White Lion's Lady

  WHITE LION’S LADY

  by

  Lara Adrian

  (writing as Tina St. John)

  White Lion’s Lady

  Author’s Edition eBook

  (c) 2012 by Lara Adrian, LLC

  First published August 2001 by Ivy Books, a division of Random House

  Original Print Copyright 2001 by Tina St. John

  Reissue Copyright 2012 by Lara Adrian, LLC

  eBook Published by Lara Adrian, LLC, 2012

  eBook Cover Illustration by Patricia Schmitt (PickyMe)

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Author.

  www.LaraAdrian.com

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  A note from the author

  Bibliography

  A sampler of Lara Adrian's other available titles

  Midnight Breed Series

  Dragon Chalice Series

  Historical Romances

  Prologue

  England, 1179

  Mocking laughter rang in Isabel de Lamere's head as she fled the enormous outdoor gathering, trying to escape the scene of her humiliation. To think she had actually been excited to attend the summer feast at Droghallow, a demesne held by a friend of her father's. Eight-year-old Izzy had looked forward to the event for weeks, eager for the chance to don her finest kirtle and make new friends of the children from surrounding shires.

  It might have been a fine day indeed, if not for Droghallow's odious young heir. Sent reluctantly by his father to see that Izzy enjoyed herself, instead the lad had made mean sport of her, ridiculing her awkwardness in front of the other children. Before long, they were all making fun, finding fault in everything about her: her pudgy limbs, her plain face and freckled cheeks, her unruly red hair. Izzy had fled the group before her tears could further condemn her.

  Sucking in great gulps of air, she ran down the motte and across the wide plain in no particular direction, stopping only when she found herself utterly breathless, waist-high in the tall grass of the outlying gully. She collapsed to her knees in the cool, shifting reeds, fighting to choke back the sobs that stung her throat and trying to focus on anything else but the knot of hurt the children's jibes had left in her heart.

  Her search for diversion led her teary gaze to a patch of blossoming weeds but a few paces before her. There, a butterfly had paused, its pretty yellow wings beating as it drank from a wild daisy. Perhaps she could capture it for a pet, she thought, watching as the pretty insect lit softly on another of the sunny flowers. She got up and crept toward it, but as if it sensed her stalking dangerously near, the butterfly took flight, fluttering off on a zigzagging path toward the edge of the woods.

  It took little coaxing for Izzy to follow. She chased after without so much as a backward glance or a thought for her previous troubles, single-minded now in her determination to catch her prize.

  The shade of the forest cooled her skin as she stepped into the dense glade, the great oaks and towering conifers sealing her off from the bright light of midday at her back. The rich scents of moss and moist sweet earth surrounded her. Birds rustled in the treetops high above, their trilling chatter drowning out the din of celebration taking place on the castle hill. A woodland creature scurried unseen in the bramble near Izzy's feet, fleeing from the intruder's path.

  As if being led to another world, Izzy followed her butterfly guide deeper into the thicket, her eyes trained to the tiny beacon of color dancing amid the shadowy gloom of the forest. It hesitated some distance in, alighting on a tall orange flower, drinking in the nectar while Izzy stole up from behind. She sunk her teeth into her lip in utter concentration, looming overhead, so close she could smell the pungent perfume of the bell-shaped bloom. Very slowly, she brought her hands up from her sides, cupping her palms as she homed in on the feasting insect, eager to hold the iridescent beauty if only for a moment. Alas, it flitted off once more.

  Izzy gave chase in earnest now, following after on a mad trail that led her first in one direction, then another, but ever deeper into the cool dark woods. Determination made her reckless, made her oblivious of the scrapes her bare ankles took as she lifted her skirts and crashed through the thickening underbrush. She ducked under spindly outstretched branches and waded into large patches of dew-kissed ferns, pursuing relentlessly until, at last, she lost sight of her quarry.

  But it was far worse than that, Izzy realized suddenly. She had completely lost track of where she was.

  She stood there for a moment, pivoting her head in search of a path out or some means of getting her bearings. Nothing looked familiar in these woods. The dense foliage swallowed up both sound and light from outside, making it impossible to discern the direction of Droghallow's castle. Izzy's heart, which was still pounding hard from the chase, now picked up an urgent beat.

  Heaven help her, she was lost.

  I am not afraid, she told herself. She would simply follow her tracks out of the woods and head back safely to home. Turning, full of new resolve, Izzy took the first step.

  It was then that she heard a rustle in the bramble a few paces ahead of her. Twigs snapped under a heavy gait, followed by an animal grunt and a deep snort. Izzy knew she was in danger even before she saw the boar's wild-eyed gaze and sharp ivory tusks. The bullish, hairy beast blocked her path, sniffing at the air. Evidently deciding she was foe more than friend, the boar curled its lips back and let out a throaty squeal of warning.

