“Isidora, you should go to bed.”
His breath was warm against her ear, for he had bent his head—so that he could keep his voice low, she assumed.
“Lucien, I will go to bed when and where I choose. I have lived long enough to be fully capable of such a decision.”
“Have you? I wonder, even at your age, that you do not need some guidance in that regard, or at least some inspiration?” He turned her around. “Do you want some…inspiration?”
At the sight of him so close, the feel of him, his eyes gleaming in the firelight…his attention focused upon her alone…Isidora had all the inspiration she could handle.
She felt dizzy. She wanted to fall into his arms. Kiss him. And beat him with her fists, so thickheaded was he. Had he no idea of the torture he put her through?
Praise for Elaine Knighton’s previous titles
Beauchamp Besieged
“Sensational plot turns…a gritty but vivid picture…of medieval times.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Rich details create a strong sense of place in this debut.”
—Romantic Times
“A definite must-read for those who enjoy a good medieval tale.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Fulk the Reluctant
“Knighton’s talent shines.”
—Romantic Times
“Be ready to be swept away to [the] 1200s in this fast-paced story.”
—romancejunkies.com
The Alchemist’s Daughter
Elaine Knighton
MILLS & BOON
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To my wise and beautiful daughters, Asmara and Angela.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Prologue
The Holy Land
Somewhere between Jerusalem and Acre
Spring of 1197
“L ucien! De Brus has fallen. We must stop.”
“Aye, Allan, I expected it to be so.” Lucien de Griswold’s heart sank as he turned in the saddle and looked back over the straggling line of weary men and horses. De Brus, who had gone with them on pilgrimage to Jerusalem only to please his lady-wife, had taken a deep sword thrust to his thigh. The attacking tribesmen, in search of plunder, did not respect the uneasy truce between west and east, no more than did many Crusaders.
The dry wind kicked up a spiral of dust and heat shimmered over the sand and rocks. This desert, this place…the Holy Land…was not a land of milk and honey, but of blood and pain and thirst. Only the Saracens, with great determination, faith and skill, were at home here.
Allan had dismounted and helped the ailing De Brus to the shade of an overhang. Lucien left his horse in the care of a servant and knelt beside De Brus. The knight’s wound was poisoning his blood. His red, sweaty skin, his leg so swollen that his foot was mottled, testified to that fact.
“He needs more medicine than the camp leech can provide, even could we get him there before he dies,” Allan whispered.
De Brus opened his eyes. “Don’t bother trying to spare my feelings now, Allan. I know full well I am a waste of further food and water. Just leave me here in the shade.”
“Be
