ~
ExcerptCarlisle Castle—April 1145
The large double doors of the Great Hall groaned open, slowing the fever-pitched conversations to a hushed whispering. Lord Elrik of Roul strode through the open doors, bringing even the whispers to a complete halt.
Rain from the spring storm fell in rivulets from the wolf pelts trimming his full-length mantle. The cape swirled, sending droplets of rainwater to the floor in his wake. Men and women alike made way, clearing the path ahead of his long strides. The clinking of his linked-mail hauberk and spurs, along with the heavy fall of his footsteps, were the only sounds echoing in the hall. The visitors to King David’s court stared in fascination at the sight of the fabled man before them. Some were young enough to have grown up hearing stories of the King’s Wolves. They’d trembled at the tales told in the dark of night, wondering how much truth lay behind the words, yet not wanting to discover the answer for themselves. From the unkempt, overlong hair, black as night and shot through with silver, to his frowning countenance, the furrowed brow resembling a dark outcrop over his greenish-gold eyes, to the beard covering his lower face, hiding his features, leaving only the thin line of his tightly held mouth visible, made them wonder if he was indeed part-wolf. A barely civilised, not quite human warrior who would think nothing of unleashing the terrors of hell on an unsuspecting pre Elrik dropped to a knee at the bottom of the raised dais and bowed his head. He knew what these people thought of him, these weak-kneed courtiers who had rarely, if ever, used the sword belted to their side for anything more than show, and he cared not. As the Lord of Roul, he did what he needed to do to keep his lands and his family safe. Being one of David’s Wolves wasn’t easy, but then he’d never been blessed with a life of ease, so why would this be any different? The one saving grace was that his three brothers made up the rest of his wolf pack and he could trust them with his life. King David stood. ‘Roul, join me.’ Elrik rose and followed the King into the smaller chamber beyond the dais. Once the door closed behind the two of them, they were afforded a privacy not available in the Great Hall. 'Thank you for coming so quickly.’ David poured two goblets of deep red wine and offered one to Elrik, before settling into a chair. He accepted the liquid, hoping it would thaw his blood. ‘My liege?’ ‘I apologise for taking you from the comfort of your fires, but I’ve a need for your particular skill.’ ‘Who do you need found?’ He’d been born with an uncanny ability to track down things lost, whether it be a missing shoe or a person not wishing to be found. ‘Avelyn of Brandr.’ Elrik paused before swallowing his wine. In the space of one heartbeat, it all came flooding back. His father had sought to commit treason against King David at the prompting of Galdon, Lord of Brandr Isle. Brandr, named so because of the long, sharp, pointed rocks that stuck out from the northern end of the isle like ready swords, drawn for attack, wasn’t enough land for Galdon. Whether the traitor had acted of his own accord or at the behest of his uncle by marriage and liege, Lord Somerled, the Lord of Argyll, or his maternal grandfather Óláfr, the King of the Isles, was never discovered since Brandr had used his connections to escape punishment. Unlike Elrik’s father. To save his father’s life, he and his younger brother Gregor had thrown themselves at King David’s feet, begging for mercy. Their plea had been heard and mercy granted—at the cost of nothing more than their souls. While their father had been confined to Roul Isle, he and Gregor, along with their two younger brothers, when they’d become old enough, had become King David’s Wolves. Men tasked with deeds that required secrecy and, at times, the steadfast ruthlessness of a wolf He swallowed, then said, ‘I wasn’t aware Brandr had a daughter.’ ‘A natural-born daughter.‘It has come to our attention that Warehaven has been left too long without a lord.’ Gregor, second son of Roul Isle’s former lord, held the questions hopping around on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he focused on the sound of workers fortifying Carlisle Castle, making it bigger and stronger. Hopefully, sooner or later, King David would get to the point of this discussion before the ceaseless drone of construction drove him mad with impatience—Gregor had been too long away from his own building project, and the sounds of hammering and sawing made his hands itch to wield an adze or axe. Either tool would suit him fine since he’d rather be shaping or cutting lumber than standing here in the King’s court.
King David’s frowning countenance during his prolonged hesitation gave Gregor the sinking feeling that not only would it be a while before he could return to his half-built ship, but that this time he wasn’t going to like the task about to be placed on his shoulders.
Not that his liking would matter in the least. After nearly ten years he was still paying for his father’s sins in attacking the foreigner who had been given control over some mainland property just south of Roul Isle. Gregor failed to understand why his father had never been able to accept the fact that the King’s word was law, or why it mattered who held the mainland property. His father had been lucky to die an old man at home in his own bed instead of in a less pleasant manner for treason.
However, Gregor and his brothers hadn’t been quite as lucky. They’d found themselves paying the price for their father’s actions. Even now, his older brother Elrik, the current Lord of Roul, was off on some secret mission for the King. For the moment both Edan and Rory, his younger brothers, were at home. None of them had a choice in the matter. The alternative had been to hand over Roul Isle and leave Scotland for good. Since the only place they could go would be to Roul Keep, an unknown cousin’s fortress in Normandy, all four had agreed that leaving wasn’t a desirable option and had placed their lives in King David’s hands.
‘It was also brought to our attention that you’ve somehow reached your twenty-eighth year of life without a wife.’ King David paused to stare at him before adding in a less accusing tone, ‘Lad, a wedding ceremony which ends in death does not count as a marriage.’
Again Gregor held his tongue. What could he say? Everyone knew what had happened that day. A marriage arranged by the King had come to a bloody end mere moments after the new bride had discovered to whom she’d been wed.
Gregor had had so many hopes for the marriage. While he’d been warned that it wouldn’t curtail his service for King David, it would have provided him a welcome respite between the tasks. He’d been certain that, given time, he and Sarah would come to care for each other, create a home and a family together. He had envisioned cold winter nights spent in front of the fire, his wife at his side, while their children played at their feet.
He had looked forward to this marriage, never imagining how wrong he’d been. The day had started filled with hope and whispered promises of dreams soon to be fulfilled. It had ended moments after one of the guests had congratulated the Wolf for having snared a mate.
In that single heartbeat, time had slowed and he’d watched as his new bride’s eyes had widened, all colour leaving her face as if she’d been drained of blood. He’d reached for her, his fingertips barely brushing the sleeve of her gown as she’d gasped, turned and then run from the Great Hall.
He’d followed, but had been unable to catch up to her until she’d reached the battlements and climbed up on to a crenel. With her arms outstretched, Sarah stood with her palms flat against a merlon on either side. The wind had whipped the long skirt of her gown, as it had her hair—both billowing around her. She’d looked over her shoulder at him. Fear and dread had shimmered in her stare. A frown of what he liked to think was regret had wrinkled her brow. Perhaps she’d had a second thought as she’d perched so high above the ground. But then, in the next heartbeat, she was gone. Nothing but air filled the space between the merlons.
The accusations had started immediately—the Wolf had pushed his new bride to her death—he’d thrown her from the wall in a fit of rage. At first he’d defended himself and the accusations had tapered off to rumours circling behind his back. But nothing would ever rid him of the memory, or the guilt. As far as he was concerned he was guilty—of not being able to stop her from jumping, of not knowing her well enough to realise what she might do and of being so terrifying to her that she chose death.
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