  Izzy swallowed hard. She had nowhere to go. The trees were thick and many here, knitting her in from both sides; behind her was a sea of tangled underbrush that would surely slow her flight.

  The boar advanced, head low, eyes trained on her.

  Izzy stood unmoving, staring wide-eyed as the boar inched closer. It sniffed at the ground, growling and snorting. Some subtle movement nearby caught the beast's attention and for an instant it looked away. Her body tensed, every fiber urging her to flee regardless of her dubious chances of escape.

  It might well be her only hope . . .

  “Don't move.”

  The firm command seemed to whisper from out of the very trees themselves, instantly rooting Izzy's feet to the ground. “Stand very still,” the voice instructed her. “The slightest motion could make him charge.”

  Izzy stood frozen, scarcely able to breathe. She wa
tched the boar's snout twitch, its beady eyes searching for signs of this newest intruder. She tried not to let her gaze linger on the sight of those awful tusks: curved, lethal slashes of gleaming white against the beast's swarthiness.

  “That's it. You're doing very well.” The gentling voice sounded again, closer this time. “Tell me your name.”

  “Iz-Izzy,” she stammered, little more than a tremulous whisper.

  “I am coming up behind you now, Izzy. Be still. Don't be frightened.”

  But Izzy was terrified. The boar bared its teeth, tossing its head and shrieking in a deep murderous pitch. The horrible noise chased a shiver up Izzy's spine, leaving her entire body trembling. “Oh, please,” she sobbed quietly. “Please, help me.”

  There was a crunch of movement behind her. Did her rescuer near, or was he instead deciding instead to make his retreat and save his own hide? Izzy could not be sure. In front of her, the boar pawed the mossy ground with a cloven hoof, snout down, the hairs on its back standing up like a bristly, coal-black fin. It gave a quick snort.

  Then it charged.

  Izzy screamed. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting to feel the certain, savage impact of the boar's tusks at any moment. She waited, but death did not come. Instead, she heard the sharp grate of a blade being unsheathed from its scabbard. She felt a rush of cool air as someone leaped in front of her, sweeping her out of harm's way with a strong, sure arm.

  Twigs snapped under the boar's enraged attack. A cry rang out then cut short suddenly. The ground beneath her feet reverberated with a heavy thump, the sound of solid weight hitting soft, moist earth.

  Then all went utterly still in the forest.

  It took several moments before Izzy dared open her eyes. When she did, she saw the beast that might have killed her lying lifeless on the ground. Standing over it in silent contemplation, bloodied sword in hand, was a golden-haired, lanky boy. He glanced over his shoulder as Izzy approached. Striking green-gold eyes met her astonished gaze.

  “You saved my life.” Izzy came up beside him, finding it difficult to keep from staring at the felled beast, which was frightful even in death. “That was the bravest deed I've ever seen,” she whispered. “You might have been killed in my place.”

  “A man must be willing to face danger,” he told her as he cleaned and resheathed his sword. He turned a solemn gaze on her. “'Tis a knight's duty to protect a lady in need, whatever the risk.”

  Izzy blinked up into his youthful, sun-burnished face and felt herself warm from within. She had never been called a lady before. Nor had she ever seen such chivalry demonstrated outside the realm of her imagination. Awestruck and utterly speechless, Izzy took in her champion's features, from his mane of shoulder-length, wheat-colored hair and leonine green eyes, to his blunt nose and proud, finely cut chin. He was still a youth, perhaps a half-dozen years her senior, but to Izzy's way of thinking, he possessed all the courage and honor of ten grown men.

  He was wholly magnificent, this golden stranger who had just saved her life, and Izzy fell just a tiny bit in love with him.

  “Come,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “The woods are a dangerous place for a young maiden alone. I will see you safely out of here and back to the gathering.” He guided her along an obscure path through the bracken, his warm hand engulfing her fingers, his every step as sure and capable as his strong, steadying arm. “What possessed you to venture so far into the forest unescorted?” he asked her when they had gone some distance. “'Tis one thing for a lad to prefer running wild in a dark glade over the stuffiness of a noble gathering, but quite another for a maid to feel likewise.”

  Izzy did not want to admit to him the shameful cause of her flight from the celebration. “I was chasing a butterfly,” she said, a half-truth, and a foolish-sounding one at that. “Before I knew it, I had lost my way.”

  “Be thankful you did not lose any more than your way,” he scolded dryly, though Izzy could see a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. They reached a spot where the growth was thick and tangled, clawing branches blocking their way. Gallantly he swept it aside, allowing her to pass freely beneath. “After you, my lady.”

  Beaming, she ducked beneath the mass of briars, then bobbed a quick curtsy to him. “Why, thank you, Sir . . . ?”

