Master of Surrender
Blood Sword Legacy, Book 1
“Sumptuous, Sexy, Superb! Master of Torment grabs hold of you on page one and doesn’t let go.If you’ve been waiting for the perfect Medieval series, this is it. Karin Tabke does for Norman knights what JR Ward has done for vampires, with hot alpha heroes and the fiery heroines who tame them. I can’t wait for the next book!” —Monica McCarty, New York Times Bestselling author
The Blood Sword Legacy
Bound by a brotherhood forged in the hell of a Saracen prison, eight Blood Swords — mercenary knights for William the Conqueror — set out to claim their legacies the only way they can: by right of arms, by right of victory, by right of conquest.
The year is 1066. William, bastard Duke of Normandy, has claimed the English throne by right of conquest. To quell the Saxon unrest, William sends out his most trusted knights to secure the land. One of those knights is his cousin, Sir Rohan de Luc, known far and wide for his bloody deeds as The Black Sword…
For Sir Rohan du Luc enemies fall easily beneath his assault…until he comes face-to-face with a foe more worthy than any battle-hardened knight. Bold and courageous though she is, Saxon maiden Isabel of Alethorpe cannot stop Rohan de Luc from seizing Alethorpe and its people in the name of William the Conqueror. Then Rohan demands not just the manor, but Isabel herself. She vows that her heart will remain her own, even if she is forced to allow him to lay claim to her body. But while the lady’s lips say no, Isabel’s traitorous body is awakened to desire by the seductive attentions of this potent invader. Can she remain true to her Saxon heritage and her hopes that her brother may have survived the battlefield, or will Sir Rohan’s skilled touch capture her unwilling heart as surely as his prowess with his sword captured her father’s lands?
Read an Excerpt
“Prepare for entry!” Rohan called to his men. “The timber gives!”
Thorin, Ioan, Wulfson and Rorick hurled the thick oak trunk for the death blow. Rhys, Stefan and Warner wielded its twin. In unison, the two battering rams slammed into the door, and the timber gave way, opening with a sickening screech. Rohan spurred Mordred forward, and crashed through the crippled remnants of the Saxon’s defense.
Shield raised and sword at the ready, he maneuvered the huge destrier with his legs into the wide open space of the hall. His body tensed in preparation of a full out assault. Instead the sight that greeted him shocked him.
A lone maid, the one who had so brashly challenged him from the tower, stood in the middle of the great hall. A broadsword at her feet, a dagger clutched tightly to her breast. His eyes instantly moved past her to the wide stairway leading to the chambers above. His men fanned out behind him on foot. Rohan urged his horse past the girl and up the wide stairway, the shod hooves making a sharp clicking sound on the stone. He moved down the narrow hallway, certain to find the villagers laying in wait to war against him. Instead, eerie silence met him. Aye, the cowards hid behind the bolted doors allowing a mere maid to see to their rescue. Rohan sneered contemptuously.
He pulled back on the reins, and Morderd backed up. Rohan allowed the black to move at his own pace down the treacherous stone steps. The woman stood tall and proud before him.
He stopped several strides from her. If she moved, Mordred’s spiked leg armor would shred her in half. His blood ran hot in his veins, and it occurred to him, to waste such beauty would be a tragedy. She was no taller than a young lad. Long golden-colored hair hung wildly around her face and shoulders, reaching down to the full swell of her hips. Eyes the uncommon color of heather in first bloom, framed by thick black lashes stared defiantly up at him. Her skin was the color of fresh churned cream. Her cheeks rosy from the chill in the air and, he guessed, from his unwelcome visit. His eyes scanned lower to a full bosom that heaved in her anger. He could already feel the full swell of it beneath his hands, and the soft thrust of her hips as they met his with passion. The spoils of war were gracious this day. He would enjoy her whilst he could. For tomorrow may find him riding the horizon at his liege’s call. He nodded acknowledging her.
“Bow to your new master,” he commanded in French.
“I will never bow to you,” she hotly replied.
Rohan nodded and looked to his men, who flanked the walls swords at the ready. They waited only for his word to go deeper into the hall and ferret out the hiding Saxons.
Slowly Rohan dismounted.
Isabel’s breath caught high in her throat as the devil himself strode toward her. All sound stopped, the world grinded to a halt. Tawny gold eyes glittered from behind the black metal helmet. The nose guard split his face in two, making his look all the more menacing. A crescent shaped scar marred his chin. He was huge. Larger than any man she had come across in her nearly score of years. His shoulders were as wide as one half the width of the double oak portal. Legs thick as oak supported a wide chest bearing black mail and black surcoat. She stared at the marking emblazoned on his chest. The black sword plunging through a skull, crimson drops of blood hung from the sword tip. His shield bore no coat of arms. The fate of his kind. The rumors called him bastard nephew to William’s mother.
The French called him la lame noir, the English the black sword.
Her blood ran cold, turning her skin frosty. It was true. The black knight and his death squad behind him were notorious for their skill at killing. Isabel dared look past him to the equally notorious knights, in search of the ebony giant who it was rumored could slay a dozen men with one swipe of his sword.
The black sword’s lips twisted into a deadly smile. She felt as helpless as a mouse in the jaws of a stable cat. Yet she stood firm, refusing to back down.