And now I'm proud to present a labor of love,
a Medieval Ebook from LionHearted Publishing,

Knight's Desire

ISBN: 1-57343-019-6
(click on the ISBN to order online from Amazon.com)

All that stands between Sir Judson Langley and his chance to inherit Cresswell Castle is the truth and a beautiful young serving woman with a secret.
(With many thanks to Marcy-Graham Waldenville)

What Reviewers are saying about KNIGHT'S DESIRE

***** "Elizabeth Taylor George is a mistress of her craft who offers a fabulous tale...This is a humdinger of a read."
  ... Affaire de Coeur

**** "This delightful story is full of twists and turns. Fans of classical Medieval romance will thoroughly enjoy Knight's Desire." ...Romantic Times

****+ "I normaly don't read Medieval but this one changed my mind. The wonderful study of speech and scene left me breathless. Wow. This is a great author." ... Suite 101

****1/2 "A must read by Medieval fans."  ... WordMuseum

**** "Knight's Desire is a treat for fans of Historical Romance...the story moves with a steady, sure-handed pace." 
 ... ScribesWorld

EXCERPT

Out of the shadows, from behind the table, Judson emerged, one half of his black mantle tossed casually over his right shoulder. Arian gasped, and dropped the piece of cheese she held.

"You!" She flashed her gaze to Christian, who had tiptoed to the door.

Christian bowed his head. "Remember, Jane. Perhaps Sir Judson may be of more use to you than you, at present, know. Ponder my words." He slipped through the secret door, leaving them alone.

The candles flickered as the door closed. The light played tricks across Judson's face, making the color of his amazing blue eyes look even more unique, causing his cheekbones to appear more angular. He remained mute, staring at her, his expression frozen, unreadable.

Her hand trembling, she cut another slice of cheese. She offered it to him, but he shook his head. She nibbled the cheese in silence, like a small mouse being studied by a rather large cat.

She poured some wine, again offered it to him. She received a silent, 'nay', so she drank it herself. Still he stared. This time not offering him any bread, she ate a slice while he continued to stare.

"Why are you come here?' she asked after eating the bread. "To further torment me?"

"I've done a terrible thing. To you."

She walked around the table and stood in front of him. Her gaze traveled over his face and memorized each angle and curve of it. "You've decided you can't give up Cresswell," she stated in a flat tone

His eyes widened. "How did you know?"

"You're a man, aren't you?"

He lowered his face. "Guilty."

"A woman is separated from her land and she bears it. A man gets the scent of soil in his nostrils and he will fight like a hungry lion to keep his land until the day he is buried beneath it."

He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression dark and compelling. "I have gone without lands all my life. I will have Cresswell, by God's heart, or know the reason why. I cannot give it up."

She sneered and glared at him. "Not even for want of my freedom?"

How easily she tossed his own words back at him, like some guilt-filled ball. "While it makes me ashamed for the prompting of my greed, nay, Jane, not even for that." His arms dropped, his hands fell idle at his sides.

She leveled her gaze with his. "Then why are you here? There is nothing left between us to say. I will be Old Fulke's bride come dawn, unless I can escape these confines."

He lowered his head, suddenly avoiding her eyes. "I would ask your forgiveness for giving you hope where there was none."

She wanted to scream out her frustration at him. Tears of great sadness stung her eyes, but, stubbornly, she did not shed them. Instead, she shook her head, feeling almost sorry for his self-inflicted predicament. She crossed her arms, cupped her elbows in her hands, and walked to the fireplace. The soft wool of her under tunic brushed gently against her bare calves. A log snapped when she swung around to face him.

How well he fit in amidst the opulence surrounding them. The brilliant crimson of the floor coverings and wall hangings were flattering colors next to his dark hair and skin. He looked bigger somehow than she thought him to be, bigger than life.

She shook herself out of her musings and said, "I would advise you to go back to Trilorne and care for the dowager, Sir Judson. Until the time comes for you to return and take possession of Cresswell."

"'Tis advice you're giving now, is it?" He stepped forward. "And no hint of accepting my apology."

She held up a staying hand. "Why should you apologize to me for your greed? All men are greedy, 'tis their nature like male hounds having an instinct to rut."

Judson wanted to smile at her reference, but didn't. Her face was all serious, two small worry lines filled the space between her eyebrows. Her verdant eyes were sad, tired looking, and lacked the sparkle he had had the occasion to observe. He tipped his head to more closely view her.

"Aye, 'tis greedy I am," he said, his voice apologetic. "But I will still manage to get you away from here, somehow."

"Harold needs the bribe you had previously considered using to persuade him to let me go. What else have you to offer but the promise of these lands?" Her brow arched.

He snorted. "Your knife cuts deep. You know I am without means."

She turned away from him, her heart weary, her palm slicing through the air. "Go away, Sir Judson. Do not trouble yourself about me any longer. I have survived for some purpose this long. Perhaps the angels keeping charge over me have a plan."

He had never known anyone so bereft of comfort. He stretched out his hand to touch the gentle curve of her shoulder, withdrew it, then did as his heart prompted him. She didn't flinch or even acknowledge his touch on the soft wool sleeve of her poppy surcoat. But the most extraordinary heat spread through his fingers, his palm, and it made him tremble.

"'Tis true you are kept by angels," he whispered, his throat too constricted to speak louder. He stepped closer. "Formed by them, too."

The soft warmth of his breath grazed across her cheek. Both hands were on her shoulders, and he turned her to face him. She kept her head bowed, gaze cast to the floor, fearing if she looked into his eyes she would be lost. He was trembling, the giant man trembled like a lad of two anticipating the wonders of Michaelmas.

Compline bells rang from the chapel block's tower in the courtyard. In the distance, the watch shouted to each other from the battlements. Night fell on Cresswell.

The subtle scent of exotic sandalwood was heady, making her senses come alive. They both remained still, awed by the enchanting feelings swirling around them.

His head tipped lower and his lips neared. Arian kept her eyes half-open and received his kiss for the gift it was. Softly, he covered her mouth. The touch of his lips was at once velvet and smoldering. She rolled up on her toes, grasped the sleeves of his tunic, and gripped the rough wool in her clenched fingers. He lowered his arm to the small of her back, causing her to arch it, pressing her breasts into his chest.

"I could devour you," he said in a husky voice as he broke from her. His hands framed the sides of her face and he tilted it upward. "Never have I wanted a woman in the way I want you."

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