  “Griffin.” He returned to her side, smiling, then offered her a courtly bow. “Griffin of Droghallow, at your service.”

  “Droghallow?” Izzy paused, feeling a sudden tug of disappointment. “Surely you cannot be kin to Dominic of Droghallow?”

  The lad gave her a quizzical look. “Do you know him?”

  Instantly the jeering image of her chief tormentor's face sprang into Izzy's mind. “His father and mine are acquainted, but I assure you, I have no wish to know Master Dominic. Just this afternoon he was making terrible fun of--” Izzy frowned, unwilling to finish the thought. “I think he's an awful bully,” she amended.

  “Aye, Dom can be unfairly cruel,” Griffin said, almost apologetically. Then he leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “If he troubles you again, just tell him how you have heard he is deathly afraid of the dark. Remind him that he cannot sleep a wink unless a torch burns beside his bed all night long. Once he knows you have his secret, I doubt he'll be eager to bother you anymore.”

  Izzy grinned up at him, grateful for this further kindness. It seemed the boar was not the only beast her golden champion would slay for her this day.

  “Dom and I are not blood kin,” Griffin added as they continued walking, following the light that marked the edge of the woods. “His father and stepmother took me in when I was a babe, orphaned and abandoned at Droghallow's gates some five-and-ten years ago. To my knowledge, I have no living relations.”

  “None at all?” Izzy whispered in frank sympathy. Her parents were so dear to her, it was impossible to imagine not having them in her life. “Do you know nothing of your family?”

  “Only this,” Griffin said. He paused to withdraw a pendant from beneath his tunic and held it out to her. It was a small half-circle of enameled bronze--a medallion, embossed with the image of a white lion rampant in its center. “Lady Alys, Dom's stepmother, found it in my swaddling the day she brought me in. It's all I have of my true parents . . . whoever they were.”

  “I'm sure they were great people,” Izzy told him, hearing the note of sadness in his voice and feeling a sudden need to fix it. “They would be very proud of you today, Griffin.”

  He glanced at her, then let the medallion fall back against his chest with a shrug and started walking once more. “Sir Robert--Dom's father--says I have the makings of a fine knight. He is training me as his squire, and one day I shall be made a member of the garrison here at Droghallow.”

  “You'll be his best, I have no doubt,” Izzy declared, trotting along to keep pace with his long strides.

  Griffin chuckled. “I mean to be better than that,” he said, staring distantly ahead at the path, his brows drawn together in thought. “I mean to be a great knight one day. A man of my own means. A man of honor.”

  Her head turned toward him, Izzy blinked up at her champion in total admiration. “Then so you shall,” she said, matching his declaration with the instant, inexplicable faith that he could do anything he set his mind to. “You shall be the greatest, most noble knight in all the realm, Griffin of Droghallow!”

  “Do you think so?” he asked, pausing to regard her with that intense stare of his.

  She smiled, fully confident. “I have never believed anything more.”

  Her fervent avowal hung between them for several long moments, filling the silence of the glade. Then Griffin smiled too, his slow, spreading grin dimpling his cheeks. “You are an odd girl, Izzy. An odd girl, indeed, given to chasing butterflies and believing in a stranger's dreams.” She glanced away from his green-gold gaze, frowning down at her slippers, suddenly embarrassed. When he reached for her hand, she did not know what to do. She could only stare, astonished, as h
e lifted her fingers to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss to her palm. “It has been my great pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

  Grinning, he started to back away from her, edging deeper into the woods. Izzy watched him, too dazed to ask him where he was going. Her pulse was beating so fast and loud in her temples, she scarcely heard the angry shout that sounded from some distance behind her in the field. It sounded again, closer now.

  “Isabel de Lamere! Where have you been?”

  It was her nurse, come to fetch her. Izzy knew without looking that the large old hen of a maid was huffing her way across the plain and not at all pleased to have been dispatched from the celebration on her present errand. But despite the threat thundering up behind her, Izzy could not tear her gaze from her golden champion's handsome face.

  “Sir Griffin,” she whispered, but then he was gone, turned on his heel and vanished into the shadows of the trees. She looked down at her palm, to where her champion's lips had touched her, and as her gaze fell, she noticed something glittered in the loamy ground at her feet. His white lion medallion. The chain was severed, evidently lost to him by a break in one of the links. “Griffin, wait!” she called as she picked up the pendant and scanned the forest for any sign of him.

  A moment later, her nurse was upon her, seizing her by the wrist and dragging her in tow away from the forest and farther afield, to rejoin the gathering. Izzy trotted along, clutching the medallion in her fist, happy if only for the chance she might have to see Griffin again, to return his pendant and thank him once more. Griffin of Droghallow had saved her life today. He had called her a lady, kissed her hand . . . and stolen her heart.