Each morning, they would ride across the moors to a flat, open field atop the peninsular cliff shielded by thick, dense forest and the surrounding savage sea. Beginning when she was ten years old to his thirteen, he’d taught her the very skills he’d been learning as a squire.
With wooden swords and shields, he’d demonstrated lunges, strikes, and defensive blocks. He’d trained her to race her horseMarivéetoward the target he’d created—a tall, wooden tree trunk with a strike zone area outlined in the center. Beginning with a wooden sword, she’d progressed to hitting the target with her sheathed weapon, and finally, her naked, lethal blade.
In addition to the target drills on horseback, Bastien had also taught her self-defense moves—how to break free of various strongholds as she learned a man’s weaknesses—how to kick or knee the groin, strike the windpipe, gouge eye sockets, or stomp on a foot to loosen a hostile grip. He’d often wrapped his arms around her neck, as if he were an assassin, teaching her to thrust her arms up through his own, or deliver a savage blow to the ribs with her elbows as she spun to inflict a lethal slice with her sharp dagger.
He'd taught her archery, positioning her perpendicular to the target, guiding her torso into proper form, instructing her to nock and tightly draw back the bowstring, keeping her collarbone parallel with the arrow. At first, she’d been unable to hit even a close target, but after seven years of nearly daily practice, she’d developed unerring accuracy and precision.
Seven years of holding her close, inhaling her rose scented, gloriously long red hair.
Seven years of admiring the soft, porcelain skin he longed to touch.
Seven years of perfectly molding her strong, athletic body to his own.
Tantalizing, torturous, torment.
“I shall be a warrior queen,” she’d told him, emerald eyes ablaze with fierce pride as she’d blocked and parried his blows. “A Valkyrie shield maiden, like my ancestor, Brunnhild.” Agile and graceful as a dancer, she’d spun with stunning elegance and surprising force, disarming him with a glorious, gloating grin. “And I shall defend this kingdom with my sword…thanks to you.”
She’d strolled across the heather blooms to pick up and return his fallen blade. And—long red hair whipping in the salty sea spray like a glorious Viking goddess—she’d kissed him, her full, sensuous lips bestowing a generous gift of gratitude.
And the promise of invigorating, intoxicating, impossible love.
L’amour impossible.
The courtly love of a chivalrous knight for a lofty lady he could never have.
So, he’d worshipped her in his young heart, suffering in silence as she honed her impressive skills and shared her secret hopes for the future as a powerful, invincible queen.
A Viking warrior queen.
A valorous Valkyrie shield maiden.
A voluptuous vixen who danced in his daring dreams.
Each summer, while Bastien traveled south to train with Lancelot atla Joyeuse Garde, Gabrielle voyaged to Paris to visit her father’s aunt Béatrice,La Duchesse de Rohan.Four years ago, she’d been sent to live with her great-aunt among the royal courtiers residing inle Palais de la Cité.
To learn the proper, fastidious etiquette required of a future French queen.
But now, with his health so precarious and rapidly declining, King Guillemin had called Gabrielle home to Finistère. So that he could arrange a royal marriage for his precious daughter before his inevitable, impending death.
It had been four long years since Bastien had last seen her. He’d since become a full-fledged knight. Master of Horse atle Château de Beaufort. With his brothers and fellow soldiers, he’d done his fair share of winning, wining, and wenching.
Yet—as soon as she’d entered the royal solar, her long red hair gloriously windblown, her cheeks flushed by the salty spray of the sea, her sensuous curves outlined by the alluring cling of her emerald velvet gown—Gabrielle’s beauty had struck him like a blow to the gut, expending the very breath from his lungs.
His glorious Viking goddess had returned to claim him.
Heart, body, and soul.
And now, King Guillemin had appointed Bastien as Gabrielle’s royal personal guard. Once again, he’d have the exquisite joy of being at her side every day. Galloping across the wild moors together. Honing her skills with the bow, dagger, and sword. Practicing self-defense. Holding her in his arms. Yearning to make her truly his.
Forced to endure her unavoidable, unbearable, unfathomable marriage to another.
Reality gripped his heart in a tight, unyielding vice.
In the stables, now preparing for their afternoon ride, her magnificent horseMarivéesnorted as he tugged the saddle straps securely, clenching his jaw as he awaited Gabrielle’s arrival.
The unbridled joy in her lilting voice was music to his sullen ears. “I cannot wait to ride again,” she exhaled, affectionately stroking the muzzle of her beautiful gray Andalusian.
Marivéenickered in response, enormously pleased to be reunited with her owner.
